Chapter 7: Nock-Nock

I won't say that I'm not disappointed. After all, deciding to become a member of what would become the "Fellowship of the Ring" as Elrond dubbed it, I expected to be kitted up and ready to go in a few days… But that was not the case.

I should have expected it of course; the delay. Without sparrows or aerial vehicles, traveling was done exclusively by foot, be it human or horse. So when Elrond said that he sent out runners to scout the land, what he meant, and what I didn't understand at the time, was that the process was going to be thorough. And for an Elf, thorough meant time consuming.

Not that I could complain too much. Additional time to enjoy Rivendell wasn't exactly a punishment. But having come to the conclusion that my efforts in escorting Frodo through the hellish wastelands of Mordor would be better served with a side of prudence, I decided that it was best that I work with a more direct hand in the preparations.

Study all I want, falling into Asher's Trap was an easy and enticing snare, especially for a Warlock. Asher Mir was a supremely intelligent Warlock, but he was more of a thinker than a doer, and often when put into application, the results of his theories differed from those projected by the Gensym Scribe.

In that regard, Titans and Hunters are wiser than Warlocks; they know that sometimes the best way to test a theory was to actually test it, often at the cost of their lives.

But what's a little death to a Guardian?

Huh? Death? What's that? Can I eat it?

So I make myself busy throughout the first week of waiting, speaking with Gandalf and Elrond when they're available, and making do with Erestor and Bilbo when they aren't. But Bilbo has been much more interested in spending time his nephew Frodo and the other Hobbits, as well he should. All day they might be seen together talking, eating, laughing, and singing. It's become quite a common sight, if one is out and about, to see them in the gardens or in the Hall of Fire or sitting at one of the many verandas that overlook the valley beyond.

I try my best to avoid disturbing them. After all, aren't they all going to be separated for quite a while come the fateful day?

Elrond tells me that if all goes well, the trip from Rivendell to Mount Doom might take upwards of two years. And that's if things go well. If things go poorly? I can't imagine the agonizing pace…

The blinding speed at which Guardians have become accustomed to responding to threats is suddenly very apparent to me.

But Elrond also has other duties, and he and Gandalf often talk alone in the former's study, long and deep into the night. They do not beg my pardon and I do not ask for it. I'm not some child or puppy that needs tending to when his owners not around.

But it does surprise me however, when I learn that Glorfindel has not gone out to search with his people. Instead he took counsel with the elders in the city and did this and that. I didn't bother marking his movements, which is why I was surprised this morning when I awoke, and low and behold, a knock on my door revealed its giver to be the same golden-haired Glorfindel.

I wondered for what reason he was calling on me so early, for the sun was golden, but only just a few hours into the sky. But he was unguarded and seemingly unconcerned. He bade me meet him at the same lookout upon which I had spoken with him and the others before.

His smile belied something not quite so jovial as he warned me to come at noon, and be ready to travel for the day.

I didn't know why, but he had purpose in his eyes… so I obliged.

Now here I am, trudging along behind him as he takes me from the lookout deeper into the forest until the trees begin to thin. He says nothing particular, save to point out certain berries and roots which are good for eating if cured a certain way. Many of them I'm unfamiliar with, so I don't mind his idle observations and commit them to memory.

But eventually the forest gives way to an emptiness. A field full of bright green grass yawns ahead of us. Its radius is roughly four-hundred meters, and almost perfectly circular, at least from my perspective. Around it are many trees, much younger than those we have already passed in the forest. Enough distance exists between one side of the field to the other that wind freely blew in gentle, cool currents unimpeded by those trees that ringed it. In the distance, above the trees, the snowy white peaks of the Misty Mountains loom stoically.

An ornate gazebo constructed with typical Elven architecture stood out against the plain looking field. Beneath its shade stood three other Elves who were maintaining an array of equipment stored in racks. In the distance, some fifty feet from the gazebo was a building of more complete structure from which a black smoke belched from its chimney. I smell the familiar scent of molten steel and determine this to be a forge.

The three Elves note our approach and bow as Glorfindel approaches. They lower their heads politely and greet him.

The first one to speak was the tallest of the three. He, like his fellows, wore more utilitarian clothes than those generally seen in the city. His hair is long, and black as midnight and his eyes are a piercing grey. His tunic is blue, covered by a silver plate of Elven metal over his breast. On his wrists are bands of similar silver, embroidered with sharp angles and gold inlays upon which a singular pearl was set.

As with all Elves, I can't tell which is older or younger. "Suilad, hir Glorfindel! I aur na-eithel! Whui gar-cin tul?"

"Suilad, Thinwé." The Golden Elf bows in turn and greets them, clasping the speaker's hand warmly. He turns and identifies me. "Hi na-nin mellon, Lazarus."

I bow as well, placing a hand over my chest to show a touch more respect than necessary. For all I know, this Elf, Thinwé, might be some manner of ancient lord or some such. Can't be too careful.

"Im suilann-cin, ar Thinwé."

Thinwé's smile brightens as I greet him in his own tongue, though I imagine my accent is very poor and obviously an imitation. He doesn't seem to take notice.

"Ah, speak no secrets friends! Here we have one who knows the language of the Elves!" he says with a laugh. "I know of you Lazarus. Few who dwell in the House of Elrond do not. Though I've been told you are more at home in the darkness of a study than in open air. What then brings you to this place?"

Instead of answering, I turn and look expectantly at my host. "I'm afraid the answer to that question resides in the mind of this one," I say with an indicating finger.

"Forgive my secrecy, Lazarus, but I confess I was afraid that if I asked you directly you would decline me." Glorfindel smiles, perhaps a bit sheepish at his own ambiguity. "Thinwé is the master of arms in Rivendell and is one of the greatest smiths in the city."

He turns to the fellow and gestures to the many weapons stored on the racks. "May we have the liberty of your armory, master Thinwé?"

The Elf glances between the two of us and nods with a smile that says he knows more than I do. I don't like it, but I have an idea what the Glorfindel is going for here.

"A sparring match, Glorfindel?" I ask with wry smile of my own. "I didn't take you for the type."

He smiles with a hint of bashfulness and picks out a sword from the lineup. "I admit I'm surprised at myself as well. Ever since I heard Caranorion's account of your thwarting the goblins by the Bruinen, I have been overcome by a curiosity to see your martial skills firsthand. It serves me also in that it will bring me comfort knowing the Ring Bearer is in capable hands."

I eye him carefully. I don't think he's lying… but I can't help but asking, "And this is your curiosity only, yes? No one else's?"

He laughs at my suspicion and nods. "Verily, it is mine indeed. But I imagine anyone else might be too polite to ask it of you; I beg you please forgive my rudeness and indulge my curiosity."

I see his interest is honest and benign. I do not fault him for it; I'd feel the same if our situations were reversed. "Discourtesy is forgiven," I say with a flippant wave, indicating my indifference. "But you might be in for more than you bargained. You know what they say about curiosity and cats, yes?"

However, Glorfindel cocks his head at me. "I'm afraid the idioms of Men aren't my study."

I sigh with a smile and wave it off. "It's nothing important."

