The fae always wove with gifts from nature. Long blades of grass that grew in the open fields were turned into fans, kept alive with a touch of their magic. Wildflowers were meticulously braided together and worn in hair before they wilted in the sun. Willow branches that could bend without snapping were woven into baskets.
Jaz remembered her younger self, sitting in her grandmother’s lap as she learned to braid flower stems. Her fingers fumbled with the stems that were much too fragile and snapped easily. Her grandmother would laugh and say, “You’re fighting the flowers. Rushing too much. Slow down, child. You’ll get it.”
All these years later, Jaz still remembered how to weave flower crowns. But she didn’t. Instead, she sat on her couch with a ball of fiery red yarn in her lap and a crochet hook between her fingers. By now, it was muscle memory. Loop, wrap, pull, repeat. The fox charm was beginning to take shape. She smiled softly.
A breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the scent of rain and Ren’s herbs. The flowers underneath the windowsill swayed in the wind, as if trying to watch her. She let out a quiet laugh. “They’d think this is strange.” she murmured. Not wrong. Just…strange. No fae elder would choose dyed cotton over fresh vines. No fae artist would trade their blossoms for stuffing.
Fae crafts were meant to return to the earth once their time is over. Jaz’s sat on shelves, hung from backpacks, clipped onto camera straps. They lasted years.
She glanced around her room. Pressed flowers next to skeins of yarn, crochet hooks beside bundles of dried lavender. Neither side out of place, and neither side was complete on its own.
Someone once told her she had very human hobbies. Someone else told her she was “too fae” to ever fit in with humans. She had smiled both times. Then she’d gone home and made pins with elements from both sides. Undying but given from nature.
The little fox was finally done. She tugged one of its ears to straighten it out. She nodded, satisfied with her work.
She reached beneath her bed, pulling out a small wooden box filled with treasures still waiting for homes. Crocheted lavender sachets, dried flower jewelry, an unfinished tea cozy. She tucked the small fox into the box before carefully shutting the lid.
One day she would hand each thing to someone she loved. And maybe no fae would call them proper. But she didn’t mind, because seeing her friends smile had always felt more important than making something traditional.
