[Memory, Solo] The Archery Lesson

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Marzena Idas
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Joined: Tue Oct 01, 2019 7:05 pm
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Race: Galdor
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Sun Oct 06, 2019 3:53 am

06 Roalis 2704
Vienda // Home
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It was important that she remain still. Not a statue, of course: statues were tense and inflexible, and that was the antithesis of what the task at hand required. It was essential, though, that her arms remain as they should, not swaying in the brisk cross-breeze, or straining under the tension of the longbow pulled taught in her hands. Her posture needed to be perfect: her shoulders relaxed, but level; her feet just so; her elbow bent, but firmly withstanding the recoil of the bent wood, pointed at just the right angle to spare her forearms from the painful slap of the string. Her breaths needed to be carefully considered, too: despite anyone's best efforts, the subtle rise and fall of one's chest and shoulders could make the faintest fraction of a difference; seemingly insignificant where one stood, but Marzena well understood the way that angles and difference could translate that subtle variation into a catastrophic deviation when her arrow reached the target. It was mathematics, she kept telling herself. Geometry. Aerodynamics. Archery was not a skill, but a science, and as every scientist knew: for consistent results, the circumstances of each repetition needed to be precisely the same.

Marzena knew all of these things, and yet could manage to comply. Tension threaded through every muscle and fibre. Her breathing refused to be slow and measured. Her feet were impatient, uncomfortable, longing to shift and shuffle from their meticulous position. It was not a lack of discipline that strained her performance, however. It was not the wind, or her tiredness, or any failure to practice or exercise the techniques she had been taught.

It was the man. Try as she might, she could not bear him near her; could not bear the feel of his field pressed so close to hers; could not bear the contact of his hand against her arms, her shoulders, her hips as he carefully adjusted the posture that she wasn't quite getting right. There was nothing untoward about him. She did not feel unsafe, or threatened. She did not feel anything from his field that portrayed him as anything but a mildly irritated archery instructor. Yet, every time he attempted to adjust her elbow, or tap downwards on her shoulder, or peer from behind her down the shaft of the readied arrow, she wanted nothing more than to flinch away.

The string slipped from her finger, and the arrow sailed forth, hurtling down the long lawn towards the target in the distance. Pain seared through her right side as the bow string carved into the flesh forward of her elbow, an angry welt quickly springing to the surface where her arm had strayed ever so slightly from where it was supposed to be. Ersebiscuits was the creative but benign insult that her mind chose to steal from one of her fellow Brunnhold students. She wished she was there now, far from the Hoxian instructor with his scruffy jaw, his stern eyes, and his hands that just felt wrong. His muttered profanity sounded far less benign, but wasn't in a language that Marzena particularly understood. "Still you don't listen," he chastened, the Gioran words sounding strange as they emerged, twisted strangely by the Hoxian accent innate to his tongue.

Marzena didn't answer. She never did. She merely reached to the basket beside her for another arrow, and prayed to whichever gods were listening that the man would not need to touch her again.


- - -

Xhevanna Idas let out a slow, tired sigh. It was a complicated exhalation, as many such breaths often were, laiden with a complex cocktail of different emotions. Rising to the surface, the notion with the most buoyancy was the frustration that she would need to find a new instructor for her daughter. The frustration was entirely self-contained, entirely a reaction to the tiresome processes that Xhevanna would be forced to go through, and yet she knew, as Marzena trudged past her, shoulders slumped, head bowed, and arms wrapped around herself in something that, despite appearences, had nothing to do with the cold, that her daughter would not be able to discern that from her expression. To Marzena, every one of Xhevanna's expressions read like disappointment; and while that emotion was most certainly part of her repertoire, and was provoked with irritating frequency by those with whom Xhevanna was forced to deal, it was never reserved for Marzena herself. Not ever. Of course, as rational and logical as her daughter was, and as fixated as the young woman might be of the fundamental truths of the universe, it was one reality that Xhevanna could never get her daughter to believe.

If anyone was the target of Xhevanna's frustration, it was herself. Yet in truth, no one was. What frustrated her was the failure, a situation that had not unfolded as she had hoped or intended. Xhevanna's greatest talent was, in her humble opinion, her ability to resolve things. On the surface she was a simple merchant, juggling imports and exports along the way; but Xhevanna preferred to think of herself as a negotiator, and a problem-solver, someone who grasped hold of problems and complications, and steered them gracefully towards a solution that was satisfactory to all. She would take fabric merchants from Mugroba, and connect them with dressmakers in Bastia. When farmers found themselves with excess grain, she found mills and breweries with the infrastructure to handle the surplus, and found airships to carry the cargo to and fro. She brought new opportunities to investors, or connected lawyers and litigators with businessmen in need. In her more poetic moments, she described herself as the grease in the gears: an economic lubricant, unnoticed and underappreciated, but essential - and, as far as her modest reputation went, successful.

