| Rising Cliffs (If cliffs loom up) | Statistically Relevant: Extended ver. |
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The first recurve bow Rafael Fietje Kraus had ever been gifted was made of polished ashwood that stained a deep brown, faint silver veins running through the grain and curling around. The tips of the limbs curled delicately forward and was bound in leather strips that were now faded and torn. Young Rafael's hands would grip onto the handle wrapped in dyed oxblood leather, this which was gradually worn smooth by his small, stubby hands. Alongside the bow came a child's quiver of blunt-tipped wooden arrows, each fletched with hawk feathers and housed in matching ashwood tube. | |
Rafael was often seen trudging about the grounds with a forest-green strap slung over his shoulder. To proclaim the six-year old's compelled fascination towards Archery as fallacious would be to lie. Within days of accepting the weapon as his possession, Rafael was able to strike bullseye. Months since exposure to Archery, Rafael was still coddling his gifts, even to bed. His obedience towards his tutors began to waver, favouring the frigid outdoors to the warm indoors just for a minute more to practise the sport.
Family friends found this concerning and were perturbed. Reinhard Kraus found it amusing and advantageous.
Three years later, Reinhard took his son through the surrounding bush towards a clearing with wooden target stands spread across the grass. Till then, Rafael had only shot arrows at nearby tree trunks. Reinhard told Rafael that this was his 'training pitch'. He was not to practise on the grounds or within the estate. With that said, he presented Rafael with his second bow. This one was slightly longer and more powerful than the first, heavy on Rafael's palm. Made from laminated horn and yew with sinew-backed limbs, the bow's body was lacquered in a deep expresso sheen with subtle black inlays carved along the riser. Young Kraus watched his Father wrap charcoal suede as grip. To his surprise, it bore the initials R.F.K, making it his very own. Reinhard held out a hand, and with trembling fingers, Rafael exchanged his ashwood tube for a quiver made of slimmer, dark leather, designed to be worn at the hip. His finger pad gingerly traced the steel-tips of his new arrows, fletched with crow feathers. They were no longer 'blunt for practise'. They were made to pierce.
Reinhard took Rafael around Germany to small-scale tournaments hosted by private pureblood circles, held in manor gardens and forest estates. Enchanted medallions showered upon his son, praise and recognition of family prestige Reinhard's award. Oftentimes, Rafael would win commemorative spellwork arrows, ones that were handcrafted to change colours at mid-flight, whistle as they flew, even explode into flower petals on impact.
His father discarded of those.
A Loire Valley Youth Trial put a halt to the frequent excursions. Held at a chateau buried deep in a charmed forest, Rafael Kraus, aged ten, was one of the youngest entrants. initially, everything was textbook. A bullseye in the opening accuracy round, then placing second in the moving target gauntlet. Reinhard's heavy expression weighed a little lighter. But the final round had been different. A match against another. His opponent happened to be a girl from the Westonfield family. Older, merciless. Rafael released his arrow a fraction earlier. It was enough to veer off course and shattered the judge's charm sphere, disrupting the enchantments stabilising the arena. It faltered, shattering alongside the boy's concentration. Before he knew it, she was behind him. He let out a strangled gasp as he turned towards the shadow of her presence. She sneered. He lost. But worse than losing was the public humiliation. The embarrassment in Reinhard's frown. Rafael clutched his recurve bow and plodded after his father, a tremor in his splinter-raw hands. Reinhard refused to speak to his son till they returned to Salzburg. Before stepping foot into Schlangennest, he spoke lowly, "We are not spectacle."
Rafael stood as his father calmly removed the family crest from his sash.
"You are never to compete again."
