As a descendent of Irish and Scottish immigrants who came to my country in the 1700s, and some in the 1850s, this scene hits me so hard. I always tear up. This is my heritage.
My husband is of that heritage, too. I imagine when his beloved Irish grandmother died, this is how she went. Guided by a Fairy King to the other world.
But now it's got an extra tinge of sadness because Neil Gaiman's gross-assed hands and mind are where it came from.
Fucking ugh.
At this rate, I expect to find out Seamus Heaney ran sweatshops in his basement or something IDK.











