Regaining What Was Lost

Losing your hand was a formative experience for you. It is strange to say that, considering you were an elf grown when it happened and experiences described as formative are rare outside of childhood. It remains true though. Before you lost your hand you were skilled certainly, but no more than that.

Losing your hand drove you to be better, gave you no choice but to get better. You were handicapped compared to most without a shield, so you had to be better to compensate. When combined with the new appreciation for life and the complete lack of fear death held over you after Thangorodrim you became one of the best.

Now you stare at your right hand, returned just as it was in years before the sun. Entirely free of any scar or indication that it had once been left hanging from a chain atop a mountain. Despite this you have not used it much. Aside from one experiment with a bow early on in Thedas, you have been content to leave it unattended.

Today that changes. Before you sits a number of objects that you believe will help you in regaining full use of your right hand. The war bow the Dalish had granted you, short for your height, but that is likely fortunate considering the greater average strength of men compared to the quendi.

Then there is the shield, it is smaller than typical for your people. The thicker plate armour common in this land has resulted in people preferring smaller shields. A foolish choice in your opinion, but as you are borrowing the shield of another you will not complain too much right now.

There is of course the sword at your side but there is one other, somewhat strange, option. It is a strange device of wood and cord that somewhat resembles a bow. Apparently, according to the elf who lent it to you, you pull back the string and the wood opposes you. It is used to strengthen weakened muscles in injured hands.

You are not sure how to feel about the fact that apparently the entirety of Endataurëo believes there is something wrong with your right hand.

The reputation you are apparently building within your own hall aside, you have work to do. In order to improve, you must understand what the problem is and how great it is.

The first step in doing so, is to draw your sword and attempt some drills. The problems start revealing themselves immediately, in many cases confirming things you already know. You have to spend too much time thinking when using a blade right handed. You must consider how you stand, the angles of attack, even your reach to a certain extent.

That is not to say your right arm is shorter, merely that standing with your right arm towards the target and left back, things that you consider close are now further away and vice versa. Naturally this is not a universal rule, but that makes it harder to account for.

Then trying out the various other items you find further problems. While your hand is hardly crippled, it is definitely less ready for stress than your left. This might be due to your lack of use of it or perhaps some kind of lingering phantom ache, either way it is certainly more prone to sudden pangs of pain when weight is placed upon it.

Due to this, it is actually marginally easier to shoot right handed than left. Partly because there is no difference in skill since you could hardly draw a bow with only one hand. Primarily it is that your left arm is much steadier than the right, which makes aiming easier.

Drawing your bow does also highlight another flaw with your right hand at least when it comes to the sword and shield. It simply has not had that instinctive movement trained into it to the same degree as the left. This is an eminently fixable problem, but it is a problem.

There is however good news. Most of these problems are fundamentally due to a lack of practice, of skill. Even as you are experimenting, you feel it becoming surer and swifter. The talent of your family lending itself well to fixing the troubles. In fact, the largest hurdle will simply be remembering that you can use your hand, which will remedy itself as you use it more often.

The only question is how you intend to practice.

You tilt your head back up to the sky and sigh heavily. The principle of doing things the correct way every time, no matter how tempting it is to cut corners has served you well. However, you are not looking forward to starting from the very beginning for the third time in your life.

It is not so much the effort you begrudge, but you will not be learning anything new. Instead, you will be going over what you already know again and again in order to ingrain the movements into your body once more. It is likely, all but certain in fact, to be tedious.

Despite your internal complaining, you draw your sword and wander towards a part of the courtyard where few people go. Given that it is a relatively bare piece of ground out of the way of any major walkways it suits your purposes well.

Your sword whistles through the air as you begin the most basic of the drills you know. With aching slowness and complete focus on completing them without flaw, minutes seem to stretch into hours. Dear Tulkas this is boring.

The bright morning sun beats down from above and the gentle sounds of leaves rustling in the wind fills the courtyard. Birds chirp and insects buzz. It has barely even been five minutes and you already wish someone would interrupt you just so you have an excuse not to do this.

