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The forest. It was strange. Spite liked it. It was quieter. Quieter than human cities. Quieter than Minrathous. Or Treviso. He liked it. It was different. More like the Fade. In some ways. In some. Not all. But some.
When he came to. He realized. He was alone.
Lucanis slept. But Rook. Rook wasn’t here. Not here. Not in the room. Not in the hut.
Spite got up. He looked around.
They were alone. Out here. The hut. Rook liked this place. He went here. Often. It meant something. Spite knew this. And he liked it. Being away. From humans. From work. From the boring stuff. Rook was different here. Softer. Relaxed.
Spite liked Rook’s anger. But Spite liked this, too. The silence. The relaxation. He understood. It was a part of Rook. One that he normally didn’t show.
But where was he?
“Rook?” Spite asked. But no answer.
The room was dark. Night had fallen. He could hear sounds. Birds. Animals. Life. Living things in the forest. Insects.
Lucanis had such fine ears. Spite heard it all.
And then something else. A hiss. Then a thump. A creek. Another hiss. Another thump.
He knew the sound. It was Rook. It was Rook as well.
Spite left the room. The hut. The fire had burned down. Leaving only embers.
It was not quite dark. It was summer. Even when the sun set. The last light lasted. Dim. Dim light. But still there.
And there he was. Rook. Not too far from the hut. Standing there. He had his bow out. His eyes were forced. Into the dark. Towards a tree. Towards a target.
He pulled the bow. Breathed. Let go of the arrow. It flew. Hiss. Thump. It hit the target. Quite well. Rook was good. He was a good shot.
Rook pulled out another arrow. He had a quiver. He put it in. Pulled the bow. And let go. It flew. Hitting the inner circle.
“Rook.” Spite looked at him.
And Rook never hesitated. “Spite? What are you doing up?”
“You were not there. I went looking. Lucanis sleeps.”
“I thought that much,” Rook said. He pulled out another arrow. He had two left.
Rook was a fighter. Spite liked that. He good with the knife. Did not hesitate. Never hesitated. Not with the kills. But he was better like this. With the bow. Each movement so fluent. Like water. Like air. Moving easy like wings.
Pull. Hiss. Thump.
“Rook is good. A good shot.”
Rook looked at him. And smiled. “I have a lot of training.”
“Lucanis never learned. Teia makes fun of it.”
Rook went to the target. He took it off. Put it on the ground. Pulled the arrows out. One after one. Holding the target down. With his foot. “I know. I heard her doing that.”
“Seems dumb. No? Arrow can be fired. From afar.”
“I think it is mostly a matter of preference,” Rook said. He smiled. Though just a little. He freed the fifth arrow. “How you kill. Or fight, I mean.”
“Spite wants to learn. I want to learn. Shooting.”
Rook looked over to him. “Why don’t you?”
“Lucanis doesn’t want.”
Rook chuckled at this. “A demon with a bow. I mean, what could go wrong?”
“Nothing. Spite would be good.”
“No doubt you will.” Rook grinned at him. “You want me to show you?”
Spite needed a moment. A moment to understand. But he did. Rook offered. He offered to teach. To teach Spite the bow. “You would? Rook would?”
“Yes,” Rook said. He freed the last arrow. Held it up. Then he took the target. Put it up.
“Come over here.” He waved Spite over.
And Spite came.
He knew the bow. Rook had always had it. It was a pretty bow. A pretty weapon. Good for killing. But pretty, too. The wood was carved. It looked just nice. And it smelled. Of Rook. It smelled so much of Rook. Wild. Wood. Anger.
“What do you know about bows?” Rook asked.
“They shoot arrows. Kill people. From far away.”
“Fair enough,” Rook said. “This is a whitewood bow. It is fairly strong. Though not too strong. The bow is made of wood. There are some bows that are made from several parts. But this one is more simple. Look.” He took the thing. Pulled on it. “People think the strength of a shot comes from the string. But it comes from the wood itself. See? See how it bends?” He showed it. Several times. The wood bend. It made a sound. Quiet. But audible. Somewhat audible still.
“So the wood shoots?” Spite asked.
“Hmm. In a way. It is about energy. You transfer the energy into the arrow.” He showed it. Taking an arrow. Using the bow. Shooting it. Hiss. Thump.
“You don’t keep it. Drawn. Back. Like that,” Spite observed.
“No,” Rook said. “It is hard to do that. It also is not good for the bow. If you keep it tense… the wood remembers it. At some point it will either break. Or just lose some of the… well, tension, I guess.”
“Hmm.” Spite looked at the bow. He looked at the hands. Rook’s hands. Tiny scars on the fingers. His nails short. No claws. Not like Spite. Not like Spite how he had been. In the Fade.
“Do you want to try it?” Rook asked.
“Yes.” Spite nodded. He took the bow. It felt strange. It felt familiar. As if Spite held it before. It felt like Rook. But Spite didn’t know. How to hold it. How to pull it. He had watched Rook. But it was a movement. Unfamiliar.
“Here.” Rook took Spite’s hand. Pushing it up. “You need to hold it here. Now stretch out your arm. Like this.” He showed.
It hurt. Strangely. The arm didn’t want it. To hold like this. It was unfamiliar. It was off.
But Spite still did. He did what Rook said.
“You shoot with two fingers,” Rook said. He showed this, too. Two fingers on the string.
