The First of the Three wanted blood. It wanted to crunch bones. It wanted to make something scream.
They had tried to kill the tree. They’d snapped its boughs and stripped the bark from its limbs. Sap had flowed, and the tree had fought back. The Woodling had smashed the Three into the ground. It had flayed their backs with its branches. Roots had sprung from the ground, wrapping around them like serpents, squeezing tight. The First had heard his brother’s neck snap, seen his body go limp as it was dragged into the dirt.
The Three had become Two.
Still the tree did not give up. It raised a gigantic hand and brought it down hard. The scream of the First’s remaining brother sent birds flying from the canopy.
When the tree raised its hand, what remained of his brother was still.
The Two had become One.
The First didn’t want to die. Roots were creeping up his legs, pulling him down into the earth. He kicked and he pulled and he tore himself free.
And the First had escaped; bloody, bruised and alone. The jeers of the tree still rang in his ears, and the pain of leaving his brothers behind made his heart ache. They would be one with the forest. They would be at peace, but not he. Not until he had his revenge.
The woman and man from the other place. This was their fault. They had done it. They’d given the Woodling its prize, the trophy it had protected come what may. Now they would pay the price.
The First of the Three ran through the forest, slashing at trees, revelling in their innocent howls.
‘Where did they go?’ he demanded. ‘Show me or die.’
And the trees showed him. The stupid, cowardly trees. They pointed and swayed and shook their branches.
And he found them.
The First stopped running, and hid behind a tree, watching his prey.
They were in the clearing where the Dancer’s carriage stood, where it had been dragged from the Visible so many seasons ago. The First hated it. The stink of the metal burned his nose, but his anger burned deeper still.
The man who had travelled opened a door at the front of the machine and leant inside. His companion was sitting behind a wheel inside the carriage, following instructions. There was a cough and a growl and the carriage roared, smoke bellowing from its rear. The man slammed the door shut and clambered inside.
Their words were strange, but the First could guess what they meant.
‘I’ll drive.’
‘No, I will.’
‘You can get out and walk!’
The carriage spluttered and jolted forwards, weeds tearing from its wheels.
They would not escape again.
He charged from the trees, teeth bared, claws sharp. The man was behind the wheel, his eyes wide as he looked through the cracked window. The carriage veered away, rushing towards the trees, leaving nothing but a cloud of foul-smelling air.
The First leapt, landing on its roof. The metal burned his skin, but he hung on, crawling forward as the carriage bucked and weaved between the trees.
They were heading towards the Circle. Towards the Dance. They would never make it to the stones. He would see to that. He would tear this monstrosity apart to get to them.
A branch struck him in the face, nearly knocking him to the ground. Which one of the trees was that? Had it done it on purpose? It didn’t matter.
Still he clung on, even though his blackened skin sizzled and smoked. It hurt so much, the pain stripping away the last of his reason. The First could barely remember why he was here, or what he wanted to kill so badly. But kill he would, whatever happened.
The carriage bucked beneath him, climbing the hill to the Dance. The First tried to hang on, but his fingers slipped, his claws slicing furrows into the accursed metal as he slid back.
He tumbled, the carriage speeding away. He crashed to the ground, rolling through the nettles before coming to rest at the bottom of the slope.
His skin was blistered, and his limbs were heavy. He could barely move as stems sprouted from his arms and legs, tall and slender.
His stems.
Buds burst along their thickening length, flowers blooming to catch the light.
His flowers.
Poison glistened in the tiny needles that bristled beneath the unfurling leaves.
His leaves.
The First of the Three did not think of the hunt.
The First of the Three did not think of his brothers.
The First of the Three did not think at all.
Instead he swayed with the rest of the nettles, moving in time to the music of the Dance.