A Garden Skirmish

The air was chill, but the subtle warmth of the sun created a perfectly pleasant outer atmosphere for tea time. With her soft blush colored, oversized sweater and ripped jeans, Agatha welcomed the birth of spring. Around her, perfectly trimmed bushes were surrounded by bright colored flowers. Tulips, Crocus, Lily of the Valley, all filling the air with their beauty and perfume. But it was the Azaleas that Agatha loved most, and it was those that she sat next to at her antique garden tea table.

Listening to bees buzz around, watching butterflies flit from flower to flower, and observing the hummingbirds speeding past. Agatha could almost imagine the fantasy novel in front of her come to life.

Sitting upright, Agatha picked up the small teacup in front of her, raising it to her fine lips. It was dandelion root tea, which had a taste normally offensive to the mouth, but with the addition of maple syrup and cream, Agatha found it to be a perfectly heartwarming drink.

Setting the teacup down, she leaned closer to her novel, as the plot thickened. A fay king was giving his last desperate attempts to save his family from the darkened sword of his brother. Subconsciously, she sipped her tea again.

Suddenly, her attention was drawn away from the book as the sound of sharpened steel clanged together above her. Startled, she threw her arms above her head, ducking so low her chair toppled beneath her and she fell. Her hip slammed against the gravel harshly just before she was able to throw her hand out, preventing the rest of her body from hitting the ground. She felt the sharp scrapes take up residence in her hand, as the tiny rocks pressed against it. But she could not afford to give much attention to the pain, for standing above her were two men.

The first had a well-defined middle-aged face, with a butch cut for the salt and pepper hair sitting atop his wool-colored head. His armor, made from dark monstera leaves, but sewn with a leather thread, matched his eyes, which radiated with mixed emotions—fear, anger, sadness, betrayal, and more. Tall silver wings hovered from between his muscled shoulder blades. Agatha knew him instantly—the fay king from her book, come to life.

The second man was completely blackened as if he were only a shadow, except his deep ruby red eyes. His gaze was blinded by hatred and unmoving from the king. He was the fay king’s brother.

Agatha looked at the ground next to her where her novel had landed next to her when she fell. Spilled tea dripped down from the table where a toppled over, and chipped teacup still sat. She could not believe her eyes. Had her novel actually come to life, or had her imagination gotten away from her?

Crash! Their swords connected again, this time spurting sparks into the air. Agatha quickly scrambled to a crouching position and made her way as quickly as possible to the far end of the bushes, hiding behind them as she observed the battle. Above her, tiny little men, similar to the fay king and his darkened brother, were fighting as they hovered in the air, wielding their own needles for swords.

Huddled together not far behind the fay king was a woman, whose arms wrapped protectively around three small children. The woman had beautifully smooth skin, the color of coffee beans. Her night black curls fell out into a neat afro which was also adorned with tiny specks of diamonds. She wore a silver dress which flowed easily down her body like a curtained waterfall. Like her king, the queen also had thin elegant wings fanning out freely from behind her shoulder blades.

Two of the young children clung to their mother on either side. They were pretty girls with curls draping down around their shoulders. They appeared to be no more than a year apart in age and like their younger brother standing just in front of their mother, they all had beautiful cream brown skin with hazel-colored eyes.

Agatha watched in horror as tiny, shadowed fairies made their way past the king’s tinier armies battling in the air, and towards the young family. She glanced helplessly at the king, wanting to scream at him to abandon the fight with his brother to save his family. But as she watched his battle, she knew, for him to turn away from his brother at this point would result with a sword in his back.

The desperation in her grew as the tiny shadow fairies flew closer toward his family. She searched the air for any of the king’s tiny army left to defend them, but they were all scattered, slain, injured, or busy in a sword to sword fight at present. She wanted to scream and cry with nothing but assumptions of the ending fate for the king’s precious family. Filled with anticipatory despair, her hands fell to the ground. The tiny cuts in her hands stinging at the light impact. Her nose gave out tiny sniffles as tears filled her eyes.

Continuing to sniffle, and wiping her eyes, she became suddenly aware of the ice-cold feeling of something solid in her hands. She looked down, and beheld a thin and elegant sword, made from the finest steel with pink jewels adorning the pommel. As surprise filled her, she felt her legs lifting from the ground and threw her gaze over her shoulder. Thin dragonfly like wings flowed off her back, fluttering speedily in the air. Looking down, she realized the ground was so far below her that if she fell, she would surely die. It was less that she was so high in the atmosphere, and more that her own body had shrunk to the size of the other tiny warrior fairies.

Refusing to waste another second, Agatha tapped into the muscles in her wings to propel herself forward. As quickly as she could, she cut off the shadowed fay, just before they reached the queen and her children. She was outnumbered, and knew taking on this fight would only result in her demise. But she couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Some type of literary magic had given her the power to intervene in this story and save the small family. She refused to waste it.

The tiny, shadowed figures laughed at her overconfidence and charged, flying straight in her direction. Darkness filled her vision as the shadows overcame her. She swung the sword wildly, attempting to stave off any fatal attacks. Every now and again, her own sword would nick the shadowy flesh of another fairy, but she could not stop to see whether or not any of her blows had been fatal. She struggled as the shadows continued to tear her down. The sword was nocked from her hand, and one of her wings stung as a blade sliced threw it. She fell down, down, down. Tears rose to the surface of her eyes, and she closed them, ready to accept her fate.

A soft breeze blew back against her causing tiny strands of her blonde hair to tickle her neck. She opened her eyes, witnessing the shadowed fay falling through the air and landing on the ground around her. She was her regular size again, her fairy wings gone. She stood baffled. In front of her, the fay king lay on his back grasping at a wound in his side as he watched her. Turning, she met the gaze of the queen who smiled gratefully.

Unsure of what had happened, Agatha spoke to the queen, “I...I don’t understand.”

“Dear reader,” the queen said, “wishes have power. You wished to save us and a magical force gave you the wings to do so. By throwing yourself in front of my children and I and taking on the attack meant for us, you gave those wings up for something bigger. But your transformational return to your mundane self was a power those shadows could not withstand. You gave your magic to save ours, we are eternally grateful and indebted.”

Agatha stood in awe, unsure of what to say.

Blink.

In the flash of milliseconds, they were gone. Agatha sat once again at her antique garden table, holding her book in front of her face with one hand, while her other held her now empty teacup. Setting the book and teacup down, all she could do was sit in a state of wonderment, mentally replaying all she had witnessed.