Truth be told, this whole situation is not entirely unfortunate. After hearing and reading stories of Glorfindel's exploits, I'm quite interested in seeing how strong he is as well. According to his account, while Aragorn was guiding Frodo to Rivendell, Glorfindel chased off many of the Nazgȗl during his search for their party. And if the Nazgȗl are the chiefest officers of Sauron's forces, the nine fallen kings of Men who were consumed by Sauron's will via his tainted rings of power, then testing myself against Glorfindel would give me a relative gauge with which to measure myself.

If I can compete against Glorfindel, then I should do well against a Nazgȗl. That's my thinking anyway…

"Swords then?" I ask, gesturing to the weapon in the Elf's hand.

"Whatever might suit you best," he says after a moment of consideration. "If it is not too much to ask, would you indulge me to show me more than swordwork as well? I have seen the bow you left with Lord Elrond, and I must say I am intrigued to know your skill."

I agree; of course I do. I've been sitting on my ass for the better part of a month. This is the perfect opportunity to shake off the rust.

Glorfindel beams at me, and I can almost see the radiant light emanating from his body brighten accordingly. "Excellent! Then before swords, perhaps archery first. It will afterwards set our minds in proper focus."

So, the two other Elves (who introduce themselves as Aithlin and Myriil) gather various equipment and lead us both to a separate part of the field where, in the distance, I can see targets set against the backdrop of the tree line. Small white flags were set at intervals on the lawn to mark every fifty meters. The targets were very interesting; some were stationary, while others were attached along the arms of small windmills that turned in the breeze. Still others swung on pendulums, and I could even see targets that could be raised on command via a series of ropes and switches at the firing line. If I didn't know better, I'd say this was a modern-day firing range!

I suppose I really shouldn't be surprised. If Elves valued marksmanship, it seems obvious that they'd put a great amount of effort into making sure their archers are properly trained.

"Guests shall go first," Glorfindel says with a bit of cheek as he gestures to the range.

"So I shall," I agree, taking a bow and an arrow in my hands. I give it a series of experimental tugs, testing the stiffness of the bowstave and the strength of the string… I nock an arrow and draw.

There are many targets downrange, but I aim for a simple one first. A stationary target two hundred yards ahead. I take a deep breath. In… Out…

Loose.

The arrow flies through the air with a flitter of sound and strikes the target. It was by no means a bullseye, but it was at least on the target.

At least the Elves don't patronize me with applause or praise for doing that much; they remain silent, watching.

I nock another arrow and draw.

An average hunting bow has a draw weight of fifty to sixty pounds and is enough for most big game hunters to get the job done. However, for war (although I don't know a single non-Guardian who would use a bow for war back home), a bow could run up to 180 pounds at the high end; any further than that, and it would be too hard to just draw the thing, let alone shoot with any accuracy.

But Elves were stronger than humans. This bow didn't look any different than an ordinary bow, save that it has been crafted with obvious Elvish aesthetics. Yet its draw weight is beyond an ordinary human's ability to draw.

'These bastards…'

This particular bow has a rough draw weight of nearly 230 pounds, which to draw would be a feat for record-chasers across the City. Thus, their game is revealed. They were expecting me to struggle as any common Man might.

But Guardians are not common Men; take for instance the bow Wish Ender, with which I am quite familiar. While the size of a longbow, the Wish Ender has the unnatural draw weight of a ballista, a weapon many times its meager size. If I can draw that bow, then this bow is nothing at all.

Thinking back on it, the fact that Elrond was able to handle Wish Ender as easily as he did is impressive, even for an Elf… But I suppose that makes sense; from what I've read, Elves born in the First Age are pretty remarkable both physically and spiritually.

Loose.

This time my shot is cleaner. This bow is new to me, and like guns, each one is different in their own minute ways. But this one isn't anything special. At two hundred yards, I can master this bow in three arrows.

Nock.

Draw.

Breathe.

Loose.

Bullseye.

Now the praise comes… if you can call it praise.

"Look at this brother, a Man can get a perfect strike in three shots with one of our bows. Is that not impressive?" Aithlin asked Myriil, his tone revealing that I've spoiled their fun.

Between the two who both had black hair, Aithlin's eyes were a faded jade, while Myriil's eyes were a more vibrant emerald. Though brothers, they weren't twins, though you might only know that if they stand next to each other; Aithlin's face was a bit thinner, and he was an inch taller than his sibling. Myriil on the other hand was that much shorter, but his arms were longer by half an inch, giving him a bit of a gangly appearance. On their own, you might be able to distinguish them by these features, but if you weren't aware of those differences, you'd doubtless get the both of them confused.

"Perhaps one of the Dunedáin could draw our bows, but no ordinary man can. Certainly none that I've met," Myriil confirmed.

I raise an eyebrow at them with a smirk. "Oh? Met many Men have you?"

The answer, I gamble, is none. They might have seen Men come and go to and from the house of Elrond from afar, but I doubted they ever interacted with them.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn is well known to us. He was raised here in Imladris when his father was killed," Myriil says to my surpriuse, dispelling my assumptions with two sentences. "But he has been raised in both the ways of Man and Elf, so I do not include him in the Men I speak of."

I frown skeptically. "Hm, sounds like sophistry to me."

But though their faces sour, but I don't want to start an argument, so grab another arrow. "In any case you're right, I'm not an ordinary Man. I'm considerably stronger."

"Indeed?" asked Myriil. "Then perhaps a farther target this time. Any Elf child can strike a pinpoint at two hundred yards. What about four hundred?"

Although antagonistic, I don't dislike the competitive look in their eyes. I smile at them with reciprocation. "There's a saying in my homeland; 'put your money where your mouth is.' A gambling term, you see."

"Ah, a wager he offers brother!" Myriil cries with glee. "I shall certainly accept!"

But Aithlin is clearly the more level-headed of the two, as he places a staying hand on his brother's shoulder. "Patience brother. Terms have not been set. What shall be wagered?"

I smirk, knowing exactly what I will wager. I reach into my tunic and draw out a small, shining cube; a unit of glimmer sparkling like a gem in the sunlight. Their eyes light up at the sight of it, their confidant expressions fading in marvel of the thing.

"Will this suffice?" I ask, holding the cuboid out to them.

Aithlin takes it in his hand and turns it this way and that. His eyes (Elf-eyes, stronger and sharper than a Man's) pierce it and turn it about in his hands, holding it up to the sunlight and noting the way it shines.

"It shines as if with its own light," he says in wonder, cupping it in the darkness of his palm as if to confirm, showing it to his brother. "What manner of gem is this? I have never seen its like in my life!"

Myriil takes it from his brother to do his own examination, making his own observations as he tested its between his fingers. "It is weightless, yet it does not float," he says, dropping it from one hand to the other and noting the peculiar nature of the material.

Suddenly Glorfindel is at my side, his face showing he too has taken interest in my offering. He plucks it from his fellows and likewise peers at it, his eyes keener and more experienced than his brethren's in such things, I think. He stares at it for a long moment before speaking.

"It is unique," he says at last. "Unique in that I have never seen it's like, even in the most glorious days of Gondolin and Nogrond ere their ruin."

