Verglas Curve

I crouch, my knees in the dirt. My world has become pain, heat, erratic movement, ugly noise. I shield my eyes from the shrapnel, press my ear to my shoulder to quiet the baying of my foes.

There is too much—it is all too much. My shaking fingers fumble for an arrow. I nock one, trailing blue, and close myself off from the world.

I take a sharp breath and stand.

If the bullets hit me, I do not feel them. I pull the drawstring until it is taut across my body, and, for a moment…

I create peace.

My fingers, my arm, the limbs of the bow, the string—all locked in unity. Equal parts forming a perfect whole.

Stillness.

The illusion shatters as I release.

My fingers fly open. My arm shudders. The bow limbs flex wildly, the string twangs, the arrows fly. Everything in motion, surging with chaotic momentum.

And on the battlefield, there is only stillness—beautiful, tranquil stillness—where my enemies once stood.