The Hunting of Mist-Rolling-Softly

Bright moonlight peeked through the leaves of the trees, dappling the worn dirt trail and providing just enough light for Mist-Rolling-Softly's keen eyes to safely guide her footsteps down the path. She quietly practiced saying her newly-awarded Druid name as she picked her way carefully over the stones and roots which threatened to engulf the ancient route; she had been told by her mentor, Tree-Dying-In-Sand, that she would need to be familiar with it before she reached the site of her final lesson.

The Order into which she was about to complete her initiation was among the oldest and most secretive of the various pagan orders that had sprung up since the fall of the Creator's Church about a decade ago, as well as one of the most rigorous. Misty had been training with the Order of the Green Knife for six years and had watched her peers steadily drop out, one by one, seeking less physically and mentally straining spiritualities or abandoning the spirit altogether. Of twenty braggarts, filled to the brim with the bravado and overconfidence of youth, only she remained, her own bravado transformed through years of dedication and stubbornness into the confidence of a honed protector of the wilds. All the struggle, hardship, and pain she had endured would culminate tonight, in what Sandy had said would be both a lesson and a test, and from which she would emerge a true Druid of the Green Knife, with a voice on the council and a seat around the Great Fire.

Her footsteps made no sound as she strode down the path, though her ceremonial gown, sheer and the same color green as new spring leaves, whispered over her otherwise bare skin with each stride. She was thankful for the warmth of the summer night, and the lack of the usual north breeze which would have made the journey a bit too chilly for her liking; Misty couldn't imagine what this trip must have been like for the Acolytes who graduated in the winter months. She hoped, for their sake, that Order's ritual garments were seasonal rather than static.

The deep, mournful note of a horn bellowed through the forest, startling Misty out of her idle musings; she flinched and spun around, seeking the source of the unexpected sound. Not a single leaf rustled, not a single cricket chirped; a silence covered the forest like a blanket, broken only by the horn's fading echoes. As she stood, tense and alert, her strained ears caught the distant bark of hounds, coming from somewhere back down the path. Her eyes narrowed; was this a part of the lesson? Or was this something else?

The Creator's Church had not gone quietly into the night; in spite of being rocked by scandal and corruption, it had fought viciously to hold onto whatever shred of power it still clutched in its withered grasp. It had not been too many years since the last time rumors had spread of hunting parties seeking heretics in the outcountry, and while such gossip had not reached her ears in many moons, Misty still felt that caution, rather than boldness, was the best course of action.

She slid off the path like a silent wraith, concealing herself within the thick underbrush of the forest, just as she had been trained. Her gown, unlike the protective and functional clothes she would normally have worn on a trip into the brush, seemed determined to snag on every stray branch and disturb every quiet leaf. Misty frowned in frustration, her mind warring with itself as she watched the trail she had just left; surely, if the sound indicated danger, the elder Druids would be on their way to spirit her out of peril. On the other hand, the notes of the horn and the barking of dogs were coming from behind her; if danger had found her sisters first, she might be the only one left to tell about it.

The sounds of the hounds, while distorted by the echoes in the trees, were clearly drawing closer, and at a much more rapid pace than Misty was comfortable with. She extended her hand and concentrated, feeling the energy of the earth and the essence of the moonlight like a thin liquid on her fingertips. Furrowing her brow in concentration, she slowly moved her hands to weave those energies together in a spell of concealment, damping her scent and pulling the shadows more deeply over her athletic form. Combined with her small size and jet black hair, she would be nearly invisible to all but the most careful of observers, even those among the animal kingdom.

Her obfuscation was completed only scant seconds before movement on the path entered her field of vision. Misty let out a tiny gasp in spite of herself; nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

The barking had indeed come from hounds, but hounds of a size that Misty would not have believed had she heard the tale over a beer in the longhouse. The first two creatures that greeted her sight were nearly the size of bears, and moved with the speed of mountain lions. They were followed by a half-dozen dogs of similar breed though much smaller size, more akin to mastiffs than ursines. The beasts did not lead a group of armored men with grim faces, set on destroying the heretics and bringing the order of the Creator back to the lands; rather they pulled a chariot that looked as if it had been crafted of sticks and logs bound together and embellished with wire made of pure gold.

