Nothing. There's no sound. Not even the creak of the trees or the rustle of the leaves. Not even an animal scurries beneath our feet, or a bird twitter in the boughs.

And I don't dare break that silence.

I hold myself poised. Spine poker straight, tensed, and ready to rocket forward, or sideways, or dive if I must. This thingis feral. His movements too small and attuned, like he's stalking. It doesn't help that those wounds weep crimson and he doesn't flinch, the only thing giving away that he's remotely aware of them is the occasional tremor of muscles twitching and straining.

His breath finally breaks the deafening quiet. A puff of hot air swirls against the night, then another, and those broad shoulders shift. His head tilting by fractions ... listening.

The tree behind me creaks and a chill shoots my spine when I feel the ground shift ever so subtly under my feet. The roots maybe? Boughs move, groaning, and their shadowy limbs grow, their silhouette engulfing mine. I shut my eyes, hands drawing into tight fists. I've no choice but to move. Whatever magic this demon has over the wild he'll either sense me or force me to move. I'd rather be in motion, at least then I have a shot of surviving. A tiny one. But's he's blind, if I can stay just out of reach it might be enough.

There's pulse under my feet, it rocks my balance. My foot slips forward. The tiny sound is enough to draw his intense focus.

Screw it. It's do or die.

I dig the balls of my feet into the earth. The shoeless foot squelching in rotted leaves. I spin, catching his approach out of the corner of my eye. He's knows where I am. I throw myself forward so hard I nearly hit the ground.

His breath escapes in something short of a growl. The earth pulses, roots visibly arching out of the earth, they ripple like an electrical vibrations and I scramble, tripping over them, but still somehow keeping upright. My breath catches in my throat. Lungs bursting against my chest. I daren't breath, or scream ... he's so close.

So fast.

A hand snaps around my forearm. I go loose and rigid. Ice runs through my veins and my stomach bottoms out.

No. I strive forward despite his hand, but that iron-clad grip yanks me backward. The force so hard my legs buckle. The ice thrilling through my blood melts with the flame-hot fingers searing into my arm. The shock has me reeling, tears pricking my eyes when I bite through the skin of my lips to muffle a scream ... but I can't.

"No!" I cry when that hand is replaced with an arm. A bloody, mottled, disfigured arm that twines around my waist and hauls me upright. "No!" I slam by fists down hard on his arm, then dig my nails, kicking my feet back and flailing in his grip. "Let go."

A snarl. Not animal, but no less vicious sends a shudder through my bones and in one swift twitch of his arm I'm propelled outward and find myself face first on the forest floor. Jackass. So he's going play with his dinner. I grind my teeth and shove up onto elbows, twisting around just in time to see his boots where they land a hairbreadth from my head.

I hiss air through barred teeth and pull my arm above my head, ready for the blow. It doesn't come. There's nothing, only the sound of his laboured breathing. I chance the slightest peek upward. My own breath fast along with the rapid thundering of my heartbeat which sounds way too loud even for me. It booms in my head, disorientating me, but not enough to question why this beast looms over me but won't strike. Instead, his glower is offset, one hand outstretched, palm spread, like ... a shield.

"What do you want?" I spit between gulps of air.

My voice hits him like an arrow. He snaps his head down, gaze focused and for a moment it's like he can see, like his eyes meet mine. His eyes.

The breath leaves my lungs in a swift stream of air. I've never seen eyes like those. Not a shade exists, I should I love to paint them. Blue, maybe? Backlit with tongues of silver, but with all the fury of storm grey clouds that roll in and darken more than the shade. Still, despite the lack of reaction in the blackness of his pupils, those silver lights, hidden deep, well they are nothing short of hypnotic. A frozen sky full of stars.

"Who are you?" I whisper, too frightened to lift my voice in case I startle him.

His brows pull down. Well, one of them barely flickers, too badly marred by the scars that rip the left side of his face. The other—it gives the impression that his expression is somewhere between agony and fury. I instantly recoil, ducking my chin and trying to make myself smaller.

It's in this fetal position I spy the corpses. The chunks of flesh left from the beasts that attacked me ...or, us. They're scattered in every which way. They didn't stand a chance against his fury. Dark, navy-black blood seeps through the blades of grass mingling with my fingers and swallow the bile. Why? Why did he save me? Or, did I just rampage into his den unannounced and I'm the last problem to be dispatched.

