Archive of Our Own

So small, so blue, in grassy places,

My flowers raise

Their tiny faces

In streams, my bigger sisters grow

And smile in gardens

In a row

I’ve never seen a garden plot

But though i’m small

Forget me not

- The Forget-Me-Not Fairy, Cicely Mary Barker

When Tommy was little– well, littler than when he was now– he met a fairy. 

Strange things happen in the forest. It was made of pine trees that towered over the tallest houses, with bright-eyed fawns that appeared in the spring just as surely as the church bell that tolled every morning. Where the trees were not so close and so many, there were gaps in the canopy where sunlight dappled across the forest floor, where the rabbits came up from their burrows when winter was done. 

Tommy was small and uncoordinated, and even though he’d been told over and over again to never go beyond the village, he chased the thumping gait of a wild rabbit on his seventh birthday. He chased and chased until he realised that the tree trunks took the width of four men, that the ground was bumpy with old, intertwining roots.

Where the rabbit scurried into a hollow tree, he heard the dance and jingle of miniature bells. The tree had been uprooted by strong winds years and years ago, it lay on its side where the moss covered it like a blanket, and its roots spread over Tommy’s head like branches. He bent and weaved around the long roots. The light began to dim around him as the sun hung low in the sky, sinking into the horizon and out of sight. The sound of the bells became softer as the fairy procession moved on.

And that was when Tommy realised how dark the trees were. In his ear, there were the sounds of scuttling animals that disturbed the undergrowth, and bugs that wiggled out of the woodwork.

He could not find his way back.

There was a deep murmur from behind him. It came on the wind that ruffled his hair, and he craned his neck up to look between the roots above him. It was almost human speech, hidden between the sounds of the forest.

A flower peered down at him. 

Tommy remembered it clearly; it was bright-red, with spindly spider legs extended outward from its center. It looked out of place against the underside of the hollow tree root, and seemed to glow faintly in the dark, little yellow fuzz floating down.

It seemed to understand Tommy’s conundrum and lowered itself to the ground like someone had plucked it from its root. A pathway of red, spider leg flowers bloomed between the grass, it lit the path between the roots, right out to the mouth of the hollow tree. Among the rustling trees and up the creek, Tommy followed the trail until he recognised the rolling hill, the trodden path with flat grass and the mill. 

When he turned around, there was a man at the treeline. 

He was twice the height of the butcher’s son, a spirit made of mist. It was a knight, with armour made of red flowers; it covered him from head to toe, the visor of his helmet was down so Tommy couldn't see his face.

Tommy made it all the way to the bridge and when he turned around again, the Red Knight had disappeared under the light of the full moon.

Tommy lived as many other children did in Hawthorne. He put on his cap at dawn to help the cows. Henry would chew on his hair when he was underfoot, they stuck out like rolls of wheat and the blasted things were too stupid to know the difference. It’s not wheat, Henry. If he’d remembered to eat breakfast before then, he might forgive them. Usually, he’d be very upset. 

When the sun was high in the sky, the milk boys would be called in for break. He would scavenge the cupboards to look for bread, and if he could get away with it, he’d pilfer some cheese when the matron wasn’t looking. 

It was good living.

No family, just the matron and the dairy, but good.

Better than working at the docks. There would be milk buckets outside the dairy, to be bottled and sold in the village square. He might get a penny more for his work; they had to be sold before the sun set.

They had to be sold before the sun set because that was when the fairies would roam, and they might cast mischief upon you and you’d find yourself with bottles and bottles of river water instead of milk. 

He didn’t care about any of that though– because Tommy’s a big man, Tommy knows the fairies aren’t as bad as everyone says.

There was a river that ran straight through the village, from the east to the west. It came from the forest, weaved past the cobblestone houses and the old mill, and disappeared again into between larger and larger trees. Women brought their washboards to the bank and clucked amongst themselves until the morning bell. They said there was a waterfall deep in the woods, but to never follow the sound of gushing water, for it could be a fairy trap.

Tommy saw it on the bridge.

It was a ball of light that streaked across the village river. It disturbed the reflection of the moon where it stepped with swift feet, kicking water where it went. See, as a good, God-fearing boy, he was really not meant to be out at night. Funny things happened at night– but he saw the light whizz past his window and he had to go see.

The light was a boy. 

Tommy fumbled with his shoes at the door and shot off after it. He went down the creek, to the old mill. 

The fairy – for that was what it must be – was playing on the water wheel.

“You’re a fairy,” he accused.

