In the elder days, when the world was still wild and the hearts of men were...

In the elder days, when the world was still wild and the hearts of men were unsoftened by comfort, there lived the sacred rite of the Forest Taking.

It was not enough for a man to speak words of love to a woman, nor to offer her gifts of gold or garlands. No—if he wished to make her his bride, he must ride with her into the deep places of the earth, beyond the ploughed fields, beyond the watchfires, beyond the reach of other men. There, in the realm of beasts and shadows, he would prove his worth.

So did the young man ride with his beloved before him, her body clothed in gossamer, her limbs bare to the breath of the wildwood, her hands trusting upon his. His sword lay at his side, his bow across his back, for though love burned in his heart, danger lingered at every turn.

She leaned into him not out of weakness, but in the sacred gesture of surrender. She did not bring a weapon. She did not challenge the wolves. She gave herself into his keeping—the ultimate yielding, deeper than flesh, more profound than the bridal bed. Her femininity, in its fullness, was her faith: that he would not fail her, that he would be enough.

And he, in turn, was made into a man by her trust. Her vulnerability did not burden him—it exalted him. To be the one she chose to follow into the forest was to be crowned with a crown no king could forge. In her eyes he was mighty, and that belief made him so. His sword was sharp because her life was in his hands. His heart was steel because her heart beat against his chest.

Around them the forest whispered threats—eyes in the darkness, claws in the underbrush, twisted men of the borderlands, spirits with no names—but none could break the circle of his arms. He was the wall between her and the world. She was the song that called him forward. And when at last they would return to the village, all would know that their bond had been sealed not in comfort, but in danger, not in ceremony, but in ordeal.

This is the secret longing of every maiden—that she might be taken beyond the pale, that she might tremble at the edge of the world and find herself held fast by one stronger than fear.

And this is the secret longing of every man—that he might be the one she dares to trust, the one she looks to with wide eyes and open heart, the one who carries her not only on the horse, but into the unknown.

As long as he leads and she yields, as long as he guards and she believes, the forest will never claim them. Their love will not fade. For they live in the ancient pattern, written in blood and spirit, that no time can erase.

So says the song.

So sings the old way.

So endures the Rite.