HE’S NOT VERBALLY reluctant at the start, but he had never quite mastered his own questioning features, “i’m not doubting that,” he’s being truthful with her, he even sees her point, watches it set a fire in her tiredly as if the one before them was feeding off her. “..but you’re being reckless. recklessness and a weapon tends to accumulate less than promising results,” the craft had always felt personal to him, like a part of his body, the quick push and release came in passing like a harsh wind or a chaotic memory. his words are unwilling and stained with something, he wonders what it must seem like to anyone but him. AN OLD MAN’S STUBBORNNESS, DEFENSE — the thought ails him quickly; and he wonders if his father would have let her have it; shown her the what’s and where’s. he wonders what she must think of him now, shutting down her intent; the possibility of him, disregarding her potential, swimming in her head as easy perception itches at his skull, prods at his morals; and he’s worryingly tempted now.
“..wielding a weapon takes patience and focus,” he speaks carefully, retreiving his gun and staring down into the barrel that she had so gracefully borrowed for her conquests. he recalls cleaning it earlier that day, sprucing up the barrel with a torn cloth attached to a smoothed stick, “..and i’ll be honest with you as you’ve been honest with me, you’re not displaying much of that right now.” if anything all of this is just another rock on the dam of her ambition, her vision; destined to swell and break with all that fierce want. half of him wants to feed it, like his father did to his own, but it feels ill fit and misplaced matched with such mischief. he’d prefer not to be the one to introduce her to that uncomfortably in reach sliver of god’s perspective, taking a life, any life. it shouldn’t be him — yet he turns to her, face somewhat slack with something stubborn, “have you ever shot an arrow?”
“i’m not reckless.” she protests with such little conviction that it’s obvious she agrees with him herself. “i want to be good at it.” her teeth clench, setting her jaw in frustration because she can’t quite get the words out. because even if she can who the hell is he to hear them and maybe, even if he does listen, he won’t understand them and she’ll be back in the same place anyway: misunderstood and empty.
there’s a part of her--maybe the biggest part--that wants to scream at him that she doesn’t have time for patience and focus. the smarter part, the one that genetically belongs to her father, perhaps, tells her to shut her damn mouth. it’s her eyes that do the arguing for her. those same eyes once belonged to a dreamer, who sometimes still fights to come through. now she clings onto her anger because grief is too complicated and healing means letting go of an identity that feels like the only thing that’s hers.
“i want to be good, but if i stop and think and focus and any other synonyms you’ve got brewin’ in that brain of yours--” her teeth pull in her lower lip to keep it from pouting because she’s so sick of being herself when that woman was put in the ground with diego quintanilla along with his name that had once been hers too. “and i can’t just stop and think--” because then maybe i’ll just fall apart. that’s too much honesty, so she doesn’t say it. instead she adjusts her posture and recovers. “--because i’m too damned cold and hungry !” so were the rest of them. it was a good excuse for her worst moods that had, at one point, been unimaginable to her. if diego could see her now, would he recognize his pretty wife? the question filled her with conflicting pride and sorrow.
“no.” she’s never so much as held a bow, let alone learned to use it. “you feel like maybe i ought to learn to fill a man with arrows rather than lead?” her brow raises in question, but more than that curiosity. “you think you could teach me that art easier than point and shoot?”
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