“Ohmygod,” the boy gasped. When he came to a stop, the bright glow of his cheeks faded and his hair settled into a mousy sort of brown. There were sunspots on his face. He was just about the size of Tommy’s middle finger. On his back, there was a beautiful yellow flower. “You’re a bitch,” he said. Then, “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Tommy wrinkled his nose.

“I thought all human children did was sleep,” the boy said, pretty rudely in Tommy’s opinion.

“ You’re a child,” Tommy said, “You’re tiny, you’re so small,”

“ Oh now you’re getting it,” the boy said, “You’re getting it,”

The fairy kicked water in his face. Tommy spluttered and grabbed at it. It flitted between the gaps of his fingers, and when it laughed, it was the sound of tinkling bells. Tommy pouted, lunging forward onto the water wheel. He chased it until his knees scraped, but that was only because it was yelling at him all the while. Stupid human, you’re going to fall, okay Tommy wasn’t going to fall, Tommy was actually very athletic. 

It wasn’t until he started to laugh that Tommy realised they had been playing. He was shit the next day, but it was worth it.

The fairy’s name was Tubbo, WellnotTubbothat’snotmyrealname.

Tubbo came back the next day and the next and the next.

He’d never met someone like Tommy before, that was what he’d said. Tommy had never gone back to the forests since, but in the village, the birds wouldn’t leave Tubbo alone; they thought Tubbo was a bug, and the bugs thought Tubbo was a flower. It was a whole thing. Tommy swatted them away when they played to make sure they weren’t going to hurt him, but the only place they didn’t bother was the woods. 

Something about the air.

“I’ll make sure you don’t get in any trouble,” Tubbo said, when he saw the face Tommy made.

That old memory of the red flower sat at the back of his mind. He remembered the feeling of the uneven path underneath his sandals, where he nearly slipped onto the stones before he reached the village bridge. The light of the moon had illuminated the treetops, shrouding the human silhouette, and Tommy had hurried home, holding that midnight feeling in his chest.

“I’m the trouble, Tubbo,” he said.

Tubbo rolled his eyes; he kicked his feet up on the branches, “I’ll protect you,” he boasted, like a prick, “I’ll protect you,” behind his fingers, he was smiling, the bastard. 

Tommy burst out laughing, like the day’s of work hadn’t been work, and that the matron’s bread kept him full enough. In the forest, he blinked away his fatigue. 

He learnt a great deal about fairies with Tubbo. He learnt that there was no coal man to keep the fairies warm. At night, a warming pan would be filled with hot coals and placed in the bed, to be removed before the fairy went to sleep. He learnt that fairies would eat all sorts of things, not just nuts and acorns, but a feast of mashed potato, roast beef, boar and deer. Tubbo was agreeable for a fairy. He could do with less talking about flowers– it was a constant barrage of flower facts, but Tommy was his first ever friend, so he supposed the excitement could be forgiven.

Not that- Tommy could relate. He’s got lots of friends, loads.

He was very popular, he just– liked Tubbo better, that’s all.

“What do you do all day?” Tubbo asked, from where he hung upside a branch.

“Er, I’m a milk boy,” he said, one wobbly foot on a root of a grand tree, and another braced against the trunk. He was focused on his footsteps, “I work at the dairy, and get milk to the market,” he dug his hands into his pocket and brought out his coins, “See? I get paid for it,”

Tubbo flitted down to peer at them, “Oooh,” he said, and with his hands he pushed the coins around, “Very nice, very nice,”

“Yup,” he said smug, “I didn’t wanna spoil it for you, Tubbo, but I’m sorta a millionaire myself,”

“I’d pay a million coins for milk,” Tubbo said at the same time, “It’d be fairy coins though, I reckon it’s worth less in your world,”

“No-!” he gasped, and hurried to find his footing on a large branch, where he could sit properly, “What? No,” he cleared his throat, “Tubbo, I will take your coins for milk, then I wouldn’t have to sell it to the market, I’d just sell it to you!”

“Realllyyy?” Tubbo drawled skeptically, “Humans don’t usually want to trade,”

“Oh my god,” he said, dazed, “I’ll be the first fairy tradesman, I’ll be– I’ll be one of those business boys, with the– the look and everything,”

Tubbo grinned, “A business boy,” he guffawed; there was golden dust that followed him when he flapped his wings. Looking pleased with himself, he flipped on his head and regarded Tommy with a sense of business cool. “One bottle then,” he said, “Before you go running off without your head, I need to make sure the goods– you know the goods are in order,”

“One bottle,” he declared.

Atop his perch, the wind ruffled through his hair, bringing with it the chime and rhythm of a long summer.

Now, contrary to popular belief, Tommy wasn’t stupid.

