Pain coursed through Jason’s body. He remembered it well. Though not the same, it must’ve been the distant cousin of youthing. He’d swear it was worse, but his mind knew better. Everything that happened now, whether good or bad, felt much more pronounced than whatever dusty old relic lay in the past. He’d been bruised and beaten, tied up and blindfolded. Then he’d gotten used to it. He must’ve because he’d fallen asleep. Afterwards, a girl, a shapely girl he might add, set him free and promptly left him for the dogs. It didn’t help that his head was still screaming from all the voices he couldn’t shut out or that nearly every muscle in his body ached. Now he was being forced to work those tortured muscles. So, yeah, this might actually be worse than youthing after all.
What exactly did that girl expect of him? To . . . To run? That was insane! He’d like to see her do it in his condition. It just wasn’t happening. Though he had tried, for whatever that was worth. It couldn’t have been worth much since she left him behind. She’d practically announced that she would, but come on! Who actually does that? Sure, she was scared, but did she think he wasn’t? All beaten, broken and tied up? Of course he was scared and he would’ve run if he could’ve. Why didn’t the fucking bitch wait up?!
Even though he begged and screamed, he only did so in his head. He knew enough to stay quiet. Not that he was. In his condition he was stumbling and breaking off every branch he crashed into. He knew he’d be easy to track. The most ignorant child could find him, but no one yet knew he was gone. He hoped. They could be on his trail already, though he couldn’t see any lights or hear anything beyond the eerie nature of the forest. Of course, he could also hear himself.
So, he stopped and listened. He needed a break anyhow. Hell, he wanted to lie down and die. He didn’t. Death scared him. He pretended it didn’t. He was good at pretending, though he was pretty sure his father could see right through it. If so, why hadn’t he come?! If anything Wferium had said was true, and it obviously was since he could now hear thoughts beyond his own, then his father could do all these things too! He could read minds and see the future! He knew what was going to happen!
God damn it! That meant he KNEW he’d leave! He knew all about the pregnant woman and that fucking punch too! It still throbbed and likely would for days. But . . . it . . . ALL could’ve been avoided! Why the fuck wasn’t it?! If he wanted rid of him so badly, why not just tell him to get out? Or wake one morning while he still slept and just leave him behind? Why like this? Why so fucking painful? For that matter, was anything he’d ever done an accident? Was everything “foreseen”? Was everything a lie?
There was something else. She’d proven she could see the future. He’d protected her. He’d done exactly what she’d said he would do. Well, except for succeed. She had to be dead now; probably fed alive to some fucking dog. So, then why wasn’t he? He was obviously important to Wferium. Maybe he was important to those who’d killed her too. Why not? They’d feared her. They probably knew what she could do, or at least some of it. If his father could to and he’d been “unlocked” . . . maybe they knew about him too . . . and wanted it. The thought terrified him. He didn’t want to think about how “extracting” his abilities from him might be done or if he could survive it.
What of his dreams, which should’ve meant nothing? Did they matter now? Sometimes he remembered them. Hell, sometimes they’d woken him up in a cold sweat. They’d never meant anything before. Wferium freed his mind somehow and suddenly he could hear her thoughts and didn’t even know he was. If this was true . . . could his dreams be . . . real?
He remembered one particular dream. He had no idea why, but every detail stuck out and . . . well, it just “felt” important. Was it . . . could it have been? No. He suddenly decided. If that was his future, he wanted no part of it. It couldn’t be right. He wouldn’t let it be. All he had to do was stay away from crops, fields, farmhouses and all that sort of thing. How hard could that be?
Yet did he even have a choice? Had Wferium see this too? Had his father? Was he taken there against his will? In the dream he remembered being alone. Did that matter? He also remembered feeling an uncontrollable urge to go toward the light. Would he be able to resist if someone dropped him off near the place? Even if it wasn’t for the electric fence, he remembered enough of the entrancing light to know it wasn’t the rising Sun, but something else entirely. That too was terrifying. Was getting fried by the fence a better fate than actually reaching the mysterious light? Did he even have a choice?
Thinking about these things wasn’t exactly helping his cause. The branches seemed to reach out and scratch ever piece of skin they could touch. Hell, he was dripping blood into the snow. It made for an easy trail. Every tree seemed to want him to stop, get caught or die some horrible death. Was it even possible? If his fate was to die by some stupid fence then how could he possibly be stopped here? Well, fuck! He hated his thought processes. Die no, but stopped maybe. Maybe that was the fucking plan all along. Maybe the fuckers who killed Wferium would be the very ones to drop him off at that mother fucking farm!
No. It wasn’t that simple. He was stumbling through snow. Winter had just set in, but the dream had him strolling through a cornfield nearly ready to pick and eat. Didn’t that mean the end of summer? A time to plant in spring and a time to sow in fall? Whatever happened to him wouldn’t happen for nearly a year. That fact would’ve made him feel better except for his wicked imagination, which was greater than most thanks to his father’s “hobby”. It had him wondering what unconscionable things would befall him in the meantime. The difference in seasons didn’t mean he wouldn’t get caught.
Yet, what if he didn’t? Where would he go? Where was he going? He knew enough to know this world was an unforgiving place wishing nothing more than to feast upon his youth. Countless people wanted him dead and he’d never known why, aside from his age. Wferium let him in on part of the secret . . . it was infinitely more than that. He was special. Special people stand out. Special people make normal people look bad. So, normal people want special people dead. Right? Well, it was something like that.
Jason had no idea where he was headed, but for him, nowhere was anywhere good. It’d be a miracle if he survived long enough to get electrocuted and his only hope had run away! Fucking bitch! Why did she even bother untying him if she was just going to run away?! He was just as dead now without her! Only now he felt the bite of the snow and cold with every other little ache and pain, making his situation infinitely worse. He couldn’t help but wonder just exactly whose side that girl was on.
Was she even a girl at all? Or was she some old hag like Wferium turned young with murder after murder? He’d never caught her name and couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. All he knew was he must flee. He’d already booked a date with death. It’d be rude to cancel the reservation. However, until that fateful moment, where was he to go? Maybe back to Madison? He’d been unconscious. Was he anywhere close to the city anymore? Was he even headed in the right direction?