"Get up."

His commands rattles something in my mind. I've never heard a voice so soft yet so powerful. It's a husk of a sound but it carries some kind of authority that has my body subconsciously answering. I'm halfway off the ground when I realise what's happening.

"Stay back." I stagger a few feet away, but he lunges with me. The movement like a snake strike. The yelp that comes out of me is involuntary, but the sound has him retracting an inch. He tilts his head, those unseeing eyes searching. "D-don't t-ouch me," I stammer, wrapping my arms around my quivering shoulders. "D-don't come any cl-closer."

His sharp inhale is the only sound for a few long agonising seconds. Then, he snarls out an incomprehensible string of words. I don't have a chance to defend myself when he slams straight into my space. Toe-to-toe and almost nose-to-nose he holds me in that unearthly gaze that sees but doesn't. I don't even know what he's looking at, but his hypnosis is enough to lose me any freedom. His iron fingers are tight around my forearm, this time with unmarred right side. The pain and heat radiates and I let out a gasp. The reaction has him loosening the grip a fraction, the heat lesseningm but he bares his teeth. Straight, glittering, teeth with the slightest sharpness to his canines. I swallow, imagining that he might not be an animal but this display is a not-so-subtle reminder of that Faerie blood. I'm positive he can rip my throat out. Several of bodies strewn around us would indicate he has the ability.

Don't run. The psychotic voice in my head warns. Right, because that's even remotely possible.

Once he seems satisfied that he's scared the living crap out of me, at least enough to keep me from bolting. He twists on his heels and prowls forward, dragging me with him.

"Where are you taking me?" I dig my heels into the earth, but it's pointless, I only end up being yanked clean off my feet with each of his powerful strides.

He twitches his head a little, enough so that I know he's listening. By the answering muttering, that I can't quite differentiate between actual words or just sounds, I assume he understands. He's clearly mad. Definitely feral, but that only makes this a million times worse. The Formorians just wanted to kill me. I don't know what this being wants. The wild assumptions that run riot in my mind aren't at all helpful, and with each passing second I up my struggle. Yet, for every time I pull and punch at this arm, he doesn't break concentration, he barely even misses a step. We move through the darkening forest with so much ease that I wonder if he's blind at all, or like a nocturnal predator, has vision suited for darkness. The only silver lining to all of this is he's taking me in the complete opposite direction of Oisín. Still, what can a little child do lost in the forest with a creature like this loose? There's bound to be someone looking for him. Time. Maybe all I can give him is time to be rescued.

It seems like we've marched at a rapid pace for far too long when my captor slows. I'm breathless and doused in sweat, my shoeless foot cut to ribbons with barely any sock left and I'm practically limping. My throat is slick and I cough hot, sickly hacks, the burning in my chest a constant agony.

"Please," I eventually wheeze, frustrated and humiliated when tears begin to streak my cheeks. "Please, I need to stop. My foot is bleeding. I need water."

He turns then. Again, when those unfocused eyes find me his face cracks and crumples in what I can only understand as pain. He looks away, quickly, another spew of sounds. But, there's indecision. He's stopped. He's thinking, those muscles shifting, his chin ducking to his chest, using those otherworldly senses.

"I—I can help your wounds," I dare to suggest, gesturing to his neck and shoulder despite the fact I know he can't see me do it. I figure fighting him hasn't worked to this point, he seems to respond to conversation, maybe if I engage him, he did save me after all ... I think? "They need cleaned." I eyeball the still oozing, angry wounds, matted with gore and the remains of his shirt. "Maybe stitches, and you need rest. You've lost so much blood."

A smile, or what can be construed as an upturned quirk of the right side of his lips alerts me to the fact he understands. He completely understands every word. Then, a bark of a laugh. I clean jump out of my skin, taking a full step back. That smile is a smirk. He turns then, full face, and I breathe in struggling to look. The ripped and angry welts, burn scars—or at least that's what I imagine might've caused them—curve his cheek and wrap around his nose and part of his chin. The left side of his lips are drawn down in a permanent scowl. His jaw, strong, maybe once proud, is covered in the same scars, along with his neck where they appear like the claws of a chokehold. I can see the horror in those unseeing eyes. A nightmare forever imprinted. My offer suddenly sounds ridiculous—what is there left to save?

"Who did that to you?" I murmur.