In his mind, he saw the severe, wrinkled face of the matron, the shadows cut deeply into the grooves of her face when she closed the windows. She was the most unsuperstitious person he had ever known, as one had to be to raise twenty children, but even she knew that a child gone into the forest was a child lost. Don’t follow the will ‘o wisp, said the carpenter, and don’t make deals with the fae, said the butcher. Children had disappeared before, and they were far more precious ones than Tommy.

Sweat beaded on his brow; there was a bottle of milk tucked securely in his hands. He had to hide it, see. It snuck it into the meat cellar underground, dry and cold, before Tommy carted two crates to the market square as he had promised he would. He had to get his coins, or the matron would kill him. He kept it in the back of his mind until the sun dipped behind the treeline.

And off he went.

Past the old mill and over the bridge. His shoes scuffed against the grass in his haste, he found the place he and Tubbo liked to play. There were yellow wings in the undergrowth, and a docile face underneath, hiding from the sun.

He crowed his greeting– and saw an allium follow swiftly behind.

“Woah, woah woah,” he said, “Who’s this?”

“Oh, this is Ranboo,” Tubbo said, “Say hello, Ranboo,”

“Uh, hello,” Ranboo said, in a voice that was quiet and filtered, like running water and a babbling brook. He ducked shyly from behind Tubbo’s golden wings, his own wings were a million tiny purple flowers that cast him aglow. They didn’t flap the way Tubbo’s did, but the other fairy hovered over the bottle with eager hands. “I’m the… local dairy expert.”

“Dairy expert,” he echoed, “Hold on a minute, you’re not going to question the integrity of my dairy,”

“I am,” Ranboo said, adjusting the gloves on his hands. “But you should have nothing to worry about if you have real milk,”

“Of course I have real milk,” he spluttered, his hands tightening over the bottle, “How dare you-!”

“The human is resisting,” Ranboo said, looking alarmed, which was frankly quite rude, because Tommy wasn’t resisting. He was the one who said Tommy brought bad milk! Who the fuck says that?

“Both of you–” Tubbo said, flitting up between them, “Tommy, just give Ranboo the bottle,”

He sniffed in affront.

Ranboo narrowed his eyes at him, his chin lifted, as if to say, you heard Tubbo. “Let’s see what we have to work with here,” he said, when Tommy placed the bottle down onto a patch of dry grass.

Tommy crouched beside him to watch him work, but he was so small next to the bottle that it was three times his size, and Tommy couldn’t quite see what he was doing, so he got on his hands and knees, his head craned to the side until he felt the strain of his shoulders. It made Ranboo look at him oddly. With his hands, the fairy used a sharpened rock to wedge the bottle open of its cork.

From his little pockets, the young Onion Flower Fairy brought out a wooden spoon. It had been carved with great care, with hands that were far smaller than any woodmaker Tommy knew. Ranboo tipped forward, his feet kicking out, and he drank from the spoon. 

There was a moment where Tommy wondered if he’d actually given Tubbo cow’s milk, and not like, expired yogurt or something. He didn’t even really like milk all that much, so surely it wouldn’t be that good.

But then Ranboo turned to Tubbo and nodded.

Tubbo cheered, zipping away from his perch, “Ranboo,” he said imperiously, “Pay the man!”

It was then that Tommy noticed a pouch made of oak leaves. It was the size of an acorn, and Ranboo held it in both hands. It had been wrapped nicely with a string that tied it together at the top. Tommy peeled it open and golden seeds poured from its mouth, unraveling to spill onto his palms.

“What. the. fuck,” he said.

Tubb’s brow furrowed.

“What the fuck, Tubbo,” he swore, “This is gold, actual gold,” each seed had a weight to it, and was cool to the touch. “No, I can’t take this, well– I want to,” he said thoughtfully, “But I absolutely cannot take it,”

“No, that’s the going rate for cow’s milk,” Ranboo said, frowning.

“It is the going rate,” Tubbo agreed.

Tommy sputtered.

He stared down at the golden seeds in his palm, cupped them carefully and slipped them into his pockets. “Well I’m not complaining,” he said, after a long moment of thought.

“It sounds like you are,” Tubbo said, settling on the rim of the bottle. There was a smug little smile on his face.

“I’m not,” he swore.

Tubbo cheered. He did a loop around, fairy dust made his face glow. “The Queen is going to be so pleased,” he said; he spoke with his hands too, and when he was excited, his tongue seemed to trip over itself, rushing to get his words out so new ones could take its place. He beamed at Tommy, and Tommy couldn’t help but laugh, infected by his joy, “You know we had to steal milk for ages, our last dairy supply dried up when the farmer died and no one would trade with us,” 

That was the shame of it, and Tommy had heard it before. What he would never tell Tubbo. The old stories during the dark ages, like the village that went mad, passed down and passed down again. The fairies were much larger, with splintered teeth inside a gaping mouth. They hid in the undergrowth until they became it, smaller and tamer as the villages grew outward.

