And here we are again. I hope you all had a very Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Joyous Kwanzaa, or Happy Festivus. Whatever the reason or cause, I hope you enjoyed good food and better company. I certainly did, and now, I'm back with another chapter. Call it a belated Christmas present/early New Year's gift.

SMALL ADMIN NOTE: For those who don't already know, FFN in their infinite wisdom decided to make it so that email alerts only work if you turn them on. Without telling anyone. You can find them in account settings.

Anyway, training arcs can be fascinating, but they can also be a pain to write – both easy to structure, but hard to pace, having to hit every bit you intend to cover without overdoing it… they have their ups and downs. As I said, though, this is where we start moving onto the practical.

As the night wound on, and all lights dimmed save for the stars above, Sunniva was left with much to think on. In this case, she was doing so from roof of the small but well-appointed guesthouse her nephew had been granted. Just because she didn't feel like sleeping, and she wanted answers about the city and its ruler (and more of what he had been teaching), didn't mean she was inclined to go anywhere. Not after what she'd heard. Especially not after what she'd heard.

As it was, any dilemma was ended in a muffled clatter of wings and graceful footsteps as Shou-Lao the Undying stepped out of a swooping descent and into humanoid form as easily he would step from shadow to moonlight.

"Lord Shou-Lao," she greeted him neutrally. Inwardly, she briefly wondered what name he had had before this, what title he had been accorded. It probably did not matter. That name had almost certainly been shed with his old allegiances, as dead as moulted skin, and alien to the being he was now. Certainly, she doubted he would appreciate being reminded of it – and she could respect that.

"Princess Sunniva," he replied calmly, joining her on the edge of the roof, looking out over the city. As he did, gaze sweeping over it, she felt a sense of banked pride radiating off him.

What had been done here, what was being done here, truly mattered to him, it was truly valued – not as a farmer surveying their herds, perhaps not even a lord surveying his people, but a leader surveying his company. The distinction was fine, but clear. Like her nephew, it would seem that he had long ago seen a value in these people, one that she was only now beginning to understand. It was humbling. A tiny bit annoying, but a dose of humility rarely came without a blow to one's ego.

"He shared with me what you have been teaching him," she said eventually. "Handling his emotions; anger, shame… guilt."

"They are simple lessons," he replied. "Not easy. No, the farthest thing from easy. But simple enough in their essentials. They have been well-learned." He glanced at her. "Though such lessons are rarely learned once."

"The learning never seems to end," she agreed. "I have near eighteen centuries, and decades as a host of the Phoenix, yet in the months following my nephew's trail, I have become a student again." She smiled wryly. "I have not felt so ignorant in many, many years, let alone so often."

"There are worse things to feel," he replied mildly. "They remind us that we are imperfect. That there is more to strive for. And, of course, more to learn." He tilted his head slightly. "Ignoring what we do know is foolish, of course. I have little patience for self-indulgent self-flagellation."

She raised an eyebrow. "I take it you had to deal with some of that," she said dryly. She had dealt with her fair share of adolescents, after all, and many vacillated between self-flagellation and overweening self-esteem. More often than not, it was not remotely justified, in either case. Extraordinary as her nephew might be, she doubted he was that different. She's seen the boy beneath, after all.

"Some," Shou-Lao said, just as dryly. "Less than I might have, however – he quickly understood that I had no tolerance for it. Some have allowed him to indulge it, or, at least, not stopped it as forcibly as they might have done for fear of harming him." His lips twitched in amusement. "Others, by contrast, have had no compunction about giving him a judicious clip around the skull."

Sunniva looked curious, and he chuckled.

"Ask your nephew about the girl he loves," he said. "In between the lovelorn babble, there are some very interesting insights. And some rather amusing ones."

"I think that I will," Sunniva murmured, interest now well and truly piqued.

"If you do, set aside several hours. You will need them. Apparently, in his era there is a saying: 'absence makes the heart grow fonder'. In his case, it has instead given him much to dwell upon. And, apparently, removed the need to breathe." The dragon rolled his eyes in remembered exasperation. "The number of times I had to snap him out of daydreams during meditation…"

Sunniva burst out laughing. "He is a child, in the midst of his first love," she defended her nephew, amusement bubbling in every word. "Are you surprised?"

"No," Shou-Lao said, with a faint sigh. "Though one can always hope."

"Perhaps that could be of use, if he loves so strongly," she mused.

"In teaching your methods of emotional control?" Shou-Lao remarked. "Yes, I think it could. He loves fiercely and without reserve, in a way that I have rarely seen; it would be a powerful resource to draw upon, a counter to rage, hate, and fear. But it could fuel them just as easily."