The question focuses his attention. His nostrils flare in indignation. I immediately regret opening my mouth. 

His fist lurches forward, I yelp and throw arms up to shield my face and body. The movement and sound stops him and his hand retracts, fist opening and a look of horror. He takes a full step back, eyes darting in directionless patterns. It takes me amount to realise he's trying to understand his position in space. By the disgust and utter focus in his expression I think he didn't mean to strike out so close. Maybe I'm being too generous but when he lifts his unseeing gaze to focus on whatever he senses as me there's something very lost in his eyes. Something acutely familiar and entirely frightened. I understand that feeling. I haven't felt anything but it since I woke up.

Slowly he outstretches his hand toward me. He keeps his head ducked, seemingly unable to look at me for any longer than a few seconds at a time. He's lips move but I can't quite hear what he says, his voice too quiet, too hoarse. When I don't respond he swallows and dares to push his hand forward a little more. Human. He's attempting human movements, or as close to human as I suppose you get in the Seelie world.

"Do you want me to take your hand?"

I stare at the outstretched palm. The unmarred one. Long, strong fingers and a powerful wrist banded with muscles and what looks to be markings just visible from the cuff at his elbow. Callouses on every fingertip and across his palm indicate that he's no stranger to labour, but the careful position of his hand, it moves gracefully ... regal ... so against better judgement I slip my hand into his.

Gentle fingers curl around mine, and oh so carefully he pulls me forward. His gaze lighting on me for a only brief second. His expression softened but serious.

"Come." That ringing command to his voice has my feet moving before I realise and it infuriates me that this faeish magic works so effortlessly.

I hobble beside him at a snail pace which he sets. He keeps a gentle but firm grasp of my hand. It's odd but that grip is utterly balancing. The slightest limp or shift in my movement and he adjusts, stopping me from stumbling without laying hands on me. Like he's figured I'm terrified enough, or that my imagination has conjured he wants that, and he'd like to dispel that notion. Still, I don't know what he wants.

After a few more metres we enter a glade. The twilight is fading and the moonlight casts a ghostly shadow on the grass, turning it a purplish hue. The lines of our silhouettes outstretch before me and whilst mine is a solid form his ripples and billows—not fully whole. It strikes me that he could be a ghost. The paleness of his skin is sickly, and his hair an almost spun platinum, though it's brittle and scrapped away from his face. The left side of his scalp scarred with the hair only starting to grow back. A spirit in the trees. After today I would believe anything.

A hawthorn tree grows untouched in the centre of the glade. Little white flower with bell shaped blooms begin to open at the touch of the moonlight. For a moment it's like the glade comes alive in a sea of stars. Inside the petals, these little flowers seem to hold specks of light. Little, tiny diamonds, and my heart aches at the image. The desire to capture and paint. I've never seen anything so perfect.

In my dazed state I don't notice that my captor has pulled a knife until the scrape of steel scratches my ears. I twist away in panic at the frighteningly sharp long knife he pulls from his boot. The blade curves in a slick line, the sharp edge glittering against the flowers' little lights.

"No," I gasp and stagger, his grip tightens. "Please ... don't kill me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset or disturb you. I'll leave. I promise."

The pleading sounds absolutely futile, even to my ears, and I wonder is it his hypnotic magic that keeps me in such a compliant lull. Fae bastards. I should know it's an illusion.

He pushes me with that hand still firmly clamped to mine toward the tree. My angers swells at each footfall I make, how easily his strength overpowers me, and how for a brief second I thought he might be good. Tears push free and track their way down my chin. I decide to stop with anymore pleading. I won't die like this. I won't give him the sick satisfaction of listening to my sobs and mingled screams.

He places his marred hand on my shoulder and the weight of it is like iron. I try to resist but it's pointless, my knees buckle and I defiantly glare into his expressionless, unseeing face, and spit.

The reaction totally changes the atmosphere. His body hardens, his jaw taught as he swipes away my spit. Those eyes flash to mine in fury and I wonder again at what he sees, perhaps at least he sees something that isn't prepared to bow under his sick magic.

With a fluid movement, almost so fast I miss that he let go of my hand, he brings the knife down upon me. The heartbeat in my head explodes and my vision wanes for a second.

A shocked huff of air expels from somewhere deep in my chest, but no scream, I'm too shocked for that.

