Stomachs rumbling in unison, Blayre, Ainslee and Fletcher made their way to the dining hall, Fletcher keeping up his usual jovial conversation. Ainslee was noticeably quiet, offering nothing of her usual chattiness. Blayre could feel the awkwardness over her like a blanket of thorns pricking her every time she moved wrong.
She was going to murder her brother for this. She had assumed that by instructing her to keep his presence quiet to her friend that he would be exposing himself immediately after.
Once they had piled their plates with food, they sat on a bench at one of the long wooden tables and began to finally satiate her hunger.
Not even Ainslee's stony silence could ruin Blayre's appetite as she stuffed the roasted fowl and seasoned root vegetables into her mouth. The dining hall was mostly empty, since the bigger rush had already long since passed for dinner, but a soft murmur of voices surrounded them just as a blanket of warm food-scented air covered them. Fletcher, it seemed had finally picked up on Ainslee's dour mood and decided to prod the beast.
"What's got your smallclothes in a tangle, Red?" He asked, his fork clinking against his plate as he speared another potato.
Ainslee gave him a seething look, setting her fork and knife deliberately on the table beside her plate. "I don't know, why don't you ask our other friend here? Blayre knows all about it."
Blayre cringed, suddenly finding the meat she had been chewing to be rather tough. She gulped it down, and followed it with a swig of liquid. "Ains,"
"Don't "Ains" me, Blayre. You knew he was here and you didn't bother to tell me." Ainslee was leaning into the table as though ready to pounce.
Fletcher, looking quite confused, was glancing from one woman to the other, clearly unprepared for this unusual outcome. "Blayre knew who was here?" He asked innocently.
"Her brother!" Ainslee just about yelled across the table at him.
He flinched, "Oh..." And gave Blayre a look intermingled with both utter helplessness and sympathy.
"Perhaps," Blayre said through clenched teeth, "If you had discussed the situation in a civil manner, instead of jumping down my throat, you would get better results." She stood abruptly, grabbing her plate of mostly eaten food to dispose of, and strode out of the hall. Fletcher could deal with her if she was going to act like this.
The night was indeed clear as she stepped outside. With the setting of the sun, a chill had settled over the Capital, and she hugged her arms to her sides to hold in the warmth. She was upset enough that she thought her anger should be creating enough warmth.
As she passed by the stable, she wanted nothing more than to slip inside of Dove's stall and bury her face in the mare's warm, horsey smell. Horses didn't get mad at you over men. As long as you fed them and groomed them, they would be loyal - if not always obedient, Blayre thought wryly, recalling a spunky pony that she'd had in her childhood.
A mostly risen half-moon provided ethereal silver light as she walked down the path toward the archery field, hidden away behind a stretch of wall and a copse of trees. It was getting late, but the occasional bird chirp could be heard in the trees, sounding sleepy and reluctant to move. Blayre yawned, thinking longingly of her bed.
She noticed a soft glow coming from the archery field, which turned into a more distinct pattern of glowing orbs.
Candles. She realized, and it was enough to freeze her in her tracks. Her first thought was that she was interrupting something. Her next....
Rory. Moon and Sun what was he doing. She wanted to turn around and dash back to the dormitories like a startled doe, white tail flashing as it fled through the woods. But she forced herself to take calming breaths. Forced herself to take deliberate steps toward the archery range.
He was there of course. Mutually illuminated by the constant steady silver of the moonlight from above and the wavering glow of golden candlelight from below. The Duke of that afternoon, dressed in both physical and emotional finery, had been replaced with a more vulnerable man in a simple dark tunic, with his copper hair loose and falling around his face. He glanced up at her, from where he was stringing a bow, as if he had sensed her approach.
He smiled crookedly. "I didn't know if you'd actually come." But she didn't miss the hint of sadness in his voice. Sadness at what though? That his uncle was gone? Or at his loss of freedom? Or regret that they truly could never be together. Not now. Not when he was even closer to the Crown.
And yet she was here. He had asked her to be here, and she was here. Standing there hopelessly and helplessly out in the open in front of the sturdily built archery shelter where she had spent many days practicing until her fingers had been blistered and bruised, and until she was able to hit the mark every time.
"I did." She said simply, crossing her arms and hugging herself, hands running along her uniform jacket - she hadn't bothered to change. "I forgot to bring my bow though." She admitted.
"Oh, no matter. That's good actually, because I wanted to give you this." He straightened and lifted the bow he had been stringing, holding it out to her.
She stepped closer and tentatively reached for it. The bow was simple, not like the ocarina he had bought for her months before when they had traveled from Mountainvale. Before everything had gone to hell.