He looks at me with such an expression as I have never seen on his face, and I imagine few have. The longer one lives, the less one is likely to be surprised by anything, simply as a matter of experience. So for Glorfindel who lived in the elder days before the so-called War of Wrath, died, and was returned to Middle-Earth sometime in the Second Age, to find something new he'd never seen before is probably quite the experience.

"It's called glimmer. And strictly speaking it's not a gem," I elaborate, correcting the two siblings as I take the cube back into my hand. "And it's actually quite common in my country. It's a form of programable matter. And what does that mean?" I ask rhetorically, not expecting them to have even the foggiest clue. They look between themselves, none of them having an answer for me, but suspecting that I will explain.

I grip the cube in my hand and Arc courses through it. "It means it can become anything you want."

If the two siblings are shocked by my use of Arc Light, even if just a bit, it is overshadowed by the arrow that manifests in my fist as the glimmer is reshaped into the form I desire.

In the City, it requires one to take their glimmer to a glimmersmith who would pop the material into a forge and shape it into the desired form, not unlike the early days of 3D printing. Naturally the ability to accurately program the matter required blueprints and such, and assembly afterwards, so skilled glimmersmiths were always in high demand. But unlike ordinary folk who can only shape glimmer with machines and computers, most Guardians are at least middling glimmersmiths themselves, capable of using Arc and their Ghosts to forge battlefield repairs and restock munitions. Me on the other hand? I'd venture to say my skill rises above the level of competent. That, and I'm a touch more creative than my peers.

So for me, forming a single glimmer cube into an arrow is no trouble at all.

I twirl the freshly made arrow between my fingers and give it back for them to examine. They do so carefully and with only silence and whispered murmurs. They each take turns handling it, testing its strength and durability in their hands. The head was simple titanium with a hard carbon fiber arrow shaft and artificially formed hane-style feather fletching.

If they hadn't seen me produce the arrow out of thin air, they might easily be deceived into believing it is a product of laborious hand crafting.

But it isn't. I made it, just now. In front of their very eyes.

"I heard you were some manner of sorcerer, but I…" Aithlin trails off briefly. "I didn't believe the rumors."

I'd hardly call the act of forming programmable matter a form of sorcery, but you know… Clarke's law and all that.

I twist my wrist and a second, third, and fourth cube appear between my fingers with a bit of sleight of hand. "A cube for each of you then, if you can best me."

Their wonder at the minor miracle I just performed dissolved into eager anticipation. Glimmer was like magic stones to them, or so I guess. Who would waste a chance to win a magic stone? "But," I say before their imaginations get too far ahead of themselves, "what shall be my reward I win?"

Aithlin and Myriil fall silent and look between each other and the cubes in my fingers. Then Myriil pulls his brother aside and they whisper quietly in council.

They speak together for several minutes before returning. "It is known that there is still a great deal of time before the Ring Bearer's company sets out for Mordor. You will be among them, I hear," Myriil explains, though he asks no question directly.

"The rumors speak truth," I confirm.

The brothers look to each other and nod. "Then if you match us shot for shot, we will forge you a weapon suitable to you. The best work our hands can produce."

I raise an eyebrow at them. They were willing to spend days, maybe weeks on a weapon just to satisfy their end of the bargain? Do they have no possessions of their own to wager? It would probably be incredibly rude to ask… so I bite back my questions and agree.

"Very well, our wager is set."

The firmness of their faces softens to delight as they each grab a bow and join me at the line.

"A moment then, Lazarus," Glorfindel says, pausing us before we begin and jogging over to the forge. He enters and after a minute or two he reemerges with a familiar weapon in his hand. He approaches and offers it to me.

"I was instructed to return this to you at your earliest convenience. Had you declined my invitation I intended to use it as a pretext to lure you here." He smiles with a confident, if slightly guilty look. His honesty is refreshing, and it makes me smile also, knowing that was willing to go so far just to see me in action.

It seems he is a very curious soul.

I take Wish Ender from his hands, the familiar ivory-colored bow feeling at home in my hands once again. Also returned to me is the quiver of arrows that Caranorion confiscated when we first met in the forest.

A fleeting curiosity compels me to wonder if perhaps he's one of those sent out to scout the land…

Aithlin and Myriil look at the weapon in my hand with saucer-eyed expressions, and its clear that they can see the special nature of the bow… or at least, they can see the bow is no ordinary weapon. Not that I'm particularly surprised Elves familiar with weapon crafting (and with bows especially by dint of being elves, though that might be racist of me to say) would be able to see as much with their uncannily keen eyesight, let alone two smiths.

For his part, Glorfindel seems amused by their reactions and informs them that the bow is in fact mine in the first place, and that they would be competing against both it and me. They glance between the Lord of the Golden Flower and myself, perhaps realizing the reality of their position for the first time. Still, they grit their teeth and bear it; they would honor the challenge.

They would go first and I would match them shot for shot.

But this challenge was already in their favor from the start. They were a pair and I was alone, so essentially, they had two chances to place their shots on target while I only had one.

I am not alone in my concerns.

"It seems to me unfair that Lazarus is alone in this challenge," Glorfindel announces suddenly, as if he read my thoughts. "So, I will compete with him against you both."

Both Elves stiffen at his words, and I can see in their eyes that they just saw the ghost of their victory pass away.

"I don't need your help you know," I murmur with a cocky grin that spreads to him.

"Perhaps not," he whispers. "But I believe any competition should be made as fair as can be accommodated."

I eye the Elf Lord and give him an acceding shrug. "Suit yourself."

We line up in turn, several feet apart from each other with plenty of breathing room. The brothers go first, striking a target four hundred and fifty yards out right on the money; both of their arrows hit nearly the same place, with scarcely millimeters between them.

If their only opponent was myself, then they might have felt they had more room to play… unless they were the kind of Elves who took great pride in their skills. In which case, this would have been the result anyway. But considering they are weaponsmiths, it makes sense that they would be the latter. Doubly so if their opponent was the legendary Elf Lord who slew a demon before they were even born.

I'm only assuming of course… though it seems to me they may be on the young side as far as Elves go; the weight of wisdom and experience doesn't hang so heavily on them as it does on others, and the ease with which I am able to entice them into a challenge reveals a touch of immaturity on their part. Nothing discrediting to their kind or to themselves, but present nevertheless.

Glorfindel takes his shot.

It lands right between Aithlin and Myriil's arrows, and I can see the haft of their arrows shake as they are pushed aside.

He hums to himself in satisfaction and looks to me. It is my turn.

He expects me to impress him.

I take a steadying breath and nock an arrow.

This time is different than when I fired before. I didn't know the weapon I was given, nor the weight of the arrows, nor could I calculate all the havoc the conditions of the air pressure and win resistance would play on the arrows until I could zero in my aim with the unfamiliar bow.

But this bow is not unfamiliar. These arrows are not unfamiliar.

I draw the string back half-shaft.

I sight the target through the reticle… something the other bow didn't have.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Loose.

The string snaps with a twang! and sends the arrow flying like a silent predator through the air, its broad, three-sided arrowhead carrying it directly to the target.

