the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
He shrugged off her question. “It’s doubtful.” Not with those who had the ability to read it, at least. She would not be able to control the volume, would not be able to simply adjust the frequency to turn to another channel—one that they could not access. Still, part of him felt some shred of pity for her (he could imagine it being frustrating, to say the least, to have your thoughts laid out on display), which was in and of itself an unusual sensation. He was not used to feeling anything of the sort for others.
This was simply the way the world worked.
You either accepted it or died.
Looking at her now, Woolf could not imagine her doing anything of the sort. She was like tumbleweeds that make their way slowly, surely across the savannah. She would survive this because that is what she was made to do: she was a survivor. It would not be this easy for someone to choke the life from her.
“There is something to learn from all things,” another shrug from his powerful shoulders as he considered her. “Steel is forged in fire,” he reminded her, “and this is your flame.” It wasn’t pleasant, and it certainly wasn’t enjoyable, but it was the inferno that would strengthen her spine, hammer out her armor.
And so, Woolf decided to give her a gift.
Cutting his shoulder deeper, he began to weave an illusion before her—a vision of her future. In it, she is whole again, happy even, but the details of it are not for him to see. They are, instead, details that are pulled from the most intimate of wishes of her heart, the dreams that comfort her in her darkest hours. In the quiet, he brought them to life before her, showing her the possibilities of a future yet to come.
Woolf
