Or alternately named:

In Which an Old Beast Dies and Cinch is warned.

This is the story of Cinch's first glimpse in to what Love is.

Cinch was a young stag at this time, just had gotten his twelfth point to his antlers. He was lusty and wanted to challenge for a mate, you know.

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Old Buck, as he was called, had a very very large herd of does to protect. He had done it for years despite disease and injury, and cocky young bucks. All twelve does grazed with him in a clearing that day. The sky was gray and the wind was cold as it nipped the noses of Old Buck and his hinds like wolves nipped them during the winter.

The scene was picturesque for that time of year. Well, it was about to get more so.

Cinch, head and tail held erect, sauntered in to the middle of the herd. Each doe smelled delectable to him in his rut. He took liberties to nip at the rump of a particularly healthy doe, causing her to grunt her indignity and trot off. That was when Old Buck nipped the red stag back. Cinch whirled to meet his gaze, locking his forehead against the old one's.

What are you doing, young stag? These does are mine. You made a mistake, yes? The thick accent of Old Buck licked at Cinch's ears as he felt the buck's front times graze his, not yet in battle.

I am relieving you of your burden, Old One. You do not need so many does, do you? You are too old to breed and your antlers are too heavy to fight. Cinch replied, trying to stave off the fight with the ancient deer and his sharp old antlers.

Old Buck just snorted a laugh and stepped back. His head-full of tines glinted in the light of a weak sunbeam peeking through the thick, gray clouds. He shook his matted, red-gray mane, sending long whisps of fur to floating on the air as they detached from his body. Looking directly in to Cinch's soul, he used his words to claw at it: Young stags do not know how to keep a herd such as mine. You cannot keep my herd or keep them all happy, Barely-stag. It does not take just a few points on your tines. Old Buck looked down at Cinch then as though he were a small bird. Gently striding toward him, he lowered his antlers. Twenty four points gleamed at Cinch, hungry for the blood that he had to offer. It would add to the stains that already dappled them.

Cinch met them gratefully with a sharp, loud click.

The fight lasted for a drawn-out hour before the old buck first threw Cinch. The buck, not used to becoming airbourne, landed on his side. Cinch heaved in a breath to his shocked lungs and turned his head. This knocked the Old Buck down... for good. A pop signified a dislocated knee... a fatal injury to an old deer. Cinch pulled and moved his rack, dislodging it from his opponents. He rose, feeling the cracked rib and headache he had been gifted with. Cinch squinted from the pain, stepping back. Both stags heaved breaths in and out of their overworked chests. Old Buck was the first to speak.

You are strong, my boy. You win... I'm spent. He rasped, letting out a breathy chuckle. Cinch looked down at him, trying to keep his eyes focussed. A shake of his head and tines brought him out of the spinning world and gave him steadiness where there once was none.

You're powerful... You left me with a tree-splitting ache between my eyes and a cracked rib. Where did you learn to throw like that? Cinch glanced at the does, seeing each pair of eyes and ears were focussed on the pair of stags. One doe stood in front of the others, her expression pained. This must be the head doe. Cinch thought, watching her grizzled pelt move slowly toward them.

Old Buck perked his ears and raised his heavy head. He tried to rise to his hooves, but came down again in a clatter and heap of old bones and too-taut muscles. His doe crept to his side, laying herself against him in comfort. It was apparent the old doe wouldn't leave Old Buck's side. She said as much.

So you are going to stay and die, then? Old Buck is not going anywhere now.

She affirmed that she was.

She's been with me since the beginning, young'un. She ain't gonna leave me now. You put up a good fight, but you cant have her.

Cinch could not understand the doe. Why would she stay and die with the decrepit buck? She must be senile. She must have hit her head. He thought, looking down at the pair once more before bowing to Old Buck. Rest peacefully and assured, Old One, Old Doe. I will take good care of your herd. Cinch turned and strutted in to his herd.

A bugle was heard through the forest as Cinch led his herd away from the clearing... they followed.

~~~~~

Cinch returned to the clearing a year or two later. The white bones of Old Buck and his doe glinted in the sunlight. He lay himself down next to them and spoke to Old Buck's spirit. He recalled the fight and the hard winter after, in which only one doe perished. He recalled the spring, when his first fawns were born and played intermingled with Old Buck's fawns. Cinch didn't kill Old Buck's fawns, he told the bones. They were growing in to beautiful stags and does to join other herds within this new year.

And after two years of thinking, Cinch said he finally was beginning to understand Love. He could almost hear the Old Buck chuckle.

You have a long way to go, Young Stag.