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    Summary

    Of three things, Wolfwood is sure:

    One; whatever ill-contrived afterlife he had reached, it was silent. And warm. And soft, like well-loved blankets or forest moss. A final mockery of comfort in his dire hours – though there were certainly worse ways to be teased by death, he knew.

    Two; he ached in ways he had never known. Down to his bones, the fine tangle of his tissue and sinew, the soft sponge of his marrow. His skeleton rearranged and his body bled dry. Heavy and twitching, he cannot move himself.

    Three; he was just as alone as before. Whatever strange place he had found himself was as desolate as it was gentle.

    No, there. The sound of footsteps. The disgruntled creak of a floorboard. A door swinging wide on old hinges and the soft tune of a man humming off-key.

    Language:
    English
    Words:
    26,652
    Chapters:
    2/3
    Comments:
    34
    Kudos:
    137
    Bookmarks:
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