Epilogue
I was six years old when the Fae came to our world. They were menaces. They flaunted their incredible powers by destroying cities. They terrorized people. Devastated our farmlands. What food they didn’t take, they destroyed.
Kidnapped our women.
Thousands of them.
My mother included.
Then they disappeared.
It took years to rebuild and recover from their attack. And as time passed with no reappearance, people felt safe again. Perhaps they wouldn’t come back? The military had a permanent base set up for miles around the portal that the fae had failed to remove upon their departure. It just stood there, unchanged. The photographs of it made it look as if it were a pool of thick, purple, watery goo-like substance. Except it was vertical, half a mile long, and no thicker than a fingernail.
You couldn’t touch it - those who did perished. To the land of the fae, I supposed, though no one knew for sure. Those who disappeared never returned.
That’s why the military set up a perimeter and camp around it. Not only to protect us if the fae ever did return, but also to stop people from voluntarily disappearing through the pool, which they did. In the hundreds. The Cult of the Fae, as they called themselves. They had formeda line and ran for it. The army blocked many, though others got through. But that was years ago.
Now, entrance to the location of the portal is impossible to access.
Five whole years passed with nothing. Not a single sighting. We were just beginning to live life as we had before. We accepted what had happened, and that we would never see our loved ones again. We healed as best as we could and moved on.
Until they came back.
I was 11.
A legion of over a hundred fae came through. The portal had been bubbling for a few days, as if heated over a stove. The military alerted the government. Journalists lined up at the gates, trying to catch videos of the unusual activity. Rumours circulated, as they do. Was the portal finally disappearing?
No.
Instead, they came back.
They marched through wearing their unusual, pitch-black armour and face-covering helmets with spikes and horns adorned.
Their leader, dressed all in white, addressed our soldiers.
A few of the sneakier journalists captured it live. I watched from my living room with my father.
They wanted women. Five thousand of them, to be exact, aged between 15 and 35 years old.
Once every five years, they would come and collect their bounty.
If we didn’t comply, they would take us by force. They would burn cities to the ground, reduce farmlands to ashes, and enslave the entire human race. They would farmus.
We had seven days to decide.
The leaders of our world, government officials and politicians who cared for no one but themselves, got together and decided our fate for all of us. They would agree to the terms. According to them, five thousand women every five years wasn’t much of an ask. They reminded us of population control and the footprints we leave on our planet. It was for the greater good.
The governments established a lottery. Every woman within the age requirement would have their name put into the lottery once every five years. There would be no exceptions. The draw would name those selected as the Chosen.
With two days until the deadline, they drew the lottery.
I was too young to be considered at this time, but my heart raced as name after name after name was called forth. They had an entire TV channel dedicated to naming the Chosen. That’s how most of us learned of them. However, they sent the Chosen text messages.
Many ran. They were all caught. When hundreds committed suicide rather than accept their fates, the governments had no choice but to redraw. More lives fell apart.
On the seventh day, the fae returned. The women were already there, lined up by the portal, awaiting their uncertain futures. The fae jeered as the women cowered, then herded the Chosen toward the portal. One byone, they disappeared from our world. The fae followed, leaving behind a subtle reminder.
Five years.
