The Forest of Northern Mirkwood,
The year 2857 (in Third Age of Middle Earth)
The wind tasted harsh here, drier with a musty staleness that burned the back of the throat and eyes. It was dark, sunlight trickling in a slow ooze through the canopy of trees overhead, not strong enough to touch the forest floor but enough to illuminate the dimness. The atmosphere was hot and stifling, closing around the mouth and nose with an oppressive weight that threatened to steal the very breath from one's lungs. Save for the whirring chirrups of insects, it was still, the humidity rolling off in near visible waves, sticky and clinging with its touch.
Had he been mortal, perhaps the heat would have caused some discomfort, some sense of lethargy stealing up his limbs and making them heavy but he was not mortal and as such was spared such matters. Flattened against the branch of an ancient tree, Legolas Greenleaf, son of the King, peered around gnarling trunk, his bow and arrow notched, pointing earthward in repose. It would take little to rouse them, to put them to their proper use; a simple lift and stretch of his arms would cause the weapon to sing, slicing through the air with deadly intent. His eyes raked over the shadowy floor, picking out signs, bits of broken grass and tree limbs that all but the most experienced of trackers or Wood Elves, might have missed. He glanced back, jerking his head ahead in silent command before launching forward. Had he chanced another look behind him he would have been greeted by the sight of several elves clad as he was in dark grays and greens, detaching themselves from the cover of brush and wood, silent and deadly as they followed his lead.
Their mission was simple. Orcs had once again begun making their way north, infesting the borders of his father's land, destroying whatever settlement or group that crossed their path. A little over sixty years earlier, they had made war upon the Dwarves then attacked the Riders of Rohan, slaying King Walda, before being turned back at great cost. Since then, the creatures had increased in boldness, raiding the strongholds of Men and Elves alike up and down the region. They had returned to Mirkwood, infesting the outer edges of the great forest, evil following in their wake. Creatures that had not been seen in some time were now stirring, retaking paths that had been cleansed centuries earlier and making the heart of the forest once again a dangerous place to walk. The Wood Elves had been forced to withdraw their borders once more, security doubling almost overnight as rotating hunting parties were sent out and taken back in again. Loathe as his father had been to accept it, Legolas had insisted that he lead one of those parties, wanting a chance to take back his home and exterminate the accursed Orcs seeking to take it. Besides that, it would be unfair to ask others to suffer, to possibly die on his account without being allowed to share in the danger and so he went.
It was not difficult tracking Orcs, he acknowledged. The damn things were loud, caring little for secrecy and when they passed through an area, it was as if they took especial care to destroy as much of it as they could possibly manage. They desecrated everything they touched and it made his blood burn to bear witness to the destruction they wrought in his homeland. Where they went, trees were destroyed and animal carcasses littered the ground by the dozens or at least those that were not consumed by the fires they lit were. Raging fires had burned much of the southern end of the wood away, aggravated all the more by the unseasonably dry weather. Rain would have been welcome but the days dragged on with ever increasing temperatures and just enough wind to exacerbate those smoldering wrecks into flames again. Were they not stopped, it was altogether likely the Orcs would burn them out of Mirkwood before they drove the Elves out.
They could expect no help at present. Lothlorien was under a siege of its own and Imaldris had not the resources to mount an offensive. They might have made an alliance with Men but Gondor was too far away and Rohan was managing to hang on with the aid of the Dwarves and no self-respecting Elf would make an alliance with *them.* Men at least had a sense of honor and kinship that might be appealed to; all the Dwarves seemed to care about was how much deeper they could delve into the earth, making pretty trinkets of the rich minerals they ripped out of the ground.
Already they had been tracking this particular band of Orcs for almost two days without yet spying a glimpse of them. Somehow, they had managed to keep one step ahead and he liked that not. That they were able to outwit their Elven pursuers in their own homes did not bode well at all. Orcs were not renowned for their cleverness and Iluvatar help them if they gained in intelligence the way they multiplied in numbers. More than likely they had a clever leader, an Orc of some moderate intelligence who was seeking to slip in and out without being noticed.
He wanted only to find these creatures, either here or gone from the wood entirely. This part of the forest� He shivered, his pace slowing just a fraction. Never before had he ventured this deep into Mirkwood�s heart. The trees whispered legends of evil long dormant, sleeping but not gone. Old stories, ones used to frighten babes at the knee, rose in half snatches in the back of his mind. The forest was older than all of them, once stretching beyond its present boundaries and filled with beings here long before the Elves landed on these shores. The ground echoed with the memory of their footfalls even now, so long after they�d vanished into myth.
