It starts slowly, almost unnoticeable. A few faeries here and there get a cold; a flower or two begins to wilt. Had she been paying better attention – had they all been paying better attention – to that outside world, maybe they would have been prepared. But they didn't think to trifle themselves with human matters, and that became their downfall.
A few years pass, and suddenly their frothy little fairy hideaway isn't so green anymore; there's an unmistakable chill. Plants are shivering, wasting away. More and more faeries are succumbing to an unknowable, incurable disease. It snows in fairyland for the first time anyone can remember.
That's when Death starts to flex his bony fingers throughout their world.
Now it's so cold even the winter faeries can't survive. As far as she knows, she's the last tinker fairy left – maybe the last fairy to exist at all. She stays curled up in her tree, counting down the minutes until she, too, quits this wretched existence.
"I believe in faeries," she whispers. "I do." It convinces no one.
Man's progress proves to be the death of her kind.
A/N: As a side note, I'm using this advent calender to get back into the practice of writing for the Peter Pan fandom. The goal is to be able to pick back up on my WIP by the end of December.