The autumn comes quickly, like a sharp, short shock that stuns the leaves into their colors.
This is what comes about when the fairies are riled. For, of course, the turning of such things can only come from the fairies’ breath upon each leaf. This time, they do it with a vengeance. And this time, it is a statement—this stark turning of the season.
It is the lack of care, the lack of kindness, the lack of grace that causes the fairies their grief. Destruction plays its hand, with several more up its sleeve. Stewards turn their back on craft and wonder. The fairies are not used to such rebellion. It is against their natures as much as it is against the nature of the world itself. The fairies, they do not take to it kindly.
It is we who bear witness to the chaos of their frustration; their cold, abrupt obliteration.
And we are not alone.
Leaves know, too; they know that chaos blows on the winds. They feel the fairies breathe their harsh breath on the backs of their being. And for a moment they are angry, for they can do nothing to change their lot.
But then the leaves stir. They slip away with delicate grace. And that is their final word on the matter.