Long ago in his youth, Legolas had dreamed of those creatures, delighting in stories of the Ents and their wives, of horses bearing a horn of such purity that any who glimpsed them would be blessed all their days, of fair maidens who came ashore in the skins of seals, shucking them to find mates amongst humans and elves alike. His thoughts had been filled with them, imaging he saw the flit of movement amongst the brush and he too slow to catch more than a glimpse, eyes following his every move.
That feeling had returned without the pleasant connotations and naivete of youth. He picked through the thickets and trees, beset by the nasty sensation of being an alien in his own home. Before him the thick press of timber gave way into a small semi-circle, a grove to be precise. These trees were old, older than any he�d ever felt, tense with waiting, a tension that went down to the root and mixed with expectation. Their bark had paled with the years, more pewter-like than brown and into each one a symbol, some relic of a language he did not know, was carved. The largest of these giants dominated the center of the circle, its branches stretching across the intervening space, creating an artificial night. And just inside that open middle lay a small pit, crude and gray-black with the remnants of something once burned. An odd pungent smell, the smell of plant and something else hit his nose the closer in he drew. His bow lifted of its own accord, slowing his steps further. He felt rather than saw those behind him mirror the act, sensing their wariness and confusion as if it were his own.
Something was terribly wrong.
Eyes darting, he became aware of the how enclosed the space was; they were ringed in by a thick swath of tightly grown timber, with nary enough room for even one of them to slip through should they seek to. The only entrance and exit lay behind, a tiny door back to reality, back from this strange, half-frozen seeming place with its eyes and smells seeking to overwhelm the senses.
�We should go back,� he whispered, aware of the words only when they shattered the hush, almost profane in that breaking. He wasn�t the only one who felt it. His companions were nearly back to back with him, a defensive position entered into without thought. He thought to speak again, to break the spell of this place and urge them out but the waiting overtook him as it must have the trees and grass here so long ago. Now afflicted with it, he could do no more than stand, tarrying in silence as one turned to stone might.
Perhaps the wait was not long, perhaps it only mere minutes or seconds but the time stretched out before him, an endless wash that bore down upon his thoughts. The air around him ebbed and crested with rising intensity, thickening in an invisible fog clouding the glade, seeking to steal thought as it did movement.
And then the stillness splintered, a feeling of speed and lethal intent overtaking him before ears and eyes produce the corresponding sounds, seconds and seconds too late. There was cry behind him, clogged and startled, falling in time with the sound of a body hitting the ground. He pivoted, unable to do more than watch helplessly as one of his men lay collapsed, a red staining the ground from a newly formed wedge in his throat. His bow jerked from side to side, seeking, but too slow, always too slow as the atmosphere moved again, sharp slices of time stolen from him as blood spurted in his vision, not his own but belonging to the Elf nearest him. Legolas caught his arm, nearly dragged to the ground by the weight of a body already vacant of spirit and life, dripping flesh a testament to the violence of his death. The ground was crimson, a thin sea of life trickling away in puddles, soaking the leather of his shoes dark. There was something horribly fascinating about it, about the way the grass and dirt seemed to drink of the sticky fluid, the branches of the trees almost leaning towards them.
"Back, get back," he called to his companions, backing away. Loathe as he was to leave the fallen, they would all die unless he led them out of this danger. Better to return later, to barter on the chance that the corpses would remain undisturbed than to risk any more lives.
The very air seemed to be their enemy, a wind cutting through their ranks even as they sought to flee. Another and then another fell, elves he had known for centuries, some of them childhood friends and all he could do was watch numbly as the bodies fell, too sluggish to do anything to abate the wholesale slaughter. Feet and inches became miles and they fought for every inch of ground, arrows raining with useless abandon into thicket and tree, every thwocking hit another disappointment. He forced himself to go still, to tune out the shouts filling the air around him, closing all but his outermost senses as he sought with mind and instinct their assassin unseen. It was difficult to filter everything out -- the metallic keen of now screaming insects, the smothering press of trees against his thoughts, older than he, with an ominous caress. A heavy soaking of scarlet steamed, blood and earth burning with an unseen fire, a raw visceral aftertaste flooding over him. Above it all, was an urgent hunger, a force that had not been seen or reckoned with in his memory, harking back to every nightmare he'd ever had. He concentrated on the hunger, on the way it shifted and shimmered around him, the head of his arrow tracing the air, hands adjusting of their own volition. His movements darted back and forth, no doubt aimless to an outside observer but he kept up, seeing nothing but sensing a deeper evil than any he had yet met; far worse than the simple brutality of the Orcs or the unfettered chaos of a goblin army. This -- this thing did not just enjoy the pain it caused, it appeared to crave it, to need it as much as the lives it took.
