In the shadow of a great snow-capped mountain, far far north where the Western Ranges sweep down and spill into Loc Island Sea, where the air feels rich and full of life and the world seems endless and natural, there lived a little black bear and her mother. Her fur was thick and soft, and her eyes shone like polished onyx. She had little round ears and a little round tail and the pads of her paws were still small and not yet tough.
She was a very curious little bear who loved nothing more than to wander the foothills below those towering peaks, her wee paws leaving delicate prints upon mossy earth. She spent her days exploring the world beyond her mother’s den and rolling snout-over-furry-backside in warm forest meadows or else paddling in the cool creek that bubbled and tumbled nearby. Often she’d chase butterflies and stoat and dragonflies and climb the big straight conifers that sheltered her home. I can tell you, a bear’s life is a simple life and her mother took pride in keeping her cub well-groomed, full bellied, and safe.
But curious sorts are as likely to find trouble as they are fun, and one evening, as Brother Sun dipped behind the jagged horizon, shadows turning to night, Little Bear found herself alone in a part of the forest she did not recognize. Earlier that afternoon she’d followed an owl who’d hoot hoot hooted swooping between trees, hunting wood mice for its supper amongst the fallen pine needles, ferns, and cones. Little Bear was so intent on following this new friend that she lost her way.
And when at last she looked about, nothing seemed familiar. The trees grew taller here, their branches twisted like ancient hands reaching for the sky and the air was cooler and dense, and the wind too felt different. It spoke, whispering secrets she could feel but not understand. Little Bear shivered, for she realized she had strayed too far from the warmth and safety of her mother’s side. And as the sunset descended, she felt alone and scared in the creeping, growing shadows.
Above her, Mother Moon rose, full and bright, casting her silver veil over the world, yawning as she awoke from her slumber. As most folk know, Mother Moon, Starchild of Eriaheim, is ancient and holds much wisdom within the measure of her time. She has seen many creatures lost in the night woods and is known, in her own way, to guide travelers and wanderers alike.
But Mother Moon does not speak to everyone. No, her voice is unknown to most, for she reserves her spoken words for those who dwell between the world of the waking and the world of dreams. And so, on this night when she looked down on that dark northern wood and spied our lost Little Bear, Mother Moon called upon her favorite children, those small shimmering mischief makers you and I call pixies.
Tiny, winged figures stirred in the high boughs, their laughter like the soft chime of glass bells caught in a gentle breeze. They listened, as they always do, to the whispered words of Mother Moon. We cannot say with certainty what she spoke, but perhaps it was something like this: “Little ones of light and laughter, keepers of spark and time, heed my call. Fly through the woods, summon my stewards. For a frightened innocent wanders, lost beneath the stars.” And so, as they are wont to do, the pixies, with mischief in their hearts and light trailing from their wings, darted through the shadowed forest in search of those who could aid the wayward bear.
Through ancient groves and over mossy glades, the pixies flew, their wings shimmering like stardust beneath Mother Moon’s gaze. They traveled deeper, where the trees whispered in tongues long forgotten, and the earth itself thrummed with the pulse of the first magic. And there, among the oldest of trees, they found the faeries—keepers of the forest’s heart. With gleaming eyes and faces touched by both wonder and care, the faeries listened closely as the pixies relayed Mother Moon’s gentle plea. Curiosity flickered through their delicate features, and concern kindled in their hearts as they prepared to answer the call.
The faeries, swift as thought, took flight, their wings aglow like trailing comets, weaving light through the dark canopy of night. Among the Little People, some are blessed with wings, shimmering and delicate, while others call upon their loyal companions—wild boars, weasels, great swift squirrels, and twitchy eared rabbits. Together, they galloped and bounded and flew through the tangled thickets, mounts surging beneath them, leaves and brush parting as they raced the stars through forests dark.
The cold breath of night whispered through the trees as they neared their quarry. There, by the edge of a small, swift-running creek, they found the lost cub. The waters rushed over smooth, ancient stones, its current steady, relentless. Little Bear, trembling with cold and uncertainty, hesitated at the bank, her small paws testing the icy flow, the chill of the stream biting through her fur.