Piloting the chariot was a man who took Misty's breath away. He was at least seven feet tall, with broad shoulders powerful arms; he wore no clothes that Misty could determine, and the moonlight glinted off the clearly-defined muscles of his chest. His face was concealed by the shadow of an enormous deer-antlered headdress, which seemed to defy the trees by passing with supernatural ease through the low-hanging branches.

The dogs barreled past Misty's hiding spot without a second glance, and the chariot rolled past as well, its rough-hewn wheels creaking as they bumped over the uneven ground. Within just a few short moments, the entire party had passed, going around a bend in the trail and moving beyond Misty's sight. A second horn note blew from down the path, bouncing off the vegetation and spreading through the forest like the tide through mangroves.

Misty took a minute to catch her breath; of all the things she had learned to expect from the forest, nothing could have prepared her for that. The man and his pack had clearly been making for the standing stones where her own initiation was to be completed; was he a part of it somehow? Or was he a coincidence, some forest spirit on a journey of his own, completely unrelated to her lessons? And if the latter were the case, how would he react to an uninvited guest at whatever event he had planned?

In the silent warmth of the night, Misty's pulse began to slow and she forced her breathing to become more regular. She frowned, realizing that even if the man in the chariot was not a part of her ceremony, he could in no way be used as an excuse for not continuing. What would she tell the other Druids? That she had toiled and sweated all these years only to turn back at the last possible moment, out of cowardice? That rather than face the unknown, no matter how unknown, she would lay down all of her efforts and go back to her village in disgrace, to mill grain and milk cows? Absolutely not!

Her mind thusly resolved, Misty got to her feet and regained the path. Keeping her spell of concealment in place, she continued on in the direction of the standing stones, determined to complete her purpose and ensure the last six years of her life were not a waste. She spurred herself forward and jogged along the road, remembering her training: move towards what frightens you, rather than away. She wished heartily that her athame was at her side; being armed against dangers both physical and spiritual would give her far more comfort than a sheer gown and her bare hands.

Misty's naked feet, toughened by years in the forest, padded softly on the dirt track, lifting tiny plumes of dust beneath them and she inhaled to the beat of them; inhale four steps, hold four steps, exhale four steps. The noises of the forest did not return with the passing of the chariot; the only sounds that broke the night were her footsteps and her breathing. She tried not to wonder at the silence, or allow it to gnaw at her nerves.

The path contained many gentle curves as it moved in a rough, sidewinding spiral towards the standing stones, and at each one the hunting horn blew again; the hollow sound becoming less distant each time it sounded. It seemed both challenging and beckoning, driving Misty forwards and causing her to ponder the consequences of turning back at the same time, until the euphoria of running pushed all other thoughts out of her mind. In a state of physical exertion she felt the energy of the forest most keenly, and tonight it wrapped around her like a lover's embrace, helping to draw her to the center of the spiral while fueling her uncertainty; the native animals, she found, were not simply silent, but had fled beyond her ability to sense them. She could sense the hunting party, though. Their energy was both dark and light in equal measure, rough and smooth, bitter and sweet, and she could learn nothing concrete about them from their distant auras.

Misty came around the final corner and the sacred clearing opened up before her. In it were the ancient standing stones: seven oblong rocks ten feet tall, half-buried in the fertile soil, surrounding three larger rocks that towered at least twenty feet into the air and made a hemisphere around a granite altar. The altar itself was a single massive cube, almost ten feet long and four across, buried in the ground so that only the top four feet were visible. Vines grew thick across all the stones, their tiny rootlets finding purchase in the smallest of cracks as they climbed towards the sky to better gather the light of the sun and they rays of the moon.

