Part 11 of The Tale Of Sunny Dale

Transcript:

I watched the butterfly flutter and fly, and as it beat, it glimmered against the night sky, and soon it arrived at the city's main gate, where it hovered in place. Interrupting my sight was a sound made from the castle gates below parting. And as I turned to look at the spire's door leading down, a question was yelled from a voice booming; billowing up to me, it smothered an armored approach beneath its volume. And a question asked was,

"Where do you think you are going?"

There was no reply, only the continued armored approach, so I made my way to the door, and the sound ceased as she met me at the entrance. As Amana arrived, she grinned in a new form, and as she smiled, she held her spear loosely in her left hand and as Amana stood, I took in the finer details of the new face she had dawned.

Her skin had turned fair, and the shape of her eyelids had narrowed into a pinch that held a beautiful grey gaze. Perfectly black hair, smoothed to a sheen, was parted in the center and spilled like a midnight river across her shoulders, swaying above the silver roses on her shins. As she looked at me, the moonlight that fell in behind us was drawn to her armor, and so she glimmered like an iron butterfly, fluttering beneath the moonlit sky. Then the bow of her perfect pink lips pulled, and as she spoke, her soft words hit like arrows shot by cupid.

"Your eyes are doing that thing again. Was Balkim able to help?"

 A smile overtook my face, and I approached her; my nimble fingers combed through her midnight river, and as our sights met, I saw two glowing grey garnets sparkling back at me. And beneath her glossy eyes was she beneath the facade. And again, from down below us, the voice billowed up.

"Hurry up! I would like to see this curio you have come to offer!"

Our shared sights broke at the sound of the voice. Amana then took my hand into hers and led us down the staircase. As we exited Balkim's spire, the red runway leading to the golden throne laid host to two. The first Balkim, and the second a king; upon their conversation, our arrival. Amana gestured to me, then mocked,

"Here he is! The offering!"

The king turned and replied, "I hear you seek to strike a deal, and to a deal requires an offer. And to what offer you, author, an offering must be offered. And if he is what you plan to offer me, then state what you mean."

As he spoke, I gazed upon him. The castle gates were wide open, so the light that fell in fell upon his golden armor. Like a golden tower, he stretched over us at nine feet, and as the light hit his armor, the gold glittered and glimmered like gleaming daylight.

Like Amana's, his armor had an ornate nature. However, instead of flowers decorating the metal plate, it was plain, marred only by the deep marks stretching across his glowing burden. Above or below the wound-like grooves were etched-in names, perfect in their metallic calligraphy.

           The crown Balkim had taken from his spire's coat rack was upon the king's brow. The crown itself was also composed of gold. Its build was reminiscent of branches interwoven and affixed in the gaps of those branches were various immaculate gemstones: sapphires, emeralds, and rubies. At the tip of the crown, encased within a golden lattice cage, was a multifaceted grey stone with a blue heart etched upon it.

"If what you mean by asking what I mean is to ask of my intentions, then I will be clear. I brought Sunny here not for a deal but to see if you knew more about him than I did. He is super nice, but he has a few problems." Amana stated formally.

"So, you have come not for a deal but to offer me an ordeal?" Britain chuckled, "Its issues are its own, not mine."

"Well, if you took a moment, you would realize he is not it. Secondly, there is more to him than meets the eye; he could be of great service."

"And tell me, Delan, how many times have your eyes met his?"

"Once or twice. Why does it matter? He is harmless!" As Amana spoke, Balthazar exited his spire, and like a purple shadow, he crept atop the red rug we all stood upon.

"I would not consider a gazer as harmless; perhaps he is not harmful, but it is through his harmonious sights that harm comes to what he sees." The King Rebutted.

With skepticism and a squint to her eyes, Amana asked, "Oh really? And how do you suppose he does that?"

 "Do you really want to know?" The timbre of the king's voice deepened.

Balthazar interrupted as he crept closer to us four, "Must you toy with her? We already have the solution. We should not toil."

The king turned to face Balthazar, and his demeanor lengthened upon his reply, "The other guests have not arrived. We should not make haste, lest we make a mistake again. And a mistake would be made by your logic, as a mistake was made then. And so, we shall continue this charade before removing her facade."

"Excuse me! Aren't you supposed to be telling me something?" Amana asked as she laid her spear gently across the king's golden armor. "Or do you need another mark?" she teased.

He turned in response, grabbed the shaft of the spear into his grievous grasp, and said, "There are many types of gazers, Amana. This one you have brought around applies continuity to our existence. What he sees is written, and so we are suddenly given substance by the will of the scribing hand. For you see, we represent a will within, a conceptual truth. The will beyond us, the scribing hand, represents a subjective and sensory truth. The will beyond that is a will above, and that distant thing is truly objective and innate to those scribing hands."

