Enjoy Rowan and Mason as children! Excuse me while I die of feels

"I thought you said your father was going to teach us archery today!" 

Rowan sulked, blowing a stray lock of hair from his face with a huff. "I don't know where he is, Mason."

Little Mason Locklear hopped onto the log and walked a few steps, hands out as he balanced himself. Sitting next to Rowan, he gazed at the little bows on the forest floor and the poorly-made feather arrows they'd been playing swords with earlier while they waited. His face brightened. "Well . . . it doesn't look so hard."

"Abá told us to wait," Rowan protested. 

Leaping up and snatching a bow from the ground anyway, Mason plucked one of the strings thoughtfully and glanced back at an unmoving Rowan, scratching his head of white-blond hair. He picked up an arrow, pushing it awkwardly against the string and letting it go. The arrow fell to the ground.

"Ha! See? It's easy!" Mason did it again. "Come on!"

"You're doing it all wrong." Though he was hesitant to disobey his father directly, he couldn't help but dutifully correct his friend—and show his wrongness. But mostly correct him. Yes. Rowan stood up, marching to him and picking up a bow and an arrow. Twisting the bow sideways, he notched an arrow in and pulled back as hard as he could. As he let go, the arrow only landed a few feet away, but his frown broke out into a triumphant grin. "See how far it goes!" 

Mason's eyes widened at the distance his friend had gotten and instantly held his bow sideways. He let another arrow fly, but it fell short of Rowan's. "How'd you do that?" 

Both eager to prove themselves to the other, they began to shoot arrows. 

The sun rose high into the air as hours passed, casting the forest in a honeyed glow. While mastering the bow, the two boys set up a tournament that consisted of the simple task of hitting a tree. Rowan won. After that, Mason took it upon himself to begin constructing targets—for what was a true archery tournament without targets? That last one clearly could not count, which meant both boys were set on proving themselves once more. Then, as soon as they became bored of shooting at targets, they started to play war. 

After bickering about who had to be the Cetadorian, Rowan reluctantly hid in the woods while Mason the mighty Eracellian hunted him down. 

"Show yourself, you scum! I'll wipe you off your face! I'll bleed you and run through you! I'll skin your ears alive and take my hostage—I'll—" Unable to piece together the snippets of insults Little Locklear knew from the few soldiers he'd ever heard in his life, his gallant war cry quickly became, "I'll shoot you, Cetadorian!"

Rowan was crouching behind his family's wood pile near the path that led back to their small cabin, a slab of bark as his shield, an arrow his Cetadorian sword (which couldn't be better than a flimsy arrow anyway, they'd concluded), and the wood pile his fortress. Spitting as some of the mud Mason had insisted serve as warpaint dribbled into his mouth, he peered over his bark shield, wide-eyed as a doe and mouth hanging open like a fish. Mason had started to swing his bow and arrows at the foliage in boredom, the war cries becoming increasingly sparse. He moped around the log they'd been sitting at before, far from the wood pile.

"Rowan," he finally whined. "Rowan, you're not even playing."

"But you didn't find me." Groaning at the waste of a good hiding spot, Rowan stood up, but then his eyes lit up with the glory of victory in battle. "I win!" 

"No, you don't! You only win when you get the other person!"

"Can't you win if you don't let the other person get you?"

Mason allowed himself to consider it for a moment. But it felt contradictory somehow, so he didn't think about it for very long, crossed his arms, and shook his head. "No. That's not how you win war. You have to get them."

"Well . . ." Raising his bow and fumbling to notch an arrow, Rowan aimed and shot. The arrow tumbled off course at the awkward twist of his wrists, landing softly on the ground. Flustered, he shot another arrow. It flew through the air and lost its speed, hitting Mason's shoulder and harmlessly bouncing off. Rowan laughed. "Ha! So I win!" 

"You can't win, niccetto," Mason complained, already picking up his bow and notching an arrow. "You're the Cetadorian, mehella!"

"Mason, we're not supposed to say those words." Rowan's eyes darted around as if the earth would swallow him up for hearing the words his mother had told him not to speak. Then the injustice tugged at him and he walked up to Mason. "Hey, you're supposed to be dead! I shot you!"

Mason grinned, face alight with the flush of battle fury. "Eracelli never loses! I only pretended to be dead to trick you out of your hiding spot." 

Rowan's mouth fell open and he yelped as Mason shot an arrow at him and missed. "But that's not fair!"

Concentrating on shooting arrows in as fast succession as his little, awkward hands could manage, Mason ignored him. His eyes narrowed in focus, biting his lip because he'd seen his father bite it while shooting in tournaments, Mason pulled as hard as he could on the bow and let another arrow fly. It whistled through the air and soared on the wings of the forest breezes with such a celerity Mason couldn't help but laugh in certain victory—

"Ow!"

Rowan fell to the ground, an arrow protruding from his calf. 

All thoughts of victory fell away, worry and irritation flooding Mason. He ran to Rowan, sitting down next to him. Some part of him admired himself for hitting the target, but one look at Rowan's face kept him from saying quite so. "I didn't mean to get you that good."

