lassofdunbroch:

    - Merida pulled up the reins of the strange horse, trying to gain control of its restless pawing of the ground. What she would give to have her beloved Angus with her right now, but unfortunately, taking a Scottish Clydesdale on a month long voyage by sea wasn’t considered a very bright idea. The strange breed of horse popular in this foreign land was much smaller than those she was used to, but they seemed fast and powerful regardless.

   She gazed at the countryside, with its rolling hills and vast plains. The trees were different here, and the grain. The birdsong, as well, was lilting and mysterious, quite unlike anything heard in the Highlands. Merida took a deep breath, closing her eyes, relishing the peace that the air brought. ‘China,’ she thought. ’Ne’re thocht I’d gae anywhere, much less halfway ‘round the world.’ Her mother and father had sent her on a diplomatic mission, her first, and she knew that much was riding on her success. She didn’t know exactly what her purpose being here was, however, just being told it had something to do with a military alliance. Perhaps they were to trade weapons, or battle tactics. Merida had been instructed not to look too deep into the cargo hold. She would’ve disobeyed, if there weren’t warriors guarding the door at every moment of the journey.

   She had just left the Imperial Palace, having delivered her mother’s scroll to the Emperor himself. It was the scariest thing she had ever done, but months of training in the local language and customs had prepared her well. She hadn’t made a complete fool of herself like she had feared. Now she was off to the nearby army camp, to review the troops. She would stay there for three days before returning to the Palace to complete negotiations. Hopefully by then she would know what she was negotiating.

   When she and her escort had almost reached the camp, Merida egged on her horse, eager to see the martial sight she had only dreamed of. Highland armies weren’t as organized, and were certainly not as large as the armies of the Far East. Rows and rows of tents met her eyes, and further off she glimpsed the mess of bodies practicing various skills and drilling some kind of hand-to-hand combat. As she scanned the camp, she almost squealed in delight when she saw an archery range with troops manning every station. She gave a quick, and probably insufficient, excuse to her escort and galloped off, excited to see what these warriors could teach her.

Ping draped a quiver of arrows across his body; the strap caught on his topknot and he fidgeted for a moment, missing some of Captain Shang’s explanation of how to hit the straw targets, which were clothed and painted and stuffed to look like Huns.  Privately Ping thought this was a little counterproductive.  The Huns - he imagined, never having met let alone fought one before - were less likely to stay still than a bowlful of pomegranates.  Yesterday the captain had, in fact, tested their capabilities by tossing the bright fruits into the air and ordering the would-be soldiers to fire.  The result: smashed fruit, stray arrows, and as of this morning, Ping had handled a bow before.  Once.  

It looked as if the captain had decided that objects not flying through the air would be easier to hit, and Ping almost felt a little sorry for him, what with assuming that the men had all shot a bow and arrow before.  Some were farmers who, indeed, often went into the woods for extra game; but others were scholarly hopefuls or the sons of merchants, their hands softer even than those of the young woman who’d concealed herself in their ranks.  Other than that, Ping’s only advantage was that the camp armorer had been careful to equip taller, stronger men with the thickest bows that no one else could draw.  The one in Ping’s quiver was small, and slender, but unless he could master archery today, it looked as if today was going to be just another embarrassing routine for the incompetent young soldier.

Taking the bow from his quiver, Ping strung it - even he could do that right - and tugged at the bowstring with two fingers, trying to look as if he knew what he was doing.  He took out an arrow too, poked it through the opening between bow and bowstring and fumbled to nock it.  It wouldn’t.  Ping began to wonder if his bowstring was too wide for the groove in the wood of the arrow.  He looked around, arrow pointed at the ground as his shoulders slumped forward in confusion, but the recruits around him had that concentrating, knowledgeable look men always assumed when out of their depth.  Which, in Wu Zhong, was most of the time.  

Only Ping was too frustrated to pretend all was well.  So, it was probably a good thing he didn’t know how to arrange the weapons in his hands or he might have used them, aimed an arrow into the trees out of sheer frustration.  Drops of sweat trickled down his ribs under the tight binding, and his belly ached as if full of poison.  If he hadn’t woken in the middle of the night to rinse out his blanket, hadn’t had handfuls of rags packed for exactly this purpose…terrified that his true identity might be betrayed by his monthly courses, the last thing Ping wanted was to have to struggle with archery as well.