Wings of Fate: The Lost Ones

When Raven woke, she struggled to remember where she was, why her bed was uncomfortable and why she was hanging off the edge of her mattress. Trying to pull her heavy, numb arms back onto the mattress had her groaning in frustration.

She had to get moving. If she didn’t get her luggage packed and grab a cab to the airport she was going to be late. If she hadn’t already missed her flight, she thought.

Deciding it was becoming impossible to force her body to respond to simple commands Raven settled for forcing her eyes open. She stared in confusion at the unending darkness and blinked again to ensure her eyes were open. Nothing changed, however, and the blackness of a moment before remained.

She struggled for thought, realizing she was either dreaming or not in her bed at all. What she was on was bouncy, the continual movement jostled her body and, whereas she could sense their location, she could not feel her legs at all. Breathe, Raven, she instructed. Inhaling caused her to choke and cough on the cloth jammed between her lips. An attempt to pull the cloth away was met by the unsuccessful maneuvering of her hands. Yanking on each hand, tugging them away from each other, resulted in nothing more than a brief bit of space before her wrists slapped together again. Tied.

What the hell? She wondered. Lying still, Raven pulled herself together and concentrated on what was around her -- struggling for memory. Darkened memories screamed as they whirled through her mind. Shapeless bodies drifted in the shadows behind her closed eyes and nameless faces stared back at her. They whispered, those faces, and murmured, and screamed her name -- Raven, Raven, Raven!! Fighting the gag, Raven struggled for breath, desperately trying to calm down so she didn’t inadvertently smother herself.

Raven, Raven, Raven! Those voices screamed, the faces cycling in an unrecognizable rainbow of confusion and, as their voices rose in crescendo, an unidentifiable high-pitched wail rose with them. The sound rose in her mind, higher and higher until her ears ached from the sound. Unable to shield her ears, Raven gritted her teeth, waiting for it to end. She didn’t have long to wait.

As the wailing reached a point almost causing her ears to bleed, it cut off and, at the point of its finality, a metal, gray door appeared before her, flying open to reveal the agonized face of a little brown haired boy. Austin!

Raven widened her eyes behind the blindfold, staring into the blackness around her as the memories of the past week flew back. DeSolar! They went to the wise woman, they left for the river, then the Moirai came, the Moirai -- Atropos, Lachesis, and, and -- yes, Klotho. They left and were going -- where were we going? She wondered, panicked.

Can’t remember, she mumbled, can’t remember. Wherever they were headed, something happened, Raven remembered intense fear. It was the last thing she remembered -- fear.

And blackened teeth. Memories rushed back to her as she pictured the dirt path she and the Moirai sisters were on, and the two men waiting for them in the center of the road. The sounds she heard in the forest, she remembered searching for the source of the noises and almost giving up on finding anything more than animals, when she spotted the black-toothed man with the bow and arrow in his hands.

He shot me! Raven remembered, squirming in an effort to flee.

Gagged, blindfolded, and bound, Raven’s attempts were unsuccessful. As she shifted, a barn-like smell wafted across her face and coarse animal fur scratched her nose. Raven sneezed. The movement had her crying out in pain and, as soon as the moan escaped her lips, a violent rebuke stung her backside. The palm of a hand against her bruised bottom caused her to suck in a breath, resulting in another jolt of pain in her side.

Raven was very much awake.

A male voice growled at her to shut her mouth and sudden realization hit her. The bouncing, jostling, coarse-furred bed beneath her could be nothing other than a horse. But it was not Rohan, even though the blue-jean clad man probably stole him, because the silky texture of Rohan’s fur was nothing like the prickly hair scratching her cheek now. What happened after I passed out? She wondered, also wondering where the Moirai sisters went.

Had the men overpowered the three women or had the Moirai sisters fled? Or had the men murdered them in the middle of that hated dirt road? Raven moaned in agony, fearful of what new thing was to come, and renewed energy shot through her limbs as she struggled to dislodge her numb body from the horse’s back.

The man riding with her grabbed a fistful of her shirt, attempting to hold her in place but, knowing her life depended on escape, Raven fought. It was difficult, being trussed up like she was, to pull away from the horse. Being unable to feel her legs didn’t help but she ignored the sensation. Pushing her fisted hands together against the side of the horse, Raven shoved herself backwards until there was enough leeway to leverage her elbows against the beasts’ back.

Growling, the man shoved her face into his lap, almost crushing her nose against his thigh. “I will slit your throat right now if you move one more inch.”