It's only when I look down and to the side, do I realise he's staked my coat and the inner part of my shirt to the tree trunk. Not me. My left hands flies to the hilt and I pull, but it's embedded deep. I struggle to try rip my clothes but I realise—a little too late—that part of my right sleeve is caught up in it too.

"What are you doing?" I growl and try to wrestle out of one side of my cost. My right arm a little out of action because it can't reach around the blade without me cutting myself. "You bastard."

He leans down, levelling himself to my height, head tilted. He reaches that hand out carefully, but I push back. My head hits the trunk and I flatten against it. But, those strong fingers continue to advance until they clutch my chin and jaw. He tilts my head to one side and then the other and breathes in ... smelling ... I hiss at him. A smirk quirks his right lip, and his thumb runs along a patch of skin from my temple to my chin. Pain. Sharp, stinging pain has me jerking my head to the side. That's when I see the blood on his thumb. He takes a tentative sniff, rubs it between his thumb and finger, and mutters something. He pulls at his own clothes, finding an under shirt that's cleaner than his tunic. He rips a scrap, unties what looks like a water skin as his hip, dribbles some of the contents on the rag, and holds the fabric to the cut on my face.

"You are terrifying," I whisper as he holds the fabric and gently dabs at the wound.

That smirk widens and he takes my left hand and places it on the rag. He then taps a finger to my lips, that steady, unflinching gaze holds mine for a little longer than usual. I curse myself for getting lost in those hypnotic eyes but it's nearly impossible not to. He's utterly strange and not of this world. If doesn't want to kill me why can't he just explain himself, he clearly understands?

"Do not make sound," he breathes in that voice that is so melodious that almost sway. "Do not move from this glade. I can't protect you if I can't find you."

"Protect me?" I laugh out loud at the absurdity. "You've stabbed me to a tree. You've clean terrified me. You don't answer me. You don't even appear like you can look at me. Why the hell should I believe you want to protect me?"

"I can't look at you." He sounds amused. "But you've figured that out. Such a smart little creature." He shakes his head, as if bored with the conversation. "This is my realm. You've crossed my borders, and you've brought something with you from the sea ... I can sense it ...so you won't leave here until I know what you are ...Clara."

"How?" I narrow my eyes as he stands, and straightens.

"Do you think you survived on your own?" He tilts his head a strong breeze whips the leaves and grass around. His hair billows out along with his clothes and for a second it's like his whole form ripples in that breeze.

Do you think you stood on your own? Do you think you found those caves by your own account? Whose voice drove you? Your own?

The questions slam into my head so fast and so loud I cover my ears. So, the psychotic voice isn't mine. I don't know whether I should be relieved or violated.

"Why?" I blink up at him.

He shrugs. "Because I have things I need, and you might be useful."

"Oh, well, it's nice to know you care." I scowl at a point in the distance. Again, should have known, Fae aren't particularly renowned for their kindness. "What if I don't be useful?"

He laughs. Not the kind of sound that brings relief but instead my very spine goes rigid at the darkness that rings his eyes. "Because, there's an infant in the forest that you're trying to protect ... perhaps I should pay him a visit?"

"No!" I lurch forward, but I'm prevented by the knife keeping me grounded. "Don't you dare ... he's just a child."

"Then you'll be useful." He scowls and turns on his heels to walk away.

"Where are you going?" I cry and pull at the knife. "Leave the child alone. I'll do whatever you want just don't go near the boy."

"I've no intentions," he answers with a breathy sigh. "So long as you stay here, I'll stay away from the child. You have my word."

With that he fades into the tree line. I watch the point where he disappeared almost convinced he melted into shadow. Then I throw the rag with every ounce of fury I can muster,

My heart still thundering in my chest, I make to try and free myself form the snare at least. I don't know what I'll do, but I can't leave Oisín out there in the wild with something as cruel and deadly as that beast preying on him. I don't believe for a second I should take him at his word. The Faerie play games, their promises have loopholes and layers. This has to be a trick. A cruel game.

It appears the more I struggle the deeper the knife wedges. Just when I'm convinced I'm going to have to strip out of my clothes and rip my way free, a thundering sound catches my attention.

The ground almost shakes and I notice the vibration in the leaves and the shiver of the grass at the approaching rumble. Hooves. That is definitely a stampede. Frantically I start to pull with all I'm worth. I wonder did his protection stretch to being pulverised by wild beasts? I guess that might be one of those Fae loopholes.

