Music “Discipline. Remember your breathing.” He held her shoulder, fingers curled and latched to keep her body steady. “Yes, I-- I have it.” Her cheek lay pressed against the stock, one eye squinted shut while the other peered ahead with lethal focus. “Do you really?” Her breath came from between her mask-covered lips in short, quiet, haggard bursts. “I do, I can do it, okay? I have it.” Her index and middle fingers twitched, laying hesitantly on the crossbow’s lever. “We’ll see.” She didn’t have much time to think about much of anything before the mass of russet fur poked his head around the corner of a large white oak some twenty yards ahead of their covered position. Father always said, when they’re in your sight: don’t think, shoot. So she pulled, wincing even before the string unlatched to send the bolt flying forward. To anyone who has ever fired a crossbow, of course, this is an obvious mistake. One must have ‘lever discipline’: the resolve and composure necessary to not flinch or over-anticipate the weapon’s firing while you are trying to fire it. Constanze du Brierüst, however, had never fired a crossbow before. And so the bolt went careening through the air, off of its mark, and slammed into the tree near the large buck. The sudden impact and flying of splintered bark sent the beast immediately running, turned tail and bounding off into the deep wood beyond. “Good shot.” her father remarked snidely, clapping her shoulder and standing with a stretch and a satisfied groan. She, however, did not find the same humor in her failure as her father. Constanze flopped down and onto her side with an anguished, overly-dramatic groan that mirrored her father’s but was much, much less content. She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes and rubbed, grumbling curses under her breath that barely managed to escape the confines of the porcelain mask strapped tightly to the lower half of her face. “I was trying. I promise. I should have had it! I did it all right! It must have been… the wind. Or your hand. You ruined my shot.” “You ruined your own shot, honigbiene.” She scrunched her nose up in a display of indignation. He knew she hated being called that. “Impossible. I’m the best, and… that’s that.” “Where did you get all that hubris from?” He leaned down, grabbing her hand and yoinking the girl to her feet. He reached out, dusting off dead leaves and soil from the back of her coat. “Uhm, from you.” “Did your mother tell you to say that?” “Yeah.” He couldn’t help but laugh at that, picking the crossbow up and starting to walk along through the wood once more, re-stringing the weapon as they ambled along in tandem. “... My breathin’ wasn’t right.” she admitted with a heavy sigh, hanging her head and kicking at a small rock in her path. “I could tell. You sounded nervous.” “I-- did not! I wasn’t nervous. Nope, not me.” “Oh, no? And why not? I was nervous, my first real shot.” “Yeah, well, you get nervous ‘bout a lot of things.” “Do I? Don’t think I’ve ever considered that.” He gave his short layer of stubble a brief, contemplative scratch before that hand fell to fetch a new bolt from his belt. Into the table of the crossbow it went, slid into place and hooked upon the taut string. He held the weapon pointed downward to be certain it wouldn’t hurt anyone in a haphazard firing. “Yeah. Uh. When we’re gonna go meet grandma and ‘pa.” “Now, now. I have my reasons to be nervous about that.” “They’re just old people! Can’t hurt you, you know. Don’t be so afraid about it.” She looks up to him, a grin visible in her bright blue eyes but entirely masked by the porcelain below them. He offered her a smile in return, though it faltered for just a moment as his eyes drifted down to look at his daughter’s face: or what he could see of it. She punched him in the leg. “You’re gonna trip if you don’t look up.” She was right about that. He peeled his gaze away and upward, returning his attention to the forest before them. “... Guess I was nervous, though.” “Oh? Well, it’s very brave of you to admit that. Humble, too. What were you so nervous about?” “Killin’ it.” He gave Constanze a quick look, brows perking upward. She had her hands shoved into the pockets of her mahogany hunting jacket, then, her chin tucked once more. “Well, I understand that. Very