The board shakes on impact, and I can see my arrow pierces through down to the fletching, just a finger south of Glorfindel's arrow.

I let out a tsk and roll my shoulders irritably.

The two brothers share a look, but rightly do not celebrate. They may have beaten me, but they were also outmatched by their senior, so their next shots would have to be more ambitious.

Aithlin nocks an arrow and draws, aiming further afield.

He shoots the arrow long into the air, sinking it into a target five hundred and seventy-five yards away.

It's an impressive distance. Any ordinary bow in the City could reach that far on a good day, though not with any particular degree of accuracy.

Myriil however, chooses another target on the windmill, selecting the circle on the furthest end of the mill's arm, which was the fastest moving and would be the trickiest to hit at six hundred and fifty yards.

Ambitious indeed.

He looses.

It hits, but it is nigh to landing in the second ring of the target, just barely in the center by a centimeter.

However, Myriil seems satisfied with himself, and even Aithlin places a congratulatory hand on his brother's arm at good shot taken.

Glorfindel looks between the two targets for a moment and gives me a questioning expression.

Since both Aithlin and Myriil had chosen separate targets, we also would need to choose who would match whose mark. His look told me he was deferring to my preference.

I narrow my eyes downrange, eyeing both targets. It would be easier to let Glorfindel, who I'm confident could do so, take the target on the windmill.

But where's the fun in that?

I jut my chin and point him to the target on the ground at five hundred and seventy-five yards. He raises a brow but smiles pleasantly, though he says nothing.

He nocks.

He draws.

He looses.

The arc of the arrow is high, and any number of minutiae could affect the arrow's flight… but it sinks home next to Aithlin's, barely (but certainly) closer to center. So close are their arrows that at this distance, it is difficult for my eyes to see where their silhouettes differ.

And yet the time it took Glorfindel to aim and fire was only a third of the time that Aithlin afforded himself. It speaks volumes of the golden-haired lord's comfort in the field of archery. I should expect no less. No, I shouldn't even be surprised.

Indeed, I'm not surprised. But I am thoroughly impressed.

Next is me.

I nock another arrow and sight the target.

It's a fair distance, but that isn't the issue.

I draw full-shaft.

Under ordinary circumstance, the weight of an arrow fired by a bow like Wish Ender would have been eclipsed by the sling-force of the bow, and any common arrow would have the fletching sheared straight off by the force of the string's propulsion. Add to that, the impact wouldn't be much more significant than any ordinary bow because of wind resistance and projectile weight, unless the target was at close range. At longer ranges, the energy in the arrow would dissipate in the troposphere.

Add to that, the target is swinging around at a deceptively swift clip… Leading it properly at this distance will take a veteran's experience.

But Wish Ender is no ordinary bow. And I am no ordinary archer.

It was barely Light anymore. But you took it. And when you took it, you did not keep it. You set it free.

I breathe in air.

I breathe out Void.

Loose.

My arrow is a streak of heliotropic light that pierces the target head on, punching through it completely and ripping it from the arm of the windmill with a woody snap!, sending it tumbling through the air and to the ground behind the building.

I lower my bow, quite pleased with myself.

Glorfindel's eyes are wide, but he applauds me with a smile all the same. "Well done, Lazarus!" he says clasping a hand on my shoulder firmly. "I saw the arrow strike the kineseye* true-center!"

Aithlin and Myriil groan miserably, but even they admit as much with polite, yielding genuflections.

There must be a strongest one. It is the architecture of these spaces.

"It was an excellent display of skill, Aithlin, Myriil," I offer. "If it is not too much to presume, but I say that you have shown your kind's skill with the bow today."

"You praise us unduly," Myriil humbly grumbles. "For Glorfindel is many times our senior in both age and skill. Targets such as these are no challenge to him at all. Nor for you it seems, master Lazarus."

I chuckle at his words, knowing that the facts don't necessarily reflect the truth.

I hold out a pair of glimmer cubes to the both of them.

The look at them in confusion, their eyes flickering between me, the cubes and each other. "Why do you offer your reward? Did we not lose?" Aithlin asks, his brow furrowed.

I grin and point to the windmill, now missing one of its four outermost targets. "I altered the arrow to ignore the both the resistance of the air as well as the earth's gravity; I did not use my skill alone to win as you did. Therefore it's my loss."

Both brothers look at each other for a moment in silent debate... But they shake their heads. "Magic is a skill you possess that we do not. And do we not possess eyesight beyond yours? We see the way you squint into distance, so do not deny it. Therefor in a contest combining our skills and gifts, we are proven the lesser. The victory is yours."

I frown at them, not exactly convinced of their logic, but I can tell by their tones that they are sure they are in the right. I will not be able to convince them otherwise. "I do not necessarily agree with you… but you are both gracious for saying so."

I bow at the hip respectfully, a hand across my chest. However, though they might deny their supremacy, at the very least, I know who my better is…

I hand a unit of glimmer to Glorfindel. "We won as a team, but on the first target your arrow was keener than mine. So you beat me as well."

His face shows a great deal of surprise and reticence, and he hesitates to take the cube, but though they seem to value it highly, it is a trifle to me. I shove it into his sternum insistently.

"Take it, my arm is getting tired," I complain smirkingly.

When I retract my arm, the cube is in his cupped hands, and he holds it tenderly, as if it were a baby chick. His hesitancy drains and he thanks me for it. "You say it is common, but I have never seen it's like, so I will treasure it."

"You earned it," I confirm. "Maybe one day after this is all over, I'll teach you how to shape it too."

His smile is warm and full of radiating joy. "I should like that very much."

I hang Wish Ender on my shoulder and turn to head back, but am stopped by the Lord Elf's voice again.

"Leaving already? I am yet left unsatisfied!" he cried with mock indignation. "You have proven yourself to these two, certainly, but I have another, surer examination I would like to give you."

Lazarus! There you are! C'mon, I need your help with an examination.

…If it involved anything with doctors or rubber gloves, I'm going to shoot you.

"Honestly Glorfindel, you are incorrigible..."

I sigh. Of course I wasn't going to be let off that easy. I'm more confident in my sword skills than my archery regardless, but that doesn't mean much against Glorfindel, who despite my being nearly five-hundred years old is still many times my age and experience…

The only area I'm confident in beating him is in the aspect of magic… or rather, Light. Judging by his form and countenance, he is a master of martial skill, while I specialize more in the use of Light to overwhelm my enemies.

Its too bad I'm not a Hunter; their bladework is matchless when applied properly.

Did you use my knives to peel your oranges again?!

…Yes, when applied properly.

Nevertheless, this seems the perfect opportunity to gauge myself against a peerless opponent.

I twirl my finger in a circle, telling the three elves to turn around. "A moment of privacy if you please."

They look amongst each other curiously, but Glorfindel is the first to acquiesce, which compels the other too to do the same.

I had an inkling today might turn out like this, so I fortuitously stored my armor in my inventory before I left.

Considering Glorfindel is kitted out in his golden armor, it seems only fair that do the same.

…It was hard won during the SIVA Crisis, back when rampant SIVA still ate at the Plaguelands near the Cosmodrome. It was during that same crisis that the infamous young Guardian was knighted as the first Iron lord of the modern age by Saladin and given the title "the Young Wolf." Many others followed their footsteps seeking to chase the coattails of greater predecessors and renown long bereft of worth.

