Protest

Lionel Cornelius Hawthorne, Professor of Sidhean Prehistory at the Oxford college of Aetherian Archeology, was tidying a sample from his personal collection when first came the rapping at his bedroom window.

Indeed, he thought little of the gentle tap-tap-tap as his nylon brush caressed the delicate imprint of a small humanoid skeleton. The outline of each tiny bone was immaculately preserved in the palm-sized chunk of calcium carbonite, etched like fine lace against the stone.

While the faint rapping failed to catch the Professor’s attention, the sudden THUD and subsequent YIPE caused him to bolt upright.

“Oscar?” With the fossil in hand, he rushed to the window and threw the shutters wide.

Outside, floating two stories off the ground, a hundred something faeries had gathered with picket signs and banners.

“What in the-”

The slogans on display read:

FROM TINY HANDS TO ANCIENT LANDS, GIVE BACK WHAT’S OURS!

MAGIC MISPLACED IS HISTORY ERASED!

FAERIE GRAVES, NOT HUMAN DISPLAYS!

DONT GELD OUR GLAMOUR!

A faerie in a sparkling bandana held up a tiny microphone. “ATTENTION WINGLESS MAYFLY.”

“Mayfly?” The Professor muttered, taken aback.

“WE DEMAND THAT ALL FAE FOSSILS BE RETURNED TO OUR PEOPLE. IMMEDIATELY!”

The Professor scowled. “I already told you nutters at the university. Fossils belong in a museum! They belong to everyone!”

“Then why do you have them in your house?” An indignant faerie shouted. The rest clamored in agreement.

“That’s uh,” the Professor stammered, glancing at the stone in his hand. “That’s because I bought it fair and square! From a museum!”

“Boo!” The faeries cried, pelting him with small rocks and sticks.

The Professor raised his arms, attempting to defend himself. “Hey, ow!”

“Right,” said the fairy with the microphone. “BRING OUT THE HOSTAGE.”

A Welsh Pembroke Corgi held aloft by some twenty odd faeries appeared before the Professor.

“Oscar!” He gasped.

The dog, blindfolded and gagged by translucent sashes made of shimmering midnight sky, whimpered.

“NOW WE CAN DO THIS ONE OF TWO WAYS MAYFLY: SEELIE.” Another faerie, armed with an illegal scoped assault wand, flew up and aimed it at Oscar’s furry temple. “OR UNSEELIE.”

The bandana faerie lowered the microphone, grinning mischievously. “And you wouldn’t like us unseelie.” Ω