Stray Arrow: An Archers FE Zine

There’s little finesse to the way Boyd’s axe chops into the training dummy.

It’s all brute force with him because he has the benefit of being big and strong, and even his cheap iron axe is a heavy weapon when compared to an arrow. Splinters of wood go flying, looking a bit like a spray of blood in the fading red sunlight.

Rolf watches his brother brutalise the dummy from his perch above the training grounds. There’s a sheen of sweat on Boyd’s face, and a big, satisfied smile on his lips. He wipes his forehead and swings his axe like it weighs nothing, then goes back to tearing into the wood again. Idly, Rolf takes a bite out of the sweet roll that Oscar had slipped him after dinner.

He isn’t jealous, per se—but his brothers are so much older than him, and stronger, and able to carry their weight around their mercenary troupe in a way that Rolf simply isn’t. If anything, he is only allowed to stay because of how well the two of them pull their weight. Even Mist, who sees equally as little combat as Rolf, manages to do more for everyone than him, what with all the laundry and mending and healing she does.

If it weren’t for Shinon’s surreptitiously teaching him archery, Rolf would not have anything to show for himself at all.

Boyd takes another swing at the dummy, right at where a person’s waist would be, and the wood finally gives. The top half goes flying, while the bottom part remains stuck on the rod it is affixed to. The wooden pseudo-torso clatters to the ground, and Boyd whoops in elation. Rolf shoves the remaining half of his roll into his mouth and jumps to his feet, praying that he might get away before his brother can notice him.

Maybe some late practice is what Rolf needs as well.

Dusk has fallen by the time Rolf returns outside, bow and quiver tucked discreetly into his side. The sound of Boyd’s irregular chopping has died down by now, replaced by the last bangs of pots and pans being stowed away in the kitchen and the cacophony of noises coming from inside the forest.

Rolf follows the song of crickets and owls and frogs into the trees, tall and pitch-black in the fading light. His feet know the way to the shooting range – the one hidden away, where Shinon takes him to practice – even as night begins to fall. The small clearing with the makeshift targets is wrapped in faint purple light and tall shadows.

It’s likely going to be too dark to see anything soon, so Rolf sets down his bow and fastens his quiver to his back. The targets fixed to the trees are still visible enough, even in the low light.

His bow feels heavy in his hand when he picks it back up, which is ridiculous. Rolf knows it to be lighter than the average iron bows everyone else uses, made with care by Shinon to account for Rolf’s lack of strength and – well, isn’t that a frustrating thought?

He pulls an arrow from his quiver and nocks it, fingers trembling. His eyes are terribly dry, and the roll from before sits heavy in his stomach. Before him, lined up ever so neatly, the targets, with all their little puncture marks from being struck by arrows so often, appear to be swaying in the shifting shadows. Rolf exhales shakily and draws back his bowstring, zeroing in on one target and taking aim.

The string snaps back into place as he lets go, and his arrow promptly burrows itself in the ground.

For a few seconds, Rolf just stands and stares at the arrow as it sticks out of the dirt. His chosen target is at least another two feet away from where it had struck the ground, like it had simply dropped out of the air before it could make it all the way to the target, and the whole thing feels a bit like a joke. Perhaps, on a better day, Rolf could have taken comfort in the fact that his aim had been pretty much perfect. But today isn’t a good day, and his stupid custom toy bow weighs nothing, and his weak little arms don’t even have enough strength in them to pull the bowstring back with the force needed to strike a target.

Rolf walks over to his arrow and yanks it out of the ground, because the head is barely damaged, and he might as well try again. His eyes sting, but he readies the arrow once more and makes sure to draw the string back as far as he can.

This time, the arrow strikes a tree trunk instead.

The thump of it rings like thunder in Rolf’s ears. Just beside the tree, the target he had been aiming for remains unpunctured.

If this were a skirmish, someone would be dead twice over by now. That is what bothers – no, terrifies – Rolf most. That, if the other mercenaries would allow him to come along on their missions, they would expect him to pull his weight, and he would fail them. That they would need to protect him and receive nothing in return. That Rolf would be nothing but dead weight to them. That someone might needlessly die for him because he wasn’t good enough.

The next arrow feels steadier in his hands than the one before. Rolf adjusts his stance and turns to a different target this time, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He readies his shot, his arms quivering with tension, and he tries, and misses again.

And again.

And again.

And—

The moss muffles the clattering as his bow hits the ground with all the force Rolf can put behind throwing it. His breathing comes ragged, and it takes all his willpower not to stomp his foot like a stupid, useless child.

Maybe this really is all he can bring to the table. Maybe he is bound to remain nothing but a petulant, unskilled liability best kept off the battlefield; an additional mouth to feed that can’t earn its keep.

He stares at his bow as it lies between blades of grass and rocks and dust—his bow, that Shinon had made specifically for him, for him to train and get better with. Shinon, who had gone out of his way to take him on as an apprentice. Shinon, who keeps training him, who must still see something in him, no matter his incompetence.

Shinon, whose bow and faith Rolf had just tossed in the dirt.

With a sigh, he picks it up, then goes to pluck his arrows from where they are lodged in everything but in his practice targets. The wind combs through the trees around him, and Rolf shudders.