Did it matter? He decided it didn’t. Out of the forest would have to do. How long would that take? Forests were huge. He knew they’d mostly regrown since the war. Would he live long enough to get out? Of course he would, he suddenly thought. He didn’t die here. No. He died in some other outdoor hell. He was beginning to hate being outside, even though that’s primarily where he grew up. Maybe that’s why he hated it so much. City life and concrete streets were sounding pretty damn awesome right about now. So was a hamburger. As if he’d only just noticed, he was starving. Due to his upbringing he knew about berries and mushrooms and which ones were good to eat, but it was winter. None of that helped right now. Now was the time for hunting and trapping, but he didn’t have a gun or a trap. Not even a simple snare.
Did it matter? Even if he had one, he certainly didn’t have the time to wait for some animal to get caught by it. Even if he had a gun he couldn’t use it. The sound would give him away. Even if he’d had a crossbow, which his father taught him how to use, he’d have to find an animal to kill. That would mean a stakeout. That would mean hiding and waiting, but the trail was too obvious. They’d surely find him if he did that. Even if he wasn’t being hunted, he couldn’t light a fire, though he knew how, because the smoke would attract Wferium’s murderers. He’d have to eat the animal raw. Still, their death would give him youthing pains. He couldn’t afford to be squirming around in the snow, screaming.
No. Nothing worked. He had to wait for the hunger pangs to fade and they would. They always did, but the interim sucked. He felt it keenly along with everything else. He figured adrenalin fueled him now, along with the natural instinct to survive. Those two things would be enough. It was no longer a hope. He knew they would, because as horrible as he felt, he wasn’t going to die here. That gave a bit of comfort. It was the only thing that could.
Night fell upon him much faster than anticipated. Not that it was unexpected. The days were always shorter in winter, but he hadn’t been focused on it. He’d led a sheltered life with his father, one where night brought comfort and safety through natural camouflage. It still did and he supposed he should’ve been grateful for it, but he wasn’t. Just as fire could bring warmth and light, it could also burn and kill. Darkness wasn’t always friendly. Without a point of reference all it did was make him feel more lost and alone.
After another half hour or so of aimless wandering, his eyes adapted to the moonlit darkness. It was then the meager celestial light granted him a glimpse of something more than the endless trees. He couldn’t make it out, but it seemed manmade. Of course, it was made of wood. He was sick of wood. Still, he had to get closer. He knew it wasn’t a house. It wasn’t large enough. He felt a twinge of regret at that. Some warmth would’ve been nice. Even if abandoned he could, if only for the moment, escape the wind that cut into him, but it wasn’t a house. As he got closer he saw it was merely a bridge.
A bridge meant a river, but of course, it was winter. It was frozen and probably solid. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t really in the mood for a swim. Still, it was a barrier that must be crossed and it would be far easier than falling through the ice or slipping to break something new. Though, why cross it at all? Wouldn’t that be the obvious thing to do? Shouldn’t he be a bit more unpredictable? The he took a glance at the damage he’d left in his wake. It seemed a bear had been through these woods in the past hour, but strangely, he didn’t seem to have any claws; and he wasn’t extinct . . . yet. Though he’d regained his feet once again, the damage would’ve been plain to see without having fallen into the snow so often. The moral of this story was plain. They’d be able to find him no matter what he did or where he went.
So, why not cross the bridge? Jason made up his bruised and battered mind to do just that and headed toward it in his ramshackle pace. It seemed safe enough at the moment.
<>
“Meraine Talbotte!” screamed Tamerlane Tudor. “The ancient’s cause is lost, but not yours! Time still remains to repent your crimes! We will find you! Find us first and be forgiven!”
Meraine never stopped, nor slowed, though it was nice of Tamerlane to let her know they’d lost her, even if only temporarily. Her footsteps in the snow would give her away. As for the possibility of forgiveness, why return when she’d nothing to forgive? Should she return and demand they repent? Somehow she didn’t think they’d see eye to eye on the matter. So she kept running.
Meraine knew better than to trust the mob. They’d never trusted her. She was regarded as the fresh blood when she’d first joined Wferium’s band of seed hunters three years ago. It was a common rule that fresh bloods knew nothing, even if they were upwards of AA200. Meraine couldn’t be considered an ancient, but at AA116 she wasn’t exactly young either. Though she’d basically lived the life of a scholar her early years were, well, colorful. None of which was public knowledge and she wasn’t about to swap stories with those who shunned her.
However, the stigma of being a fresh blood wasn’t what lost her the camp’s trust, if she’d ever had it. No. Being new wasn’t anything special. At one time or other, everyone went through that awkward adjustment period, regardless of age. It was often a tale of those who’d been betrayed, as their trust proved the most difficult to earn. However, throughout her century of existence, Meraine had yet to come across anyone who hadn’t been fucked over, so hesitation was to be expected. Naturally, it was different if born into the camp. Aside from an irrepressible innocence, such people utterly failed to possess a secret past.
That which defined Meraine was her doctrine as a Futurist, but it’s also what set her apart, alienating her from 98% of all she’d ever met or would meet. Yet, her faith in the Firstborn Prophecy stood as the main reason she’d joined this ragtag band of shunters; that and Wferium’s possible connection to it all. It seemed an enigma to Meraine; a contradiction. Releasing the Atra gas from the dormant seeds aided the future. Seed hunters were all about preserving the future. So how were they not Futurists by their very nature? Not exactly. It was a matter of factions, no less than how Christianity splintered into different denominations eons ago.
Meraine would label her version of Futurist to be pure. Others mockingly labeled it the “Fractured Faction”. Either way it was a niche belief . . . a splinter of a splinter. Though, none would mislabel it as “new”. It wasn’t rare because few knew of it, but rather because it was a nearly dead belief, which only a scant few still took seriously. So, despite the fact, many believed wholeheartedly in their role as shunters, few if any paid heed to the firstborn “myth”. Wferium believed, but didn’t preach it. That is not until recently. Such an unpopular belief would’ve lost her followers . . . and obviously had.
Meraine believed and spoke of it often; well accustomed to the backlash. Many would debate the wisdom of spreading such “nonsense”, but she was unashamed. Keeping her mouth shut, as Wferium had done, would be little better than abandoning the faith. Besides, how else was she supposed to learn anything new? At first she’d gotten the awkward glances, as if there was something on her face or she was wearing her glasses upside down. People thought it strange she’d be interested in the Firstborn Prophecy, though it wasn’t really so odd. Even though they’d probably deny it, most were intrigued at first. It was interesting, but so was a fairytale. To them it was nothing more than a passing curiosity or a phase children inevitably outgrew. What stuck with them was that it stuck with her. She’d not given up. Hell, it was surprising she truly believed in the first place. Then she’d made the mistake of trying to convince others in the camp, even though her lifetime’s worth of research hadn’t revealed much.
