Giordi managed to get quite comfortable that evening before Verne kicked him with his foot, jerking his head. Giordi groaned and dragged himself back up, following Verne with the same attitude that Caste had demonstrated only earlier.

“You know we’ve been walking all day…”

“On top of which, I was bringing down supper.” Verne held up his bow. “This is a bow…”

“You did this already.”

“This is an arrow.”

“By the stars…you’re really going to do this all over again, aren’t you?”

“Until you get it right.”

Giordi took the bow and gazed at it. “Well…if we really are to become so closely acquainted…I shall call you Ilania.”

Verne’s gaze could have peeled strips of bark from a tree. “What?”

“It’s got a belly, a back and it’s all one limb…it’s almost a person and if I’ve got to hold it close, it’s going to be of the female variety.”

“It’s my bow!”

“You’ve got that one.” Giordi pointed to the one in Verne’s hand.

“They’re both mine!” Verne put his fingers to his nose. “You are making this impossible.”

“Hey, I know what will liven it up!”

“What?”

“If I hit the target, you have to have a drink with me.”

Verne snorted. “No. For every bullseye.”

Giordi gaped. “I’ll never hit that!”

“You will if you practice and I promise,” Verne glowed at him, “one drink per bullseye.”

Giordi tapped his chin, his blond curls going burnished gold in the setting sunlight. “I need a shave…” He muttered then held out his hand. “Very well. I accept your terms.” Verne stepped back, allowing Giordi to demonstrate just how much it was he’d learnt the night before. “Come on Ilania…I’m gonna drink Verne’s pockets dry at Quarre.”

Verne rolled his eyes as Giordi released the arrow. It struck the side of the tree and speared off into the grass. Giordi grunted and held out his hand.

“Oh no, you can go fetch it. I’m not a dog.”

Giordi jogged to the place the arrow disappeared and lost valuable time scrounging for the missing arrow.

“This isn’t fair, you know.” He muttered, hurrying back.

“If you hit the tree or the target, you wouldn’t have to go looking so far for it.” Verne returned lightly. Giordi held the bow up again. “Closer and higher…sight down the arrow shaft…”

The arrow hit the tree this time but not the target and certainly nowhere near the bullseye.

“I thought I had it then.” Giordi grumbled.

“Slight breeze…you’ll learn to compensate.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Giordi managed another half dozen strikes, several of them hitting the target yet none sinking into the bullseye when, upon his return of his final arrow he gasped and stared at the sky.

Verne spun around, expecting to see a griffin or dragon or giant…or something.

But all there was, was sky.

“Are you trying to get me to use you for target practice?” Verne demanded.

“Look at that sky!” Giordi shook his head. “It’s stunning!”

Verne turned back to the sky. It was pretty enough with plenty of colour in it but he didn’t quite understand what had captivated Giordi’s attention so…and then realised he was probably just delaying his bow practice.

“Stop trying to get out of doing what you said you would…”

“Just stop!” Giordi barked at him and Verne was surprised by the heat in his tone. “Look at the sky!”

Verne shrugged. “I don’t get it.”

“Look at the yellows, oranges, pinks…all the way down to that nearly blood red magenta…royal purple there, edging those clouds…” Giordi breathed. “See how the colours are intensifying…as though they know they will be blotted out by the merciless wash of indigo and black of night…so they are declaring a final glorious hurrah before succumbing to inevitability.”

Verne stared at Giordi, wondering if the minstrel was quite sane. “It’s a sky…”

“It’s the only sky. The only time we will ever see it for never will it be again…not like this.” Giordi sat down on the edge of a small ledge, transfixed by the firmament before them. “Verne…it’s going to die…the least we can do is witness its passing.”

Verne swallowed, glanced back at the target then finally sat down next to Giordi. He wasn’t sure what the minstrel meant with all his ramblings but there was an awestruck lilt to his tone, like a breathless sorrow that Verne was reluctant to break or disrespect. He reasoned that they had got in a little target practice and was resolved to wait.

The colours were quite dazzling and Giordi was right about their intensity. It was as though they were glowing brighter and brighter.

“Even if I dared to endeavour,

To try to capture the sky

To mimic its wonderous beauty

I’d be painting ‘til I died.

Every colour of creation,

Every beast and bloom and maid

Is captured within each sunset

Beauty fleetingly portrayed.

But if I painted each sunset,

If I never lifted brush from skin,

The sky I might one day capture

Yet I would miss it all to win.”

Verne wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. Giordi had quoted the poem or possibly lyrics without looking like he was concentrating at all. His handsome face was bathed in luminous colours of the sunset and he seemed utterly content in his languid repose.

“What does it mean?” Verne asked, sensing that Giordi was trying to convey something yet baffled as to what it might be.

“It is the lament of an artist, attempting to capture the beauty of a sunset,” Giordi sighed, “realising the futility of his efforts and it is his final conclusion that, even if he did succeed…he would miss the point.”

Verne frowned. “What is the point?” He asked in a whisper.

“That some things are not meant to be captured and bottled and preserved.” Giordi shook his head. “They are meant to be experienced. A shooting star…a glorious sunset…the rush of a first kiss…if you try to hold onto it, you miss the moment. I mean, look…just look at that!”

Verne turned and studied the sky, the hues reaching their luminous apex and for a single, dazzling moment, it looked as though all the colours of creation were exposed…like the fabric of the world had been torn apart and for an instant, a brief, glorious second, Verne could see the wonder beneath.

Immediately the colours began to fade, succumbing to the inevitability of night, the dark blue that had started as an ominous line on the opposite horizon now a tidal wave, soaking up any of the pale blue that was left and blotting out the colours with its overwhelming, heavy hue.

Giordi breathed out softly. “We have just witnessed the death of the day…it falls to us to take notice of its end.”

“You can’t possibly expect everyone to drop what they are doing and watch the sunset.”

“Not everyone watching every sunset…but every sunset should be watched by someone.”

Verne swallowed. “Surely just the pretty ones…” He was unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Some of the loveliest sunsets are those that appear plain for a true artist can see the beauty hiding beneath.” Giordi closed his eyes. “Those are the most exquisite moments when you realise you have discovered something rare and precious.” He opened his eyes and cleared his throat. “Ah well…I’d best collect all the arrows I lost.” He stood up and walked back to where the bows and quiver rested. “Coming?”

“Uh huh.” Verne said, standing slowly, eyes still on the sky, feeling oddly unsettled.