Fairy Magic Quotes

“Fairy magic is present in every ray of sunlight and each joyful moment. Embrace the living essence of nature.”
― Amy Leigh Mercree, Joyful Living: 101 Ways to Transform Your Spirit and Revitalize Your Life

“Toss me one of your pencils!"
"Have you gone mad?" I cried even as I removed the pencil from my cloak pocket and threw it at his head.
It began to transform before it even reached him, elongating and flashing through the shadows--- a sword. I regretted aiming for his head then, but Wendell caught it with the grace of a trained swordsman, which of course he was.
Watching Wendell with a sword is like watching a bird leap from a branch--- there is something thoughtless about it, innate. One has the sense that he is less himself without a sword, that wielding it returns him to the element most natural to him.
He drove the sword into the nearest sheerie, and before it had fallen he had spun round to slash at the one behind him, slicing it open like overripe fruit. The other three fell just as easily.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde’s Map of the Otherlands

“This queen seems no better." He came close to me, looking me up and down as a glint of mischief came into his eyes. "But mortals can be entertaining. And they do not break as easily as some think."
Wendell's expression went from one of bemusement to towering fury with such abruptness that both Taran and I fell back a step; Taran afterwards looked annoyed as a cat following a moment of gracelessness. There came a terrible rumbling sound, coupled with that same wet rustling with which I am all too familiar, as if the attentive oaks were uprooting themselves en masse and lumbering in our direction.
"You are speaking to a queen of Faerie," Wendell said, and it seemed as if the rustling leaves were in his voice.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“Tinker Bell, meanwhile, was drifting with purpose up to the highest leafy branches of the jungle. Her light glowed warmly off the leaves below, the droplets seeping off their thick veins, the sweet sap running down the trunks of the trees. It made the whole clearing look...
Well, like it was touched by fairies, Wendy thought with a smile.
All her life she had looked for fairies in more mundane places, experiencing a rush of hope and warmth whenever a scene even palely imitated the one before here now. Candles at Christmas, fireflies in the park, flickering lamps in teahouses. The sparkling leaded glass windows of a sweets shop on winter afternoons when dusk came at four. A febrile, glowing crisscross of threads on a rotten log her cousin had once shown her out in the country: fox fire, magical mushrooms.
And here it was, for real! Tinker Bell was performing what appeared to be a slow and majestic dance. First, she moved to specific points in the air around her, perhaps north, south, east, and west, twirling a little at each stop. Then she flew back to the center and made a strange bowing motion, keeping her tiny feet daintily together and putting her arms out gracefully like a swan. As she completed each movement, fairy dust fell from her wings in glittering, languorous trails, hanging in the air just long enough to form shapes. She started the dance over again, faster this time.
And again even faster. Her trail of sparkles almost resolved into a picture, crisscrossed lines constantly flowing slowly down like drips of luminous paint.
Wendy felt a bit like John, overwhelmed with a desire to try to reduce and explain and thereby translate the magic. But she also felt a lot like Michael, with an almost overwhelming urge to break free from her hiding place and see it up close, to feel the sparkles on her nose, to run a hand through the sigils not for the purpose of destruction but form a hapless, joyful desire to be part of it all.”
― Liz Braswell, Straight On Till Morning

“Now, Shadow has never been fond of clothing, but he seemed to sense the importance of this particular imposition on his dignity, and held still while Wendell measured and draped him in iterations of what became a fine coat. It was a soft, velvety black, embroidered with a kingly amount of silver, which Wendell somehow made from a handful of the silver buttons I had found. He had decided to make Shadow intimidating--- to which I did not object, knowing this would lessen the dog's embarrassment--- and so he had taken tendrils of fog and attached them to the cloak like billowing ribbons, so that Shadow seemed to carry a mist with him everywhere like the spectral beast that he is. Together with the glitter of the silver, the effect was--- well, mythic.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“The resulting garment was black, of course. But it was like no fabric I'd ever seen before, liquid and faintly glimmering. He had ordered each of his guardians to donate several of their feathers, and these he had woven into the material. They were not visible exactly, except as a suggestion of wings when the cloak caught the wind. It was a garment that needed no adornment, for it was like something snipped out of a dream, and he gave it none, apart from the row of buttons. I would have expected him to pick the finest of those I had gathered, but instead he chose a selection that would represent all the regions of his realm: silver from the Weeping Mines and the lower tributary of the Tromlu River; carved oak from the antlers of one of the hag-headed deer; colored marble from the Blue Hooks. The effect was more impressive than if he had adorned himself in jewels, for together the buttons possessed an enchantment that made strange images flit through my mind when I looked upon them, memories of places I'd never seen. A shadowy grove around a narrow standing stone; a flash of mist-shrouded water tumbling down a sheer cliff.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales