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..
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..
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Well this wasn't going to plan at all.
Admittedly, it wasn't an elaborate plan. It wasn't a well thought out plan. In fact, there were only two simple thoughts that had brought the plan into existence, and everything else was just a crude bandage to mash those two notions together. The first notion was a simple one: Khara was far better at archery than he was. There was no contest here, no challenge. He was new, whereas she had years of practice. His longbow was still new to him, harder to draw at all, let alone consistently; her shortbow had been her mother's, and it was as comfortable to her as a pair of old boots. There was absolutely no logical way that Khara would not win.
The second thought was a strange blend of selfish and selfless. Despite all the progress the two of them had made, despite the fact that Khara almost never treated him as anything but the man that she loved - in private, at least - there was still an imbalance; she was still utterly willing to do absolutely anything Zhol asked her, and yet almost entirely unwilling to ask him for anything. He would tear down the night sky one star at a time if she asked him to, but she never did. Company at the market, help with something small; those she did reluctantly, and it was always something practical, never anything personal. Zhol found himself utterly devoted and desperate to do anything for a woman who couldn't bring herself to ask. It was one of the last few obstacles between them: one of the last vestiges of Avora and Chiet that lingered.
It should have been a foolproof plan: Khara would win, and then she would have to ask for something; would feel entitled to ask for something. It wouldn't matter that he was an Avora, a prize was a prize. True, she'd probably try and squirm out of it. She'd ask for a gift that was clearly for the benefit of both of them, or she'd ask him to spend time with her doing something they'd both enjoy. She wouldn't be able to help that; she was too selfless to do anything else. But he'd insist that wasn't the right sort of prize; he'd make her ask for something she wanted for herself. He'd get his chance to do something that was only for her. He'd get the chance to start making up for the fact that there was no way he made her feel even a fraction as wonderful as he felt every time she glanced at him, or smiled; let alone the way he felt when she did anything else.
That was how it was supposed to be, but it wasn't. He had done something wrong. He had jeopardised the plan already. Was she too nervous at the prospect of having to ask something of him? Was this her birthday all over again, the surprise with the sleigh, an idea that had seemed so perfect at first but had left Khara nothing but anxious and frightened because he hadn't thought it through well enough?
He readied an arrow and raised his bow. He could fix this. Khara was a little off her game? No problem. All he needed to do was shoot worse than she had: that was easy, right? He shot poorly all the time; he could do it again. He began to make subtle errors on purpose - not overt enough for Khara to notice, but enough to throw him off. Shoulders a little tighter than they were supposed to be. String not quite drawn back as far as it should. Aim a little off, trying to do worse than Khara had. Lungs not quite emptied all the way. It was as terrible as he'd been when he'd started. This would be simple. He'd fire this arrow, and it'd miss; land in the outer ring, miss the target completely; something.
It didn't. To Zhol's utter horror, it didn't. Yes, the shot was undeniably terrible. It probably would have been a complete failure if he'd been aiming for the centre of the target; but he wasn't; stupidly, he'd been aiming for where Khara's arrow had struck. Yes, his arrow had missed that objective. Yes, it was low and left the way his shots always were; in fact, more so than ever. Unfortunately, it had been sufficiently low and left to skip the centre of the target completely, but not quite far enough to reach all the way to the outer ring. The arrow loomed, protruding ominously from the next ring in; a higher scoring shot than Khara had achieved.
The blood drained from his face. Oh no. Oh shyke no.
Well this wasn't going to plan at all.
Admittedly, it wasn't an elaborate plan. It wasn't a well thought out plan. In fact, there were only two simple thoughts that had brought the plan into existence, and everything else was just a crude bandage to mash those two notions together. The first notion was a simple one: Khara was far better at archery than he was. There was no contest here, no challenge. He was new, whereas she had years of practice. His longbow was still new to him, harder to draw at all, let alone consistently; her shortbow had been her mother's, and it was as comfortable to her as a pair of old boots. There was absolutely no logical way that Khara would not win.
The second thought was a strange blend of selfish and selfless. Despite all the progress the two of them had made, despite the fact that Khara almost never treated him as anything but the man that she loved - in private, at least - there was still an imbalance; she was still utterly willing to do absolutely anything Zhol asked her, and yet almost entirely unwilling to ask him for anything. He would tear down the night sky one star at a time if she asked him to, but she never did. Company at the market, help with something small; those she did reluctantly, and it was always something practical, never anything personal. Zhol found himself utterly devoted and desperate to do anything for a woman who couldn't bring herself to ask. It was one of the last few obstacles between them: one of the last vestiges of Avora and Chiet that lingered.
It should have been a foolproof plan: Khara would win, and then she would have to ask for something; would feel entitled to ask for something. It wouldn't matter that he was an Avora, a prize was a prize. True, she'd probably try and squirm out of it. She'd ask for a gift that was clearly for the benefit of both of them, or she'd ask him to spend time with her doing something they'd both enjoy. She wouldn't be able to help that; she was too selfless to do anything else. But he'd insist that wasn't the right sort of prize; he'd make her ask for something she wanted for herself. He'd get his chance to do something that was only for her. He'd get the chance to start making up for the fact that there was no way he made her feel even a fraction as wonderful as he felt every time she glanced at him, or smiled; let alone the way he felt when she did anything else.
That was how it was supposed to be, but it wasn't. He had done something wrong. He had jeopardised the plan already. Was she too nervous at the prospect of having to ask something of him? Was this her birthday all over again, the surprise with the sleigh, an idea that had seemed so perfect at first but had left Khara nothing but anxious and frightened because he hadn't thought it through well enough?
He readied an arrow and raised his bow. He could fix this. Khara was a little off her game? No problem. All he needed to do was shoot worse than she had: that was easy, right? He shot poorly all the time; he could do it again. He began to make subtle errors on purpose - not overt enough for Khara to notice, but enough to throw him off. Shoulders a little tighter than they were supposed to be. String not quite drawn back as far as it should. Aim a little off, trying to do worse than Khara had. Lungs not quite emptied all the way. It was as terrible as he'd been when he'd started. This would be simple. He'd fire this arrow, and it'd miss; land in the outer ring, miss the target completely; something.
It didn't. To Zhol's utter horror, it didn't. Yes, the shot was undeniably terrible. It probably would have been a complete failure if he'd been aiming for the centre of the target; but he wasn't; stupidly, he'd been aiming for where Khara's arrow had struck. Yes, his arrow had missed that objective. Yes, it was low and left the way his shots always were; in fact, more so than ever. Unfortunately, it had been sufficiently low and left to skip the centre of the target completely, but not quite far enough to reach all the way to the outer ring. The arrow loomed, protruding ominously from the next ring in; a higher scoring shot than Khara had achieved.
The blood drained from his face. Oh no. Oh shyke no.
"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
Dad Thoughts | Dinah Thoughts | Khara Thoughts
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This template was made by Khara, the letter Q, and the numbers 87 and 13.
