Wings of Fate: The Lost Ones

A pervading cloak of mildew and grime hung above them like a damp cloud, turning the stone room into an indoor swampland without the swamp. Many levels below the ground, heat from the summer sun was unable to provide warmth and, instead, the stone was covered in a slight mist of chilly dew.

Whether it was day or night, Ares didn’t know as there were no windows in their cell. He and Austin sat, freezing, on a stone floor strewn with matted straw and decayed feces, for hours -- possibly days.

After being tossed into the dark prison, he and Austin were left alone to wonder what would come next. The Sorenge soldiers were not known for their gentility and their leader, the Queen Mother, was not known for her leniency. The fact that the soldiers believed Austin to be the Queen’s runaway son and still threw the boy in the cell with him -- did not sit well with Ares. What did the woman have planned?

His involvement with Austin’s protection came with specific instructions -- to protect the boy and get him to safety until Ares’ father called for him. Once he was needed, the boy would fall under the protection of others, but for now -- he was Ares’ responsibility. What he had not realized, was the extent of damage to his powers on DeSolar. What he assumed would be an easy assignment, the protection of a ten-year old boy was no mean feat for him, just became something completely different.

His abilities went hand-in-hand with his powers. No powers -- no abilities.

Since he approached the situation as any other, with the expectation of success, they were now stuck, in a cell, waiting for the soldiers to return. Ares was not certain if he was looking forward to their return, or dreading it.

After what seemed an unreasonable amount of time, a tray with one palm-size slice of stale bread, along with a small tin platter of water, was slid beneath the iron door. Hours later, a second tray arrived. Days, probably, Ares thought.

Whoever brought the trays moved on silent feet through the rush of straw covering the flooring beyond the cell bars, and no matter what Ares said to the bringer of food, there was never a response.

He gave both slices of bread to the boy.

It was impossible not to lie on the diseased floor while they slept but he instructed Austin to not lean against the freezing walls. It would do them no good to lose their body heat to the castle walls. Every other hour or so the boy joined him for a thirty minute walk around the perimeter of their cell -- an action that took approximately eight steps from one corner to the next -- in order to engender additional body heat and to keep their muscles from atrophying.

When not walking or sleeping, the boy was quiet, with the occasional question about their predicament or about Bael. Ares saw the elf bleeding out on the grass, though the soldiers carried Bael to the castle and so his body, at least, was somewhere within the confines of the walls. He was possibly alive, in another cell, but most likely he was dead.

Bael lost a lot of blood and without a healer there would be no way to survive such a fatal wound. But he didn’t tell Austin that, Ares simply told the boy he didn’t know where Bael was. And so Austin kept asking.

Their predicament was another story but his response was still the same -- he didn’t know. In fact, Ares spent every silent moment focusing his thoughts on Isis, silently calling her name in hopes she may latch onto his mental plea. Usually it worked and Isis would appear before him in her typical lack of ceremonial splendor.

As the messenger for his mother, Isis possessed an uncanny ability to hear her name being said -- no matter how low the whisper. He knew her all his life and it was easy to picture her face before him. He closed his eyes and imagined her small gray eyes staring back him, blinking as she listened. Isis, he intoned, without moving his lips, using all his inner might to convey her name into the silence around them. Please hear me.

They were dead if she didn’t hear him.

Leaping flame jumped in a flickering shadow against the three silvery stone walls he could see. Four black brackets were nailed, placed horizontally with several feet of space between each, into the stone. Each held a clump of dried bark twisted and twined together with vines, and each burned with grease and flame, providing the only illumination for the room. Had he not been able to see the burning pitches he would still have known the flames hovered near for the scent of melting grease and acrid smoke hung over his head like a cloak.

The wall before him stretched several feet beyond the two outside brackets to stone corners draped in shifting shadows. He could make out the grooves between the stones -- parallel marks left behind by the builders, detailing horizontal and vertical indentations as though the walls were made of brick instead of stone. It was a fashionable thing to do, and an expensive one, and few homes held the mark.

Bael sighed in relief, knowing he was somewhere within the castle of his friend Lord Belkin. He lay flat on icy slab, hovering several feet above the ground. His muscles ached with disuse and, though he tried to shift away from the pervading chill, he found he could not move.

Bandages were wrapped tight around his neck, almost cutting off his breath and limiting his ability to swallow. How long have I been here? He wondered, surprised he was alive. He blinked rapidly to dispel the lingering desire to return to sleep.

Bending his toes, Bael began an automatic system reboot with his muscles, attempting to bring them back to life one small movement at a time. He straightened his toes. If the soldiers took over Lord Belkin’s castle, there was no telling how he was going to get out. He bent his toes. And what about Austin and Ares? Where were they within the castle? Or were they here at all? He straightened his toes and turned his feet outward.

If they took Austin and Ares someplace else, how would he ever know where that was? Atropos instructed him to stay with Austin. He turned his feet inward. He was supposed to protect the boy until his part in the prophecy could be fulfilled. He turned his feet outward. If they kept him alive, though he could discern no true reason for why they did such a thing, then surely the soldiers would not have murdered Austin.

He turned his feet inward and bent his right knee so there were a few inches of space between his knee and the slab. Ares -- well, they could not kill Ares no matter how they tried. Bael was less worried about him.

Without turning his head, Bael shifted his eyes around the room again, searching for any detail giving evidence as to where exactly he was in the castle. He lowered his right knee and raised his left knee in the same manner. There were no windows in the room and the door was somewhere beyond his line of sight. Expelling a heavy breath, he lowered his left knee and raised his right again.