Meraine couldn’t very well try to convince anyone without a few facts, but such knowledge revealed her devotion to the subject. Most thought she was a bit touched in the head to devote her life to such a waste. These began to steer clear of her as if contagious. They must not catch the firstborn bug. It was incurable. That was when she started to resent them, but that was also when Wferium pulled her aside.
It wasn’t a good thing for an ancient to have favorites in camp. Still, it seemed she already had. Berial was extremely loyal . . . to a fault. He was nearly a lapdog, fetching everything for her, as if she were incapable of performing the simplest tasks. As Meraine could attest, it was true the aches and pains of old age could, at times be a debilitating affliction, but the ancient proved remarkably capable and hadn’t really required much, if any assistance.
Berial’s loyalty never faltered, even after Wferium’s interest in Meraine became glaringly obvious. That’s when a palpable hatred began to fester. This was mainly towards Meraine. The ancient had the excuse of senility, perhaps. Either way, she was around when the prophecy still meant something, so they assumed it was more of reminiscence for her. Not so much a currently held belief, as a walk down memory lane; the good, but very old days. As far as that was concerned the ancient would indulge Meraine’s beliefs. Still, Wferium had a history of keeping favorites, so a bit of resentment always crawled just under their skin. That and Berial was highly respected, but Meraine . . . not even close. So now a bitterness began to ooze through their pores.
It was true, they’d also resented Berial in his time, but due to an unequalled kindness for more than just the ancient, he eventually grew on the camp. Yet even those who still harbored reservations forgave him such a slight as he’d lost the hallowed position of “ancient’s pet”. There was a distinct reason for this. If he too had been resentful or acted holier than thou, it never would’ve happened. Not that he’d cared one way or the other. He wasn’t there to be praised. He was there to serve the ancient in whatever way she saw fit. Though he wasn’t looking for it, his humility in it all was what earned him the camp’s sympathy and subsequent return to the fold. It was strange, however, because when he was Wferium’s favorite this same humility inspired resentment.
Seemingly, Meraine inherited such ill tidings, which soon blossomed into full grown loathing. In the best of times, she’d never stood as an equal to any within the camp, not even the children. It certainly hadn’t helped when Wferium started picking select twenty something outsiders for Meraine to murder. None in camp gave a damn about the poor, hapless victims, flexing their innate aversion to outsiders. They were foolish and would’ve discovered death sooner or later. They didn’t even mind Meraine’s screams, but that was probably because they couldn’t hear her. Wferium always had Meraine murder and suffer well outside of camp.
Meriane wasn’t the first person from camp Wferium helped this way, but for some reason helping “her” just seemed wrong, as if she didn’t deserve it and never would. Even if any believed her worthy of the honor, none would’ve gone along with how many times it was done. A total of three people died to turn Meraine young again. Now she looked about the same age as those she’d murdered. It was an intense favoritism which not even the far more loyal Berial warranted in the ancient’s eyes. Because of it all Meraine felt stronger. She had, for lack of a better word, finally converted someone else in the camp . . . the most powerful and influential person of them all.
Meraine mustered the support to back her beliefs. She was also virile and young, which if anything, made her more resilient towards her wayward cause. Without intending to, she’d heaped more grief upon the camp. Very few believed anything good could come of it. The people were agitated, resentful and restless; compounding both their already potent trust issues.
They believed their fears proven correct when, for no apparent reason, Wferium chose to set camp just outside of Madison, Wisconsin. She’d given them other reasons they all desperately wanted to believe, but all seemed so vague. This wasn’t terribly unusual. It hadn’t taken Meraine long to notice, Wferium was rarely 100% forthcoming, mixing truth and fantasy with a dash of hope to form a tantalizing blend. She’d a talent for half-truths designed to soothe both aching ears and trembling hearts. Whatever the case, few doubted her as she’d also been proven right more often than not.
Soon after, certain events began to transpire, testing the ancient’s weak explanations. A boy wandered off, likely getting himself killed. The the camp went in search of him inside the city, which even Meraine knew was taboo. She’d brought back the culprit and he’d been killed. Rather a sacrifice to the unwavering loyalty of Berial, which everyone was in support of. Naturally he was protected during the youthing process, but proved a small highlight in a time plagued with bad luck.
With scant time to heal from this trauma, Wferium announced their little excursion had garnered the attention of Madison’s most powerful gang. Despite everything, she’d managed to convince the whole camp to fight back, instead of the age old practice of moving on through noninterference. So, they’d prepared and she’d given a solemn speech about how not all would survive the battle, but how it would be a sacrifice worth paying. This bit of honesty earned back lost respect from some. Others however, began to wonder why she’d willingly let any of them die when they could just move on. After all, what real reason did they have to stay?
Then the day of battle came. It had indeed been vicious and many in the camp perished, as predicted. More in fact than she’d predicted, but she’d made it clear in visions, things could change. They’d won, however, which was something else she’d predicted, or the battle never would’ve taken place. They’d buried and mourned their dead. Meraine tried to help, but was shunned by many, blaming her for their deaths. She’d no idea why, until they screamed it at her.
They all somehow “knew” this “pointless” stop had something to do the damned Firstborn Prophecy. They’d assumed Meraine’s belief revived that of the ancient. All which led to the battle. So, if Meraine never set foot in camp, they wouldn’t have stopped here, the battle wouldn’t have occurred and none would’ve died. Meraine could say nothing to that. She honestly didn’t know whether or not she’d influenced Wferium to stop here. She knew better than to blame herself for everything, but she may very well have played a part.
Upon asking Wferium about it, Meraine was assured she’d nothing to do with it. It was just one of those things. She’d been planning this stop for a while now and not because of her. She revealed to her Jason was near, but it was all touch and go. She couldn’t move on Safaryn. He was too powerful. She sensed an opportunity would soon arise, but couldn’t know when exactly. She could only see about a day into the future, but her intuition sailed well past that meager timespan and was usually proven right.
Not that any of this mattered. At the camp’s current level of resentment toward her, there wasn’t a chance in hell of convincing them she played no part in the tragedy. Actually, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to. Meraine had been waiting too. She’d devoted a sizeable chunk of her life to the Firstborn Prophecy and she’d never been closer. She’d gladly accept the blame for everything if it meant finding a few of the answers that always eluded her. She knew chaos and anarchy would prevail should the camp learn the truth, much less believe it. They’d revolt against Wferium and all would be lost; perhaps the future as well. That couldn’t be allowed to happen, so Meraine bore the burden of their disdain without complaint.
