Date: September 25, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The cold morning sun barely dispersed the mist creeping along the forest's hem when Dur was already standing at the edge of an old clearing, clutching his homemade bow in sweaty palms. The air was damp and thick, smelling of rotting leaves and wet earth. Five days had passed since Torm first led him here, and each of those days had ended for Dur the same way—with the dull, indifferent thud of an arrow uselessly embedding itself in the bark of the old, mossy stump that served as their target.
This morning was no exception. His first arrow, loosed after what he thought was careful aiming, flew half an arshin left of the mark and, whistling spitefully, disappeared into the bushes. The second caught on a dry branch and, tumbling helplessly, fell into the grass two steps from him. The third finally reached the stump, but didn't hit the charcoal-drawn spot; it merely grazed it, leaving a pathetic scratch on the wood.
Not a sound came from Torm. The hunter sat on a boulder, watching his struggles with a stony face. His silence was worse than any scolding. It was thick as tar, and oppressive as this whole vast, indifferent forest. It held not anger, but a kind of weary disappointment that made Dur's throat tighten.
"Breathe," Torm finally spoke, not changing his posture. His voice sounded hollow, as if coming from underground. "You're not bending a branch. You're fighting the air. Inside and out. Until you feel it, your arrow will dance at the whim of the wind, not yours."
Dur nodded, swallowing a lump of despair. He knew Torm was right. He had seen how he drew the bow—one smooth, fluid motion, as if bone and wood became an extension of his body. With Dur, everything was different. His fingers, despite the emerging calluses, trembled. The muscles of his back and shoulder screamed from the unfamiliar strain. And in his head was an obsessive, deafening roar, mixing memories of wolf fangs and the chilling whisper of dark water from his own nightmares.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, as he'd been taught at the orphanage in stealth lessons. Tried to imagine himself as a stone on the streambed, motionless and cold. Took another arrow from the quiver Torm had made from tough wolf hide. The wood of the bow, which he had so carefully polished by the fire all those evenings, suddenly seemed alive and hostile, bending in his hands with the stubbornness of a wild beast.
He drew the string again. His cheek pressed against the taut string, and he felt its fine vibration. He aimed, trying to force the tremor in his hands to subside by sheer will. Exhaled. His fingers relaxed.
Twang. Another miss. This time the arrow flew high up, getting stuck somewhere in the thick foliage.
Torm slowly rose from the boulder. He approached Dur unhurriedly, his cracked boots sinking silently into the grass. He didn't shout or lecture. Instead, he simply stood behind him, his large, rough hands covering Dur's hands, which still gripped the bow.
"Here," his voice sounded right in Dur's ear, making him flinch. "Feel that? Don't pull. Fill yourself. The bow isn't a stick to wave around. It's like breathing. Inhale—tension. Exhale—release."
Torm's hands were unexpectedly gentle in their movement. He corrected Dur's grip, helped him find that very position where the tension in his back and arm muscles was distributed evenly, ceasing to be agony and becoming strength. Dur closed his eyes, trying to remember this feeling—the feeling not of struggle, but of union with the weapon.
"Now yourself," Torm released his hands and stepped back.
Another miss. But this time, the arrow embedded itself in the stump only a couple of handspans from the target. A small victory that made Dur's heart leap with wild hope.
"Better," Torm said curtly, already returning to his boulder. "Now repeat. Until the sun reaches its zenith."
And Dur repeated. Again and again. He loosed arrow after arrow. His shoulder blazed, his back went numb, and the fingers of his right hand turned white and lost sensation from the constant tension. Each miss resonated within him with burning shame. He didn't see a wooden target before him; he saw Korval's mocking eyes from the orphanage, imagined how Kaedan with one swing of his stone bracers would have shattered this stump, how Gil with her cool mind would probably have found the mathematical formula for the perfect shot, and how Ulvia with her intuition would have driven the arrow into the bullseye on the first try.
By noon, the quiver was empty. Dur, wet with sweat and covered in clods of dirt, crawled into the thicket to gather his arrows. Some were broken, others had to be laboriously pried out of the ground and trees. This process was humiliating, but it too was part of the lesson.
When he returned, Torm silently pointed to the pot of cold stew. They ate in silence, and Dur felt the trembling in his hands gradually subside, replaced by a deep, penetrating fatigue.
"Strength isn't in the muscles, boy," Torm suddenly said, breaking a rough flatbread. "Nor in the spirit. Strength is here." He bluntly poked his finger at his temple. "And here." His finger moved to his chest, the region of his heart. "As long as your head is full of fear, and your heart full of haste, you'll be dinner for the first hungry beast. The forest doesn't forgive fuss."
After eating, Torm left to check his traps, leaving Dur alone. And Dur, overcoming the pain in every muscle, took up the bow again. He no longer aimed at the stump. He simply drew the string and held it, counting his heartbeats. Inhale. Tension. Exhale. Release. Again and again. He did this until his eyes began to droop with fatigue, and a ringing silence filled his ears, for a time drowning out the voices of fear.
In the evening, sitting by the fire, he didn't look at the stars as usual. He sat hunched over, and silently, again and again, rubbed the bowstring with a piece of resin Torm had given him, to keep it from fraying. His world had narrowed to the pain in his muscles, the rough wooden bow in his hands, and the quiet, methodical creak of leather on string fibers. He uttered no loud oaths and made no grandiose plans. He was just learning. Learning patience. Learning pain. Learning silent, stubborn persistence.
And in this silent, monotonous action, in this struggle with himself and an uncooperative piece of wood, something new was being born. Not strength yet, no. But its foundation—a tiny, unyielding grain of will which, he felt, was the only thing that could one day silence the chilling whisper of water in his soul.