"I am aware," she said darkly. She was a Phoenix. She had seen the consequences of love, twisted and warped, before – what it could inspire and what it could do in its own right.

He shrugged. "His discipline is not lacking, and he is an apt student. His mental blocks are the main problem, and most of those have been removed."

"Most?"

"The remnants of one remain," Shou-Lao replied. "It is one that I believe you must help him through, for I have done all I can." His eyes, now golden and slitted, turned to her. "It is fear."

Sunniva frowned, stifling her initial response of puzzlement – her nephew didn't seem the fearful type, to put it mildly.

"Of what?" she asked eventually. She did not try to deny it. For one thing, he had the information and she did not, and she could not argue either way without knowing. For another… there were many types of fear. And she rather suspected which applied here.

"Of losing himself. Of being controlled. Of, and for, the ones he loves," Shou-Lao replied, laying each out with rhythmic precision. "He has nearly lost himself once, he has seen visions of it happening again – such visions were not predestinations, but they were confirmations of a possibility, one that he knows in his bones is real. It is not abstract to him."

"The Army he spoke of," she said softly.

Shou-Lao turned a penetrating gaze on her, then nodded as he discerned her meaning. "Yes," he said. "The Kinslaying."

She flinched in revulsion. It was instinctive, gone in an instant, more a response to the abstract than the fact – which now, she knew well had been the only liveable choice in a host of terrible ones. It was still there. A lifetime of cultural conditioning did not vanish half as quickly as a flinch. Shou-Lao did her the courtesy of ignoring it.

"He has also been controlled before," the dragon went on. "Directly and indirectly. It is a primal terror for him, and…" He inhaled, then exhaled slowly. As he did, she felt the faintest rumble in the earth beneath her, a tremor that ran through the entire mountain range. "… not without reason."

"There is more to this," she said flatly. Disciplined the ancient dragon's presence might be, but even without the giveaway tremor, one that whispered of a carefully controlled and utterly ferocious anger, she was still a Phoenix. "I will have the truth of it."

"It is his truth to share," Shou-Lao retorted. "You can sense my depth of feeling on the matter. You know what I am, and what I have seen. Extrapolate from there what must have been done to him to so inspire my wrath."

She did.

She was not pleased.

"I imagine," she said in a chill, iron tone. "That you are not telling me for another reason. You fear my lack of control."

"You have controlled the Phoenix for decades," Shou-Lao said. "Your abilities are not in doubt. Even the finest control, however, has its flaws. Yours seems to be him." He cocked his head. "Your own travels, your own duties… they have been less personal?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said quietly. "Dealing with what I know must have happened to him, and what I fear, it has been a challenge. It gets under my skin." She smiled wryly. "Such is family."

His lips curled into a smile. "'The learning never seems to end'," he remarked. "You were correct. I believe that you will learn as much from him as he will from you. In finding him, you have already begun."

"True," she said ruefully, before her expression sharpened. "You spoke of a third fear – 'of, for, his loved ones'."

"He fears rejection by those he loves above almost all things," Shou-Lao said calmly. "Just as he has come to expect it – though I believe that he has been vigorously encouraged to believe quite the opposite. Old habits, old patterns of thought, however, are hard to shift. Above that alone, he places another fear: what will happen to them. He is acutely aware that even by the standards of those gifted as he is, even among the Princes and Princesses of Asgard, even perhaps by the standards of Phoenix hosts, he leads a dangerous life. Perhaps uniquely so. At first, I thought this conceit. On understanding what he is, and who shapes his life… I wonder."

She shot him a sharp look. "What do you mean by that?"

He shrugged. "I have supposition and theory only," he said. "He has been quite careful about what he has said."

"He knows what it is," she said, thinking back to a previous conversation. "He was, as you say, careful in his words, but he was fully aware that he was unusual, and implied a different relationship to the Phoenix than most hosts." She looked at him. "He said that his relationship to the Phoenix was more like yours than mine."

There was an interested gleam in those golden eyes. "Really?" he murmured. "How intriguing. I had suspected, and I still wonder, but…" He trailed off in thought, then shrugged. "The nature of what he is, and even why he is, can be debated," he said. "Perhaps you will receive answers. I doubt that I will. What cannot be debated is his propensity for attracting trouble and enemies. And in simple terms, he fears that he cannot protect their bodies and, worse, their souls."

This one, Sunniva understood instantly, right down to the helpless rage it inspired. After all, it is exactly what she had been wrestling with ever since – in fact, even before – encountering her nephew.

