The Woodjin: Cathedral of Ice by Lbilover

A hushed silence hangs over the pines as the white stag delicately picks his way along the deer path. The woods have, Sean decides, the reverential atmosphere of a great cathedral, like Notre Dame or Chartres. But the glory here is nature’s creation, for a storm has swept through overnight, leaving behind a shimmering coat of ice on everything it touched.

A lingering breeze riffles the branches, setting the pitch pine needles not to whispering, but chiming like tiny bells. The stag halts, head held high. His mobile ears flicker back and forth, catching at the sound; his skin quivers under Sean’s gloved hands resting lightly on his withers.

I’ve stepped inside the fairy tale, Sean thinks, his heart catching.

After countless seconds the stag continues on. As he does, the glitter of sun on ice nearly blinds Sean. Or perhaps it’s the tears swimming in his eyes.