As Fates Foretold, pt. 1
As Fates Foretold
Part 1 | Part 2
“Fucking hells,” Bartholomew muttered to himself, picking at the rust-colored blotch that had crept up his shin. It was no bigger than a tin-coin yet, but it was spreading, darkening beneath his skin like the slow stain of spilled wine, as though some bruise long buried had begun to resurface. He tugged at the leather greaves the armorer had issued him - an ill-fitting pair that bit into his calves, already too tight for his broad frame. He hoped to hide the spot, even from himself.
It was the sort of thing no one wanted to see these days.
He leaned his elbows on the wall, gazing out across the city and trying to ignore the dull ache in his limbs, a familiar old pain from days on the road. His fellow guards clustered in knots behind him, muttering about their next drink or the noblewoman who’d visited the port last week. Hardly any of them knew his name - he’d only been stationed here a few weeks, and by the looks of things, he wouldn’t be here much longer. The work was enough to keep him fed, but even a city like Ravensport had its limits for hospitality. He knew they’d toss him soon, mark or no mark, when his wages dried up and his usefulness waned.
His hands idly traced the edge of the wall, feeling the chill in the stone as he scanned the port below. Ravensport was a fair place, he had to admit, nestled between stretching fields and the tumultuous waters of The Drown. Most of the folk here were used to the sights of the sea, the scent of salt and trade and the longshoremen’s endless clamor. But they weren’t used to this: the quiet dread that had settled over the city in recent days.
It had started a month ago, he’d heard, in some ass-end village north of here. The rumors varied, as rumors do - a fever that struck men like lightning, strange markings on the skin, rashes that turned black as rot. Bartholomew had overheard the whispers from travelers passing through, tales of families torn apart, of children buried before their parents had even known they were sick. He’d thought it was nonsense, just another tale to keep people indoors at night.
But then, just days ago, he’d seen it for himself: a merchant ship docked at the harbor, its crew stumbling ashore, pale and weak. They hadn’t said much, only gestured to the sores that blistered their skin, the hacking coughs that wracked their bodies. He’d looked away, feigned disinterest as the guard captain escorted them to some back alley shack to keep them out of the public’s view. But he’d felt the dread then, felt it worming under his skin, right down to his bones.
“Seen your share of bruises, haven’t you, Bart?” Harlan’s voice broke through the early morning quiet, a sneer dripping from every word. He leaned lazily against the stone wall, his teeth bared in a grin that made Bartholomew’s fists itch.
“More than you, you clouted bastard,” Bartholomew muttered, pulling his sleeve down and fixing Harlan with a dead stare. “And don’t call me that.”
“Oh, ‘don’t call me that,’” Harlan mocked, laughing loud enough for the other guards to glance over, grinning like jackals catching the scent of blood. “Hear that, lads? Bart the Brave doesn’t like his name. Well, let’s just call him what he is - some wandering half-wit looking for coin and thinking he’s worth his weight in silver.”
Bartholomew gritted his teeth, shrugging off the insult, though his fists clenched tighter. “Better a wandering half-wit than a man wasting his days watching over piss-soaked streets and farmers’ fields.”
That earned a bark of laughter from the other guards, one of them - Ralston, a wiry man with crooked teeth - chimed in, “That why you’re here, Bart? Can’t handle life outside the walls, so you think you’ll prance around in our keep?”
“Think this one’s got dreams of glory,” Harlan said, eyes glinting as he looked Bartholomew up and down. “Bart the Brave, bastard son of some whoring harpy, keeper of the piss pots, last scion of the gutter, come to save Ravensport from the terrors of sheep thieves and chicken chasers.”
Bartholomew’s lip curled, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Keep talking, Harlan. Maybe you’ll finally find something useful to say.”
Another guard snickered, and Harlan’s face darkened, his sneer turning to a scowl. “Outsider’s got a bit of lip on him, doesn’t he?” he said, his voice dropping low. “Tell you what, Bart - watch yourself. This town doesn’t look kindly on men who come poking their noses where they don’t belong.”
Bartholomew met his glare, cold and unflinching. “I’ll remember that. Just like I’ll remember how you lot stand around yapping while others do the real work.”
Harlan spat, the glob landing near Bartholomew’s boots. “You’re steel-thrift, Bart. Your work here is hardly but standin’ or dyin’. You’re cheap iron swung at the first sign of trouble, then left to rust when the blood dries.”
Bartholomew was about to retort when movement caught his eye. His attention shifted from the insults, his gaze fixing on the road below, where early morning travelers ambled toward the city gates, carts creaking under bales of hay, sacks of grain, and assorted earthen wares. But amidst the farmers and traders, four dark shapes approached - riders cloaked and hooded, moving in eerie unison.
He squinted, the sight sending a prickling sensation up his spine.
Bartholomew’s fingers tightened on the rough stone of the battlement as he watched the riders below. In truth, they were likely only travelers - four cloaked figures on horseback, making their way up the winding road. But the way they moved, silent and unhurried, in such perfect formation, sent a chill through him. He knew it was foolish, childish even, to let fear prick at him like this. But there was something about them.
He’d never been one to wear his superstitions openly. It wasn’t the sort of thing men like him admitted to. A soldier who clung to faith, signs, omens, and portents was a man who couldn’t be trusted when steel was drawn. And yet, like the ache of an old wound, his mother’s stories returned to him as he watched the cloaked figures drift closer.
The Fates are always watching, she’d whispered to him, her voice low, as if afraid they’d overhear. Even when we think we’re alone, each of them is there, waiting.
Bartholomew had thought himself hardened to those old fears and superstitions. In the years since he’d left his mother’s hearth, he’d heard the sermons repeated, worn smooth by the priests who recited them day after day. But the words had lost their edge, buried under the stink of incense and the droning voices of men whose faith felt thin, practiced, routine. It was easy to scoff then, to let his own belief settle into some shallow corner of his mind, never fully discarded but rarely given space to breathe.
But here, under the dawn sky, watching those riders - those dark, silent figures slipping through the early morning light - the old stories felt alive again. He could feel his heart pounding, a faint and restless drumbeat, as if some part of him knew, despite all reason, that he was seeing more than a band of travelers.
It’s only shadows, he told himself. It’s nothing but shadows and tired eyes. And yet he felt a strange pull toward them, a gnawing unease that seemed to twist in his gut.
His hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the sore mark on his leg. The spot felt rough and tender under his fingers, the skin red and raw, and he felt the slightest, irrational urge to hide it - an urge born of the old fear his mother had sown in him. Don’t let them see you weak, Bart, she’d said. The Fates watch closely. They’re never kind to the careless.
The wind shifted, carrying the distant murmur of the approaching riders’ hooves. Bartholomew’s heart thrummed. He shook his head, feeling foolish, afraid. The Fates, the riders - whatever they were, whatever they brought - it was best not to look too closely. Not when the stories were so close to his bones.
“Riders,” he murmured softly.
Harlan followed his gaze, squinting. “Riders? So what? A might early for ‘em, but I’m sure they’re nothing Bart the Brave has to worry about!”
Bartholomew barely heard the comment, his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe it was the fever talking, the fever he didn’t want to admit he had, or maybe it was just that damn spot on his leg, making his mind run wild. He let out a slow breath, feeling the familiar weight of his blade at his side, the only real comfort he had these days.
He turned away from the riders, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. He wouldn’t let them get to him. But as he walked back along the wall, a quiet part of him wondered what would come for him first - the sickness, the shadows, or something else entirely.