Work Text:
Once upon a time, there was a young man who was very good with a bow.
He lived in the mountains and had taught himself archery, for it was one of the best ways to obtain food for his family. He would lay traps for the smaller animals, and then take his bow out to hunt; always bringing home rabbits and birds, with the occasional deer.
He was the oldest of four, their family having lost their first son to an illness of the lungs, and he felt responsible for his younger siblings. So Madara practised his archery until his fingers bled and his eyes were red from the strain of peering at animals almost too far to see.
Until the day came when it was announced that there was to be an archery competition.
Anyone who owned a bow was invited to bring it, and themselves, to the grounds of the castle, to shoot for a purse of gold and the favour of the princess.
Madara packed up his belongings, left his home and his family behind, and journeyed down into the valley to the castle that stood by the side of a lake. There he found that he was not the only one who had been drawn by the lure of gold, for there were many who had come to try their luck.
Privately, Madara scoffed, for he did not believe in luck, or the will of the gods.
Instead he trusted none but his family, his bow, and his own skill.
So, on the morning of the competition, a day that dawned mild and clear, Madara set himself to win the gold that would improve his family's lives.
One by one, he out shot the other archers until only two remained, himself and another young man with long brown hair that blew in the wind. The other man's arrow struck in the middle of the target, but slightly to the side, and he stepped back, disappointed.
Madara passed him with a smirk, and with an unerring eye, shot his arrow dead into the centre.
Triumphantly, he raised his bow, ready to accept his prize, only to find himself forestalled when the princess stood up and raised her own bow.
From her place, even father away than the line upon which Madara stood, she raised her bow and fired a single arrow. Fletched with feathers as white as her gown, the arrow flew fast and true, splitting Madara's arrow in twain as it too landed in the centre of the target.
Madara bowed, knowing that he was defeated and that he'd lost a week of hunting for naught but his own pride and folly.
But the princess strode towards him and, lifting his hand, placed a bag in it, heavy with the weight of gold.
Madara raised his eyes to thank her, but found the words frozen on his lips.
This close, he could see something that even his keen eyes had failed to discern as a distance. Under the hood that veiled hair as white as ice, the princess was not a princess at all.
Instead she was a he.
And beautiful as the coldest winter dawn.
In that moment, Madara knew that he still had one more prize to win, and he was not a man who had ever intended to lose.
The end.