“Little one,” a faery called, her voice soft as the whispering wind through ancient leaves, “this path is not meant for you. Come with us, to Faery’s Reach, where the night is gentle, and the stars weave their dances in our gardens.”
Little Bear lifted her gaze, her deep dark eyes catching the glow of the faeries, their light shimmering like distant fireflies. She longed to trust them, to follow these ethereal beings to this place of warmth and wonder. But her heart ached for the familiar safety of her mother’s embrace, the scent of her fur, the steady rhythm of her breath. The forest loomed around her, vast and unknowable, and the cold creek at her feet carried only the promise of chill and uncertainty.
For a long moment, Little Bear hesitated, caught between the yearning for her mother and the pull of the faeries’ kindness. But the shadows were growing longer, and the unknown stretched far in every direction. At last, she nodded, a soft rumble vibrating from her chest. The faeries, their eyes gleaming with joy, fluttered around her like dancing stars, and with gentle laughter and glowing hearts, they led her away from the creek and into the heart of their enchanted realm.
What I share now of Faery’s Reach is known well enough by the wise and curious alike. No great debt shall be laid upon you for reading on, but should you seek its deeper mysteries, beware the toll demanded at the gates of immortal crossings. For those who tread lightly may glimpse its wonders, but those who linger may find the cost far dearer than they had reckoned.
As is known, Faery’s Reach is a realm unlike any other, where the sky is forever caught between dusk and dawn, a place of eternal twilight. The light there is soft and golden, like the last breath of a setting sun, and it bathes the world in a warm, ethereal glow. The very air is thick with magic, carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers, honeyed herbs, and ancient trees that hum with their own secrets. It is a fragrance that calms the soul, yet awakens within it a sense of wonder long forgotten by mortals.
The trees here are not like those of our world; they stand tall and proud, their bark silvered and smooth as river stones, and their leaves shimmer like spun glass, glowing with an inner light that never dims. Each tree has lived a thousand lifetimes, its roots intertwined with the earth’s oldest memories. Their branches reach skyward, not in search of the sun, but in communion with the stars that always hang low in the twilight heavens. Every blade of grass, every fern and flower hums with life and sweet wisdom, as though the land itself sings softly to those who walk its paths.
In Faery’s Reach, time does not press upon the faeries as it does upon mortal hearts. The little folk here live in a harmony that is both quiet and joyful, a rhythm that flows with the turning of the seasons, even if the seasons do not touch this sacred place. They care for the forest as a mother does her child, tending to each creature, each leaf and root with gentle hands and ancient songs. The very earth teaches them, whispering its truths in the soft rustle of leaves, the murmur of streams, and the quiet sighs of the wind.
Little People nurture one another as they do the land, sharing in the wisdom of the trees, the laughter of the rivers, and the songs of the birds that weave through the twilight sky. Their lives are a delicate balance of play and purpose, where joy is found in the simplest tasks—tending a garden, weaving a crown of stars, or singing to Mother Moon. Here, there is no toil, no grief, only the endless beauty of a world in perfect balance, a world where the heart is free to dream and the spirit to soar.
Faery’s Reach is not merely a place; it is a living thing, a sanctuary where light and shadow dance in harmony, and where those who are lost may find themselves once more. Its heart beats with the rhythm of the forest, and every creature, every leaf, moves in tune with its ancient song.
So it was that when Little Bear arrived, the realm itself seemed to stir in anticipation. Her entrance was heralded with a joy unlike any the twilight realm had seen in ages. As her small paws touched the soft, luminous grass, the faeries gathered round, their wings shimmering like droplets of dew in the first light of dawn. Their laughter filled the air, light and musical, and with every flutter of their wings, the very stars above seemed to twinkle brighter, casting their silver beams down to join in the celebration. It was as though the heavens themselves took notice, leaning close to witness this rare and wonderful event.
The faeries, in their excitement, danced in great spirals, round and round, their bright forms weaving patterns in the air like the threads of some ancient tapestry. The ground beneath them seemed to sway and hum with life, the trees leaned in to watch, their leaves shimmering in approval. Even the rivers in Faery’s Reach sang a little louder that night, their waters laughing softly as they tumbled over smooth stones. The air sparkled with a magic so pure it made Little Bear’s heart swell, though she could not quite understand it, only that she felt safe, loved, and home.
