Michael was gone, and any chance he had of coming back this way was burned last night in the most morbid of bonfires. I prayed that he would find another way. He was always a clever boy. So much cleverer than me.

The pads of my fingers traced the rough circles of the newly axe-hewn stump. It was rhythmic and silent, my mourning. Round and round in circles, tear following tear down my cheek.

I knew this was how it had to be. I was finally serving my purpose, finally where I belonged. But without my best friend, my brother figure, what did it matter?

It was raining that morning in Fae. How fitting. Flitting about my head were keening azure and gray creatures. Not feeling very creative, I decided to call them the Weepies. Forever more, these mourning pixies would be documented in volumes as Weepies. That was my power, and right now, it felt like a daunting task. In essence, this world was mine.

I laid my head down on the remains of my human life, and my sobs were lost in the keening.