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A Fairy’s Fairy tale
(Yes, even fairies can tell tales. This was a short story I did while waiting for my car getting getting new tires)

In the heart of a verdant glade, bathed in the gentle glow of a fairy ring, Ioniaar sat perched upon a moss-covered rock. A congregation of fairies, brownies, and tiny woodland creatures encircled her, their eyes wide with anticipation. They knew that within the lilting verses of her tale, adventure and friendship would unfurl.

“Once, in a time long past,” she began, her voice a melodic cadence, “there dwelled a man whose heart was as kind as the dawn’s first light. He found me, fragile and wounded, and tended to my hurt with care.”
As she spoke, the enchanted assembly hung on every word, their imaginations painted with the vivid strokes of her story. They could almost feel the man’s presence, hear the resonance of his steps. See his shadow fall across them as the tale was told.

“He fought valiantly against the monstrous machines that threatened to fell my beloved trees,” she continued, her eyes gleaming with remembrance. “And in the evenings, he would prepare a feast of barley and grain, mushrooms and seeds. The flavors danced upon my tongue, a testament to his skill and love.”

Ioniaar paused, her gaze drifting to the memory of a small branch being transformed under the man’s careful hands. “He would whittle away at a secret creation, and each time I asked, he’d simply smile and say, ‘It’s a surprise.'”
The fairy’s voice softened, carrying the weight of the days when sorrow eclipsed the man’s features. “Then came a day when a letter arrived, and I saw the shadows cloud his eyes. ‘There are men coming,’ he told me, and I understood the weight of his words.”

The forest, once a sanctuary, became a battleground. The man stood defiant, defending the ancient groves against those who sought to plunder its riches. When the battle subsided, the man’s gaze met hers, a silent understanding passing between them.

“Five days later, he gathered his belongings, his clothes folded with a heavy heart,” Ioniaar continued, her voice a wistful whisper. “And as I asked why, he gave me a smile filled with sorrow. ‘It’s time for me to leave. I have others to protect,’ he confessed.”

With a gesture both solemn and tender, he reached into his bag, unfurling a small wooden figurine. Ioniaar took it in her hands, feeling the familiar grain beneath her touch. The notched wing spoke volumes, a testament to the man’s artistry and affection.

“I watched him depart from the forest,” she murmured, her wings brushing away a tear. “And as I wiped my eyes, I knew he was kind, not cruel. His burden lay where he was bound, a duty he could not evade.”
As the tale unfurled, her audience hung on every word, their hearts entwined with the tale of a man who had become a legend in their sacred woods. When Ioniaar concluded her story, a gentle sigh seemed to sway through the glade, carrying with it a sense of reverence.

“He never returned,” she concluded, her voice carrying the weight of the years. “That kind man who mended my wings and protected our home.”

In the quiet moments that followed, one by one, her woodland companions expressed their gratitude. They knew the tale was more than a story; it was a tribute to a selfless soul who had left an indelible mark upon their hearts.

Later, in the solace of her tree, Ioniaar turned to greet the small, beautifully carved wooden figure resting on a bed of soft petals. She gave a bow in full fairy form. It was a mirror image of herself, her wings etched with care. A warm smile graced her lips, for it was a token of remembrance, a testament to the bond they had shared.

And in the stillness of the night, beneath the silvery glow of the moon, Ioniaar whispered a final sentiment to the rustling leaves and ancient trees: “Thank you, kind man, wherever you may be. Your spirit lives on in the heart of this forest, and your kindness is etched in every leaf and blade of grass.”

(A little explanation: For many parts of my writing, I will use a double letter. That is done as an indication for a different sound. Not all languages use the same type of notation. For Ioniaar, her name would be pronounced Eye-oh-NE-Air.)