Raid

I

The wind whipped across the boys exposed fingertips. The only reason he could tell that his fingers were on the bow was because of the blood displaced whenever he moved them. He let his head lower and his gaze fall onto the dirt below him. The runic engravings on the wood felt foreign to his numbed fingertips.

His pale skin contrast the dark green colour of the cloak he wore. His eyes and hair were both brown, because of this, few of his peers ever took interest in befriending him. This had taught him how to cope with being alone, he was comfortable in isolation. The pelt he wore over himself was not his own, as a result, it looked more like a bedroll than something to be worn.

The dead tree limb he leaned against moved up and down with his body weight. He set up inside of a gymnasium of dead tree limbs that had been torn off, gathered, and placed there for that purpose. If it wasnt for the sub-zero temperatures, he couldve fallen asleep then and there. He always had enjoyed the colder weather. The little he did know about warm weather included the fact that it made him sweat, a lot.

His daydream was shattered by a hand striking him on his shoulder. The first instinct he wouldve had would be to look at who or what had touched him, but upon honing his situational awareness he lifted his eyes to look at the end of his arrow. There it was. A gorgeous roebuck. It weighed more than he did at that time. There was no hesitation, daydreaming or thinking. It was time to perform. He had been taught from a small child that performance is what matters, if not all that matters.

He closed his left eye and looked down the shaft of the arrow. His breathing softened and slowed. He knew himself well enough to know that any distraction would destroy his performance. As soon as that thought entered his mind, the place where his nose was felt heavy. His upper lip could feel the drip of snot lower itself down from his nose. Instinctively he sniffled.

The bucks head shot up; looking into the cover of tree limbs. The boy freezes; slowing his breath. A common beginner mistake when spotted is to attempt to trade stealth for speed and hide somewhere quickly. This never works. He had had plenty of practice with squirrels, rabbits, and other small game.

Finally, the animal's head lowered back down to the earth and began picking at something on the ground. The boys head moved back over the arrow and he lined up his shot. Every muscle in his neck was tense; filled all the anxiety of a calm before a storm. The tip of the arrow moved just over where the animals heart should be. He thought that the worst-case scenario was that if he missed, the arrow would strike the lung instead, it wasnt a bad target to aim for. But the boy had only ever had to see one animal choke to death on its own blood and he wanted to keep it that way. He let all the tension out of his fingers, nothing happened. Confused, he looked at the string of the bow to see that his fingers hadnt moved at all. He just couldnt tell because he couldnt feel any of them.

Hvað ertu að gera Aksel?!, his father hissed at him, Drepa!. The bucks head rose once more. The boy released the string amidst the pressure. He saw a glimpse of it as it was going over the target and then it was gone. The buck had fled as soon as it heard the string release; this was not its first time being shot at. The boy let his arms fall to his sides in defeat. There was a brief silence, interrupted by the father speaking again, Gefðu mér boga þinn.. Aksel pleaded, Pabbi! Vinsamlegast!. By the time the words left his mouth, the father had already torn the bow from his hands. Ég gaf þér tækifæri, þú eyðilagðir það. the father justified himself.

Aksel watched the oversized boots on his feet slosh through the snow-speckled mud and frost-covered dirt. Watching for any defecation on the way back to their cabin. Water gathered inside of the hoof prints and trails throughout the wilderness surrounding the boys home. Fjandi! the father exclaimed into the woods; startling his son. The bowstring dug into Aksels shoulder and his eyelids fell heavily. He tried to tune his father out as much as possible, he found that it made life much more enjoyable.

The familiar thump, thump, thump of boots walking along the porch of the cabin was a welcome sound to the both of them. The father kicked the dried dirt off of his boots on the side of the cabin. The boy moved to do the same after him.

The door to the cabin shut as the father entered. When the boy went to open the door, he found it had been locked. Pabbi Aksel asked inquisitively. The father responded from inside the establishment, Þú færðir engan mat, þú sefur úti..

That was a long night.