- The Faerie -

The noise was deafening. It seemed to be everywhere, echoing from the rock walls. Mark was kneeling a little away from the other hunters, trying hard to fade out the sound of the battle. He had known this moment would come, that sooner or later he had to join the Hunt in their duty, which was to find battles and lie in wait until the fighting was over. When the soldiers or whoever had fought there, had left the battlefield, the hunters came out of their hiding places. Of course, Gwyn would never call it like that. To him it was not waiting or hiding - he said they were watching, observing and waiting for their turn. When there were only bodies or wounded people left, the hunters began to search for the ones who would definitely not survive the night. Those were the souls they were looking for, the ones desperate enough to do anything to stay alive.

Mark closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He had no idea where exactly they were at the moment or what the battle had been about. All he knew was that there were men dying and that he would have to offer them a life among the faeries in exchange for their lives. It was no fair deal. Everyone who was about to face death would chose life if he was given a choice, no matter what the consequences were. Mark knew that every man who had taken the offer of the Hunt had regretted it in the end. But there was no turning back.

The other hunters around Mark got nervous. Anticipation hung in the air; they all could not wait to descend on the battlefield. Mark opened his eyes and looked around. He hated the look on the faces of the other hunters; the look of hunger - as if they could not wait to collect the souls of the dying. Some of them even placed bets on who would live and who would die. Once again, Mark asked himself how long it would take until he had the same look on his face, until he got cold and heartless - until he became of them.

The thought made him sick. He did not want to be like them, he did not want to become that kind of monster.

Although there was one thing, he liked about being in the Wild Hunt. Every time the hunters rode across the night sky, Mark felt free. He did not know why they had the ability to fly but they were able to. Some rode on black, dangerous looking horses, others on huge black dogs, while some sat in black carriages. Those rides across the sky were the only good thing. Mark loved the feeling of the cold winds on his face and the rush of adrenaline pumping through his body whenever his feet left the ground and his body was drawn toward the clouds by a huge invisible force he could not explain. Being able to ride the night winds was something he would have never dared dreaming of. It made him feel powerful - something he had never felt before.

In those moments, Mark could almost forget where he was; in those moments, he almost felt happy again. But this feeling never lasted for long. Almost every ride brought him to a battlefield and to dying men. The hunters took whatever they could get. They promised them to keep them alive - in exchange, the people had to serve them for the rest of their existence. Human beings were not allowed to join the Hunt, only faeries were. Instead humans were traded to the Seelie or the Unseelie Court, they were only goods - not good enough to become a hunter. They enslaved themselves without knowing it and when they realized what they had done, it was too late.

All at once, the noise was gone. Mark held his breath as a haunting silence fell upon them. The battle was over. It was about time for the hunters to look for their prey. Mark felt his body tighten. He did not want to be here; he did not want to stroll across the battlefield - but he knew he had no choice. He looked at his hands - they were shaking slightly. He forced himself to stay calm and not to draw anyone's attention. The plan he had worked out was quite simple - he would move across the battlefield, acting as if he was looking for dying humans. Instead, he would just try to get away from the others, find a place to hide and wait there until it was time to return.

Slowly Mark rose and watched the others getting ready for the hunt. Gwyn, who was standing in the middle of the crowd, raised his hand and suddenly everyone fell silent. He let his gaze wander across the hunters and said, "Our time has come. You all know what to do. Now go and do it."

The hunters cheered, before all of them streamed toward the battlefield like a pack of hounds. Mark followed them without coming too close to one of them. He waited until the fog had swallowed him, making it hard to see anything or anyone. The thick and damp air silenced all the noises around him, so that the only thing he could hear was the sound of his own breath and the beating of his heart. Instinctively, Mark turned left, making his way through the remains of the battle. He stepped over bodies, left-behind weapons and things he could not identify. Slowly Mark put one foot in front of the other, finding a way through the chaos and death all around him.

After some minutes Mark suddenly stopped. The silence was interrupted by some strange noise. It sounded like moaning, plagued and painful. Mark turned his head toward the direction the sound came from. Although his first impulse was to run away, he could not move. There was someone who was suffering, who was alone and wounded. Before he realized it, his feet were moving toward the noise. He had taken some steps when Mark saw him.

The man was lying down on the cold ground. He lay on his back, both hands pressed tightly to his stomach. Mark could see that the man's clothes were ripped and stained with blood - a lot of blood. The man's eyes were wide open, staring into the fog, as if he was waiting for something to happen.

He was waiting for death to release him from the pain.

Mark remained completely silent, not knowing whether to stay or to turn away. The man had not noticed him yet, so he could still turn around - but his feet did not move. They felt like clued to the ground.

Again, the man made the strange noise, breathing heavily. Suddenly Mark realized what it was - the man was crying. He closed his eyes and tried to figure out, what to do. When he opened his eyes again, he froze.

The man had turned his head and looked at him. His eyes were full of fear and - hope. Mark knew that the man was hoping he could help him, maybe even save him. And there was something else he saw - he saw that he had been wrong; it was no man, it was just a boy, barely older than he was himself.