Then a slew of young shunters, drunk on power, began migrating back to the city. Slaughtering the gang instilled the city with fear. Meraine couldn’t pinpoint the reason for such intensity, but many adults took advantage of it too, including Wferium herself. Ever since the battle she’d been changing. Everything about her seemed more primal and bent on violence. Fortunately, it came and went and was largely repressed when they spoke. It was hard for her to distinguish why, but hoped she’d a calming effect on the ancient.
Meraine hadn’t returned to Madison beyond the first visit. She’d no desire to see it again or discover what became of Wferium under the city’s influence. To some degree, fear was ever-present within larger populations, but now the scent of it was likely stifling and wafted through the streets. Once bathed in it, the empowered would feel an effect near to a narcotic. During this time the older members of the camp began to grow more disconcerted and worried, as well they should. Many youngsters failed to return. Wferium seemed powerless to stop them, or perhaps failed to pull her focus away from that of the firstborn. Some confronted her, pleading for their children’s sake, but the ancient hardly took note, saying, “They’ll return in time.”
Yet, they didn’t and her lack of concern accelerated her flock’s rapidly fading trust. The change in her was plain to see. Naturally, they found a way to blame her “pet” for it, but that was o.k. for the same reasons as before. She dealt with it as a price worth paying. Meraine harbored little love for any in camp, but still asked Wferium about the children and was greeted with, “You need to understand, force would be required to alter their fate, but never has my flock been chained to me. They’re free to come and go as they please . . . even the children.” Meraine considered how the young needed a firm hand to discern right from wrong, but fell short of mentioning it. If the ancient read her mind, she didn’t comment on it.
The very next day, as if none of it mattered, Wferium announced to those who remained, “The time has come.” For what, very few knew. She said she was going to test someone for entry into the camp. Someone she said she’d noticed upon their first visit to the city. It wouldn’t be a test like any other they’d experienced. There would be danger involved . . . a danger to the camp. Most were done with danger and death after the battle with the gang. Many lost all faith in the ancient, yet her silver tongue pulled victory from defeat. She’d dangled her flock’s children as bait, saying, “They now lived for all manner of danger. They’ll return for this and after a taste of reality, they’ll return home to you.”
It was a devious, underhanded tactic Meraine thought beyond Wferium. Her view of the ancient was further demoralized when she continued with, “I need only to touch their minds with the message of when and where. Yet only with your blessing and participation.” How was this not blackmail? Firstborn Prophecy or not, this was borderline treacherous behavior. The only thing prompting Meraine to hold her tongue was the camps utter disdain of her. They’d said as much in whisper, blaming the “fresh blood” for all the changes in their hallowed ancient.
What hurt even more was that Wferium deceived her too. Surely, she could’ve and should’ve corralled the youngsters, or stopped their wandering from starting altogether, but why do that when it fit in so perfectly with her master plan? Of course, few understood more than Meraine the sacrifices which must be made for the sake of the future, but children? How was that not a step too far? If willing to stoop to such a level, what kind of future were they trying to save?
Meraine had never been presented with such a choice, but felt certain she’d side with the children. Then Wferium sent a thought her way, “Do not think yourself so holy. You’ve barely lived and that which you have was mostly in isolation. It’s so easy to judge when you haven’t witnessed the horrors I have. This needs to happen. The future depends on it. And of all my visions . . . this is the only way to ensure it. Surely, you don’t think me so heartless as to fail to save the children should any other options avail me? There is simply no other way.”
Wferium failed to add, “And what do you care? Every last one, including the children, would rather see you burn than accept your hand, even if it should save their life.” Despite being true, Meraine was grateful to be spared such chastisement. Though, she’d done a good enough job of that on her own.
All Meraine could say in response was, “Will the children live?”
She was greeted with, “I cannot say. Not anymore than I could predict every outcome upon our victory of late. The future is a fickle thing. Specifics often elude me. I focus on the big picture. All I ask is that your trust in me fails to waver.”
That was a huge ask, but what else could she do but try? What had she sacrificed the greater part of her life for if not this? Regardless of how she felt about Wferium . . . she must see this through. More than that, as much as she had no desire to enter the city or risk her life again, for this she was willing and offered her services. Wferium turned her down; telling her the future she saw had her dying if she took part. That was unacceptable as Wferium believed Meraine had a much larger part to play in the Firstborn Prophecy than she’d first thought. She wasn’t about to argue, even though it would probably involve its own brand of danger.
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As if there were any doubt, those who remained in her flock took the bait. How could they not? What other hope had they of retrieving their wayward children? Though, admitted or not, most innately knew their entire future hinged on the outcome of this solitary venture. If it failed, what trust could possibly remain for the ancient?
As instructed, Meraine stayed behind and waited. It took a while. True to her word, a few children had indeed accompanied the beleaguered lot, but certainly not all. She witnessed them participating as best they could, as most wounded must be carried; more than expected. Their help proved invaluable, as there weren’t enough uninjured adults to do it. Upon closer observation she realized Wferium was screaming and thrashing inside a premade skiff, though she had no idea why at the time. As most already knew, the ancient was in her youthing process. Infused with secrets, Wferium never divulged this outcome to Meraine . . . and it hurt, believing their bond far stronger. Still, she must’ve had her reasons. None her age took such things lightly, as youthing was a rare state and carefully planned. This was the first time anyone in her flock had witnessed it, but then she’d been told the camp had only been in existence for about 27 years.
Wferium’s screams were the warning call everyone seemed to heed, regardless of their positions in recent conflicts. Maybe it was out of fear. There was talk and then there was reality. Most talked about how life would improve without the ancient, but in reality she was their guide to the seeds and many other things. She had a vast amount of knowledge, not including her foresight which granted far more protection than danger over the many years. They really had no idea what to do without her, because via gossip most already knew the ancient planned to murder an AA57, not that Meraine was privy to such details. This age extended her suffering and made the possibility of her death very real. No one had really faced it yet, but without an ancient the camp would wither and die. So, even those who doubted her the most came to her aid.
