by Enoch Enns
Above all was the knight’s helmet. Unlike his armor, it shone brighter and remained untainted by the stains accumulated everywhere else. And to his right shoulder, the whitest of cloth hung from beneath the shoulder plate—a red trim contrasting with the white. Such left one in awe once looking upon it, for Mr Fauldon found it hard to break his gaze from it.
The knight held before him his great sword with both hands as it dug into the surface of the pillar atop which he resided. “And to think he made it thus,” the knight spoke (his words carried more weight than even those of lord Keyno, and his involvement was in service to authorities beyond the realms). “You know that though you seek this Gate, I cannot permit it through oath to greater authorities.”
Mr Fauldon was confused and ascertained inquiringly, “You mean to say you told us to do something that now you cannot let us do? This makes no sense!”
“What he means,” said sir Knowington, “is that by obligation he cannot willfully let us use this gate.”
“Why would we use a gate to nowhere? Its walls have been torn down and serve no purpose—though I admit it is quite spectacular.”
“You, Karier, are an odd one,” said the knight, his fists clenching about the sword even tighter (as if to retain his control over its hunger for justice, for they were intruders upon the forbidden gate).
“Then why are we here?” asked Mr Fauldon, who was doubtful of sir Knowington’s means of retrieving the lost stone.
It was then that the ground shook again—only this time the realms quaked as they had with Grevious. The Gate trembled and lit up only for a moment. From out of its bowels rippled a figure as though being spat across the distance. Smoke arose in the wake, and the knight quickly drew his sword as he himself was knocked from the pillar (though he landed unwaveringly beside it).
Mr Fauldon, who had felt the heat from the shock to his forehead, quickly pulled up his coat to shield the rest of him. As the smoke and dust settled, his eyes widened.
It was Grevious, but the man was shaking uncontrollably and had eyes of the utmost terror.
Naught but ten paces before Mr Fauldon had the stone fallen, but Grevious neither looked at it nor the company of the knight and sir Knowington.
His eyes were fixated upon the hollow gate once again dormant, the faint remnants of threaded green clinging to the atmosphere as though healing itself from the abrupt tear.
“Grevious,” said sir Knowington, his own stature tense and resentful of the past Karier’s current predicament.
Grevious finally caught sight of sir Knowington’s eye, stuttering to speak the flood of despair still trying to escape him.
Mr Fauldon moved quickly to regain the stone, cradling it close and not once blinking. A sense of protectiveness he had never felt before seemed to engulf his interpretation of the scene.
Grevious looked to him, his lips finally able to work again. “I am done with this!” he yelled out.
Mr Fauldon heard the rattle of armor as the knight changed his stance, outraged at the appearance of Grevious (though more so because the man had used his gate impermissibly).
“You dare taunt me?!” the knight proclaimed, the very soil giving way to his might.
It seemed Grevious had not noticed the knight till now, his eyes growing even larger before they attempted to hide behind his hands.
“Not so easily!” the knight scoffed, the ground quaking as his figure flickered.
The mass of explosion propelled Mr Fauldon several feet back—his every effort to retain hold upon the stone. He slid and scooted until finally was able to brace himself for what was unfolding in front of him.
Between the knight’s judgement and the twisted Grevious… was sir Knowington.
“Indeed, you are done with this foolishness,” said sir Knowington, no effort showing in his stance, yet strain continued as a moment’s distraction would continue the blade’s destructive path. He had appeared so suddenly between the clash, and with great power did his outstretched palm resist what gravity deemed otherwise absolute. He spoke, however, to Grevious, not the knight (for they had no quarrel). “Again you abuse the stone, the name, and my patience. You, my old friend, have lost my favor. I wish you had returned on your own volition, but it seems I must do it for you. Your presence has long been overdue; your time in this realm is done.”
It was not a tear, but Mr Fauldon saw for the minutest of seconds, a remorse befall sir Knowington’s expression. The bright suited figure lifted his head to Mr Fauldon, saying, “I leave it to you, Mr Fauldon. Do not disappoint.”