"Yes, I thought you would find it familiar," Shou-Lao murmured. "You of all people are well placed to help him cope with that. As to the rejection… the vast majority of that fear is irrational. That which is rational, or has its roots in rationality, in secrets and lies, must be accepted and confronted. I have made that much clear to him, and I believe that he understands."

"Your teaching seems comprehensive," she observed.

Shou-Lao snorted. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she saw a hint of smoke around his nostrils, dissipating into the night air.

"That has merely been the underlying process of my teaching," he said. "I have taught him other things: how to read the Soul-Fire of another to see truth, past and future, as well as one's own, and the beginnings of how to wield it; how to embrace the link the Phoenix grants to the cosmos, an awareness of the fundamental connection of all things, and all life above all; and ascension beyond the physical."

Sunniva's eyebrows shot up. "That is not a basic lesson," she said. It is one that took her years to master, and even now, she had little use for it.

"Blame the Alfar," was the blunt reply. "Specifically, their natural liminality, their ability to shift between the physical and spiritual on a whim. You may also blame his natural gifts for both the mental arts and mimicry. He has apparently studied something of astral projection. Finally, you may blame their shared and seemingly endless curiosity." His expression turned sour. "I was not pleased."

She knew very well why – there were few more volatile states for the Phoenix to be in than attached to an unanchored living mind. Especially if that mind was, by the sounds of things, largely making it up as it went along.

"He picked it up quickly," Shou-Lao added grudgingly. "Very quickly. As he did the others, even considering that he had studied the theory of them from a great sage of the Phoenix from times yet to come, and that in the matter of the Soul-Fire and the Sight, his primary tutor has taught him something of the temporal magics."

She had rather suspected that, and it made her both very curious and a little uneasy. Time was mysterious – and when meddled with, dangerous.

"Indeed, demonstration made things clear to him that were previously muddled – in the technical arts, you will find him a remarkably quick study. I taught him more than I expected, though for it to be truly comprehensive – "

This was almost a hiss of contempt, at the thought that what he had provided was anything close to what he could.

" – I would need years. Years that were uninterrupted."

"That seems unlikely," she remarked wryly.

"It seems impossible," he said flatly. "As it is, I believe that I have persuaded him that the Phoenix is a great power of the cosmos, one capable of extraordinary things and requiring deep insight – in other words, not just a glorified hammer."

She tried not to laugh. She really did. As it was, she thought that she managed to restrict it to a few, strangled giggles.

Only a few.

Really.

Shou-Lao eyed her, and exhaled with an exasperated hiss.

"Asgardians."

Once she regained her composure, she looked back up at him. "Is there anything else needs to learn from you?" she asked, before pausing. "Forgive my phrasing. Is there any part of his current education that I would be disrupting if I began my part of his studies?"

Shou-Lao considered both this, and the neatly phrased apology, before nodding. "I have one final lesson, for the time being," he said. "One that even my finest students would normally wait many years for. However, his previous experiences have taught him much of what I would teach them in that time." His gaze slid over to her. "In amongst all I have taught him, has been an art of both combat and life. It has few defined forms, and a relative simple underlying philosophy, because each student is different and relates to it differently."

Sunniva looked at him sharply. "As everyone does to Phoenix fire," she said.

That got a small, approving smile. "Exactly," he said. "Life cannot be so simply defined and categorised, no matter what my grandfather might wish. All things change. All things differ. And all things end. Each must make their own way. The method in which he will make that way is a blending of Phoenix fire, psionics, and magic within him – learning wield them not simply as extensions of himself, but as a part of him. Physical and metaphysical, mystical and mundane, the spirit and the flesh… all as one. I will test his mastery of it."

"What is this 'way'?"

"The Way of the Iron Fist."

OoOoO

Sunniva, needless to say, had questions as to what this was. Shou-Lao's answers had been cryptic, but the gist she had got was that this 'Way' was meant to be a form of training for a small army, capable of protecting the city and transferring their teachings and the associated wisdom to the wandering tribes on Midgard, so they could look after themselves when the heavenly city was phased out of sync with Midgard.

The test, meanwhile, was intended for one who would stand above all others, as a leader and a champion, imbued with the vast power of Shou-Lao himself. Just as with the Order of Norns in the Higher Realms, this champion and leader was simply referred to by their title.

The Iron Fist.

Her nephew's test, of course, was a little different.