Another skiff held an unconscious boy, though Meraine never before laid eyes on him. That must mean he was . . . she suddenly held her breath at the possibility. She’d waited so very long. She couldn’t commit now and be wrong. For her, nothing could be more devastating. Nor could she ask in a camp full of unbelievers who despised her very existence. Even if they’d accepted the Firstborn Prophecy, they’d proven how unforgiving they were. They’d crucify her for simply being right, because they’d all appear fools for ever having doubted. So she simply stared and wondered.
After a few more skiffs trailed on with the injured, she looked to the tree line for more, but that was it. Many more participated. Had that many really died? She could contain herself no longer and asked what became of the others. She was ignored as they grunted past. She’d been shunned even by few the careless youths. Anything more would lead to banishment or death. So she retired to her tent with Wferium’s screams filling her ears. Not that she’d be able to sleep otherwise.
Though she dreaded what her fate might be, wondering about the boy kept her entranced. Wild possibilities ran through her mind and she was convincing herself they were true . . . all of them. Then she ruminated on her role in it. What could it be? Would she be able to discern it if Wferium died? Meraine felt a twinge of regret at the thought. Despite the ancient’s transgressions, it was all geared toward the goal they both shared, so her life should matter more than it did, but all she could think about was the boy. She loathed herself for it, but still couldn’t help it.
Even if she saw the boy, she couldn’t know if he was truly the firstborn, but there was something emerging inside her; waiting a lifetime to be free. What would her life of devotion mean if it all came to an end? She didn’t want to think about that, but already knew the answer . . . she would end her miserable life. After all, what else did she have to live for? This fucking camp? No. Her family? As if it were a race, those who hadn’t died left her before she could leave them, calling her too damned obsessed with nonsense. Nor was there room in her life for romance; at least not anything more than a fling. She’d traded everything for the Firstborn Prophecy, so there’d be nothing left of her if it all fell to nothing.
Why think about that now? She was too close to victory to consider defeat, but it was all the anticipation. Only at the endgame can one know if they’re really going to win or not. The journey itself was chock full of safety, insomuch as nothing could be proven or disproven. What did that mean? If this boy wasn’t the firstborn was she simply going to give up after nearly a century of searching? That wouldn’t mean anything. He or she would still be out there somewhere. It was prophecy, for god’s sake! It had been foretold and would come to pass with or without her assistance.
She had to know. She had to see him. She supposed she would since she was going to play a part in it all, but she wanted to see him now! This astonished her. She’d never been like this. She was a woman of infinite patience, as was required of all who devoted themselves to something so tedious and vague, but she felt she was near the end. The end was really the beginning, she knew, but answers were at hand. She needed these answers more than a desert needed rain. Whether validating or condemning, she needed them . . . and she needed them now!
That was impossible, though. They’d never let her near him and Wferium was literally fit to be tied. Wferium couldn’t help. An ancient thrashing in pain had no say in anything. They would deny her every attempt. At this point, maybe even decide to kill her for trying. She couldn’t tip that balance. The whole camp was fit to be tied. Everyone, not just her, was in a heightened state. Emotions swelled like waves and crashed just as fast. The boy was the key to it all. Even those who didn’t believe had a deep fear of being proven wrong. They’d be more than fools if they were, they’d have to see themselves as having lived worthless, pointless lives, suddenly realizing everything they thought they knew was a lie.
What was there to live for after that? Funny though. Meraine’s very life hinged upon the prophecy being proven right and it seemed everyone else’s hinged on it being wrong. Yet that wasn’t funny at all. That was deadly serious. She knew some of these people were just as obsessed as her, but in reverse. They were willing to kill to NOT get those answers, especially if they proved to be true. Even so, they were just as impotent as she was. The boy was loathed, but well-guarded. That could change. People were once again leaving the camp and she didn’t know why.
Unapologetically mingled with Wferium’s screams, Meraine heard a flurry of voices. Most blended together as noise, but the one she’d made out said they must return for the others. Perhaps there were too many injured and dead to bring everyone back in a single trip. Though some left, the boy remained well guarded and nothing changed as far as the possibility of seeing him. She hoped the same could be said about the possibility of killing him. Jason would surely perish if Wferium failed to survive her youthing. His only hope, and Meraine’s, was for the ancient to survive, emerging as a much younger version of herself. While the opposing desires to kill and protect couldn’t be so easily altered, the ancient, whether loved or despised, would bring a degree of order to the emotional chaos which now prevailed.
Wferium’s bloody screams stood as a countdown. Everything would surely change once they stopped. She’d have her answer then. Not about the boy or the prophecy, but about sheer survival. She hadn’t considered this before, but her life was directly linked to the ancients. Wferium’s favoritism extended to unspoken protection. Meraine couldn’t be touched. All that would suddenly change should she die. So Meraine did more than wait. She packed.
A new day dawned, but still the screams forbade sleep to all but the most hearty, exhausted or just plain deaf. Meraine’s excuse was a healthy mix of fear and common sense. If Wferium’s fate was to meet death it could claim her at any time during the youthing process. It was somewhat surprising, but little happened during the interim. The main event was the return of the second rescue. Many of these were seriously wounded by means of paralysis. They’d returned with more skiffs than when they departed. Some were built on site out of odd and ends but the base was almost always snow shovels with some sort of tarp tied around it. They were hastily built and looked to fall apart soon enough, but they held for the journey; their sole purpose.
Two or three makeshift skiffs were filled to the brim with food. After all, the attack occurred inside a grocery store. With their proprietor down with a bad case of death, everything was on a 100% discount . . . and shunter camps rarely turned a blind eye to a free meal. Honestly, Meraine believed the aspect of not going hungry factored into the ancient’s decision of who to murder. She most likely figured it’d play a crucial role in earning back some much needed trust, but this wasn’t a matter of hurt feelings. Many lost their lives or the lives of loved ones, of which Wferium was to blame, indirectly or not. Feeding those who survived, though kind, proved a poor version of penance.
The boy hadn’t woken. The whole camp would’ve been in a self-induced uproar if he had. She suspected luck had nothing to do with it. The camp squirreled away some nominal medical supplies and probably kept him under on purpose, if only to prevent the inevitable chaos. They’d likely done so on Wferium’s orders. Surely she knew she’d be indisposed.
The sun had risen well beyond the horizon before Wferium’s final whimpering cries died away. Word she still lived spread quickly. Regardless of the differing opinions about the ancient, there wasn’t a single person in camp who wasn’t curious on how she now appeared. Meraine was no exception, but sheer survival impeded any serious thought on the subject. Wferium would live to see another day. That alone warranted a sigh of relief, as it meant Meraine might as well. Even so, a longer wait was in store.