When Spite tried. The string cut. It hurt the fingers. Even though the fingers were scarred. Lucanis fingers were scarred too. From fights. And training. And pain.
Punching didn’t hurt. Or holding the knife. This did. The skin hurt. And the finger.
Stupid human bodies. So weak. So painful.
“It needs practice,” Rook said. He laughed. Just a bit. When Spite shook the hand. “You can get used to it.”
“Why does it hurt?”
“You do not have callouses.” Rook paused. Then looked at him. “Or… I mean, I guess Lucanis does not.”
“I don’t understand it. Why Lucanis does not train.”
“From what I get… The Crows all have their thing, don’t they? I mean, Viago is the guy for poisons. And Illario is… what? The guy who seduces people and then kills them?”
“Lucanis is knives. But only knives is boring.” Spite looked at the bow. “Can I have arrow?”
“You can try.” Rook gave him the arrow.
Spite had seen it. He had seen Rook shoot. And Bellara. He had seen her do it as well. It did not seem that hard.
He took the arrow. And then he raised. And then he realized. Holding it was hard. He tried. With two fingers. Like pulling the string. And then the arrow fell.
It did not fly. It fell.
Rook chuckled. “As I said. It takes training.”
“Hmpf.” Spite felt silly. He was a demon. Demons should be able. To do stuff. Stuff like this. Fight. He was not a dumb human.
He bowed. Picked up the arrow. And tried to figure it out. How to hold it? How to draw it?
He tried. Two fingers. One arrow. One string. But the string hurt. And it zipped. And then it fell. The arrow did. Spite held onto the bow.
“The arrow is stupid,” Spite decided.
“You know, it happened with me too,” Rook said. “When I learned to shoot.”
“It happened then? To Rook as well?”
“Yes.” Rook took the bow from Spite. “This is not a good training bow I am afraid. It has a stronger draw weight. That probably does not make it easier.”
“But Rook shoots. Rook hits. Right in the middle.”
“Yes,” Rook said. “But I have been using this bow for years. I know it. And I have been shooting arrows since I was seven.”
“Since you were seven?” Spite echoed.
“Yes. I…” Rook sighed. He took another arrow. He drew the bow. And then he let the arrow fly. “My… My father taught me.”
“But your father. Your father is bad,” Spite said.
“He mostly is dead, right?” Rook said. “He is dead. Like my mother.” He shrugged. Then he looked. At the bow. “He gave it to me.”
“Why?”
Rook was silent. He took another arrow. From the quiver. One of those he had pulled. From the target. Not too long ago. “You know how my family is mages, right?”
“Yes. Like Pavus. Like Bone Man. And Bellara.”
“Yes,” Rook said. “Like them. Because it is Tevinter. This is Tevinter. Everywhere else they fear magic. But here they… You want to be a mage. Or otherwise you are useless. Otherwise you serve. And my mother… My family… They are all influential. Big people.” He looked at Spite. “Like Catharina.”
“Oh. Big people.” Spite nodded. He understood that.
“But in Tevinter. Big people are never not mages. And then I was not a mage. I think… I think my father did kinda knew it early on. They both did, I think. But they kept saying. Maybe my magic came in later. It just didn’t.” Rook took another arrow. “But my father taught me how to hunt. With a bow. He also made sure I knew how to fight.”
“But why? Father was a mage, no?”
“He was. But he was…” Rook stopped. He sighed. “It does not really matter.” He looked at the bow. “I think there is an old training bow in the hut, you know? I just… I am not sure where it is. But it should be there.”
“Training bow?” Spite asked.
“Yes. When I was a kid. When I learned it. I was using that bow. Because it is easier to draw. It also has a guide for your hand.”
“A kid bow?” Spite looked at Rook.
“Yes.”
“But I am not kid. I am Spite.”
“I know. But I think it might be easier to learn the movement on it. If you do not have to focus so much on drawing. And can focus on the arrow.”
Spite grunted. “But I like this bow. This bow is Rook.”
“It is,” Rook said. “And you can try to shoot on it. But if you want to learn. You need to learn the movement. The basis, you know?”
“I am a demon,” Spite said.
“Yes. But you are not shooting demonic arrows, are you?”
“I could,” Spite said.
“In this body?”
Spite thought on it. He hadn’t been able. To draw on energy. Or the Fade. Or anything, really. Not in this body. Not with Lucanis.
He sighed. He did not like it. He wanted to be… A demon. And he wanted to be Rook. And Rook could shoot. So easily. It was so easy when he did.
“Rook used that bow?” Spite asked.
“The training bow?” Rook looked. Waited. Then Spite nodded. “Yes, I used that one. For a good while. When I was a kid.”
“Humans are kids. First. Right?”
Rook nodded. “Yes. That how it goes for people. We have to be kids first. Before we get to be…” He sighed.
“What?”
“How are demons born?”
“As spirits,” Spite said.
“I mean. Yeah. I guess. But I mean… how?”
Spite paused. He thought on it. He was not sure. He did not remember. Being. Coming to be. He just remembered that he was. At some point he had been. “I don’t know.”
Again Rook chuckled. “I guess. Yeah.” Then he drew. A breath. Long. Deep. “I will go look for the bow, alright?”
“Yes. Spite will learn the bow,” Spite said.
And Rook smiled. “Let’s see about that.”
