We're All Fighters

Fate's Writing

They walked past one of the cells, and a thin girl sat at a desk, hunched over a piece of paper. The chair she was in was old and hard, but she made no motion to suggest discomfort. They took a step closer, peering through the worn iron bars. The cell was covered in papers of every sort, covered in black writing. The young girl's work was lit up by a harsh yellow lamp, as she scribbled furiously with her fountain pen. Her long black hair was the same colour as the ink she was using, and hung down her back. As she reached the end of the page, it was slid over to the side of the desk, the ink shining in the light. For a moment, she looked up and met their eyes. Her irises were shimmering as she picked up her pen, and settled to a bright blue as a new colour of ink graced the page. However, there was a dull sheen to them, like a watery paintbrush had been dragged over them. Her skin was as pale as paper and covered in words that were covered up by the faded purple dress she wore. She smiled slightly, sending a chill down their spine before freezing, a look of horror crossing their face, and she continued writing. The paper she had previously finished seemed to dimly glow, and slid over to the wall of her prison. It stuck fast, and the golden light subsided. A gasp came from their lips, and they looked down to see words in a foreign tongue wrap themselves around their arms. The words crawled up their body until they faded away into their skin. The women next to them spoke in a strong Russian accent, on seeing their alarm and confusion.

"She is Fate. She is always writing, everyone's fate from start to finish. When she makes eye contact, she will write that person's ending."

"Why can't she stop?" Their voice was hoarse, and no less quiet than a whisper.

"If she stops for more than a few moments, the stories will unravel, and the Horsemen will find her. They will take her weakened body, and their true purpose will begin. So she must always write, and the visions of them will plague her mind."

"The Horsemen? Who are they?"

"The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. But there could be hope. Maybe her curse could be broken."

"Curse?"

"Fate is older than Time, and Time is older than Life. She was not the first. It can be broken."

"How?" The women smiled sadly, and put her hand up against the cold metal.

"We don't know."

"Couldn't you find out?"

"For that, she would have to stop writing. And if the girl stops writing..." She glanced between them and the girl, her eyes steely and grey.

"The Apocalypse would begin."