It was quite the campaign.

I was not the first to make the so-named Red Miasma ensemble, but I was one of the few that took it beyond mere armor; the crafty little Devils… I don't think they knew just how good they almost had it. Once I gathered enough SIVA cores and data keys, I was able to program a small amount of it to suit my needs.

As the saying once went, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

In my case it was more like, when handling SIVA, do as the Fallen do.

While others formed their armor out of SIVA and then left well enough alone (which was helped by the Vanguard requiring all SIVA-formed equipment to be dormant), some of us few pioneers took things a little further.

My armor was crafted with specially coded SIVA strains; my own special batch. Once they formed a proper, predetermined shape, they would remain inert… unless a breach were formed. In which case, they would awaken, and seal said breach before sleeping once again. Like how a living organism's cells mend a wound.

Let the other greedy Guardians have their guns. As far as I was concerned, SIVA only has so many offensive applications. But defensively the possibilities are nearly endless.

I sigh in relief as I am garbed again, my blackened robes, studded with pyramidal plates up and down my torso and angular armor on my legs and arms feeling more like home than any hovel in the City. My helmet appears in my hands in a flash, and I tuck it under my arm as I call out to Glorfindel.

"Alright."

As they turn back around to face me, I'm sure the last thing they're expecting is quick-change stage performance, yet here I am.

Glorfindel looks notably less surprised than I expected, unlike the two brothers whose confusing plays across their faces in mute ignorance, though his wide eyes betray him. I commend them for it. I think its mostly because they have no idea how I just changed so quickly into equipment I didn't carry with me.

But they call me a sorcerer, so shouldn't this much be within my capabilities?

I smile and gesture to the elder Elf. "What's with that look? You wanted to play with swords, yes? Come then; I'm ready when you are, friend."

The scene was not so different from what Gabriel had seen before.

Though Lazarus was ever loth to step foot in the Crucible, every once in a blue moon the inkling would strike him.

The Crucible is a young Guardian's game, he would always mutter dismissively.

But on those preciously intermittent occasions when he graced Shaxx's arena with his presence, his allies and opponents alike were reminded why it was better that he keep his distance.

Lazarus would frequently call it, a refreshing return to the roots.

Is it strange that killing other Guardians would trigger a pleasant nostalgia in such a person? Gabriel used to believe so. But that was a long time ago…

Any Guardian who was raised in the days before the formation of the City knew that the word Guardian was a leftover term from the days when the Iron Lord Radegast founded the Pilgrim Guard to act as escort for those who dared to undertake the brutal pilgrimage from whatever wretched spit of land they called home to the safety of the burgeoning City in the Traveler's shadow.

Guardians who predate those days were commonly called Risen, though very few Lightless have ever heard of the antiquated term.

It is not an affectionate word, nor is it a term of renown; it is a bloody word. A word of strife.

In those days, Ghosts did their best to instill a sense of altruism in their chosen… but often their better natures took them down a divergent path to a toxic sort of sympathy. Every Ghost wants what's best for their chosen, and some will even go so far as to overlook their Guardian's moral shortcomings in favor of preserving their relationship. Some Ghosts in turn became just as twisted as their partners.

Because their Guardian needed them to.

This was especially the case in the Dark Age after the Collapse, when good will and moral absolutism met its match against the greedy subjectivity of suffering and the struggle to survive in such a dreadful post-apocalyptic environment.

In other words, it's easy to talk the talk when you haven't walked the walk.

In those days, many Risen turned to barbarity and despotism, maintaining peace and stability in their own selfish ways, and ruling over the weak by the law of the gun.

Lazarus was no exception, though he did his best to rule his protectorate honorably, and in that fact Gabriel remained exceedingly proud.

However, while the Dark Age may be left behind buried in the sands of time, the monuments of its black legacy still linger to this day in the hearts and minds of those who survived it. Like a disease, the symptoms of which manifest differently from person to person.

Ironically, for Lazarus, the trauma imbued in his heart actually ended up being his salvation…

'That's right, it was Waterview wasn't it? The day when Lazarus' soul found its footing again…'

It was a bloody day, like most days were back then, more common than smiles or joy.

For those who knew Lazarus as he currently was, it might be hard to imagine a day when he was a cold, merciless killer who abided in comfortable and convenient ignorance.

Side by side, they were two very different people.

Lazarus the Guardian was an exemplar of Warlock-kind.

Lazarus the Risen was a modern-day monster.

The remnants of those dim years lingered still in the depths of the man's heart and in the instincts honed from centuries of strife. Every now and again, Gabriel could still see glimpses of the old him in the eyes, and in certain infinitesimal moments of rage. And on only the rarest of occasions, Lazarus retreated deep into himself, finding that cage where the monster slept, and broke its lock.

Gabriel hated every moment of it. Lazarus the Risen didn't know the meaning of the word restraint.

The scene in front of him reminded him of those grim days, back when Lightbearers fought for their lives with every tooth, nail, trick, and weapon in their arsenal.

'If Glorfindel hasn't already figured as much about Lazarus by now, then he might end up regretting this little shindig...'

…Is what he wanted to believe. But where Gabriel had expected Lazarus to overpower the Elf from the get-go, he was instead treated to the astonishing sight of Glorfindel almost dancing around his Guardian with foot and bladework. An obvious gulf was revealed between Elf and Lightbearer in that regard. But that was only a matter of skill.

Power was another aspect altogether.

Glorfindel was a blinding ray of sunshine, his golden aura burning ever brighter the more he fought with Lazarus. Gabriel could feel a kinship between his light and the Elf's… estranged and unfamiliar, yes, but kinship nonetheless. What that meant, he didn't know.

Lazarus was the thinker, the ponderer, the inquisitive monk. Gabriel was just whatever else he needed to be.

Yet where Lazarus was hard pressed by Glorfindel's prowess with the blade, the Elf in turn was repeatedly thrown back by the Guardian's deftness with the Light.

Little taser-touches and solar concussion blasts, stunning Stormcaller bolts and Sunsinger flames… And sword-for-sword, Glorfindel was outmatched in equipment; as brilliant as the Elf's straight sword was, gleaming silver and gold in the burning sun, it was no match for the singular might of a weapon forged from a shard of Oryx's own Willbreaker, sharped by the deaths of ten thousand worlds and sanctified in Light.

Yet for that difference, Glorfindel was not without recourse, as he withstood Lazarus' paracausal volleys like a stalwart stone against which the ocean breaks. In time perhaps, he might be worn down, but not without considerable effort and focus.

And he was fast. Supreme speed, legendary finesse, unrelenting power, and an indomitable spirit… if one were mad enough to combine the strength of a Titan and the agility of a Hunter together, along with a Warlock's overwhelmingly abundant font of Light, the chimeric Guardian might look something quite akin to the golden-haired Elf-lord.

And it was against that imposing character that Lazarus found himself matched… indeed, outmatched it seemed.

But Warlocks were more than mere spigots through which Light could lash out at the Darkness. They were also cunning thinkers.