It's only when the sound is almost upon me do I see the licks of flames through the trees and the voices as they call to one another ... oh wonderful.

From the tree line figures atop tall beasts move into the glade. It takes me a moment to focus on what I first assumed as horses, instead I register the antlers and the huge bulk of the creatures. They're like deer, but much larger, suddenly the image of a skeleton at a museum my father once took me too as a child crosses my memory. The fabled giant Irish elk, long extinct, and revered.  Majestic creatures, it makes complete sense they still survive here. Even as fossilised remains I thought they were something out of a fairy tale, too powerful to ever exist in our reality. How right was I?

Atop these creatures are leather clad Seelie. Warriors. Faces painted in dark colours, armour in grey, greens, and browns. They blend so artfully into the forest that it's only the light of the braziers they carry that reflect in their eyes. They grip spears and long-handled fighting axes in powerful limbs. Some have arrows notched in bows carven from red wood.

I swallow and melt into the tree. Not exactly sure how my bright yellow coat will hide me, or the fact that each of their excellent senses are all trained on me. Kind of wish the Formorians had've caught me. Might have been less messier than this.

A figure urges a beast forward until both of them are a few feet from me. A pale hand pulls back a fur-lined hood and a striking face with piercing azure eyes, their colour more vibrant against the coal black paint that licks across his eyes and nose. Strings of golden hair fall out of a loose braid and he studies ... not me ... but the knife that stakes me to the tree.

"Where did you come by that knife?" His voice is clear like the chime of a bell. It rattles something in me and I snap my head up.

"He didn't give me his name," I spit. "He staked me here after destroying a rabble of Formorians. Your guess is as good as mine what or who he is, but I'd suggest you move along. He seems intent that this is his territory, I don't think you want to piss him off."

Something breaks across the stranger's face. Amusement? Recognition? I'm not quite sure but a smile slices his lips open. Those glittering teeth barred. He chuckles and shakes his head before dismounting and clicking his fingers at his men. Two dismount and flank him.

"I mean it, I wouldn't try to take me, he seemed pretty adamant that I stay here," I try to argue my case to these new threats, although part of me considers if I let them take me could I escape for Oisín? Or, would that monster see that as breach and break his dubious word?

"Oh, I don't think he'll mind much," the apparent leader smiles at me, barely flustered by my comments. "In fact, it's my belief he left you here for us."

"You know him?" I raise both brows in utter disbelief.

"The fact that you don't is reason your still alive." He chuckles and nods to his two warriors. "Free her and take her to the camp. Deposit it her in my tent. I'll deal with this."

"Captain?" The one to his right twists to look into the forest. "If he's here ... shouldn't we—"

"Quiet." The captain raises a gloved hand and keeps his eyes fixed on mine. "If Naisí wants you to find him, trust me, he'll make himself known. Don't go look for him. You'll regret it." He nods toward me. "I daresay he left an impression on this one. Consider this as close as he wants us."

The guards seem to nod in agreement, or reverence, as if the Naisí is some kind of deity. Acts like it anyway.

"You should probably listen to my warning then," I snarl at their captain as the two warriors rip the knife free and man-handle me to their nearest elk. "He didn't want me leaving the glade."

"Oh, I'll take my chances." He smirks at me and holds out his arms to the empty glade. "If he wanted us to leave you alone I wouldn't be breathing."

Cocky son-of-a-bitch. He's right.

He mounts his animal as I'm hauled up on another, one of the warriors slipping in behind me, the other tying up my arms just in case I'd have the stupidity to fight. I think I've experienced enough today to know that's out of the question.

"Half of you, come with me, I want to run this perimeter again before it's too dark," he commands his rabble, and then nods to me. "Watch this one. And no one is to touch her, or so much as speak to her without my permission ... is that understood?"

No one argues. Great. So I've went from dead, to alive, to being a Formorian snack, to a beast's plaything, and now I'm a captive. This is hell, isn't it?

****************************************************************************

Media: Wicked Game - RAIGN

A/N: AaHhHhH THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH for the reads and encouragements. I'm so thrilled you're enjoying the changes. What do you all think of Naisí? A little darker, a lot more mysterious? Do you think he's playing a game? And ... who's that fair-haired captain we see? hmm.

Answers on their way!!! :)