"It's not a simple test of skill, or power," he explained, garbing himself for combat. "When it comes to skill, Shou-Lao has probably forgotten more than I'll ever know, even if I study for the rest of my life. As for power, well, in a normal state, I could probably put up a good fight, but I wouldn't overpower him. With the Phoenix?" He smiled wryly. "It wouldn't be a fight. It'd be a slaughter. Eventually."

He fiddled with a set of wraps on his right wrist until Sunniva sighed and took over. "Let me," she more or less ordered him.

"Um. Thanks," he muttered. "Anyway, this test is meant for ordinary humans, with or without powers. That rules out either skill or power, no matter how good they are." He paused. "Well, actually, there's probably a couple of people I know who could do something in the power department…"

Sunniva blinked. "Humans as powerful as an Elder Wyrm?" she said, in astonishment. "As powerful as this Elder Wyrm?"

He shrugged. "I don't know about Shou-Lao's upper limits," he said. "Though if size is anything to go by, he's a lot more powerful than the last one I met. He's definitely a lot smarter."

Sunniva shot him a sharp look. "Met," she echoed. "And fought?"

"And killed," he said grimly. "With help, though it came down to single combat. Free tip, if it ever comes to it, always go for the eyes – that's the real soft spot." He eyed her. "You're gaping."

Sunniva winched her jaw shut, stared at him for a few seconds, then set about briskly checking his gear. "I do not know whether to be proud or horrified," she muttered.

"Try both," he said lightly.

"I think I will accept proud," she disagreed. "I have done enough being horrified for at least a decade."

"That's not likely to change any time soon," he replied dryly. "Anyway, yes. There will be humans that powerful and stronger. I probably shouldn't have said that, so if you keep it to yourself, I'd appreciate it."

Sunniva frowned, but mostly in thought as she nodded. Thought, and a little bit of wonder. Humans had a talent for magic beyond the obvious, as she'd come to realise, and given what the Forest People had demonstrated, she shouldn't be surprised at what those derived from humans could do.

Besides, if her nephew was as naturally psionically gifted as she thought he was, there remained the question of where that came from. It wasn't something cropped up often in the line of Frey, or in Asgard as a whole, let alone that strongly. Even still, though… to think that little talents like that young hive-mind on the coast of the sea would grow into something like that. She knew better than most, far better than most, that great things could come from the smallest of beginnings. That did not make it any less daunting, even awe-inspiring, a prospect.

"This test," her nephew went on, wheezing a little as she tightened his robes around his ribs. "I think, is a bit more spiritual than physical. Well, it's both, probably, but he knows that I know the physical side better than most. See, it's not about whether you can take power. It's about whether you deserve it, whether you're worthy of it."

"You're certain of this?" she queried.

"Absolutely," he said. "When I first met him, Shou-Lao said it himself: I am the last test of the Iron Fist, the Judge of the Worthy."

He grinned as Sunniva blinked at the pinpoint imitation.

"That's what this test is for, I suppose," he said. "Not if I'm worthy to be the Iron Fist, exactly. More if I've understood what he's been teaching me."

"And have you?" she asked.

He paused, visibly mulling it over. "I think so," he said. "Though in the end, there's only really one way to find out."

OoOoO

After, Sunniva retreated to the stands of the arena. It was both relatively close and confined, but there was a sense about the field itself. It seemed at first glance to simply be matted with the lightest of padding, as much to protect the floor as anything else, but there was more to it.

She focused on it for a moment, teasing it out with her senses, and found that it was spatially mutable – it would grow and shrink in response to requirement. And as for the mats… those seemed to be more durable than they appeared, but it was more than that. Much more.

When her senses touched it, it was like touching a void, as if someone had somehow managed to mute the Phoenix, turning the fiercest flames into the merest, dampest embers, those most fractional specks necessary to exist. That was a shock, though not entirely a surprise – she had discovered records of such things in Asgard's oldest records. Besides, if any being would know how to create such a thing, it was Shou-Lao.

On the one hand, this meant that the competitors could unleash their powers unconfined.

On the other, once they entered, they could not leave until the challenge was done.

There was no ceremony about the beginning.

Shou-Lao had taken his human form and stood in the centre of the arena, patiently waiting. Shortly after, her nephew emerged. His eyes instinctively swept the arena in the blink of an eye, an experienced skim of the surroundings. He picked her out too, she knew, going by the psychic wave sent over to her. She smiled faintly and sent a reply and an acknowledgement, inwardly musing that her guesses were accurate – even without the Phoenix, her nephew was a natural psi-talent, and quite clearly one of truly extraordinary power.

Of course, that alone would not be enough against Shou-Lao. Not that it was meant to be, that much she understood, but even still.

