In the silence amongst the trees, a lone archer waits, still, and patient. All is quiet. The birds sing high in the trees, calling to the summer sun with their merry greetings. Finally, in one smooth, graceful motion, she raises her bow and draws back the string. A breeze from the lake lifts the leaves of the trees, sending some spinning slowly to the ground. With a movement as natural as breathing, the archer releases the string, standing motionless for what seems like a long moment, while her arrow speeds to its target.
Hit perfectly through the centre, a large green leaf remains pinned to the tree trunk before her. As she relaxes, putting her bow on the ground to approach her makeshift target, Caethel laughs in delight, throwing up her hands in triumph as she turns to exclaim, “There! Did you...”
It is too easy to forget where she is here, under these quiet woods that line the slopes of the misty mountains. Almost, for a moment, she was back home, the pair of them laughing their way through impossible target after impossible target, playfully honing their deadly skills. But she is not at home – has not been in the Greenwood for months, now. Grief dulls the excitement from her face, her solitude an unkind reminder of all that has changed. In her head, he is laughing, clapping his hands and whooping for joy – almost too noisy to be a scout, her mother had said. Not like Caethel, out here in the silent woods by herself.
She never shoots like this in practice. The scrutiny of Lord Dolthafaer and her companions is too distracting – she is too bewildered by her utterly failed efforts to make conversation, to be friendly. She is perfectly competent, and accurate: after so many hours and years of practice, her hands remain still and her shots precise even when she is red-hot with embarrassment. But she is not stylish, not comfortable, not at home.
A single sigh escapes as she retrieves her arrow, checking it for any damage before returning it carefully to the slim, fabric-lined box on the ground. Deft hands unstring her beautifully-worked bow, one hand smoothing over the carvings at the bottom with an absent-minded care. It is time to join the others, to travel once more into the mountains, with their strange snow-capped landscapes. “Just be yourself,” she murmurs, her low, sweet voice easily forming her mother's soothing mantra. “It doesn't matter if you're nervous, no one could be angry with you for that. Just try and relax, and enjoy their company.”
As she picks up her belongings, taking a last look around to make sure she has left nothing, he is laughing again, eyes warm with affection and amusement at silly Caethel – who can practice shooting all she likes, but still can't manage a decent conversation with anyone but herself.
