The Acolyte of Bifrost (as of 1997-07-09)

Over a grand forest, a tempest neared, threatening to darken the already grey clouds that watched overhead. But this state of liminality, a quiet peace between, was disturbed. A church bell, echoing from the trees, First it was one, then another and another, each subtly different in pitch but evenly timed - waiting patiently for their turn.

Finally, from the treeline appeared a man, head-to-toe in black. He marched proud, gazing out towards the grand walled city he had been parading towards, navigating through ancient woodland, seemingly forever to get to.

As the figure-in-black continued, a tail of bell-ringers followed, occasionally striking the metal cups which they carried upon black staffs, both equally intrinsically designed, every bell unique and rod distinct.

The mysterious man, now right outside the great gate, stood before a guard clad in a suit of armour and a sword which was being rested upon, its tip pressed into the path which it blocked. But even more notably, a perfectly balanced and unlit candle perched on top of the metal helmet he was wearing. The sentinel showed no skin, or fabric, as if entirely forged from iron.

With their venture concluded, the ringers laid down their belled-staffs by the figure then made their way back into the forest from whence they came, leaving the man alone with the armed gatekeeper.

“Was that meant to impress me?” The guard questions the traveller, armour faintly glowing in the dim light of the grim day.

Clearly disappointed, the man responds, “I request entry, Gatekeeper.” The figure pauses, “I’m a pilgrim, nourished by bells of vast woe.”

“You deceive me, Pilgrim. You deceive me and yourself!” Chuckles the guard, not moving a muscle, as if the silver encasement were talking all by itself. “Where does your allegiance stand, Pilgrim? What have you venerated?” The guard pauses then asks, “Do you even know?”

Disgusted yet self-assured, the man responds, “Am I not a mourner? Solemn have I trekked frequented by haunting churchbells, and when I enter I shall be subject to none other than The Reverend! I come here for solace, Guardsman.”

"Is mourning not a worship?" The gatekeeper's tone remains firm and unwavering, "What would The Reverend want from you anyway? You have nothing to offer. You'll be no one past this gate."

Now the man's confidence wavers. "were the procession of bell-ringers not enough?" He looks down at his attire, a fine outfit of black lace-cuffs, ribbons, cloth draping here and there, buttons each detailed to a high standard. "That was the last of my money. I have nothing left outside those walls."

"Yet, you shall not be going in at this time." Echoes the voice of the guard. His form, still statuesque. "You've idolised a journey and a solemn facade."

The wind begins to pick up, yet neither the guard nor the candle moves. Staring at the gatekeeper, unquestioning the natural tranquility outside the gateway of the metropolis, the pilgrim gains spirit, "Then you leave me no choice to wait. I can prove my courage."

"Blind courage unveils you a fool! But alas you've worn me thin. I shall indulge your will, pilgrim." Like clockwork springing into action, the sentinel takes one hand off the sword's hilt and grabs the candle atop his head. As the guard lowers it the wick flickers to life, and with it the realm plunges into a deep night. Resting in his now-open palm, the candle sat centre over the guard's sword, further stunning the travelling pilgrim into a deeper silence.

The metal sheathing of the mystical guard glimmered - not only from the warm light of the flame, but from the cool radiance of a spectre. Despite this, the man cared not about the source of the gatekeeper's otherworldly emanation, and waited expectantly, his gaze locked on the guard for instructions. Heavens and hells equally indifferent in the eyes of the traveller.

"You have until this here candle's flame ceases to fend off the night. Then and only then will you enter." Declares the gatekeeper.

Exuding pride, the man-in-black pipes up, "Well, it is only a matter of time!"

"Indeed. Know that truth, Acolyte." Warns the gatekeeper, foreboding in tone, while keeping its perfectly static position.

What felt like years passed, and the pilgrim's determination for the entry rose and fell and rose again. The man danced with his contentment but still he waited, discussing and debating the stubborn sentinel. Birthdays and holidays celebrated in parasocial toasts of appreciation from the enchanted pilgrim, met with an unresponsive emptiness from the stoic gatekeeper, in the eternal dusk. Until eventually, it seemed to the man that the guard had always been there, his only friend. The burning candle, although having decreased in size, made the finite span seem infinite in its hypnotic lethargy. A serene in-between, right on the verge of disorder.

"Y'know, I did everything I could to embrace the journey, Guardsman." The Pilgrim explains, sitting atop a makeshift throne of belled-staffs he made, "What else was I to do? I've felt as if I should have yearned more, stronger, for such an utmost and final city-colossus. Deep in my heart, a duty it felt to return home." Sighing, staring nowhere but the flame, the man continues with a final statement before returning to the deep silence of the night, "It feels true, I deserve nothing less."

Fleeting aeons came and went under the evermore tempest-plagued moon, a drowning spectre. Below, the pilgrim grew curious once again, "suppose I were to take the candle and wander around the forest, swiftly returning of course, would you mind?"

The ever-convincingly hollow husk replied quickly, "Do what you wish, this candle and its flame has been yours to bear. Afterall, it was lit for you, Acolyte." Another gust of wind panicked the wax-top inferno, such like many that had been steadily increasing in frequency. "Remain cautious or tests its fettle, either suits me just the same."

Piqued by this news, the man stands knocking the bells, causing weak yet erratic chimes, "Guardsman, loyal to your post. I shall call you a night knight, as I shall leave you to fend for yourself in the abyss." Turning giddy, the pilgrim in black continues, "I feel an ounce of adventure. Thank you, Sentinel."

The man pauses, struck with sudden hesitancy, now almost stuttering, "Gatekeeper, if I were to pass you, would you strike me down?"

"I would not." answers the guard. The reply barely made its way to the pilgrim's ear before the man dropped to his knees, shaking. Overwhelming joy, or more aptly an unprecedented and mad ire?