Emerald green light coalesced in Lazarus' outstretched hand, and a sudden choking smog fell upon the field like the close of day, strangling the throat, blinding the eyes, and filling the nostrils with acrid poison.

Into this darkness Glorfindel dove undaunted, his blade a gleaming silver flicker in its shadow, a match in image for his Guardian's less resplendent but far more deadly arc-charged edge.

There was a sickening sound. Familiar and cause for trepidation to any Ghost. It was the swift squelch of flesh being pierced, sliced, and cleaved in twain; the sound of bones breaking and breathy gasp of stunned lungs.

Then silence.

…

…

"What have I done?"

Glorfindel looked down at the work of his hands, his sword buried to the hilt in Lazarus' chest.

The Warlock let out a bloody cough that splattered against the inside of his helm. He staggered back a pace an managed to pull the thing off its his head, looking down at his mortal wound with clear eyes.

With uncannily steady hands, the Guardian gripped the hilt of the blade and pulled, ripping it free with a ringing metallic whine and drawing with it a spit of blood that dribbled from underneath his robes.

"You got me good." Lazarus cursed, a hand coming up to test his wound.

In an instant, their company was joined by the three spectators. Aithlin, Myriil, and even Finwé rushed across the field. But only Finwé seemed capable of rational thought as he called for bandages… for all the good it would do.

But Lazarus was dismissive. He waved off their concern with a hand, and even had the bravery to laugh. A coughing laugh, full of phlegm and blood, but an honest laugh nonetheless.

Glorfindel couldn't find the words to speak. Had he been caught up in the moment? Even in the midst of the most grueling of spars he'd never allowed himself to slip so fatally… He could blame it the sudden smog Lazarus summoned to the field, or he could blame it on… any number of things. But the fault lay with him, and now this Man's – not-Man's – blood was on his hands. Literally.

The Guardian stumbled, his strength leaving him. Glorfindel caught him firmly and set him on his knees.

"Forgive me Lazarus… I didn't mean to-"

Again, Lazarus waved him off with a smile. A blessed smile full of knowing and devoid of malice. "Yes you did," he said between coughs, leaving no room for argument in his weakening tone. "The darkness I cast wasn't Light. It was an evil spell. You felt it, right? Instinct took over and you struck true. It's my own fault, really."

The dying Guardian gave the Elf a playful fist to the chest, as a brother might. "There's nothing to forgive, you fool."

Glorfindel was dumbstruck as he looked at the stranger in his arms. Was he making excuses for him? How can a person be so flippant with their own life?

He snapped out of his stupor and looked to Finwé who stood over them. "Call the healers! There's still a chance-"

"Stop fussing you old woman!" Lazarus growled, devolving into a fit of hacking, spitting coughs. Instead of receiving treatment, he held out a hand and a flicker of light appeared in his palm.

It was a small symmetrical shape, like a craftsman's crude attempt at a flower or the head of a flail. But it was no simple hunk of metal. It floated, wingless and quiet, a single white light flickering in its center. It turned this way and that, looking at everyone in turn before spinning to look its summoner.

Its body rotated in strange directions as it circled like a bird of prey. The tetrahedrons that made up its body suddenly separated, and a bluish light formed a small circle around it. Then, like a bubble bursting, it pulsed.

A sudden warmth washed over Glorfindel, and his spirit resonated with a strange, foreign longing for something he didn't understand… But he didn't have time to dwell on the sensation.

Of a sudden, Lazarus' breathing eased, and his paling complexion returned to its proper color. The Guardian stretched his back painlessly, leaning over to hack up a mouthful of spit and blood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"Much better," he said rising back to his feet, much to the Elves' disbelief.

Finwé looked between the bloody blade on the ground and the still-wet trail of staunched blood that coated Lazarus' cloak and armor. "You… you are restored?"

"Fit as a fiddle," Lazarus replied, a small frown dimming his smile. "Though I had hoped to avoid this exact situation if I could help it."

He reached down and plucked Glorfindel's sword from the ground and held it up, examining the metal, now stained with his own blood.

"It's quite something. Not many blades are strong enough to pierce my armor," Lazarus commented, tapping his breastplate with a solid thud.

He spoke as if the sword that had just been buried to the hilt in his chest was like a dog that bit its master by mistake. Already he moved the conversation away from his astounding recovery… But not everyone was ready to move on.

"How is this possible?" Myriil asked, his eyes roaming up and down Lazarus' body in wonderment.

The Guardian frowned, perhaps realizing that they would not be satisfied by anything less than a proper explanation. "Didn't I already tell you? The Light can both heal and harm." Though he spoke in answer to Myriil's question, his eyes were on Glorfindel, his words recalling the very same words he spoke not long before.

"I haven't forgotten, but… I did not expect even such a wound might be…" The Elf trailed off quietly.

Lazarus watched him for a moment in silence. But, presently, his face softened and he gestured to the little flying thing that hovered quietly over his shoulder. "It seems introductions are in order; this is Gabriel. He is what we Guardians call a 'Ghost.' They are both tools and companions and are very precious to us."

Lazarus held out a finger upon which Gabriel precariously perched.

Not one to turn down praise, Gabriel bobbed up and down, tilting forward as if to bow. "Hello," he said, his voice clear and bright.

None of the Elves were expecting speech to come from such a thing, yet when it did, they took it in heavy stride. Glorfindel was the first to acknowledge him.

"Greetings Gabriel," he said, not a little unsure how to address the bizarre floating creature. "Is it your work that healed Lazarus?"

"It is indeed," Gabriel replied in a chipper tone that soured immediately. "It seems to be all I do, frankly."

Lazarus fixed his companion with a sidelong look that spoke more of their comradery than of any real sort of annoyance. Indeed, even with only so many words exchanged between them, Glorfindel could already see an intense bond between the Guardian and Ghost. He'd seen such things in others, including himself long ago in the days of Gondolin's glory.

These two were as thick as thieves.

"But so quickly," Finwé exclaimed. "I heard you worked through the night to aid Elrond in healing the Hobbit Frodo Baggins. Why and how then is such a mortal wound so quick in the mending?"

"Stitching a wound in my own flesh is no trouble at all, given a moment's rest." Lazarus replied, holding the sword in his hands out for the gold-hair to take. "But Mr. Baggins condition was a result of cursed poison, and quite advanced at that. Thus, it took quite a while to remedy."

Glorfindel took the proffered sword and looked at it, as if pondering the blood that stained it. Perhaps it was only his imagination… Seeing how its victim was as lively as he'd ever seen him, it certainly beggared belief.

Noticing the sword's condition, Aithlin pulled from within his tunic a burgundy cloth for Glorfindel to wipe his weapon with. Meanwhile, Finwé's attention diverted from the miracle of the Warlock's restoration to the weapon that lay forgotten upon the ground, dropped from Lazarus' hand in the final exchange.

A sudden compulsion struck him, and he reached down to retrieve it.

The moment he picked it up, he examined its make, its shape, and its heft, as any blacksmith of proper repute would. The instant he touched it, the Elf's eyes hardened, partly in confusion, mostly in concern.