“Six bottles every week,” Tubbo said, “One for every day, except Sundays,”

Tommy thought, if Tubbo had never gone out to the mill, he never would have met him. He said none of that, only pointed at Ranboo. “Is he going to be inspecting the whole time?” he asked.

“It’s my job,” Ranboo said gravely.

The matron knew.

She knew the moment Tommy came back with a small packet of golden seeds. Her face became as pale as a corpse’s. Even the wind came to a standstill, when Tommy held the packet for her to take. It spilled out onto the table, click-clacking onto the wood, where the many eyes of the other children bore down against it, eager to reach out and hold it, if not for the foreboding silhouette of the matron.

She took some of the gold, because there was so much of it. He got to keep a share of what he had earned. It was already more than he had ever gotten. Her weathered hands clutched onto the pouch, hurriedly hiding it away. To be kept. She didn’t ask where Tommy had gone to receive the gold, but the next morning, when Tommy went to collect his carton of milk, she told the farmer to give Tommy whatever he needed.

What Tommy had done, or whatever deal he had struck, that was for Tommy alone. 

She would neither stop him or urge him on.

It seemed as if the other children gave Tommy a wide berth after that.

But what does he care? He doesn’t– he doesn’t care. He gets a special seat at the table at dinner; the seat is, well, quite a little ways away from everyone else, but it’s because he’s special. That’s what. He sold milk to fairies, the matron was happy, Tommy was happy– Tommy was loaded.

During the night, he waited for Tubbo and Ranboo.

They went to the fields to search for fireflies and didn’t leave until the sun returned.

In a matter of a day, the whole of the village knew.

Tommy woke on his threadbare mattress well into the morning. Chickens clucked outside the windowsill, the air was quiet. The other boys had gone for their delivery, but Tommy hadn’t been woken. 

He scurried down the stairs, grabbed a box, loaded his bottles and went off. The back of his neck pricked; he shook it off. He felt the eyes of the butcher’s wife on his shoulders, and when he lugged his bottles to the market, it quickly became obvious why no one had woken him.

No one would buy from him. 

Not a single bottle.

“Fresh milk,” he called, “Got your fresh milk today, sir?”

The Wallsons farmer didn’t even look him in the eye, and the man had called Tommy a wee fucker multiple times for stealing his harvest. Not that he’d done it, he’d been framed! “I don’t suppose you’d want to buy some fresh milk?” he asked, leaning so far over the carpenter’s stall that his toes were off the ground.

“Get outta here, Thomas,” was all he got, “Go back,”

The fishermonger’s wife turned her little one away with one hand, towards her chest, fairy-touched, her eyes said, before they were directed to a passer-by. And the market seemed to weave around him, until Tommy only lived in the in-between. 

He went back with a spoiling box of fresh milk. It would go to the bin– it was too late to be stored, and the heat of the day had already gotten to it. He had never wasted milk like this, even the men who hadn’t bought any bought none. No one would buy from me, he wanted to say to the matron. His legs hurt from walking, and there were red lines of pressure from carrying the milk around. His face felt hot. Wracking his head to figure out the best way to do it, and not let his own tongue get in the way. He opened his mouth, and the matron waved a hand at him. There was a slight crease to her thin lips, as if to say, who told you to go out there?

He did not go out with bottles the next day. 

And it was understood that Tommy, fairy-touched, had only one delivery to make every week.

Tubbo was a trooping fairy. Trooping fairies live in groups and form settlements, while solitary fairies tend to live in isolation, and don't associate with their own kind. He could spend days talking about the hierarchy between different types of fairies, and Tommy listened with rapt attention.

“Baked goods are a traditional offering to the folk, and cream and butter,” Tubbo said.

He kicked the leaves he walked on, and looked at the canopy thoughtfully, “But humans rarely give us offerings anymore.”

The world became smaller. 

It shrunk down to only Tubbo and Ranboo. Tommy woke alone, the beds around him were already made, and he ate alone. He wandered the farm looking doing fuck all. The fairy milk was kept in a cool, dry place until the sun hung low over the horizon. Then, he set his cap and trudged on to the edge of the forest, past the mill, over the bridge. Once, he saw the round face of a child peering at him through the curtains of one of the homes, before she was quickly pulled away. 

“You know, I’d think I’d like to be a fairy,” he said.

