Wings of Fate: The Lost Ones

“How much longer do you think they will keep us in here?”

Ares glanced to his side, imagining the upturned face of the boy seated a few feet away. There was no way of telling how long they had been in the cell and it was impossible to try to judge how many days passed. The dark minutes stretched into dark hours and the only evidence as to the passage of time was the clockwork arrival of bread and water. There were seven slices of bread. If they were getting two slices a day -- one in the morning and one at night, which is what he was assuming -- then they had been in the cell for about four days.

Two slices of bread a day was nowhere near enough sustenance for a growing boy and, with each word, Austin sounded more and more fatigued. Figuring he, himself, would be okay for a couple of weeks without food, Ares was still concerned about weakening. During the isolated days he spent a lot of time reconsidering his judgment on his abilities. When he was a boy, his father had dozens of men and women teach him how to kill a man with any weapon -- including his hands.

Being who he was only meant his abilities were emphasized by great strength -- losing his power did not mean he would not win a fight. Though the odds were stacked high against him at the river, it was possible he could have won. It was also possible his defense maneuvers could have gotten the boy killed sooner rather than later. As long as it was later then he still had time to come up with a plan to protect Austin.

Above all else, the boy must be protected.

They weren’t alone in the prison. Hours after they arrived Ares discovered Lord Belkin hovered in one of the adjacent cells. Sometimes he would talk -- telling Ares how long he had been imprisoned, how much food he was allotted, and would talk about his daughters. But for the most part he was quiet and, Ares assumed, if the man was being fed as much as he and Austin were, he was fast losing strength.

“Ares?”

“Hmmm?” Ares murmured, startled by the boy’s quiet voice. For hours now he had been graced with nothing more than the sound of their breathing and the occasional shuffling from somewhere outside of their cell. Anytime Austin spoke, no matter how quiet the words, it sounded near to yelling.

“You didn’t answer me.”

“I apologize, Austin, what was the question?” he asked. Judging the distance from his body to any of the three walls or the iron door was impossible in the darkness and he had no idea if he faced the door or the rear wall. The first day or two of being in the cell were uncomfortable -- the frost seeped through his clothes and skin until he noticed each time he woke he was already shaking from the chill. They moved around the cell, trying to stay warm; they leaned against each other’s backs for support and to keep from lying on the stone floor -- but the cold always found a way in.

For awhile now he had not taken any particular notice of the cold and did not wake in shivers. A bad thing.

“How long do you think they will keep us in here?” Austin repeated -- his disembodied voice bounced around the cell until Ares was no longer certain exactly where the boy sat.

“I am not sure, Austin, truly, I do not know.” And it was the truth. Lord Belkin said he had been in his cell for close to two weeks, though he couldn’t be sure. Isis had not heard Ares’ pleas, had not responded to his silent summons in any way, and he accepted they were on their own in this. Had his powers been accessible, perhaps Isis would have heard him. But perhaps Isis’ own powers were much diminished by the events on DeSolar.

Ares frowned at the sudden sound of footfalls along the stone corridor leading to their cell. The bringer of food, as he named him, approached on silent feet as though not to disturb the tranquility of the prisoners. Whoever approached now held no such concerns. Heavy boots pounded into the floor as the visitor stomped towards them and in between each of his steps, Ares heard another sound -- a lighter footstep, boots, but less aggressive.

This was not meal time, then, Ares decided. Stretching an arm out to either side, he reached for Austin and met only open air. He rose to his feet, careful to not make a sound, and moved around the small confines of their cell until he bumped into Austin.

“Wh-” Ares clamped a hand over the boy’s chapped lips before he could say anymore, pulled him to his feet and drug him to a corner. Pushing Austin behind him, he turned to face the visitor. As the footsteps grew closer, a flickering orange light bounded off the stone walls, shimmering on the mist coating. It was the first light he had seen in nearly a week and as subtle as it was, the glow was painful.