A plump, red-bearded fellow with a twinkle of ancient wisdom in his eyes stood tall—well, as tall as his knee-high boots would allow—his broad-brimmed hat tilted just so, casting shadows over his sun-worn face. With a proud puff from his well-worn briar pipe, he bellowed across the clearing, “Hey-o! Rimi! More pies and biscuits! And bring us a fresh water, quick now! The biggest trough you can manage, ya wee miserly mess tin!”
From behind an impossibly large toadstool, Rimi, a rosy-cheeked cook, popped his head out. He was dressed in a light blue smock, his coarse hempen apron stained with the efforts of the day. His cheeks, red from the heat of the oven, puffed up as he hollered back, “Oh now calm yerself, Gimblet! Pies a’plenty, and the mead’s flowin’ like the creek in spring. Why don’t ye puff that pipe and let me do me cookin’!”
Gimblet, unfazed, pointed his pipe stem toward Little Bear, who sat nearby with wide, curious eyes. “Pies enough, ye say? Not likely, Master Quick Spoon. Look at the size of this one here, eh? Just a cub, but near bigger’n the lot of us. And when was the last time ye saw a bear sippin’ on ole dizzy juice? No time fer dilly-dallyin’! We’ve got a guest now—make lively in that kitchen of yers!”
Rimi let out a huff, his flour-covered hands slapping against his apron, sending a great white cloud and bits of dough into the air. With a grumble, he stepped out from behind the massive toadstool and squinted at Little Bear through eyes that were always searching for mischief. “Bear, ye say? Well, I’ll be! Fur, paws, claws and all! Pies you’ll have, lil’ one, don’t ye worry. And water’s comin’, fresh and cold as the mountain’s kiss.”
And with that, he disappeared once again behind the towering mushroom, his mutterings soon drowned out by the loud clattering of pots, pans, and the unmistakable sound of bubbling stew.
Little Bear’s nose twitched as the warm, comforting smells of the faery feast wrapped around her. Gimblet winked at her from across the clearing, tapping his pipe thoughtfully as the air buzzed with excitement, the faeries flitting about, their wings shimmering in the twilight, all eagerly awaiting the meal to come. Above, the stars twinkled down on Faery’s Reach, casting their soft glow over a world where creatures great and small gathered as equals, bound by magic and merriment.
And then, as if summoned by the stars themselves, the feast appeared—grander than anything Little Bear had ever seen or even dreamed. The faeries, with their nimble hands, helped Rimi craft pies brimming with the juiciest blueberries, their deep violet juices bubbling up through golden crusts. Honeycombs, toasted to perfection, dripped with golden sweetness, their aroma filling the air with warmth and comfort. Sparkling goblets of dewberry nectar, chilled by the wind sprites, glittered on trays beside mounds of sugar-dusted thistle cakes. And the watermelon berry jelly—oh, that fragrant spread! So sweet, so delicate, it made Little Bear’s whiskers quiver with delight as her nose twitched in eager anticipation.
Every dish was a marvel, each bite a burst of flavor that carried with it the very essence of Faery’s Reach—the sweetness of the earth, the brightness of the stars, and the warmth of the twilight that bathed everything in its soft, golden glow. The faeries flitted about, offering Little Bear more and more of their finest creations, their laughter like bells on the wind as they watched her eyes widen with wonder at each new taste.
The celebration carried on, the faeries dancing, singing songs so old that even the trees hummed along, their roots stirring gently in the earth. Fireflies twirled in the air, adding their soft, pulsing light to the merriment, and the faeries’ songs grew louder, their voices weaving together in a melody so beautiful it seemed to lift the very sky. The stars above shimmered and blinked, as if keeping time with the faery music, casting their gleam upon the gathering below.
And in the heart of it all was Little Bear, her belly full, her heart light, surrounded by the Little People who danced and sang in her honor. She was no longer lost, no longer frightened. Here, in this magical twilight world, she had found her place among those who loved and cherished all creatures, great and small. The night grew long, but in Faery’s Reach, time had no hold.
