Fate: Chapter 1

    Two knights waged a ferocious battle across cobblestone roads, leaping across great chasms and running up shear walls in their fervor to destroy one another. Invisible arrows crashed into the heart of the smaller, but more handsome knight, causing him to fall back a few paces. But he held to his unbreakable fighting stance, glaring nobly at his opponent. He didn't seem to notice as large, grubby fingers wrapped themselves around his body, lifting him into the air to smash his head against the larger knight's chest.
    A curly-haired boy articulated the wild sounds of battle around his chubby cheeks as he hit the two wooden knights together in the realms of his imagination. They had been carved by the father he had never met and well endured many wars between the two hands.
..    It was a bright summer night, still light outside, but stars beginning to reveal themselves gently against the darkening sky, the season drawing nigh upon the celebration of the Solstice. The streets were lined with the chatter of people going to and from the marketplace, following dreams and leaving others in disarray as the human species is wont to do. For it is in everyday living, not spectacular events as some might assume, that destiny is either realized or forgotten, and the latter is truly a sorrowful thing to behold.
    Of course, none of this matters to a child at play. The busy world around him had long since ceased to exist, leaving him caught up in grand adventures with wooden knights and imaginary dragons. His mother, a harried young housewife, paused a moment from her work to brush aside a few stray strands of hair and smile at her child's antics.
    He had always been a strong baby, and if his constantly growing feet had any say in the matter, he promised to be a giant of a man. He was a healthy child; aside from the runny nose of an occasional cold, and one early bout of the flu, he was always fit and energetic.
    It seemed he never lacked the capacity for the invention of some new game, or the creation of some fantastic world. She would often find him sitting quietly against a convenient wall, face scrunched in passionate consideration of an idea that had squirmed its way into his head. It was his nature to silently think long and hard about something, and then become animatedly excited about the implementation of it. Though materially only slightly above the poor, his world was filled with the riches of all creation.
    She wished his father could see him. It had been nearly four summers since her husband had gone to war as an officer and never returned. The Empire treated the widow of the war hero to a goodly allowance, and her youthfulness allowed her a small measure of labor, but nothing could replace the soulmate he had been and the father he never had a chance to be.
    Traces of him in the child were becoming more evident by the day: deep, knowing eyes that searched for details like a tracker hunting for a fugitive; an easy, contemplative look that could rapidly split into an open, delighted grin; and heavy blonde locks that foretold a dark brown in the near future.
    There were days that she would catch him staring at her with eyes so like his father's that she couldn't decide whether she wanted to smile at the son she so dearly loved or weep for the memory of the man she had so cherished.
    The sound of hoofs at a gallop thundered dangerously down the open street and alarmed cries of pedestrians followed closely, breaking her out of her momentary reverie. The child played on, oblivious to the oncoming horses. They were close, heavy warhorses whose occupation consisted of trampling enemies with their sharp hooves.
    With a wild cry, the mother ran to her child, smothering him, trying to cover him with her own body. She curled herself tightly around him, trying to condense her body. Pebbles clattered along the road and the thundering of the warhorses danced eloquently with the thundering of her heart. The boy's wail of pain and fear stung her ears, but she only held him tighter. Her breath stopped, blackness seeping around the corners of her vision, and all she could manage was a strong grip on her son.
    Someone shouted a warning, but two of the horses were too close and moving too fast. The first cleared her with a startled jump, but the second was a half-step behind and clipped her shoulder. She tumbled, skin scraping across rough stone in fiery red lines. Pain shot through one arm that told of a possible fracture, but she rolled to a halt, gasping for breath, and quite thankful to be alive. Her son cried, clinging to her skirts, unharmed.
    "What is the meaning of this?" an enraged voice roared.
    She stumbled groggily to her feet, wincing as ice battled with fire along her shoulder. Blinking tears from her eyes, she watched a blurry figure reign his horse in toward her. She shook her head, lifted her unhurt arm to rub hastily at her eyes.