Muscles bunching, Ares waited. If the soldiers meant to take Austin, they would die trying to get a hand on him. If they meant to take him without Austin, they would still die. Not for a moment would he leave the boy’s side. The fact that Austin did not protest at standing behind him and, in fact, hung limply against the wall at their back, was indicative of the boy’s weakness. He needed more food.

When the soldier crested the turn in the corridor, with a burning torch gripped in a fist, Ares got a good look at him, but he was unfamiliar with the man. Shuffling behind him, towering a good foot over the bull-like head of the soldier, was Bael.

Ares grinned for the first time in days -- grateful to not be alone in the protection of Austin, an unreasonably difficult task, and pleased to find Bael alive after all.

“Stay here,” he murmured to Austin before moving toward the iron bars.

“Get back ye!” the soldier grumbled, waving the torch at him as though he would light him aflame if he came too near. Ares raised an eyebrow, daring the man to set him on fire. “I said get ye back!” he bellowed. Hate glared through the dim room and Ares was certain the man would beat him to death if allowed to. Or try to, at least, he thought with a grim smile. Raising both hands palm out, Ares ducked his head in abeyance and took two steps back from the bars.

With the torchlight he was able to see their prison and noted two empty cells on either side of the one Lord Belkin crouched in. His extravagant clothes were disheveled and his shoes were taken from him. Though the dark circles under his eyes gave him a haggard look, the expression in those blue eyes was feral. He wasn’t cowed by the rough treatment of the soldiers. Like Ares, he was irate at his impotence.

Ares looked away before the soldier became interested in the mortal man and met Bael’s eyes over the soldier’s shoulder. Wherever he had been, it was restful, and the elf seemed well fed. He tipped his chin at Ares in acknowledgment and expelled an exaggerated breath.

“Do you plan to let me into the cell or did you want to stand around chatting with this man?” Bael asked, sounding put out by being denied entry into his prison.

The thick-necked soldier shifted his glare, uneasy, from Ares to Bael. “Get ye in there then.” He grumbled.

“Did you mean me to walk through bars or do you have a key?” Bael asked, raising eyebrows at the gaoler. The jangling of metal against metal was loud in the castle’s cellar, though when the soldier shoved the metal skeleton key into the lock, the ring in his fist held only the one key. The iron door swung open on well-greased hinges, and then Bael was shoved hastily into the room.

“Hey, you, innkeeper, we need more food.” Ares said, moving towards the door. The soldier reacted as though Ares was trying to escape and backhanded him. When he turned back to the soldier, the man had spittle hanging from his lips and his eyes darted dangerously into the shadows as though looking for more men to run at him. Ares wiped his throbbing mouth with the back of his hand and glared at the soldier. “If you continue bringing only two slices of bread, the boy will die.”

“What boy?” the man growled.

Ares hid his frown. “Young Prince Nicolaus, of course.” He said, waving a hand into the darkened shadows of the cell in indication of the ten-year old boy hovering in the corner.

“The Prince is in here?” he asked. He raised the torch in order to shed light into the cell and his hand was trembling. With fear. He knew, as Ares hoped he would, the penalty to be exacted on the soldier who allowed the Queen Mother’s son to die. He was bargaining on a hope the woman would care enough about her son -- though with the Queen, there was no telling. “Ye’ve been given two slices of bread a day; perhaps ye should just give him the bread.”

“I have already been giving him the bread -- all of it, and yet he grows weaker by the day. He will die if you do not send more food.”

The soldier met his eyes, calming under the obvious sincerity in Ares’ look, and pulled the prison door shut with a reverberating clank. With one last look into the corner, where he could just barely make out the hallowed eyes and cheeks of the boy, he twisted the key in the lock and left.

Ares watched the fleeting light as it went around the corner -- he watched until there was no more firelight to be seen, and stood staring at the last lit spot as though he could conjure the light with simple thought alone. And then he turned to Bael. When the elf joined them in the cell, Ares noticed the white bandage pinned to his neck, covering the wound he should have died from.

“Bael?” Austin whispered the elf’s name, the sound of joy was almost masked by his weariness but, even to Ares’ ears, the boy sounded happy to see his friend.

