Dear Readers: Onward to Episode 3!!!! Thank you soooo much to all who have been following The Fates - I really hope you will continue to enjoy it :D

Back to B.C., with Cloe held captive in Rider's tent...

EPISODE 3 - BELIEF

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Scene 1: Hunger

2020 B.C.

The stronger the hunger, the more human she felt.

And it grew stronger every second. The food lay by her feet, no longer hot, but no less tempting. Funny thing—that a beast slain, sliced, and seared by man could taunt the human tongue so viciously, from where it sat upon a platter out of reach.

What a sad, twisted form of revenge, Cloe mused. She wondered whether this sort of thing was part of her mother’s grand scheme for the universe. One of Ananke’s ways of striking balance between victims and victors on earth.

If so, then maybe this attempt at cosmic balance—Cloe’s temptation by this vengeful side of meat—signified some hope that her mother was alive. Alive and active, safe and sovereign in Olympus.

Or maybe not. Maybe it signified nothing. Maybe she was just focusing too fiercely on her hunger, in an effort to forget another newfound human urge of hers. A quite different source of temptation.

“Rider doesn’t want you to starve,” a familiar voice declared, breaking through Cloe’s distant thoughts.

She turned to see Chrysaor reentering the tent.

“And yet he doesn’t want another fellow feeding you,” Chrysaor continued, crouching beside her and untying her bonds. “So it’s your lucky day—you’ll get to feed yourself.”

She blinked. “He sent you to unbind me?”

“Temporarily. Eat up.”

“What an ass—prideful and possessive,” Cloe muttered as she eagerly shook off the loose ropes and reached for the plate.

It made her feel better somehow, to speak disparagingly of Rider. As if such spiteful words offset her urges toward him.

Not that the insult wasn’t well deserved, of course. He was an ass. Too prideful to unbind her himself. Too possessive to let her eat out of another man’s hand. What did it matter to him, anyway?

“Perhaps,” Chrysaor acknowledged with a shrug, followed by a provocative smile. “Though you do seem to bring it out of him.”

Cloe rolled her eyes. “You would blame the innocent captive.”

She swallowed her first ever bite of food. Gratifying, satisfying. But not nearly enough.

“Innocent?” he echoed, green eyes glinting beneath a cocked brow. “No naughty thoughts, since you’ve been tied up in this tent?”

She scowled mid-chew. “Nothing worthy of blame.”

“Worthy of shame?”

“I see no shame in human hunger,” she answered—in all honesty, though deliberately skirting his question.

Chrysaor grinned. “Good. Then you’ll be happy in this camp.”

“And why is that?”

“Because we satisfy our hungers here,” he stated simply. “Why don’t you finish up, and then I’ll take you on a tour.”

As he led her from tent to tent, and through the crowd gathered around the central fire, Cloe couldn’t help but feel her contempt for their way of life begin to fade. She tried to catch herself, to check herself against this growing fondness. They were raiders and robbers, after all. She had to frown upon that. Had to realize and regret her fateful error, in having spun their sorry threads the way she had.

Perhaps it hadn’t been her fault, since she hadn’t had any idea how their souls would turn out, from where she sat back in the Cave. She hadn’t known how any given thread would come to life on earth.

But now she saw, and now she knew. She had to frown. Had to regret them all.

And yet she couldn’t—not a one. Not the merry men whose beards were full of crumbs of stolen bread. Nor the women who had once been taken captive, most of whom now seemed to happily call this camp their home. Especially not the cheerful children who had been born from the unions of such women with such men. They seemed truly loved, truly cared for by their families.

And every ounce of love and care here seemed deserved. Even amidst this camp of thieves, where nothing owned was earned, love seemed deserved.

How could this be? Wasn’t there darkness in their hearts? Wasn’t that a mistake? Wasn’t it wrong, that she had spun them to be sinful? Weren’t they worthy of blame—of hate?

It hurt her human head and human heart, to think about such things. And so she was relieved when Chrysaor turned and led her toward the horses. Creatures less complex, on whose behalf she felt no shame, since she spun only human threads.

One steed stood out, among them all. As did its rider in this band of men. She recognized its coat of brilliant black, dark as a new moon on a starless night. A thing of beauty, pure and proud.

