When he opened his eyes, he wanted to close them again. But they wouldn’t let him, oh no. He knew that. He had heard the tales. He heard them all.
The forest seemed to look into his heart and pull it out, string by string. Now he was almost sure it was capable of that. The branches leaned towards him, touching his skin with rough bark.
“He woke, he woke.”
“Opened his beautiful blue eyes.”
The roots joined the branches and began to close over him, slowly, as if commanded to play on his fear like a harp.
“His eyes are beautiful indeed.
“More beautiful than ours?
“If so, shall we perhaps remove them?”
The Fae standing near his face reached up and patted his cheek in a tender gesture.
“We doubt he would admire us for it.”
“And we like to be admired.”
He tried to speak, but his mouth was filled with dirt and moss, and he couldn’t open it even if he tried very hard. He made a muffled noise.
“Oh, listen, he already admires!”
“Admires our hospitality.”
He pulled at the branch, which was beginning to worm its way to his nose. He pulled, forcefully, but the other branches squeezed him at the waist, sucking the air out of his lungs.
“He’s happy, so happy to be with us.”
“And he craves more of our attention.”
The branch dug in, pushing and spreading, scraping the flesh, making wounds as it went.
“Perhaps we have given him too much.”
“Yes, how vile.”
“How vile he was to just die.”