Page 140 of Defy the Fae

Soon, we will convene with them. Hopefully, they will remember how they once trusted us. Perhaps they shall learn to do so again.

Until then, all Faeries shrug their weaponry to the ground. If not stunned, grieving, weakened, or shamed, our kin do welcome surprises. And they honor favors, even to mortals.

For a moment, we let the unspoken truce brim through the field. It shall keep for a while, enough time for us to heal and think.

Cerulean nods toward the blacksmith, then to our kin. Each head nods back, weary but willing.

It is an ending. It is also a beginning.

Sluggishly, we disperse to collect the dead. We set our fallen under The Faerie Triad, where they dissolve into the earth. The humans pile corpses and light a fire. The stench of burning flesh curls into the firmament, blending with the stars that arch through the sky.

Moments follow in slices. Tinder has lost a few fingers, which Cypress is bandaging. The centaur himself is enduring a knife wound to his haunches, and the tip of his ear had been sundered by the mortals. Moth has a cracked wing—extremely afflicting for an aerial Fae—and a host of grooves in her limbs. Bruises and burn marks swim through Foxglove and Coral’s faces.

The Heart of Centaurs will be busy treating the maimed. I will join the effort and offer whatever brews I’ve restored. Other fighters with less trauma may recover in The Mer Cascades.

My brothers and their ladies suffer a range of injuries. I hear the tears fraying our clothes, smell blood coating the gashes in our flesh, and sense the actions of those closest to me.

Cerulean caresses Lark’s bleeding cheek. Puck slams his scraped mouth against Juniper’s. I trace Cove’s wounds—several cuts and welts—to make sure none are severe, then balance my forehead against hers.

Stinging wet lines cover my torso, back, and scales, as though I’ve been dipped in saltwater. It shall pass. Though, that doesn’t stop Cove from sketching every mark, as if to rid me of them.

Thorne groans from his cuts and a broken rib. At one point, his daughters tuck themselves into him, careful not to aggravate his fracture, and they stay that way for a long while.

The small portion of our band gather under The Triad. A gradient of warmth spills across my arms to signal dawn. When not taking me to watch the kelpies gallop through the rapids in The Deep, my mothers would bring me to this border. Lorelei and Marine had enjoyed watching the different mortal hues pile into the twilit sky, from ochre to violet.

Instead of asking Cove, I envision the colors my mothers had fancied. Right now, those pigments would be splashing across the horizon like the watercolors Lorelei and Marine also favored.

For a while, I sense our band resting their eyes there as well. The silence is worn and lacerated yet hypnotized. Everyone clings to the vista, looking above rather than below where blood must stain the grass like splatters of pigment. We have seen and shed enough crimson to outlast us.

From behind, the hawthorn, oak, and ash’s shadows blend with the sunrise. The coolness of their silhouettes mingles with heat from the human realm’s panorama. Both temperatures slide across my shoulders.

Each tree rustles its leaves. Berries from the hawthorn bump together, acorns rain from the oak, and the ash quavers.

Cove gasps and whispers, “They’re coming back to each other.”

She means the two striplings. It seems they intend to bid each other farewell. The filly called Aster and the boy called Leif stand in the high grass and thread their fingers.

As they do, awareness fill Juniper’s voice.“And the dragon said, ‘I shall protect what I don’t yet know, for therein lives my strongest magic.’”

My mothers had read some of the Fables to me, but I’m not familiar with all of them. In particular, I do not recall this one.

My head swings toward Cove, who flashes me a grin. “Juniper wrote it.”

She explains how the quote is from a story collection Juniper has been penning in her journal. Aster is a member of the Fae youths to whom Juniper has also been reading her work aloud. This story is one of them.

“Well done,” Puck says with a grin in his voice. “Seems Aster took your story seriously.”

“Is it supposed to be taken lightly?” Juniper contends.

The satyr chuckles. “No one would dare try that.” After a moment, he adds, “Speaking of which, you can add this night to your journal.”

The grass shifts as she turns to him and deliberates. “Well. It’s certainly warranted.”

“And when do we get to pore over this masterpiece?” Thorne wonders.

“And for which story would it be?” Cove asks.

“A new one, I’d think,” Cerulean suggests.

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