I Will Find You

If he had any kind of psychic power then he would have been able to tell that she was planning something that might actually work. As it was, he’d known that she wanted freedom. Anyone with the ability to want anything would know that she did.

(No one likes being held prisoner, not even someone who is in a gilded cage. His wife was held in a cage as far from gilded as you could get. She had no comforts, nothing and no one to really make any of this seem less than it was: enslavement as a living resource for whatever he wanted at the moment.)

He had worked very hard at making sure she would be unable to find the resources needed to escape. It was part of the reason that she didn’t often get to see anyone other than him. He didn’t want her to find sympathy amongst the servants and have someone to help her. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that most people, people who actually cared about the suffering of people they didn’t know, exist and that they would probably try to help her if they knew. He was very careful about what others knew and didn’t know about his wife and her situation. He had gotten where he was because he had known where and how to gather and disseminate information.

The point of the matter was, he hadn’t been aware that his wife, his darling and oh so dear wife had been able to escape. And in such a matter that he was finding it difficult to track her. Whatever she had done to send children away (and it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to figure out that was happening when he’d just thought that her boy had been trying to do a false pregnancy. Human women had this happen to them all the time) she had been able to use to escape for herself. He had been able to get a read on some of the children, but not a location, just that they did exist and were alive somewhere.

“I will find you, I will find you and as many of those pathetic little rats that you’ve hidden from me, my darling wife.” he snarled to himself as he paced the library like a caged animal, books open and strewn about him.

“You cannot run from me forever.”

Just because he could not predict the future did not mean that the power he’d gained was useless in hunting down what belonged to him. He would never stop looking.


Written for today’s Daily Prompt: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/01/21/daily-prompt-future-3/

Bittersweet Heroes

In the end, she couldn’t have completely saved her children by herself.

The places that she sent them to, the people that were there were the real heroes for her children. There wasn’t always someone there to give her child to, but more often than not there was. Some of them spoke a language that she knew, but most didn’t. It didn’t seem necessary most of the time.

She would push her child forward, sometimes scooting the small bundle of pink across the floor carefully, so very carefully, and then look up into their eyes. Sometimes it was a man, sometimes it was a woman, different ages and races and sizes and all kinds of other things. most would look into her eyes long and hard and then down at the snuffling and mewling child either in her arms or on the floor.

Their eyes would invariably pause on her wrists and ankles, taking in the manacles there, fastened with no lock. The skin around them was scarred and inflamed and it was obvious that she would lose her hands in any bid to release her. The look in her eyes told them that even then, she would likely never be free. All she was asking for was the freedom of the child she was holding out towards them.

They were heroes because they took the child even though it was likely that whomever held the mother would search for the child as well. They did not know that he would be searching for too many children and would likely find not even half of them. They would be safe insofar as the people who took them in would see to.

These people that she did not know, would never know, would be responsible for her child, for her children, for each part of her soul that she was able to send away. They would be parents and she would likely never be mentioned to the child that was now their’s. That was fine for her; the less her children knew about where they had come from, the less danger they would be in. The magic that she’d used to send them away worked better when there were fewer who knew the details.

Ignorance was rarely a protection for anyone, it certainly hadn’t been for her. The irony that she would use what the sire of her children had used against her in order to stop him from harming her children (and they were hers, never would they be his no matter what their genetics would say) made this sweet enough to drown out the bitter.

“Thank you.” she would always whisper, even to those who would never understand her words.

She would lean down over the child, some would awaken in order to see her one last time (or a first time) and she would mumble a few words in her own language. The language of the Phoenix.


Written for this week’s DungeonPrompts.

http://theseekersdungeon.com/2014/01/16/dungeon-prompts-season-2-week-3-role-models-and-the-molding-of-personality/