She raised a hand to stroke its lustrous mane.

“Pegasus,” a voice promptly broke in from behind her—the stallion’s rider, of course, “does not like to be petted.”

Cloe pivoted her head to meet his bay-blue glare, her hand stopped in midair. Chrysaor stepped aside as Rider approached and laid a steady palm upon the horse’s side.

“Hands off,” he bade her firmly. “For your own good.”

She met his glare and did not flinch. “Or else?”

The glare hardened. “You don’t want to see him stirred up.”

“I’ll take my chances…”

“No, you won’t. He’s got a lot of pride.”

“Or maybe he’s just scared.”

Rider blinked, visibly taken aback by her words. He masked this impact with a cool, indifferent sneer. “Of you?”

“Of what he doesn’t know.”

He blinked again. “Well, he’s nobody’s pet.”

“And nobody’s prisoner.”

“Unlike yourself,” he retorted, tearing his gaze away from Cloe and signaling Chrysaor to return her to the tent.

As Chrysaor scurried over to collect her, Rider briefly locked his eyes on hers again.

He spoke in a whisper for her ears alone. Steely and stern, yet resonant with soft, suppressed sincerity. “For your own good—in this camp, and in this world—you’d better bite that sassy tongue.”

The human in her may have shuddered, but the goddess stood her ground, staring this mortal down. “Make me.”

She spent the day’s remainder in the tent again, hands tied and all alone. Her mind wandered down all the paths it shouldn’t have, as a new moon traced its path across the sky. Wondered whether Rider had reverted to the batty blonde’s bed. Wondered why that mattered.

She concluded that it didn’t. And yet when he entered the tent, while the night was still young, she felt relieved that he’d returned. Her heart was beating faster, fuller with a foreign feeling—happiness? She wasn’t sure. There’d been no such thing in the Cave.

Well and good, for it felt downright foolish. Even dangerous.

There was something in his hands. He tossed it toward her, and it fell beside her feet—a crumpled cloth. Cloe surmised that it was something like the garment worn by Rider’s jilted lover. She hoped that this one would provide more coverage.

It would be better than this cloak, at any rate, she mused—she had been wearing nothing else all day, since he’d first draped it over her shoulders. A proper dress should grant her some measure of dignity.

If only she could don it. Did he think that she was capable, with both her hands tied up? It didn’t look like he intended to unbind them.

He was heading for bed. And before bed, disrobing. He kept his back to her as he undressed, and she pretended not to watch. At first. But then his bare skin caught the guttering firelight, and he glistened like a god, and she was done.

Her gaze drifted along his sculpted shoulders, down his spine. Drawn down as if by gravity. Dropped to the firm globes of his rear. She recalled Chrysaor’s words, from earlier today. Fine ass, indeed…

Damn it—she was imagining things. Foolish, dangerous things. Wondering why Rider wasn’t taking her, as he moved toward his bed. She’d feared that bed, before; she should’ve been relieved. She was. But also oddly disappointed. And suddenly self-conscious, insecure.

Humanity was creeping into every cell in Cloe’s body. A clutter of emotions, clashing violently and clouding up her mind. She had to stop it, if she hoped to ever find her way back home. Her immortality.

She forced herself to focus on his soul, not his physique, for just a second. The soul seemed far more flawed. Safer to think about.

His wicked way of life. His disdain for the divine. His coldness toward his captives—toward her. Dwelling on all of this, she nearly managed to forget about his ass.

A question sprang up to her lips, breaking the torrid silence. “Are you even going anywhere?”

His head swiveled, ever so slightly, at the soft sound of her voice.

Her dark eyes lifted toward the sliver of his profile that thus came into view. Was he a robber with a cause, she wondered silently, though unsure what that cause could be—and if he were, would he admit it?

She secretly hoped so. “Is there an aim, an end to this?” she asked.

The silence resurged, tenser yet this time. But brief. He answered, with a question—she had not expected that. “What do you think?”

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.... What do YOU think? ;)

Hope you've enjoyed the beginning of Episode 3!! Next scene takes us... somewhere, but I shan't tell where just yet! hehe...

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