He rested his head on his arms, leaning against the great trunk of a tree. His head was tipped up towards the skies. It was an abnormally dark night, the stars were all hidden behind clouds. The cold nipped at his fingers; he pulled his thin overcoat closer. He had climbed onto the branches to catch up with Tubbo, hidden among the leaves.

“Really?” Tubbo asked, surprised. There was a flower on his head, it was yellow to match his wings. They glowed faintly in the din. He sat on a branch above Tommy’s. 

“Why’d you say really like that–” 

“No, I’m just surprised,” he said, swinging forward, and the sound of his laugh came between Tommy’s scoff, “You humans are always accusing us of stealing babies, stealing babies,”

”–no, don’t generalise me, you humans –”

“We do steal babies,” Ranboo piped up quietly on the side.

“Only some babies,” Tubbo said, “It’s a compliment! Like, your child is so special that I want to take it away with me,”

“You know that’s why we don’t like you,” he said.

“Look who’s generalising now,” Tubbo said smugly, “And anyway,” he peered closer, there was a cheeky little smile on his face, “You like us,”

He batted the fairy away with one hand, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. There was a satisfaction in seeing Tubbo weave between his fingers, yelping in between stifled laughter. He was going to hit him one day like the fly that he was. “Barely,” he said, turning his nose up, “It’s cutting close, Tubbo, I’ll be quite honest with you,”

“You were just saying you wanted to be a fairy,” Tubbo protested; his hands curled around Tommy’s finger and pulled, to look him in the eye. He had a look about him that was spelled trickery, his smile turned his eyes into moonlight crescents.

“I was saying I’d like to, I’d like to, thinking out loud here,” he complained.

“Thinking out loud,” Ranboo said. He had pulled a leaf free from one of the branches, and set it down so he wouldn’t dirty his clothes. It gave him a seat, because the bark of the tree really could be prickly when you were small. “Plenty of people get roped into it, the fairy business,” he scratched the side of his neck, saying reluctantly, “I mean, you get trapped and you stay there,”

There were mounds that opened up and swallowed men into its undergrowth, there were fairies rings, and other little things that appeared when you were lost. 

“No, but he means an actual fairy, ‘boo,”

“I know,” Ranboo said, “But um, you know…” he looked at Tubbo, and Tommy got the impression he was trying to converse with him through sheer force of eye contact. He’d wondered before if they could speak telepathically, but decided Tubbo wouldn’t be able to stop himself from bragging about it if they could. He watched Tubbo stare back at Ranboo blankly, the little flick of Ranboo’s head moving from side to side, searching for the right word, and eventually settled on, “... Techno,”

Tubbo sat upright with a sharp gasp, “Oh right,” he shouted, “That’s a thing, isn’t it?”

“But you need permission from the Queen,” Ranboo said.

And wasn’t that an idea? Mouth agape, Tommy wanted to grab Ranboo and shake him in his little fairy boots. What the fuck were they talking about, the Queen? In the autumn chill, he felt his toes wriggle in his thin shoes, goosebumps erupted along his arms this late into the night. It would only become colder, and Tommy had never felt more ridiculous in the shirt he had worn since he hit his growth spurt at 13. The Queen?

“The harvest is in a week,” Tubbo pointed out, unaware of the state he had induced in Tommy, “He could sneak in–!”

“Eat the food,”

“Drink from– oh yes,” Tubbo said, his legs kicked out in excitement, lunging forward to look critically at Tommy. Oi, he complained, swatting at him, and Tubbo clicked his tongue, sounding quite pleased with himself, “The Queen will forgive us,” he said resolutely.

Ranboo made a noise of agreement. His eyes were wide as saucers, and his mouth was pursed. His fingers were pressed together under his chin, thoughtful.

“Er,” both of them turned to look at him, “This is starting to sound pretty serious,”

Tubbo cocked his hand on his hip, a brow raising. “You gotta be kidding me,” he said, like it was Tommy’s fault that he had gone off on a tangent; Tommy scowled back, lifting his chin, “Are you not serious?”

“I am,” he blustered, “I just didn’t know you were serious,”

Tubbo scoffed, but he was smiling, “Then it’s settled.” he said, “We’ll have you over during the harvest,”

A part of him dreamed that the village would be different when he woke up. 

This invitation, he kept like a secret in his chest. He dreamed that he followed a trail of laughter and running footsteps into the kitchen, that the other boys left a seat for him at the table, that the matron put her hand on his hair like he was a child again, and he was not fairy-touched, he was just Tommy. The days slogged by; he woke to an empty room, he ate separately, and at dusk, he set off to deliver his cart of milk. 

When someone became so ignored, they started to fade away.

Tommy didn’t feel as if he was fading away. He felt like he stood at the cusp of a storm, when the air rushed around him and he knew in his bones that a downpour was to come. 

