“How did it go?” she asked once he’d settled in next to her against the Rowan Tree.
He sighed, his brow furrowing into a frown. “It didn’t. The humans did not come. I waited at the border until the sun set, and then headed back.”
Hermia mulled over this information, knowing the implications of one more day lost in their efforts for peace. Though most Fair Folk distrusted all humans, having witnessed countless attacks initiated by their kind, Lysander and Hermia believed that they could not judge a whole species on the actions of a few. That peace between the races was possible. In fact, for years, they had forged relationships with local farmers and shepherds. These folks were proof that there were humans who appreciated nature as much as they did. In fact, the seeds for their home, the Rowan Tree, had come as a gift from one family who’d thanked them for helping with their crops after a drought. And with just a touch of their magical coaxing, they had turned the seeds into their splendid abode, a piece of nature revered by all the creatures in the Moors, despite its origins.
However, it seemed their new fragile harmony with humans, as delicate as a twig, was in danger of snapping. Sentries, the twelve-foot-tall tree-like creatures who guarded the border, had alerted the Fair Folk that humans in armor had been poking around the area, which greatly alarmed most of the other faeries. They thought this was a sure sign of a new batch of humans looking to invade and drain the Moors of its riches, the start of a new war. Hoping to break the longstanding cycle of violence, Lysander had decided to go to the border to initiate peace talks.
“What did Balthazar make of it?” Hermia asked, referencing one of the towering border guards.
“He was concerned. They have been coming to the great waterfall every day at the same time for a week. It is strange they suddenly stopped their visits.”
Hermia didn’t respond. The silence was thick between them, but they each knew what was on the other’s mind: The foolish hope that perhaps these humans had merely wanted to explore the Moors, or that if their mission was malicious, they had abandoned it. The fear that they had missed the opportunity to change the course of history, to create a peaceful environment in which their daughter would grow. The undeniable foreboding tension in the air.
“Tomorrow,” Lysander said, breaking the silence. “I will return tomorrow.”
“And I will go with you,” Hermia added. “I need to be there. Maleficent will be in good hands here with the others.”
A mild wind breezed through the branches. Hermia rested her head on Lysander’s shoulder; he rested his head on hers. And with that, despite the heaviness in their hearts, they joined their daughter in a calm sleep under the rustling leaves of the Rowan Tree.
They heard the screeching birds first. Then the screaming.
“War! We’re at war!” a stone faerie cried.
“The humans have attacked!” a water faerie yelled.
Both Hermia and Lysander jumped up, their wings unfurling instinctively. It was still nighttime, and the sky was now a starless black. Faeries and animals alike raced around on the leaf-covered land, through the burbling streams, and in the velvety air. Hermia looked down at the precious bundle in her arms. Surprisingly, the chaos had not awoken Maleficent.
Three disheveled pixies flew past them in a hurry.
“What’s happened?” Hermia stood in front of them, blocking their way.
“The humans are here. At the border. A whole army of them!” one, called Knotgrass, shouted hysterically.
“With weapons!” said a pixie in blue, named Flittle.
“And ugly outfits!” added the smallest, Thistlewit.