Raven figured he would be killing her anyway, but not before whatever worse thing he planned. The movements she made in order to become mobile brought her bound hands to her chest. Raven moved fast, inching her fingers close to her lips so she could yank the offending gag out of her mouth. As soon as the material squeezed over her bottom lip, Raven nuzzled her face into his thigh, chomping into the tender skin with as many teeth as she could sink in.

The man bellowed and wrenched away from her. Raven’s teeth snapped together as the blue jean material slipped out of her grasp. Through the dirt and sweat she may have inadvertently gotten on her tongue, Raven smiled in brief triumph. The glory of the moment was dispelled as the man, in his enthusiasm to be away from her biting teeth, yanked on the horse’s reins. The horse bellowed in return, rearing up and, in one fluid motion, dumped both riders.

She forgot about the arrow. Instead of falling on her wounded side when Raven hit the ground, she landed on her back. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs and sent streaks of pain shooting through her body, stunning her. As she curled her limbs inward, her stomach muscles clenched against the wound, and she groaned against the burning pain.

When the first hoof struck the ground so near to her face she could hear the iron shod whistling in the air, Raven tucked her head -- doing her best to cover her head in protection against the stomping hooves rattling the ground. Unable to see where the horse was, she listened for its steps and frantically yanked her knees towards her chin. Her hair whipped over her face as a hoof kicked by.

Raven screamed.

More hooves echoed around her cradled body, stomping into the ground, as a man shouted at it. The heavy weight of a man’s body fell onto her. One hand covered both of hers where they shielded her head, and he pulled her tight against his stomach, wrapping his other hand around her waist and legs to hold her in place. As the wild horse continued bellowing, the man held her tight, growling, “hold still.”

She had, for some reason, assumed they rode alone, but it soon became apparent they were accompanied by a team of men. The whispered voice of the man shielding her was identical to the man she rode with. Other men alternated between cajoling and yelling at the horse to bring it to heel.

The man covering her lifted his head to watch the maneuvering of his partners and to keep an eye on the deadly sharp hooves prancing around Raven’s head and, each time the ground trembled, she buried her body further into his chest -- more terrified of the horse, now, than her attacker.

It was all over in a manner of moments but, in Raven’s mind, the struggle stretched on for an hour. The horse’s heavy breathing snorted through the grass, whistling in an effort to wheeze air into its lungs, striving to slow its heart. It was a mirror to Raven’s actions where she lay curled in a fetal position on the ground. As soon as the horse was brought under control and all four hooves steadily remained on the ground, the attacker cradling her moved away. The sudden isolation left her bereft.

They hadn’t released her binds, not that she expected anything less, and so she remained on the ground tied and blindfolded. Sweet air, humid as it was, slipped through her mouth unfettered by the cloth she ripped free. Rain was coming soon; the air was weighed down as though being crushed by a pile of mountain stone. The heat of it curled around her as she listened to the men’s movements, trying to judge where each man stood.

Not that she was planning a new escape, now she knew there was not one but half a dozen men to escape from, but because knowing where they were made her feel less alone. Citrus scented blades of grass tickled her nose, and the corner of her mouth, and she blew it away only to have it bounce back.

“Logan, can ye not keep the wee thing still? She isna much to look at, an’ you bein’ one of the Queen’s toughest men. How’d you be lettin’ her ge’ one over on you, eh?” a nasally voice, somewhere several feet behind Raven’s head, asked.

Raven clung to this name. Logan. Bastard he may be, but he was no longer a nameless stranger. She knew someone now, even if he attacked her.

When he curled against her on the ground, his stomach and chest was a tight, flat surface of rigidity, and she automatically pictured his muscular frame. His hand more than covered her two hands, the wide fingers grasping hers, and prominent arm muscles pressed against her arms and waist. Her mind provided the rest of the picture, adding darkness and beauty to the pirate-like representation imagination provided for her. Logan, sight unseen, was tough enough to tear her in half if he so chose.

But he protected her. Why? She wondered.

“The bitch bit me.” Logan announced. His voice was uncomplaining. He didn’t whine about the fact, nor try to build up excuses for why she bested him off his horse, and he didn’t sound angry. His voice rumbled in a way that was his own intentional inflection, with an answer that was simply an answer.

Raven imagined he stared at her on the ground. She imagined his eyes were a deep, turbulent brown, watching her, bored, from where he stood. The other men laughed and she tried to count the number of voices. Two men laughed behind her, another one a bit away and almost impossible to hear, and another several feet ahead of her. Assuming Logan himself wasn’t laughing, as well; Raven assumed there were at least five men.

Taking me where?