Unfortunately, well fortunately really as you do not want to do this again later, nobody interrupts you. The only accompaniment to your lonely practice is the sound of birds and insects.

Idly, you muse on the differences to the first time you had to relearn the blade. Partly it is the absence of your brothers, who were all eager to do what they could to aid you, in their own ways…

"Surprise attack!" Turko roars, suddenly swinging a stick at you out of nowhere.

Some more helpfully than others.

That obvious (and relieving) difference is not quite as all-encompassing as one might think. For all that your brothers wanted to help you, there was still a war on, and none of you have ever really been able to spend too long in one another's company without breaks. So even after Thangorodrim, you had spent many a long hour in company with none but the birds and insects.

Ah, it looks as though you have mastered the first drill. Only another hundred or so to go.

No, you muse to yourself as your sword whistles in a new pattern, the key difference is you. When you had returned from Thangorodrim you had burned with a new fire. The burning desire to live that your narrow brush with death granted you, the fury at Morgoth for all he had done.

The Oath that hung like a chain on your heart.

Third drill time.

Now, well, you had not lied to Lanaya. You are tired, tired in a way you do not know how to vocalise. There is no delight in the song of your blade, no fierce pride in clawing back what was taken from you. No triumph to be found in surpassing your limits. Only the repetitive motions that you desperately, secretly, hoped to never need again.

You are so very tired of war.

Sixth drill.

Sometimes, well at this moment anyway, you wonder why you even try. Why do you fight still, why not just let others take up the burden? You have fought your war, and you failed, why risk bringing a curse down on others?

Tenth drill.

Well, duty, obviously. You have sworn to aid at least one individual in this land, and you know better than to believe that it is possible to slip past the Dark Lord. He will not rest until all creation kneels before him or lies broken in the dust.

Your next blow comes a little harder than the previous, making a harsh sound.

Twentieth.

You had hidden when Angband had fallen. You had not done anything until the battle was over, and even then it had been a futile, desperate and evil act. Your Oath is ended, if not fulfilled (or so you hope) but one factor still remain unaddressed.

Fifty.

Fingon.

Sixty.

Father.

Seventy.

Turgon, Fingolfin, Finrod, Finwë.

Eighty.

The bodies of house Finwë lie slain on countless battlefields. Who avenged them? Whose blades brought ruin upon their killer? Not yours. Not your family's. Perhaps not even Finarfin. The Dark Lord and you have unfinished business.

The sword with no name slashes through the air with a sound of finality.

One hundred.

You stand, chest rising and falling steadily. Hours have slipped past, almost beneath your notice. Frankly, your hand is returning to full strength quickly. At this point, all you need to do is put down the sword and do something else to restore it to full functionality.

Alternatively, you could continue your practice another day, to truly embrace your dominant hand once more to become equally deadly with either. Childish fantasies of fighting with two swords are quickly discarded for more realistic thoughts of being able to fight even if injured, or being ready should you ever need to lose a hand again.

Yet, you do neither of these things. There is something here, some elusive feeling that you believe can be used to stretch yourself further, to do yet more. To stop now would be to lose that feeling, perhaps never for it to return.

One hundred and one.

It is not exactly rage, though that is clearly a component. You are very familiar with rage, one might even say it is your family's signature flaw (though in truth that was more House Ñolofinwë's flaw, while yours was typically pride). This sensation lacked the blinding lack of control that came with rage.

One hundred and ten.

It also was not the product of your oath, or perhaps not directly. It was not so choking, nor so agonising as the Oath when denied. Yet something about it was similar, something drew the comparison. Though you are not sure what.

One hundred and twenty.

You hunt down the nagging sense of familiarity. Is it a compulsion, such as those that humans sometimes suffer? No, not truly, it does not urge you to action in the same way. Perhaps it is of similar nature, perhaps a legacy of whatever, or whoever, restored your body? If so then it is doing a poor job of it, as it once again does not seem to compel your actions in any fashion.