Simple, but very well made from a molten looking wood that appeared rust-red in the dim lighting. The wood was smooth to the touch. She placed her hand on the grip, feeling the weight of it and how balanced it was in her hand. "This is beautiful, Rory." She said softly. "I can't..."
"It's made of wood from the orange trees on the southern continent. The best wood for a recurve bow, I'm told. Once again, dear lady, you must accept it." He smiled, and she felt a blush suffuse her cheeks. "You must accept it, and you must use it tonight." He grasped her hand and led her to the second row of the archery field where a quiver of arrows had been hung from a hook at shoulder height.
"Strap this on." She lifted her arms and he slipped the leather strap of the quiver over her head and under one arm. Goosebumps rose on her flesh at his slight touch.
"I can tighten it," She said, suddenly too self conscious to allow him to put his hands that near to her chest.
"Of course." He stepped back and she could hear him behind her, stringing his own bow, the wood and string creaking slightly as he put pressure on them. She pulled on the strap that ran diagonally across her chest until it suited her, the pressure feeling just right on her chest and shoulders.
She grasped the new bow casually in one hand, drawing back on it before knocking an arrow to it, to test the poundage. It was somehow perfect for her draw.
"How does it feel?" Rory asked, his voice a soft rumble in her ear.
"It's just right, how did you know?" She demanded.
He flashed a devilish grin, "I asked of course. I'm not that good. The weaponsmaster has every detail about every weapon he has ever distributed, as well as the measurements of the person using them."
"That's... very thorough." Blayre acknowledged, thinking fondly of the old weaponsmaster, even if he was a bit eccentric. The man had been one of the first she'd encountered when she'd begun official training in the capital, and had presented her with her first practice and then real weapons.
"I suppose that's one of the reasons he's the best in the business." Rory, newly strung bow in hand, gestured at the twin targets out on the field. "Shall we?" The tealight candles set in small glass jars, illuminated a twinkling path up to the targets. Though dark, Blayre could still make out the circles drawn on the cloth, a deep red marking the bulls-eye.
"It's a bit dark, don't you think?" Blayre inquired. She had, of course, practiced in the dark before. Obscured or moving, it didn't matter the target. Blayre could hit them all. It wouldn't hurt to make Rory think she was intimidated by the poor lighting.
"That, my dear lass, is what the candles are for."
"Ohhhh." She drew out the word, in an exaggerated manner. "And here I just thought you were trying to be romantic."
Without giving him time to reply, she pulled one of the arrows from her quiver, knocked it to the bow, and drew back in one fluid motion. Back straight, feet planted firmly on the ground, shoulders back. She glanced at him, but he hadn't made a move to knock his own arrow, instead he watched her with steady eyes. Eyes that she could drown in.
She tore her gaze away, placing it on the target in the distance, "Well if you're going to take your time with it..." She released the arrow and hit the target dead center. She liked this bow.
Blayre heard Rory suck in a breath. "It seems to me that dim lighting is not an issue for you. Not that I'm surprised."
Blayre laughed, "My brother says if I hadn't become a Seeker, the Emarian Army would have claimed me as an archer in a moment."
"I don't doubt it." Rory was focusing on his own target now, his movements more careful and deliberate than hers had been. Big men were more suited to the long or crossbow which often took considerable size and strength to pull back. Though, a recurve suited for him should not be too much of a challenge.
Perhaps he was a terrible archer. He couldn't be good at everything.
The arrow hit the bulls eye, dead on, candles flickering as it whizzed by. Well then. Perhaps he could be good at everything. Just not as good as she was. To prove it, she promptly shot two more arrows in quick succession.
"Do it with more speed, your grace." She said, emphasizing the final two words, because she knew how it would irritate him that she was using his title.
He narrowed his eyes at her. "So I'll lose?"
"Lose?" She said, "I didn't know we were competing!"
He snorted. "You're the type of woman where you see everything as a challenge to be won."
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I'd never thought of it that way, but I suppose you're right."
After two rounds which she won by considerable amounts, the pair walked out to the targets to retrieve their arrows.
"I suppose a third round is unnecessary. You've won best of three."
"I suppose it is." Blayre said, pressing one hand on the canvas of the target, and grasping the base of the arrow shaft firmly, pulling it out with a satisfying thunk. She reached for the next one and then Rory's hand was on hers. She glanced up at him, a shiver going through her. And then he was leaning his face toward hers, their lips meeting in the middle. The arrow forgotten, she reached one arm up and pressed her hand to his shoulder, his moving to her waist.
And they stood there in silver and gold. The moon and the sun. Interconnected in that moment, but with so much at stake, and so many things threatening to pull them apart.