The Boggarts tore through the forest, the stink of the woman and the man from beyond hanging thick in the air.
That had been clever, putting the water between them. They thought they had got away, but there was no escape. They would wish they had never stumbled upon the Invisible. They would wish they had stayed at home, with their engines and their machine and their dirty, dirty technology.
Oh, the Boggarts knew about technology. They had glimpsed it through the veil, saw how proud the humans were of their accomplishments, how confident they had become.
And yet they still died. They still wasted away. They were still weak.
That was not all the Boggarts knew. They knew the man did not belong, neither in the Invisible nor the other world. They could smell the wandering on him. He had travelled far, seen much. That would make it all the sweeter, the moment when he realised that his fate was sealed, that he would never run again. The man who followed his dreams, trapped in a nightmare.
How they would make him dance. Until both his feet and his sanity were reduced to bloody stumps. They would feast on his despair, revel in his decay. They would destroy him only when they saw fit, as it had always been.
As it should be.
He would be theirs, to do with as they pleased.
The First of the Three dropped down on all fours to cover more ground. This was a fine hunt. The stuff of songs and sagas.
There were others in the court who had forgotten about songs. They cared only about the Lost, and beat their chest in lamentation. They were full of sorrow and regret, remorse and requiem.
Not the Three. The Lost was of no concern to them. Not when the prey was running. Not when there was sport to be had.
A hand closed around the First, plucking him from the ground.
‘Let me go,’ he railed as he was lifted high into the air. This could not be. He was the First of the Three. Master of the Hunt. To be ensnared by an Woodling of all the creatures in the Forest? He would have his revenge. He would burn the hateful thing to the ground, rip the heartwood from its trunk with his own hands.
The tree did not tremble at the thought of what the First would do to it; it did not quake. Instead, it sprouted new limbs that swiped at the floor, catching his brothers as easily as wisps were caught in a jar. They clawed at its bark, drawing sap from its limbs, but still it held them tight. It held something else, something small: a seed that was a tiny as it was vast.
‘Look at my prize,’ the tree crowed. ‘It will grow into a fine companion, don’t you think? A fine companion indeed.’
Even as the First of the Three tried to splinter the Woodling ancient fingers, he realised that he had lost the scent. Their quarry was gone.
But they would not get far.
No one ever did.
They would kill this stupid tree and resume the hunt.
And then the dance would begin anew.