Isac goes on a trip

Isac knocked the arrow, aimed, then let it spring loose. It sliced through the air and landed into the trunk with a dull thump. Between the bark and the sharp tip a jaundice-yellow leaf was trapped, nailed back to the tree it was seeking to flee.

Behind him, Owen huffed. “Show-off.”

Their gravelly voice sounded utterly unimpressed, but they eyed the lodged arrow with interest.

“I have the skill,” Isac glibly replied, performing a little curtsy. “Why not flaunt it?”

He clambered up the tree with ease, retrieved his arrow and, as the freed leaf glided down to join its brethren on the forest floor, he splayed his palm in its place, where the keen point had burrowed deep and left a dent in the bark. He reached out with his magic – it rushed through his veins like sap through roots – and concentrated on the tree and everything within. His palm warmed and tingled as something shifted underneath. When he pulled his hand back there was no groove in the trunk, as if the arrow had never been there.

He petted a thick branch. “Good as new.”

This was a detour, though it wasn’t as if they were rushing to their destination. He had as much a duty to the Deer King as he did to himself to have a good time with his friend. After all, it wasn’t every day they got to visit an old, secluded, all but forsaken temple deep in the woods. Well, not this particular one, at least.

Though forsaken was not a fitting descriptor; he was here to ensure that.

As they ambled between the fir trees, Isac grabbed an apple from his satchel and tossed a second one at Owen. They caught it mid-air and gobbled it right up.

“So-” they licked the length of their maw, dagger-sharp teeth peeking out “-how long are we making this trip?”

“My mothers said to take our time.” At Owen’s pointed look, he amended: “No longer than five nights. Afterwards they’ll consider us captured, killed, or filthy deserters who ran away to join Camelot.”

The last part was, of course, a jest. Isac would sooner go through the former two than betray his family and community.

“So, we can take our time for now,” he concluded, twirling and turning an arrow between his fingers, watching the blurred, dizzying arc it traced.

They’d only been away for two nights; two more and they’d be soaring the sky back home while birds stirred in their roosts, singing the first notes of the morning.

“Why,” Isac tilted his head towards Owen, a wry smile hanging off his lips. “Are you eager to get rid of me?”

The dragon puffed out a tiny cloud of smoke and gently batted their tail against his side.

For all their playful nettling, none of them was eager to get rid of the other. They tried to carve out as much time as they could for their adventures, wherever they carried them – high up in the mountains and deep down in the valleys, over little towns and through less-trodden roads. They’d set out for the thrill of it, the rush of flight, the mysterious allure of nature, the promise of long-forgotten ruins. It was easy to motivate their absence when they twined their pastime with duty and turned each venture out into an opportunity to gather resources – fruit and game to eat, herbs for medicine – and precious, delicious intel.

This time, their task was a fairly easy one. They were sent out with provisions, blankets, and a map. The latter was relatively new, no more than half a decade old, with well-defined, whitened rims where it folded but with clear, vivid ink showing the mountain ridges, the forested plains, and the path that led to a temple. A small, unassuming temple that had many, many years over those of the parchment that marked its location. The map had been painstakingly copied after its worn-out predecessor, which in turn had been a translation of another, all tracing back to the original that sat somewhere in the archive, yellowed and frayed and shelved for its preservation.

It was this latest descendant that he slipped out of the satchel and studied now. They were drawing closer and closer – a few more steps, one more turn, and they found themselves at their destination.

They stepped out of the dappled shadow and into the light-bathed glade, carefully weaving their way through a carpet of wildflowers. As they brushed against them, a subtle sweetness wafted upwards.

The temple stood ahead, wedged between the trees, as meek and modest as any other wooden hut. Moss and lichen had thrived atop its roof and covered it in a bristly mane of deep green. One might think it was nature reclaiming what once belonged to it, but it was as intentional a detail of its construction as were the stones that constituted its foundation.

Owen had to wait outside. Their head and long neck made it through the door and that was the farthest they could go. They were content to instead curl up before the hut and rest their chin on the threshold, watching as Isac headed inside.

Akin to the rooftop, the shadowed alcove within was overtaken by nature. He brushed his fingers against the sponge-like, emerald expanse of moss that suffused one of the walls– the wood beneath was visible only in places. He relished the feeling of it– soft, damp and cool against his skin. The moss that grew within the hut was not of your common variety; it was imbued with a sliver of magic that lent it healing qualities. This particular kind was harder to come by,and usually only found deeper into the wild.

Isac set to work. He started by fortifying the wood – the walls and roof and beams and floor – so that the hut would stand the test of time and continue to be a shelter for any that sought it out or chanced upon it. He dusted the long bench and changed the bedding in the sleeping cot. He spruced up the plants that needed the little aid and talked with Owen as he went about his chores. The dragon mostly lounged, head on the threshold, limbs tucked underneath, and moved only to stretch their muscles, and once to fetch Isac a bucket of water.

He was about to settle down and call on the magic of the Deer King when Owen shifted, alert.

“Someone’s approaching,” they hissed.

Isac’s hand moved towards his belt where his dagger hung. In another time he wouldn’t need to reach for his weapon in a temple. But he’d never known those times, and these lands were no longer safe for those of his kin.

He inched closer to the door, keeping to the shadows of the hut. Owen lifted to his feet, intently watching the treeline with him.

The figure that emerged into the glade looked none too threatening. They walked with a brisk, lively step as you’d expect of someone trekking through the woods, and appeared to be carrying no weapons,unless you counted the walking staff they used as one. Isac was of the mind it shouldn’t be completely discounted, yet the newcomer seemed far from eager to wack it against Owen’s head.

