The last echoes of the Christmas Mass still clung to the stones of Saint Hubert's Chapel, faint as the lingering warmth of a candle just extinguished. The crackle of the fire and the soft creak of settling timbers filled the silence, as if the stones themselves held their breath in reverence. Father Aelered moved quietly through the sacred space, wiping down the altar with a cloth and setting the vessels back in their proper places. His motions were slow but deliberate, each gesture a quiet prayer in itself, the last duties of a long and solemn night. When the work was finished, he laid out a rough blanket near the fire, seeking what little rest the chapel's warmth could offer.
Oswin stood apart, his cloak drawn close, his eyes fixed on the narrow window where the stars burned sharp and cold against the dark. His body remained still, but his spirit stirred with the knowledge that his vigil was not yet done. The stars overhead, bright as cold embers, seemed to call to something buried deep within him—something older than creed or crown.
After a time, without word or ceremony, Wilmot and Halward rose. With quiet nods to Aelered and Oswin, they stepped out into the yard, their cloaks drawn tight against the bitter cold, making their way across the snow-laden ground to the gatehouse. Their figures soon vanished into the darkness, leaving the chapel to its ancient silence, broken only by the low sigh of the wind against the stones.
Aelered, finished with his tasks, stretched out near the fire on a rough riding blanket. His eyes closed, and his breathing deepened into the soft rhythm of sleep, his labor of the night complete.
Oswin sat still for a long moment, hands folded across his chest, listening to the silence settle. Sleep tugged at the edges of his mind, but he knew it would not come. Something older, something unfinished, stirred within him, pulling him toward the door. At length, he rose once more, moving with the silence of a man long accustomed to solitary pilgrimages. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, glanced once toward the sleeping monk, and slipped through the chapel door.
The air outside struck him like a baptism, cold and purifying. The snow whispered beneath his boots as he crossed the threshold and stepped into the open yard. Above him, the chapel's roof bore a thin frosting of white, and the lanterns at the gate burned low, their flames shivering in the wind as though in awe of the night.
As Oswin moved beyond the last pools of human light, a shadow stirred from the chapel eaves. With a soft rush of wings, Arrow descended and alighted on his shoulder. The old man did not flinch. He merely tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment, as if he had expected no less, and together they stepped into the greater darkness.
Beyond the gate, the forest loomed vast and breathless. The trees stood close and tall, their branches webbed with ice, their trunks black and glistening against the snow. Oswin carried no torch; only a small lantern swung from his hand, its light muted and warm, casting just enough glow to mark his steps but not enough to offend the night.
As he moved, Oswin whispered low words of protection to himself in the old tongue, the language of roots and stone. "Cadw fi, goleuni'r ddaear," he murmured—"Keep me, light of the earth."
To his astonishment, Arrow shifted on his shoulder and croaked the last word back at him, "Ddaear."
Oswin paused mid-step, one foot hovering above the snow. He glanced sideways, but the bird only blinked slowly, feathers puffed against the cold. A flicker of wonder crossed the old man's face, and he smiled to himself—a secret kept between walker and wing.
Together they threaded through narrow ways where the frost lay thickest and the mist drifted low like smoke from unseen fires.
Oswin’s breath formed brief clouds that rose and faded into the greater silence. He passed familiar landmarks—the old oak, split by lightning in his grandfather's time; the hollow where a spring once flowed, now frozen into silence. Each step carried him deeper into a part of the forest where time slowed and the ordinary world thinned to a brittle edge.
The land grew older with each pace. The trees leaned inward, their frozen limbs forming an archway of reverent guardianship. The stars overhead blinked and wheeled, distant and slow, as if the heavens themselves watched his passage with bated breath.
At last he reached the clearing.
Here, the trees drew back to reveal a place older than memory. A long barrow rose from the snow, its low, rounded form blending almost seamlessly with the earth around it, like the sleeping back of some ancient beast. Once, a proud ring of standing stones had guarded it, but now most lay tumbled and broken, half-swallowed by moss and soil, forgotten by all but a few.
Only a few stones still stood upright, leaning at odd angles like weary sentinels. Their surfaces were slick with frost, their edges softened by the endless patience of seasons. They were bluestone—sacred and weathered—dragged from distant hills in a time before words had conquered the tongue, stones older than kings, older even than the names men now gave to gods.
At the heart of the clearing, half-covered in snow, a shallow descent opened into the mound itself—a worn path leading downward, as if the earth had opened its mouth to receive those who dared remember.