“Och, you dinna like to be bit then, Logan? Me? I like a bit of sauce with my women if ye ken what I mean? Like ’em biting, scratching, and meowing for more!” he laughed at his joke, and others joined in.

“Thas’ true, Logan, an’ maybe the lady was just inviting you to rough her up a bit, eh? Maybe she likes a man who can grab her from behind, tangle his fingers in her hair, and make love to her mouth. Maybe the lady would like us to show you how it’s to be done, eh?” the men rolled with laughter.

Raven squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to throw up. No, she did not want them to show Logan how it was done. It was clear the man had no idea what a lady would like, judging by his brief description of rutting-know-how, and it was apparent he spent his entire life screwing livestock. Clamping her lips over the torrent of words she badly wanted to launch in his direction, Raven tamped down on the urge to insult his intelligence, experience, and manhood.

The ground beneath her face vibrated under the impact of movement and the swish of grass against boots made Raven stiffen. The footsteps moved closer, pausing behind her. No one spoke a word or moved in that moment, as though waiting.

Raven waited, too.

The shadow of a man fell across her, blocking both the sunlight’s warmth and the current of breeze flowing over her back. The longer the shadow remained, the harder Raven’s heart pounded -- increasing until she was sure the men watching could hear it as well. And still the man stood over her.

“What say ye, lady?” the shadow said, his voice slithering over her skin like the roughened finger he slid over her arm.

“Don’t touch me!” she barked, jerking away from his finger. The men laughed, ribbing their unsuccessful comrade.

“Look here little girl,” the shadow rasped, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head backwards. “If I tell ye to ley there all quiet like, ye’ll be doin it that a way!”

Raven attempted to dislodge his fingers from her hair. His fist pulled, stretching her scalp until several strands ripped loose. Forcing herself not to be stymied by the binding around her wrists, Raven grabbed at his hand, digging into the flesh with her fingernails. The harder she pressed her nails, the harder he pulled on her hair but she refused to let go. If they wanted to kill her, she would at least go down fighting.

“Let go!” she yelled, staring into the black blindfold covering her face, both wishing and dreading to see what stood around her.

The shadow released her hair as thought the touch were like fire against his skin. Raven had enough time to suck in a relieved breath before his booted foot slammed into the back of her head. Her head exploded with pain and she bit her lip trying to hold back a wounded moan.

“Hey!” the familiar voice of Logan echoed around her, barely discernable over the ringing in her ears. Certain that had she not been blindfolded, blackness would still be all she could see, Raven squeezed her eyes shut again and tried to calm the sudden nausea roiling through her stomach.

“What ye go’n to do Logan, you go’n to hit me?” the shadow bellowed -- his voice fading as he turned away from her. The ground shook beneath his heavy boots as he moved away. “Well? Are ye?” he continued. Raven tried to imagine the scene around her but, not knowing where she was or how many men were there, failed to picture it.

Logan’s voice rose against him. “The woman told you to leave her alone, leave her alone!”

“Och, and why do ye care what she wants, eh Logan? She’s just a stupid woman.” he yelled back, his stomping feet returning to where she lay. The sudden ring of metal against metal interrupted the cacophony of yelling, the sound milling over her head where the shadow stood again. The sound was familiar to her, that metallic ring of swords being whipped into readiness, and Raven was certain the shadow stood over her with a blade in his fist.

“If you kill her we are all dead!” Logan bellowed. His voice resonated across the ground, seeming to echo into the silence that fell over the group. “The Queen said to bring the woman alive,” he said, his voice hoarse, “if we fail in that, we are all dead.”

His eyes were riveted to the beautiful woman crumpled in the grass. Tall green stalks waved around her, highlighting both the plainness of her clothing and the sheer curtain of blonde hair billowing about her. She was quiet now, not arguing as she did before, or weeping as he expected.

It surprised him, the lack of weeping.

From the beginning of the soldier’s attack on her and the white women, the woman had not pleaded for her life -- had not shed a single tear for their abuse of her. Instead she fought back, in a constant struggle to be free of their hold on her.

It was obvious she was unfamiliar with the Sorenge soldiers. The Queen’s men would never give up. Should the woman manage to escape, more soldiers would come for her. Had she been familiar with the men, knowing their ways, she would already have given up. Should they have removed her blindfold, he would have been able to see the shadow of defeat in her eyes. Even from the distance he constantly kept between himself and their party.

Three days ago he saw the soldiers galloping over the land, moving farther and farther away from the Queen’s castle, in an apparent purposeful mission. Curious, he followed on his horse as they moved ever farther away from the castle, charging through miles of flatlands and forest until they were almost at the edge of Camelion land. Beyond the edge lay the Benklandu Ocean.

