The Fairy's Wings.

The fairy's wings beat faster than a hummingbird, the thrum sounding like a dirge, which was all the more disturbing because the flight of a fairy is meant to lift the heart.

Fairies aren't meant to fly for long, they are meant to fly in joy. To dance through the air, to swoop and to sing. Bursts of happiness, allegros of movement. But this fairy flew in one spot, her wings bending under the weight of her fear.

The rope was tight around her neck. It burned from the human touch, the rough hemp sawed through her gentle flesh, tighter with every beat of her wings, with every small dip in flight. She had never flown in one place for so long. The ropes burned her bound wrists, blood flowing and splattering, her wings coated red and heavy. 

Why had he done this to her? She had given herself freely to him, betraying her own kind. He was so big and strong, he could have easily snapped her neck with his rough hands. Hands she had enjoyed, scratchy yet comforting, the human sting intoxicating.

His friends had laughed when he attached her to branch of the tree. It was a stout branch, the thickest and closest to the ground. Her full weight wouldn't bend it at all.

She could almost touch the earth. Her toes had brushed the dust, a spurt of fear and her wings thrummed faster. But no, she mustn't burn her energy away so quickly. She settled into a rhythm as night turned into day.

She was alone. Cast out. Humans hated her, fairies flew from her. The branch above her was sprouting spring foliage. She had always loved trees, flitting through the forest, rising and falling at her whim, brushing the soft leaves as she passed.  

The rope tightened and this time the spurt of fear didn't left her but seemed like a heavy blanket had been dropped over her shoulders. The blanket was soothing somehow. The music of her wings dimmed. 

She settled softly. 

The branch didn't bend.