A Deadly Bite

6.1 || Welcome Home

The arrow's surface is coarse between Fiesi's fingers, carving out raw patches at their tips. Gritting his teeth, he relaxes his bowstring, drawing up a few licks of flame to soothe the skin. It's probably a sign he should call it a night. Yet after a shake of his hand, he's lifting the bow again, arrow nocked despite the shaking in his arm.

One eye closed, he squints down the arrow's length, drawing in a breath. He's stared at the tree so long that it doesn't quite look real; the lantern lit at its base paints it in the smudge of copper light, detaching it from the shadows, taunting him with its smooth, empty surface. He draws back the string. This time, it has to hit.

He exhales and lets go, arm remaining stiff. This time. Please.

The arrow skims the bark, deflected, landing with a barely audible crunch in the ground swallowed by darkness.

Without letting himself react, he reaches over his shoulder for another arrow. Inhale. Hold, aim. Release.

It flies out far too wide, disappearing into the undergrowth. Pathetic.

"Are you proud, father?"

The next arrow's trembles are visible. He straightens it as best he can, hardly caring to go through the proper motions this time. It impales the earth at a decent pace from the tree. He's getting worse.

"What is there to be proud of?"

Fire itches at his fingertips. With a wordless growl, he throws the bow to the ground, dodging the temptation to burn it to ash. He stares hopelessly down at it, fists clenched. A dull sort of panic unfurls in his chest, the sluggish beat of wings arcing into a nervous flutter, the hand he drags through his hair doing nothing to disperse it. He gives the bow a vengeful kick as if the Cormé weapon is somehow at fault for his incompetence.

"Do you plan on sleeping at all?"

Breath catching in his throat, Fiesi whirls. Little more than a silhouette against the pale tent behind, Sarielle watches him, arms folded. The glint of her eyes catches in shards of crystal. With a huff, he turns away, bending to retrieve the bow. "Do you?"

"I was, until I caught sight of an idiot trying to shoot his anxiety with a badly-aimed arrow."

Fiesi winces, fingers closing too tight over the bow's wooden curve. "How long were you there?"

"A couple of minutes. You need to work on your awareness." She starts forward, her footsteps light and yet subtly hard as pelting rain. "Seriously, though. You should get some rest."

"Why don't you go rest and I'll worry about myself?" he mutters, reaching for another arrow. Sarielle catches it before he can slide it into place on the string.

In the dim firelight, her eyes flicker enough that she might be mistaken for a Tía, gaze sharp and intense. She tugs the arrow, sighing when he refuses to release. "What's with all this? I've never seen you go anywhere near a bow until a few days ago. We went to the effort of scrounging a new spear for you and now you've changed your mind?"

"I'd have preferred a new cloak." He tries to prise the arrow from her, only for it to be wrenched from him as he adjusts his grip. Its tip nicks his palm. He shoots her glare as he closes his fist, summoning a scrap of flame to seal the cut.

"I got you that, too, and I apologise profusely that it isn't your favourite colour." She steps out in front of him, meeting his eyes, the arrow spinning between her fingers. He makes a halfhearted grab for it, and she backsteps to jerk it out of his reach. "Look. You don't make it easy to want to help you, but for once, I'm going to try. Why is this so difficult? Is it all because of Nathan?"