The dying boy stared at Mark in disbelief, and then he whispered, "Please … Help me. Please."

Mark could not move. He wanted to run away, away from the boy, away from the battlefield. He turned around, but before he could take one step, the boy sobbed. It was the most terrible thing Mark had ever heard. It made him stop, his back still turned to the boy.

"Don't go … Please …" The voice was barely more than a soundless whisper.

Mark lifted his head and looked into the sky. He could not leave the boy alone. Slowly he turned around again and took some steps toward the boy, who did not let him out of his sight. When Mark stopped beside him, the boy stretched out his hand toward him. His fingers were bloody and shaky.

Reluctantly Mark knelt down beside him, without taking his hand. Faintly the boy dropped his hand, his gaze still fixed on Mark. The boy still looked as if he could not believe that somebody had found him. His eyes were still wide with fear, his chest swelled and eased hectically. Mark could almost feel the boy's fear. Suddenly he felt the need to console him, yet he did not know how.

The boy grimaced in pain and coughed dryly. Blood was dripping from the corner of his mouth. He tried to swallow and said very silently, "Can you help me?"

Mark shook his head, not saying a word. The boy frowned. "I know who you are. What you are…"

Mark drew back, but the boy said quickly, "No, it's okay. Really. I'm fine with that. Please, just … just don't leave."

Mark sank back on his knees and the boy sighed in relief. He pressed his hands on the wound in his stomach, took a shallow breath and soughed. "I know the stories. I've heard about your kind. I never thought I'd meet someone like you."

Every word seemed to cause him even more pain, but yet he kept on talking. "I can hear them … The others. I know you're looking for the dying. I know you can save me …"

"I can't," Mark interrupted him. His voice was quiet and hoarse. The boy looked at him penetratingly out of the corner of his eyes. "But you are one of them, aren't you? You belong to the Wild Hunt."

Mark nodded reluctantly and the boy coughed again. "Then take me with you… I beg you. Don't le me die here. Let me come with you. Please. I know you can do that."

He turned his head, so that Mark could look into his eyes. He could see the anxiety written all over the young face. It was so simple. The boy wanted to live and he could grant him that wish. He could take away his pain and fear; he could free him from all this agony.

But it just did not feel right.

Mark understood the boy's pain, his desperation and the need to clutch at the last straw - but he knew it was wrong. As if the boy was able to read Mark's mind, he said, "I don't wanna die. Don't let me die."

The boy was mad with fear and in great pain. There was not much Mark was able to do to help him - but by no means would he condemn him to live his life as a slave to the faeries. Mark took a deep breath.

"I want you to listen to me, okay?"

He was surprised himself about how calm his voice sounded. "I know that you are scared. I know that you are in pain. I can feel it. And I can feel your struggle to stay alive. But you have to let go. Do you understand?"

The boy was panting heavily, a look of sheer panic on his face. He coughed, spilling another gush of blood out of his mouth. His body was shaking as he sobbed desperately.

Without thinking about it, Mark stretched out his arm and took the boy's hand. "What is your name?"

"Oliver."

"Listen, Oliver. I want you to look at me."

In fact, the boy turned his head and Mark nodded. "I cannot save you, Oliver. I wish I could, but I can't. I could save your life, but you would not want to live like that. You would hate it, believe me. You would wish that you'd never met me."

Oliver grimaced and whispered, "But I want to live. I'm only nineteen years old…"

Mark swallowed hard. "I know that it is too soon, but sometimes we have to accept our fate, even if we don't understand it." He squeezed Oliver's hand carefully. "You don't know me, but you have to trust me in this. The life I can offer you is nothing you would want. You would never be free again - there's no use in living like that."

Mark's voice got quieter. "I know, you think that dying is something you need to be afraid of. You think it is the worst that could happen to you."

Oliver sobbed again painfully, but Mark continued. "That's not true. I'm not saying it is a good thing - I'm just saying that there are things that are worse. Death can be a release. It can take the pain away. But you have to let go, Oliver."

"I can't," Oliver whispered. "I am so scared…"

"I know." Mark nodded quickly. "And that is okay. It's okay to be afraid of things you don't know. But you have to calm down. Try not to panic - that will only make things worse."

Oliver stared into Mark's eyes and he said softly, "I am here. And I will stay here until it's over. I will not leave you to die alone, okay? But that's all I can do for you. I'm sorry."

Oliver's breath seemed to calm down. His face softened and the sobbing finally stopped. He swallowed a few times, before he asked quietly, "How does it feel? Dying?"

Mark did not answer. He did not know what to say. The truth was that he had no idea how it felt. He had been taught not to be afraid to die, but to respect death as a natural consequence, something that was inevitable. But this boy needed to hear that there was no need to be afraid, that everything would be good. Mark looked at Oliver, whose eyes were still full of fear.

"Well, I … I think it is peaceful," Mark said slowly, hoping the boy would believe him. "I think nothing can be worse than the pain you have already suffered."