Yet when it came to her daughter, Xhevanna found herself with a contract she could not negotiate, an impasse she could not resolve. Perhaps that was merely how things were meant to be between mothers and daughters - it was why Xhevanna, in the footsteps of her peers - had relied so heavily on nannies, and tutors, and those better qualified and suited to the task these past years. After all, that was how all other problems were best resolved, in her experience: when you could not resolve a problem for yourself, you found and hired someone with the skills and expertise to do it for you. With Marzena, in this particular instance, it was an approach that Xhevanna had fully expected to succeed. Her daughter had shown such a passion for archery when last they'd spoken, and so she'd found her a tutor with all the right recommendations; how could it possibly go wrong?

But go wrong it had, and while that was frustrating, it was also just the way things went at times. So as Marzena disappeared inside, Xhevanna lingered, holding the tutor's attention long enough for a hushed conversation about the abbreviated future of his employment. As the two spoke, Xhevanna tried to rationalise, tried to decipher the cause of the incompatibility between the man and her daughter. Perhaps it was his manner: the man's name - or at least, nom de guerre - was Vex, and it was certainly a fitting name, as far as the mercenary's personality was concerned. But Marzena had studied with tutors who irritated her before, and she never allowed something so trivial to come between her and something she was passionate about learning. Perhaps it was something more insidious, then: perhaps this Vex merely reminded her of someone, or perhaps Marzena had developed some particular prejudice or aversion towards Hoxians; but again, Xhevanna struggled to accept the explanation, knowing how often Marzena had found herself on the receiving end of such biases, and how much the notion of judging someone so superficially baffled and irked her.

Deep down, of course, Xhevanna understood the reason, even if Marzena didn't understand it herself. A mother always knew; or at least, Xhevanna believed in her heart that they should have. After all, she had known Marzena for even longer than Marzena had known herself. Yet, it was not Xhevanna's place to make such determinations. It was Marzena's truth to discover for herself, and to reveal if and when she was ready. For now, then, Xhevanna would retain the role of ignorant mother; or at least, play that part as far as Marzena would be able to tell.

To his credit, Vex took his dismissal rather well. Xhevanna supposed that was how things were with mercenaries, no coincidence that mercenary could describe a mindset as well as a means of employment. Coin was coin, and Xhevanna was always generous with what she paid when Marzena's education was concerned. Perhaps it was bad business not to quibble or negotiate; but a well-paid tutor was an attentive and motivated tutor, and Marzena deserved nothing less.

As the mercenary departed, trudging down the pathway back towards Vienda, Xhevanna slowly climbed her way up the stairs, and into the short corridor that led towards Marzena's bedroom. At times, it felt as if she was walking across a dividing line, as if the muted wine red of the carpet that bisected these floorboards were a battlefront, separating Marzena's half of the house from hers. It was a border that Xhevanna wished was not there, but also one that she silently respected. Marzena's privacy had always seemed important to her, and while Xhevanna loathed the gulf that painted between the two of them, she would not disavow the unspoken agreement between mother and daughter by trying to breach it.

It was that resolute stance that gave Xhevanna pause, her delicate knuckles halting moments before they made contact with her daughter's door. She told herself that Marzena would be busy changing, and that she would prefer not to be disturbed. If she waited a few moments longer, she would no doubt tell herself that Marzena was tired, that she would not be in a mood for discourse, and other such justifications and excuses until she was eventually able to tell herself that too much time had passed, and it was too late to broach whatever conversation might have followed.

She sighed again, more forelorn this time, and retreated back up the corridor to her own half of the house, and through the simply but elegantly carved doorway that led to her study. As it closed behind her, she didn't notice the faint click and creak of Marzena's doorway opening behind her, nor the red eyes and damp cheeks of the face that peered almost hopefully from within.
07 Roalis 2704
Vienda // Home
Next morning came like an unwelcome smell, irritating at first and then utterly impossible to ignore, as the sunlight pierced the drapes of Marzena's bedroom. She wished she could ignore it; that she could bury her face in her pillows and bedsheets and will the day to simply pass her by. Perhaps tomorrow, the confusing dreams that had plagued her sleep would have subsided. Perhaps tomorrow, she would not feel as if gravity had somehow increased all around her. Perhaps tomorrow, when her chest didn't feel as raw and empty as a stomach that had refused to be fed for all of yesterday. Perhaps tomorrow, she would feel as if the sunlight was reaching her, and not as if it was obscured by the clouds she felt inside.