“Austin, God len senon, te nen to se len tennon tu len,” Bael responded, shuffling across the floor towards the corner where the boy hovered, choking on an elfin prayer of safekeeping. “I did not know whether you two survived the attack.” He whispered.

“Where have you been?” Ares asked, wondering why the soldiers would have kept them apart for so many days.

“Being healed. It would appear it is not yet my time to die.”

Ares frowned into the darkness. “Who could have possibly healed the wound you suffered?”

“I do not know her name, Ares -- she was an old woman -- possibly a witch, by the looks of her.”

“Hmmm,” Ares murmured, thinking. “Did she say why she healed you?”

Silence greeted his question and he wondered, again, why the soldiers would have bothered with Bael. An ingrained habit of suspicion had him envisioning conspiracy -- that Bael was a spy for the Queen Mother was unthinkable and, yet, made perfect sense. If the Queen wanted to remain knowledgeable about Austin’s whereabouts then what better way was there than to have a spy protecting him? Ares shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thought. It was ridiculous.

“I have heard stories of the witch.” Lord Belkin said in a muted voice.

“Lord Belkin!” Bael said, moving towards the iron bars as though moving closer would gain him anything.

“Bael, my friend, it is good to see you, uh -- well, yes. I wish the circumstances were different, of course. How come you to be here?” he asked.

Bael’s sigh echoed in the cold chamber. “We were attacked by soldiers and brought--”

“What is this you have heard about the witch?” Ares interrupted.

“Ares.” Bael remonstrated.

“It is quite alright Bael. Ah Ares, rumors only, if you will. She travels from place to place quickly -- too quickly, I hear. There is speculation about her possession of powers.”

“And she works for the Queen Mother?” Ares asked.

“I can’t say for certain but it would appear the witch flitters here and there on her recognizance. Does what she will.”

While Ares considered everyone he knew, which was an extensive list of both mortals and immortals, Bael and Lord Belkin resumed their conversation.

“Why are you imprisoned here, Lord Belkin?” Bael asked.

“In my own castle, you mean? Well then, I would have to say that the Queen Mother informed me that my allegiance is to the crown and I owe her my obedience. I, ahem, told her my allegiance was foresworn to her husband the King and since she murdered him, then well I felt my allegiance was most precipitously due elsewhere.”

Bael chuckled. “And she said?”

“Well nothing much after that I daresay, but I did end up in here didn’t I?”

It was impossible to imagine who the witch could be. Going back to his original concern he stared into the dark and changed the subject. “Bael, who sent you to guard Austin?” he asked, knowing whomever sent Bael, was not the same person who sent him.

The elf sighed. “Atropos sent me.”

“Actually,” Austin whispered, “Atropos wanted to kill me because I was in the way. Bael offered to take me home with him so the white lady would not kill me.”

Having known the fate of death his entire life, Ares was not surprised to hear what Austin said, but he also knew Atropos was aware of how important the boy was in the war and so knew that, however the conversation actually went down, it was not the way Austin imagined it to be. “She would not have killed you, Austin.” He said.

“You weren’t even there, Ares, you don’t know what she would have done -- you didn’t see the way she was looking at me. I saw death in her eyes and she meant to kill me with it.” Austin argued, his voice gaining strength with his vehemence before ending on a sudden ragged cough.

Bael sighed. “She would not have killed you, it was simply a conversation staged for Raven’s benefit.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Austin whispered, his intensity waning.

“Raven has an important part in this war, just like you were told in Nicaru Village. What you were not told is you have an equally important part in the war. Ares and I were sent to guard you so no harm can come to you.”

Austin grew silent and, as he thought things through, Ares found a comfortable spot on the floor to sit, and drug some of the fetid straw close to his legs for added warmth. He still had not heard more about this Raven woman whom everyone, other than he, seemed to know so much about. His father told him only about Austin -- a boy who looked exactly like Prince Nicolaus, a likeness crucial to the turn of the tide.