A body wracked with agony always exhausted itself during the youthing process, especially when it lasted anywhere near as long as Wferium’s had. Word was spread the ancient passed the whole ordeal and now slept soundly. No one bothered to tell Meraine, but she was blessed with impeccable hearing and it was her nature to be both patient and attentive. Once everyone knew, none dared wake her. The first wait was nearly unbearable. This one proved only slightly better, as it felt like a stay of execution, but only a temporary one. The imminent fear of death faded somewhat, which allowed her own exhaustion to overtake her.
@@ By the time she woke, night had fallen with a distinct chill in the air. A crowd formed around the Queen Tree, which stood regally in the center of the camp. Meraine clearly recognized Wferium’s voice, despite it now emanating from a more youthful mouth. She was bombarded with too many questions and not enough answers. Who was the boy? Why was he here? Why did so many people have to die? Was it finally time to leave this accursed place? Would all they once knew fall away after so much tragedy?
Meraine too wondered these things, but the chance to ask had been purposely stolen from her. No one bothered to wake her. She wasn’t surprised. Still, it seemed a coup was rising. She was probably better off in her tent, than in the midst of the mob’s growing fury. She could hear most everything just fine from her tent anyway. It wasn’t as if anyone even attempted to remain silent. In fact, it seemed anything worth saying was shouted.
Then a piercing blast of gunfire trumped every complaint. Just a single shot, but she’d recognize the familiar bellow of a sheargun anywhere and the fleshy thud signifying a successful hit. She’d already been sitting up on her bedroll when the blast rang out, but now, even though the bitter cold seeped in, sweat seemed to bead across every inch of her body. She wanted desperately to understand what happened, though she hadn’t feared for anyone native to the camp. No. Her first and instant thought was the boy now lay paralyzed or dead.
She soon learned otherwise to screams of “The ancient’s been shot!” and “Berial’s dead!” The shock hit her faster than the tears, but they welled up too. After Wferium, Berial was as close a friend as she’d ever managed in camp. They were far from bosom buddies, but he never judged her. Aside from his devotion to the ancient, he remained neutral in all matters. He listened to Meraine’s many problems, but no advice was forthcoming. He’d just smile, nod and say some version of, “All things work themselves out in time.” Being able to vent allowed for some minor relief, but it solved nothing. Throw in a few “Hail Mary’s” and Berial could’ve been a priest. That opportunity suddenly passed along with the man.
As far as Wferium was concerned, her loyalty stood on precariously shaky ground. The camp’s concerns were in part her own. In the ancient’s unfathomable mind who was expendable and who wasn’t? Obviously Meraine, herself, wasn’t. She was told to stay behind, but was that only to serve her purpose to the boy? To play her role in the Firstborn Prophecy? What of her as a person? Did she hold any true value to Wferium? Meraine believed her youthing a gift, but was it? Or was the ancient simply preparing her for the task at hand? Was she just a shiny, expensive tool to better aid this boy?
Everyone knew how much she’d loved Berial and everyone heard her final words to him. “You will be needed and soon.” What was that supposed to mean if not in her own protection? He could’ve been saved! Surely she’d foreseen it! What good purpose could his death and her own injury have possibly served? If Wferium’s most loyal was expendable then were Meraine’s days numbered as well? Would her “role” in the Firstborn Prophecy end only upon her death? How soon might that be? Tomorrow, today, an hour from now?
Despite Wferium’s obvious transgressions, Meraine felt guilty prior to this event for her possible disloyalty to the ancient, but not so much now. Even that wasn’t so much betrayal as it was priority. In Meraine’s mind the boy’s importance had risen dramatically . . . beyond that of the ancient. Wferium would’ve done the same. Hell, she was doing exactly that! Did anything or anyone else really matter to her? Did that even matter? Had Wferium used her? Was using her? Even now? What had Meraine done to deserve such suffering? She’d come to the camp with the sole purpose of finding out more about the Firstborn Prophecy. What loyalty did she ever have to the ancient, aside from keeping her safe? No. Meraine didn’t want to face it, but she’d used Wferium too. They had and were using each other at this very moment!
Why? Because they both knew what really mattered. The boy. The firstborn. The future. All their lives meant nothing in comparison. Did that not deserve some degree of respect? She’d always thought so. She’d always thought it was well deserved. Even though, prior to Wferium, few offered her anything but ridicule for it.
Sanity was hard to come by at the moment. She had to think and needed time to do it. She had no idea if this was time she’d be afforded, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. If Wferium died in the interim, costing Meraine her own life, then so be it. Wferium had to know this. She must’ve foreseen it. Maybe that meant time yet remained. Maybe it didn’t, but Meraine was beyond caring about that. For once she needed something for herself and was damn well going to take it.
At least an hour passed by in this way, with chaos and doubt quickly overtaking even the sanest minds in camp. Still, no one disturbed her, choosing as they did of late, to pretend she didn’t exist. This proved remarkably easy to do, as they were concerned about their own futures, not Wferium’s and certainly not hers. That suited her just fine. Every last one could commit suicide for all she cared. Everyone she gave a damn about in camp was dead, dying or otherwise on their way out. Of course, that didn’t include the boy, but then he wasn’t really part of the camp. Honestly, she, herself, was disgusted to be a part of it; something she’d soon rectify, regardless of whatever else happened. It was the one and only decision of which she was certain. Once gone, she’d never return, though soon there’d be nothing to return to.
Of course, she still had a nearly uncontrollable desire to see the boy, but he may not even be the firstborn of prophecy. Even if he was, she’d have no way of knowing it. He wouldn’t have “firstborn” tattooed on his forehead. Even if “how to tell” had been prophesied, that crucial bit was forever lost to time. She’d done the overly extensive research. She’d know if there existed a way to be certain. If the secret laid hidden deep in Wferium’s cobweb of a mind, she would’ve divulged it to someone like her, who was to play a part in it all. Did any of that matter? She couldn’t get near him.
In her speech, it was obvious Wferium believed this boy to be legitimate. This was likely linked to her history with his father, which from their private talks, Meraine knew about long before the rest of camp. It seemed she knew more about Sarafyn than any other who still drew breath, but what did that account for? She knew of his past. Though deep, dark and foreboding it was still the distant past. He’d been MIA as an outcast for centuries, literally. By his own design, little to nothing was known of him during that period. So, what could Wferium know that couldn’t be known? It had to be more than a feeling, didn’t it? Not to discount such things, but where was the proof? He could’ve had dozens of children between then and now.
