The characters belong to Eoin Colfer.

A Certain Feisty Fairy

He ignored the cold; the snow seeping into his boots; the astonishment of his companions. All he could see was her: her eyes, her courage, his anguish at nearly losing her. And he knew.

There is no-one like her. And didn't worry about what hyphenation did to the word count.

I must tell her how I feel, no matter what.

Giving in to obsession, he faced her.

'I know this is neither the time nor the place, but I cannot repress my feelings for you any longer.' Twenty words exactly is auspicious. He ignored her astonished stare and the tension in her lithe frame.

'I know I'm a human,' he murmured, as he realised how entrancing her hair was in the Arctic blast, 'and you have every possible reason to doubt my motives. I can only ask that you don't hate me for …' He wisely moved out of range before the compulsion forced the words from his dry lips, '… my undying devotion to you.'

'Fowl,' she growled, 'you do realise I'm three hundred and sixty-seven years old?'

Three hundred and sixty-seven? A prime number? Three, six, seven – a total of sixteen? Four squared?

Dear heavens!

He hated her!

A/N: It only said a certain feisty fairy, and I can't believe he's killed her off!