Page 144

And while the prompt may have been found in the Book of Fables, the response must be forged in a new volume. This is about the tales that haven’t yet been documented, the ones we have lived and shall live, the multifaceted experiences of mortals and Faeries.

They are the stories where enemies become lovers. They are the stories of games, the players, and the fauna they cared for. They are the stories of before, of now, and of someday.

What has been written is not where things end. There will always be new Fables to tell, new stories to pen, and new ways to interpret them. It is eternal, like the wild itself.

But no, Juniper cannot be the only one writing. This collection can’t be scripted by only one scribe. No one can bear the weight of the world from a single point of view.

Nor should they. The tales must have range, must be different, must be told from many perspectives.

The journal began as hers. It must continue as ours, as an anthology.

The huntress goes first. She pauses, thinks. Then the pencil scratches across the page.

The quick motions skim my ears. Short, sharp sentences.

Faeries are hardly renowned for their patience. Yet every soul—from the mountain, to the forest, to the river—waits as Juniper’s pencil covers the page in text.

Suddenly, the noise stops. The instrument halts.

Juniper sighs. Puck’s cloven hoofs stall behind her, presumably to read over her shoulder. “My, my, my,” he admires. “Do the honors.”

I imagine her nodding, adjusting the spectacles, shoring herself up. Then we all listen as she begins,“Under the fated stars, a Human and a Fae played a game…”

It is a short tale, but it is significant. It is about her and Puck when they first met, how they spent thirteen days learning about each other. She likens the memory to a game, implying there is always more to learn.

The moment she finishes, we hear it—a small crack in the foundation beneath the span of branches that make up The Triad. The sound reaches every figure in attendance.

In a flood of movement, the Faeries turn in stunned silence. Under the hawthorn, oak, and ash where the dead have faded, a tiny stem breaches the dirt. I hear the miniature stalk surface from the earth, a single leaf unfurling. Though the soil has been hardening throughout our land, now the parched ground softens under my bare soles, plush and releasing a fertile aroma.

One Fae lets out a dry sob. Another exclaims in Faeish. Someone else mutters, “Fables eternal.”

From further afield, the mortals creep nearer as the same noises shudder across the border of Faerie. Alongside us, they bear witness, murmuring and gasping.

Reeds of grass shiver, wood crackles as the neck of a trunk repairs itself, and water gushes as the stream leading to The Deep overflows, where lately it had been running shallow.

Cove clutches my arm. Distant noises project from inside the wild. Our band’s heads crank from the stream to the forest sprouting leaves that had long since wilted and fallen, then up to the mountain range, where crumbling summits vibrate into solid forms once more.

With a stunted breath, Juniper shoves her journal at me. “You’re next.”

I waver, “I do not—”

“I’ll help you,” Cove says.

When I nod, she takes my fingers and folds them around the pencil. I mumble the sentences in a low tone, a stream of consciousness that only she can hear.

In unison, we write.

As we do, more of the environment seals and flourishes as it once had. Fables are not long. I let the tale run like water, fluidly and without stopping. I strike out and contribute my story from a subterranean place within, letting it surface on the page like something long buried.

When I’m finished, Cove and I lift the pencil. And another cacophony reaches us. Caws, roars, and splashes resound, the noises crossing vast distances, as only the wild calls of Fae fauna can do.

Cerulean is next. His writing is swift and smooth, as though he doesn’t need to deliberate what story to tell. The Fable is also short, likely a few paragraphs taking only moments to compose, as if it has lingered in his head for years.

Once he is done, additional reverberations spread from the cliff peaks, propel from the roots, and spill from the creeks and underground waterways.

It would be easy to assume we’re hearing the fauna who have survived all this time. But it is even easier to believe it is not.

These calls are new yet familiar. I recognize the flutter of fins from the stream and the reptilian slide of vipers near the tunnel leading to my home. The sounds they make are fresh and magnified, as if they’ve been trapped for nine years, as if they’ve been dormant, suspended in a void. These creatures have not roamed our world since the night they fell.