A whisper. A stirring. A pitter-patter amid the wind. He turned—not too sharply—his eyes tracing the distance. There, amongst the green, he saw her. A gorgeous young doe stood between the branches.
She was lithe, with a buxom hind, and sweet tawny fur tanned by spring. Her belly was thick, though not swollen, hinting at a recent birthing. She’d have good meat on her now.
With a silent hand, he nocked his bow, gazing down the arrow’s shaft. Her shape was strong, and her stance elegant. He thought, at first, she hadn’t seen him; blissfully unaware of death’s coming. But with an unhurried slip of her neck, that suspicion shattered.
She was not at all surprised to see him there and she did not shift her body to run. Rather, her black eyes met his and he saw that they were beautiful and deep.
He wondered about her, from where she had come, and where she might go had she not met him. Perhaps she’d come for the forage. Perhaps she was returning to her fawn. In any case, he had the power to keep her there forever, and slowly tugged upon his bowstring.
Still, she did not move.
Soft things need die quickly.
He could have done it. Could have pulled the wire taut. Could have loosed that arrow into her heart.
But in that moment, he held the decision in his hand and stayed only steady.
Slowly, she turned away and walked on. He neither moved to follow, nor let his arrow fly. He lowered the bow, watching her go, proud and lovely as she was.
And the strong ones… they fight.
Skyre returned to camp with a brace of rabbits and a ravenous appetite. Everyone was up in the noontime and busy at work. The women tanned and wove and the men whittled. There was the sound of woodchopping and tinkering and the children giggling in the flower fields. The aroma of herbs and spices wetted the air, fueling the hunger in his belly.
The camp had the feel of an ancient thing. And yet, there was a sense of fleeting. In a month, all of this would be gone. The druids there would move on, traveling forth to new fields. A transient life, amidst olden roots. He had no understanding of such a place. But it was calming. Not the ruckus he’d come to know at Rhyd-hal. The druids made little noise, even when they spoke, oft doing so in silence. It was captivating, the way they went about, like they had done so for hundreds of years. He supposed they had. Everything there was familiar to them.
Everything but him.
“The hunt was generous.”
Startled, his eyes found the druid. He seemed to vanish and appear at will—or whenever was most convenient.
Skyre nodded, holding out the rabbits. “Not much, but reckon they’ll do for us.”
The druid watched him interestedly over his basket of laundered linens, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Us?”
“You and I, of course.”
The druid nodded up the path. “You will take them to the giver. She’ll make good with them.”
Skyre frowned. “We’ve a fire of our own.”
The druid grinned and Skyre couldn’t help but to fix on it. “That is simply not how it is done.” He turned up the hill and Skyre followed.
“What do you mean nae? A man’s entitled to his own breakfast!”
The druid’s gentle laugh hung about him. “A man is entitled to nothing. We’ve taken up roost here. There is tribute to be paid.”
“I’ll give them coin, then,” said Skyre, falling in step at his shoulder.
“And what shall they do with it? Do you think we tend in your metal money?”
“Don’t you?”
“Perhaps to melt it down. It would make a fine spoon.”
“You jest.”
“Only a little.” The druid stopped atop the hill and settled his basket in the grass. One by one he pinned the linens upon the line.
