From her post high on the cliff, Luthelian watched the fire in the camp crackle against the wood, throwing its heat across the sleeping figures. Some paces away, she saw Tancamir standing watch over the frozen lake and beyond. Her eyes followed his back more often than she would have liked since his return.
Practices at the archery fields had not quite been the same. At first, she had thought it a great relief to change partners – but Caethel was too quiet, blushing and fidgeting nervously; Yrill too serious and intent with deadly precision; Gwaedir…he was a fine sight for early mornings and his calm helped her focus. But over time, she found the serenity made her sluggish and inattentive. Luthelian grinned from underneath her hood. It would be nice to have competition at practices again.
Glancing around her and seeing no signs of lurkers, she pulled up her right sleeve to inspect the bandage around her elbow. The healer, Norliriel, had told her to rest it, but on a trip such as this…she set her teeth against each other. It would be important that her arrows not miss their mark. She thought of the odd angle at which her arrow stuck in the tree trunk when Tancamir challenged her. The stubborn sunshine-haired ellon had somehow used her inaccuracy to speak of imbalances in her stance and talked her into getting her arm wrapped up. If she had her way, no one else would have to know about the injury her slide down the cliff had caused.
Her skill with the bow was average at best compared to the rest of the Arrow. The only thing that really set her apart was her swift, steady footing and stealth as a scout. If she did not have a claim to that, then…She had been showing Caethel how to properly throw a snowball when she had slipped on a patch of ice and fell off the edge of the cliff they stood on. She could never admit to losing her footing.
Looking down at Caethel’s small form curled against the side of the rock, she remembered how the elleth had attempted to throw the snowball at her insistence and missed her target entirely. For an archer, Caethel had terrible aim with other flying projectiles. An uncharacteristically soft look entered her eyes then. Something about Caethel reminded her of the sister she left behind in the safety of the valley. Lothelian was much more social and had no aptitude with the bow, unlike Caethel, but she felt a compulsion to look after the elleth with all her shy mannerisms in the same fashion.
Her gaze flitted to Tancamir’s form once again as he drew close to Caethel and resettled her cloak over her sleeping form. It was annoying the way he watched over them. Luthelian shook her head and smirked as Lord Dolthafaer’s words rang, not for the first time that night, in her mind, “I meant the order only in jest, Luthelian. I saw him watching you and told him to continue his vigil.” Somewhere deep down, Tancamir cared and was not as aloof as he pretended to be.