Even if she was right, announcing it as fact hadn’t boded well for her. It was fairly obvious to all the boy had no place in camp. Any hope of the boy’s future would soon lay with her, since she had “a role to play”, whatever that meant. Regardless of her newfound youth, Wferium was injured in some way. She wouldn’t be able to protect anyone much longer; not even herself.
Whether or not Meraine believed or cared, the boy would surely die if she failed to intervene. If Wferium was right about who he was, then Meraine wholeheartedly believed the future would die with him. If she truly wielded any power to affect this dire outcome, she couldn’t just allow him to perish. She decided she must act, doing all she could to save the boy, even if it cost her own life. She’d found a way to cope with it all. She wouldn’t do it for Wferium. She wouldn’t do it for herself. She wouldn’t even do it for the boy. No. She’d do it for the future.
Wferium, alone possessed all the need to know details. Sure, she’d foreseen it. Whatever. It had to happen and she was the only one who could do it. So, she grabbed her pack, mustered up her courage and peeked outside her tent to view the ensuing chaos. Some people ran around as if it actually was the end of the world. Some were walking around with overly burdened minds just like hers. Others just stood around, talking or not talking, yelling or not yelling, but in their own way, making judgments, no matter how justified or not. They’d do whatever it was they felt was right, or at least necessary and they’d do it soon.
As Meraine made her way to Wferium she seemed wholly ignored, but she knew better. She’d suddenly become the breaking news about camp, because they’d previously forgotten about her; out of sight, out of mind. This new wrench in the works helped many make up their own tumultuous minds and not in her favor. Still, not one made a move to stop her, just closely observed. She could feel their eyes boring holes in her back and felt like a lab rat for it. Would she press the green button and get the cheese or the red button and die? Well, she couldn’t even guess what the green button might be, but the red button had to be Wferium.
Sure, the boy was equally red, but she wasn’t headed in that direction and everyone knew it. It wasn’t long before she’d seen Wferium. She’d nearly flopped over, propped only by her hallowed Queen Tree and under her own strength. None came to her aid . . . not anymore. The ancient manipulated them all by playing games of chess with their lives and finally arrived on check mate. It still wasn’t terribly clear where she was wounded, but unless it was her mouth it didn’t really matter. She needed information, nothing else. As much as she truly cared for the ancient, she was on her own.
As she grew closer it was clear her right leg had been hit. It wasn’t torn to shreds. There was little to no blood, but a few tiny pins still jutted from it. She’d already removed most of them, now harmless in the snow next to her. Berial was nearby, but a sheet now laid over his body in respect. She wondered why he hadn’t been taken away, but figured it must be penance. What better way to instill some much deserved guilt than to force the ancient to linger over what she’d done . . . the irreversible death of her most loyal. Meraine couldn’t tell if it was working.
Whether or not Wferium gave a damn, Meraine did and looked away from the body that still bore the much revered name Berial Terrin. Instead, she looked toward the nearly unrecognizable thirty something young woman who stared intently back at her. Then Wferium spoke, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
The conversation ensued rapidly as people were seconds from making up their minds about what to do; it wouldn’t be anything good. After a moment of renewed respect for a bit of repentance, Meraine soaked up both the information and destination and nearly broke into a run. Then she was delayed a moment longer to learn Carmen already freed the boy. Her thoughts on this were convoluted.
On one hand, Meraine could now escape without the boy in tow. That would drastically increase her chances of survival. On the other hand, Carmen was an enigma, who had little reason to take such a huge risk. What could her motivation possibly be? Meraine had never really given the woman much thought, but she did now. She had little choice. Even though she hadn’t stayed with the boy, that didn’t mean she was out of the picture.
That was vitally important because one thing about Carmen was blatantly obvious . . . she never did anything for free. Every kind deed came with a price tag. The bitch would expect something in return for freeing the boy and it would be up to Meraine to make sure she didn’t get it, because whatever the price, it was bound to be too high. Meraine didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on her at the moment. No. She was too busy running.
People who’d scurried helplessly all about the camp suddenly focused their eyes on Wferium’s position. Most, however, were situated strategically between the ancient and the boy. That didn’t play well to their advantage thanks to Carmen. It must’ve been the first truly helpful thing she’d ever done. Even though Meraine bolted in the opposite direction some people still tried to block her path. They didn’t know what she was up to, but weren’t stupid enough to think she’d gone for a jog.
They tried to cut her off, but she was too nimble with youth. When she wasn’t, she braced herself for impact and plowed straight through. Her belief in the Firstborn Prophecy spawned more than a few enemies, but she’d learned how to handle them. Generally, shunters were peace lovers, slowly blossoming into sacrilegious assholes who weren’t too agile in combat situations. After all, the camp was meant to be a haven from the world outside. Only a good degree of foresight, a bit of luck and a shitload of traps won the gangland battle, but they were largely ill-equipped in a fight.
Meraine, herself, nearly forgot how to fight, but it all came back rather quickly. Her problem was one of a different nature . . . sheer numbers. No matter her skills, the camp could easily overpower her given half a chance. It remained a very real possibility, but for now she experienced little trouble. She broke into the forest for whatever that was worth. It offered a good degree of hiding places, but how would that work with her footsteps so plainly revealed in the snow? There was no hiding, so her feet kept pounding the snow. Maybe those on her tail would get their asses handed to them in a full out brawl, but over the years they’d bonded with nature and knew so many tricks and subtle nuances. They were adept hunters, good shots and knew well how to track their prey, no matter the season.
Bullets weren’t a thing to waste. She’d been lucky none she’d slipped past were armed. They probably figured it wouldn’t be necessary. It was likely some felt differently, but couldn’t line up a good shot with their friends in the background. No doubt it also had a little to do with DOE, as all knew she was born well over a century ago. Whatever, she’d take whatever advantage she could get. She’d bet her life they’d come packing now. Meraine relied upon her speed, which was accentuated by the camp’s lack of preparation. Perhaps they should’ve been, but few were prepared for this turn of events.
Not everyone followed her. Not everyone would. No matter what level of threat Meraine represented, Wferium ranked higher, even wounded. The ancient’s fate was out of her hands, but some sort of nasty death likely awaited her. With any luck Wferium would be spared a sneak preview. Maybe Meraine’s roll existed solely because the ancient’s had come to an end. Someone had to pick up the slack. She should feel honored, but somehow running for her life didn’t inspire much joy.
