I loved life. I spent my days fluttering around Faron woods with my pixie friends, being gently blown by soft currents of wind. Until he came. On that fateful day, I was inside a clay pot, visiting my friend the ant. He got captured too, but he made it out alive.
I was ruthlessly stuffed inside a tiny glass cage and a sealed by a cork. He shoved me into a small, dark, stuffy pouch and left me in there for a long time. I don’t know how long; it was always dark in my prison. On occasion a stray beam of sunlight would find its way to me, but by then my eyes were so accustomed to the dark that I was forced to close them and shut out my one glimpse of freedom.
Alone in that bottle, time blurred my memory of everything I had before this endless captivity. Soon, I couldn’t even remember my own name. I was nothing now. The fairy in the bottle.
Then, one day, the inevitable happened. I was pulled out of the pouch and faced my jailor in the eye. He had blonde hair and blue eyes and wore a green tunic that reminded me of my Faron woods, a place I had forgotten even existed.
He uncorked the bottle, and I felt the magic take over my limbs. Fairies are made for one purpose: to heal. But when we heal we pay the ultimate price. We give our lives for the patient. And we don’t have a choice. The instant we are near an injured man, the magic forces within us take control and we are forced to give up our life for whomever the person may be.
I would be dying for the very man who had imprisoned me.
And yet I had no choice. As I helplessly swirled around him and my life faded, he was revived. He would walk away from this and do to other fairies as he had done to me. And there was no way of stopping him.
The last thing I saw was him, turning away from the last puff of smoke that made up the last of my existence. It was as if I was invisible. Or he just didn’t care. Either way, my last look at life was the back of his green hat as he walked away. There was no one to honor my sacrifice. There was no one to watch me die.
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