He began to wonder if that was where the men headed -- had they defected against the Queen? Or did they mean to cross the ocean in order to pay a visit to King Nash? Or, more likely, Lord Kasril? But, instead of riding through to the Benklandu, the men stopped. Six of the soldiers stayed behind and he ignored them, inching through the trees in a wide arch around them, in favor of following the three who continued.

The men stopped at the edge of a well-worn dirt path, waiting. And he lingered with them, for hours, wondering what it was they were waiting for. It wasn’t until mid-day when the sudden sound of hooves, beating against the dirt, reached his ears. Half a dozen riders or less, he assumed, by the sound. When the four women came abreast of a curvature in the road, he sucked in a painful breath.

Knowing, at once, why the Queen’s men waited.

After shooting the woman, two of the soldiers launched an attack on the other three who, curiously, were each garbed in some type of white uniform. The third soldier bound and gagged the unconscious injured woman, then broke the arrow puncturing her side, and tossed her over his horse. Leaving the three white women lying in the road, the soldiers delayed no further in leaving with their cargo.

He turned back to the three women, surprised to find them on their feet once more, running to their horses as though they suffered no great injury. As one they leapt onto their horses and, turning in the direction of the soldiers, pursued.

There were plenty of opportunities for the three women to attack the soldiers, if they thought they could best so many, but the women held back. He, himself, followed sedately. Remaining hidden within the shadows of the forest, he kept track of both the white women and the victim still within the clutches of the soldiers.

Now he shifted his eyes away from the huddle of white hiding within the trees and back to the injured woman, and wondered for the hundredth time why the Queen would want her. The Queen Mother, once beautiful and well-liked, had gone crazy. She was, in every way, unstable. If she specifically requested this woman, a woman he had never seen before and therefore stranger to these lands, then there was only one explanation for it.

To see her dead.

“We cannot just leave her to her fate, Atropos!” Klotho growled, her eyes never leaving the mortal woman’s anguished face.

Atropos laughed in a cold voice. “To her fate, sister? We are all of us being left to our fate!”

“Yes, but we need her!” Klotho argued, at last turning to her fuming sister. Atropos’ eyes were glued to Raven where she lay in the grass waiting for the soldier to decide whether to murder her there in the green fields of Camelion -- or not.

“He will not kill her, sister, calm yourself.” She whispered, praying she was correct. It was a stretch to conclude such a thing and Atropos was no where near certain she was correct. Raven’s involvement in the war was imperative.

Either they would win with her, or they would lose without her.

The prophecy required the mortal woman’s involvement. Reference to her was reflected over, and over again, and they read the words a million times in an effort to define its meaning. It was not as simple as saying yes they would win or yes they would lose. There were a hundred different variables to affect the outcome of their battle against the Queen Mother.

The prophecy included many forked branches requiring one of two outcomes for each. It began with the birth of the Queen Mother. It was prophesized that should the Queen Mother remain unaltered in her course on DeSolar, the inhabitants of the planet would remain safe and placid. The future of the planet would remain strong and true, and Atropos and her sisters would retain their powers.

But, along the second fork lay the second possibility the Queen Mother would become tainted -- angered and fueled by hatred and greed, she would amass an army against the DeSolar civilians -- imagining horrors and power-stealing greed where there was none. And should the second fork be the true fork, the Queen would destroy the planet.

But along that branch, which turned out to be the true one, was another forked prophecy. That prophecy included the mention of the one who could save DeSolar and the gods.

Atropos and her family watched and waited to see what would befall the Queen Mother. They were present at her birth, gazed on at the contented glow of both loving mother and adoring father as they swaddled the red-headed Princess in her first blanket. They kissed the wrinkled forehead of the babe, inferring upon her great strength of will and compassion for her fellow man.

Atropos could still recall the cooing giggle of the Princess as she, when an hour old, stared up at the three Moirai sisters standing over her cradle.

She and her sisters came back on the child’s third birthday, pleased with the bouncing cheer of one so small, and the riveting intelligence glowing from the Princess’ green eyes. The toddler brought to them the small toys named her favorites -- a palm-sized wooden horse her father carved for her, a plump, smiling baby doll her mother chose for her, and a small cloth container holding grasshoppers she caught.

They returned on the Princess’ ninth birthday, ever watchful, ever mindful of the prophecy and that something would come to change the precocious little girl. But on her ninth birthday there was no evidence of foulness within her soul, no outward expression of anger or hatred, and she remained thusly, throughout their many visits, until that of her nineteenth.