Still, her chances were good. The camp took their losses in both death and wounded. Not all who remained both healthy and able agreed on how to proceed. With more than half of those staying behind having dedicated themselves to dealing with the ancient, she probably had ten or less on her tail. Of course, 1 against 10 odds were shit, but things could’ve been worse. Whatever. Death was still death, whether inflicted by 10 or 100. If death was her fate, was she supposed to feel elated at least fewer people were killing her? What would that mean, exactly? She’d have fewer people to haunt? Yay?
She’d always been an optimist. Turning her mood upside down didn’t do much for her chances, which were still good no matter what she chose to believe. She thought all these things on the fly and distanced herself from most of the mob, who were still rummaging for their guns. That didn’t take long, but it took plenty long enough when every second counted.
<>
The designated leader in the small posse was Tamerlane Tudor. Tamerlane, as much as it seemed, wasn’t self-named. He’d come from a long line of ancients, himself, but was rather low class among them. He was only about AA63, which was younger than herself. If the boy Wferium had acquired was a firstborn, then Tamerlane was something like a sixteenth born. In other words . . . nothing special.
However, he thought otherwise or at least deserved to be. He possessed some minor abilities. Every now and then he’d catch a word or two of thought or have a feeling about something or other. On rare occasions he’d catch a glimpse of something useful which might occur in the future. This was more than most in camp, but was far too prideful. Aided by delusions of grandeur, he’d convinced himself he could lead the camp after Wferium either left or died. Everyone else seemed to realize that wasn’t possible. Why couldn’t he.
Tamerlane leading the shunters would be a pathetic excuse, misleading anyone stupid enough to follow straight to their graves. Realistically, any hope of the camps survival without Wferium would fall to Aryl Czar, who though, not an ancient, proved the next oldest and most capable candidate. Beyond this, Meraine couldn’t see any a future for the camp, but then that thought made her smile. All the bitches and bastards could rot in hell for all she cared; Aryl too, but most certainly Tamerlane. Meraine could only hope his arrogance bought him a first class ticket. No doubt it would, but she’d prefer express over scenic.
Since Tamerlane couldn’t actually see her, he called out to her and promised forgiveness if she returned. She wondered if anyone other than himself actually believed this bold faced lie? If she was caught Tamerlane would be the first to command the right to sentence her. The pure excitement of damning her would probably cause him to soil himself. Though she knew he wanted her dead, it was plain to see he’d like to get his dick wet first. She’d see him dead first. She’d love to kill him outright. She could hold his years, but she wasn’t currently old, so her EA would dwindle down to zero before the youthing stopped. She would DOE. Too bad. It would’ve been fun.
If fate favored her, Meraine would one day find a way to end his pathetic existence. Not today though. She’d put it on her to do list. For now she’d have to take what pleasure she could from simply ignoring him, which was something she knew irritated him. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Running from him made her feel pathetic. She knew she could best him in a fight, but he wasn’t alone and certainly wouldn’t play fair. She couldn’t know who was with him because no one else spoke. They were sheep looking to be herded. Too bad they’d found a wolf instead.
She figured it was time to alter course to intercept the boy, so she began her wide swath around the outside of the camp. She had a rendezvous to keep at the bridge, as unimpressive as it was. Things probably weren’t what they seemed. Few things ever really were, but she’d little choice in the matter. She must try for her own sake as well as that of the boy. He’d be completely lost without help and end up dead for it.
Meraine could still faintly make out Tamerlane’s incessant whine. News flash! Recited lies never evolved to anything resembling truth. She wanted to get away if only to be out of earshot. She soon would be, despite not being terribly fast, but neither were they. Trudging through the snow was never particularly easy, but she was considerably faster than those who followed.
Within a half hour she’d gotten her wish. Well, she really couldn’t know for sure. Maybe they were still relatively close and he’d just grown a brain. Maybe he finally realized every word he shouted let her know how close they were. She doubted it though. He really wasn’t all that bright, especially not for the descendant of an ancient. He seemed oblivious to the fact he existed as an embarrassment to his whole line. It wouldn’t make much difference, but perhaps he’d open his eyes to this truth before she found a way to end his sorry excuse for a life. If not, she’d spell it out for him.
Time seemed to slow even though she did not. An hour seemed two, at the very least. Every step took twice as long and the day seemed to shrivel up and die. Meraine knew her path, bar specifics. It was a generality. She was headed more or less in the right direction. Though many well-worn trails now existed in the woods surrounding the camp, she was blazing her own path. It would make her easier to track, but there wasn’t anything for it. She needed to find her guide and sometimes the direct route was best; her guide being the river, which led to the bridge. There was only one, so there wouldn’t be any mistaking it for another.
The river remained elusive; being frozen, it offered no sound or moonlit glint off of ice. The ever-present snow had hidden it from obvious view. What gave it away was the trench like alcove running off into the horizon on either side, like a wayward and forgotten street. From neither direction was the bridge visible, but still she knew to turn to her left. Beyond this she traveled upon the river itself, as the dip in the landscape hid her from sight. It may not have been altogether necessary, but if common sense didn’t rule then death surely would.
For all his faults, Tamerlane delusions resulted in determination. His price for failure may not be death, but nothing good would come of it. Meraine knew from personal experience forgiveness never came easy. After all, how was crucifying her anything more than a step towards command? Somewhere deep inside, even he must know Aryl was a far better candidate for leadership, and as much as he hated it, he’d never best her in combat or wits. Even so, Tamerlane’s success on this hunt would surely win him more followers and thus more influence. It was the people who’d decide their successor . . . a true democracy.
So in order to stay one step ahead, Meraine kept to the river, exercising caution around every river bend. Eventually, the bridge came into view. There was someone on it, but the darkness hid just who, with the moonlight granting little more than a silhouette. She figured it must be the boy, but wasn’t stupid enough to commit to that assumption. For that she was grateful, because it couldn’t have been him. A second silhouette joined the first, but not in flight or battle. They stood as if talking idly or taking orders. Regardless, they stood as lookouts.
They probably weren’t alone and were waiting for either the boy, herself or both. Could it be they already had the boy and were using him as bait? If so, it would indeed make quite a lure, but what could it accomplish? It was already obvious just how stupid the camp believed her to be. She decided that was an advantage she could use against them.