The altar was normally decorated with offerings from the Order's druids. Bundles of flowers, decorated bones and painted skulls from their feasts, and bowls of spring water and home-made mead usually covered what surface of the rock was exposed between the vines, to be enjoyed by the spirits of the forest in whatever way they enjoyed physical things. Tonight, however, the altar was bare and smooth; even the vines had been pushed aside and lay in tangled heaps on the ground around it. The offerings, Misty saw, had been moved to the outer circle, filling the gaps between the shorter guardian rocks and leaving only a single space through which she could approach.

The horn blew again, and Misty fought the impulse to cover her ears against the noise that rattled her eardrums. The air in front of her wavered and trembled, then opened like a curtain, revealing that the emptiness of the site had been only an illusion.

The clearing was suddenly full of people. Beings a foot or more shorter even than Misty's five foot stature and cloaked in brown robes that concealed all their features stood in front of each offering, their arms raised to the night sky. Misty saw the dogs of the hunting pack tied behind the circle, laying in the grass and panting happily. All but the largest two; they were no longer beasts that went about on all fours, but stood upright as men on either side of the altar, their faces still dog-like but with eyes that were decidedly intelligent. They regarded Misty inscrutably with lolling tongues; the one on the right of the altar brought the hunting horn to his lips with remarkably human-like hands and blew a single, drawn out note.

"She is here," he said simply, his voice more like a man's that Misty would ever have expected.

"She is here, My King," repeated the other.

The air shimmed in front of Misty again, and when it peeled away the last of the illusions were gone. The man from the chariot lounged irreverently on the altar, his dark muscles gleaming in the moonlight. Misty could see now that he wore no headdress; the antlers were his own, growing directly from his skull. He yawned and stood up to his full height, looking down at Misty with a gaze that was both imperious and amused.

"This is the one they offer?" he asked noone in particular. "From all the candidates, this is the one they sent to my sacred circle?"

His face was handsome and square, and his eyes were the deep blue of the night sky. He looked Misty up and down appraisingly, and the young woman couldn't tell from his expression exactly what he thought of her.

The nine cloaked figures between the stones lowered their arms and took a few steps forward, closing the circle behind Misty. Misty forced herself to straighten her shoulders and meet the man's gaze, but could not quite bring herself to speak.

"Not that tall one, with the summer hair and legs as long as the river? Nor the broad-shouldered one with the strength of a warrior in her arms? I had such high hopes for them. But this one? I never would have guessed the runt of the litter would have made it to me. The Wyrd laughs at all our expectations, isn't that right small one?" His voice was deep enough to shake the rocks; it contained both mirth and menace, and Misty inhaled deeply, finding only enough courage to keep her eyes locked on his own.

"Well come forth then, little one who has no voice," he commanded. Misty pursed her lips; this powerful being could surely compel her to do as he pleased without regard for her desires, but he did not. Her feet moved in accordance with her own will and she walked towards the creature bathed in moonlight before the altar. 'Move towards that which frightens you,' she thought.

She stopped a few feet away, and he closed the gap with a single languid stride, circling around her slowly and looking at her with a gaze that made her feel more than naked, that made her soul feel bare underneath it.

"I am the Alder King," he said when he had returned to his position in front of Misty. "You may call me My King, or Your Highness, as you will. These," he gestured to the dog-men, "are my retainers: Feltheim and Ural. This is my forest, from the ice hills to the north to the great water far to the south. These stones were set by your distant ancestors to pay homage to me. Now, little one: tell me your name."

Misty took a deep breath and swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I am Mist-Rolling-Softly of the Order of the Green Knife."

"Why are you here, Mist-Rolling-Softly of the Green Knife?" the Alder King asked.

"I am here for my final test so that I may be initiated as a full member of my Order," Misty declared. In spite of her fear, her voice was clear and held a note of youthful defiance.

The Alder King threw his head back and laughed heartily; the sound reminded Misty of a roll of distant thunder and shook her confidence. The dog-men behind him joined in, and they all laughed together for several long seconds.

"This one has an oversized spirit for her small frame!" Feltheim said when the laughter subsided.

The Alder King fixed Misty with his penetrating stare again. "I may yet find it in me to approve of this one after all. Tell me, Mist-Flowing-Fiercely, and be sure to address me in the proper form: in what season were you born?