Her nephew knew that as well as she did, but it did not show in his steady stride, limbs loose and limber. There was no tension there. Focus, yes, but not tension, as he stopped twenty paces from Shou-Lao. The two gazes met, then in unison, they pressed right fist to upraised palm and bowed to one another.

What happened next was so fast that even she could barely register it.

One moment, they were bowing to each other, the next they were blurs of motion – Shou-Lao surging forward, her nephew seemingly blurring to meet him, before darting to one side with a dancer's grace, sliding aside by the merest fraction of an inch. As he did, there was a furious burst of power, a mixture of psionics and lightning driven right into the ancient dragon's side, hurling him fifty feet across the arena.

She knew instantly that most mortals would have been vaporised, most gods would be missing most of at least two ribs.

Shou-Lao performed an impossible roll side on in mid-air, bringing his feet under him and landed with feather-light grace. His robes were torn and scorched. His skin wasn't even pink. Frankly, it barely looked sooty.

Her nephew didn't seem discouraged by this, however, as Shou-Lao immediately had to defend against a lightning fast onslaught punctuated by streaks of flame, flashes of light, and thunderous explosions and implosions as air pressure rapidly fluctuated in response to heat, cold, and lightning.

Sunniva was well used to watching spars and tournaments in the higher realms, to taking part, and battling in deadly earnest in cosmic combat as a Phoenix host. That was why she could say one thing for sure: the Eternal, Beowulf, Gilgamesh, whatever he called himself… he was right.

The boy was good.

He was fast as lighting, his feints and evasions as fluid and unpredictable as the flickers of a flame, his blows carrying mountain shaking power. He was clearly not holding back, drastically augmenting his body with his psionic powers, his broader offence with magic, some familiar, much not. His moves were largely unfamiliar, yet exceptionally well-drilled, but at the same time, he wasn't shy of throwing in some creativity.

Many would have fallen before him. Many more would have been impressed – she certainly was.

Shou-Lao was not.

Expression impassive, he countered each move with deceptive speed and serpentine grace; blows were diverted or avoided entirely. When they were met head-on, there was only one winner in that contest of power, with the ancient dragon as immovable as a mountain – and also usually about to deliver a devastating counter-blow. Twice her nephew was hurled back, once well up into the air by a devastating upper-cut, and twice he bounced back to his feet with a rubbery grace.

At the second, her nephew regained his feet and settled back, never taking his eyes off Shou-Lao as he hawked up a gobbet of spittle and blood. By her count, he had at least three cracked ribs, several muscular tears, and his knuckles looked like he'd been punching spiked armour. Shou-Lao, by contrast, mostly just looked a bit scuffed, though there was a developing bruise from a particularly vicious kick from the floor into the side of his knee. As she watched, he settled back into a pose of patient attentiveness, posing a silent question:

'Is that it?'

If either of these things bothered him, her nephew showed no sign, and instead tilted his head thoughtfully. Then, without more than a flicker in his eyes, a flicker she was looking for, he changed gear.

What had come before had, apparently, been a feeling out period, testing how Shou-Lao responded to various attacks. Now, her nephew unleashed his full range of power, everything short of the Phoenix itself, and the result was like the inverse of an Elf shadow-grenade. The air itself warped and burned as energies both magical and psionic poured onto and around Shou-Lao.

The sheer power was enough to a gaping chasm in the planet, and it was wielded less as a brute force, more with a dagger's precision, slicing holes in space under legs to ruin footing, altering some of the flooring into binding constructs that yanked limbs back and strained against sockets, the rest into a vast magnetic plate that hummed with power – one aided in its work by the suddenly coalesced cloud of iron that coated robes, skin, and even exposed eyes.

All that, in a matter of instants, as her nephew's outline flickered blue, then faintly golden-green, his eyes burning gold with power, his face taut with concentration and effort, limbs seeming to be in multiple places at once in staccato after-images. Then, she caught the edge of a whistle through pursed lips. Of course – time manipulation through music. Simple, subtle, and incapable of standing up to the slightest resistance, yet perfect for personal use. In this case, making a hundred spells manifest in the time spent conjuring up one.

Shou-Lao let out a barely audible snarl. It was the first sound he'd made so far. Then, and there was no other word for it, he… flexed.

The world rippled, the transfigured magnetic floor rising like a wave and whipping across the arena to smack into a hurriedly cast hex, disrupting just enough of the spell to create a pocket that wasn't turned into crunchy jam. The rest of the spells, the constructs, the shell of iron, the magnetic pull, the portals… all shattered.

