Per the website at the bottom of the image, this is by Andrey Vasilchenko whose portfolio can be seen at http://andreyportfolio.blogspot.com/.
So, I wrote a story:
At first, she thought the fairy was bringing her a gift, a beautiful golden ring. Only as the fairy brought it closer could she see the detail and as she did, her wonder grew.
Some said the fairies were evil, while others said they were good. Some said they brought gifts to those who found them. But all had said they brought pain. She'd laughed at the thought. What pain could such small, beautiful creatures of light bring? Certainly nothing that worried her, for she had survived years of training and hardship and battles. So on that rare free afternoon when their camp was near the wood, she'd slipped beyond the fortifications and sought them out.
The detail of the ring was hauntingly familiar at first. But then recognition grew as her eyes followed the patterns -- so very like the patterns her Gran had grown in her gardens each year. No regimented rows for her. Plants looped and swirled and intertwined in curious ways. Michelle had delighted in working with her. She remembered many warm spring days lying on the earth, her bare limbs baking in the sun. The sun had felt so good after the hard work of preparing the soil and planting. And even better after long hours of weeding. As a child, she'd struggled to follow the patterns, but Gran had never minded. Gran just adapted, incorporating Michelle's simple mistakes into yet another variation.
The weeding had been tedious. And painful -- Gran would slap her hands away when she was about to pull something that belonged. And Gran would tease and chide her whenever she missed a weed or slacked in her work. But Gran had also taught her. And the sprawling patterns of the many plants intricately arranged made her learn those lessons well: she knew the leaves and stems of every sprout Gran had grown in the garden, as well as all the shapes of every invading weed.
She closed her eyes and could see the rich brown soil, the tender green of the sprouts. She could almost hear her Gran calling her in for water at the end of the day, and feeding her the simple pie that was her favorite. Her mouth watered for the sweet berries and the still-warm crust. Despite the work, she'd grown to love those days and spent most of every afternoon lost in imagination as she'd carefully tended the plants. She'd imagined her own gardens and just how they would be arranged, the patterns and colors that would one day sing out, bursting with love and growth and promise. On those long days, the gardens in her mind would grow ever more intricate and -- .
There was a slight sound that drew her back. A tiny bark of malicious laughter? She shifted. The dent in her pauldron had grown deeper and where it chafed was threatening to blister. The damn pauldron would need work. Sweat mixing with blood from the small cut on her hand stung. She'd need to rewrap the hilt with a bit more padding for a while.
She opened her eyes, and the fairy was still there, and still holding the ring. But something had changed. The patterns no longer seemed warm and brown, but instead cold and gray. She could no longer see golden sun or ripe fruit. Almost frantic, she squinted and concentrated, but now could only find shadows and blood and ruined bodies in the ring. Nothing but a dismal killing field. The garden was gone.
The fairy proffered the ring. It was hers. Now and forever.
She accepted it.
And as she trod slowly back to her regiment, she wept.
