At dawn, Saint Hubert’s Chapel at the edge of Sherwood Forest stood cloaked in gentle mist, its moss-slick stones glistening with dew, as though the building itself had wept silently through the night. The chapel was modest—no steeple or bell, only a sloped roof of wooden shingles and narrow windows fitted with imperfect panes of colored glass—but to Oswin, it was sanctuary enough. Here, he had found not only shelter, but purpose.
Within, the air was cool and faintly perfumed by old wax and dried lavender. Oswin moved with deliberate care, his weathered hands polishing the altar's worn surface. Saint Hubert’s Key was hidden within the altar itself—nestled in a small reliquary beneath the stone slab, a relic of brass and silver filigree, rumored to be once worn upon the saint's belt when he wandered the forests of Gaul. Though small, the key radiated a stillness and potency that settled over the space like a benediction. Oswin bowed his head to it each morning—not out of superstition, but gratitude. It was the key that kept the threshold sealed, the spirits soothed, and his own fragile faith intact.
Though Oswin was a good if occasionally lax Catholic, he kept the chapel ever ready for wandering clerici vagantes and ribaldi who might stop in—offering a word, a song, a prayer, or even the Eucharist if they were inclined. To them, he offered space and quiet welcome, tending the chapel like a steward of forgotten rites.
That morning, Oswin had been entertaining a young student who had passed through the previous day and slept beside the hearth. The lad, no older than fifteen, was bound for York and spoke eagerly of scholastic debates and the writings of Saint Bernard. They spoke over a simple meal of cheese and dark bread, and by midmorning were discussing angels—angelology, as the student called it, quoting the celestial hierarchy as laid out by Pseudo-Dionysius.
“The Seraphim,” the boy said with youthful certainty, “are nearest to the Lord’s throne, all flame and praise. And below them, the Cherubim, guardians of mystery, radiant with knowledge.”
Oswin nodded slowly, chewing his bread. “Aye. And the Thrones, I think, serve as the seat of judgment, no?”
“Yes, precisely!” the boy replied, delighted. “And then the Dominions, the Virtues, the Powers. And still more—the Principalities, the Archangels, and at last, the Angels who walk nearest to men. Nine choirs in all.” He held up his fingers, ticking them off like knots on a prayer cord.
“A tidy order,” Oswin murmured. “And yet I wonder if angels keep such records of themselves.”
The student faltered slightly, then rallied. “Well, the Schoolmen say that even angels are bound by reason, though theirs is purer than ours.”
“Perhaps,” Oswin said gently, eyes crinkling. “And perhaps some sing beyond the reach of any tongue, even the tongues of scholars.”
The lad looked down for a moment, then smiled. “I suppose even angels must break the rules now and again.”
“They would not be worth knowing, else.”
They sat for a time in companionable silence, the boy’s confidence tempered by thought, Oswin's silence giving space for the seeds of wonder to root. The chapel, dappled with the morning’s colored light, seemed to listen with them.
By late morning, the trickle of visitors began. Pilgrims, tradesmen, and even forest-bound vagabonds entered the chapel, some with reverence, others simply for shelter or warmth. Oswin greeted each with the same gentle nod and kind eyes. He asked no questions. It was not his task to pry. He offered water, bread, and a place to sit. For those burdened by grief or guilt, he lit candles and listened to their stories. His silence was not empty but attentive, a vessel for confessions too fragile for louder ears.
A tinker from Lincolnshire spoke of a shadow on the road that followed him through the forest. A widow from the Midlands asked if the greenwood still held the spirit of her dead husband, whose body was never recovered after a hunting accident. Oswin gave no false assurances. Instead, he offered space beside the altar, and a single phrase: "The gate remembers."
Every story was a thread. Some frayed, others vibrant, all woven into the secret fabric of Woodgate. Oswin carried them as a gardener carries seeds, unsure which might bloom or which were poison. Yet he listened to each, and in listening, he kept vigil.
Though his kindly demeanor never wavered, Oswin’s mind never rested. He was always listening—to voices, to wind, to the subtle groan of the trees. He knew that what appeared ordinary often concealed the extraordinary. And while Halward believed he understood the gate’s function—its taxes, its orders, its tolls—Oswin knew better. The gate was not merely a passage of commerce or decree. It was a boundary, a bridge, a warning.
When the sun reached its zenith and the chapel once again stood empty, Oswin returned to the altar. He touched the spot where the key hid through the stone slab, eyes closed. Somewhere beyond the forest’s veil, something stirred. And Oswin, keeper of quiet things, took a deep breath and prepared to walk the wooded paths once more.
***
Saint Hubert’s Chapel rested in a hush of post-liturgical silence as Oswin departed its threshold, leaving behind the last taper’s wisp of smoke and the faint, resinous scent of incense. The morning sun, still low on the horizon, lit the surrounding meadow with slanted gold. Clad in a worn mantle, and carrying only his satchel and a crooked walking stick of ash, Oswin moved quietly across the dew-laced grass. He did not pause, nor look back. He passed beneath the first of Sherwood’s ancient trees not as an intruder, but as one acknowledged—a man returning not out of necessity, but of quiet belonging.
