Archer

Faramir winced as Éowyn’s arrow glanced off the edge of the target. She was not normally a bad archer, but with that miss tallied against her, it was impossible for him to not win their match. Warrior-bred, she would certainly spot it if he deliberately missed his shot.

Could he feign a pulled muscle or another sudden injury? No, she would see through that too.

Slowly, deliberately, he tensed his bow and took aim. Diplomacy be cursed. He would give it his best shot, and if that meant he would sleep in a guestroom for a week, so be it.


Originally written for Imhiriel’s birthday at HASA, 2010

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