There was a swirl of dust and vibrant hexes and Grevious and the guide vanished. For the first time, Mr Fauldon felt an ominous weight of expectation from the man he knew so little of (apart from him being far more than he was known to be).
In their absence did the knight’s blade crash to the ground—a gush of force spewing about it. The knight took in a breath, his palms lifting the great sword from its found grave and jabbing it before him that he might rest his shoulders.
“To poison the Gate, he deserved death,” the knight spoke. “Though still you remain… only now having the stone.” His armor clinked as he glanced over his shoulder and at Mr Fauldon.
So many questions were in the Karier’s mind that he needn’t ask any for his expression gave them away. The knight gave an awful chill in his gaze.
“You are filled with too much question,” he said to Mr Fauldon. “I must say that your greatest hindrance is a lack of ascertaining for yourself. By letting your admiration and wonder get to your head, you are unable to function as you should and when you should.”
The knight’s muscles tensed, the heavy blade lifted once more—this time pointing toward Mr Fauldon (who knew not whether to take the gesture as an odd act or a sign of aggression). “You’ve become unfit!”
Mr Fauldon’s body shivered at the knight’s glare as the man’s figure flickered once more (like static upon a screen).
In half a blink, Mr Fauldon found the knight to be suspended, and to his left there was a massive sword swinging at him.
Terrified, helpless, and desperate, Mr Fauldon clung tighter than he had ever before to the stone.
Without knowledge of his own action, an urge to use the stone infiltrated his mind. As the cutting edge drew swiftly nearer to his ear, Mr Fauldon could not escape the question of reason.
He could not escape the accusation of the knight, nor dodge the deathly judgement.
But he did refuse using the stone. He did choose to stand his ground, even though he had not the speed to dodge even if he wanted to. He chose to accept his inability.
He chose to stand firm regardless of his fate and despite that inability.
And in the stillness before the two forces clashed, a light shone gloriously—such magnificence he’d seen before but never knew how it came. Only this time he was more aware of his situation. Once more did his back arch, and light emanated from that which he held dear.
Not the stone.
Not himself.
It was that girl upon the blank card, though only for a second, for when the light settled, the knight was found standing with his sword behind him (for he now leaned against the sword so as to blot its thirst for Mr Fauldon).
The knight folded his hands before him. “Surely in your fragility, help has always seemed to come to you when otherwise you wouldst perish.”
“Indeed,” said Mr Fauldon, still frantically trying to comprehend what had occurred. “I am not like you, nor sir Knowington. I do not have strength to slay croaks nor magic to thwart embermud, but I am grateful to those willing to lay their lives down for my sake of being Karier. I am but left humbled and only able to cling to my task even more. I may be weak, but I will always cherish those who fight for me.”
Through the shroud of the knight’s helmet, a chuckle came. “And such a dependence upon others is no weakness,” said the knight, pushing off his blade and taking a stride forward. “You astound me, young Karier, with y
our ability to admit weakness and stand yet even bolder—a trait that is more valuable than you know. Even though, at times, you yourself are the one holding back your own might. It was in your last moments that I realized you thought hard upon what you’ve seen. You recalled sir Grevious using the stone to escape; you recalled the Overlap that it brought more swiftly. You remembered your task of being Karier—and what that meant to Nomad, to Mercedies, to Ravage, and to Kish. I judged wrongly, and only such an act would have made it clear to me. I shall grant you, therefore, clarity, Mr Fauldon, that you may become who you are meant to be. Or rather, more of who you really are.”
The knight raised his gauntlets as though his arms were a clock. Then, in a circle of motion, he swirled them so that a draft came over the place and over Mr Fauldon until he found his surroundings ablur and taking on new form.
SCENE XIII:
When he came to, he was standing alone atop a large ridge of the Shadow Bean Hills that overlooked the small town at the base of the Lighthouse.
