Without Mercy he had known not to follow the paths into the woods. She had known, but follow them she did. For what reasons, that did not matter now. What matters is that she had met him, the one they all feared, the reason you did go onto those paths. “He will kill you,’ they said, or, perhaps worse, “He will take you for one of his.” They thought he was the reason that people who wandered into the woods disappeared, and, well, they were right. Most called him the Erlking, for he had no other name. hen she met him, she thought he would kill her. Instead, he had looked at her, cowering behind a tree, utterly pathetic, with curiosity in his eyes. Normally he only took the interesting ones,
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the ones with unnatural talents or abilities, the ones that were almost fae already. This one looked like the rest of them that infested Éire: homespun dress, matted hair, and covered in dirt. She was a peasant, and not an exciting one at that. He, however, was feeling like a bit of fun, so instead of striking down the poor creature, he asked her something, “What do you most desire?” and she responded, “To be young and beautiful.” In answer he asked, “And what would you give for it?” She regarded him pensively. “I have nothing.” “You have your service,” he said. “My service?” “Yes, your service. Pledge yourself to me, and I will give you a life to rival those who rule you.”
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