The string is taut.
Held extended in well-versed, hate-fuelled hand.
Balanced as sinew cuts deep into flesh.
And gripped in death-claw hold; is rough-hewn bow.
It nears its failure with impossible force to bend.
Splinters fold under skin of malice to remain.
The archer ripped with force of undue aggression.
I take to flight.
I trace the arc of sky.
I hear compression of air to my destruction.
I feel the rush of metal piercing void to find me.
I know the archer’s skill.
I know the archer’s venom.
I dive and brace myself for impact.
But I don’t fall.
I soar again with hope and determination.
I fly to your mountain side;
I flee to security with you.