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And then the Fey man’s pliers are put to their wicked use and there are no words, only screams.
Screams and blood and pain until the blackness finally comes for me again.
* * *
Somewhere in the feverish,blood-soaked nightmares that follow, I see Willow standing by my stone bed, begging me to hold on, promising to come for me.
But even in REM phase, I know it’s only a dream.
Willow hates me, and my little wolf is no match for a stone bunker or a psychotic fairy.
And neither am I.
No fucking match at all.
