The arrow's surface is coarse between Fiesi's fingers, carving out raw patches at their tips. Gritting his teeth, he relaxes his bowstring, drawing up a few licks of flame to soothe the skin. It's probably a sign he should call it a night. Yet after a shake of his hand, he's lifting the bow again, arrow nocked despite the shaking in his arm.

One eye closed, he squints down the arrow's length, drawing in a breath. He's stared at the tree so long that it doesn't quite look real; the lantern lit at its base paints it in the smudge of copper light, detaching it from the shadows, taunting him with its smooth, empty surface. He draws back the string. This time, it has to hit.

He exhales and lets go, arm remaining stiff. This time. Please.

The arrow skims the bark, deflected, landing with a barely audible crunch in the ground swallowed by darkness.

Without letting himself react, he reaches over his shoulder for another arrow. Inhale. Hold, aim. Release.

It flies out far too wide, disappearing into the undergrowth. Pathetic.

"Are you proud, father?"

The next arrow's trembles are visible. He straightens it as best he can, hardly caring to go through the proper motions this time. It impales the earth at a decent pace from the tree. He's getting worse.

"What is there to be proud of?"

Fire itches at his fingertips. With a wordless growl, he throws the bow to the ground, dodging the temptation to burn it to ash. He stares hopelessly down at it, fists clenched. A dull sort of panic unfurls in his chest, the sluggish beat of wings arcing into a nervous flutter, the hand he drags through his hair doing nothing to disperse it. He gives the bow a vengeful kick as if the Cormé weapon is somehow at fault for his incompetence.

"Do you plan on sleeping at all?"

Breath catching in his throat, Fiesi whirls. Little more than a silhouette against the pale tent behind, Sarielle watches him, arms folded. The glint of her eyes catches in shards of crystal. With a huff, he turns away, bending to retrieve the bow. "Do you?"

"I was, until I caught sight of an idiot trying to shoot his anxiety with a badly-aimed arrow."

Fiesi winces, fingers closing too tight over the bow's wooden curve. "How long were you there?"

"A couple of minutes. You need to work on your awareness." She starts forward, her footsteps light and yet subtly hard as pelting rain. "Seriously, though. You should get some rest."

"Why don't you go rest and I'll worry about myself?" he mutters, reaching for another arrow. Sarielle catches it before he can slide it into place on the string.

In the dim firelight, her eyes flicker enough that she might be mistaken for a Tía, gaze sharp and intense. She tugs the arrow, sighing when he refuses to release. "What's with all this? I've never seen you go anywhere near a bow until a few days ago. We went to the effort of scrounging a new spear for you and now you've changed your mind?"

"I'd have preferred a new cloak." He tries to prise the arrow from her, only for it to be wrenched from him as he adjusts his grip. Its tip nicks his palm. He shoots her glare as he closes his fist, summoning a scrap of flame to seal the cut.

"I got you that, too, and I apologise profusely that it isn't your favourite colour." She steps out in front of him, meeting his eyes, the arrow spinning between her fingers. He makes a halfhearted grab for it, and she backsteps to jerk it out of his reach. "Look. You don't make it easy to want to help you, but for once, I'm going to try. Why is this so difficult? Is it all because of Nathan?"

Briefly, he debates attempting to shoot around her, but discards the notion and lets the bow fall to his side. "No," he says on an exhale.

She says nothing more. Waiting, most likely, for a longer answer. Dodging her gaze, he studies the bow in her hands, turning it over. Perhaps if he stays silent long enough, she'll leave.

Useless, of course; the girl is stubborn as flame. "Is your father really that bad?"

Fire jolts under his skin, close to emerging. Shooting her a glare, he turns, starting in a march toward the tree. "Did I say it was your business?"

"What did he do to make you so afraid of him?"

"I'm not afraid of him," he snaps, whirling on her. The echo of Rigel's laugh rings in his ears, empty as the bird's drifting thread truly is. Swallowing the heat in his throat, he tugs himself away, trudging over to retrieve the nearest arrow. The silence begs to be filled, bitter as his words taste the moment he lets them free. "Maybe I'm just tired of disappointing him."

The arrow needs a decent yank from the earth. He throws it back into his quiver, feathered shaft rough to the touch, catching a glimpse of her folded arms in the corner of his eye. He reaches for another discarded projectile.

