Response to the "green" challenge at Tolkien_Weekly

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"You have a steady hand; with practice, you will make a fair archer." Old Aelfric drew the arrows from the target--close but not in the center.

Grima took these words to heart. Swordplay had earned him nothing but bruises; here he would make his mark. Round after round he shot, as long as there was light. His aching back grew strong; tattered blisters sloughed into calluses.

Yet still the arrows flew wide--close but not in the center. Slowly, frustration turned to envy, for others hit the mark with ease. Setting aside his bow, Grima cursed his lesser gift.