Oliver sighed deeply. The tears had left traces on his dirty cheeks. Mark raised his eyebrows. "I think you will find peace. You will fall asleep peacefully and then there will be no more pain. You will be at a safe place, where nothing will ever harm you again."

The grip of Oliver's fingers got tighter and Mark whispered, "Don't be afraid, Oliver. You have fought bravely, but now it's time to let go. Just let go."

Oliver blinked and then turned his head, so that he could look at the night sky again. There was still blood spilling through his fingers, which he had pressed to his stomach, but it was no longer red, but almost black. His breath was shallow and wheezing, but still he held Mark's hand so tightly as if it was his life belt in a storm-tossed ocean. Mark looked down at the bloody fingers, that were wrapped around his own pale skin.

For what seemed like hours, he just sat there, holding the hand of the dying boy and listening to his every breath. All at once, Oliver's body tensed. He gasped a few times, looked at Mark and said, barely audible, "Thank you."

Before Mark could answer, the grip of Oliver's hand was gone. The boy took one last breath, his face completely calm and relaxed, before he closed his eyes with one deep sigh.

Mark blinked in disbelief. Slowly he put Oliver's hand on the boy's chest and closed his eyes. He felt sick, dizzy and incredibly lonely. For a brief moment, he envied Oliver, for finding peace. Slowly Mark rose to his feet and turned around. He had to get away from this place, away from the body, away from everything. He started walking through the misty air, speeding up with every step, until he was running. Soon he was completely lost, but he did not care. He kept on running, until his lungs were burning and his legs could not carry him anymore.

Mark stopped and dropped to his knees. Again, he heard the strange sound he had heard before.

No, he thought desperately. No, please. Not again, I can't stand watching another one die.

He pressed his hands on his ears, but the sound stayed. It got louder and louder, no matter how hard Mark tried to block it out. Suddenly Mark realized that it was him who made the sound. It was his own crying he heard, his own sobbing. Mark dropped his hands and looked at Oliver's blood that was still on his fingers and on his shirt. Suddenly he bent forward and threw up until it felt as if his whole body was completely empty. He sank to the ground and closed his eyes.

Mark wanted to forget what just had happened; he wanted to pretend he was somewhere else, somewhere beautiful, somewhere where his family was. He wanted to forget where he truly was, and the fact that he had to stay here made him throw up again.

"Don't think that I did not see what you just did."

The sound of the voice made Mark's blood run cold. Slowly he stood up and turned around to face Gwyn, who appeared out of the mist like out of nowhere. Mark forced himself to look at the leader of the Hunt, well aware of the miserable sight he gave.

Gwyn moved closer, every inch of his body clearly showing his anger and disapproval. "How dare you resist my orders?"

Mark remained silent and Gwyn stopped in front of him. He looked down at Mark and then bent forward, so that his lips were close to Mark's ear. Mark closed his eyes and held his breath, not daring to move. He could hear Gwyn breathing, before he whispered, "Do that again and I will show no mercy. My orders are to be obeyed and when I tell you to gather the souls of the dying, you will do as you're told."

Mark swallowed hard. "I don't think I can do that."

With one quick move and before Mark had even realized it, Gwyn had raised his arm and wrapped his fingers around Mark's throat like an iron claw. He was unbelievably strong. Mark gasped, laid his hand on Gwyn's and tried to pull it away, but Gwyn was too strong. He intensified the pressure, so that Mark could hardly breathe, and said in a cold voice, "What you think doesn't matter. No one cares about what you are thinking."

"Please…" Mark ground out. He dug his fingers into the flesh of Gwyn's hand. "Don't…"

"Shut up," Gwyn hissed full of disdain. "Your weakness offends me. I will not tolerate insubordination. Do you understand?"

Mark stared at him, his eyes wide with horror. For a spilt second he hoped, Gwyn would kill him. He hoped his personal nightmare would end here. But still he wanted to live. He was just like Oliver, holding on to his life so desperately.

"I said do you understand?" Gwyn repeated, tightening the grip of his fingers on Mark's throat once again.

Mark blinked and forced himself to nod - speaking was not possible anymore.

Gwyn hesitated for some seconds, before he finally let go of Mark, who all in a sudden dropped to the ground. He laid both hands around his neck, trying to protect himself from another possible attack, without taking his eyes away from Gwyn. Mark coughed, his throat burnt like fire.

Gwyn looked down at him and said, "Do not disappoint me again." Then he turned around and vanished into the mist.

Mark lay down on his back, his hand still on his throat. The pain was unbelievable. Again, he felt tears burning behind his closed eyelids, but this time he would not cry. It was about time to stop being so weak - Gwyn had made that clear. And he was right about that. Weakness was disgusting. He had been taught to show strength, so this was what he would do.

Mark moaned painfully, before he opened his eyes and stood up. He still felt shaky, but at least he managed to stay on his feet. He stared into the mist, right where Gwyn had vanished. Reluctantly he moved forward until the fog had swallowed him too.