Wings of Fate: The Lost Ones

It did not take the men long to reload her onto Logan’s horse before they were off again, continuing their journey. The attempt at freedom earned nothing more than a headache and renewed fear. Unable to see her attackers increased the fear and she wondered again and again, why it was necessary to blindfold her. It wasn’t as though she would know where they were if she could see the land around her. Though it was obvious they left the forest, as a stranger to DeSolar, even that small bit of knowledge would do her no good.

Unless they did not know she was a stranger to DeSolar.

If the men thought she was native to the land then perhaps, yes, they would be concerned about her escape. Had she grown up on the planet she would know where her friends lived, she would know how to navigate the lands, and would be able to make good her escape. And so they blinded her to their direction.

It was also possible they knew the blindfold itself engendered extreme fear in and of itself. She could neither see the direction in which they were headed, nor the faces of her attackers. Left to its own devices, her mind conjured up the worst. They were seven foot tall and five feet wide, bald, with scraggly beards, and razor sharp teeth. A dozen swords and knives hung precariously from every angle of their bodies and if she should accidentally draw near to one of them, she would die by proximity alone.

These things she was certain were false. But it was the image in her mind. They need do nothing more to frighten her -- only forbid her access to one of the most reliable methods of human involvement. Her sight.

She learned one thing though, from the brief skirmish -- she was being escorted to the Queen Mother. The Queen, like everyone else, wanted her. Ruth told her very little about the Queen, and the Moirai sisters mentioned her only once, so all she knew was the woman steered Camelion into poverty and even Atropos feared her.

Though, for what reason she feared the Queen, Raven wasn’t sure.

It occurred to her, during the hours of captivity, perhaps the reason King Nash and the Queen Mother wanted her was for the same reason the Moirai sisters wanted her. The prophecy. Had the sisters told her more about the prophecy and her role in it, she would have a better idea of what to expect from the Queen but as it was, she could only guess.

A niggling sense of disquiet fell over her when she considered the parties of this war she was supposed to win. On one side there were the Moirai sisters attempting to free the people of DeSolar; to protect them from whoever was bringing madness upon them. The sisters required her to lead them, as it was prophesized. To lead against who? She wondered. If it were King Nash, it would explain why he wanted her, but only if he, too, knew about the prophecy. Could he know about the prophecy?

Likewise, with the Queen Mother. If Raven was prophesized to lead the opposition, it would be the most explainable reason as to why other people were trying to kidnap her. Trying and succeeding.

Logan said nothing after they set out again. Judging by the slow fade of warmth against her bare arms, the sun was setting. Its heat, being no longer beyond a barrier of trees, stayed on her face for hours and the subsequent burn would last for days. Unable to protect her skin was frustrating, but she could do nothing more than groan about it.

Instead of being thrown over his horse as before, Raven was allowed to sit upright, within the confines of Logan’s imprisoning arms. For the first two hours she attempted to keep her back rigid and set away from the obvious strength of his torso. But after awhile the posture became painful to maintain and she allowed herself to relax into him.

His leather vest rubbed against her back, providing a constant reminder of his presence. The heat from his body was like a furnace against her and as the sun dipped lower in the sky, she drew on the warmth like a blanket. There was no explanation for her physical reaction to him. He attacked her and was taking her straight to a woman most people feared.

Being attracted to someone she hated seemed better than being alone. The hatred, the attraction, it gave her something to focus on, to attach herself to. It was unhealthy, she knew, but in the same respect -- comforting. Instead of thinking about it, Raven shoved the thought away as being ridiculous to even consider.

But with nothing more than her sense of touch and smell to distract her, the need to push him from her thoughts became frequent. He smelled of soap, sweat, and river water, and each time the horse shifted him closer to her back, his scent drifted over her shoulder. Tom always smelled like Stetson and Dial soap, a combination that, to her, became the normal man scent. Tom never smelled like river water and, for some unexplainable reason, she found herself attracted to it. It brought the word cowboy to life.

Would that she had been stuck in some romantic wrestler story, which could be bought on any retail shelf, instead of mired in a nightmare. Didn’t the heroines always get carried away into the sunset? She wondered. There was no doubt in her mind her sunset would end much differently. In the romance stories, the cowboy didn’t want to kill the heroine. Not usually, anyway.

The shadow wanted to kill her and he would have, too, if Logan hadn’t stopped him. But he hadn’t stopped the shadow for her benefit -- he stopped him to save himself. The kidnappers were terrifying -- burley, violent men with no qualms about laying their hands on innocent women.