And then, he heads home.

-

His evenings are spent much the same after that.

It’s the time of the year when the days are getting shorter again, and sitting out dinner is a small price to pay for an extra hour of daylight. Besides, Oscar holds back some food for Rolf to eat once he comes back, anyways; never mind that he always serves it with a concerned look and questions about Rolf’s wellbeing.

Mist, too, worries, and it feels entirely too patronising in a way that his brother’s concern doesn’t. She always gets under Rolf’s skin, so he takes to avoiding her altogether. It’s easy, seeing as Rolf is already sitting out meals.

And for all the trouble, his extra practice has yet to bear fruit.

Rolf is hopeful that the soreness in his arms and shoulder is a sign that he is finally building up some muscle. His aim has only gotten worse, but it might be temporary. After all, he can barely hold his bow without his arms shaking from the exhaustion and soreness. Earlier that day, Shinon had noticed as much during their regular training session and promptly called Rolf out on it.

It’s easy for Shinon to judge Rolf, of course. Shinon doesn’t have to worry about carrying his weight around their mercenary band. Unlikely as it seems given his natural talents, if Shinon ever started out in the same place as Rolf, it must have been so long ago that he can’t accurately remember how awful being well and truly useless feels.

His frustration makes Rolf yank back the arrow he had been readying with more force than necessary, and his shoulder gives out.

He drops his bow and arrow at once and promptly crumples to the floor.

That’s also how Shinon finds him some minutes later: kneeling in the dirt while clutching his injured shoulder, trying desperately not to cry.

“So this is where you’ve been running off to,” Shinon says, speech just this side of slurred. Rolf only sniffles in reply, refusing to look at him. Shinon sighs and steps closer. “I told you so, you know. That you’ve been overdoing things, and that you’d end up like this.”

That makes Rolf look up. “So what?” he says through his teeth.

Shinon raises his eyebrows, then frowns. “Why do I even take the time out of my day to teach you anything if you don’t bother to listen to me?”

“You don’t get it!”

“I do.”

Rolf glares at him. Shinon glares right back.

“You’ve been making an ass of yourself for a while now, Rolf. Your brothers are constantly whining about you running off instead of eating dinner. And what for? To stand around in the dark and struggle to hit a single target because you’ve been overtaxing your body?” Shinon drops to his knees. His hands come to settle on Rolf’s shoulders with measured gentleness. “And worst of all, you don’t listen to me when I tell you to lay it off to prevent something like this happening. Now let me see your shoulder.”

Reluctantly and wordlessly, Rolf does as he is told.

“Would you have kept going the second it stopped hurting?” Shinon asks as he smooths his hand over the smarting muscle. Rolf tries his hardest not to flinch.

“I… don’t know.”

Shinon lets out a noise of frustration. His touch becomes rougher for a second before he catches himself. “You pulled a muscle there. Pretty badly,” he says. His hands come to settle on top of Rolf’s shoulders again, and he levels Rolf with a glare. “If you keep going with an injury like this, who knows if your shoulder will ever be the same again. Do you understand that, Rolf?”

Numbly, Rolf nods and keeps his head down. He can’t stand to look Shinon in the eye anymore. “I just—Master Shinon, I just don’t want to disappoint you! You can’t be happy with me as a pupil, can you?”

“Not if you’re going to behave like this.”

“I mean it! I haven’t been making any progress at all! I rarely manage to hit any of my practice targets, and if I ever got into an actual fight, I would only be a burden to everyone else!”

A hush follows in the wake of Rolf’s outburst. Shinon’s face scrunches up in something akin to disgust.

“Well, good thing you’re not joining any fights then,” he says after a beat. “You are simply not ready for it.”

“And that’s exactly the point, isn’t it? I’m not carrying my weight!”

“Who said that you had to? Because that’s bull. You’re perfectly capable for a boy your age who has been practicing archery for as long as you have,” Shinon says, his face still stuck in a strange expression of distaste. “If you were a lost cause, I wouldn’t bother.”

Rolf can’t help the tear that escapes his eye at last. In the advancing darkness, Shinon doesn’t seem to notice.

“But,” Shinon goes on, “if you permanently injure yourself by practicing until your shoulders give out and your hands bleed, you will become a lost cause. And I don’t want that for you. Do you understand?”

Rolf swipes at his face with his good hand and sniffles. “Yes, Master Shinon. I just… I wish I could get better faster.”

Shinon sighs and pushes to his feet. He doesn’t offer Rolf a hand to pull him up, but goes to pick up his discarded bow instead. Weighing it in his hand, he considers Rolf. “I wasn’t born a master archer either, you know. But… well, I think I’ve trained you well enough to trust you to have my back, once I deem you battle-ready.”

Rolf’s heart jumps in his chest. “Really?” he gasps and moves to stand up, only to wince when his shoulder smarts at the movement.

Shinon smirks. “If you take the time to heal, first.”

“I promise,” he says, and crosses his heart with his uninjured hand. Another tear slips out, and he quickly wipes it away. “And… thank you.”

Shinon shrugs and fumbles for something with his free hand. A second later, he pulls out a hipflask and uncorks in one practiced movement. “Go see if they left any food for you,” is all he says.