The Crowned Captive
The Customs of Death

“The key to hunting anything is stealth. Step lightly and where I step so you don’t scare them off,” Rowan explained as they crept through the forest. He showed her how best to step to make as little noise as possible, how to distribute her eight. Meanwhile, his eyes were fixed on her like glue. He had not, and seemed would not, forget the strangeness. As much as he surveyed the forest, he watched her every move. She wished nothing more than to pretend it never happened.

“How do you even know they are here?” She whispered, trying to follow his instructions as closely as possible. She was far from as steady-footed as he, but she made little enough noise that he did not berate her at least.

“Look at the low-lying plants,” Rowan said, pointing with the tip of his longbow. “You can see where something has come through and ripped the shoots from everything. Later, when winter truly sets in, you can look at the trees and see them stripped of bark.”

They crept through the forest in silence for a while longer, Morana following Rowan’s every move and order until he signalled for her to be silent with a finger against full lips. He crept forward again, his nose twitching as he scented the deer on the air. Morana did the same, picking up the same scent. She used it to guide her closer, as did Rowan, until she could hear their footfall and soft grunting and snorting. Her heart began to race as Rowan’s eyes suddenly locked on one spot, and he knocked an arrow. She looked to where he did, and through the trees, she saw the grey fur of a doe. Rowan cast one look at her, grinned, and let the arrow fly.

The forest erupted into chaos as the doe collapsed, a loud bleat escaping as she crashed into the leaf litter. A single kick, and it stilled. Around it, the herd scattered. She saw antlers and hooves crash through the forest as Rowan moved forward to shield her from the worst of the stampede. Her eyes were wide as she watched them, bounding close enough to reach out and grab.

As soon as the forest stilled once more, Rowan stood and walked to the fallen doe. Morana padded behind him as he crouched over her, one hand on her chest above the arrow, and dragged the dagger across her throat. Blood, ruby red, spilled and soaked the earth beneath her as she died. Bile rose in Morana’s throat at the memories the scene bought, and she looked away to still her sickened stomach.

“In fae culture, we always ask Death to take the spirit of any animal we hunt. It is the smallest honour we can show to those who die to give us nourishment,” Rowan explained as he began butchering the doe. “Always aim for those who are less important to the herd. Never a doe with the fawn, and only the buck if he is old or injured. The young bucks that sit away from the herd are often a good pick. Whatever is left of them, we return to the earth. We will take what we can carry tonight, eat what we can, and dry the rest. I can keep enough cold tonight for breakfast, too.”

Morana nodded, watching intently as Rowan precisely lifted the hide from the carcass. He laid it out like a blanket on which to carve the rest of the doe. Then he severed the head, opened the belly and removed the organs. He looked nearly pained as Morana watched him discard them. Once he was happy the carcass was only meat and enough bones to hold it together, he wrapped it back in its skin and threw it over his shoulders.

“Why not kill them with magic? Why didn’t you kill the hounds with magic, either? It seems so much easier,” Morana asked as she followed Rowan back to camp.

“Magic can be messy. In war, on a large scale, you would see skilled wielders take out entire legions in one wave of a hand. But that sort of magic takes a toll on the soul, leaving a stain on it. It is far from a kind death. Magic may be surer for somebody inexperienced with a bow or knife, but to put a creature we aim to honour through that is unthinkable.”

“Is all magic the same? Mama used to tell stories of fae who could steal your life, send you insane, slow your aging to the point it stops. I have seen you control the temperature, heal and use fire. Can all faeries do that?”

“Magic can be sourced from two places: the soul, or the Gods. It is very rare, but some fae are gifted with the power of the Gods themselves. Those gifts are exceptional, but when released, they are devastating. The gifts from the soul are far more common, usually passed in family lines. My father is a wielder of fire and my mother a healer, amongst other things. I was lucky enough to get nearly every one of their gifts. Some get only the power of one parent, some get neither, and some get the power of an aunt or grandfather or similar. All the fae have some basic magic, though. Enough to use the Old Tongue, to move an object or cast wards.”

“Is it common for a halfling to get no magic?”

Rowan seemed to pause a moment at the question, walking in silence as he contemplated his reply. “You are certainly an anomaly, Morana, but it is an uncommon thing for halflings to have magic or even be able to detect its presence.”

Morana frowned at the conflicting answer but said nothing more as they walked back to camp. Rowan set the carcass down and began unpacking the horses. Morana announced her wish to get firewood and Rowan merely nodded at her. The sun had truly dipped below the horizon now, and only the starlight guided her through the forest as she gathered dead branches and logs. Her mind was ablaze as she mindlessly picked up wood. What the hell had happened earlier with the weapons cache? What did Rowan mean that she was an anomaly? Did it have to do with that?

She sighed as she picked up another dead branch, only to realise that her arms were full. She made her way back to camp then, following the copper tang of blood and spice back to safety.

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