"Highness!"
Legolas nearly turned around at the panic-stricken note in his retainer's voice, almost losing that monstrous thread. He had to find it, had to at least try and stop this creature before it stopped playing and had done with them. But that did not mean that anyone else had to stay and possibly die here with him.
"Get out of here," he barked. "Find my father and tell him --"
The haze thickened and for a moment, he could almost see--a distended face, the skin the gray brown of withered bark, spiking hair askew as maddened red eyes flickered. The image came to him in less than a second then shot forward. His fingers twitched to life, releasing the taunt string, rewarded with a shrill wail as it hit home. There was no time to enjoy the victory as sharp claws reached him, shredding and tearing as he was pushed to the ground. He fought, hands waving around as he tried to catch hands there one second and moved elsewhere the next, pain alighting with every cut and tear. Then razor teeth clamped onto his neck, resistant flesh giving way and coupled with the sensation of blood being pulled, fast, away from his body was enough to send him over the edge into the blackness feathering the edge of his consciousness.
***
'Pretty. So pretty.' The words were accompanied by the rough sweep of hands smoothing over his brow and nose.
It wasn't that the touches were harsh; by all rights, they should have been pleasurable but the fingertips caressing him were leathery, scratchy like tree bark left in the sun too long. They cut and raked even without meaning to do so. There was something wrong about this, something wrong about the way the words stirred around his ears and skin without the accompaniment of breath ghosting across him. Something amiss too, in the weakness he felt, not entirely satiation, limbs filled with a languor almost painful. It would take little to let himself slip away again, into the embrace of sleep hovering so tantalizingly along bone and flesh and nerve. He might have done so had not the brunt of a kiss unlooked for attached itself to his mouth with dry insistence. Legolas groaned, willing himself to find some strength to turn away, his lips bruising, cracks of searing sensation telling him that his lower lip was already split, blood welling in the wounds. As if to add insult to injury, a tongue, sandpapery and cold, lapped and brazed those wounds, aggravating his discomfort as it caused his battered lower lip to split further.
Wanderings hands moved upward, leaving swatches of raw flesh before they wove into his hair, twirling locks around long, knotted fingers. For some reason, his hair seemed to hold some fascination for his assailant, weaving through and undoing braids until his tresses were unmarred by any hint of tangle.
'Like sunlight.' Wonder colored the words, suffusing them with the warmth denied by physical touch. 'Light without burning.'
The words made no sense, not juxtaposed with the rest of his situation and he struggled to hang onto awareness, needing to solve this mystery before he dropped his guard so again. Sparks of color swam before his eyes and he realized for the first time they were closed, barred to whatever information might have been provided to them otherwise. The skin around his eyes felt like lead and it was a battle even trying to begin the act of cracking his lids. The weight stretched alongside his body stiffened, that subtle in-between state of moving and not.
'Don't.' Came the whisper. Again, something about this bothered him but he could not understand what that might be. Yet.
Marshalling what strength he could find, he concentrated, sought to find a connection to the rest of his body that wasn't clouded and heavy. He was freezing but a fine sweat broke out along his body as he pushed his eyes open. Darkness met his gaze but of a different sort; this dark was mottled with hints of dark color, hues that might have once been light but were now submerged and muted to grays and dark browns. A branch was just above his head, hanging low with a stringy moss, glowing with emerald phosphorescence. The world was a drowned one, devoid of sound and tint, the air thick and humid, a warm shroud of uncirculating air. A rich coppery aroma surrounded him, salting tree and ground and everything else it touched. He stared uncomprehending, taking stock of his situation, of the fact that he appeared to be on his back, the night sky peering down at him in glimpses from a ring of tightly bound trees surrounding him. He forced himself to sit up, a cry of anguish escaping his lips as the action jarred his damaged body. Lungs sucked in air, muscles spasmed and he caught himself against the trunk of a nearby tree, fearing that he would hurt himself anew should he fall. His stomach roiled and churned, giving him a split second warning before it erupted and he retched. One hand gripping the ground, Legolas sought to control himself, to stop the heaves leaving him further weakened. It was then he noticed his arm, the skin chalky in the mottled darkness but wet with strings of cuts and rips, the flesh shredded in neat furrows. His chest and abdomen were in a similar situation, slow bleeding wounds marring once perfect skin, threads of his tunic stiff and sticking to each cut. 'What�What..?'
