Heavy rain fell in punishing, freezing sheets, turning the narrow path into a treacherous trudge of mud and rotted leaves. Before them, the Great Weaver stood like a monument of nightmare. Its pitch-black eight eyes, varying in size, shimmered with wet light, reflecting Kurt's lone, wide eye.
Kurt felt the shaking of Hope's body against his spine. She was vibrating with a primal, bone-deep terror. He could hear her breath hitching into jagged, silent sobs against his shoulder.
"Hope," Kurt whispered, his voice barely audible over the clatter of the spider's mandibles. "Listen to me. Pull your hood low. Close your eyes. Don't look at it. Just hold onto me as tight as you can. I've got you, ok?"
