She cradled the faun's head. Tears, vivid green, stained the slight creature's pale skin. Her story wasn't meant to end this way.
Shashera stroked Ferin's cheek. "I'm so sorry, my friend," she whispered, leaning down to press her lips to his brow. The faun shuddered at the chill of her touch.
"You weren't supposed to let him in," he said, voice weak, but thick with accusation. "You were our protector." Another tear dropped from her lashes to splash onto his chest and he jerked at the impact.
"I know." The nymph settled her friend back on the bed. "But it's time, Ferin. Time for new rule."
He curled up, closed his eyes, shaking his head. "No. No. He seduced you. You're blind." He rolled over, presenting his back to her.
Shashera left the infirmary, passing row after row of green, leafy bowers, fauns, satyrs, nymphs; friends, lovers, family. Stepped out and sobbed as his arms wrapped around her.
Aisling Weaver has been plucking at the threads of dreams for decades but only recently has dared capture the senses with words. She writes from a tiny corner of the world known to few on stolen time and borrowed inspiration. By day chained to a desk when set free she delves the shadowy recesses where desire, need, lust and passion meet the spectrum of emotion.