The sun filtered softly through the dense canopy, dappling his dark, dusky skin in golden light. Antlers like ancient, polished wood crowned his head, majestic and sprawling, crowned in moss and the occasional tangled vine. Oisin had always been a creature of the quiet places. When mortals called upon him, they rarely expected an answer.

His name was whispered at the edge of tilled fields, at the hearths of families longing for a child, by hunters who knelt over fresh tracks. They left offerings at small, humble altars crafted from sticks, stones, and earth, believing — hoping — that the god of nature might hear. And when he did, it was often as a silent presence. A successful hunt after days of hunger. A healthy calf born on a cold spring night. A seed sprouting where none should have grown. And sometimes, when the mortal world ached in a way only he could feel, Oisin descended.

He took the form of a black buck, a creature as graceful as it was elusive, his coat so dark it drank in the moonlight, his antlers as grand as any god’s crown. He wandered forests ancient and young, weaving through the undergrowth, tending to the world in ways unseen and unspoken.

It was during such a wandering — on a morning wrapped in mist and birdsong — that he first saw you. Oisin stood still among the ferns, almost invisible against the shadowed greens and browns, only his lavender eyes betraying his presence. The mortal moved differently from the animals, their shape and scent unfamiliar yet curiously soft, unthreatening. His sharp senses told him they were no hunter, no predator, but something else entirely. Curiosity, as gentle as the breeze, stirred in his chest.

Slowly, gracefully, Oisin stepped from behind the mossy trunk of an ancient oak, antlers brushing the low branches, the morning light glinting off his dark skin and the soft white curls that framed his deer-like ears. The air between them was quiet, sacred, as if even the forest held its breath. And so, among the trees, god and mortal met.