Though he knew himself not to be alone.
He felt the stone’s warmth even within the sash beneath his coat. He’d nearly forgotten how red it was—the skin of Korgath that many a hunter sought after. It had kept him safe and bore many memories through the plethora of adventures he’d experienced as of late. Mr Fauldon could hardly believe he’d once lived anywhere else. That he’d once been a tramp amidst bustling streets where no one knew his face.
Mr Fauldon crouched until he came to sit upon the slope overlooking the valley of the Lighthouse. The hills before, those behind, and the vast terrains beyond and about—all meant something new to him. It was almost as though part of his task was simply becoming acquainted with it all so that he knew the extent of the stone’s purpose. Though, had it not been for those he’d met along the way, he knew himself incapable of making it as far as he had.
Or as close as he was.
With a sweaty palm did he hold out the familiar card he’d so long taken for granted. Three times would he have been in peril of death’s shadow if not for the saving light of that gift. He recalled the time he’d been given it and the unawareness he’d had of its significance.
How he’d asked for a man’s true name, but instead was shown his own heart.
The feeling he’d felt when first seeing her face….
Mr Fauldon’s eyes lit up as the card began to unfold even more largely in his hand. As the folds stretched, so did the essence wrapped about, between, within them until a light mist came about him. It was soothing and calm and as pure as the dew that gathers in the morning. He wondered as to the meaning of what sir Knowington had said to him pertaining to the Hensers. Thinking back, he treated them less as cards or tools and more so as something surreal.
Reaching out his hand, he let go of the card in admiration of the face it bore. Lifting and drifting upward, the card begin to glow a deep blue as shimmers of light began gathering in its center.
There appeared a girl in blue robes bearing extravagant yellow designs across her coat and blue markings on her bright face. Long, fine-lined hair hung down her back, and she folded her hands behind her. The most innocent of smile crossed her face as her feet came to touch the ground upon which Mr Fauldon struggled to stand amidst her presence (for he felt caught off guard by her beauty).
“And who might you be?” he asked her.
“This is wonderful!” said the girl all caught up in excitement from that which surrounded her. She seemed to admire everything as though seeing for the first time. In youthful joy, she grabbed hold of Mr Fauldon’s hand before he had a chance to realize it—blue rings lit about them as they passed through a vortex of vibrant hue. It felt nothing like flying or falling, yet their forms fluttered swiftly and reappeared upon a cliff’s edge.
“It’s so much prettier from here!” she remarked, just as overwhelmed as Mr Fauldon (though for entirely different reasons). Somehow they’d appeared at the ridge of Mt. Skyward—the sight being that of the entire region spanning out to the river Floweth and then to Waterryse Mountain and all that was in-between.
“You see that?” She pointed to a small, barely visible village just swen of the great river. “I do wonder! Let’s see it for ourselves!”
And they were through the vortex of hue once more, reemerging at the edge of the village, previously only being a speckle to the eye. Mr Fauldon had hardly any time to take in the peculiar residents bearing yellow markings and clockwork insects upon their backs. “Aren’t they lovely?” exclaimed she. “I admire the Beezleton folk oh so much! They are so committed and inventful, truly they are.”
“My dear—” Mr Fauldon dared to speak but already had the vortex surrounded them again, and he found himself near a pond.
“Look!” she said to him, rushing down to the shallow water as though to feel its coolness upon her skin (for her senses were still becoming much alive to all that entertained her).
“My dear,” Mr Fauldon spoke again, “what is your name?”
She looked up to him, the look of innocence and purity infiltrating his eyes.
“I am Pamela,” she replied. “I am the one you summoned to serve.”
Mr Fauldon’s expression hardened, for he knew her to be more than such. “I did not summon you,” he said.
Her feet became still in the waters of New Pond as did the ripples she’d brought.
“I mean to say,” he explained, “that you came free from my will and are free to roam for yourself.”