Durmstrang Institute. Rafael crossed the icy grounds, one hand gripping onto his bowcase. Stopping a few feet away from no-man's land, the Young Kraus got down to his knees, his numb hands unbuckling the case. Inside was his third and final bow. The riser itself was made of sculpted Macassar ebony, dark grain streaked with near-gold veining and a mattefinish. It was cold to the touch, but Rafael could care less. His fingers traced the shallow engravings of 'Stille mit Geschick', runes almost invisible. He ran his palm across the limbs made of carbon fibre core sheathed in layers of bamboo and tempered black walnut. Rafael plucked the string, dyed of iron-grey, then lifted up an arrow to inspect it under the damp light. The shafts themselves needed sanding again. He straightened as he slid the arrow into position, fingers brushing against the fletching of dyed raven feathers. Then, without warning, he whirled towards a tree some distance away, and let go.
It hit.
Rafael paused, then exhaled, mist entailing out from his lips as he put the bow away. Reinhard had demanded he take time out of archery practise for dueling. Gabriel had insisted on honing the skills for dueling club. Rafael fished out his wand, before jutting it towards the same tree, his lips parting to utter an incantation.
A miss.
His jaw tightened. The cold enveloped his uniform and tightened his chest, but he shrug it off and raised his wand arm, poised and elbow tight to his side. His opponent was a tree--inanimate, predictable. Rafael struggled to imagine the success of his duels if he could barely score a hit on a target that failed to provoke him. There would be no time to methodically breathe and aim. Instinct and reflex would replace calculated preparation, a sloppy but effective technique. Rafael's fingers curled with intent.
Twice a week, taking time from his archery sessions. Rafael would stand in the open courtyard dusted with snow, robes shed for freedom of movement, sleeves rolled past his elbows. Surrounding him were floating target boards he had enchanted. Lifting his cherry wood wand, he murmured, "Flipendo." The invisible burst slammed the first target into the pillar, cracking against the stone and disintegrating. Rafael whirled to face another. "Flipendo." Missed. Slightly too far right. The target board hovered in place. Rafael's lips drew into a line. Unacceptable. He crossed the yard to the ledger he kept, and jotted down in concise strokes: Attempt 23: Missed. Off-balance on recoil. Note: Fix stance and adjust trajectory. He turned back to find his eyes drawn to one of the smaller target boards. Rafael raised his wand again. Exhaled. "Verdimillious!"
Bolts of green sparks cracked the board midair into a shower of dancing emerald. Rafael lowered his wand, only to hear slow, sedate claps from behind him. Gabriel Kraus would often join his twin brother in his training sessions, wearing his usual grace and easy smirk. Rafael may have been grateful for his presence, but he never did show it.
Rafael adjusted his stance without a word, chin dipped slightly, legs squared. Gabriel, meanwhile, rotated his wand with idle grace between his fingers. "Begin," he said. Gabriel raised an eyebrow, unhurried. “You’ll tear your shoulder if you keep tensing like that. Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Mm,” Gabriel hummed. With a flick, Gabriel cast "Tarantallegra!" Rafael deflected, barely. The jinx skated past his ankle and exploded against the grass. Rafael retaliated without hesitation. "Flipendo!" Gabriel swayed aside. “Too high. You always aim like you’re still holding a bow.”
"Expelliarmus." Gabriel flinched slightly as his wand clattered out of his hand, but offered a smile to his elder twin. "Better. But you’re leading with your wrist...makes you predictable."
Rafael growled. "I am not predictable--"
“Mucus ad Nauseam!” Rafael dodged. He hadn't noticed that Gabriel had retrieved his wand. That was just juvenile.
“Gabriel,” he snapped, wiping phantom slime from his sleeves. “Can you take this seriously?” The mirth never left his twin's eyes despite the sobered expression. "I am taking it seriously. You’re the one trying to duel like it’s archery. This isn’t a still target, Rafi. I move. I react. I learn you." That was the problem. He relied too much on control. But Gabriel was right.
He had to learn to stop overthinking. Stop calculating. Stop caring about producing a clean shot. He had to learn to strike at the right time, precisely.
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There's always someone out there who's better than you.