"I was born in the Autumn," Misty replied. The Alder King stared at her silently. Behind him, Ural smirked. "Uh, Your Highness," she added quickly.

"And how many Autumns have you seen?"

"Next Autumn will be my twentieth. Your Highness."

"What is the name of the Druid who has sent you on this path?" he asked.

"Tree-Dying-In-Sand, Your Highness."

The Alder King's eyes lifted to the horizon and he put his hand on his chin. "Tree-Dying-In-Sand. I think I remember her. She was older than you by several Summers when she came to this grove." He returned his attention to Misty. "How long have you trained to be a protector of my lands?"

"I have spent six years in total, Your Highness. Two as a petitioner and the last four as an acolyte."

"They're starting them young now," Feltheim mused. "I remember when petitioning alone took five years."

"They are desperate," Ural replied. "The old ways yet hang by a thread; I have seen what the humans in white robes do to those who live for the wood."

"Indeed," the Alder King agreed. "So you think you know what it means to be a protector of the forest then?" he asked Misty.

"I do. Your Highness," Misty answered, standing up a little straighter.

"I do not think you do, little one." The Alder King looked up at the robed figures circling the stones; they had moved even closer, bringing the circle tighter around the altar. "To protect the forest is not only to slay her enemies and live within her balance," he proclaimed loudly. "To protect the forest is to be of the forest, to be one with the forest, to serve the forest." He looked down at Misty again. "Are you willing to serve the forest? To become one with the forest?"

Misty licked her dry lips and tried to steady her breathing. The Alder King was close to her now; his darklight energy flowed over her, carrying inside it the most primal feeling of the wild lands: the thrill of the hunter, which threatened to raise within her the fear of the prey.

Against that fear stood only her resolve to complete her dream, a resolve which shone like sunlight in her mind. She was ready. She was not only prepared to become one with the forest, she found; she desired it as she had desired nothing else in her life. It was the end of her path, and the beginning of her next journey.

"I am, Your Highness," she said.

"In the manner of the ancient tradition, I will ask one final time. To serve the forest is to be the bride of the forest. Are you prepared to become a bride of the forest, Mist-Flowing-Fiercely? Think carefully; your answer will change everything you imagined your future to be."

"I am, My King," she said, and chose to lower her gaze reverently to her feet.

One of the Alder King's large hands gently cupped her chin and raised her eyes to his. "The bride of the forest lowers her eyes for no one. Not even her King. The bride of the forest is not measured by her lands or the titles of her birth; she is equal to any man or woman who walks upon the soil."

Misty felt pride surge through her body, and for the first time tonight, she smiled. "Yes, My King."

"Let it be known!" the Alder King exclaimed to the encircling figures, "From this night forth, Mist-Flowing-Fiercely is among my brides, to be granted the respect and honor such a station deserves. May all creatures, field and fae, be told of this hallowed act which has been sealed with a sacred kiss!"

The Alder King leaned down and pressed his lips against Misty's; passion and desire flowed through her veins and she wrapped her arms around his neck, forcefully returning his kiss. Their tongues met and dueled as a cheer rose up from the onlookers.

After many long seconds, the Alder King broke the kiss, and Misty sighed with a mixture of contentment and disappointment.

"Let us begin the wedding night between the forest and his bride!" he said loudly, before looking at Misty again. "Let it be known, Mist-Rolling-Fiercely, that everything which happens tonight happens only at your will. You are a bride of the forest now, and you choose how and when you wish to express that. So I ask you; will you choose to consummate your marriage with me this night, before the eyes of the field and fae?"

Misty looked around. The cloaked figures began pulling back their hoods, revealing female faces of infinite beauty, faces of the sacred fae folk who lived between the worlds. Most wore blond hair done up in elaborate braids, while one with red hair let it blow wild and free in the wind. They looked at her with deep blue eyes set in high-cheekboned faces with expressions of desire and anticipation.

Misty looked at the dog-men, Ural and Feltheim; their tongues lolled as the stared at her, and Feltheim winked cheekily.