Date: November 30, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Dawn found Dur already on his feet. Torm's hut was immersed in pre-dawn twilight, smelling of smoke from yesterday's hearth and leather. The old hunter was still snoring on his hard bed, but Dur knew the routine: up before light, or the day is lost. He had already lit the stove and fetched water from the ice-hole at the frozen stream—a procedure that caused less internal resistance with each passing day—and now sat on his worn hide, rubbing his bowstring with a special resinous paste Torm had taught him to make. "The bow isn't a stick," Torm would grumble. "It's alive. Sinew, wood, string. They all need care. Neglect it, and it'll fail you when you need it most."
"Don't doze off there," came a hoarse voice from under the sheepskin. Torm stretched, his bones cracking. "Today we'll follow the hare trails. Let's see if you can only shoot at trees, or at moving game too."
Dur's heart skipped a beat. Until now, his "hunting" had been limited to shooting at a circle drawn on a stump and at pine cones Torm dropped from branches. The thought of loosing an arrow at a living, breathing creature caused a strange, gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach. But he nodded, not showing it.
An hour later, they were already making their way through the forest, carpeted with crisp, night-frozen snow. It was easy to breathe, the frosty air burning his lungs. Torm moved silently as a shadow, and Dur tried his best to copy his movements: placing his foot heel-to-toe, avoiding dry branches, blending with the rhythm of the forest. He had already learned to distinguish tracks: here a hare had hopped, its characteristic elongated prints looping between roots; there a fox had passed, leaving a neat chain.
"Stop," Torm whispered soundlessly, freezing by an old spruce. He gestured with his eyes ahead. About twenty meters away, in a small clearing, a gray hare, almost blending with the snow, was nosing around at the roots. It was digging something from a hole in the ground, periodically lifting its head, its long ears swiveling, catching the slightest sound.
Torm stepped back, giving Dur room. His look was brief and clear: "Your shot."
Dur's legs turned to jelly. He felt his palms instantly sweat inside his mittens. Slowly, smoothly, as taught, he took the bow from his shoulder, nocked an arrow. Raising the bow seemed incredibly heavy; his shoulder muscles trembled with the strain. He aimed. The hare was a stationary target. Easier than a pine cone. But it wasn't a target. It was a living creature with hot blood, a beating heart. He saw its nostrils twitch, muscles move under its fur.
"Shoot, coward," flashed through his mind. "What, afraid of a hare?" It was the voice of his own uncertainty, compounded by months of failure.
He tried to stop the trembling, take a deep breath and hold it, as Torm taught. But his breathing hitched. He exhaled sharply, and the arrow left the string with a whistle.
It flew centimeters from the hare's ear and embedded itself in the tree behind with a dull thud. The hare shot away like a spring, and a moment later was out of sight.
The silence following the shot was deafening. Dur stood, bow lowered, staring at the empty space where the animal had disappeared. A bitter taste of shame filled his mouth.
Torm didn't scold. He just sighed, walked to the tree, and pulled out the arrow.
"Nervous," he stated, examining the tip. "Aimed at the hare, but hit the fear. It was stronger than you in that moment. It's okay. Learn."
They walked on, and Dur felt like the ultimate failure. Every rustle seemed like a mockery. They found a couple more tracks, but the animals seemed to sense them beforehand and vanished.
The sun was already high when Torm froze again, this time by a stream. And again, a hare. A young one, less cautious, drinking water sitting on its hind legs. A perfect target.
"Go on," Torm said quietly. "This time, don't rush. Feel the bow. Feel the flight. It's not a piece of meat. It's part of the forest. You are taking a gift from the forest. With respect."
Dur swallowed. He raised the bow again. This time, he didn't look at the whole hare. He looked at the spot behind its shoulder, where Torm had taught him to aim. He felt the resilient resistance of the string, the smoothness of the arrow shaft under his fingers. He didn't think about life or death. He thought about the motion. About smoothness. He inhaled, half-exhaled, and froze.
And at that moment, the tremor left him. The world narrowed to the string, the arrowhead, and a tiny spot on the creature's body.
He released his fingers.
The whistle of the arrow was short and precise. A dull, soft thud. A faint, piercing squeak, cut off mid-sound.
Dur didn't immediately understand what had happened. He saw the hare jerk, tumble head over heels, and lie still, the fletching of his arrow protruding from its side.
He stood motionless, still holding the lowered bow. A ringing in his ears.
Torm was already at the kill. He bent down, checked something, and picked up the carcass.
"In the heart," he said without emotion. "Clean. Good job."
He walked over and handed Dur the still-warm, soft hare. The arrow stuck out of it like a foreign, terrible element. The fur was soft and silky under his fingers, and from the wound oozed bright scarlet blood, staining his mitten.
The euphoria he had expected didn't come. Instead, there was a strange, oppressive emptiness. He held his first prey. It was heavier than he thought. And limply lifeless.
"First blood," said Torm, looking at him with his piercing eyes. "Don't forget this weight. You took one life so yours could continue. There's no room for sentiment in the forest, but there is room for respect. It gave its strength to you. Don't waste it on trifles."
They walked back in silence. Dur carried the hare by its hind legs, and with every step it bounced absurdly. He looked at Torm's lithe back, at the forest around, and felt that something inside him had irrevocably changed. He had crossed a threshold. From a boy dreaming of adventures, he had taken the first step towards becoming a man capable of providing and protecting. And the price of this step turned out to be much heavier than he could ever have imagined, looking from the orphanage window at the moon. It was the weight of death, which he would now carry forever.