Zeus did not mention when the boy’s part in the war would come into play and, for all Ares could know, Austin was already fulfilling his role. If Austin was needed to be confused for his twin, a blood relation he could not own up to, then he already succeeded. The Queen and her soldiers believed her son was rotting in a prison cell, entombed within the walls of a castle built into the dirt.

He did not know if Austin would survive the war and, in fact, no one knew. Or so they said. They also neglected to mention the mortal woman. What part did she play in this war? An important one, if the Moirai sisters were involved with her. And if Zeus chose to separate the two mortals, then he must have a good reason for doing so.

But if Atropos sent Bael, why did the witch woman heal him? Any witch living within the castle walls, which teemed with Sorenge soldiers, had to be against Bael. Turning his head in the direction he assumed the elf was seated, he asked again why the witch healed him.

This time Bael sighed. “She had personal reasons for why she healed me. I would rather she allowed me to die than to save me for the reason she claims to have.”

“What personal reason was it?” Ares asked, pressing for more details.

“Nothing pertaining to you, Austin, or the war -- leave it be, son of Zeus.” Bael answered angrily.

Ares did -- leave it alone, that is. But he would bring it up again later. The war on DeSolar was hinged on many different things -- the mortals’ involvement, the protection of the innocents, and even the abilities of the gods themselves -- just to name a few. If some witch woman healed Bael, it was important, regardless of how little it seemed to involve anyone else. Ares was familiar with how one small thing could change the tide of war; one death, one smile, one silly bird flying into someone’s line of sight -- could effect the course of fate.

Everyone’s fate.

Sooner or later, he would learn what it was Bael hid from him. The wound he sustained was fatal -- there should have been no chance of survival. The witch woman, if that was what she was, could manage feats that should have been beyond her realm of capability, which meant she, too, was hiding something. But what?

#

When the bringer of food arrived with their next meal allotment -- there were eight slices of bread.

#

The sudden blast of a horn charged the air with three long notes -- heralding their arrival. Raven pressed her lips to silence her fear. They arrived. As soon as the noise faded, it was replaced by clanking chains, and the sound of wooden boards grating against stone. The horse gathered speed as it joined the other riders. Beneath the horses’ hooves mossy grass gave way to planks, which gave way to packed dirt.

Unwilling to release her grasp on the horse’s mane, Raven ducked her head to avoid breathing the soil kicked into the air, but the dirt found its way into her mouth anyway. It was impossible to swallow past the gag in her mouth, leaving the airborne dust to cling to her tongue.

When their horse ground to a halt, Logan slid to the ground and pulled her down beside him. Her head spun from the movement, sending nausea to coil through her stomach. Placing her hands against her belly, she swallowed against the rising bile. Raven sucked in air, praying she wouldn’t vomit.

Soon the sensation faded, leaving her to focus on the pain in her side. She hunched over as blood throbbed in the wound. If it was left too long it would fester and become a diseased sore. Something deadly, she thought, struggling to remember the kind of diseases derived from untended wounds.

Chains rattled behind them -- like the clinking of a drawbridge. Ignoring the portending sound as being the last chance of escape, Raven stared into the blindfold and wondered what was to come. That afternoon the rain let up, allowing the sun to emerge at full strength to bake them while the caravan rode without benefit of shelter from the scorch. What began as a cool morning of crisp air developed into a sauna and each breath was laborious.

The throbbing in her side erupted into jagged pain, doubling over, Raven grasped her waist, touching her shirt and searching for the piece of the arrow she was certain was still there. It needed to come out, she thought, almost frantic with the need to be free of it. Beneath her fingertips she found the uneven end of the arrow. They broke the shaft two inches from her skin and left it protruding from her shirt. Slick blood covered the shaft and her fingers slipped each time she tried to grip it.

“That arrow is the only thing keeping you from dying, woman.” Logan said. Roughened fingers grazed her upper lip, pressing against the tender skin as, as he tugged the gag out of her mouth. Blood sprang to life in her cheeks, making her aware of the parts of her cheeks flattened by the gag.

“That arrow is what’s killing me,” she responded, angry.

