An Arrow Gone Astray

A dark shadow of fury sat perched in Luthelian's usual seat amongst the eaves above her sister's workbench. The sound of hammers beating against the anvil chimed the impending hour when the shadow would rise from its place as a raging inferno. Though her caramel hair lay straight and delicately around her face in the semblance of peace, the tight knit of her brows and the furious scratching of her quill betrayed her tempestuous mood.

Oh that arrogant, boastful sunshine-haired elf! I cannot stand him any longer. I have half a mind to not go to practice tomorrow...but that would be admitting defeat...or worse, surrender. I will not let Tancamir have that satisfaction! Just because I am not keeping up with him as closely as usual...occasionally making an amateur mistake, he has the nerve...he thinks he has the AUTHORITY to tell me that my distractions are impeding my focus!

"Ugh!" Luthelian threw her head back in frustration, the back of her skull coming into contact with the trunk of the tree with a violent thwack. As her eyes swam with dark stars a moment, she remembered the way he pointed his long, well-practiced fingers to the target, wearing a calm unmovable expression on his face. "The evidence of it is displayed on your target," he said when she denied that she was "distracted."

Practice was better when he did not come. I do not know what has got his britches in a twist, but he was absent from practice for some days after our mission in the Hithaeglir, and now he has returned surer of his arrow and target and doubly sour in mood.

Tomorrow, I will move my target beside Gwaedir or Yrill. See how he likes having Caethel for a competition partner. I hope for her sake that he does not scare her off the field altogether.

"How did the Arrow Lord like his brooch?" Lothelian asked from below, sensing and trying to appease her sister's troubled mood. Unfortunately, it had quite the opposite intended effect.

"He loved it. Admired your handiwork," she gritted through her teeth. All was silent below again.

I forgot to mention what Lord Dolthafaer thought of my little gift. He spoke great thanks to me and praise for Lothelian's skill in front of me. Yes, he must have liked it so much indeed that he never bothers himself to wear it. Instead, he has fashioned himself with a jeweled pin in his cloak that he must think does better justice to his new status as lord. I admit, it is a pretty little thing, but I will not tell Faerind. She takes great pride in her work and has no doubt put more of her heart into this last pewter swallow and purple-gemmed arrow as a special favor to me.

What a waste of effort, looking up the history of Gondolin and its Order of the Swallow, to design that bauble. I hope for Lothelian's sake, the pin does not sit at the bottom of some rubbish pile or the falls of Imladris. It would hurt her feelings after all.