As the night deepened, Faery’s Reach seemed to glow even more softly under the eternal twilight, a golden haze that wrapped around every tree and creature. Little Bear, having eaten her fill of pies and biscuits and honeyed treats, felt her small belly grow round and warm and content. She stretched her paws, feeling the pleasant weight of a feast well enjoyed, her fur ruffled by the gentle breeze that carried the scent of sweet herbs and smoke from the faeries’ fires.
A young Hob, clad in a fine green sweater that shimmered in the twilight, approached Little Bear with a mischievous grin. He offered her his pipe, the sweet-smelling smoke curling in lazy tendrils toward the sky. But before she could sniff it, Mister Gimblet was there in a flash, his brow furrowed as he waved the hob away with a firm hand.
“Ah, none of that now, Hob Tainer! Bears smoke about as much as trees do, and it’s thrice as bad for ’em too. Off with you—fetch a fiddle and weave us a proper lullaby.”
Tainer, unbothered, bowed deeply, holding his pipe across his chest like a squire saluting a lord. With a wink and a hop, he skipped off into the shadows, calling over his shoulder, “Two shakes and I’ll be back, quick as you please!”
As the hob disappeared into the deepening dusk, Gimblet stuck his own pipe back between his teeth, muttering with a half-smile, “Two shakes or three, makes no difference here, now does it?”
The faeries, with their endless energy, continued to dance and sing, their tiny feet tapping rhythms that made the earth beneath them thump. They whirled in graceful circles, their wings shimmering with light that flickered and shifted like fireflies caught in moonbeams. Their laughter was light and musical, twinkling in the air and mixing with the crackle of the small campfires that dotted the glade. Above them, the smoke from their pipes spiraled lazily, sweet and fragrant with the scent of the forest’s finest weeds, drifting up to join the twilight haze that danced among the stars.
Their songs were full of ancient magic, tunes older than the stones beneath their feet, sung in a language of leaves and wind, of river and sky. Their melodies floated around the glade, twining through the trees like a whispering breeze, and as they danced, the ground seemed to pulse in time with their movements. The very earth was alive with the joy of their celebration, the trees swaying slightly, their leaves rustling, for they too were humming along to the merry tunes.
Little Bear, nestled close to one of the campfires, felt her eyelids grow heavy. The warmth of the flames wrapped around her like a soft, comforting blanket, while the sweet-smelling smoke from the faery pipes lulled her senses into a dreamlike haze. She could feel the rhythmic pulse of the faeries’ dancing feet through the ground, the gentle thrum of their music in the air, and it made her feel safe, cocooned in the magical energy of Faery’s Reach.
Her small paws stretched out, her soft fur catching the golden light as she began to settle. The songs swirled around her, carrying her mind to the edges of sleep, where dreams began to mingle with reality. In the distance, she could hear the bubbling of the cool creek, the rustle of leaves, the soft murmuring of Little Folk sharing stories by their fires. Somewhere in the twilight, a night bird called, its song like a lullaby, weaving through the laughter and the music.
Little Bear’s eyes fluttered, the last of the feast still warm in her belly, and she snuggled into the soft grass beneath her, her nose twitching at the scent of nearby flowers. The faeries’ voices seemed to grow softer now, more distant, as though they were part of her dreams. The light from their campfires flickered in her drowsy vision, golden and red, casting gentle shadows that danced along the ground, blurring the whole glade into a living dream.
And as she drifted deeper into sleep, Little Bear felt utterly at peace. Here, in this magical twilight realm, surrounded by the laughter of the Little People and the warmth of the earth, she was safe. Faeries watched over her, their song now a soft hum, like the rustling of leaves in a distant wind, and as the last of her thoughts slipped into the world of dreams, she knew that she was home. The night stretched on, timeless and endless, and in Faery’s Reach, Little Bear slept, cradled by the magic of the faery folk, her heart as full as her belly.
And like all fine parties this one too came to an end. It was at the very height of this jubilant celebration, when the faery songs reached their highest notes and the earth itself swayed in time with their joy, that Ainuaiah, the Lady of the Forest and Mother to all Faeries, returned to Faery’s Reach. Her arrival was not sudden but was felt long before she appeared. The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of wildflowers in full bloom, and a gentle whisper of ancient boughs filled the glade. The faeries paused in their dancing, their laughter fading into expectant silence, for they knew well the presence that approached.