That they were afraid of the Queen Mother was even more terrifying. How frightening could she be, to scare these brutal men? That’s what scared her. Wishing she learned more about the Queen Mother, Raven bit her lip and considered asking Logan some questions -- wondered if he would bother to answer or if she would earn herself another beating.

With the blindfold snug against her face, Raven strained to see any bit of light around its edges -- a thing she tried to do a dozen times since they re-started their journey. As before, there was nothing to see. With the continual movement of the horse beneath her and the reflexive shifting of Logan’s arms brushing against her own, the two beasts were her only contact with the world around her. The other riders were near enough to hear the fall of hooves against the ground but were silent themselves.

“Can I ask you something?” Raven asked; her voice so low she wasn’t certain he would hear her -- and not sure if she would prefer he didn’t. The horse galloped forward without hesitation, the cooling air whipped against her face, the man’s arms remained steadfast around her and his breath still warmed her exposed neck.

But he didn’t answer.

In fact, she could count the number of times he spoke to her, on one hand. He threatened and then protected her -- an internal conflict if ever she witnessed one. But why? If Logan’s sincerity in his chosen field was in question, then he may very well be her only chance of escape. If she could just get him to change sides…

“Logan, I know you can hear me,” she said, trying again, “and I promise I will leave you alone if you will answer for me just one question.” Raven waited. His silence hung between them as though it was visible. They rode in silence for hours, the quiet between them comfortable -- as much as it could be. But once she broached conversation, his silence became a forced issue and it was felt.

She imagined his annoyance at her for trying to converse with him -- a prisoner to his gaoler. He probably wondered at her nerve. She imagined the frown on his face -- a face she could only pretend to envision, having no idea at all what he looked like. His appearance didn’t matter. His willingness to help her was what mattered.

“What is it?” he asked. His voice was gruff and deep, as though he used all of his stomach muscles to speak. The words were shoved into the silence as though he were an unwilling accomplice in this charade she wished to act out. Nothing about his body changed around her but she was filled with an inexplicable sense something altered between them.

Why he capitulated to her request, she didn’t know, but she was glad. In truth, until he responded, she wasn’t sure what it was she meant to ask him. Which question would be the most important? Which question would provide the most answers? Each burning question held just as much significance as the next, so which one should she go with?

In the end, the words tumbled out of her mouth of their own accord and after she asked the question, she was pleased with it. “Why did you protect me?”

Logan didn’t answer.

Sometime later a new sound floated towards them and Raven strained to hear what it was. Logan tensed and the horse, receiving some imperceptible signal from his owner, slowed. By the sound of it, the other riders in their party continued onward without hesitation, the sound of their departure soon melded into a pleasant drumming before fading altogether.

As she and Logan continued, though, the new sound increased. It was music. A fast paced song strum through the air on violin strings, and beating drums carried the tune along. Before long there was laughter along with the music, though it drifted to her ears on the tiniest stream of air.

“Damn it.” Logan whispered, and their horse slowed even further.

“What’s going on?” she asked, not surprised when he refused to answer. He was tense behind her, though, so she knew something was wrong. Wrong for him or wrong for me? She wondered. It sounded as though something was wrong for him and a jolt of flight instinct ripped through her. She ignored it. Until she could get the binds off her hands and feet there would be no escape.

When the music and laughter halted, so did the horse. Logan slid to the ground and then pulled her down beside him. On wobbling legs she stood exactly where he placed her. He held her arms steady as she gained her footing, and Raven was grateful for being able to feel her legs this time around. Had she fallen to the ground in an ignoble heap, the embarrassment would have been too much.

“Don’t move.” Logan said, releasing her arms and leaving her by herself. A swish of air blew across her face as the horse moved away and as she listened to his movements, Raven knew he was tying the reins to something. His footsteps moved over the ground as though he were in a hurry and Raven wondered, again, what was going on. She could hear none of the other men.

He startled her when he grasped her shoulder. “Sit here.”

She obeyed, grateful to stretch her legs out on the ground. “Is it time to eat, Logan?” she asked, staring into the blindfold, her dark companion. “Logan?” Raven expelled a heavy breath, frustrated by his lack of response. “Look, you know what? I won’t even make this difficult for you -- I’m easy, a simple yes or no answer will suffice for anything I ask you. So, when I say ‘is it time to eat?’ you can say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ -- your choice. Just please-”

High pitched screams rent the air.

The sounds came from the same direction as the music and laughter was but a moment ago. The screams didn’t stop. The low voices of men joined the women’s, but they weren’t screaming -- from a distance it sounded like moaning, or talking -- perhaps pleading.

