The princess's reaction was a reassurance. She had not appeared drastically put out by Rafail's momentary failure, only smiled and shrugged in manners which more implied pity to him than anything else. Compassion did not make him feel particularly masculine, but he deemed it better than laughter and, besides, Rafail supposed it was a kindness to show a woman that he was not entirely perfect and did possess a few flaws, however minor they might have been. Had this been a competition in another subject - riding, perhaps - he was sure there would have been nought but success on his behalf.
All now rested on the man's third arrow. He could only hope he would score higher now than on his first shot, thus increasing his chances at victory and simultaneously erasing the humiliation of that second shot. It was a foolish thought, however, for as soon as the idea came to mind, the young man found himself overcome with frustration once more that even Princess Persephone's expression could not soothe. Anger does not precisely do one well when participating in any sporting event and, it was for this reason that, with his mind clouded, when Rafail stepped up to shoot his final arrow, it seemed to fly almost weakly through the air and embedded itself pathetically beside his last within the first of the black rings.
Needless to say, he was not pleased.
He had arrived at the competition with the ever-present delusion that he was the greatest at all things, and yet here he was proving otherwise. Now, Rafail had only established himself as useless, and it was a state that he somehow could not entirely comprehend. His brow furrowed, and he gripped the bow in his hand so hard that his knuckles began to turn pale and he was almost sure the weapon would snap in two. This display had been thoroughly wretched, and, upon his return to the Marikas home later that day, there was no doubt that he would be demanding extensive lessons to improve his archery prowess. Perhaps that would endear the dark-haired royal to him. For now, however, he could only watch in resigned embarrassment and disappointment as the rest of the contestants stepped up to shoot their own final arrows.
Mihail did not like to think himself like the others. He might have loathed humiliation as any other would, but he did not believe in making one's emotions so apparent: he preferred to hide the anger away in the moment and act upon it later. He had thought his second shot pitiful in comparison to the first despite there only having been a ring of difference between the two and, although he mentally chastised himself for it, his focus was already on the third and final shot of the afternoon. He had already planned it, already knew that he intended it to travel in the straightest of lines from his bow into the centre of the target and, thus, place him quite effectively in a winning position for this tournament.
Visualisation was quintessential to success in this field. If one imagined the arrow's trajectory in their mind's eye before shooting, then it had always seemed altogether more likely to Mihail that it would land exactly where he intended. Perhaps it was nonsense, but it was nonsense which kept him well-focussed when he practised the sport and, altogether, yielded excellent results. He hadn't gotten to be so skilled in archery through winging it every time he had to practise the sport before others.
The man who had taken his final shot before him had not done well in the slightest and the Thanasi suppressed a snicker as he now stepped forward to take aim at the target a final time. It was slow, slower than usual, aim as careful as he could make it, eyes narrowed. The mental imagery had helped just as he had intended it do because, when he released the final arrow, it slid firmly through the air and buried its head right where he had willed it, so ideally positioned in the very centre of the target. Perfect. Now, that prize was as good as his and, more importantly, everyone had been witness to his physical prowess.
As the contestants of the competitions stepped forwards to be judged one third and final time, Persephone felt the tension in the crowd start to increase; spectators leaning forwards an extra inch, their conversations that had dimmed with each arrow loose now petering out to pure silence as everyone watched a waited. There were nearly a dozen contestants in total - mostly from the lower noble Houses of Athenia. So, it took time for everyone to fire their final shots. Internally, those who watched did the maths and kept a mental tally on who it was that took or retained the spot of victor with each launch of their weapons. The tension grew as the line of participants grew shorter, each already aware that they had not succeeded in achieving the silver arrow - the trophy crafted for the event.
When the final entrants lined up for their own shots - Lord Rafail of Marikas included and a Lord of Colchis following his attempts, Persephone watched with detached professionalism. She wanted neither to embarrass those who performed poorly, nor show too much favouritism to those who did well. She was forced to school her expression into one of calm reserve and appropriate formality.
By the time the final lord stepped up to shoot the winner would be deemed the Colchian Thanasi Lord if the son of a Marikas province couldn't take the lead. When his shot fell short by half a ring on the frontrunners, the winner was clear and a ripple of awkwardness moved over the crowd. A Colchian had won an Athenian contest. Not that it was inappropriate for him to have entered - for the event was open to all - but it was always a little embarrassing when the host kingdom didn't succeed over their allies. Though, there was less shame in losing to a Colchian in a weapons contest, given that it was common knowledge for Athenian weaponry to have been forged there and for their people to be skilled in the utilisation of them, the humiliation was slight indeed.
Being informed of the man's full name - a name she knew but had never put a face to as yet - Persephone was suddenly attended by an Antonis servant. In his hands was an embroidered pillow, an arrow made of pure silver laying on its surface.
With the raising of her hands, Persephone spoke clearly and with a tone of warmth as she addressed the crowds that now fell silent.
"Lords and Ladies we have our winner of this year's contest. Lord Mihail of Thanasi, please join me to claim your winnings..." the royal lady offered, with an elegant gesture of her hand towards the arrow that she would bestow upon him as soon as he joined her upon the satin coated staging.
Mihail didn't quite understand the discomfiture that ran through the crowd when the final contestants shot their arrows shorter than he. He had travelled from Colchis - on a ship, on water no less - to take part in this competition, and he had not arrived with intentions of losing. He had never been particularly physically skilled, but he had always had the pleasure of knowing that archery was where his abilities lay, and Mihail was willing and eager to prove that fact to the rest of the world.
Ooh, wouldn't it be delightful when he returned home and had the joy of presenting his prize to Dysius and announcing to him that he was the greatest archer in Greece!
There was a certain satisfaction in hearing his name announced to all the crowd with such a ring of prestige behind it. His lips twitched upwards into a grin that was less commonplace on his face than the almost inebriated-appearing smirk which frequently graced his features, and he stepped towards the princess proudly, gaze already half-fixed on that silver arrow which figuratively bore his name. Mihail bowed his body slightly forwards to what he deemed the appropriate amount of respect, polite and yet not so horridly obsequious that he might loathe himself for it, positioning himself beside her.
"Thank you, your Highness," he smiled at the royal lady once he had straightened himself out again, wondering if his voice retained that slight sarcastic undertone it usually did and whether the princess would take offence to the inherent peculiarities of his tone. Evras, especially, had always warned Mihail to take care with his words lest he end up offending all in that seemingly so Thanasi manner. "I do apologise for stealing the title of champion away from one of your Athenian lords, only archery has always come so naturally, I thought it cruel to avoid entry solely for my kingdom of residence."