"But we have substance! Our actions matter! You speak as if we are sustained in substance through scripture alone!"

The king grabbed a hilt next to his neck with his free hand; the grip was wooden, scratched, and emitted a dull blue glow. "No, I am saying that because we are written, we exist. And to exist is to suffer, is to cherish, and in the end, it is to perish. We no longer exist within concept alone but through the subjective expression of those scribing hands. And those whose wills are stronger than the waking dream understand that the world of substance is not the one that surrounds you and me, Amana Delan." He pulled his arm up, unsheathing a steel sword from the length of his back. Before I could get a detailed look at the blade, he bent the edge, aiming for my head.

At that moment, Amana broke her spear free from his grasp and blocked the sword with its shaft.

Black sparks shot around where the weapons met, and as they sparked, she yelled, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Let me ask you this," the king leaned across where their weapons met, "was it you who blocked the blade, or were you willed to do so?"

"Me, of course!"

"Well, Amana Delan. If his will applies continuity, that with free will guides your result. And that with free will is not it, but those hands beyond, and that which is above the hands is that which grants free will totally."

"I don't understand…." Amana's grip loosened from around the spear.

"I will explain what I mean to her beneath the silver garden, beneath the mask of beauty she dawns. I shall refrain from appealing to Amana as she is now any further, lest I peel the mask from her face to speak with her from back then again!" The king bellowed, and so the stone halls of the castle trembled, and the tapestries wavered at his utterance.

 "You should calm down before we move along with the plan any further," Balkim said as he laid his pale hand, wrinkled and thin, on Britain's back, which glowed dimly.

"The time is now." The king sneered. And so Balkim sighed and pulled his hand away, and that was when Bartholomew arrived. "Just in time!" The king yelled as he ran his golden fingers through her midnight river. And with a clutch, he scrunched the smooth hair into his grip. And as he inflicted his will upon her, he bent her neck back and moved her to her silver knees upon the red carpet.

And so, in response, I inflicted not my gaze but my will upon the golden tyrant. And through the light that radiated from him, I bore witness to his complete truth. And the fact I saw was him staring back at me, and as our gazes met, he grinned. He was a delusional beast; his truth was himself, so he did not lie to my sights, but he lies still to himself.

"Let me ask you, Sunny! If I were to tear the face from the beauty, would I not unmask the lie?" The king asked me as he pushed Amana's face to the razor edge of his sword. But before I could reply, Amana yelled out to Bartholomew, who was calmly making his way toward us.

"Where's my brother?" tears welled in her eyes as she screamed to Bartholomew.

"I figured it was prudent to leave him with nothing." The green wizard shrugged; I turned to him upon his reply. He nodded to acknowledge my suspicion of just who that nothing was.

"To me, gazer!" The king yelled for my attention, and so I cast my willful gaze to his again. He was lurching his frame, beaming with gold, over Amana's kneel, which glistened in silver. I reached for a more profound truth beyond his surface, and soon my sights were graced with his nature. He was a man once but was nurtured into a creature, and the golden burden that he dawns on is the sin he bears onto his back. He was a king then; he is a beast to the responsibility of pride now, and to whom he will be, is Britain?

"I see you aim to see my truth! Well, I am my truth, and so by telling you who I am, I will be telling you what my truth is as well!" He did not speak but echoed; his words followed his lips like thunder behind lightning. And as his words struck like electricity in the air, a storm began to take shape outside the castle's gates.

"I am the mettle of man, and yet I am more beast than man, and yet I am that by which man is measured!

Some say I dawn a mask of masculinity! 

Even though it is I, the dawn that has risen, that rises maskless in our masquerade!

I am not a tempered spirit, for I am king!

I leave no legacy, for my feats are the stuff of legend and myth! My tongue lay not crooked, for I am the truth!

And you shall know me, simply, as Britain!" As he finished his words, the storm began to rock the castle's gates, and I shouted as he rose the edge of his razor against Amana's false face.

"Stop!" 0 and with my last word spent purple lightning streaked through the ceiling, and into our midst was the lie spotted.

"Now!" Britain commanded.

With a wave of Balkim's hands, the eyeholes on Eyes' antlered helmet closed. The God of the Hunt blindly swung his spear, and upon his blunder, Bartholomew commanded roots to bind those liar's wrists. Balthazar, reading from a dusty tome, began some sort of incantation. The sounds performed in the cant could never be described with letters or symbols, so their nature was beyond my reason. Britain released Amana and leaped forward, aiming his sword toward Eye's blue heart.

The lie, bound and blinded, moved into the strike, his head bent, so his helmet glided the edge from his heart to his right wrist. It was a perfect maneuver as if the mover willed the strike to miss. And the blade severed the vine, and with his free hand, he removed his helmet, freeing his vision again. He was calm upon the reveal.

\