Raven straightened her back, pulling her legs towards her body in protection of whatever was out there. It was easy to imagine beasts -- coyotes or bears -- attacking the people, ripping them apart. Her mind supplied images from horror films with ghosts or monsters, or just pure human evil. She touched her blindfold with bound hands but, as the women’s screams continued, didn’t tug away the material.

Widening her eyes, Raven attempted to see without her eyes; tried to bring her imagination to heal in order to determine what was really going on instead of what she invented. No, she thought, I have to know what is happening -- what if the beast finds me? Reaching for the blindfold, she paused again.

The reed-thin pleas of children exploded in the air. Their little voices screamed, fluctuating between high and low as though running away from something terrifying. As the children’s voices grew, so did the women’s, until all Raven could hear was their screaming -- unable to cover her ears and drown out the sound.

“Please -- Logan, please, what -- what is out there?” Raven whispered, choking on terror. She could hear his strangled breath beside her as though he, too, was afraid.

But he didn’t answer.

Fat clouds broke open during the night like the cracking of egg shells -- releasing gallons of tears from a sky so dark it was impossible to see where the raindrops began. The fat drops fell around them, pinging and plopping against the ground, against their arms, leaving no one area wetter or dryer than the next. Redwood trees, so many hundreds of feet tall, with their spirited summer canopies, would have provided ample protection from the rain, but they long since parted ways with the forest.

She and her sisters followed the soldiers, and Raven, for days and Atropos knew they were nearing the Castle of Camelion where the Queen Mother lived. Once the nine soldiers shifted directions, angling away from the trees to take the most direct route home, she and her sisters had to leave the safety of the forest and were now out in the open rolling plains of the land.

This part of Camelion was home to more than two dozen hills -- brown and green rose and fell in waves for miles in an ever-widening circle. Valleys stretched between the hills -- covered in flowers like a welcoming mat for kings -- this way, this way, it seemed to whisper. The soldiers traveled the mat, crushing the purple, red, and yellow flowers as though ignorant of the obvious trail they left in their wake.

Curl-horned sheep wandered the hillside, grazing their own path through the long stretches of deep green grass rising around them. The animals seemed aimless, as though unsure where they should be, but they remained close to the narrow stream snaking across Camelion land. She and her sisters also followed the stream as it wrapped around thirty, forty, and fifty-foot tall hills, leading them ever closer to the castle. They followed the clear water, hanging back further than before, trying to keep up with the soldiers while staying out of sight.

And sometime in the middle of the night, the rain came to cool the heat of the past week, to drench the land with an invigorating wetness that, come morning, would turn every piece of dark green into bright green. Atropos lay awake, with an arm bent over her head in protection from the drops. The rain fell as though the clouds above were heavy and pregnant with a lakes worth of water, and it poured down in a steady onslaught. It sounded like the distant roar of a waterfall.

It was too hot to grow chilled, but Atropos wished, all the same, for a blanket to cover her exposed limbs. Surprisingly, Klotho and Lachesis slept, undisturbed. If her own mind could slow down for even a moment she, too, might have found solace in slumber. But the images of the last several days played back in her mind, and the tang of summer rain could not overwhelm the scent of burning flesh, which saturated her dress.

Long after the soldiers left behind their destruction, she and her sisters approached the small village of Camelions who made themselves a home at the base of hills leading to the castle. Though Atropos came upon many villages where the Sorenge Soldiers pillaged, it never ceased to cause acidic bile to rise in her throat. As though rushed by their proximity to home, the soldiers did not waste a single moment on cajoling or toying with their prey as was their usual practice.

The screams drifted over the land in all directions, catching against hills and trees alike, and bouncing back and forth until the painful echo was near unbearable. It did not make sense why the soldiers left Raven far from the village instead of dragging her along with them to incite and embellish the fear they would want her to feel. But the bald soldier riding with Raven hung back; keeping her away and -- unexpectedly -- appeared almost as anguished as his captive.

Only two short hours after the soldiers rode into the village, they rode out again, leaving nothing more than mutilated carcasses and bloody trails behind them. She and her sisters waited an hour before approaching the village on slow horses. Silence hung over the village -- as thick and noticeable as their screaming was only hours before. The men’s bodies lay where they fell in the center of the village. Most of the bodies encircled the campfire, banked now, and were accompanied by plates of discarded food, a heavy goat-skin drum fashioned with thin sticks, and a crushed violin.

Klotho, when she saw the row of children lying sprawled alongside the wall of one of their homes, retched and pleaded to the gods for mercy. What mercy? Atropos thought, the children were already dead. Bruises had not had time to appear on their arms and faces from the bludgeoning they received, and the long, jagged tears of blades against flesh would never heal. Their hair, matted with blood, lay limp against their faces -- not quite covering the blazing terror that, hours later, still shown in their eyes.