Oswin knelt at its threshold. He pressed his palm to the frozen ground and whispered a prayer, not in the polished cadence of Latin, but in the rough, rhythmic tongue of the old land, the words rising from his chest as if they had lived there always:
"Bendith ar y meini, ar y gwraidd, ar yr asgwrn. Bendith ar anadl y ddaear, ar oleuni'r dyfnder. Bendith ar yr heliwr a'r cornawg a gedwir y llwybrau hynaf."
(Blessing upon the stones, upon the root, upon the bone. Blessing upon the breath of the earth, upon the light of the deep. Blessing upon the hunter and the horned one who guards the oldest paths.)
The words faded into the cold air, swallowed by the stones and the earth alike.
Then, rising, he descended into the waiting earth, and Arrow followed without a sound.
***
The descent was narrow at first, little more than a seam in the earth, and Oswin had to stoop low beneath the weight of frozen soil and stone. His lantern’s glow clung close to him, casting long, nervous shadows that quivered with every step. The walls, lined with ancient stones fitted together without mortar, pressed inward, their surfaces damp with condensation and traced by thin, gnarled roots, as if the forest itself sought to reclaim him, to draw him back into its ageless heart.
Arrow clung to his shoulder, silent and preternaturally still, his talons gripping lightly but surely, his dark eyes wide and unblinking.
The narrow passage gave way to a low chamber, carved not by tools but by hands and patience older than kings and older still than memory. The air grew colder, thinner, but charged with something unseen. Roots dangled from the ceiling like the tattered remnants of a forgotten canopy, their brittle fingers brushing lightly against Oswin's cloak as he passed. Along the walls, half-consumed by dirt and time, were stones bearing faint carvings—spirals turning endlessly inward, stag forms running eternally, and outstretched hands reaching from the deep. Some were no more than whispers of shape, eroded by centuries of breathless dark, while others still pulsed faintly with meaning.
In the center of the chamber stood the altar.
It was a single, flat slab of bluestone, cracked but unbroken, flecked with patches of lichen that glowed faintly under the lantern’s sway. Its surface was pitted by time, its edges worn smooth as river stones. The altar rested atop a low rise, a heartstone around which the ancient builders had raised the barrow, and here, the air felt different—thicker, charged, as if time itself pooled and slowed, drawn down into this singular place.
Oswin approached with measured, reverent steps. Each crunch of frozen earth beneath his boots seemed an intrusion into a silence that stretched back before the founding of kings and cathedrals. He lowered himself to one knee before the altar, unfastened the small pouch at his belt, and withdrew the offerings he had carried from Woodgate.
First, he laid a sprig of holly across the altar's surface, its sharp green leaves bright against the weary stone. The holly’s vibrant defiance whispered of life enduring through darkness, of green thriving even under frost.
Next, a twist of bread and honey, wrapped carefully in a scrap of linen—the labor of hands, the sustenance of body and spirit. A remembrance of shared meals, of kindness extended in lean times.
Lastly, he dusted a pinch of blessed ash—lifted with care from the Christmas fire that had burned so recently in Saint Hubert's Chapel—across the stone, his fingertip tracing a slow and solemn cross upon its surface. A mark of humility, of offering, of life given back to the deep places.
The offerings complete, Oswin bowed his head, the lantern's light falling about him like a crown of gold. He closed his eyes and let the ancient silence envelop him.
He spoke then, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of old covenants and newer hopes, blending the tongues of the old world and the new:
"Bendith ar y ddaear, ar y dwr, ar y tan. Benedictus sit Dominus super terram, super aquam, super ignem. Blessing be upon earth, upon water, upon fire. Blessed be the Lord over earth, over water, over fire."
The words unfurled into the chamber, wrapping around the stones, sinking into the very roots of the earth. They clung to the lichen, the dust, the breathless air.
For a long moment, there was only silence, and in that silence, the whole world seemed to lean in and listen.
Then the air stirred, though no wind touched Oswin’s face. The roots above shifted subtly, whispering against the frozen soil. A low hum, more felt than heard, thrummed through the earth beneath his knees, rising slowly, like the ancient heartbeat of the land itself.
The faintest shimmer of blue light haloed the altar, gathering first around the offerings and then spreading outward in thin, breathlike tendrils that danced in the stillness.
Arrow shifted on Oswin's shoulder, his feathers ruffling slightly, and for the first time, Oswin felt the bird’s small body grow lighter—almost insubstantial—as if the raven were both within the world and somehow apart from it. His dark eyes gleamed with a depth of knowing beyond the animal, seeing—perhaps—what mortal sight could not.
Oswin remained bowed, his heart steady, his soul laid bare.
The offering had been accepted.
At length, he rose, every joint and muscle whispering against the chill. He took up his lantern, its flame burning steady and sure, and with Arrow perched steadfastly beside him, retraced his steps to the sloping path.
