He felt alive and in the moment. The boy’s life force was pure and buoyant. It made him stronger. It made him free to race, free to duck under sycamore branches and leap over downed trunks. The sounds of villagers faded into the nighttime. It was a long distance to Alistair’s manor, but he ran the entire way, pushing through brush like a bolted deer. Sweat rolled from his body and his breathing became hard, but still he ran. Smells of liverwort and mushrooms swirled in his wake, and the calls of animals echoed in the distance as he neared the manor. He leapt over a row of thicket, thinking about Alistair, thinking about how his superior would set this right and how then Garrick could start all over again. He thought these thoughts over as he ran. Alistair would help him. Alistair would know what to do. He thought them once again as he crested the final hill that led to his home. It was only then that Garrick came to a stunned halt. The manor smoldered in the moonlight, its stone surface reflecting a silver sheen against the black sky.
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