Atropos looked into each of the fifteen faces, tamping down on the spark of recognition, pushing away the memories of having laughed, talked, and taken meals with these families.

The brutality shown to the children could be considered merciful when compared to the room of women and young girls found in one of the homes. Had the soldiers not been restless to return home, they would have stayed in that room longer. Each girl and woman received the same life-ending gash across their throats, left gaping open whereas their eyes were squeezed shut.

Trying not to see.

Moving along the bodies strewn across the bloodied, wooden planked floor, Atropos looked into each of their faces, as well. Engraving their faces and names in her heart -- to one day exact vengeance from the soldiers and their Queen for all the evil they did. The last body she came across was Jaselle, an eighteen-year girl she knew since her birth. Terrified brown eyes stared up at her and Atropos wondered if she died knowing her two-year old daughter lay only three feet on the other side of the wall with her throat torn open.

The men of the village had skin beneath their fingernails, showing evidence to the fight they put up to save their women and children. It was a senseless, brutal death for the innocent villagers. It was one village out of many.

The Queen Mother needed to die. Though their powers waned much over the last several years, Atropos felt the bold fire of retribution snake through her arms. Fury turned the skin red and, like a nest of angry hornets, she felt the sting of need prickling through her veins. If Raven had not been prophesized to kill the Queen, Atropos would gladly march into the castle and strike her down with one swoop of her blade. Let the soldiers attempt to take me down, she thought; they would only fall under my blade.

But it was not her fate to destroy the Queen. It was Raven’s.

After piling the bodies in the center of the village, Lachesis laid a torch against the torn, bloodied skirt of one of the women and watched as the flame took hold -- leaping and simpering across the pile as though apologizing for the additional destruction of their bodies. The three of them stood back, watching the orange flame as it grew into a fireball of wrath.

Wet tears snaked through the grime covering Klotho’s face, her heart bleeding for the people. Her sister was supposed to bring life, to engender and foster the enduring love of newborn life -- whether it was plant, animal, or mortal life. Many times she watched on as Klotho giggled; oohing and aahing over the latest swaddled babe. Here lately, there were no births. No babies, no new flowers, no new trees. And more often the not, when she watched Klotho lately, her sister was weeping over the murdered body of some life she brought forth.

Lachesis stared on as though looking through the flames at something lying just beyond. And knowing her sisters abilities, that was probably the truth. Klotho brought life -- Atropos brought death -- but Lachesis could see all that would happen to each of those lives after birth and before death. Since their powers began to fade, Lachesis was unable to control the events shaping the lives around them, but it did not stop the flow of knowledge. In essence, her sister could see all to come, one piece at a time, but could do nothing to stop any of it. And ever since it began, this new twist to her abilities, Lachesis was quiet.

They left the villagers to smolder, knowing the fire would burn itself out, and resumed their stalking of the soldiers. Moving back amongst the hills, Lachesis stared at the ground, looking for the trail the men left behind. It was not a long or hard search before it turned up, and then she and her sisters were once again in pursuit.

Raven would be meeting the Queen. This much Atropos knew, because Lachesis finally bowed to the older sister torment Atropos subjected her to, and told her there was nothing to stand in the way of the meeting. When asked if the Queen would kill her during the meeting, Lachesis fell back into silence as though drawing a cloak around her body. Instead of pilfering the mortal woman away from the soldiers before they reached the castle, they would have to find a way to get her out of the heavily fortified fortress.

But Atropos toyed with an idea for several days -- its success would depend on outside help.

Later in the day Lachesis approached, riding close to Atropos, and whispered, “Someone stalks us sister, half a day’s ride behind.”

Atropos nodded without turning her head to see.

“Should I go see who it is?” her sister asked.

Turning to her, Atropos tilted her head and gave her sister a once-over. Lachesis experienced things in ways she and Klotho could only imagine -- and in some ways, could not imagine. Her lavender-eyed sister was known for keeping those experiences to herself as though unable to part with the information; or because she wished to protect those around her -- there were an equal number of people who held either one of those beliefs. There were times the flat expression in her sisters’ eyes made her nervous, made her wonder what Lachesis was planning -- like now.

“I already know who it is.” She answered. Lachesis frowned and, saying no more, allowed her horse to fall behind again.

Days later, as Atropos lay protecting her face from the rain, pressing her body further into the grass and dirt for Mother DeSolar’s warmth, she thought about the person who followed them -- wondered what he was doing and if he was staying dry.