The ascent was slower, heavier, as if the earth herself were reluctant to release him. But at last, he broke free into the clearing.
The stars above seemed to burn brighter, their light colder and cleaner, as if the heavens themselves bore witness to the renewal that had passed unseen by waking men.
The forest around him stood still, the trees rising like black pillars against the silvered snow.
But Oswin knew, deep in his marrow, that he had not made the journey alone. Nor had he left the old world untouched.
Something ancient had stirred, and the covenant—the frail, enduring bond between Woodgate and the forest beyond—had been renewed.
***
When Oswin at last emerged into the clearing, the cold night met him like a baptism. He paused at the mouth of the barrow, the breath catching in his throat, blinking against the brilliance of the stars burning sharp and innumerable in the black sky overhead.
The clearing had changed.
The snow lay untouched, pristine, and glowing faintly as if lit from within. It shimmered beneath the starlight like a woven tapestry of ice and memory. The fallen stones, half-buried and leaning, seemed straighter now, their worn faces catching the celestial light like ancient mirrors. The ancient trees surrounding the clearing bowed inward, their skeletal branches interlacing high above to form a vaulted ceiling, a frozen cathedral crafted by unseen hands.
And there — standing silent at the center of the clearing where no prints marred the snow — stood the stag.
The great beast towered, its coat a deep, living bronze that seemed to drink in the faint radiance of the heavens. From its mighty crown of antlers hung not frost nor dead leaves, but a soft, sacred light, as though stars themselves had been plucked from their courses and cradled there. Within that ethereal glow nestled birds: wrens, doves, blackbirds, robins, all resting without fear among the branching limbs.
Oswin’s breath shuddered in his chest, awe overwhelming his senses. Slowly, reverently, he lowered himself to his knees, his lantern slipping from his hand to rest in the snow, its flame guttering but refusing to die. He bowed his head, a humble supplicant before a vision too vast for mortal words.
Arrow shifted on his shoulder but made no sound. Instead, from the light of the stag’s antlers, other birds lifted — more than before — spiraling downwards in a gentle dance of feathers. Their wings stirred the frozen air into delicate currents. They alighted upon Oswin: one on his opposite shoulder, another upon his bowed head, and one upon his outstretched, trembling hand. He dared not move, dared not disturb the sanctity that had enfolded him.
At the stag’s hooves, where moments before there had been only frozen earth and lifeless snow, flowers now bloomed with impossible grace: small blue stars, delicate white bells, golden threads of ivy, and tiny wild roses unfolding their blushing petals in defiance of the bitter cold. The clearing, once stark and silent, transformed into a living tapestry of color and fragrance, a momentary paradise spun from the very breath of the earth.
From the heart of these blossoms, the fae emerged — the same fae who had once gathered at the sacred spring, watchers and stewards of Woodgate's oldest mysteries. They rose like mist from the petals, their forms delicate and woven of starlight and breath. Some stepped from the blue stars, crowned with wreaths of frost. Others danced from the white bells, bearing tiny lights like fireflies cupped in their hands. Their figures were slender and radiant, their eyes luminous with joy and reverence. They moved with the grace of falling snow, their every gesture a hymn of praise.
Above, a shower of stars spiraled in a slow, deliberate dance around the sacred light crowning the stag's antlers. Each star flickered as it circled, casting thin threads of silver and gold across the clearing, weaving a living canopy overhead. The clearing itself was bathed in holy brilliance, the stones, trees, and snowflakes shimmering as though forged anew by unseen celestial hands. The breath of the gathered spirits, the stag, and even Oswin himself, rose visibly in the frigid air, merging into one luminous cloud that hovered briefly, then faded into the sky.
Before Oswin, a single red rose burst forth in full bloom, its petals unfolding with a silent, reverent grace. It opened as if responding to the celestial chorus, each petal trembling with an inner light. As it unfurled, he saw at its heart a golden light, pure and living, surrounded by the deep crimson of the petals like a flame guarded by blood and earth. It was more than a flower; it was a living sigil, a sacred gift that bridged the world of mortal men and the undying spirit of the forest. He knew then, without doubt, that the stag offered this gift to him — not for possession, but for stewardship, a trust laid upon his soul as surely as any vow made before altar or throne.
Oswin leaned forward, his breath trembling in the cold air, and as his fingers reached for the bloom, he heard it: a low hum that seemed to rise from the earth and sky alike, a single note woven from the fabric of the universe. It was a heavenly choir, vast and eternal, surrounding him in a music too deep for mortal hearing.
And then, in an instant, all was silent.
