Chapter 220 - 218: Missed Shot.

Chapter 220: Chapter 218: Missed Shot.

Xena stares at him. Blinks, then stares a little harder.

​"Excuse me?" she says, politely confused and a little grossed out by the state of the items he’s holding out to her.

Montrel raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by her reaction.

​"You wanted a go, didn’t you?" he states, brow starting to furrow like he’s worried he’s gone and misremembered.

Which he hasn’t, at all.

She’s always desperately wanted to give it a try, and it was unfair of her father to make fun of her for it.

If the court ladies heard, they’d make fun of her too.

​Montrel and Khobi hadn’t laughed.

​They’d seen no reason why she couldn’t.

​And now here Montrel is, thoughtlessly offering up a bow to her, completely and utterly oblivious to the fact that he shouldn’t be.

​(She wants to accept.)

​(She really shouldn’t. She knows better than that.)

​"Ah," he mumbles, as she folds her hands together so they won’t be tempted to reach out to him.

He scratches at the back of his head self consciously, grimacing down at the dirty equipment in his gloved hand.

"I know they aren’t all fancy, but we can’t have you hurtin’ yourself..."

​Oh no, he’s misunderstood her hesitation.

How delightfully sweet of him.

​Huh?

​(What a strange thought she’s just had.)

​"I...It’s not that. It just wouldn’t be at all appropriate," she tells him, although she can feel her resolve wavering.

Which is so unlike her. She’s usually so good at being a princess.

​"You’re the princess," Montrel points out, shrugging as if to say have it your way , and the lopsided grin he gives her is simple and unguarded and not at all like the smiles she’s used to seeing, "But if you say it’s fine, it’s fine, right?"

​For all the prestige that comes with being a princess, it’s not often that she truly gets to do as she pleases.

​It’s even rarer that she is encouraged to.

​She smiles, and reaches for his hand.

...

The bow is heavier than she thought it would be, and the other bits and pieces are a little big but she’s determined.

Montrel barges his way onto the archery range; shooing away the soldiers closest and barking at them to mind their own business if they look at him funny.

At a word from him a couple fall in line to help her step up to the shooting line; clearly they’ve not spent much time around princesses before because they’re quite obviously fretting about how to help her along without sullying her fine dress with their dirty gloves.

​They needn’t worry. Her dress is probably ruined.

​Father will be cross.

​Hmph, let him be .

​She diligently pays attention as Montrel walks her through the basics of not hurting herself or anyone around her; demonstrating how to hold her weight and where to put her hands.

The bow is comically too-small for him but feels quite enormous on her, and her arms are already tired from holding it by the time he finally lets her string up an arrow.

​It’s a lot harder than it looks, and the shock at the unexpected strain must show on her face because Montrel gives her an encouraging look.

​She draws the arrow back a little harder. It makes her fingers ache something terrible , and her hand clutching the bow quivers gently.

But she gets there –bow full draw –and it seems to steady.

​Sweat beading on her forehead, she glances to the side, desperately seeking permission to let it fly before her arms break.

​Montrel nods.

​The string stings as it snaps back, even through the bracer.

But the rush of the arrow leaving the bow and the sound as it takes flight is unbelievably satisfying.

​Eyes bright with delight, she watches it sail, then fall back to earth.

​To her disappointment it doesn’t even hit the target, but Montrel lets out a low approving whistle which is just enough to keep the urge to pout at bay.

​"Nice one," he tells her, gazing out along the range to get a gauge on how close she’d been to the target.

Pretty close, by the sound of it, which fills her with a bit more confidence, "Not bad for your first shot."

He must see the way her hands are shaking, but he still asks, "...Do you want to try another one?"

​Somewhat predictably, the second shot goes massively wide, but it’s not the first arrow to go astray during training and certainly won’t be the last, and Montrel was prepared for this.

​" Down !"

...

The rule is: if you’re close enough to hear, you’re close enough to get hit.

​So when Montrel barks out that one word, every man in the vicinity –regardless of what he was doing or what amount of armour he’s wearing –immediately hits the deck.

​Well, every man except for one.

​Khobi never thought he’d be grateful for running laps.

On mornings like this, and after nights like the last few, it’s a good way to get warm, and stay warm.

And he’s just finishing up and taking a well deserved breather when he hears Montrel’s voice rising up over all the rest.

​And like the rest of them, he gets down .

​Beside him, like an absolute moron, Loac just stands there.

​(Hiss )

​Khobi knows that sound. And he doesn’t need to see the arrow to know instinctively that it’s too close.

​What the fuck is this guy doing??

​Adrenaline kicking his body into motion, Khobi launches himself off the ground, tackling Loac in the chest and knocking him flying.

Their knees and elbows knock together on the way down, and they wind up ploughing into the dirt in a messy tangle of limbs just as an arrow sails overhead, right through the space Loac’s sternum had occupied only moments before.

​" Ow, " Loac bites out through gritted teeth, propping himself up on his elbows beneath him and looking decidedly irritated at having been bodily slammed into the ground, "What the fuck was that for?"