Until at last, it was the new moon.

Tommy sat up, among a dozen sleeping children. He moved his fingers, he let the feeling roll down to his legs, until it reached his toes. The village held its breath when everyone was sound asleep, even the farm which he had spent his entire life, it slumbered while Tommy packed all his things into a rucksack. The floorboards creaked, and settled, and didn’t make any other noise.

Past the mill and over the bridge, he ran to the edge of the forest.

His heart thundered in his chest, but he put on a brave face. The only clothes he brought were the ones he had on his back. As the sky turned, he caught a glimpse of fairy lights among the trees, and got on his tippy-toes until it came closer. 

“I was waiting all night,” he blustered, “What took you so long?”

Tubbo grinned. “Sorry,” he said, “Everyone was really excited when I said I was bringing someone, you’re about to be really popular, so,”

Tommy puffed up his chest, “I’m always popular, Tubbo,” he said, “Now how are we going to do this?”

In his cupped hands, Tubbo held a golden apple. It was smaller than a regular apple, the size of a cherry, it could rest comfortably in the circle of Tommy’s palm. “That’ll get you to the right size,” Tubbo said, “Until we get you in,”

“You’re not trying to kill me are you,”

“I could literally do that without giving you an apple,” Tubbo said.

Tommy made a little sound at the back of his throat. He’d followed Tubbo off the forest path before, so the comment was fair enough. He couldn’t count on both hands how many times he’d nearly fallen through the undergrowth. His palms were damp with sweat, his eyes lifted to meet Tubbo and Ranboo’s. It felt like it should be more difficult, that he held something so great in his hands. Well, a small voice reasoned at the back of his mind, if he didn’t like it, he could always go back home.

To the empty bedroom, and that empty house.

He pushed the apple into his mouth. It was as warm as a spoonful of soup. The glow followed down his throat and spread outward. Abovehead, the forest moved like it was alive, and it was smiling and tittering at him. 

He opened his eyes and Tubbo was looking at him. 

Only, he wasn’t Tubbo-sized. He stood just short of eye-level, and he was much brighter than Tommy envisioned. The apple had shrunken him down to the size of a fairy, where a blade of grass was just as tall. “Get off me,” he said, shoving at Tubbo, and Tubbo let out a peal of delighted laughter.

Ranboo, he realised, was much taller now that they were both the same size. He was holding a pair of clothes. It was a little bit larger than he was, he thought he heard Ranboo mutter something about his height, the fucking bastard– and he wound a belt around his waist to keep it up.

At the end of it all, Tubbo gave him a leaf. It draped over his shoulders like a coat. 

“Here, you can say you’re– well, that you get cold easily or something,” he said, “Until we can get your little potion, we’ll have to hide that you’re just a human,”

He nodded, and said, more confidently than he felt, “Let’s go,”

Now, the matron was by no means poor, but even then they had to be frugal. Meat was only eaten on special occasions, and most times, they had eggs on birthdays. The usual breakfast was porridge and blue and thin, yeast bread oat cakes. They made gruel with milk that had cream skimmed off the top. The fairy dance had an elaborate spread of milk and meat, there were plates upon plates of mashed potato, carrots, peas, gravy and roast mushrooms. At the head of the very long table, Tommy saw the crisp head of a boar.

There were little bodies with acorn hats and gossamer silk dresses. There were fairies of all kinds, they came from beyond the rolling hills, over the moors, fluidous bodies under the moonlight. They went where their little hearts desired, a mist along their wake, clearer in the twilight din.

They came to dance and be merry, and Tommy clutched his leaf-made clothes closer together, to hide his bare back. It was much more nerve-wrecking now that he was actually here.

“This is Tommy,” Tubbo shouted, his fingers were warm around Tommy’s arm. It felt different to have someone hold onto you like that, not– a bad different, just, different than if it were the matron’s bony fingers, “He’s one of our visiting cousins from the moors,”

“The moors?” someone piped up. 

His hair was curled in wisps, his face framed by large, round glasses. He was taller than Tommy, and the cut of his clothes complemented the deep red of his petals. His wings made circular patterns spreading outward, longer and wider than the petals toward the center of the bloom. Tommy knew what kind of flower they came from immediately, “Aren’t they much larger?” the Rose Fairy asked, “What kind of flower are you?”

“What the fuck,” Tommy said, “You’re not supposed to ask a man what kind of flower he is,”

The Rose Fairy arched a brow, “Coarse, I see it.”

“Don’t be a prick, Wilbur,” Tubbo shouted, but without any meanness.