One hundred and thirty.

No, it is not the nature, nor any sense of compulsion. The more you think about why it is familiar, you begin to wonder if it bears any similarity to the oath at all. The more you inspect your memories since arriving the more you begin to notice this feeling snaking throughout them.

One hundred and forty.

That must be why it reminds you of the oath. This feeling has been rather omnipresent, even when you did not notice it. Much as the Oath could be put aside for a time but would still be there in the back of your mind.

One hundred and sixty.

Yet, what is this feeling? It is not rage, nor pride, it is most certainly not joy. It bears no resemblance to the black despair that characterised your final moments. If you had to describe it as anything, you would likely call it determination but that is not quite right either.

One hundred and eighty.

That is not what it is, obviously. There are elements of determination, elements of rage and something else. It is also not quite so, choking as the emotions you compare it to. There is something about it that feels right or natural. Though again, both rage and determination are perfectly natural however harmful they can be.

Two hundred.

You are pulled from your thoughts by a throbbing pain in your arm. Looking at yourself you note the shakes that are running up the limb, the way your sword tip wobbles. From shoulder to finger your right arm is completely encompassed by pain.

Gingerly you shift your sword to your other hand and sheathe it. You think you will need to leave the training here for a while. You are however confident that you can recapture that feeling and put it to good use.

Or at least find out what it is.

Miracle Healing

As your practice is winding down, you notice Xandar hovering nearby. Despite looking towards him and generally waiting for him to speak he does not approach you.

Eventually you grow impatient and call out, "Xandar, do you wish to speak to me?"

The human starts, as though jolted from deep thought, but he nods his head rapidly and starts to approach you. You feel somewhat ashamed, since it seems that he was merely lost in thought. That shame quickly evaporates when he remains silent after reaching you.

"Xandar, what did you wish to speak to me about?" You ask leadingly.

"Oh, right, sorry teacher." Xandar starts again. "Sorry, it's just, it's bothering me you know."

"I am afraid I do not." You reply. "It is not my habit to invade the minds of others uninvited. If you wish me to understand your thoughts, you will need to speak them."

Xandar's eyes widen. "Of course, sorry teacher. I know you're really busy and I don't want to take up too much of your time…"

You raise your hand, ending Xandar's ramble before it can begin. "Xandar. I swore to aid you. If you need my aid, it is yours. Even if it is not of vital importance, I am still willing to make time for you. You are correct, I have been busy lately, but that does not mean that I will not listen to you."

Xandar looks at you in surprise then his whole body relaxes. "Right, sorry Teacher, that was pretty stupid of me."

"Hardly." You rebut gently. "It is understandable if you felt neglected or overlooked, I have been busy and there are only so many hours in a day. Come, say what you wished to say, I am listening."

Xandar looks up at you again, then shakes himself. He grins widely and makes one of his bizarre gestures.

"Yes Teacher!" He exclaims. "So, you know how usually Merrill and I take care of most injuries."

"I am aware, and grateful." You reply.

Xandar's smile falters, and slowly fails. "She wasn't here this time. And I, I tried, but I wasn't good enough. We had herbs and stuff, but if the Dalish hadn't been there, I wouldn't have been able to do enough. And even with them, people still died."

You hesitate, unsure of what to do. After a few seconds pause, which is already too long, you settle for resting a hand upon his shoulder. Internally you wonder if an embrace may have been more appropriate, but the people of this land are reticent about such things, and you should do what will help Xandar.

"It was war child." You tell him gently. "None of us, not you, not I, not even the mighty Tulkas, can prevent all collateral and loss. You did all that you could and saved many lives. Remind yourself of all those you succeeded at helping and dwell not on those you could not save."

Xandar's eyes well up with tears, and he lunges forward. Arms wrap around you in a fierce embrace. As you return the gesture, you smile ruefully. It seems you were foolish to second guess yourself.