The forest received him not with sound, but with stillness. Birds ceased their song as he passed beneath the boughs. The underbrush seemed to hush. Branches did not sway with wind but with subtle deference, as though recognizing him. Oswin advanced with the patient gait of someone who has walked these woods many times, though never quite the same way. His path was not guided by trail, but by mnemonic geography: moss-covered boundary stones, the ribcage of a wagon long claimed by vines, a hollow where foxes once denned. These were not landmarks charted by maps, but by memory and reverence. His pace was contemplative, his gaze cast both outward and inward.
Eventually, after what could have been an hour or a lifetime, Oswin arrived at the hidden spring.
Nestled in a low, wooded hollow unmarked by chart or parish record, the spring's surface shimmered faintly, as though it refracted not only light, but time itself. The water was still, save for the occasional ripple that moved without wind. Oswin knelt at its moss-fringed edge, his joints creaking like chapel hinges. In the water’s reflection, he beheld his own face—lined, solemn, unshaven. There was wisdom there, and weariness too. Without ritual but not without reverence, he cupped his hands, drank deeply, and bowed his head.
The silence broke—not with noise, but with life. Around him, wildflowers awakened in a spontaneous ring of yellow, violet, and white. They unfolded without breeze, as though stirred by unseen breath. From the ferns and undergrowth emerged creatures of the liminal—fae, no taller than a thimble, luminous and winged. They formed a circle, hovering in rhythmic stillness. Their presence was not playful but ceremonial, like choristers holding a note too pure to be heard by mortal ears.
Oswin remained motionless.
From the grove’s heart stepped another presence. A dryad, tall and grave, crowned with a diadem of woven bark and autumn leaves. Her hair was the color of lichen, her gown the texture of bark. She moved as trees move—slow, inevitable, unyielding. Her eyes, amber and unblinking, met Oswin’s with a gaze that saw through years. She did not speak, yet all was said. What passed between them was beyond speech. Oswin offered his inner burden—his watchfulness, his solitude, his weary continuance as unseen sentinel. She responded not with counsel, but with presence. And in that communion, something within him softened, even as his purpose renewed.
Before she withdrew, the dryad extended her hand. In her palm, she placed a pouch of seeds—dark, iridescent grains that shimmered with latent vitality. Their shape was unfamiliar, ancient. Oswin accepted them with a nod, the meaning known without explanation. They were meant for Arrow.
The sunlight fractured across the spring’s surface, and the moment passed like a bell’s last tone. The dryad faded into the deeper trees, her form vanishing as if reabsorbed into bark and root. The fae dissolved like dew. Oswin rose, slower than before but somehow lighter.
He returned by a different path, not because he was lost, but because he was changed.
As he neared the clearing by Saint Hubert’s Chapel, the sound of laughter greeted him. Wilmot was chasing a hare through tall, golden grass, his cloak askew and his boots muddy. He ran with unpolished joy, his voice echoing like a bell through the trees.
“Did you see him, Os? He’s cleverer than me!”
Oswin smiled, standing at the edge of the clearing. “Then grant him the victory. He’s earned it in full stride.”
The boy grinned, breathless, and bounded back toward him.
As they began their short walk toward Woodgate, Oswin reached into his robe and drew forth the pouch. He held it out to Wilmot.
“These are for Arrow,” he said, his tone quiet and certain. “Three only. Steep them in warm water before dusk. And when you feed them, speak to him as you would to a guest at your hearth.”
Wilmot took the pouch and examined it with curiosity. “What kind of seeds are they?”
“Old ones,” Oswin answered. “They carry memory—what birds forget, these remember.”
The afternoon light gilded their journey. By the time they reached Woodgate, the sun was low. Halward waited for them at the table, the smell of stew rising from a blackened pot. The evening meal was modest: a vegetable stew, bread still warm from the oven, goat cheese wrapped in linen, and a jug of watered ale bartered from a passing monk.
Arrow perched on Wilmot’s shoulder, feathers fluffed for comfort, the wounded wing bandaged but healing. As they ate, the bird nestled into the crook of the boy’s neck, ruffling occasionally at a laugh or a gust of wind. Wilmot fed him one of the softened seeds, murmuring softly. The bird clicked his beak and settled deeper into the boy’s collar.
Their supper was unremarkable in a way that made it precious. Wilmot filled the silence with questions about saints and mythical beasts. Halward grumbled about taxation, the Sheriff’s latest dictates, and the unreliability of mercenaries. Oswin, as always, said little, his attention settled more on what was unsaid than said.
When the fire burned low and the plates lay scattered with crumbs, Halward stood with a grunt. “Come now, Wil. Time to see if you can outrun your dreams.”
Wilmot rose with a yawn, cradling Arrow gently. “Goodnight, Os.”