"We'll reach Aorila tomorrow," he says, a feeble attempt to drag the conversation into easier territory. "I'll be going ahead alone. The rest of you stay behind, protect Nathan, and wait for me to find you."

Sarielle hums. "No."

He sighs. Of course she'd decide to be difficult when he hasn't the patience to deal with her. Spinning, he spreads his arms. "You're pushing it enough. The least you can do is--"

"I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not." His flame crackles as it leaps in an azure coil, twining the bow in his grip. This detachment from Rigel is steadily loosening his control. Another weakness for his father to pounce on. He curls his fist over the scattered sparks and tugs at a smile, only one corner of his mouth complying. "They'll have a hard enough time letting me back in without a Cormé trailing after me."

"Then pretend I'm a Jeía. Dress me up in bright colours or whatever your people take a fancy to."

He snorts. "You think my people are that stupid?"

Her lips quirk. "If you're anything to go by." She advances, twirling an absent finger around a lock of hair. If he did have to pick her a colour, he isn't sure what would suit her. Oscensi's token white is all he's ever seen her wear. "Take Nathan, then."

"You somehow managed an even more terrible idea. Maybe I should be proud."

With a sigh, she snatches the arrow dangling from his hand. He'd forgotten he picked it up. She taps it against the one she already holds before setting them both in his quiver. "Then I'm the best alternative. I'm coming with you, Fiesi. You need company.

"Is that what this is?" Another trail of flame sneaks out from between his fingers, a spark of his smarting pride. "You don't think I can do this alone?"

Her stare freezes him before he can say any more. "Listen to me. You're afraid. You can pretend all you want, but it's clear as day." When he tries to turn away, his fire spiking in his chest, she grabs his arm. "I really am trying to help you, idiot. I've dealt with many the overbearing noble snob in the castle, and your father sounds like he'd fit in with them nicely. I know how intimidating those sorts of people can be. I want to be there to have your back."

Whatever beast was writhing within him suddenly goes still, carved of stiff ice instead. It crawls frost over his disjointed thoughts. "Oh," is all he can manage.

Another twitch of a smile reveals itself. "Plus, diplomacy dictates I should be there right from the beginning to settle our deal. If we hide and trail after you, they'll never see us as equals."

He blinks. "But you're not my equal."

Exasperation crumples her features, and she spins on her heel, shaking her head. "Why do I even bother?"

Snatching in a breath, he hesitates. Perhaps it's the lateness of the hour, or simply his own vulnerability softening his senses, but he finds himself landing a hand on her shoulder. "Thank you," he says, the words rough and quiet. She peers at him with narrowed eyes, and he snatches his hand back, hurriedly clearing his throat. "I--I mean yes. Okay. You win."

She has the audacity to wink at him. "I thought so. Now go get some rest."

"Okay." There should be something smarter to say than that. He rakes his tongue between his teeth, searching for words in vain.

"Oh, and..." Midstep, she waves at the bow he clutches. "Give that back to Skyla. I don't think archery is your thing."

Sarielle is gone before he can even remember to reply, melting into the shadows surprisingly easily given the bright way her figure catches in the lantern light. With a sigh, he drops his head, screwing his eyes shut for the moment.

"Always full of foolish delusions, Fiesi. It's pathetic."

His grip clenches, and then he's tossing the bow, not lowering his arm until he hears its dull thump as it makes contact with the tree. At least he's managed to hit the damned thing somehow.

It was stupid, anyway, a feeble attempt to poke at the past. He's done this once before, seven years ago: arrow after arrow fired, each as useless and pathetic as the last, fuelled by spite that cascaded into desperation. Kynig. Hunter. Archer. The bow, the supposed weapon of his ancestors. His father had been certain that Fiesi would never match their skill. It took him far too long to realise how true that was.

Fiesi's laugh hardly breaks free as he turns, shutting out the failed arrows and the long-lost dream, the whisper of the great archer and shining hero who proved all those that doubted him wrong. There's no use feigning it. His father is going to hate him, and rightly so. He'll be lucky to keep hold of his name at all.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Part two of Sarielle plays therapist to the boys. She really has her work cut out here.

I remember kinda struggling through this scene, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but whatever. I'll figure it out some other day *shoves into the distant rewrite notes*

It's also rather short, but not to worry!! Our next part is longer and promises fun. Even if it is still Fiesi :pensive:

- Pup