C. Cherryh - Rusalka

He wanted to. That was the problem. Wanting her came and went like fever and chill: sometimes he was able to know quite clearly the trouble he was in (Sasha/s influence, he was sure)

and at others (his own weak will, perhaps: he knew his faults) he wanted what he knew damned well would kill him (but a few moments of that feeling made death seem so absolutely impossible…)

He wished he had managed better than this; he certainly wished he had advised Sasha better than this—but, then, against a good handful of wizards with their minds made up he did not know what choice was even his any longer, or whether his own will weighed anything in the wizardly gale he knew was blowing.

He thought, desperately, that Sasha being the wizard he was might have an edge in figuring out things like that; and if Sasha had, then he hoped Sasha had a good reason for spending so much effort on him. In the god’s name why ! he asked himself again and again: in the god’s name what good was he, an un-magical man with a sword, with no sense what he was doing, haunted by rain-sparkle and an apprehension in his heart?

He was more afraid the boy had no purpose in spending so much on him: he was afraid for Sasha’s own generous nature, a boy attempting things he had no understanding of, all to save a fool from his own weaknesses.

“Tell me what to do,” he begged of Sasha when they were passing through dense trees—no hindrance to Eveshka, but he and Sasha had to hand branches off one to the other and eel around the unbending brush, the limbs overhead all the while shaking water drops down on them. He felt Eveshka suddenly pulling at him with unreasoning anxiety, and it seemed to him that things had gone on entirely too long with no sight of an old man who could not have walked faster than they had.

“Move,” Sasha said, and pushed him to make him hurry.

Which was not the advice he hoped for.

God, he thought, what’s the matter with her?—Because she was moving faster and faster, feeding into him a sweating panic that had no object, only that sense of something behind them again.

Maybe it was Sasha himself, or Sasha’s wizardly essence that alarmed her. Maybe to Eveshka’s frightened mind he seemed that cold and dangerous. Or maybe this panic was only a weapon she had begun to use, wearing at him and through him at Sasha…

Move, Sasha said, as if Sasha himself was slipping beneath Eveshka’s spell. If that was true, Pyetr thought, then they were both done, doomed to be bones in some thicket or other.

At some times, within blinks of his eyes, he could not even believe Eveshka existed; at others, even looking elsewhere, even distracted with some precarious slope, he felt her presence as surely as Sasha’s; heard her whispering in his heart that she was not lying, that the danger was there and real as she was.

Run, she whispered in his heart, run, don’t look back, Pyetr—

The rain-sparkle of her shape faded as she passed into thicker shade. The shadow seemed everywhere deeper and they were losing her ahead of them.

“Dammit,” Pyetr said, fighting past a branch, with the black fur-ball darting in and out around his ankles, whining. He tried to hand the branch on to Sasha, but Sasha suddenly stopped and turned to look into the woods behind them.

Don’t look back, Eveshka urged him, don’t look, Pyetr, no, keep running—

He did look—saw something moving on their track, impossibly quick, stirring the brush as it came; and there was no time for argument: he grabbed Sasha by the collar and snatched him through the brush, branches raking them as Sasha flailed out and tried to get his feet under him. Pyetr did not risk letting him go, only tried to haul him upright and keep them both moving. The disturbance was following them through the brush, he heard it snapping behind them, then heard it pass virtually over their heads, sending a hail of broken twigs down on them—

Then it was gone, and Pyetr looked around him in panicked confusion, Eveshka suddenly lost from his sight and his heart, Sasha catching his arm for balance on his right hand and Babi whimpering and shivering between his feet.

“What was that ?” Pyetr asked.

Something touched him on the shoulder.

He yelped and spun around, colliding with Sasha, grabbing him, and seeing a branch in his face, knobbly wood, a dozen twigs for fingers—Maybe, he thought as his heart started to settle, he had staggered into it without knowing he was moving…

But slowly the branch reached, the gray, thin twigs quivering just in front of his face as the tree blinked and scowled at him.

He caught a breath and held it, afraid Sasha was going to offend it, afraid most of all that multiplicity of bare twigs that twitched and hesitated a scant impulse removed from his eyes.

Babi trembled against his legs and hissed. The tree blinked again. He felt Sasha gather a handful of his sleeve, about to do something or simply as scared as he was, he had no idea. His heart was thumping against his ribs in helpless panic, faster and faster, until he feared it was going to burst.

Worse than Hwiuur, worse than Eveshka. Much worse. If anything, he hoped for Eveshka to come back and deal with this creature that quite evidently Sasha could not.

The twig-hand twitched and quivered its dozen fingers away from his face and past him toward Sasha, slowly then drawing them both forward as Sasha’s fist clenched the tighter on his sleeve and the sleeve threatened to tear. Real twigs snapped as the Thing leaned closer.

Pyetr got a grip on Sasha’s arm and pulled back, lost that grip in the inexorable pull and in desperation grabbed the Forest-thing’s knobby wrist instead; but it seized him , then, blindingly quick, horrifically strong. It grabbed his other arm, dropping Sasha, and dragged him toward its trunk.

“Sasha!” he yelled, feeling human hands pulling at his shirt, feeling them losing their grip. He tried to kick it, hoping it would drop him, but all he hit was a yielding mass of twigs. “Sasha—get the sword! Get the sword !”

Sasha clawed at his waist as it dragged him upward, whether Sasha was trying simply to hold on to him or to get at the weapon. Babi yapped, then yelped suddenly like a kicked cur as Pyetr felt Sasha’s hands slip from his belt and from his leg and his ankle as it carried him through the brush.

In sole possession of him then, it let go of one of his arms, the other most painfully held while it ran twiggy fingers over his body and sniffed at him. He hung there with one shoulder all but breaking, tried to kick it, but that only shot pain through his ribs and shoulder, stifling his breath. Its fingers paused then on his face, and it held him so close he could see nothing but brown eyes and two centers of deep, deep black.

“Healthy,” it said in a voice that went through his bones, and took him by both arms again, relief but no reassurance. “Healthy.”

“I assure you,” Pyetr gasped, with what wind he had gotten in that moment, “if we’ve trespassed, we certainly had no intention—”

“You’ve brought death with you,” it said.

“She’s only looking for her father.” He realized how ominous that sounded. He stared the creature full in the eyes with no idea what Sasha was doing, or whether he was conscious or even alive. He said quickly, on a ragged breath, “We’ll most gladly leave—”

Its attention prickled through him, stranger than Eveshka’s, much stranger and more thorough. One moment he was near to screaming, the next he was half fainting, his feet meeting the ground and his legs tingling with strength to hold him up, from what reserve he had no idea.

“Go,” it said, relaxing its grip on him.

“Sasha—” He turned with a rush of that tingly strength through all his limbs and a sudden, desperate hope of getting the boy out of this. Sasha was there, but he only stood numbly when Pyetr took hold of him, and the same instant Pyetr thought of snatching Sasha away by force he felt a dread so thick he could hardly breathe.