Where the Gentle Ones Keep Their Oaths

Some say he was there long before the path was cut through the wood — a silent thing made of dusk and muscle and watchfulness.

No one remembered who first bound the red leather at his throat, or why the stone beneath his feet bore a name instead of a grave.

The girl did not approach him as a fool approaches power.

She knew better.

She had been raised on warnings, on prayers whispered toward windows at night.

But when the elders spoke of monsters,

they always sounded like people.

So she stood near him the way one stands near a memory — slow, careful, as if the earth itself might listen.

He did not bare his teeth.

He did not lower his head.

His gaze carried something older than threat — a patience, a vow, a sorrow that did not ask to be pitied. And when her hand came to rest upon his shoulder, the forest did not startle.

It only grew quieter.

There are bonds that are not chosen,

only remembered.

—

Heather Lynn Donovan

Always by Candlelight