THWAP. PTING. THWAP.
Issy lowered the bow for a moment, grunting as the arrows struck home into the distant stump. Good enough. And then reached for a bottle of gin, took a hearty swig, and grabbed another arrow from the quiver. She was out of practice, badly, and it would take days of steady practice to get the muscle memory back into swing.
He truly didn’t remember. Well, she wasn’t going to push it.
The thoughts still stung, though. The memories. The practice wasn’t helping much, the pain still smoldered a bit. She had a final swig of gin before raising the bow again. But she’d promised herself, back when he first disappeared, that if that’s what was best for him, she’d honour it. She always would. Even if it did hurt…ah, well. She hadn’t been enough to help him, before. She always tried to bring him back, to himself and the others, but he had still been lost, somehow, still hurting, and she obviously hadn’t been the one to heal him. Too young and stupid and wild…
THWAP. PTING. THWAP.
She brushed a strand of hair away and sighed. He still wanted to be friends though. That’d be enough. More then enough, if he was feeling better. Still…finding himself, it looked like, but the core of him felt the same. Smelt the same. Sharp as ever and still thick as a block in other ways. She could…
…let go.
A few more arrows fired, as the gin warmed her belly. A sort of peace settled over her, as the monotony of practice took over, an almost meditative state as arrow after arrow flew threw the air. Yeah. This was ok. She’d go. She’d fight, because this time she’d *choose* to fight. She’d stand up for her king and her people and her friends. He mattered, of course, but he was another stage of life, now passed. The memories would always be good and welcome, but there were more yet to make.
She would survive, as always.
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