“Sleep well, lad,” Oswin replied.
The two disappeared into the dwelling. Oswin lingered for a moment, then stood. He stepped outside into the night air, now edged with chill. Stars blinked into view above the tree line. He walked slowly to the gate, latched it with care, and turned toward the path that would take him back to Saint Hubert’s Chapel.
This was his hour. The forest would keep its secrets. Oswin would keep the watch.
***
Saint Hubert’s Chapel welcomed Oswin as it had for decades—with silent familiarity and the sort of reverence born of long custodianship. The worn flagstones beneath his feet bore the memory of countless prayers; the air inside still clung to the faint, mingled scent of wax, dust, and incense. He moved with deliberate care, kneeling before the altar where Saint Hubert’s Key lay hidden beneath the stone, encased in its reliquary. His lips formed prayers—soft and unhurried—shaped less by need than by recognition. Not every night summoned the Warden. But some nights, the forest exhaled a breath old as stone, and when it did, Oswin heard. And when he heard, he answered.
Rising with the slowness of a man whose joints bore both age and memory, he wrapped his cloak about him and stepped into the cold embrace of night. The moon hung as a silver scythe behind drifting cloud. Every tree stood motionless, as if listening. Beneath his boots, the grass whispered secrets too old for language. The air was cool and damp, tasting of loam and ash, of things buried and things remembered.
The Warden’s bench awaited him beside Woodgate.
Fashioned from ashwood long before the current iteration of the gate had risen, the bench was darkened with age and burnished smooth by the weight of centuries. It bore the scars and grooves of its keepers—marks etched not as ornament, but as testament. Oswin approached it not as its master, but as its servant. He placed one hand upon the grain, fingers brushing lightly over the notches: Halward’s, recent and unsure; his own, crisp and modest; Warin’s, deep and slanted; and Simon’s, faded but still present.
Simon. Oswin paused there. He remembered the man not from tales, but from youth—a cloaked figure with firelight on his face and stew simmering over flame. Simon had offered him warmth, not merely of food but of regard. Their meeting had been brief, yet it lingered. Most of the other names were lost to time. The bench remembered longer than men did.
Midnight approached. And as it did, the atmosphere shifted. The wind turned, subtle and cool. Shadows deepened, and something in the world grew thin, as though the veil that separated breath from silence, heartbeats from echoes, had grown porous.
Then they began to arrive.
The dead.
They did not march. They did not moan. They flowed, soft-footed and ethereal, down the long road as if drawn along some river of lightless gravity. Oswin sat still. The spirits passed like water slipping past a stone.
Some wore the tattered remnants of laborers, others gleamed in the regalia of once-nobles. A few had no discernible form at all—only presence, the vague outline of what once had been a life. They came with neither sorrow nor joy. They simply came.
Oswin watched them with eyes neither fearful nor astonished. This was not spectacle. It was sacrament. He bore no dominion over their passage, nor did he presume knowledge of their destination. He had read the theories—Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, the Isles Beyond—but his role was not to determine. His was to witness.
And witness he did.
Most spirits passed by him without recognition. A few turned their faces briefly—if they had faces at all—and something unspoken passed between them and the living man. One flickered like candlelight in a storm. Another cast no shadow even under moonlight. Still, he remained composed. He was, for this brief hour, the Warden.
But not all souls pass in silence.
Tonight, one paused.
A woman, her form shimmering like water, stepped from the procession. No name passed her lips—spirits seldom spoke—but recognition ignited in Oswin’s chest, not as thought but as sensation.
“Katherine,” he whispered.
She had aged only in memory. Her features bore the soft curvature of youth, untouched by decay or bitterness. She smiled—an expression that bore the gravity of years, not in sorrow, but in acknowledgment. He had not seen her since their lives had diverged—he to contemplation and care of things eternal, she to a life he had only imagined. Once, in a meadow thick with stars, they had held hands and spoken of nothing. That night had remained untouched, sealed in time.
They did not speak in words. The space between them shimmered with shared recollection. No apology was required. No justification offered. They simply existed—two souls aligned once more on the threshold between this world and the next.
Before she turned to leave, she reached—not with arms, but with essence. A brush of thought. A farewell older than language. For a fleeting moment, Oswin’s face was young again, smooth and luminous beneath the moon.
“Farewell,” he said.
She passed through Woodgate.
The others followed, as if her presence had been a bell calling the final pilgrims to cross. Slowly, the tide of spirits thinned. One by one, they faded, absorbed by the mystery of whatever lay beyond the gate.
The night softened. The air grew still. Stars blinked through the parting clouds.
Oswin stood with the slow dignity of ritual concluded. His bones protested, but he bore their ache with patience. His back, long bent by age and by burden, felt lighter for a moment.
The path to Saint Hubert’s Chapel gleamed faintly in the dark. He walked it not with haste, but with certainty.
The bench would remain. The gate would stand.
And should the forest whisper again, Oswin would return.
But for now, the watch was ended.