But Marzena did not wallow. That was not the way she approached the world, even when it sometimes felt like an inviting solution. She had obligations, and even if she knew they were somehow the source of why she felt so unlike herself, shirking responsibilities was simply something that Marzena Idas did not do. So, reluctantly but dutifully, she slid from her bed, and went through the motions of readying herself for the day, more than a few minutes spent staring at the discolouration of her cheeks, and the tiredness of her eyes, only a token effort taken to tame her unruly hair. As they had been the day before, Marzena's clothes were plain and utilitarian, but this time she selected something with longer sleeves, shame prompting her to conceal the angry slice across her forearm that yesterday's archery failures had left her with. No doubt she would fail again today, but at least if she did, it would be harder for anyone to see.

Marzena's eyes were fixed upon the floor as she descended the stairs. She did not notice until too late that there were figures in the hallway, waiting for her. It should not have surprised her - she had expected the Hoxian to be waiting for her outside, but still - and yet it did, for three reasons. The first was the absense of the Hoxian, whose grating voice and disapproving eyes were nowhere to be heard or seen. The second was the presence of her mother, who had, as far as Marzena was concerned, only hired an archery tutor as a way to keep her quiet and out of the way; so her deliberately interrupting the peace and quiet her efforts had granted was most strange indeed.

It was the third reason, however, that eclipsed the other two. It was like a page from one of Marzena's stories, the kind that she hid beneath her pillows rather than out on display; as if someone had reached up and stolen the sky on the cusp of sunrise, weaving the colours into the copper of her hair, and the crystal blue of her eyes, and had hidden the sun itself somewhere behind her smile. Marzena felt her insides tumble, and the last few stairs were descended swiftly before the ground had the opportunity to disappear from beneath her. When her eyes caught the faintest glimpse of her mother, Marzena almost allowed herself to believe that the smile there was somehow genuine.

"This is Aislin," her mother explained. "Your former tutor sends his apologies, but he has been called away on other business. Aislin has kindly agreed to step in on short notice and take over."

Marzena stared, at her mother first, and then at Aislin, hair mostly wrangled into a tight bun but for a few errant stray curls that cascaded down the side of her face, clothing that was as simple and practical as what Marzena wore but that somehow hugged her figure with all the grace of a finely tailored gown, a bow and quiver slung over her shoulder and leather wrapped around her fingers and forearms, every inch of her a vision from the stories that didn't abandon Marzena's thoughts when she fell asleep. Impossibly somehow, her smile seemed to brighten as Xhevanna made the introduction, and for a blissful moment Marzena felt as if it belonged only to her.

"You must be Marzena, eh?" The young girl nodded, dumbly, unable to find her words. Aislin's eyes seemed to sparkle, as if she somehow understood everything, all at once. "I hear y've been having a wee spot a' bother with that bow arm a' yours. I think I can help you wi' that." She paused for a brief eternity, her eyes falling tragically away from Marzena's vision, just long enough to gesture towards the arm hanging limply at her new student's side. "May I?"

Her voice still nowhere to be found, and thoughts still bundled in a thick layer of confusion, Marzena slowly extended her arm towards Aislin. The older woman took hold of it gently, her touch as gentle as a summer breeze, slowly guiding it until her palm and forearm pointed upwards. With equal grace, she retrieved a leather creation from beneath the crook of her arm, and carefully set about positioning it between Marzena's elbow and wrist, buckles beginning to hold it firmly, but not too tightly, in place. As she finished, Aislin's hand lingered on Marzena's arm, and the young girl felt certain she could spent an eager eternity staring at it, studying every last intricate detail.

"There we are." The sound of her voice was like music to Marzena's ears, and it lured her eyes upwards until they were ensnared and transfixed by Aislin's. The hand departed, but before it retreated completely, it reached up to brush playfully against Marzena's cheek. "Cannae have those strings making you all flinchy. An' besides, now you even look more the part."

Marzena didn't notice the way that her mother's eyes changed, nor would she have appreciated or believed the warmth and satisfaction that lay behind them. "I'll leave you two to get properly acquainted." For a fleeting moment, her arm almost reached out again, a split second impulse to place a hand on her daughter's shoulder; but she stopped herself, not wanting to intrude, not wanting to break the spell that Marzena had fallen under. Her hand took hold of the hem of her jacket instead, tugging idly, discreetly against it. "I'm sure the two of you will get along wonderfully."

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