Chapter Text
Her hands slipped on the tight cord, stinging with a snap. The bow wobbled in her hand, falling out of the structure she had been taught in the range, while the arrow hit the ground with a soft ‘thunk.’ Rosa bit her bottom lip, tears welling in her eyes as she brought her fingers to her lips in a protective attempt to shelter them. The bowstring cut like a knife when it was drawn, and she was lucky that hers was a training bow.
“Shh shh shh~” her father cooed. He knelt at her side, taking her hand between his to look at her scraped finger. The string had slid right down the side of her index finger, quickly rubbing the skin raw. “It’s alright, little flower. All archers miss on their first shots.”
“Papa, it hurts,” Rosa whimpered, turning her head into his shoulder. Her hair was in a frazzled fluff around her ears. She liked to keep it short, off her neck, despite how her mother warned her of looking too much like a boy. “Does it do that every time?”
“It can,” he told her honestly, kissing the tips of her fingers. “But you’re strong, you can fight through it if you wish to be the greatest archeress in all of Baron.”
Rosa looked up at her father’s face. His eyes were a warm brown, his face covered in the soft scruffle of his ginger beard. His hair was pulled back into a long ponytail at his back, traditional for a Dragoon. He smiled with tired eyes, but was no less sincere. Rosa knew her father was overworked. He had to go on missions and fight to defend Baron’s borders regularly. Soldiers always needed rest.
“Do you want to try again?” he asked her, picking up the training bow. Rosa was only eight, but archers always had to start early.
“Yes,” she nodded her head insistently. “Again! I can do it, Papa, I promise.”
The second time, she fired the arrow, missed the target board, and tried again. Sir Christopher fed her gentle advice and adjusted her hold, but she fired arrows until her arms felt sore.
“I’m so proud of you,” the Dragoon murmured as he carried his daughter home. Her arms were around his neck, her knees bent by his sides. She rode on his back like she was the original Dragon Knight, mounted on a mighty divine serpent. “You’re going to make Baron proud, Rosa.”
“…Papa, why do we have to fight?” she asked, idly mussing her father’s curly hair. “Baron’s got the best army, right? So why do you always have to leave?”
“Because, little flower, who else would defend Baron from her enemies? We may be mighty, but we are a small kingdom, Rosa… Troia and Damcyan are both mighty as well, and much bigger,” he explained, though his voice was thin and weary. Something didn’t seem quite right about what her father was saying, but Rosa had been taught not to question adults. “The Dragoons and the Red Wings must defend the borders, to make sure we never fall under harm’s way.”
Rosa stayed quiet, her little lips pursing together in thought. It did not take them long to get home, where they were greeted by fresh bread and Lady Farrell’s favorite phrase– “Good little girls do not fire arrows.”