After only a minute or so, the young man separates himself from you, wiping at his eyes. "I'll do my best teacher, but that's not really what I wanted to talk about. If I'd been better, as good as Merrill then I could absolutely have saved more. I've been focusing on other things that aren't magic or healing, but I think it's time I improved."

As you listen, your thoughts turn the matter over. It is certainly true that Xandar's skill could still climb to greater heights, but he is still one man. It might be better, wiser and more beneficial for Xandar, if you created a corps of healers. He could work with them, perhaps even lead them. You even have the healers already.

You raise the possibility with him and, uncharacteristically, he hesitates.

"I, I don't know teacher." He says. "I can't discern what is wise and what is foolish. Is it better to wield magic or is it better to try and lead? I'm not a leader, but I don't have to be, and I could learn from others. But on the other hand, I have power others do not, is it really right not to use it? Please, tell me what to do!"

Xandar's plea tugs at your heart. It would be easy to answer his request, and there are even some reasonable arguments for it. However, even as you consider just answering his question, you know that is not what he needs.

There was a time when neither you, nor anyone you knew ever considered what might happen if you were gone. Such things simply did not happen to the Calaquendi. Those days are long behind you, and as a naggingly familiar sensation reminds you, you swore an oath to aid Xandar.

The time may come where, through death or simple distance, when you cannot aid the human. He will need to be ready should that time come. To do that, he must learn to seek his own path. Here the Vanyar would probably make some kind of point about the Flame Imperishable and the importance of choice. Which is not wrong, merely nowhere close to the most important factor.

"Xandar, I do not think it would be wise to make this decision for you." You answer your student at last.

"But I don't know what to choose!" Xandar exclaims.

"Do you believe this will be the last time? That you will never in your life have to choose between two roads that look equally fair?" You ask. "I cannot make the decision for you then, and it is better to learn now while the stakes are low."

"But the stakes aren't low." Xandar whines. "People could die because I couldn't save them."

"Xandar, there are a number of other people who can and will help with that. You do not need to take all the responsibility on yourself." You soothe him.

The human worries at his lip. "But how do I know what's the right decision?"

You pat the human on the back. "Do not fear, I have no plans to abandon you to this task alone. Come, have a seat, let us think about this."

Xandar nods weakly and allows you to guide him into a comfortable seat a few rooms away. When the two of you are seated, you take it upon yourself to get the conversation moving once more.

"If we are to do this, then the first question we must ask is what you wish to achieve." You begin.

Xandar frowns. "I already told you, I want to be better at healing so that we don't lose more people."

"I recall, however if we are doing this, we must begin at the beginning so as not to lose ourselves in a maze of our own thoughts." You explain. "Now that we have reestablished what we seek to achieve, how can this best be done."

"That's what I don't know how to do." Xandar says.

"Then let us walk through it step by step. Firstly, what are your options?" You ask.

"Didn't we go over this?" Xandar asks.

"Once again, we are starting from the beginning so as to not lose our way." You remind him. "Come now, it should be easy since we just went over them."

"Ok. Um, there's magic, healing and making some kind of organisation?" Xandar asks more than answers.

"Those are the only ones you can think of?" You press him.

"They're the ones we talked about, teacher." He replies, clearly confused.

"True, but I do not wish to hear the options I see, I wish to know the ones you see. If there is one I have not mentioned that you think would work, I wish to hear it." You explain.

You are pleased to see that Xandar actually thinks before he shakes his head.

"Then, it is a simple matter of asking which you think would be most effective." You raise your hand before he can protest that he does not know how. "We do this by listing the advantages and disadvantages of each. These advantages should be related to you, rather than in general. So if you would find one easy to learn that is an advantage. While if another requires a lifetime to learn, that is a non-option even if it is theoretically the best."

"Ok. Ok I can do this. Um, well, I'm not good at talking to people. So I probably shouldn't get involved at people stuff." Xandar begins.