Instead, they raised a hand and waved at the dragon. Wrinkles flared out around their dark eyes and silver streaked their long, braided auburn hair.

“Hello,” the traveler called out in the dragon language; the rough tones rolled clumsily off their tongue. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak your language all too well,”

“Lucky I speak yours,” Owen said, and inclined their head in polite greeting.

Isac decided to show himself.

He leaned against the door frame, crossed his arms – as to evince no intention of pulling out his knife – and offered up a charming smile.

“Good day, fellow traveler!” he brightly said. “We didn’t expect to see anyone else around here.”

“Neither did I,” the traveler returned, “but it’s a welcome surprise.”

“So you’re here to visit the Temple?”

They nodded.

Once, there used to be signs by the main road that would guide one towards the hut. They were torn down after the wars Uther waged. Nowadays, only those with prior knowledge, lost or exploring came upon it.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Isac began, “how did you chance upon this place?”

“Oh, it’s no chance,” they said, as he suspected, and reached one hand inside their bag. Isac followed the motion with sharp eyes but unless they planned to stab him with a brooch’s needle, he were in no danger.

The traveler pinned the brooch to their green robes’ lapel and smiled. The jewelry was gold spun in the shape of a stag’s head, antlers twisting into tree branches. “I am a Priestess of the Deer King.”

Whatever tension was still left seeped away. “I am neither priest nor apprentice,” Isac said, “but I am an adept.”

He moved out of the way to let the Priestess inside. They propped their walking staff against the wall and scoured the inside with their eyes.

“You cleaned,” they remarked.

“I have.”

“Do you intend to spend the night?”

He shook his head; black curls fell against his eyes. “My friend and I prefer camping out under the night sky. No, we were just making it a bit more welcome for whoever stumbles upon it.” He gestured towards them with a flourish. “Like yourself, for example.”

The Priestess chuckled. “Even if I didn’t “stumble” upon it?”

“Even then. Have you traveled far?” he asked.

“Relatively so,” they said, settling on the bench with a sigh. They patted the seat next to them in invitation. Isac obliged. “It’s worth coming. I may have undertaken the journey with more effort and time than when I was your age, but I still came. I’ve always been fond of a good trek in the woods.” They glanced at Owen, who had curled up outside before the entrance. “Though I suppose you might have done less trekking, more flying.”

Beyond the hut, birds warbled. Every now and then a gentle breeze would sweep through the trees and rustle the leaves, sending the autumn-rusted ones swirling to the floor. If he listened close enough, he could almost hear the rushing of the nearby stream.

“So, you’ve been coming here for years?” Isac asked, propping up one ankle over his other knee.

“Mmm,” the Priestess nodded, staring at something beyond the door. “Every once in a while, when I’d also set out to visit friends, lend a help, satiate my need for an adventure by going up to other Temples. Bigger ones,” they waved a hand to encompass the poky space,  “where people reside for more than one night. But I fear I spoke quite a lot about myself. You say you’re no priest.”

“Yes, I am but a humble adept,” he said, with affected modesty, too exaggerated to be taken seriously, “come here to do a bit of praying and dusting.”

“And I’m here to keep him company,” Owen supplied, “and observe he does all his tasks.”

“Oh yes,” Isac smiled, “what a mighty job they do, supervising. And lounging.”

“Earned rest after all the flying they must have done,” the Priestess said. “Or perhaps not so much. Have you two traveled long?”

Isac and Owen exchanged a quick glance. Then the dragon said: “Long enough to warrant the rest, definitely.”

“I am a bit surprised someone as young as you would know about this tiny place in the woods.”

After the wars, as the dust settled and what remained unconquered of Ulm refused to bow to the tyrant that had trampled all over the Continent, faith of the Deer King dwindled. It never disappeared – it was a fire not so easily snuffed out – but it became subdued, carried out as if almost in fear. The Deer King was too enmeshed with them, the so-called traitors, his grandparent had once said. Camelot didn’t want any of its citizens looking up to the Deer King or its descendants with too much sympathy or conviction.

And so Camelot smeared their names and twisted everything in their favor.

“I am not a Priest,” Isac said, “but my grandparents are, and they came here before. And now I do.”

They scrutinized his face. Then their eyes darted down to the sheathed dagger on his belt, shifted to the dragon lazing in the sun. Calculations were taking place behind that gaze, Isac could tell: adding up the details. Whatever conclusion they came to, they made no remark of it, and didn’t pry further.

They three of them spoke well into the afternoon. The Priestess had quite the suite of stories to tell, from the humorous to the insightful, of their years in this station. Isac and Owen were mostly content to listen; when they talked, they skirted artfully around the truth, but embellished no more than was necessary. As the setting sun turned the woods ablaze, they made camp near the hut. The Priestess explained she’d rather leave the little temple unbothered, for someone else who might find their way there and need it.

As he lay down on his bedroll by the simmering fire, a smile still lingered on his lips. He hadn’t expected they’d have company, but it’d been pleasant. For as much as he enjoyed his little ventures into the wilderness with Owen – as much as the woods beckoned to him, a call he always so eagerly answered– he longed for companionship and society. The warmth and comfort of his community; the music and drunken voices of a tavern, the bustle and commotion of busy town streets. The simple joy of sitting by the fire with friends and cousins, talking the night away.

He wondered if the Priestess realized who he was. Had he confirmed it, would they have treated him the same way? He thought back on the way they carried their brooch in their bag, on the way he and Owen deftly danced around the truth. There had been no exchange of names; no one asked, no one provided. Yet even with so much to hide there was kindness, grace and cheer aplenty to share.