    The man before her was tall and burly, the muscles lining his body revealed beneath the expensive embroidery of his clothing. The only hair to adorn his head was a heavy ghotee that looked to have been neglected for several days. He had likely only seen a score and a half winters, but had already developed a quick explosive anger.
    "A child played in the road," This came from a wiry man with a soft voice who looked as though he observed more often than he spoke. A meticulously trimmed beard whispered of eloquent graces, but it was betrayed by ratty, shoulder-length hair and animal furs draped across his shoulders to reveal his northern barbarian nativity. A falcon cocked its head at her from its perch on his wrist. "The woman was merely protecting him, Your Majesty."
    At these words, her head jerked. The burly man was the Prince Regent Montague, Captain of the Iron Cavalry. She lowered her head as he swung gracefully from his charge, heavy shoes clattering against the warm cobblestone as if it were a reference of his authority. He did not merely stand over her; he loomed. His aura was a herald unto itself, proclaiming his importance in the grand scheme. Yet everything about his stance was comfortable, engaging, and somehow compelling.
    "Look at me, woman." Hesitatingly, she lifted her eyes, but could not meet his. She stared uneasily at his nose, which was sharp and uninviting. Even his nose commanded respect. "Where is the child?"
    She was suddenly aware that her son was no longer clinging to her skirts. She spun around, fear grasping at her heart. The horses shuffled uneasily, any one of their heavy hoofs able to crush a child effortlessly. It was growing dark, and the city lamplighters skirted around this troop of cavalry, rendering it difficult to see anything in the gloom.
    A delighted giggle reflected off the walls. She followed the sound with her eyes and saw her son, excitedly playing with another boy, forming an instant friendship with the other in that way that only children may. The Prince saw them as well, just as her son playfully put a fist into his new friend's nose. The boy blinked twice in surprise, shook his head, then grinned wide. "That is your son?" She could only nod. He watched the two wrestling. "The other whelp is my own son."
    Alarm spread through her, eating its way from her rushing heart to the pit of her stomach in moments. Her son had struck the future king. For the first time since the thunderous arrival of the cavalrymen words were jarred from her as she dropped to her knees. "Your Majesty, forgive him! He is but a boy, and I assure you he means no harm! Please, Your Majesty!"
    "Enough!" The Prince Regent's raised hand cut through her words as much as his command. A mere halting gesture from him silenced her. "My son is in need of a playmate. Yours did no harm, for I assure you that a few good cuffs from a friend are in more urgent need in this era than all the flattering tongues that plague my court." He watched as one of his attendants took his son and lifted him onto a small bay, climbing up behind him to hold him fast. "Bring the boy to the palace every day at the sun's peak. He will be educated alongside the prince."
    The trembling in her fingers did not cease as she grasped at the fabric of her skirts tightly. The troop moved around her on the street, eager to be home before night had fully drawn itself over the sunlight. The Prince Regent pulled up short, turning one last time to face her.
    "What is the boy's name?"
    She shook herself out of her shock. "Fate," she said. "His name is Fate."

    It was barely a year that had passed when Fate's mother caught the plague and died in agony. It is more than an unpleasant thing to behold when a beloved mother's skin blackens and peels away; when her breath comes in ragged chokes that threaten life with speckles of blood on the lips; when her eyes wander without recognition to the various stains on the ceiling, as though begging each to somehow remove the life from her pain-wracked body. Her death was almost a relief.
    It was sudden, yes, and tragic. But did we not warn that this tale would be so? We are merely here to relate the events as they were related to us by those much older and wiser than ourselves. Death is the last stage of Life, and its occupation is rarely gentle. Humans must each in turn present themselves to its clutches and try to take comfort in the fact that Death will come for the next, just as it came for the last, and as it comes presently.
    The fatherless boy thus became an orphan. It was a simple decision for the Royal Family to take the child in to raise him within the palace. He played alongside the prince, studied with the prince, bantered with the prince, trained with the prince, and became the prince's fast friend. So, as the telling of our tale is limited, we will say that the seasons withered, one to the next, and the pair of boys became a pair of men