“Yeah and you will be dead a whole lot sooner should you pull on it any more than you have.” His voice rumbled through her chest like a drum -- dry, heavy, and intense. His breath fanned her face as he spoke and she sensed his movement as soon as he moved away.

Raven pulled her fingers away from the arrow, not sure if he was telling the truth but not willing to chance it.

“Can you at least remove the blindfold?” she asked, hoping to at least be able to rid herself of the fear of not knowing what was around her. Knowing they were visiting the Queen Mother soon, Raven assumed she now stood somewhere near the woman’s home -- a castle, most likely, such as the one she saw over the cliffs at Benk City. She wondered, again, about the woman and wished she had more information.

“Trust me -- you’ll not want to see anything.” He said, sounding angry.

“Don’t pretend to know what I would or would not want, Logan.” She hissed, furious. How dare he? She hadn’t asked to be brought to this damn planet, hadn’t signed up for volunteer work in the Moirai’s war, and she certainly had not begged the men to kidnap her. Logan could have helped her escape but instead he drug her along, inch by inch and mile by mile, gaining ground as they rode ever closer to the Queen’s castle.

If he thought she wouldn’t want to see anything around her then why had he brought her here? He could have ridden away with her.

“Oh, I’ll pretend alright, that and many more things, and you better start accepting your situation because things are about to become much more dangerous for you.” He growled, stepping so close to her face his warm breath drifted across her cheeks. Losing what little self control she had over herself, Raven spat in his face.

When he backhanded her, she was too busy falling to feel the sting. Two of the soldiers hooted -- their voices bounded back in a booming echo, sending the impression they stood somewhere within a wide circle of stone walls. Lying on the ground, Raven ignored the laughter and focused on control. Pulling her arms towards her body, she ignored the pain in her cheek; the pain in the side -- her entire body felt bruised.

Swinging her head around, to where she assumed Logan stood, she realized behind the blindfold she had no clear idea how far she fell, or in which direction, and no longer knew where the men stood. The heavy trod of boots stalked towards her and, not knowing who approached, Raven froze in preparation of more physical abuse. Violent hands clutched her bound wrists, hauling her back to her feet. He smelled of sweat and river water.

Logan.

He pressed an arm around her to escort her to the horse and lifted her from the ground. Though his hands were tight against her arms, Raven panicked, afraid of being dropped or thrown. But he only carried her, marching back to the horse, cradled in his arms like a child.

When Logan set her down, he shoved something in her hands and pressed her fingers against the cool material. “Hold on to the horse,” he instructed before moving away.

Raven clung to the reins and inched closer to the beast to lay her face against its side. The horse’s breath was steady, in -- out -- in -- out, and she clung to the repetition as though it was all that kept her upright. Shifting her weight from one foot to the next, Raven tried to ignore the tingling of her legs coming back to life just as her wound began to burn.

Other than the laughter, the soldiers remained quiet and she wondered if they had gone.

“Can you walk now?” Logan asked, moving close again. Lifting one of her legs, Raven shook the lingering sense of sleep out of it.

“Should be alright,” she answered, “I-” Forceful fingers twisted in her hair, yanking back. Raven, resisting the attack, pulled her head forward in an attempt to dislodge his grip and hoped he would let go. But the strain was painful on her neck and the snapping of hair strands decided it for her. Releasing the tension on her hold, she let her head fall back.

“It’s time to take the lady inside, Logan.” The soldier snapped.

When Logan didn’t voice any objections, the other soldier shoved her away from him. With her feet still bound Raven couldn’t move enough to keep up with his pushing and she landed in the dirt. Rocks scraped her palms when she tried to catch her fall. Tears welled in her eyes.

A rush of violence snaked through her body. Damn the Moirai! She thought. Pulling her arms inward, Raven tried to push away from the ground. Rocks bit into her knees, bruising the skin and bone. Seconds later, the solid toe of a boot made contact with her side where the jagged arrow protruded and she flew through the air. As she crumpled to the ground, a loud scream peeled through the air.

It was the last thing she heard.