You say nothing, though you believe that the experience could be good to get Xandar to develop his skills. It would also expose him to potential friends and allies. This is his decision to make, so you say nothing.

"I could do the regular healing, that doesn't tire me out so I could heal more people." Xandar looks up at you, then back down at his hands. "But magic can heal worse wounds and is what I'm good at. So magic?"

You wait until he looks up at you before replying, "Are you asking me, or telling me?"

Xandar pauses, takes several deep breaths and says. "I want to learn more healing magic, teacher."

"Excellent. Who shall be your teacher?" You ask.

Xandar chews his lip in thought. "Well, you don't really know magic, so I don't think you could teach me."

He looks at you like he is expecting you to correct him.

"There are things I could teach you that would aid you in learning magic, or at least I believe so." You reply, causing him to perk up. "However, none of them would be magic itself. It would instead be more of what I have taught you in the past, an understanding of the underlying principles that you could then apply to other lessons."

"Oh." Xandar replies, then shakes his head. "I mean yes, exactly. I never meant to imply otherwise teacher."

"I did not believe you were." You soothe the young man. "I was merely confirming and reminding you of what I can teach you should you wish me to do so."

Xandar nods. "Right. Right. Ok, so that leaves Merrill or that Circle girl."

"Lilian." You supply.

"Right Lilian." Xandar gestures widely. "Ok, so which one should I go with?"

You gaze at him placidly, waiting for him to recall the point of this exercise. Perhaps it is cruel not to remind him, but the whole purpose of the exercise is to help him grow accustomed to making his own decisions.

Eventually he remembers. "Oh, right. Um, ok. So I guess, Merrill's a really good teacher and I know her pretty well so I should go with her?"

"Was that a question or your decision?" You ask.

"Uh, a question I guess. I just don't know why I would go with Lilian over Merrill." Xandar admits.

You shrug. "Well, she is trained in the human magic tradition, and is much less likely to be bound to secrecy then Merrill is. Further, she does not have any tasks here and is likely more accessible. It would be a risk, as you know nothing about her, but it may be a beneficial one."

"Oh, so you think I should go with her then?" Xandar asks.

"I think no such thing. I merely provided the advantages that you were not seeing so you could make an informed decision. It is something friends do for each other. The choice ultimately remains yours." You explain calmly.

Xandar pauses once more, visibly thinking. Frankly, you think both options are equally viable. Merrill is likely the better, more inventive mage, but Lilian is more available. Each have their advantages.

Of course you say none of this and Xandar at last says, "Lilian. I'll just try once and see how it goes."

You nod. "A wise decision. Come, I shall reintroduce you."

Lilian is, unsurprisingly, with Brandon. The two are sitting underneath a tree talking.

"Forgive me for interrupting." You say, startling the pair out of their conversation. "However, Xandar was hoping to learn something of how the Circle trains its mages, and you are the only Circle mage available. Could we prevail upon you to take some time to teach him."

Lilian blushes furiously. "Well, I'd be happy to in principle. It's the least I can do for how you've helped us, but couldn't this have waited? We were kind of in the middle of something."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "Lilian, if I were to wait until such a time as you and your paramour were not 'in the middle of something' I would be waiting until the end of your natural life."

The pair flush further at that and Lilian agrees to do a quick lesson at that very moment.

You are not exactly an expert on magic. Though you understand a great deal more of what is being said on the matter, the fact remains that you will never feel magic flow through you. Discussing visualisation is something well within your comprehension, but the final step of actualisation is something you cannot achieve.

At least not without radically changing the methodology to the point where it becomes useless for the task of understanding Thedas' magic.

Despite this unfortunate and inevitable hole in your understanding, you are something of an expert on people. As such, you can judge the lesson from the expressions on the teacher and student. Overall, the lesson is nothing special. It is a perfectly average class on the subject, which had been given a hundred times before and would be given as many again.

Xandar learns something but it is hardly a magical solution.

You think being asked to leave because you were laughing at your own pun was rude though.