Glorfindel was no craftsman, but he had spent enough time around craftsmen to know their trade well, as well as identify the same concerns that now plagued Finwé.

First of all, the blade wasn't actually connected to the hilt; it possessed no tang at all. Instead, it was attached by two thin rods to a great gem that was fixed to the hilt.

Any fool would take one look at it and see how insecure its structure was.

Secondly, the blade itself was made of a clean, sturdy metal, but was weakened by a hollowed portion in the center, likely in an attempt to make the blade lighter; that empty space was made up of fourteen empty segments divided by thirteen struts that provided additional support. It was a clever solution, but it was a decision no Elf would have made.

Thirdly, even a fool could see that the construction of the handle was simple, almost amateurish. There was no flair or style to it, though its thick diamond-shaped guard looked quite sturdy.

Unlike Elves who possessed a great sense of skill and fluency in bladework, Men weren't so skilled, and tended to rely instead on the weight of the blade and crushing power instead of finesse. For this reason, their swords were larger, heavier, and commonly sported wide cross-guards that could catch any errant strike.

Contrarily, the cross-guard of this weapon was too small to catch the stroke of an enemy's sword, and instead seemed only to serve as a structural clamp to secure the gem in the center of the weapon.

And fourthly, the stone itself…

It was too large to call it a gem, or a diamond, or anything similar. It was more like a large geode. It sparkled with azure light when the sun shone through it, and even in the shadows Glorfindel could see sparking flickers crackle deep within. It clearly was no ordinary rock. In fact, the way the whole sword was designed seemed to emphasize an importance of the stone; rather, it as if the sword was built around the stone itself.

Finwé, who was much more experienced in the nuances of metalwork, seemed to grasp these truths in an instant. His keen eyes examined the weapon with a methodical slowness.

But what Finwé might divine from sight alone, Glorfindel knew from experience; Lazarus had demonstrated a command of lightning before, and so it was not surprising to seem him cast it during their fight. But where before the power had come from within the Lazarus himself, during their scuffle just now, Glorfindel felt more than saw the sparking energy come from the sword.

It was as if the sword held a power unto itself. How many weapons existed in Middle-Earth that could boast such a unique quality?

Glorfindel could think of none.

The sword fell to the soft earth with sound.

Finwé stumbled back.

His fellow Elves looked at him with concern and confusion.

His wide eyes saw nothing else besides the weapon on the ground. "What ghastly malevolence is this…?"

"Master Finwé?" prodded Myriil, a hand reaching out to his master's shoulder to steady him. The smith didn't seem to feel the presence of his students.

"Wide… No, deep. Oceans everlasting…" He babbled beyond Glorfindel's comprehension.

"Master Finwé, what is wrong?" Glorfindel asked, putting authority into his respectful tone to break the Elf from his strange, concerning trance.

It worked… moderately. Finwé's gaze went form the sword to Glorfindel, his eyes suddenly sharpening in alarm. He took a moment to collect himself and pointed. "Take the sword and know for yourself what I see! It is a weapon of death! Evil and wickedness abound within it. And dare not to hold it overlong!"

Brows furrowing, the Elf-lord looked between the smith and the consternating weapon, sparing a glace to Lazarus, who seemed suspiciously unsurprised by his kin's reaction. Indeed, the Guardian's eyes were narrowed, but they were laid upon Glorfindel, as if giving tacit permission to do just as the smith instructed.

Glorfindel reached down and grasped the weapon by the hilt.

It was comfortable in the hand, as far as swords went, despite some of the more aesthetically crude aspects of the design. He held it a moment, flexing his fingers and adjusting his grip. Nothing felt particularly untoward…

Then he shivered.

It wasn't a shiver of fear, or of cold, nor even excitement. It was something deeper, it pressed like a weight upon the back of his skull, snaking from the base of his spine and leeching into his limbs like a plague.

He felt small. Not small as a man is to a tree or to a troll, or to a great city. It was grander than that. Grander and terrible.

He was on the mark with his assumption; the blade and hilt were merely additions to the stone.

Now he understood why.

The stone was something old. Incomprehensibly old and weathered, though it shone as brilliantly as a polished sapphire. It bore the weight of years uncountable, and the bulk of its existence overwhelmed him. Though he held it in his hands, it felt as if it might slip from his fingers and sink to the very depths of the Arda, dragging the very landmass of Middle-Earth beneath the waters with it.

The weight was not of magic, nor of raw density, but rather, it was weighted down with something else…

Glorfindel peered into the stone with all his strength, searching for its source.

He found death.

Death.

Death and more death.

The lives of countless slain and slaughtered were held in this little, unassuming stone. Could any one count so many? Could ten thousand scribes with ten thousand years count as high? It was more than all the lives of thinking creatures upon the face of Middle-Earth… No, it was even more; more than was living, or had lived, or ever would live. Since its conception to its destruction, the world's cumulative mass of life was but a single drop in an ocean that spanned from one side of existence to the other.

This thing… this stone… weighed more than him. More than his life. More than any life. Could Morgoth himself conceive of such an existence as this? Could the brilliance of the Silmarils compare with the spiteful majesty of this crystal? The answer was clear in Glorfindel's mind, and it froze him in the midst a cold sweat.

His heart hammered with an unnatural steadiness and volume in his ears. He heard nothing else. He saw nothing else. There was only this blade. It spoke no words, and he felt no consciousness from the thing; but he couldn't help but feel small in the presence of its cold, dismissive regard.

Vaster powers than those he knew bore down on him, and he felt as if he might sink into the earth like quicksand. In that moment, he wondered; a stray thought so strange and foreign that had never entered even into his wildest imaginations.

…Didn't the Valar seem quite… small?

Then, like a passing fever dream, it was gone.

A gloved hand gently took the weapon from his hands. He blinked and looked up, the world still as normal as it had ever been.

Lazarus now stood, weapon in hand, his gaze locked on Glorfindel with no small amount of concern and… understanding.

Glorfindel remembered to breathe. The sense of smallness and anxiousness that he had felt seemed to linger, like an aching in the bones.

The eyes of Aithlin and Myriil flickered between their three companions with concern and confusion, and many questions on their lips were forcibly silenced.

Presently, Glorfindel found his voice again.

"What is that?"

It was all he could ask. He wasn't exceptionally eloquent, and no words in any tongue he knew could convey the true desire of what he wanted to know.

"A weregild." Lazarus said with inappropriate simplicity. "Some years ago, a great king came to wage war upon my people. We met him with fire, fury, and understanding. And though the consequences of his defeat have caused us no end of suffering since, many fine things were won in his demise. This stone," he ran his fingers over the surface of the device, "was the core of his sword; taken and purified in Light. What you feel is the weight of its existence, shored in the taking of countless lives."

"And you would take it as a weapon for yourself? How can you stand to touch such evil?! You should have destroyed it and given rest to those whose bite it slew!"

Finwé's eyes were fiery for the first time in a long time; Glorfindel couldn't even tell when the last time was that he'd seen the Elf righteously animated.

