Reverie
The Winter Woods were dark, and Weaver was dreaming of chasing the moon again.
Again, because—though he couldn’t be sure—he thought he’d gone after it a hundred times. From a hundred different places.
He’d flown through pitch-black meadows, his path completely obscured, with only the pinpricks of stars overhead. He’d threaded through eerie woods, spotting evidence of the moon by its cool light piercing here and there through the trees, but never the moon’s whole self.
But tonight was different. He could feel it.
Near the Pixie Dust Well, there was a frozen pond, its ice smooth and perfect, brilliantly lit though it was midnight. The whole world was the color of a flawless gray pearl, bright as a veiled midday and filled with shadows. And Weaver could see the full face of the moon, as he rarely ever did.
He always flew fast in these dreams, like he’d been touched with a talent other than his own, his wings beating unnaturally fast, his body barely seeming to strain as he wove among trees or around the curves of hills or through underground caverns, searching for the light.
But tonight, he seemed faster than ever, his wings more agile, the wind whipping his hair and the raven feathers of his clothes.
The moon hung alone in the stillness, and his path to it was clear.
There was nothing but pure, icy air between him and its face.
This dream would be different. If he flew hard enough, high enough, he could lay hands on it and keep it safe.
Faster. Closer. Closer. Closer—
Weaver felt no pain when he hit the surface of the pond. But he curled up on his side when he did, heart aching, efforts all for nothing.
But then it shot through the night. A sound, a feeling, a sign.
It was like wind chimes. Like the shimmer of jingle bells on crisp winter air. It was the sound stars would make, if the Never Fairies could hear them.
And when Weaver dared to looked around again, the frozen pond was covered in a delicate, glittering layer of frost.