well, actually. It’s not an easy thing to do.” “‘Cause, it has… family. And I’d be making their family sad. And he reminded me of you. Probably has kids, and… a wife.” “Elk don’t get married, honigbiene.” “W-well! Whatever elk do get. Elk-married. Still has a special… girl elk. All animals have that, right? And so do we.” “Special girl elks?” He cracked a slight smile in anticipation of how she’d receive his poor jest. She huffed, elbowing his leg. “No! I mean, uhm. Stuff that’s like… that. You’ve got mom, and I mentioned grandma and grandpa and there’s grandmother and grandfather and… well, everyone’s got that. A person.” Her chin lifted, then, looking up toward the barely-lucent sunlight breaking through the canopy. “I suppose they do. It’s part of our duties to the Spirit, to find another and bear children so that we as a people can help our families and the rest of Ailorkind prosper.” Her nose wrinkled a bit after he said that. “That’s… all it’s for? Making babies? I don’t know if I want to do that.” “No, no, not all of it. Everyone wants love. It’s a part of who we are, we’re meant to find another person to connect with. My mother always explained it to me, that… our souls have edges on them. And someone else in the world has the edges that fit just right with yours. Like two pieces of a very, very difficult puzzle to solve. But the other piece is out there, and you’ll find it some day.” “... Is that how babies’re made?” He laughed aloud at that: a great, deep, honest belly-laugh. His arms swung down to pick her up, prompting her own fit of giggles while he perched her atop his shoulders, hanging onto her legs for security. “No, no. It’s more complicated than that, and your mother would love to explain it.” “Renault tried telling us it was like swordfightin’.” “-- What?” “Yeah. He was actin’ it out, saying parents do a sort of duel to make a baby. It was funny. He’s a noddy, though.” “Why’s that?” “Oh, uhm, tries to pick on, uh. Other people when Miss Helen’s out of the room for water. Says mean, dumb stuff.” “He sounds unpleasant.” “Yeah! One time he called Emilie a ‘lil piglet’. That wasn’t funny. I got pretty mad about it.” “Constanze, is that why we received a letter saying you had a disciplinary stay at school for hitting another student?” She fell silent, then, her fingers knotted up in his hair and nestled there. Her lips remain pursed, gaze set forward. “... Uhm. Yeah.” “Is Emilie a friend of yours? So you defended her?” “She’s basically my very best friend, yes.” “I’ve never heard about her before.” “She’s new! But I wanted to help her out, since she’s new, and that’s why we’re friends.” “Tell me about her, then.” “Well, she’s got the prettiest dresses. Lots of good colors. Her hair is really, uh. Smooth? Looks kinda like Crackers’ mane after I’ve brushed it for a whole hour. Not the same color, though. Crackers’ got black hair, hers is, uh. The color’s the same color as the really nice cabinet at home. In the sitting room. Maho-- Mom said it once, uhm. Mahog? Mahogany. She’s got mahogany hair. Oh! Her eyes, too. Look really nice when she smiles, and, uh…” “Constanze, I wanted to know if she had any hobbies or what you do two together.” He laughs a bit after that, staring down at the ground beneath them as they walk: deliberating on something with that usual idle gaze of his. “... Oh. Sorry” "We’ll talk about her more over dinner, alright?” “‘Kay. Are we headed home now?” “We are. Sorry you didn’t get anything this time around, honigbiene.” He gently helps her down off of his shoulders, setting her back down on the ground: their cabin just growing visible through the maze of trees ahead. He kneels down to her level. “Did you have fun, though?” “Uhuh. Thanks.” He stared at her in silence, then, wearing a proud and genuine smile all the while. She smiled back, then: his princess, little honeybee. He was proud of her, and would be, no matter what; he’d be proud if she didn’t want to fence or dance or play piano or be a proper lady. Because, in truth, it was already looking like there wasn’t a chance in the world she’d be proper. But it was alright. He kissed the top of her head with that, and sighed, before beginning the long, arduous process of mentally preparing himself for the day he knew was coming: when she’d bring home a special girl elk.
