The bow slids back into her hands, and she holds it awkwardly for a few seconds, confused at how uncomfortable, how heavy it feels. And then she remembers, then she actually looks at her hands ...
Her hands. Her warriors hands, with their hard won calluses, and their long healed scars, that held the bow with ease, confidence, that won so many battles ... Those aren't her hands anymore.
These hands are smooth. The hands of a young woman, a woman who will marry, stay in the kitchen, be a good wife, a better mother. These hands do not speak of blood, or battle, or glory. These hands would never, should never hold a weapon or grip the arms of a throne.
She pauses, looking down at the shaft of the bow, and then tightens her grip. The hard wood sits in her hand, the calluses and groves long since gone, or never there, will soon form again. The thought makes her happy.
The bow feels good in her hands, and suddenly she feels at home.
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Callus
The bow slids back into her hands, and she holds it awkwardly for a few seconds, confused at how uncomfortable, how heavy it feels. And then she remembers, then she actually looks at her hands ...
Her hands. Her warriors hands, with their hard won calluses, and their long healed scars, that held the bow with ease, confidence, that won so many battles ... Those aren't her hands anymore.
These hands are smooth. The hands of a young woman, a woman who will marry, stay in the kitchen, be a good wife, a better mother. These hands do not speak of blood, or battle, or glory. These hands would never, should never hold a weapon or grip the arms of a throne.
She pauses, looking down at the shaft of the bow, and then tightens her grip. The hard wood sits in her hand, the calluses and groves long since gone, or never there, will soon form again. The thought makes her happy.
The bow feels good in her hands, and suddenly she feels at home.