(Untitled)

[smithofwainola]

The day is warming; there are flowers lining the edge of the wood, bright splashes of yellow and violet against the dark earth. Ilmarinen has set snares along the rabbit trails, which he is checking carefully today. So far, he has found nothing tangled in the wires, but he is patient. He would not mind company as he walks slowly and carefully

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[lightningcurse]

Slink slink. The spring has progressed far enough that his hair is starting to turn chestnut again, back from the winter ermine. He pads along behind Ilmarinen for a considerable time before even bothering to make himself seen; he has a small bird in his mouth, holding it the way a fox would, and his clothes are wild and bloody--though that can't possibly be from just the bird, little thing that it is.

The hunting knife is in his belt, and the bow over his back.

[smithofwainola]

He registers some surprise when at last Mabon lets Ilmarinen see him--then nods acknowledgment. "You have had good luck in hunting."

[lightningcurse]

He grins, and drops the bird into his hand. "Small things. What are you hunting?"

[smithofwainola]

"Rabbits for the stewpot--but they have evaded all my snares well." He looks over the blood on Mabon's clothes, and refrains from asking.

[lightningcurse]

"I can catch you one."

[smithofwainola]

"How could I repay the kindness?"

[lightningcurse]

"Did you make the bow?"

[smithofwainola]

He nods.

[lightningcurse]

"You should come to hunt with me."

[smithofwainola]

A slow moment in which Ilmarinen realizes that he has not properly seen Mabon hunt. "I will fetch my bow and arrows." And then, just that quickly, he turns to go back to his cabin.

[lightningcurse]

Mabon waits for him, taking his own bow off his back and testing it.

[smithofwainola]

Ilmarinen's bow is a fine one, as fine as the promise in the wood that they found together, and fit to the promise that they made to hunt together. The wood has grown seasoned; the string knows the pull of Ilmarinen's fingers. He looks up, meeting Mabon's eyes, deferring the hunt to him.

[lightningcurse]

The bow--Mabon smiles; and then slips sideways into the woods, a master of the hunt without the red jacket, almost invisible except for the ermine hair streaked with reddish.

[smithofwainola]

He is not as silent as Mabon, but he can follow the shine on ermine hair--he can follow the not-sound of the predator moving through the wood.

[lightningcurse]

Mabon never even looks back.

And after a while they'll come on deer--they always will. Mabon always finds exactly what he wants. Deer, then, a thick herd, stripping bark off the trees in Percy's orchard, if you want the truth. He halts and slinks around a thick oak near the blackberry brambles.

[smithofwainola]

And Ilmarinen, who makes his home in the wood, has never seen this many deer at once here. (He thinks them poor, delicate copies of the reindeer that he knows, but he will not criticize.) He ducks behind the brambles, watching patiently, waiting for the sign to fit arrow to bow--beta to Mabon's alpha.