June

They only need a fairy ring.

The types of mushrooms that spring from the earth depend on the occasion at hand. Purest white button mushrooms are for celebrations of life and new births. Amanitas serve when two fair nations are on the brink of war. Both sides come together in hopes the dance can bring about a more peaceful resolution. Oxtongue is for those nights of highest magic when a sacrifice is required for the changing of the seasons. Last but far from least is the black trumpet circle, used only for the deaths of monarchs and heroes of great renown.

Ignorant mortals believe they can explain away these sacred circles with science.

Mortal eyes have never cast their gaze on June.

She is an ancient creature of Fae, a magical merging of tortoise and fungi. She lives in the fabric of time, hovering over the world's oldest forest, a thin barrier that keeps the physical and spiritual worlds separate. Crossing from one to the other is as simple as parting a curtain of water with an upraised hand.

She always will live there. The meddling of mortals has great destructive power but there are certain natural places so strong that even weapons of mass destruction are useless. A nuclear bomb couldn't do more than crisp the roots of the First Trees.

Which would be inadvisable. First Nymph Arborea has been known to feed annoying humans to her saplings for mulch.

Arborea exchanges a nod with June as the tortoise begins her slow, plodding circle at the base of a massive oak.

Each touch of her spade-like toes distributes spores that will spring to life in a matter of minutes. When the circle is complete, she trudges to one side to look over her work. Satisfied, she blends effortlessly into the surrounding forest, becoming invisible to all but Fae senses.

She watches the dance with no fear for her own safety. No fairy, not even the High Fae, would willingly harm a creature of such pure magic.

To do so is a death sentence.

They come mostly in pairs, their steps too feather-light to leave footprints even in the soft mud. Lithe bodies move in a whirlwind of joy and revelry, their slender ankles daring the boundaries of the circle without ever crossing outside the protective enchantments that keep the mortal world from falling into similar madness. Moonlight slides over the nimble youth at the center. She is newborn Fae, a child seen only once in every twenty generations. No words can describe her beauty. She is purity bathed in sunlight and gently toweled dry by the moon. She is perfection in a physical form.

She is gone with the morning dew, vanished with the rest of her people as soon as the sun touches the horizon.

June's heightened senses alert her to danger before she can take a step forward. She watches the approach of a mortal with wary curiosity.

He's been lost in the forest for three days, wandering aimlessly from one stream to the next, his skin covered in shallow cuts and his belly grumbling for food.

He plucks one of the small mushrooms between grubby fingers, popping it in his mouth and sighing. The pungent taste is steak and a buttered baked potato, so desperate is he for nourishment.

June watches dispassionately as he vanishes from sight.

The Fae are in a good mood. They might tease the foolish thief by keeping him in an enchanted sleep for a hundred years, then releasing him back to his people. They'll have a laugh at his expense as he tries to figure out a world so alien from what he knew that it might as well be another planet.

Rip Van Winkle got off light.

When the Fae are angry, their punishments can last for millennia.

June harvests the remaining fungi, chopping them at the base with a snap of her powerful jaws. They will regenerate in her body, ready to be planted as fresh spores when some new celebration requires the use of her services once more.