Disclaimer: I own nothing.

AND WHERE THE OTHER BEGINS

He was himself again.

The cave was always cool, the hair stood up on his arms and his breath showed in the air. There was the sound of water. The sacred pool extended into the cave and smoke curled, fire crackled. Fire and water, both always present.

He looked down into the pool – antlers, a shroud of fur, eyes that matched the deer-gaze above them. He removed the headdress and cap, stroking a hand reverently across the bones. He placed everything to one side, for when he was called again. He washed a handful of water across his face, licking droplets from his lips, kneading his fingers, growing used to the shape of it all once more.

He was himself, perhaps.

When he looked into the pool a second time, he saw long hair, eyes closer to his own. He was tired.

The fire needed feeding, there was wood enough for now but he would have to venture out before the day darkened to gather more. It was rare he was stopped or even noticed – an old man, stooped with eyes averted, half gone from this life already. What use was he to free man, serf or soldier? His only purpose was for the Horned One.

It had been a cold day, late in the year, when Herne had first called him. He remembered leaves falling and he had been in Sherwood, checking snares for rabbits. He could not recall the name of his village, where he'd been raised. He remembered the land, how it had provided for him and Ada, how they had sweated and promised at altars and dark hills. Ada was part of the forest now.

He had been thinking of Ada then. He had been thinking about how the wind had made her hair snarl and dance and how her feet had tapped constantly against dirt as she'd patched clothing over and over with quick clever stitches, how she'd yearned for the dream of warmth.

Then there had been movement in the air and every bird had fallen silent. He had looked up and there had been a figure upon a brow of earth. The tree branches had seemed to bend and there had been such a gaze beneath antlers and animal, a gaze that had known and demanded. He had fallen to his knees.

"Your mouth will be my mouth; your hands my hands."

The voice had seemed to echo inside his head too. It had made him shake. What had happened?

"There will be leaves driven by the wind and we will call them son."

Over and over, he saw - a child; dark-haired, fair-haired, poor, rich. One son who was two. He saw a father, sacrifice, obedience to gods and kings. He saw flaming arrows and bloodied swords, tide and smoke, blessings and bones.

He saw hooded men who would come to the forest, again and again. He saw people and times that he did not know and had not lived through, that Herne had seen through others. He saw and reached for the animal once more.

He had spoken with men about rebellion, about Normans and the forest, how it would embrace those that trusted and believed – Herne's kingdom, wild unclaimed darkness, welcoming sunlight and provision. It was Herne's, for his people. They talked of...or had that been another's life? One before him who had worn the fur and bones and had spoken for Herne? Memories and thoughts, there were so many now, he contained more than his own. Like drops of water, sparks from the fire, they came and went and sometimes came again. He forgot...how much did he forget?

How could he know? He forgot that too, forgot wanting to know, because so much else were louder, from before and to come. All too often he heard nothing else and felt peace.

He caught rabbits still. He mourned and loved sons and daughters. He missed Ada's warmth; he was sure of that. Herne was sure of what was seen in fire and water, under fur and bones. He was sure too, the thought fresh and warm, and reached.

-the end