As Oswin held the rose in his hands, its warmth sinking into his skin, the stag lifted its head one last time. Without sound, without haste, it turned and walked away, the sacred light dimming gently as it passed back into the embrace of the ancient forest.
At the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded by the ancient trees, stood a wolf: massive, silver-furred, his golden eyes pools of sorrow and wisdom. He made no sound, only stood vigil, his breath rising in slow clouds. It was the Great Wolf Gubbio, though Oswin knew him not, a watcher of fates yet to be fulfilled.
The stag, before vanishing, lowered its majestic head, the sacred light in its antlers flaring gently, offering a benediction not just to Oswin, but to the land itself. Oswin bowed even lower, his forehead touching the frozen earth in full surrender of his spirit.
For a time, the world held its breath.
Then, as swiftly and silently as it had appeared, the stag turned. The birds lifted from Oswin in a soft flurry of wings, circling once before returning to the antlers' glow. The forest spirits faded into the trees like mist at dawn. The great wolf gave a final, sorrowful glance and melted into the deeper shadows.
When Oswin lifted his head once more, the clearing was empty. The stars shone down upon untouched snow, upon ancient stones, and upon a single blooming rose — the last witness of what had passed.
With hands that trembled not from fear but from a reverence deeper than bone, Oswin reached forward and gathered the rose. Its petals were astonishingly warm against the bite of the cold night, and its fragrance was rich, carrying the essence of a promise fulfilled and a covenant renewed.
Cradling it carefully as a precious relic, Oswin rose to his feet. He lingered for a breath, allowing the wonder of the clearing to fill him one last time, committing every detail to memory, knowing that this moment would live within him forever.
Arrow settled more firmly upon his shoulder, and together they turned toward the distant, flickering lights of Woodgate, bearing with them a miracle that no words would ever fully capture.
Behind them, the forest returned to its eternal vigil, the old oaks standing sentinel over the place where heaven and earth had met and parted like ships in a winter sea.
***
The walk back was slow and solemn. The snow whispered underfoot, the sound muffled by the heavy silence of the wood. Above, the stars burned clean and cold, bearing witness to the solitary pilgrim making his way home. Arrow remained still, his dark eyes glinting now and again as the faint light caught them. No word passed between man and bird. None was needed. Their bond had grown beyond speech, woven by the mysteries they had witnessed together.
When Oswin reached the gatehouse, all was still. The lanterns burned low, their oil nearly spent, their light guttering like the last breath of a long-held vigil. The stones of Woodgate glistened with frost. Within the chapel, the fire had sunk to embers, casting only the faintest warmth into the space. Father Aelered slept near the hearth, his face peaceful in the dim light, the lines of fatigue softened by dreams. No one stirred as Oswin slipped through the heavy wooden doors.
The chapel was shadowed and silent, a cradle of stone and old prayers. Oswin moved forward, the rose cradled still in his hands, his steps making no sound on the worn floor. The faint light of the lantern caught the rose’s petals, making them seem almost translucent, as if woven of flame and shadow.
He approached the altar.
Where once the vessels of the Mass had stood in solemn glory, now there was only the bare stone—simple, ancient, waiting. The altar seemed to recognize him, to beckon, as though it too had awaited the fulfillment of this night’s pilgrimage.
With the same care he had shown beneath the earth, Oswin knelt. He placed the rose upon the altar.
The petals, deep crimson against the cold gray stone, seemed to catch the last of the lantern light and hold it, a single drop of summer in the heart of winter. A living flame cradled in stone, a promise that even in the season of death, life endured.
Oswin bowed his head. He spoke no words. He made no sign. The offering was complete.
After a long moment, he reached out and felt carefully along the underside of the altar’s edge, his fingers searching for the hidden seam he knew was there. With a soft click, a concealed drawer released, its presence known only to those who had long guarded Woodgate's deepest secrets.
Inside lay the reliquary: a small, ornate box of aged oak and hammered silver, its latch worn smooth by countless unseen prayers. Nestled within it was the sacred key—Saint Hubert's Key—its iron surface darkened with age, yet still pulsing with a quiet, enduring strength.
Oswin whispered a prayer to Saint Hubert, protector of hunters and stewards of the wild. "Sancte Huberte, custodi hanc clavem et pactum nostrum cum silva," he murmured. Saint Hubert, guard this key and our covenant with the forest.
With great reverence, he placed the red rose beside the key within the reliquary, the bloom's living warmth a new offering to join the ancient relic.
Gently, he closed the drawer, sealing the rose and the key safely away.
Then, rising with slow, careful movements, Oswin added a fresh log to the dwindling fire. He settled himself near the hearth, drawing his cloak tightly around him, and at last allowed sleep to claim him, his vigil kept, his offering made, and his spirit at peace.