From the shadows of the forest, Ainuaiah emerged, and with her came the forest’s breath itself. Her steps were soft but sure, and as she walked, the ground beneath her feet awakened, flowers blooming in her path, their petals wide and bright with dew. Her arrival was heralded by a great host of her kin—the smallest and swiftest among them, the pixies, flitted around her in whirls of sparkling light, their wings trailing streaks of silver and gold through the twilight air. Hobs and sprites followed in her wake, sturdy and light-footed, their laughter bubbling like fresh water, while giant bumble bees, their coats thick and furry, buzzed lazily, their great wings shimmering as they hovered near her shoulders. Butterflies, delicate and vibrant, danced on the cool night breeze, their wings carrying the sweet scent of golden pollen that shimmered in the air around Ainuaiah like dust caught in a sunbeam.
An ancient child of the first magics. Ainuaiah is a vision of grace and power, a being woven from the very fabric of the forest itself. Her skin, the color of oak bark after the rain, gleamed softly in the eternal twilight, and her eyes, deep and ancient, held within them the memory of every tree and stone, of every creature and season that had ever passed through her woods. Her hair, dark as the richest soil and braided with strands of ivy and morning glory, cascaded down her back, and from her shoulders hung a cloak of living leaves that rustled softly with every step she took. Each leaf glowed faintly with its own light, and when she moved, they shimmered as though the very stars had descended to walk with her.
The faeries, who had moments before been lost in their revelry, now bowed their heads in reverence as Ainuaiah drew near. Her presence commanding yet tender, her power undeniable but gentle. She is the Mother of All Faeries, the keeper of their ancient magic, and her love for her children is as boundless as the forest itself. As she approached the heart of the glade, where Little Bear lay sleeping amidst the embers of the faeries’ fires, a soft smile touched her lips, and her eyes glowed with warmth and affection.
The forest sighed in her presence, the trees bending slightly bowing to their Lady. Even the stars above twinkled brighter, eager to bear witness to her return. The air was thick with the humming life, the pulse of the earth itself quickening with her every step. The faeries around her, their eyes bright with awe, began to sing once more, their voices soft and reverent, as they sang a song of welcome for their Mother.
Ainuaiah raised her hands, her fingers long and slender, and the very air rippled in response. The butterflies that danced in her wake settled onto her outstretched arms, their wings fluttering in unison as they landed, creating a living tapestry of color. The giant bumble bees circled around her head, their low buzz like a lullaby, while the pixies, with their eternal mischief and light, continued to dart through the air, their giggles filling the space with joy.
Ainuaiah found Little Bear nestled deep among the faeries, her small form rising and falling with soft snores, blissfully unaware of the revelry unfolding around her. She gazed upon Little Bear, now curled up in peaceful contented slumber. Ainuaiah knelt beside her, her movements as fluid as the wind, and gently placed her hand upon the bear child’s furry head. Her touch was as light as a feather, but with it came the weight of her love, a blessing from the very heart of the forest. Little Bear stirred, her ears twitching slightly, but she did not wake, only snuggled deeper into the soft grass, her dreams filled with the warmth and safety of Faery’s Reach.
The faeries, ever delicate and merry, danced lightly near the cub, their tiny feet tracing spirals in the dew-kissed grass as their laughter mingled with the crackling of the embers. Their joy was boundless, and yet, in the midst of their frolic, Ainuaiah’s presence stilled the air. A warm, knowing smile touched her lips as she beheld the sight, her eyes shimmering with both pride and gentle reproach. She moved forward, her feet silent upon the earth, her steps leaving blooming flowers in her wake.
With a voice as soft as rustling trees, Ainuaiah chided her faery children, though her tone was more of fondness than scorn. “Dear children,” she whispered, her words weaving through the night like a lullaby carried on the breeze, “how could you let this little one sleep so far from her home? Her place is not here in Faery’s Reach, not yet. There is a mother somewhere in the woods, her heart heavy with worry, waiting for her child’s return.”
