The Werewolf [COMPLETE]

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            Her face was perfectly smooth. The frown between her brows had softened and faded. The darkness under her eyes had disappeared, and the darkness in her eyes, the pain, the grief, the agony in her eyes had been shut and locked away by her lids. She was sleeping, peacefully sleeping. And in her slumber she was away from the Village, even if only for a dozen of hours, for too few a dozen of hours.

            It must have been his greatest fear. That she would only leave this place when she was unconscious, when she wasn't seeing or hearing, when she wasn't feeling, when she wasn't thinking. That she would never escape this place alive.

            She couldn't die. Not because he couldn't lose her or because he couldn't live without her. It wasn't about him; it was about her, who she was, who she had been and who she would be. The world could not lose her or live without her. It could not miss someone like her, someone whose desk lamp would be lighting her books and her essays at any time of the day or of the night, someone whose bedroom window would be open at two or at four a.m., open in the summers and in the winters, open regardless of colds and sore throats, open for him to climb in and find a place in her room, in her bed, in her warmth. He wouldn't let the world miss her.

            She was to live. She was to go out there, discover the world and let the world discover her. She would live. He held her closer against his chest and against his heart. She would be safe for the night, safe from the harms against her life and the harms against her soul. He would protect her. He would defend her. And she would live.

            The Defender had chosen who to defend for the night.