They gathered in the woods.
The circle wasn't complete. It probably wouldn't be - they were a dying breed, a dying art.
None of them were sure if the ceremony did anything - if it ever had. The elder members of the group - the ones who were dying out, the ones who were disappearing before they could share enough information to perpetuate them - claimed that it had worked, that it still worked, but the magic was dying with the belief.
The youngest walked the path of the circle, her bare feet already dirty, her old dress (torn, ruined, barely a dress) trailing along thr ground. She was the child of the forest - not even given a name - and they cared for her. The magic didn't do much for anyone else, but it meant something to her.
Her eyes closed as she dropped to her knees in the centre of the ring. The ceremony had to begin, for her if nothing else.
There were only five of them, not including her. This time next year there would be four. The child of the forest... She would die with the magic.
In some ways that was only right.
Ladygirl of a British persuasion; sometimes I actually write stories that aren't depressing (but not very often)
I write for the http://jupiter-palladium.com, which is a webcomic about superheroes. Interesting ones. Cute ones, too. Which is nice. (It's cheerier than most things I write. That's where the happy goes, guys.)