As soon as he could get going, he would find a way to get to Austin.

“Even should you get your joints all a-proper there is no way out of this room, young man.”

Bael froze. The hoarse croaking came from somewhere out of his sight. If there was someone in the room with him, why did they remain silent while he worked up energy? Perhaps another prisoner, Bael thought, wondering if he awoke in a cell.

The flames continued to shift along the walls, lighting only a small portion of the room and, still unable to move his neck, Bael could not see what stood behind him. After a few moments of silence, the thought crossed his mind that he imagined the voice, imagined the words -- or it was his conscience forcing him to think it through carefully. Expelling a pent-up breath, Bael lowered his right knee and lifted his right arm.

The old voice cackled. The sound reverberated off the stone walls -- matching the eerie leaping of the flames as though the fire laughed at him. This time, instead of the sounds fading into nothingness, the voice was replaced by approaching shuffling as feet sifted through straw. The movement was slow, teetering at times as though losing its balance on the stone floor, but ever approaching.

Bael held his breath, wondering what sight would greet him when the stranger fell within the firelight. His body was still half frozen to the slab but he calculated -- deciding to throw his body to the side if necessary. And worry about what to do after he was lame on the floor. Crawl to the door, if I have to, he thought, clenching his teeth.

Roughened hair slid along his cheek as the stranger moved into his line of sight. With the firelight behind her, it was difficult to tell it was even a female, but there was enough light to tell as much. Sagging wrinkles graced her face from chin to forehead, disappearing beyond the thin, wafts of unwashed gray hair allowed to fall where it would. It lay limp over hunched shoulders, blending in with a gray tunic that threw her size and build into obscurity.

As disparaging as her appearance was, Bael was startled by the intensity in her bright blue eyes, the only feature of her face not thrown into shadow. She stared at him, towering above him by at least two feet, with an expression of consideration and study as though judging him in some indefinable way making little sense to Bael.

“Who are you?” he asked, watching her face for signs of deception.

“Who are you?” she parroted. Ground down, blackened teeth flashed behind her lips. Teeth like hers were common among the humans. Hundreds of years of existence and Bael could not tell what was different about the human race and the elfin race that allowed human teeth to rot and decay, and elfin teeth to remain unflawed. He did not flinch at her imperfection and, as though perceiving his thoughts, she widened her lips further.

“I am a prisoner.” He responded, splaying his hands in indication of his prostrate form lying on the slab.

Her smile vanished. “I am a prisoner.” She glanced at his body, turning her head as her eyes drifted towards his feet. The movement allowed more firelight to reach her face and the illumination fell across abject sadness. When she returned her attention to his face she cocked her head to the side as though waiting.

Bael sighed. “You are a prisoner?”

She laughed, clapping aged hands together as she tossed her head back. For all her apparent joviality at the question, the laugh was not a happy one. The crackling sound bounced around the room and, Bael was certain, any soldiers standing guard outside the door would soon come to discover the commotion.

The woman took a deep breath and, with a faint smile on her lips, responded. “That is not the right question.”

“Why are you a prisoner?” he asked, hoping that was the right question, but she shook her head. Bael sighed again, deciding there was no rush since he still could not move his head. He already knew where he was and so asking any question relating to where he was or why he was there would be a waste of a words. Her presence there seemed to have nothing to do with what he was supposed to ask, either.

“A year ago,” she rasped, staring into his eyes, “I was traveling afar to a small village across the Nefarian and I ran across a woman whom I found very interesting. She told me many interesting things.” She paused, cocking her head at him again as though waiting. Bael raised silent eyebrows at her. The woman glanced at the bandage holding his neck together, and met his eyes again. “She mentioned you to me, Blue Warrior Elf Bael Hale’ium, and told me you are an angry man.”

Bael frowned.

“She told me should she run into you one day it would be the day to tell you that you are wrong about her.” The stranger paused as though expecting some sort of response.

“I do not know what you are talking about.” He responded, still frowning.

Her hand moved towards him them, clasping the hand closest to her and raising it so he could see what she was indicating. He glanced at his hand, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. When he met her eyes, she looked back to his hand and fingered the thin, unbreakable band of twisted gold around his marital finger. When her eyes met his again, there was the same expectant expression in them and he jerked his hand away from her.

“You are wrong about her, Blue Warrior Elf, you will see.”

“No I will not,” he barked, “she is a traitor to her people and that is all I will ever see.”

The stranger nodded silently.

“Have you figured out the question?” she asked, jumping subjects. He stared hard at her and considered the direction of their conversation. Any woman who saw his wife a year ago, knew of her well enough to have heard her speak of him, could not possibly be a prisoner of the Sorenge Soldiers. Evil speaks to evil. Bael glared at the old woman’s face above him.

“Why am I still alive?” he asked, grinding his teeth together. He did not want to speak about his wife, never wanted to hear her name spoken again in his lifetime. She stood against everything they ever worked for and now stood against him, her own husband. She put him in a position to have to choose whether she should live or die. And instead he ran away.

“Listen, and guard my words well,” the old woman said. Bael was startled at the change in her voice. Gone was the raspy, choked out words and, in its place, was the sound of a girl not old enough to marry. The straggling hair and layers of wrinkled flesh remained, only the sound of her voice was different.

“What is coming, you cannot stop -- I hold a thousand times more power in my palm than you hold in your entire body -- and even I cannot stop what is coming. While your involvement in what is to come is marginally useful to me, others can provide those same services. There is one reason and one reason alone why I have healed your wound. What I did, I did for Mailia.”