Gimblet stood, straightened his coat and presented himself. Standing tall, or as tall as he could muster, in the presence of Ainuaiah. His broad hat was clutched nervously in his hands, his red beard bristling as he tried to steady himself before the Lady of the Forest. Around him, the faeries kept quiet, their wings folded neatly, and even the mischievous pixies hovered silently, watching the exchange with wide, curious eyes.
Ainuaiah’s gaze, though gentle, held the weight of ages. Her eyes shimmered with an ancient wisdom that made even the most rambunctious of faeries tremble. She stood before him, radiant as the twilight itself, the very air around her pulsing with life.
“Well then, Mister Gimblet, Master of Hobs,” she said, her voice soft yet resonant, “perhaps you can explain why my forest is filled with such merriment and why this little one”—she gestured to the now-sleeping Little Bear nestled by the campfire—“is so far from home?”
Gimblet cleared his throat, fumbling with his pipe before stuffing it into his coat pocket. “Ahem, well, y’see, m’lady,” he began, his words stumbling over themselves, “it was… it was all in good spirits, truly! A simple feast, nothin’ more. The wee bear here—well, we fetched her from yon woods, lost as a leaf in a storm, poor thing. And, well, we faeries—yer faeries, m’lady—did what we do best, eh?”
The gathered faeries and Little People all nodded their heads emphatically punctuating the air with muffled “Aye’s” and “Indeed, yes’s” and other affirmations.
Ainuaiah arched an elegant brow, surveying the merry host, her expression unreadable. “And what is it, exactly, that you do best, Gimblet?”
“Ah, that’d be celebratin’, m’lady!” he said with a nervous chuckle, his hands flailing for emphasis. “There’s not a creature in these woods that can dance, sing, or fill a belly quite like us. So we, uh, thought it best to welcome her with a feast—pies and biscuits, honeycomb, a bit of mead… mostly spring water— y’know… just to make the poor cub feel at ease.”
“And did it not occur to you, dear Gimblet,” Ainuaiah said, her voice as soft as a leaf brushing the forest floor, “that this little one’s mother might be searching for her, heart heavy with worry?”
Gimblet shifted his weight from foot to foot, tugging at his beard. “Ah, well… aye, we considered that, m’lady, but we thought—just for a wee bit, mind—that she deserved a taste of Faery’s Reach. It’s a rare thing, after all, to have such a guest! And, well, we didn’t mean no harm. Just a few songs, a little dance, some sweet pies.” He paused, glancing nervously at the Lady. “For the young ones.”
Ainuaiah’s lips curled into the slightest of smiles, a glimmer of amusement lighting her ancient eyes. “You have a gift for merriment, Gimblet,” she said, “and for all your mischief, your heart is kind. But even the brightest of celebrations must have their place and time. Remember balance, like the turning of the seasons, is the soul of this forest.”
Gimblet bowed his head, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Aye, m’lady, balance it is. We meant no disrespect, just a bit o’ light to chase away the creeping shadows.”
Ainuaiah stepped forward, her presence calming the air around them. She placed a hand gently on Gimblet’s shoulder, her touch as soft as the morning mist. “I know, dear Gimblet. But now it is time to return this little one to her rightful place, her mother waits.”
Gimblet nodded quickly, his cheeks flushing red beneath his beard. “Of course, m’lady. No more delays… we’ll gather the others and we’ll take her back. As sure as the stars shine, we’ll see her safe to her mother.”
Ainuaiah smiled, a light as soft as moon glow filling her eyes. “No, dear Gimblet,” she said, “This task belongs to me.”
The faeries, sensing the gravity of Ainuaiah’s words, bowed their heads, their wings folding neatly against their backs. Even the mischief-making pixies, who had spent the evening weaving light and laughter into the air, remained still.
“She has wandered far,” Ainuaiah continued, her voice soothing and firm. “But the forest knows its children and the paths of the wild are written in the wind. I will return her to her mother, who searches even as we speak.” She glanced down at Gimblet, her smile warm and knowing. “You have done enough tonight, dear one. Rest now, and let the forest’s magic do what it must.”
