Another Dream

He was in the hospital again, the irons on him again and strung up.

The blows kept falling but this time the dead watched him, little Isolda, her eyes accusing while she said over and over it was his fault they died, burning in Sherwood.

Over her shoulder, with burns standing out on their skin, Sigmund and Mary watched their daughter and said not a word.

Will tried to protest but the pain kept the words from coming. All he can give in return is his blood.