Distant tales of the Dichotomy

Young Fel walked up the long, steep path, which was filled with the odd scent of wet bricks and mud. The smell was so strong that it felt like a wall of moisture building up more and more as he climbed the gloomy stairs. As the atmosphere grew denser, Felanor was left to ponder the reality of what had just happened. He thought about the sweet scent of spices and beer on Historia’s gown as she worked at the tavern, and about her comforting arms and soothing voice, often more annoying than pleasant. But now all he could think of were her last words, and then the fire. All he could see and hear was the fierce, roaring crackle of flames devouring everything he had ever known. There were no more scents, only a foggy, cold tunnel leading upward to what seemed an endlessly horrid world that he had long dreamed of visiting, but which now left him with guilt and displeasure.

He stopped, perhaps out of breath, or perhaps because something had caught his attention. He could not tell. He looked around quickly for passersby, then opened his pouch to inspect the coins remaining after his unfortunate “purchase” from earlier. A grand total of 1 brill, 4 shims, and 11 glims remained. Although he had only one, he could not stop staring at the brill. That brilliant Sun seemed so big and splendid compared to the others, and he felt sick at the thought of having severed himself from his other sun.

As he put the coins back, he heard a slight rumble and turned his head sharply. He saw a small boy of his own height, though about a stone lighter. The boy wore an oversized, tattered wizard’s hat, a clean yet worn buttoned jacket, and carried a beautiful braided Ortumulian oak basket with silver brackets on its brim. Still a bit startled but curious as a cat, Fel ventured closer to the mysterious boy. The boy spoke, and Fel froze in place.

“Nice haul you’ve got there, pal. One is always in need of lights to lead the way.”

Fel responded, dazed and still unsure how he had missed the boy earlier:

“Uh… I’m sorry, I’m not sure I need a torch.”

The frail boy chuckled and answered arrogantly:

“Ha! Clearly you have me mistaken.”

He looked down at Felanor’s belt and back up at him.

“That blade is a bit small to wield in two hands, and I don’t see you carrying a shield. How about I help you with that?”

The boy took off his large basket and laid it before him. He looked at Fel and said:

“My name is Tryk, a wandering merchant and lover of gold and its brilliant reflection.”

He opened the basket and started rummaging through it, murmuring to himself:

“Mhmhm… snlak, crack… Ha ah! How about we make a deal?”

He pulled out a saber slightly longer and larger than Falling Star, though Fel could not yet see it, as it was sheathed in a beautiful black leather scabbard.

“This blade is called Krashing Fyr, an ancient saber made of Folsefyr and gold from the Lake of Greed, forged long ago and passed down through generations. I happened to come across it on one of my voyages in Fidelsatera.”

Tryk slowly unsheathed the saber, revealing a beautiful dark, goldish blade with silver engravings running down to a black guard set with a white gemstone at the hilt. The pommel was a cube-shaped obsidian spike nearly as sharp as the blade itself.

The merchant finally spoke:

“For that brill of yours, I’ll give you this blade as a gift, for past dues not quite paid.”

Fel still didn’t quite understand, but a primal instinct inside him compelled him to grab the now-glowing golden saber. He snatched it in one swift swoop and felt as if a chain had been fastened around his hand. He could not let go of the sword. He looked back at Tryk, who was suddenly holding the gold piece, twirling it between his fingers and cackling. Seconds later the blade grew immensely, blinding Fel. He lifted his left arm to cover his eyes, and suddenly he felt a terrible pain in his hand as the light flew savagely into it. It burned and convulsed as the light kept piercing it, making it glow a white and reddish tint from the spatter of blood and the escaping rays of arctic-white light.

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He fell to his knees and cried out in pain, and then suddenly everything stopped: the pain, the light, and even the anger rising within him. He looked around and saw no one but himself and his shadow. For a second he thought it had all been a dream, but as he rose to his feet he felt the weight of a sword in his right hand, the golden blade with its cover neatly placed over it. The realization of everything that had transpired hit Felanor like a blazing star. He looked frantically at his left hand and saw that his round scar was now split in two by a reddish-black line. While staring at it, he thought:

Tori always said girls like boys with a special scar. She said it was a warrior’s proof of service.