“Oi,” Wilbur complained, “I see we are still children. I want to get to know you better, Tommy,”

“Wilbur,” someone chided.

It was a cheerful, reproachful sound. The kind of sound Tommy had heard the men use on their children, like the word was kept safe. There was a presence behind him, brushing past. Out of the corner of his eyes, the lights glow and hum, as if straining to turn their brightness up. The fairy that intruded had petals that made his wings white-veined, against a deep black. It was a colour that Tommy was quite sure did not really exist in the real world, rounded edges like a rose. 

It cast the Black Dahlia Fairy in a striking, elegant silhouette. There was a line of gold threaded through his blond hair, “He doesn’t have to tell us his name if he doesn’t want to,” the fairy said.

“He’s from the moors,” Tubbo interjected urgently, like that explained everything.

“I’m more than my place of birth, Tubbo,” he said, “I’m the– Silk Flower Fairy, it’s– very common flower, in the north, I mean, moors,” he swiped his damp palms on his pants, “You wouldn’t know it, I wish I could show you,”

“You can quite literally show us,” Wilbur drawled.

“Phil,” Tubbo protested.

Phil, the Black Dahlia Fairy, waved a hand, the same way Tommy would bat Tubbo away, “I hope you’ll enjoy the dance,” Phil said warmly.

Tommy tripped over himself trying to bow. Behind the Black Dahlia’s back, Wilbur brought both his middle and his pointer finger up and gestured at his eyes, to Tommy. He was smiling, but it only made his oval face look assholey.

Tommy flipped him off, and Wilbur grinned.

Was this where he belonged? Maybe he’d been a bit too hasty. Tubbo was a steady weight at his arm the entire time, and that kept Tommy a little bit tethered. You know, it was fine when there were literally two of his friends there, but then Tubbo had to go. He had to conduct the next stage of their little plan, which was– stealing from the Queen. Gods, even the thought of it now, in this lively little grove, made him feel queasy. It tossed and turned the apple he’d eaten. 

Was he really going to do this? Everyone here looked so happy, and Tommy could already barely keep up with them. Ranboo looked at him, expectant and eager. He was doing that thing where he was trying not to ask Tommy if he was having fun, gripping onto his own hands to keep himself still. Tommy nodded back weakly, and Ranboo’s face took on a look of alarm.

That was it. 

See, one thing Tommy had never really thought of himself as, was a coward.

“I think I need,” he waved his hand, gesturing at something elsewhere, “Um, I need to get some air,” 

The grove was a part of dozens and dozens of intertwining trees. The roots were raised to create homes for every fairy, with wooden doors painted differing colours. A few of them had windows made of broken glass; where the lanterns hit the shards, it scattered rainbows across the forest floors. Trees were much, much larger, and harder to climb, when he was small. His leaf coat only reminded him of what he lacked, of being so very different even among friends.

He hated it then.

Tucked in the groove of a root, he scrubbed his hands over his eyes.

Are you lost?

He looked towards the sound, and he remembered it clearly; bright-red, with spindly spider legs extended outward from its center. In his mind's eye, he saw it glow faintly in the dark, little yellow fuzz floating down. As small as he was now, it was as large as his entire body and twice his length, more of a creature than a flower. It spoke without a mouth, and narrowed its eyes at Tommy, without eyes.

It’s you, Tommy thought, like he was a child again, like he was seven years old lost.

“No I’m not,” he said mulishly, for that was the only counter he knew to say. That was what they said in the village, to never tell the fairies the truth. They would always twist and tangle it and lead little children astray. But he knew then, that the flower would not harm him. 

The flower made a dubious, nasally little sound.

“Stop making that sound,” Tommy said, and the flower made the sound again, but only louder and longer, “Stop it, stop making it,”

You come into my house, you tell me to stop making my sound, the flower said, like he was angry – adults would always speak to Tommy like that, but the way the flower said it was without the anger, so Tommy did not quite know how to feel.

“This is not a house,” he said, “It’s a dirty tree.”

The flower made an affronted gasp.

“Tommy!”

He looked back. Tubbo’s entire face was flushed red with exertion as he flitted over. His hair was windswept, he was gasping as if he had flown miles looking for Tommy, when the bells of the party were literally just behind them. His eyes wandered to the flower and lit up, “Oh!” he waved, “Hi, Techno,”

Get him outttaaa here.

“Could you give us a moment, please?” Tubbo asked, as polite as can be.

The Red Knight did not even turn back into a fairy. He kept his petals closed as if he were sleeping and pretended Tommy and Tubbo weren’t there. It was good enough for Tubbo, who returned his attention to Tommy.