Lazarus fixed the smith with a leveled look, unoffended, but correcting. "Can the dead feel the satisfaction of vengeance? Death is its own peace. Instead, I would make their deaths mean something; if the strength of the sword lies in the killing, then I will take its power and turn it upon evil itself. I wield it to honor the dead as a memorial, not spite their sacrifice."

"Their sacrifice…?!" Finwé parroted incredulously, preparing to rail against Lazarus' logic. Can the lives of those unjustly slain really be called a sacrifice? A sacrifice implies a willingness to offer oneself, not be offered.

"I am of the same mind as you, Finwé, son of Finiel," Glorfindel said suddenly with an outstretched hand, forestalling the Elf's argument before he could begin. "But the minds of the Eldar are not like those of the Edain, much less like Lazarus' folk whom we know not. We must not judge too harshly their sense of justice."

Finwé opened his mouth to retort but presently shut it.

"However, I cannot disagree with him on this count; that my spirit cannot abide its existence. It feels… unnatural."

"Unnatural? Is there anything more natural than death?" Lazarus countered with a smile that smacked too heavily of nihilism. "Perhaps to Elves who would otherwise live forever, death must seem a terrible evil. But I and my kind are more akin to Men, and so we have come to know death as both a thief and a friend. He comes in the night, unhindered and inevitable. So we fear him not… or try not to. Our people's relationship with death is quite different; I do not wonder then that out perspectives of justice may seem quite foreign."

"That may be so," Glorfindel humbly admitted. "Few among Elves study Men to know them so well, so I cannot refute your viewpoint… If you say you are honoring the murdered, then it is your claim to make. I will not disparage it."

Glorfindel could see it now. The stone was a source of power. Its strength flowed into the steel, channeling the weight of its existence into the edge of the weapon.

Such a fearsome armament as Glorfindel had never dreamed of…

"Thank you," Lazarus said with a thankful nod. Finwé looked like he still had something to say, but he could not go against Glorfindel's words, for they were sensible, even if they felt wrong.

"However, it's clear to me that the swordsmanship that I have known is not suitable to fighting Elves," Lazarus continued. "Both my sword and swordsmanship are taken from my enemies. I have modeled their methods and put myself into them. The result is as you've seen."

He rapped his knuckles against the pierced breastplate of his robes for emphasis. "Your finesse is much greater than mine."

Glorfindel was silent for a moment. Lazarus was changing topics, and rather obviously at that. Though he couldn't claim to know the Guardian particularly well, he could at least say that he did not underestimate the man; Lazarus was trying to say something without saying it-

Ah.

Glorfindel, managed to find a smile somewhere inside and drew it out to his face. "I see. I apologize for damaging your armor. I'm sure Master Finwé will have it fixed in short order."

His eyes drifted to the other Elf pointedly, more as a question than a statement.

Finwé seemed to bristle at his words, but eventually he found himself nodding. "Of course. Any grievances I may have with your… weapon," he almost spat the word, "does not extend to your armor. You will not be able to tell it was damaged at all."

"I appreciate your commitment," Lazarus thanked, bowing his head again. The respectful gesture placated the master smith enough for his stance to loosen somewhat.

Glorfindel continued "In the meantime, I wish to make it my responsibility to teach your proper swordsmanship… if you have an appetite for Elven flair, that is."

Lazarus was asking for lessons. That's what Glorfindel interpreted.

The smile that crossed the Guardian's face indicated he was right on the mark.

"I'm a Guardian. Our appetites are insatiable. If you offer a meal, I'll eat every last bite."

Glorfindel felt the smile infect him as well, a competitive energy rising from his core, replacing the foreign dread that was fading from his soul. "Is that so? I hope you're ready then. We have but a few months until you will depart. In that time, I'll feed you so much you'll want to vomit."

Lazarus' grin stretched from ear to ear. "Now that's what I like to hear."

The Ghost – Gabriel – blinked, its little cyclopean eye flickering as it leaned into whisper something unheard in Lazarus' ear.

A few seconds after… "Ah, that's right. If I'm going to be learning Elven swordsmanship, then I think I will need an Elvish sword. This sword is less suited to your style, I think."

"Hm," Glorfindel scratched his chin thoughtfully. "You're right. We have many swords which should suit you-"

"Actually…" Gabriel interrupted, speaking up loud enough to be heard. "Guardians are fond of designing their own weapons. If we were allowed to forge our own sword…" The Ghost trailed off, his little eye turning to regard Finwé.

The Smith regarded Lazarus, looking him up and down for a long time before speaking. "You know how to handle a forge?" he asked somewhat suspiciously.

"I do. But our forges are quite different from yours. And I imagine Elves have a different process for metalwork. Moreover," he gestured to the two younger Elves, "These fine fellows wagered a weapon made by their own hands."

Finwe's expression hardened. "Oh, did they?" he asked, turning to them with danger in his voice. "Have you forgotten where you two would work to make such a weapon? Is it not my forge? And am I not still its master? You have forgotten yourselves in your imprudence."

Both Elves heard it clearly as their heads bowed reflexively, mumbling apologies without excuse.

Finwé didn't go on, seeing in their eyes the honesty of their spirits. Instead he turned his eyes to Lazarus. "Only a fool challenges an Elf at a sport of archery, and yet you have done so, and matched them."

Finwé's eyes narrowed and returned to silence. Then…

"Very well. In between training with Glorfindel, I will show you how we Elves forge our weapons. I cannot stomach that you would use… that. So I will indulge you this privilege."

Lazarus bowed in gratitude. "I will do your forge proud, Master Finwé," he declared. To Glorfindel, his smile seemed quite genuine.

Of course, the Elf didn't know that a – one might even say the – defining trait of Guardian culture was weapon-crafting.

It wouldn't take long for him to find out.

A/N: And there's chapter seven! Sometimes I surprise myself with how fast I can get something done if I actually try. Lots of comments from last chapter I want to address. Chiefly, this...

Many comments made were that during the Council of Elrond Lazarus did almost nothing, and had very few insights into what was being said. This was very much intentional. My line of thinking was that the Council of Elrond was, to Lazarus, a treasure trove of information and experiences that he didn't want to interrupt. After all, while he has been studying from the records of Elrond's archives, that information is by no means unbiased and it certainly doesn't cover the happenings of the day. The Council was also a revelation for Lazarus, who learned more about the Ring, about Sauron, Elrond, the Men of Númenor, Gondor, and the crises the many peoples of Middle-Earth are facing. The simple fact is that Lazarus is in no position to interpose himself in such conversations, stranger in a strange land that he is.

Lazarus also knew that his invitation to the Council by Elrond was a pretext to Elrond asking for his help in destroying the Ring, or at the very least, opposing Sauron. In essence, Elrond was using the Council as an appeal to Lazarus. "Look how bad we've got it. We could really use your help." So it would have been inappropriate for Lazarus to interject and offer his opinion without first learning as much as he might from those who spoke at the Council, only after which he might come to a decision, which is what happened.

I hope this clears up some of the questions about the last chapter. Don't be afraid to ask questions or leave comments today too! I'll try to answer them all to the best of my ability!

Lastly, many thanks need be given to Keltoi who was my Beta for this chapter! I have a terrible habit of not proofreading very well once I've finished writing a chapter, so his help is very much appreciated!