It looked effortless, but there was a gleam of sweat on the dragon's brow, scrapes and scathes, hints of raw flesh, perhaps even a little blood. That had cost him. Not much, and it hadn't done more than make him work. But it had done that much.

Her nephew clearly hoped to do more, because as soon as the hex had fired, he had opened a portal, letting himself fall backwards through it and reaching down to snap one hand around Shou-Lao's human skull, ramming an intangible golden-white blade of vastly concentrated psionic energy into the back of his head.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze – her nephew, posed like an acrobat in mid-air partway through a vault, balanced neatly on the towering Shou-Lao's head, the psionic blade humming as it emerged from his mouth. It was simple yet elegant, she realised, an attack designed to slice straight through Shou-Lao's defences to his most primal mind and shut him down via direct access to his brain, one backed by the entirety of his vast natural telepathic powers.

Then, Shou-Lao very deliberately bit down. The blade vanished in a jarring flash of power, and her nephew was once again flung clear, and once again, landed on his feet like a cat. When he looked up, it was no longer at a teak faced man, but a dragon the size of a city and still growing, one that the spatially flexible stadium was somehow containing.

"When fighting a shapeshifter, one should never make assumptions as to the location of their brain, much less the nexus point of their consciousness," the dragon said in a lecturing tone and a voice like the grinding of continents.

One thing his change in shape and size had done was make his wounds more obvious, she noticed, and as she noticed, she noticed her nephew noticing. Certainly, he didn't bother responding to the critique, instead striking as the dragon continued to swell into immensity, forcing a huge copper spear out of the floor directly under and sixty feet up into a wound partway up one leg. At the same time, there was a brief rumble.

Then, lightning poured down from the sky like rain, sheeting down onto and into the magnetic plate, coruscating electric fire surging into the vast dragon's flesh, briefly illuminating his entire nervous system.

There was a long silence, beneath the rolling roar of thunder, as her nephew sagged slightly. It was barely visible, but that had cost him more than he was willing to show. Honestly, she was amazed that he was even standing. The sheer power he'd unleashed… royalty or not, few people could muster that sort of power without outside aid before their four hundredth birthday. Though perhaps that was because they rarely had to. That bore thinking about.

In the meantime, her nephew was standing and calculating, while Shou-Lao was looking down at him. He didn't look entirely comfortable, far from it, but he didn't look seriously harmed. Far from it. She could see that, and so could her nephew.

Finally, he sighed, and idly waved a hand, dirt forming to a chair, which he promptly and gratefully slumped back into.

"Power, I can't match. Skill, I can't match. Luck? Not going to be enough," he said wearily. "I knew that, but I reckoned it was worth a shot. Now, I know that we could keep doing this until I've broken my everything and you or my aunt has to scrape me off the floor, but there's not much point if it isn't going to work. If that was necessary to get the job done, even just to buy time or something, then fine. But there's no point. While I've got no shortage of willpower, that's not going to be much use now is it? The only option I've got to 'win' is to go for the kill."

"Yet you will not, even knowing how my power is passed."

Sunniva frowned at the implications of that. She hadn't actually asked, now that she came to think of it. Based on what had been said… a kind of resurrective immortality, linked to the physical world by the transferred power, ensuring rebirth? Clever, if that was the case. It certainly sounded like it.

"I knew how to kill one of your kind before I came here," her nephew said bluntly. "Moral and practical considerations aside, even if I could kill you – which isn't the same as knowing how – it wouldn't teach me anything new. It wouldn't tell you anything about me that you didn't already know, either. It wouldn't have proved whether or not I actually learned anything." He squinted up at Shou-Lao. "You know what I'm like and what I can do. What don't you know? What do you want me to show you, or tell you?"

There was a soft chuckle. The entire mountain trembled ever so slightly. Then, Shou-Lao seemed to collapse, vast coils and wings thundering inwards like a waterfall, pouring down and vanishing as if they were being drained away. It was a more leisurely transformation, but sooner rather than later, Shou-Lao's human form was standing over his student.

"Good. You are asking the right questions," he said.

"How wonderful for me," her nephew replied. "Look, I can't punch my way out of this problem, or spell my way out of it, not without doing something pointless." He sat up with a groan and leaned forward, looking up at Shou-Lao, emerald eyes sharp and thoughtful.

He was carrying a significant number of broken and cracked bones, more muscular injuries than she cared to think about, and there were some very significant and very deep bruises running across much of his body. He seemed to have bitten his tongue at least once. Oh, and he was seriously tired, if not exhausted. Despite all that, his breathing was steady and unaffected, with no sign that pain or weariness was impeding him in the slightest. As far as she could tell, they've been acknowledged and set aside.

