Introducing "The Mending Fern"

my forthcoming fantasy novella and its heroine

“Luthien” by rittareart on DeviantArt

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Dear readers,

I’m writing a new fantasy novella! It’s an idea that seemed to take me by the hand and lead me right into an oddly familiar, misty land of ancient memory before I even had the chance to decide whether I wanted to go or not.

Stories have a way of arriving uninvited like that.

And so, The Mending Fern (at least, that’s what I’m calling it now) found me in pieces.

First, it came as a short story. Then, my protagonist insisted there was more to tell.

Mairead is a character who was birthed out of some harrowing experiences that left me weary, lost, and disillusioned with the world. And yet, she’s turning out to be the strongest and most unshakable woman I’ve ever written. (I hope I’m turning out similarly.)

My stories tend to feel quiet—they focus on the beauty of the small things (the extraordinary within the ordinary). Most of my characters are soft, naturally passive people—they’ve often been the hesitant dreamers, the Enneagram Nines, the reluctant heroes.

But as I’ve gotten to know Mairead, I’ve realized how different she is. Her lionhearted spirit is anything but hesitant. And yet, she’s a walking contradiction. She’s the calm before the storm, and she’s the storm itself. The distracted muse. The healer in desperate need of healing. (Writing her story has been very healing for me.)

Because of how personal this story is, I don’t have any hopes for it to become anything near a literary triumph—no, this one is just for me and my friends. So, I want to share Mairead’s tale with you here at Stellify soon.

Here’s a short snippet of it, in the meantime—I’d love to hear your thoughts.

peace,
Ryan

I sit atop the emerald hill that once belonged to me. We Aos Sí—faerie folk, dwellers of the mounds—have never been known for carelessness when it comes to the keeping of our homes. And yet, the dead grass that holds me above the empty rooms I abode for the first one-hundred years of my immortal life whispers the truth.

This land has been betrayed. Whether by mortal blood or immortal sorrow, I cannot say.

Letting my hand linger on the gnarled ash tree beside me, I stand. My indigo sleeve flaring far past my wrist drapes along the familiar, ancient bark. Will my spirit ever find its way to this wood, a second home, one not bound to the sealed door of the otherworld?

I stand over my old faerie mound, the other sleeping hills spread out below me. In the dusk, I can almost make out the faces of those who once called this place their home—I envision them walking between mounds, then, with the crescent moon’s reflection just beyond them, heading straight toward our unending sea.

But the world is quiet now, save the song of distant passerines riding the wind toward me. My hair—obsidian and wild—lifts with the breeze, loose strands brushing against my narrowed, knitted brow. Drenched in the scent of old wood and rusted keys, the air is thick with decay and memory. For at least a thousand paces, I am the only breathing being.

Let the wind have me and all of my hollowness; let it name me—no one else will.

I am moonlight. I am driftwood. I am relinquished.

Sometimes, the wind still carries their voices to me, but I cannot tell if they echo from the past or try to reach me from the other side. I do not try to distinguish the truth…spoken truth cannot change what has already come to pass.

My inheritance is this very land, held by a hoax.

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Writing is my labor of love, one that takes time, energy, and resources. If my words resonate with you and you’d like to support my work, "buying me a coffee" is a small but deeply appreciated way to help me keep creating!

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