Belyi and Chernyi

Belyi and Chernyi

... A young friend I had not seen in a long while spoke to me of Sir Stevenson, whom neither of us had crossed paths with for quite some time. "Unexpected, isn't it?" My young friend remarked. "He seems to have become an entirely different person. He used to be the sort to split a single Mora in two just to make it go further, but now he's almost absurdly generous. And that attitude of his toward humans... The fae lord used to scowl at the mere sight of a human, yet lately, I've seen him handing out relief funds to them with a smile on his face." "People change, don't they? And the fae, of all folk, are no exception," I replied. "But his transformation has been far too drastic, far too strange. It's hard to make sense of it," my young friend remarked. Something seemed to have stirred a memory in her, and she idly toyed with the wineglass on the table. "When was the last time you saw him?" Her question brought to mind the night I had last encountered Sir Stevenson. ... To be honest, Sir Stevenson and I have never been on good terms. In fact, to put it more accurately, we're practically mortal enemies. So you can imagine my surprise when I received an invitation from him to attend a private dinner. At that dinner, he abandoned his usual expression, as though the whole world owed him three million Mora. Instead, he was almost nauseatingly considerate, introducing me to each delicacy served by his attendants and reminiscing with me about a past that had never truly existed, as though trying to conjure up some long-lost dream from nothing. After the meal, he even showed me his private weapons gallery, a place he had never allowed any guest to enter before. He placed one of his most treasured pieces in my hands for me to admire. It was said to be a rapier once wielded by the Grand Duchess of the Vila, Strivozha. But it was then that everything took a turn. Beneath the somewhat dim, yellowish lights of the weapons gallery, his body began to convulse, as though another shadow were struggling to emerge from within his own. Unintelligible growls escaped his throat. "Curses... Curses! Put that sword down! It's not something a lowborn wretch like you should ever lay hands on..." Perhaps this was the Sir Stevenson I knew. Helpless and wracked with pain, he told me of the torment he had endured since taking that mysterious potion, pouring out his anguish to me. "You could never understand..." he said. "The way my other self panders to those lowly creatures, smiling and fawning over those humans... It makes me sick to my stomach!" Though, deep down, I thought it was a good thing. But in the end, even his venomous words turned into a plea. "It's fate, I suppose, that now, of all people, the only one I can turn to is you, my mortal enemy. I can't take much more of this. When the day comes that I cease to exist, you must kill me. It would be a mercy!" I made no comment. ... Not long after I finished recounting the matter to my young friend, my butler brought word... My butler, my dearest friend, told me that someone had delivered a gift to the estate. It was the sword. The very sword that had been kept in Sir Stevenson's private weapons gallery, once wielded by Strivozha, Grand Duchess of the Vila. Perhaps the sword was the poor gentleman's way of telling me what he had finally decided to do. He had placed the sword in my hands, and I understood his meaning better than anyone. After all, I had been his sole nemesis for all these years. I knew him better than anyone else. And so, the appointed day had come at last. It was time to seek out someone who could wield such a blade.