And then he remembered. The grove, the blood, and his own helplessness. Had anyone else survived? A glance told him that he was alone which did nothing to ease the pit in his stomach. Memory was almost enough to make him vomit again but he pushed himself backward, hunkering down until he was small and almost hidden by one of the fingers of a tree trunk, ignoring the way it tore his skin anew. He was only half-aware of his actions, obeying an instinctual impulse that shouted over and over, 'Hide. Now.' Beyond that, it was all he could do to focus on anything else save the pain. Curling in on himself, he burrowed deeper, the damp earth silky against his face and tattered arms. He was colder than he could ever remember being. Not even the snowy heights of the Misty Mountains had ever laid him so low and miserable. 'Blood loss,' his mind managed. He was cold because he had been, was, losing too much blood. If he lay here, he would bleed to death and not even his immortality would protect him from that. Elves were no more invulnerable than humans to injury on that account. There were healers at court, in the halls of his father and if he could find his way back, they could heal him. He had to get up, find his way out of this place before there was no hope of leaving at all.
'There is no hope. You're dying, my pretty Elfling.'
Semi-lucid, Legolas again heard the voice, realizing that it was not his ears that listened but rather the words were being spoken directly to his mind. He lifted his head, ignoring the wave of nausea that engendered and peered out of his half-dug hole. There was nothing but trees and bush and�and� No, that wasn't quite right. There was something else; he could feel its presence without seeing, feel the edge of its malevolence and madness, sharp as his wounds.
"Who are you?" His voice was hoarse, not even a shout though it felt as if had thrown all of his strength into that one question. His head throbbed, light-headed and undone by another wave of sickness that caused him to turn his head a fraction, disgusted as his stomach heaved.
'Your skin is so white.' The voice meditated. 'Like bones, the kind I used to eat at sacrifice. If I couldn't smell your heart beating, I might have thought you dead already.'
"I--" His voice failed him and his forehead lay against the ground, with not even enough in him to care that he was lying just inches from his own vomit. 'I don't understand,' he thought.
Movement. The trees seemed to swish and a shadow lay across them, spreading towards him, spilled ink across a macabre tablet. He tensed but was unable to do much more than that. The tree above him creaked, the sound of weight setting on the exposed root just above him.
'She was my sister once, long before your people came. There were so many of us then and the forest was alive. So very alive and we lived with the seasons. Sleeping in winter and dancing through spring and summer evenings.' The nostalgic yearning deepened, turning harsh. 'And then the Elves came and woke evil in the forest. Came with axe and tool, destroying Yavanna's chosen.'
He flinched, the anger rolling across his thoughts overpowering. The air stirred as an arm swung underneath, catching him by his hair and dragging him out. Agonized tears spilled over his cheeks as he tried to wriggle back, the only thing that accomplished was to jar his injuries and cause his eyes to drip anew. There was a sound of mental impatience and he found himself lifted upward, place into the crook of a sinewy arm as if he were no more than a babe. A not so gentle hand patted his head, causing a responding ache to flare in his right temple.
'If you don't stop struggling.' The thought was measured now, still coldly furious. 'I'll kill you now and have done with it.'
He stilled, blinking away at the hot liquid scalding his eyes, already weary and aching. He could slip away, could just let his mind go and retreat to a place where this hurtful reality couldn't intrude. To do so would mean giving up and Legolas had never turned from any battle in his life. Besides�besides that, he was curious. He wanted to know -- where he was and what this thing was and why? Above all, he wanted to know why.
When his vision cleared, he found himself blinking yet again, this time in horrified uncertainty, a face right out of his storybooks glaring back, almost blending in with the tree upon which they sat. Its features were delicate but with a rough-hewn edge to its ash skin made it�her� seem harder, stripped as the bones of the earth. There was an autumn contained in her hair, the swirl of red and gold leaves with the faintest edge of green around the tips. Her arms were twisted and knotted in ways no human or elf might achieve and not be in pain but on her it was natural. She was larger than he was, probably taller, too from the looks of things. Not quite as large as the trees surrounding them but certainly bigger than any Elf or human he'd ever seen.
