Dom Thornwood's Arc

Chapter 7 of 14

The stag stood at the clearing's edge, and Dom did not breathe. He kept his hands loose at his sides. The old compass hung from his belt, its brass face catching no light. He had carried it for years. He had carried it here for this. The wanderer did not move either. Around his boots lay a small ring he had made without Dom noticing — the antler blade set point-down in the dirt, a folded page from the older journal beside it, three white stones in a line. He had been waiting. Not for hours. For longer than that. The stag walked forward. Its hooves made no sound. Dom held still the way he had held still once before, thirty feet from this same creature, lungs locked, want buried deep. He had practiced this. He was ready. The stag stepped past him. Its wing brushed his sleeve and did not catch. Its lantern eyes did not turn. It walked to the wanderer and lowered its great antlered head until the tines almost touched the scarred man's chest. Its wings opened slow, dusty and wide, and folded around the wanderer like a closing hand. Dom did not move. The compass at his hip felt suddenly heavy and stupid. He had thought the stag was choosing them both. He had thought he was the one being measured. He understood now that he had been the road, and the wanderer was the rider. The wanderer looked at him over the stag's bowed neck. His face held no triumph, only the same tired knowing. "It came for me," he said. Dom nodded once. The clearing was quiet. Whatever came next, he would not be the one going first.