The Boy, The Father, and The Fire

[Unwillingly 18131]

Justine Thibault

 

---

 

“There, just a little higher.” 

 

Childish, delicate hands fumbled with the feathered arrow of a longbow at the gentle instruction of his father, Hùrin. His were much greater than Galahad’s, stronger and more weathered, yet ever-touched by elven youth.

 

Though Galahad would soon be fourteen, he displayed a particular reluctance towards the mastery of the blade and bow that Rumil and Carys hadn’t. They learned quicker than him, outpacing him despite their youth in a way that sometimes frustrated, but most often discouraged him.

 

He peered down the shaft of his arrow, arms nigh trembling against the draw weight of the bow as his chest rose with breath. Hurin hovered over him, watching not where the arrow might land, but the child who aimed it.

 

Tsst!

 

The arrow whizzed through the air with what he thought were precision, only to go careening past the woven target and into the breadth of woods beyond.

Galahad’s shoulders sank as he lowered the bow, a dejected pout touching his features as he turned to his father.

 

“I don’t get it! Why aren’t my shots landing?” 

 

Hùrin had watched the target’s peripheral in reticent silence, any thought well-hidden behind his stony, detached complexion in a way that even Galahad sometimes failed to read. He soon extended a hand in retrieval of the bow, slinging it over his shoulder before regarding the boy.

 

“It will come to you,” assured Hùrin, who lowered himself to a knee to meet his level. He took his hands, brushing a thumb across a palm with warm inspection.

 

“Precision does not measure your merit, my son.”
 

 

---

 

Galahad stares at his hands.

Pale.

 

Clammy.
 

Trembling.

 

His breath leaves only in snagged bouts he attempts to contain, whistled from his nose and parched through his lips. Upon his brow, his ivory fringe clung to the thin veneer of sweat glistening there, which he haphazardly wiped away with an arm. 

 

He flexes his hands a time or two. They moved rigidly, as though bolts had tightened into his joints and rendered them stiff. Eventually, his gaze falls over the desolate road ahead and the vast stretch of fields on each side of it, and only then does he remember how much his legs burn, how much his heels ache in the absence of a horse. It makes continuing all the more undesirable.

 

While his chest coiled with guilt, suffocating in the way it seemed to choke back his breath like barbed wire, his mind rang with the blinding glare of the inferno. He remembered the way it heated his face, crackled in his ears, and the pervasive scent of charred ash that filled the cavern. The way the rising air never allowed his cloak nor hair to rest fully still, and the sharp of a blade digging into his back, daring him forth.

 

Daring him to gaze.

 

Though terror was an understatement, part of him equally detested the principle of tarnished pride that came with that terror. To be so easily, so simply brought back to reality after riding what felt like the highs of victory. It was the triumph that  made him feel unstoppable, like a force not to be reckoned with. And with every banner raised, every victory declared, he felt just a little less burdened, a little less forgiving each time.

 

It was difficult to say he confided in orcish bloodlust, disagreeable even, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find it easier to understand the perspective the more time he spends among them. It’s the little details that often remind him he stands not in a kingdom of mankind, but an alien way of life that demands not only to be respected, but to be understood before it is judged. It’s their choice of word when describing a battle, the tone with which they speak it, or the way they greet their brethren in contrast to those they regard as fragile or weaker than. 

 

“You would trust the word of an Uruk?”

 

In Galahad’s youth, his understanding of the orcs was superficial at best, naive at worst. He remembered the coldness by which he regarded them, his willingness to anticipate trouble in their every step and be the one to brandish his blade in defense of it first. He knew only the tales of his progenitors, a time when war between elves and orcs didn’t feel so distant back then.

 

Now it felt unimaginable.

 

For all the tests and expectations that demanded his unconditional tolerance of elvenkind by simple principle, he began to question how far it would really get him. If his kin would show the same sentiment if it came down to it, fulfill their promises of grandeur and harmony, and no longer live a pariah to elven society. He would be lying if he didn’t find the prospect alluring, even if just a little bit, the possibility of returning to a home he once knew so well and leaving his web of troubles behind. To be venerated.

 

But at the end of the day, it wasn’t an orc who made him feel this troubled.

 

Spoiler

this is just some writing loosely detailing the train of thought of my character Galahad surrounding recent RP events. if you weren’t present for them or don’t know the context this probably reads really vaguely. don't metagame if you don't know blah blah blah. hope you enjoyed anyhow