The young woman lay awake,

deep into the night, hearing nothing the snores of her husband,

lying inches from her, now knowing, she was choking on

fear. Fear is the gray thing, she whispered,

praying to the night, it steals hope from me,

and laughter, and strength, and love.

It is the dying thing, the draining thing, devoid

of color, feasting off the dark, hiding from the light,

like my spirit vampire, that lives in my heart.

Fear is everywhere, all around me, in me,

she wept so softly, as the first birdsong

pierced the mist outside of her window, and she prayed for the strength,

to get to the light, as she heard the sighs of her husband, her partner

so close but so unaware of the fear stealing her very breath.

What can help me?, she wonders. What can save me?,

she prays. I am so alone.

And she heard a whisper in her ear, felt a soft caress on her cheeks,

like the feather of a baby bird, so soft and gentle.

I can help you, said a velvet voice, nothing more than a hiss,

really in her ear. I am a fairy, a good fairy, and you are not alone.

Believe in me,

as I have come to collect your fear in my purple lace shawl,

to wrap my self around it, and ride you to the light,

on my army of crickets and frogs,

and to another, better, day, and to kiss your inner spirit,

my love, and set it free.

And so she did.