There had been tales of such beings for as long as he could remember both in human and elven myth, stories of women who lived in trees and were of the trees. Old folklore attributed the rustlings of the wind to their voices, weeping with the approach of a storm or the blissful balm of spring zephyrs. In some stories, they were trapped or carried off, forced into marriage although he had yet to meet the groom of such fantastic tales. Other stories spoke of their withdrawal from the world, a sleep laid upon them by Yavanna who in her infinite mercy had made them insensible to the changes of the world, a world they no longer had a place in. Yet their ghosts remained, firmly trapped in the minds of both mortals and immortals, often spoken of as unparalleled beauties, beauty that proved their bane and downfall. It was men who named them first, the Elves for once adopting a human term because there was nothing in Elvish that came as close to describing these tree maidens.
Dryad.
Never in any of the stories, however, had there been any mention of blood. The dryads of legend were creatures of light, delighting in the wood and protectors of trees. There was none of that in the face of this one, only a sickening corruption that threatened to engulf him with a flick of her mahogany eyes.
"Who," he paused, licking his lips, "are you?"
'I have no name. Not as you would understand it. To those who once worshipped me I was the changing of the seasons, the giver of life and death. Now I have not even that.'
The thought was tinged with an underlying sadness, a softer core beneath the hard edges and it confused him. He did not understand this, not any of it. Didn't understand how such a creature as this could exist, inflicting death and pain upon those that chanced across it and not be known to his people.
'Because there are some secrets that even your father does not know. Secrets that not even the Wise will speak of.'
He tried to digest this, even as his head swam. "Why�why did you attack? We did you no harm."
'Indeed? It was the Elves who drove my people back, who slaughtered without thought, laying low my sisters and their trees. The Elves who in their unthinking arrogance awoke evil in the wood and murdered those who might have held it at bay.'
"No," his throat burned and he swallowed hard, near choking on bile and the ring of truth. "We would not have� We--"
'You did.' The thought had almost a hiss to it. ' It was your people who brought the Orcs to these woods, your people who delved deep in the earth and wood of the Great Forest, awakening those things that should have been left. Those of us who remained were not enough. We could not fight both the Elves and the foulness of Mordor. And so we died, bit by bit, either by axe or through grief.'
"But you remain."
Her grip on his face tightened, sharp fingers scoring his temple and cheek. It was all he could do not to scream aloud. 'I've been alone� So long. Not even the least of my sisters will speak to me now. The trees turn away and their horror is mine. I am cursed. Cursed above all creatures in my sight, forced to live on the blood of others to retain my strength, my existence. Neither living nor dead, a ghoul and ghost with no hope of peace.
Men worshipped me once, brought me offerings so that I might not hunt them. I bred them as though they were sheep, forcing them to choose amongst themselves my offering.' Her face twisted. 'And then the Elves of Finarfin came, a terrible queen and her brother and they forced me back. Flaunting their arrogance, they wounded me and stole what was mine just as your kind stole my home and family.'
'I hate you, as I hate all of your kind.'
He gave up on using his voice. It wrenched to speak with and this rage was something that stole breath. 'I'm sorry--'
The hand tracing small rends into his flesh, found its way around his throat, almost throttling as it lifted him so that he was face to face with the creature. 'Speak that way again and I might yet kill you, youngling. I do not desire your pity or tender sensibilities. I have been wronged. Do you understand that? Your life would be a paltry reward for what I have suffered.'
'I would like nothing better than to kill you, as I have done with others of your kind.' Then she seemed to calm, petting him as if he were one of his father's obedient hounds. 'No. No, I think there is a better use for you. Were I to kill you, I would gain nothing but if I destroyed you� Perhaps there would be an amends in that.'
He found himself lifted into an embrace, face resting against her shoulder and neck as she stroked the hair away from his face and neck, exposing both to the night air, to the rough caress of her face rubbing along the skin there.
'I was never granted a choice, you know. The creature that remade me, that laid this evil upon me took my body for his pleasure and then set this disease upon me. He wanted a slave.' Her voice became reflective, almost filled with a quiet pride. 'He did not count on me awaking before he did. I was eating his heart before he was even aware of it.'
He couldn't stop himself then, the image flittering across his mind, seeing her hunched over another body, blood smeared over her face and hands and he threw up. She held him, his chin hanging over her shoulder, hot sickness spilling down her skin. This did not seem to phase her, even earned him a few comforting croons as a mother might make to a disturbed child.