"You shot me!" Rowan snarled through hot tears, wiping his nose. His trousers were bleeding red like ink on a page, and he was breathing hard and crying. 

At the sight of so much blood, Mason panicked. "What do we do? Should we pull it out?" 

His friend, unable to answer but paling at the thought of pulling the arrow out of his little leg, cried harder, disrupting the forest's quiet. He asked for his avá, blubbering through his tears and runny nose.

"Be quiet!" Mason pleaded. "You'll send the entire village after us!"

Rowan began to wail.

"Sh! Rowan, be quiet. I'll get your mother. She's in the house still, right?" 

He nodded, trying his best not to cry out. His sobs came out in breathy whines, which annoyed Mason and reminded him of his family's dog. Little Locklear started to walk the path leading to Rowan's house, but one look back at Rowan's face made him break into a run. 

Hurtling down the path, panting slightly, Mason emerged from the forest and rushed to the house. Crashing open the door, he stumbled inside. 

"What did I tell you about knocking, Mason Locklear?" Rowan's mother called from the kitchen without looking back. 

Suddenly afraid and hot with shame, he stuttered, "Rowan's, uh—Rowan's in the woods and he wants you to come and he—"

"If this is another jousting tournament you need a lady to be the prize for, I will hear none of it," she said, her light Isler's accent sending cold shivers up Mason's spine. He gulped.

"We were playing war," he quickly tried to explain, "and Rowan was hiding and he tricked me and it wasn't fair so I chased him down—"

"Mason, if you burst into my house just to explain how my son has cheated you of another one of your glorious victories, then I promise to put you in my next pie, do you hear me?"

A horrid rumor from another village over said Rowan's mother Irísana was a sorceress back in the Northern Isles. Another said she was a sort of witch. Mason knew her to be a strong woman with an embrace like a clean and calming bath, warm as fomasv spice in spirit and free as a lark—and she could make bread that rivaled any other's. But when she was chiding, her cold tone could freeze the Galgaen. She turned around from the pie she was making, dusting off her flour-coated hands on her apron and and crossing her arms. "Now, what is the matter?"

His mouth opened and closed until finally his lips formed the words. "R-Rowan got hurt." 

"Why did you not say that before?"

Speechless, Mason watched in a blush of embarrassment as Irísana hurried to make sure she could leave the kitchen. She turned to follow him out the door, but Mason stopped her with a cringe and apologetically said, "He's bleeding."

"Phoryos," the Isler's speech slid off her tongue like silver and she left the room, returning with a folded set of white linen and muttering, "Fiel will not be pleased." 

Mason blanched at the thought of Rowan's father being displeased. But, overcome with the urgency Rowan's mother emanated, he rushed out the door and exclaimed, "He's in the woods!"

They ran, Irísana tucking the linen under her arm so she could carry her skirts in tight hands. Soft, red-gold hair flapping in the wind, streaming over her hard-edged face, she was sure-footed—swift with a haste Mason had only seen before in his own mother. He looked up at her in wonder as they ran, and suddenly he was not so worried for his friend.

Little Rowan was still sitting on the ground when they came to him, holding his leg. Though the wailing had stopped, his breaths came out in short spurts and his wet, freckled face was a splotchy and ugly red. When he saw his mother, he began to cry again. 

"Oh, Rowan." She took in a sharp breath. Irísana immediately knelt, skirts billowing out around her. "What happened, my soul?"

He showed her his leg, sniffing. 

"I told you to wait for your father to play with your bows, did I not?" she reminded him, voice gentle as snow. She tore the linen, wiping blood away. 

Rowan nodded miserably. 

"Darling, I need to take the arrow out. Would you count for me, the way I taught you? Just the way I taught you, Rowan, do you remember?" Irísana glanced up at him with a reassuring smile, starting: "Vía . . ."

"Áscane . . ." continued Rowan in the Isler's speech, closing his teary eyes and wincing as his mother took hold of the arrow. "Ceyó—agh!"

Casting the arrow aside, Rowan's mother pressed the linen to his leg to absorb the blood. When the flow had subsided, she wrapped the leg with a tender hand and an expert precision. "I suppose next time your father will bring the bows. Are you alright, rima?"

He sniffed again, admitting, "I'm tired."

"Of course you are." Irísana lifted her apron to inspect it, clicking her tongue when she noticed a blood stain. "Look. You got yourself all over me."

Rowan let out a breathy giggle when she ruffled his red hair, and his face broke into a contented, weary smile when she wiped his tears with her thumb. She gathered him in his arms and lifted him up, beginning to carry him back to the house. Then she stopped and turned. 

"Mason Locklear." Her eyes darkened for a second, and Mason cowered under her stare. For a moment, he thought perhaps she could be a witch, after all. "I think you will find war is less about getting the enemy than it is helping your allies." 

His eyes quickly darted to the ground. 

The corners of Irísana's mouth quirked upwards. She shook her head. "Your face is so shameful, you look like the inside of my pie. Listen here—if you do not tell your father why you are late to your supper, Mason, I will not tell anyone of your battle victory today."

His mouth fell opened in awe. "Really?"

"Vi asve phoryos," Rowan's mother said, kissing Rowan on the forehead with a laugh. "I promise by the stars."