It turns out that a faerie can't be stabbed in the heart with iron and walk away unscathed. Her luck had finally run out.
The iron ate away at her from the inside, blighting her. She was falling apart physically this time, her body nothing but a few waifish angles and lines. She turned sideways and disappeared. She was lighter than the passing breeze. A faded photograph of herself, the bold blue of her hair was now white. At least the eyes were always the same grey, of steel and the brooding sky over the ocean.
She was running out of time, moving with a frenetic energy to grasp every bit of life she could before it was over.
We of Faerie are of the wild magic. We are not creatures of spells and grimoires. We ARE spells, and we are written of in grimoires. Sandman: "Cluracan's Tale"