It's dark in the midst of the forest. The sunlight is dim, blocked by trees that have stood here since ancient times. Remnants of an era when dragons still roamed this world.

In the middle of the forest, a young man sits on the moss under an old tree. He is tall and lean, his frame hides a surprising amount of strength. He closes his eyes and his long red hair set free as he listens to the ambient noise. On his knees, sits a fabled spear.

He listens to his breathing, to the sound of the wind, to the sound of critters running in the distance. His clothes are simple but made of sturdy leather, armor on its own right.

He hears his prey, the sound of an animal that failed to conceal its presence. He stays place, still. It moves near him, a big animal, not afraid of anyone. The ruler of this land.

It caught his scent. The animal is fast and reckless, it moves without consideration to the forest that fed it. It breaks young trees on its path, not caring about anything other than an attack on its authority.

The young man remains unmoving, eyes closed, as he feels the ground shake under him.

He feels the beast close in on him. It charges, as eath trembles under him. It's ready to crush anything before it. Its nose leads it to the intruder, not aware that it's charging towards death.

Finally, the young man opens his eyes, the color of midsummer day cradled between lashes of fire. He stands up leisurely, almost lazily, raises his spear, and points it towards his charging foe.

Prey and hunter meet each other for only a moment. Hunter looks at his opponent, a gigantic boar, one that thrived in a forest without enemies. His brown skin is clean and his body bulges with muscles. his eyes are wild, not bearing any sign of intelligence. A smarter animal would be alarmed, wary of prey not showing any signs of fear. But the boar doesn't allow itself to think, its target is clear, it does not hesitate. Neither does the hunter.

The strength of its charge is a sight to behold, hooves shaking the earth, tusks gleaming, the hunter doomed to be gored or crushed. Nature demands it. But humans have rebelled against nature since they first picked up a stone. This time will be no different.

The young man charges forward, meeting the boar head-on. His spear glows with dark red light as he senses his prey's imminent demise. He dashes forward, under the boar and slashes his belly, using its speed against itself. He is fast, so fast that there is not a single drop of blood on him. He turns around and approaches the wounded boar.

He stops before the convulsing body of his prey. The ruler of the forest, the Great Boar tries to stand, tries to crush his adversary. But it can't. Before the boar could gather his last strength, the young man strikes again. His arm is true as his spear pierces the boar's head.

Mael looks at the body of the boar. Blood is already spilling and the smell disgusts him. Frowning he leaves the dead boar for the forest to reclaim.

The trip to the woods was a way for him to relax after a month of work. The forest itself was owned by the Duke, none but his men allowed to gather wood or hunt in it. The forest is small but old, with many trees that still bear the sign of older times. Some of the crones reach impressive heights as they cover the sky. It's a miracle how plants in the ground can grow even when blocked from the sun.

He walks further into the forest. His steps are quiet and light, the grass doesn't bend under his weight. Animals don't bother him anymore, running at the smell of blood on his weapon. It would be a lie to say that he didn't enjoy the excitement from the killing. To come out of a fight at the top, but he suppresses it with his near-constant frown.

Before the blood on his spear could dry up he finds a glade among the gigantic trees. The sun shines on the array of flowers. They are arranged into sections as Mael sees varied types of flowers. Roses, violets, lilies, tulips, and many others.

He kneels and touches a rose, its thorns draw some blood from him as he smells it. He smiles, the smell is nostalgic as if he smelled one before. But he never visited a garden before. Not since when-

"I see you like my garden."

Mael freezes then slowly turns, cursing himself for forgetting his bearings. He freezes once again when he sees her. These eyes... this hair... It can't be...

He looks at her with desperation, trying to burn her face into his mind. Long locks of red hair, a pale face with a delicate nose and lips, mesmerizing eyes so blue and filled with life. She looks just like he remembered. She smiles, teeth white and radiant, the corners of her lips raising up and forming soft dimples on her flushed cheeks.

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The young man takes a step forward and asks a single question with a pleading whisper "Mother?"

He clings to this forlorn hope, of one thought lost returning, but her denial is as simple as it is devastating.

"I am not your mother, son of Senan," she says, voice is filled with pity as he falls to his knees. His mother had died a long time ago, he knows this, and yet he still shames her memory.

He struggles to gather his thoughts and apologize to the woman, but before he could stand up, she kneels and embraces him. The smell of flowers and fresh grass hits him. Her warm embrace invokes unwanted memory as Mael feels his tears flow.

It felt like an eternity, an eternity of comfort that he spent with her. Quietly he frees himself from her embrace and turns his back, hiding his flushed cheeks and red eyes. It was a petty thing but he wanted to keep at least part of his pride intact.

