Over mountains, oceans and deserts they carry you, seemingly tireless, without the need for rest or food or drink. They fly throughout the night and day without pause, impatient, focused. They have only one thing on their minds, and that's to get you to their master.

During the three days they travel, the only time they stop is at the beginning of the second evening when you begin to stir from sleep.

Quickly, they drop to the ground. Awake enough to complete basic functions but too drowsy to fight or resist, you are encouraged to relieve yourself and to take a deep drink of water. Vaguely, dream-like, you can see you're in some kind of green field. It's pretty but lonely. There are mountains in the distance.

You can hear the three 'men' who aren't really men, growling and snapping at each other. Why are you here? You can't remember. Surely, this is just a dream. You stagger on your feet, groping at the air, trying to find something safe and steady to hold onto, only to find the arms of one of the strange men.

You feel a cool, wet something against your mouth. That smell. You remember it. Medical, sticky and hot. Then you remember—poison; the three men in your room; the race down the stairs. You need to fight!

But the darkness sweeps you away.

Another day flying over mountains, valleys and grasslands. Settlements come and go: great cities, little villages, country towns. Lakes wreathe through forests and rocky landscapes like great blue snakes. Wind, shine, winter and spring the three flying men carry you, until finally, in the distance, rises a dark speck.

The three men become agitated. They growl and snap, they beat their wings harder than ever, until that speck becomes a building. It's more than a building, it's a castle. One that sits high up on a hill. Lonely and stark with numerous pointed turrets that jab at the sky.

The three men make their descent, flying low between the turrets before carefully landing in a courtyard filled with gardens and manicured lawns and pools of steaming water. Without delay they march over to the nearest entrance: a huge timber door that requires two of them to haul open with their big shoulders. The third carries you inside.

Their footsteps thud loudly in the quiet of a long, narrow hall. Glassless windows on your right look out onto the courtyard. Your kidnappers step between light and shadow as light pours in. On your left are brackets of unlit torches hammered into the cold, ancient stone of the wall.

Soon, you reach a door, a smaller one but no less grand as the first. There is a heavy knocker designed in the head of a bull. The three men glance at each other fearfully. Though their task is finally done, they can't help but be nervous. You continue to rest comatose in your kidnapper's embrace, your arms limp, your head turned to one side. You're breathing gently. You look small, weak, fragile. You look nothing like someone their master would have an interest in.

They can only hope that you are acceptable.

Finally, one of them pounds the knocker. A few moments pass before a quiet, deep voice answers. 'Enter.'

They haul open the door and the 'man' carrying you steps inside. It's dark in the great chamber, the curtains drawn shut. Their master prefers the night, sleeping in the day and waking only once darkness falls.

His bed is empty, the sheets thrown back.

'Close the door,' he snaps from his high-backed chair by the fireplace, which is currently unlit. The three men briefly see that he's in the middle of reading a book, an ancient tome that might be as heavy as you.

They obey, the light from the corridor snapping off. It's hard for his three servants to see much in the gloom, but he can see clearly enough as he studies them.

And you.

Closing his book, he places it gently on a side table before slowly rising to his feet. Up and up he goes. Though his three servants are large, they are like children before him. He might simply be a large man or he could be a monster; it's impossible to tell in the gloom. What's obvious is that there's something strange about his head. It seems unusually large, and when he moves it, he moves it slowly, as though it's heavy and unwieldy.

The three servants watch his shadowy figure warily. Though they squint hard through the darkness, they are unable to see his expression; they can't know what he thinks. Are you the right one? Have they taken too long? Have they done something wrong?

The one holding you is trembling.

Their master's bare feet whump against his bearskin rug as he approaches you, his eyes fixed on your face. He pauses. The room is quiet, the three servants barely daring to breathe. They say nothing. They dare not move.

Gently, their master touches your face. He sucks in a deep breath. 'You've found her.' Though he speaks quietly, his voice seems to boom around the chamber.

'We've found her,' the servant holding you whispers back in obvious relief.

Their master doesn't move for some time, except to touch you more: your head, your chest, your hips. 'She looks weak,' he says. 'Sick. What have you done to her?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing!'

'We did everything you asked.' The three servants rustle their wings at their backs nervously.

'Please, believe us.'

'She's whole.'

'Unharmed.'

'She'd better be,' their master says, stroking your cheek. 'Take her to her room. I want her prepped and ready by the time I join her tonight. See to it that she has everything she needs. Make sure she lacks for nothing.'

'Yes, master.'

'Go. Now.' His voice takes on an odd, thick tone. He shakes his head. 'Her presence is already affecting me.'

Turning away, he returns to his chair and picks up his book again.

The three servants don't delay, scuttling back through the door. To the servant carrying you, you've never felt so heavy; the most difficult part of their task might be complete, but they're far from done with you yet.