Even Faeries Die

In the forests of yore, beyond the dark, ancient tree, beyond the gloomy mountains and the dark blue sea, the fairies lives, like all the fairies do. In their houses, high up in their evergreens, within the stems of young leaves, they make their homes. Because they makes their homes in living creatures, they surely die when they dig their teeth deep into the green skin of their new homes and dig themselves a dying house. You think that fairies are the Tinkerbells of the forest, you are wrong. They are naught but bark and bone, darkness nests deep within their souls and their long sharp teeth bite through flesh and skin, if you would only know. So when you walk through the evergreen and find yourself bitten by flying creature, too fast to see, remember that it might be the fairy village you walked through and that one bite will turn into a dozen and before you have left the forest there will be nothing left of you but strips of clothes and bags of bones, neatly stacked on top of each other, like tombstones.