That was, it had to be said, not a skill that comes overnight. It was also not one that a fifteen year old boy should have. And yet… she stifled a sigh.

"You could have beat me to a pulp," he said frankly. "More of a pulp, anyway. So you don't particularly want or need to know about my defences and durability. My offence speaks for itself. You're really not interested in a fight to the death." He paused, then narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "But you'd fight one, wouldn't you?"

"Death is also a lesson," Shou-Lao said calmly. "The vast majority of those who get this far understand that such a fight is foolish and unnecessary. For those who cannot overcome their pride, however…"

Her nephew snorted. "Yes, I can see," he muttered. "So, we come back to 'what do you want to know?'" He rubbed his jaw briefly, then paused, and very deliberately stopped. The bruise on his lower jaw probably had something to do with that. "Also, 'how do I prove worthy?'" He frowned. "No… 'what does it mean to be worthy?'" He drummed his fingers. "You know my skills, and you've taken my measure as a person – even without teaching me, you could read my life, and probably a bit of my mind, even if I didn't let you in. You know what I am, what I can do. Yet you haven't decided I'm worthy, or unworthy."

Shou-Lao was impassive, waiting patiently for his student to continue his train of thought.

"Being here has been about education," Harry went on. "I've been learning. About myself, about you, about all sorts of things. Where I've gone right, and… where I've gone wrong."

He paused, then looked up.

"Phoenix fire is about change," he said slowly. "That's what you've been telling me. It's about choice. So… it's not about what I am, or even what I've done. It's… about who I choose to be. Is that person worthy?"

He stood up slowly, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders.

"I think it is," he said firmly. "I think I've learned to accept the mistakes I've made, what I can't change. I think that here and now, this is who I choose to be. And if that's not worthy, then I'm sorry for wasting your time."

Shou-Lao's golden gaze held him in its thrall for a long, long time. Then, faintly, slowly, he smiled.

"Strength of mind. Strength of body. Strength of will," he said. "All are necessary to be worthy of the Iron Fist. Yet the Way of the Iron Fist requires more. It requires flexibility. A willingness to change, to adapt, to learn. Each person is different, as is each wielder of the Iron Fist. And, of course, each host of the Phoenix. One cannot force oneself into another's mould, and one must accept that. To be rigid on another's path is to become brittle. It requires humility and pride. Above all, however… it requires acceptance."

He regarded the boy.

"Which leads me to my final question: why do you want to master this power you have? Is it for pride? Is it for the sense of power, from wielding a piece of the universe itself? Or is it something else?"

"You know," her nephew said, staring him down.

"I do. But do you?"

His eyes narrowed in thought, as his lips twisted into a wry smile. "Touché," he muttered, some kind of wry acknowledgement, before bowing his head. "I want to master it, because in the end, it's that, or it'll master me. Because it is a part of me, and I need to accept that. Because if I don't, it could change me into something awful. Because it can help, yes, but… really?" He looked up, a serious look in his green eyes. "I don't want to be afraid of it anymore."

Shou-Lao's smile returned, still faint, but sharp.

Then, without warning, his hand blurred palm first into her nephew's chest. There's a flare of light, softer, flickering flames swirling through every colour of the spectrum, before condensing into searing white. Then, it faded away, leaving a startled young man staring down at his chest. On it is a smooth, curved depiction of a dragon, black, with a sinuous form and dark wings. As they watch, it fades away into his skin. As it does, it takes the bruises and injuries with it.

"What the –"

"You are not an Iron Fist," Shou-Lao said. "That is not your path, nor is it your need. Yet you have learned the Way, and you walk a parallel path. You would be welcome among their number, and that has earned recognition. This mark is that recognition, to those who can perceive it."

He looked her nephew in the eye, then very deliberately put fist to palm and bowed. For a moment, her nephew gaped, then matched the bow.

"You have been tested, child of the Phoenix," Shou-Lao said. "And you have passed. You are Worthy."

OoOoO

The Test of the Iron Fist was a rare enough event, a passing even more so. While her nephew was at pains to make clear that he was not, technically, an Iron Fist, having not been imbued with the power of the dragon (it turned out that her theory had been entirely correct) in part because he didn't technically need it, few were inclined to make this distinction.

After all, as Anaire pointed out to him, he had passed the Test. While he was not technically an Iron Fist, he was one in all but name. That was an extraordinary feat, and worthy of celebration.

