SWNOVELS Chapter 17: Scene XII
“We have come as you said,” spoke sir Knowington, though not to Mr Fauldon. For there appeared a figure before them, posing atop one of the pillars that stood.
It was the knight.
Mr Fauldon hadn’t noticed him when first admiring the great structure, so it seemed to him that the man had just appeared in the blink of an eye (which wasn’t entirely unbelievable considering he had slain the Croak King with hardly any effort). It wasn’t till then that Mr Fauldon really had time to admire the knight’s physique, for before, the knight moved too swiftly for him to be attentive of detail. He was no giant, nor a man of ‘iron strength’, though about his knightly form did armor cling. Not the thickest of armor, mind you, for that would be cumbersome; rather, this armor was of a metal not found in the realm from whence Mr Fauldon was from, nor from the one he was in. Silver it was (like most metals), only his was stained with a particular reminiscence of old (like those statues one finds in castles of ruined history—frozen, as if to say, in a time long since passed). The joints showed a chainmail cloth beneath, bearing the resemblance of an impenetrable undergarment.
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 your 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.