He grew a little saddened but quickly abandoned those thoughts when he heard a crowd moving up the path behind him. Not wanting to be caught in another unfortunate scenario, he had no choice but to press forward and climb the narrow path.

As he exited the dark and musty path, he was hit by an explosion of light. Perhaps his eyes had simply adjusted to the darkness, but the shimmering light reflecting off the red brick tiles of the neighboring buildings left Fel blinded, and he stood at the entrance for what seemed an eternity. When he came back to himself, he could not help but stare at the huge, elongated walls surrounding the lower city. They were pale grey, and even though the boy was right next to them, he could not find a single crack in them. The houses and shops themselves resembled those of the under-city, but everything here was less cramped and felt so much more open. He could finally enjoy the blue sky he had long since forgotten.

He slowly made his way to the next gate, following the map in his hands. As he walked, he could smell the sweet and salty aromas coming from the communal market. He decided to take a look, but as he headed that way he caught a glimpse of the immense gate where he was heading and remembered what he had to do. The boy thought to himself:

If only I had more time, I’d buy a few slabs of salted dried meat for the trip. But I’d better hold on to my remaining coins, seeing as I’ve already parted with the bigger half of them.

He continued on his route as his stomach grumbled and pleaded its case, but the boy had too much on his mind to bend to his inner will. He knew what had to be done next. He had once heard Orcus complain that an extra tax was charged when crossing between the inner cities of the Citadel, though of course it applied only to those going up and not to those going down. Orcus had always been a bit stingy with money.

“A single stick wasted and already your bundle starts to fall apart,” the old man used to say.

He had never quite understood what the Raskian meant, but now that he was short a few coins, he couldn’t help hearing the old man’s voice ring in his head again and again. Fel had no clue how much he would have to pay to cross the next gate. Hell, he didn’t even know if he would be allowed to pass at all. He had no choice, nor did he care. Fel knew he had to push forward no matter what obstacle opposed him.

Upon reaching a lengthy stairway that narrowed as it climbed, he could clearly see the gates that had caught his eye earlier: two monoliths covered from top to bottom with beautiful marble pillars inlaid with ropes of pure golden fiber nearly the girth of Fel’s leg. He slowly ascended toward the surreal gates, but something felt off. He couldn’t help but notice he was the only one climbing the stairs. Perhaps it was just uncommon to travel frequently between inner cities. For a second Fel’s heart dropped as he imagined the worst, that perhaps the toll was extraordinarily expensive and no one could afford it. He soon snapped out of it, realizing that Orcus had traveled through it many times and hadn’t complained too horribly about it.

Moments later, Fel arrived at the summit where the great gate stood. He could clearly see it was closed, but he could not comprehend why. Advancing toward the gigantic doors, he saw two signs resting on each side of the arches of the gateway, indicating the operating hours. Fel was dumbfounded.

How can they operate a set of doors? he thought mockingly.

Each sign bore only two drawings. One was half a sun crossing a horizon with an E in the middle of the half sun, and the other was a round circle above a straight line. Fel had seen those many times before, but with that realization came a grim truth. The two drawings at the bottom of the signs meant that the gateway was operational only from dawn, when the sun rises in the East, until noon, when it stands straight in the sky above the ground. Sadly, after such a long day it was nearing dusk and the sun was already setting, making the wonderful buildings down below echo an orchestra of pinkish and reddish light bouncing off the surrounding walls.

Fel felt awe, and even a state of shock, and in that instant he felt proud and grateful for what had and would transpire. He sat there for what could have been dozens of minutes or perhaps hours. Fatigue had left him drained and nearly dead on the floor, and underneath his two swords, his bag of raw vegetables, and his coin pouch, Fel felt like a walking closet and weighed nearly as much as one. He took off his bag and laid his swords behind him to ensure no one would try to take them. He looked at his bare feet, which were now a raw mess of open wounds pulsing with blood, dirt, and hardened skin. The sight was horrifying, but Fel could not feel an ounce of pain. Maybe it was still the adrenaline pumping through him, or maybe he was just too angry to feel anything yet. He put his back against the wall behind him and propped up his feet, leaving two bloody prints on the ground beside him. He grew more and more dizzy, and his eyes slowly began to close as the city lights came on and the sun shed its final rays for the starry night. Suddenly it was dark, soothing… a peaceful darkness that engulfed him in deep silence.