Also, as Sunniva pointed out to him, as gently as she could, they would be leaving. At this, he hadn't looked especially bothered, save for being a little wistful. He could sense as clearly as she could that he had learned all he could here – at least for now. There was more to be learned in K'un L'un than could be learned in even an Asgardian lifetime. He might yet have reason to return, in his time or another.

Speaking of that time, not only was he eager to learn from her, he quite plainly missed his home. That much, Sunniva could entirely empathise with. She loved soaring through the stars, seeing worlds, realms, entire dimensions and galaxies that even the most intrepid of Asgardian explorers had never reached.

However, that love of novelty was tempered by the fact that she could always return home, to the place where she belonged, that she loved with all its comforts of the familial and the familiar. He had already been away for months, with the additional qualifier that as he had made clear, both in passing and in a way that suggested that it mattered far more to him than he was letting on, mere months were far more significant at the age of 15 than they were at 1500, let alone her age of 1800. Mathematics alone said that he had a point.

In any case, what followed was not so much a party, as miniature festival. One that had, so far, lasted three days.

"They want to both honour the achievement and provide you with a fitting send-off, Lord Earendil," Anaire explained.

Sunniva sighed a sad, inward sigh as her nephew look profoundly puzzled at the prospect. Then, he wrinkled his nose. "I suppose so," he conceded. "Also, Earendil, please. No 'Lord'."

"Technically, it would be Prince Earendil," Sunniva added helpfully, and smirked as she got a profoundly dirty look.

"I'm not even from this era, let alone this era's royal family."

"You are no less a Prince for being from another time, nephew," Sunniva said, and ruffled his hair. "Acknowledgement, as a Prince, as family, is your right."

It was not her most subtle point, but it achieved its desired effect in sinking in. Certainly, it made her nephew blush rather adorably, drawing fond laughter from the crowds around them, who were in full swing of the festival even if its focus was somewhat embarrassed.

"Earendil," she pondered, as after a little back and forth in the local language, her nephew was persuaded to put on some kind of brightly coloured woven necklace to cheers from the crowd. "The name is in the old tongue, so what is it in the new?"

"Old tongue?" her nephew asked, this time reappearing with several more accoutrements and a partially consumed meat bun half the size of his head. His comment was somewhat muffled as he was hurriedly trying to suck some of the dripping juice off the inside of his wrist.

"Old tongue," she agreed, trying not to laugh. "The Higher Realms in particular are very old, and while change is slow, it does happen." She glanced at Anaire, who had joined her fellow elves in a sky-dance, shimmering forms weaving in and out of kites and fireworks. "Among the elves, the Alfar, it is slower than most."

Makes sense, her nephew observed. This time, it was telepathic, a very large bite of doughy bun having temporarily gummed up his mouth. They never really told me what it meant.

"Really?" she replied, surprised, then smiled. "It is rather appropriate."

That got her a curious look.

"It has a few translations," she explained. "Rising Light, Star of High Hope, and Morning Star." She smiled at him. "Some call it the Wandering Star."

He paused mid-chew, then swallowed and smiled wryly. "Definitely appropriate," he said. "So… what is it in, I don't know, the new tongue? The modern version."

She tilted her head at him and smiled in amusement. "Is this your way of asking me to name you, nephew?"

That got her a mischievous, dazzling smile. "I suppose it is. Auntie."

She shook her head, and smiled at him, as the lights danced in the night sky above and the festival remained in full swing. "You are incorrigible," she said. "Prince Aurvandil."

And that would seem to be a good place to end it. Harry has passed the Test of the Iron Fist, even if he isn't technically one. He doesn't have the Iron Fist tattoo, as such, save on his soul – in his case, it's more of a sign to those who can see it to signal that he is recognised and honoured by Shou-Lao. Of course, the residents of K'un L'un aren't going to pass up the opportunity for a good party, and quite right too.

As it is, Harry's time in K'un L'un has ended, with a whole bunch of skills acquired, as well as a fair bit of self-knowledge, and courtesy of his many times great-aunt, an Asgardian name that wouldn't stand out. I did a little research and it's more appropriate than you'd think – the Earendil connection comes from Tolkien's interest in the original Germanic mythical figure (or at least, as glossed in Anglo-Saxon), one who is very much associated with stars. Just as Harry is himself, naturally.

Now, the baton is passed from Shou-Lao to Sunniva, which only leads to the question of where are the aunt and nephew team going to go next? Well… let's just say that I've been planning this one for a few years now. It's going to be pretty big.