Gimblet, wide-eyed and grateful, nodded quickly. “Aye, m’lady. We’ll await your return, then. Safe travels to ye both.” And then he laid his small weathered hand on Little Bear’s sleeping head and whispered. “Safe home lil’ cub. You’ve friends when you need them.”
With a sweep of her hand, as fluid and graceful as the wind, Ainuaiah bent low and gathered Little Bear into her arms. The cub stirred slightly, her small paws curling, but she did not wake, only nestled deeper into Ainuaiah’s embrace. The Mother of All Faeries cradled the small bear tenderly against her breast, her touch as light as the softest moss, and Little Bear sighed, as though even in sleep, she felt the comforting presence of the forest’s most beloved guardian.
Ainuaiah turned her gaze to the sky, Mother Moon hanging full and silver above, casting a luminous glow over the entire scene. Without a word, her wings unfurled, gossamer thin but strong as the oldest oaks, shimmering like spun starlight. As the faeries watched in reverence, Ainuaiah lifted into the air, her movements effortless and serene, with Little Bear secure in her arms.
She soared into the night, her wings catching the moonlight, casting an ethereal glow over the forest below. The trees leaned toward her as she flew, their branches swaying gently in her wake, and the stars above twinkled brighter, offering their distant blessings to her journey.
Through the cool night air she flew, high above the ancient woods, over streams that shimmered like silver threads, and across valleys where the mist curled like forgotten dreams. Little Bear remained nestled in her arms, her soft snores the only sound that accompanied Ainuaiah’s flight. All around them, the world seemed to quiet, as though it, too, respected the sacred task at hand.
Far below, deep within the shadowed embrace of the forest, Little Bear’s mother wandered, her heart aching with worry, her every step slow and hesitant. She called out into the night, her voice hoarse from hours of searching, but no answer came. Her fear, a palpable thing, a weight that clung to her like the mist that nipped at her paws. She paused by a creek, its waters cold and swift, her ears straining for any sound that might bring hope.
It was then that Ainuaiah descended, her wings slowing as she approached, her form alighting upon the earth as gently as a falling leaf. The faery queen’s eyes, deep with the wisdom of the ages, softened as she beheld Little Bear’s mother, her sorrow evident in every line of her weary form. Mother Bear looked up, her breath catching as she saw Ainuaiah standing before her, the figure of her child cradled safely in the faery’s arms.
With a wordless smile, Ainuaiah stepped forward and placed Little Bear at her mother’s feet, and with a gentle touch, she pressed her hand to the cub’s chest. A soft light flared beneath her fingers, leaving behind a blaze of fur as brilliant as Mother Moon herself. The mark a blessing, a promise that Little Bear, and all her kin, would be loved and protected by the faery folk for all time.
Mother Bear nuzzled her cub, the weight of her worry lifting as she felt the warmth of Ainuaiah’s gift. Little Bear, still half asleep, opened her eyes to see the Faery Mother smiling down at her, and in that moment, she knew she was safe.
Ainuaiah, watching the reunion, smiled once more before turning back toward the sky. Her wings unfurled again, and with one final, graceful motion, she rose into the air, her presence dissolving into glimmering moonlight. She whispered her goodbyes, her voice lingering in the air like the last note of a song. And as she disappeared into the distance, the wind carried with it her soft, gentle whisper, a blessing for both mother and child:
“Our forest watches over you and our stars will ever guide your way home.”
Calm night returned and the moonlit forest was alive with the sounds of its creatures, the natural wilds humming with the quiet joy of a world set right. And beneath the great snow-capped mountains, in the safety of her mother’s embrace, Little Bear slept soundly, forever blessed by faery folk.
And in the heart of Faery’s Reach, where twilight’s glow lingered eternal, Master Gimblet, Quick Spoon Rimi, and all the Little Folk danced on beneath shimmering starlight. Their laughter, sweet and melodic, wove itself through the cool night air, mingling with the soft music of the trees and the gentle hum of the earth. Light of heart and free of care, they whirl and spin, their feet tracing patterns upon the dew-kissed grass, for they know, as surely as the stars above, that the forest and all its creatures are safe, held in the timeless embrace of love.