How to Catch a Fox (Ban X Reader)

Mr. Cohen

"Again!"

You notched another steel arrow onto your bow, drew a single, deep, breath, and let the arrow whizz through the air. You did all of this with a distinct rhythm, never missing a beat.

You had practiced it a thousand times after all.

The arrow lodged itself in the center of the target with a instantaneous thwack.

You were getting good and rightly so.

Everyday you would train your fighting skills with your instructor and mentor, Henry Cohen. Most people called him Mr. Cohen.

Mr. Cohen would tutor you in the art of warfare. Swordsmanship, Medicines, Sorcery... Mr. Cohen taught it all. He made no drama or theatrical performance as many would imagine. Your tutor treated the lessons as though they were any other traditional curriculum, such as English or Math.

Your favorite lessons were always in archery. Something about the smooth wood of the polished bow, the twang of the string being plucked, or the whizz of an arrow in flight gave you a rush of energy.

Even with your distinct love of archery, you hadn't mastered it yet. That was what Mr. Cohen was for. He told you that you were not so much mastering the art as you are trying to master yourself.

The short old man hobbled over to where you were. He grinned at you with a clever glint in his eye, one only obtained through age.

"Let your breath guide your arrow. Focus your mind, focus your shot."

He pressed down on your arm lightly, shifting it to a better position. After correcting you firing stance, he reminded you to breathe once more and issued another command.

"Again!"

For such a timeworn man, Mr. Cohen had a firm commanding voice. Not too forceful, but not too soft either. You heeded his order and did as you were told, repeating the same exact process. Arrow, breath, shoot.

Another precise arrow planted itself in another target a good distance away.

This was the drill every single day. Your mornings began with waking up, bathing, and enjoying a light breakfast. The rest of the day was spent toiling in Mr. Cohen's backyard.

The lot behind Mr. Cohen's cottage was a decent size. The rectangular lot was walled off by a tall oak fence and multiple hedge rows. Off to the right, a lone tree stooped over the bed of flowers carpeting the grass below it. Ornate steel benches were placed on both sides of the back door and stone cherubs played jubilantly amongst the budding plants, frozen mid-flight. This display was a common theme in many English gardens. But, this was no ordinary English garden.

Mr. Cohen was a crafty old man. He strove to take advantage of whatever opportunity he could spot, and he had an eye for opportunities. One such opportunity presented itself in the form of this plot of land.

Here, the old man had constructed a homemade training ground of sorts. It was not very fancy or brimming with the latest gear, but it was well kept and served its purpose. It contained a row of training dummies made of stuffed burlap sacks. Straw littered the ground in hills from years of sword strikes. A makeshift shooting range was off to one side of the yard. Three targets were lined up and ready, holes punched through their faces by oncoming arrows. There was even a scorched boulder you had practiced your magic on almost frequently.

You had grown to know that lot well.

The teachings were never boring for you. You enjoyed training with Mr. Cohen even when the lessons become unbearable or tedious.

Mr. Cohen was a lovable guy. He had the features one would normally attribute to a man of his age. Wispy strands of white flew off his head in all different directions forming a plume of hair. He had a mustache like that of a Chinese philosopher, thin and lengthy. Wrinkles were etched onto his forehead and framed his twinkling eyes.

His eyes were older than the rest of him. They conveyed an ancient soul, he could not have possibly gained in one lifetime, despite his countless years. Behind those eyes was a keen intelligence, constantly whirring and working. It was not a cold calculating intelligence, but one of a teacher or a wise grandfather. A definite kindness and warmth radiated off of him.

Mr.Cohen was always helping out who ever needed it, and even those who didn't. He acted as his community's father. Mr.Cohen loved the village of Bramstow and the whole of Bramstow village loved him.

Bramstow was a tiny, unassuming village. The town was a speck in the English countryside, nestled between two low-arching hills. It's cobbled streets were lined with cute little doll-houses and charming specialty shops. Flowers sprouted from every accessible pore between the cobblestones. The murmurs of townsfolk and squealing of children drifted through the village. Everyone knew everyone and everything was tranquil.

Until They came...