“I got it,” Tubbo whispered excitedly; it was also loud enough that Tommy knew the Red Knight heard them, and did not care enough to dislodge himself from his tree, “I got the Fairy Dew,”

From within his satchel, he took out a round bubble of water. It shook in his hands when he moved it. There was a piece of sunlight that lived in it, but when Tubbo held it up, Tommy only saw his own wide eyes reflected within it. He looked out of place, he hadn’t grown into his shoulders, and his face was off-putting. 

He looked like an intruder.

Tubbo faltered, “... Tommy?” he asked, gentle, his hands lowered so the light wouldn’t be so bright, that it wouldn’t blind him.

Tommy was glad at once to see it go, “Sorry,” he said; Tubbo immediately protested his apology, understanding, “Just gimme a minute,”

The elixir was placed carefully back into the satchel, and they sat there together for a while.

“I worry you treat me differently because I am a human,” he admitted.

There was a pause.

“I do not give a shit,” Tubbo said.

Tommy leaned in, just shy of pressing their shoulders together, because that wasn’t really manly of him. “Really?” he asked, voice small.

Tubbo scoffed. “Doesn’t matter to me if you’re a human or a fairy,” he said, “It just seemed like you weren’t much happier over there,”

“... I wasn’t,” he said.

“Then stay here,” Tubbo said.

Tommy twisted his fingers into locks.

The sounds of the forest became a distant murmur. Tubbo looked up at the Red Knight, a silent bystander. He seemed as if he was thinking, struggling to figure out the best way to tell Tommy. After a long moment of silence, Tubbo looked back down at his hands. “Technoblade used to be human too,” he said; Tommy’s head snapped upwards, but the flower gave no indication it had heard Tubbo. Red pollen drifted downwards, in slow, dreamlike waves. “It was a long time ago– Wilbur says that he lived among us as an earthly knight, and then, Phil and the Queen, they stole him away, it’s how, well– it happened ever before I came around,”

The Red Knight did not respond.

“So,” Tubbo said to his hands, “You wouldn’t be the first, and you wouldn’t be alone.”

He leaned back against his elbows, blinking away the hotness in his eyes. 

“Is it worth it,” he asked.

He thought the Red Knight would not respond this time either. Its petals swayed with the force of the night time chill. Tommy got the distinct impression it was peering down at him, considering the strength and weight of his character.

It can be, the Red Knight said, eventually, It can be an adventure.

“I want to stay with my friends,” he said, “I don’t want to be alone,”

Tubbo knocked into his shoulder, and exchanged a smile. 

He took a breath.

There were endless roads that lead out of the village, and Tommy had never taken any of them. In the lifespan of a fairy, a human was only a child. He had seen less in all the years of being human than in the months he had known Tubbo. Even if he didn’t take Tubbo’s hand, they would still play in the fields, and the evenings would feel as if they could last forever. He would grow old and he knew Tubbo and Ranboo would be there, they would watch him grow and grow, and never grow old themselves.

He might have children, and grandchildren, and he would tell them stories of the fairies that played with him in their garden.

But that wasn’t what Tommy wanted. 

He wanted to live.

“Okay,” he said in a breath, and Tubbo had waited patiently, without reproach; he was always like that, always patient with Tommy, “I’m ready,”

“No takesies backsies,” Tubbo warned.

“Gimme the damn thing,” he complained. 

When he finally poured the silvery mist over himself, there was a warm, melodious voice. 

Welcome home, Tommy, it said, and he knew without being told that it was the Queen that had come to take him. 

How is a fairy born?

Some say they are born just like humans are, from mother and father. They are perpetual children, they came from the stars like half-angels. The truth varies far and wide, but Tommy is reburn nestled in the embrace of a sweet, blue flower. The flower fields that surrounded Fairyland went on so far that it disappeared over the rolling hills, and within each flower, there were children sleeping safe and sound. 

In one of those flowers was a boy, the petals of his wings unravelled around him when he woke, a vibrant blue with yellow centers. Peeling his nest open to the excitement of the Little Boat Fairy waiting outside. 

“You know you could’ve just gotten an invite,” Phil said, amused, “As our new human tradesman,”

“I feel like I needed to make my own way, you know,” he said, “I’m a rascal, I lied and stole my way in here,”

“You had an invite,” Technoblade said.

“No, no,” he said, “I lied and stole my way in,”

The Red Knight barked out a bright laugh. Tommy thought it was such a nice sound, he couldn’t help but laugh with him. It turned out that where Technoblade walked, spider lilies sprout at his feet like a trail of blood. Tubbo liked to kick them up and get red mist, and the fairy children play in it. 

He could learn to have a family here, in between being a fairy and being himself.

By: cactibraindump.tumblr