The green eyes, which had sparkled with mischievous laughter, now held darkening shadows. Thoughts she would neither speak of nor convey hovered like a disease rippling through her body just as a stone in water causes small waves of discontent.

They spoke with the Princess’ parents, asking questions and trying to understand what may have happened, but they could learn nothing more than that the child spent much of her time alone. They said their daughter would sit and stare through a window, lost in thought, and there were times when she would disappear into the forest for hours -- only to emerge with a faint glow in her cheeks and the smoldering flame of some terrible gleam in her eyes.

Though their daughter did not behave in anyway unkind toward them, they sensed the change, and were frightened of her.

When Atropos and her sisters returned to Olympus, they sat for hours with Zeus and Themis, pouring over the prophecy and acknowledged they were never to know what brought about the change in the Princess.

Moving forward with the acceptance that she would follow along the path of her insanity, the search for the prophetic black bird was initiated. It took a long time to find Raven -- a very long time.

By the time the Princess’ twenty-seventh birthday came, her parents both died in mysterious accidents, and she (now referring to herself as Queen Mother) took a husband, and took control of the Kingdom of Camelion where she resided in a castle under constant renovation to become bigger and grander than any other on the planet.

It did not take long for a circulation of rumors to pervade the country side, allowing all who would listen, to know the Queen Mother was bringing war to all who would not swear fealty to her. It was not long before the ruler of DeSolar, Gregory Dumais, took up arms against the Queen Mother, only to be found murdered in his own bed.

It was not long, even further still, before the Queen Mother’s own husband disappeared, murdered and thrown into the ocean on Camelion’s border. No, it had not been long.

Once the wheels of prophecy began to churn, too many things began spinning and weaving the tale of what was to come -- at so fast a pace she and her sisters struggled to stay ahead of the events.

Raven was necessary in the prophecy and was desperately sought after in an attempt by the gods to reassume their role in life. Too many things were hinged to this one thing. Were they able to bring the mortal to Olympus and guard her day and night in protection from the Queen Mother, things would be much, much easier for the Moirai. If they could use their powers to snuff out the dozen lives standing guard over the mortal in the field before them, things would be easier.

If they could, in any way, do anything to help Raven other than bringing her to DeSolar, it would be easier. But they could not help.

Indeed, many gods argued against bringing the mortal to DeSolar to begin with. What if, by bringing her here, you are initiating our destruction? They argued. Did they bring Raven to DeSolar because she was mentioned in the prophecy, or was she mentioned in the prophecy because they brought her to DeSolar? Atropos shook her head, forcing the confusion away.

There was no way of knowing which was the product of which.

Others doubted Raven was the prophetic black bird -- they wanted explanations, proof, of why Raven was the one. She knew Raven was the one. Knowing this one thing, Atropos could do nothing but visualize the prophetic branches and hold her breath as each new turn came to pass. If she could stay ahead of the branches, then perhaps they would survive.

Mentally running her finger along the many circuited lines depicting the Tree of Prophecy, Atropos recalled the branches following the Queen’s insanity. Two branches lifted up and away from that singular path: one, the black bird would not be found -- the world would fall into ruin and the gods would be enveloped by a darkness they never before knew; two, she would be found in time to defeat the Queen Mother.

Alone.

Atropos and her family discussed, at length, the fact that Raven would be required to defeat the Queen by herself with no assistance from them. Raven was unschooled in battle, and well they knew it. Atropos discussed the problem with her parents, trying to find the best, allowable options for training Raven in her quest.

In the end they got nowhere, it was written that the defeat of the Queen Mother was Raven’s fate, and no identifiable method was provided to explain how this feat was supposed to be accomplished.

But at least they found her. Along the branch of Raven’s arrival, ran another forked prophecy, as there were many things affected by her arrival, and many things to affect her success. Either Raven would succeed or she would fail. Should she succeed against the Queen -- well, it would only be half the battle. Should she fail, it would be as though she never came.

And the gods would be no more.

Since so many branches in the prophecy included Raven’s name, Atropos was putting a lot of faith in the assumption she would live long enough to fulfill at least one of those branches. There was no guarantee it would work out that way. Things were quickly showing themselves to be uncontrollable.

Atropos met her sister’s gaze once more. “You know what Themis said -- we must not interfere.”

“Oh I remember alright,” Klotho replied, turning her head slightly to meet her sister’s look directly. “I am also remembering what Zeus told us.”

“Bring her back alive.” Lachesis provided.

Atropos glanced into the lavender eyes that were an exact replica of their mother’s eyes, and then turned back to the glinting metal hovering over Raven’s head. “We wait.”