Future XIII

The high ground. It's always better to have the high ground.

Lena stood on the bluff and gazed down at the herd of deer grazing in the hollow. She closed her good eye and stood in her darkness and listened. Her hooves were solid on the ground, supporting her. Her curves were returning and filling out the awkward leather armor that Thuleos had provided for her.

While his specialty was crafting rifles and other guns, Thuleos was also a fairly skilled bowyer, and had taught Lena how to make her own. His theory was that she would have to learn to adapt to having only one eye. Ammunition, he reasoned, was difficult to make and recover out in the wild, and he wasn't sure how long they would be away from the main settlement. They worked on their bows in silence, Thuleos showing, rather than telling, her how to form her weapon.

It still felt strange in her hand, she thought, as she gripped the handle, rolling her fingers around the leather that cushioned her palm from the wood. It was a fine weapon, Thuleos had declared, after many hours and days of work, holding it up in the sunlight to inspect it.

He had helped her with some of the more detailed work of arrows, but then sent her off alone into the nearby forest to hunt for their week's food.

It had been nearly two months since they had quietly left Shadow Watch, stealing away in the middle of the night, probably the first night's sleep the residents there had gotten since it happened. Lena still wasn't talking, but Thuleos knew better than to push it. She clearly didn't care that they had been gone so long.

She didn't. She knew without ever setting foot outside her home that the other draenei were peering at the house with wary eyes, distrusting, probably even angry. At her, at Kras, at the whole damn leadership of their community, for putting them at risk. But like everything else, from putting food into her body to the cleanliness of said body, Lena just didn't care.

She had needed to get away anyway. The house still smelled like Kras. When no one was around, when Nhadi had finally stopped her daily fussing, in the dark when Thuleos would stand watch at her door, she would slip into a closet full of his old clothes and sit on the floor, burying her scarred face into the soft materials and crying, stuffing the fabric into her mouth to muffle her sobs as she rocked back and forth in the small space, bumping her head against the wall. She could still smell him, still sense him, still roll over in the bed and expect to find him beside her. With every instance of him turning up gone, her heart dropped a little lower. She still dreamed about him, his strong arms holding her, the elemental pets he allowed her to keep, how he always kept his shield and a dagger beside the bed, that crazy grin that would spread across his face when they fought.

And when she would wake, jolting herself up in the bed, gasping for breath and realizing that he was never going to be there again, she would scream. They would come rushing in, fussing over her even more, making her cringe in humiliation and shame, forcing her deeper into the pain.

Her fingers tightened around the bow in her left hand as she lifted it. It spanned from just above her head to just below her knee when held at the proper height, perfectly curved and strung. She took a deep breath - finally able to do so - and rolled her shoulders back. Form, Thuleos had said, was just as important as aim. Her left elbow tightened, but remained fluid as she continued to adjust her posture with her eye closed. Her right hand brought up an arrow that she had fletched herself, one that took many hours and many do-overs and many frustrating moments of pursed lips and nearly abandoned efforts.

Nocking the arrow, she lifted the right elbow to be level with her ear, slowly making a circle in the air with it, rotating her shoulder in perfect archers form. The fingers of her right hand tugged at the corner of her mouth as she drew on the string. She finally opened her eye and stared blankly down the shaft of the arrow into a blur. Her depth perception would now and forever be broken.

Sighing, she relaxed her pose and watched the deer again. She picked out one that stood slightly away from the herd, grazing as if oblivious to their movements. She had wasted many arrows, broken many more, and just plain lost them as she practiced. Her vision was not getting better. Her good eye was not compensating for the lost one, and nor could it give her a better handle on spatial relations. Her aim was horrible, and any moving targets she was assigned usually got away as the first shot nearly always missed.

For the first time, Lena started to doubt this plan. She would never be able to be a marksman. How could she exact revenge now? With no magic, and clearly no aim, was she just destined to be broken forever?

A nauseous wave of guilt rolled over her, nearly buckling her knees. No, she decided. She would figure this out, too. She had to.

She lifted the bow and drew back on the string again, this time focusing hard on the deer away from the herd. The arrow flew and impaled itself in the animal's rump, and she swore she could hear it squeal from her bluff as it began a panicked limping toward, and then away from, and then once again lurching towards the scattering herd.

Her heart seized as she identified with the animal for a brief, flashing moment. But she composed herself and lowered the bow, pulling a dagger and marching slowly toward the flailing form to finish the job.

She had to.