Mael coughs and stands up, still not turning to the mysterious woman. He straightens his clothes, clearing them from grass and dust. Then, he says with a straight back and firm shoulders, albeit cowardly avoiding her gaze, "I apologize for showing you that. It was unfitting for me to weep before you like a child."

"I understand, Son of Senan," he hears the amusement in her tone, and feels another wave of embarrassment strike him. He coughs again and walks to the fabled spear he so unceremoniously dropped before. He takes up the Gae Bolg as alien emotions hit him. They're stronger now, clearer. He can feel happiness and relief radiating from the spear. Strange, he never felt anything more than bloodlust and satisfaction from the spear.

Deciding that he has shied away enough, the young man gathers his bravery to meet her gaze. The mysterious woman still sits on the ground, uncaring about the state of her dress. Her eyes are filled with laughter as her dazzling smile fills his head with drifting feelings. Suppressing these thoughts, he asks her a question that has been burning in his mind, "How do you know me?"

She doesn't respond immediately, instead, she looks at his right arm and the spear he clutches, "The spear you wield all but outs you as the ruler of this land."

Silent, he stares at her, trying to discern her origin. Her attire doesn't fit the forest, much closer to something 'ballroom belle' than 'hunter'. She is taller than him, almost a head worth, her palms don't have any callouses. When she stands, not a single drop of grass or dust clings to her immaculate dress or upon her newly revealed bare feet.

He asks her another question, as unwanted thoughts fill his head, "I am sorry for asking you this, but who are you? I feel like I've met you before..."

She replies to his question with a gentle smile, "My name is Aoife."

She looks at him, waiting for his response. Male winces at his rudeness, "I am Mael, Duke of Galicia."

Her eyes take him in, state feeling somehow both neutral and judging, "You killed the boar."

Her question strikes a chord within Mael, He hastily responds, "He attacked me, I had no desire to kill him."

"If you had no desire to kill him, why not run? Why shed blood on this ground?" she says with a piercing glare, she doesn't move, does not blink.

"I...," Mael thinks, searching for a reason. "I don’t know," he painfully admits.

An awkward silence falls.

"I raised that boar. It was just a little piglet once, years ago. He wandered here after a careless farmer let him get loose. He was a dear friend to my daughter," Aoife says, as she turns away from him, her hair waving like a red river.

"I am sorry," Mael apologizes, eyes to the ground.

"There is no need to apologize," she says. Mael watches as she kneels and picks flowers from the ground. Her motions are calm and her voice serene. "He grew too big to play with my daughter. One day he would have left the forest and attack some poor hunter. It's a blessing he encountered you truly."

"Do you live here?" Mael says, approaching her.

"I've lived in this forest for years with my daughter," Aoife replies, hands are unmarred by mud and dust as she stands.

"This doesn't look like a good place to raise a child," Mael comments, looking around. There isn't a house to be seen, only old trees.

She turns to him, expression distant as she replies, "This place is quiet and filled with old memories, I've grown quite fond of it. Though you are right, my daughter gets lonely sometimes."

Aoife steps forward, all but pressing herself into him. She picks one of the flowers and begins to weave it into his hair. Her scent invokes odd feelings in the young man, he can only watch as she tilts her head forward. "You wouldn't banish a poor woman and her daughter from your forest young lord?" she says quietly, with a soft gaze.

"No, I would never do that," he says firmly.

"Or perhaps you want to invite dear old me to your castle, your excellency?" she whispers her lips brushing his flushed ear.

"I-" before Mael can speak, Aoife interrupts him and as she takes a step back from the embarrassed young man. Laughter dances in her eyes, "I would not accept of course. The castle is a bad place to raise a child."

"I should-"

"I am still not done with you, the blood of Scata."

Aoife focuses on him, emotion bleeding away, leaving nothing but cold echoing silence. She stops, and before those empty eyes his soul seems to bear itself, darkest regrets and secrets pierced through and torn apart. His eyes are locked against her own, a chill seeming to pour into him through her.

“Your blood is strong and your intentions noble. You will be a fine ruler. Stop doubting yourself Mael," her hollow words ring through his head. What can she know about him? About the crime he committed? And yet, he cannot help but feel that she does know. That all his sins and virtues are known to the terrible emptiness behind those eyes.

He should feel anger, rage at her for talking like she knows him. Weakly, he tries to turn away, but she grasps his chin and forces him to look at her eyes. He sees a boy, pitiful and weak, not a warrior, just a child. He shudders before her eyes blink closed, and the chill is shut away. Once more, her eyes just that of a woman, emotion back in place. He tries to tell something, to order her to free him. Before he could gather strength to free himself, Aoife kisses him on his forehead.

His head feels empty, with no thoughts or will left in him after such a display. She smiles at him, looking at him with pity.

"I will be here if you ever need me, your excellency."

Mael can only watch as she turns and walks away. She begins to sing, soon leaving nothing but echoes as she disappears into the trees.