Pamela’s gaze was endless into her reflection mirrored in New Pond. Mr Fauldon hadn’t recognized the place at first, but now he did. He saw exactly where once had been the table of Serve Per Card at their first meeting. He saw the very trail sir Knowington had first led him down.
And he saw it wind back up the slope to the hill that began it all.
In reminiscent steps did he then see the very cloud tree that had befallen the place—almost as though a dream being relived in his mind.
“So I am free?” came the tender voice from behind.
He turned to see Pamela now beside him. “Yes. And though I would like to spend eternity admiring every crevice of this spectacular realm with you, it is imperative that I return to the task at hand. I must return to Threshold, if you do not mind.”
She smiled at him—even swifter was her embrace about him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I shall always seek to serve those in need as I did you before you set me free of that state.”
And for the last time their figures escaped into the vortex of hues, and he soon stood in the fragile presence of the Lighthouse. He knew not what had become of Grevious, but the Overlap had seemed to be temporarily lifted in light of the man’s absence. Surely it was as sir Knowington had said, and the man had been returned to whence he came, thus bringing the slightest bit of balance to the realm.
Though now it was up to Mr Fauldon to fully restore it. He’d first arrived in Threshold empty-handed, but now he stood as the true Karier of the Task.
He saw Kish running toward him and knelt to her level. “I knew you would!” she said, more excited to see Mr Fauldon than from realizing the significance of him actually returning, and this time in possession of the stone.
“Now, now,” he said to the child, “if only now I may place the stone.”
The little girl beamed from ear to ear. “It’s up there, Mr Mister!” said she. “You got to go all the way up!”
With a deep breath, he lifted his gaze to the top of the Lighthouse. Truly it towered above the terrain. Its light grew fainter, though still shone enough to see.
“Then let me take you there,” said Pamela, stepping forward once more and grabbing hold of his hand.
Another breath left him now standing within the top chamber of the grand Lighthouse. Yet again was his mind unprepared for what it saw. But instead of questions, it felt to him as though answers were filling his mind. In the center there was a large bowl (only just larger than a bathtub) and from it rose a sort of rad
iance that gathered in a sphere above it. That was the light’s rays that gleamed over the entire terrain. He then saw the balcony’s outline that wrapped about the chamber and noticed the etchings upon its outer slopes.
“Amazing,” he said as he took it in, for the etchings resembled that of the valleys, hills, and trees he’d seen so closely. Where etchings of a ridge rose, the light would cast a shadow causing a mountain or hill to arise (be it Waterryse or the Variley Hills). Where small prongs rose roughly, so did the light reflect a forest (as the case for Darsel Woods and the like).
Pamela was just as amazed, though for Mr Fauldon, it brought life and intrigue to where he was soon to dwell.
“And to think he would pass this up in pursuit of other realms,” Mr Fauldon said to himself, thinking of how Grevious had once been the Karier he now was. Walking toward the center bowl, he withdrew the stone from his sash. He saw that down the bowl lay another room in which he could make out an object levitating about a desk. Climbing over its edge, he prepared to descend, though a barrier resisted Pamela’s approach.
She smiled at him. “This is where I depart,” she said. “For this is where my task ends and yours continues.”
“I will return, Pamela. But for now, I must set the stone in its place.”
And he pushed off and down to the center room beneath the chamber atop of the Lighthouse.
Wood furnishings filled the room. His feet rattled the table as he landed. The Violstone of old levitated just before him with a radiating light, the essence of which drifted up and became the sphere above. The stone in his hands began to shine brighter as though its life was being restored.
But a chill came over him as he plopped into the chair beside that magnificent wooden table. It was almost as though a weakness were seeking to crack the stone—causing him to pull it back into his embrace.
“That,” a voice came from behind, “is wherein your true task lies.”
Mr Fauldon had not noticed until then that somehow Keyno had appeared in the corner of the room, and it was then he also noticed the Porhtree sprout on one of the beams that held the frame of the room.