The squeal of outrage did not travel far in the deep forest, and you'd need to be at Owen Huntly's shoulder to hear the patter of blood on the humus, as with a well-practised thrust he plunged his knife into the boar's throat. He roped the trotters together, and knelt to heave the beast around his neck. Owen caught his reflection in the dead pig's eye that at last could look at the sky.
"You hate it that I have to hunt, don't you?" he'd asked Artemis, not long after they'd first met.
"No, my love." She stroked his curls; his head lay in her sated lap. "It's in your nature."
And Owen had understood then Artemis was forgiving him for more than killing animals.