The Fates (Book I) - 2014 Watty Award Winner!

2.1 - The Rider

Dear Readers: Excited for Episode 2?! :)  Picking up where we left off...

FYI - I didn't come up with the name of Chrysaor, whom you'll meet in this scene. It's a mythical name, as some of you may already recognize. My reasons for choosing that name will be revealed later ;)

EPISODE 2 - BLOOD

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Scene 1: The Rider

2020 B.C.

Not anymore?

The words had simply risen to her lips. Human speech had come naturally to her, somehow—a foreign feeling. And a foreign tongue, in which she suddenly found herself fluent. So there were still some superhuman powers, at work in her subconscious, though she had taken mortal form.

She softly cleared her throat, as if to clear away the words that she’d just spoken. Not anymore? Why had she said it? That would mean that she had been waiting for him…

He was smiling at her, sportively. And slowly coming closer. Her heartbeat hastened, with each hairsbreadth he drew near.

“So you were just… sent here for me, like this?” he asked. “A gift?”

Her mind swarmed with a million words, a thousand possible replies, and could not settle on just one.

He chose one for her. “Perhaps a prize for today’s victory.”

What victory? She discerned a scent of smoke, in the summer air surrounding the garden. She could not see its source.

His deep blue eyes searched hers; she was glad that they did not stray further below. He had already looked, when he’d first seen her moments ago. Evidently already decided whether he liked what he saw. Either way, Clotho reflected, the decision had been quick.

And in this moment, he seemed invested in the answers in her eyes, rather than the rewards below her shoulders.

It almost seemed as if he cared—about her, or at least about her answers—when he spoke. “Have you anyone who loves you in this land? Is there anything left of your family, your home?”

Clotho had no clue what he meant; her superhuman gift for language did not extend to reading minds. She briefly wondered if the scent of smoke was relevant to his question. Uncertain what to say, she opted for a plain and truthful answer. “I am alone, for now.”

He paused. His gaze strayed, for a fleeting glimpse somewhere below her face. His smile broadened, loosened just a little; every muscle in her body tightened instantly.

This human body business was so strange.

He removed his cloak, draped it over her frame far smaller than his own. The cloth was coarse against her tender skin, and yet it felt soft, even soothing, the way he settled it so carefully in place.

“Well,” he whispered, clasping her hand in his. “Not for long.”

He led her away, moving more quickly than she had expected. Once they’d left the secluded spot of greenery and turned the corner of the house beside the garden, she understood why.

They were atop a hill—the scene below was one of ruin. An entire village up in flames, desperate souls scrambling through the streets. Clotho’s blood burned at the sight, her eyes blurring with imminent tears. Each poor soul was a thread that she had spun. These were the threads; these were the mortal lives to which she had been blind.