'What will your father think, I wonder, when I leave him this precious gift?' His eyes widened, his brain picking out for the first time just what she had in mind. 'Will he kill you or will he try to save you?'
Her lips touched his ear and though she never spoke aloud, the words were clear in his mind. 'If he is kind, you will never know the outcome of this.'
There was no struggle, no frantic pushing away only the weight of inevitability as she struck, her teeth gripping hard and fast to his exposed flesh, veins and skin melting away beneath that pull. He heard ragged moans, hoarse sounds filled with pleasure and despair and knew they were his own. He tried to bunch his fists but all he succeeded in was gripping harder, holding her closer to him despite his revulsion and loathing. He hated, hated her, hated himself for this weakness but he yearned for it, wanton as his head lifted upward taking in the scent of leaves, the ghost of her hair tickling him. In his mind, he glimpsed the sun, the sparkle of light diffused through tree limbs, a thousand days of warmth taken for granted, the memory flaring unbearably bright as the cold seeped in, freezing his bones, stealing away even the comfort of that memory. Nebulous, the shadow grew in his mind, slipping over his body with the semblance of waking sleep. The sun was setting, the light going out and he was pulled away in a tide that held nothing but empty desire and hunger.
The feeding went on for so long, veins threading fire beneath her pull but it was not long enough. His body wanted more, aroused and responding without will. Was this death then? A terrible fight, struggles against a siren pull greater than any he had ever known? Was this the hell that mortals feared, a long fall into an abyss, betrayed by body and will.
His heart had slowed, he could hear each labored thud in his ears, the trickle of what little blood remained in him, slow and thin. She pulled away, rivulets of fluid and gore painting her mouth and chin, as black as the sky in the absence of light. Again, she kissed him, not even evoking a sick response as he tasted his lifeblood upon her lips and tongue. Strangely enough, this gesture was not hurtful as the other had been, but tender, coaxing him as she shared a taste with him.
He would die now. Legolas prayed for that, prayed for the mercy that had not been forthcoming. Better to die now than to live in exile, a monster that lived through the death of others. Better to die than never enjoy the sunlight in the trees again.
He was denied even this comfort as she put her talons to her throat, ripping away at a vein, the warmth of his blood pouring back onto his face. He strove to turn away and she made a sound of annoyance, taking him by the jaw, forcing his mouth to both open and stay open as salty liquid slid down his throat. His tears returned, more shed now than ever before in his life and he shuddered, drinking of what she offered, a fluttering of craving awakening in the pit of his stomach. He would take just enough to gain his strength, to thrust himself away and slay them both. The litany repeated itself but all it achieved was the lifting of his hands to grapple her closer, his body betraying its fear that she would pull away. He knew her now, understood the madness singing through her polluted blood, a sickness that now contaminated him bit by bit. Her mind was open to him now, a circuit of blood and thought tangling together and her life was his life. Her mind was fractured, a pendulum swing between sanity and madness wrought by the passage of time and unlife she had been forced into. Her hatred became his for a flickering and he walked paths forgotten with her, back before even his people had reached the shores of Middle Earth, airy laughter ringing in his ears. The forest was different then, more primal, life a simple passage of days without the promise of an end. Then the intruders came, and he recoiled at the scorch of fires raging through the wood, his sisters' screams of agony as they were burned alive or worse still, the slow hacking of an axe, their bodies harvested unknowingly, to become shelter or furniture. Simplicity slipped away and there was only death and the fear of that death, knowing that there was nothing that would save them, unable to leave tree and life. No voice, no way to beg or plead for their lives. Evil crept into the wood, the earth shuddering at its approach and then� The white one, the dead one came, surprising her, taking her down before she could find the protection of her tree. Dead and cold, he toyed with her, seeming to delight as much in her terror and anguish as in the blood. He shared her exultation at his death, devouring first heart then the rest of him, just as she would victims to come�
And through it all, through the maelstrom of thought and lust, a name rose out of the depths, gray with time and disuse. Limladras.
She yanked him away, flinging him to the ground breaking the circuit, silencing the images and voices chasing themselves around his brain. He doubled up, curling around himself as the hunger wracking his body rapidly transformed into something else. The blood filling his stomach turned molten, setting vein and muscles and flesh afire, a cold burn that wrung agonized screams from him. His body seemed to bubble, eaten alive by thousands of worms crawling and slithering beneath his skin.
Death was a welcome relief.
TBC 
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