“A minute of your time, boy.”

Judeau paused in his preparations for the departure and looked up at the rugged old Healer, who calmly gestured at him to follow. Curious, he let Shammael lead the way into the small cabin, away from the others.

“What is it?”

The Healer didn’t answer right away, busying himself with the various objects on his little table. When he turned around, he was holding up a small leather pouch.

“Here,” he said, “I want you to have this.”

Judeau reproachfully lifted his hands up in front of himself.

“Shammael, please… you really don’t have to give me anything more – I swear I’m not holding a grudge…”

“Shut up.” The old man sent him a seriously meant glare and waved the pouch around a little to emphasise his point: “Were you planning on going off on this crazy quest, with those crazy people, without bringing any medicine whatsoever?” He huffed. “In that case you might as well stop packing right now and start hammering on your coffin. As a Healer, I can’t let you do that: You'll take this with you.”

Shammael tossed the pouch at Judeau, who easily caught it.

“Medicine?”

The weight and feel of the pouch in his hand felt surprisingly familiar. Judeau hesitated, trying to figure out where this small stirring of memory was coming from.

“Yes,” the Healer replied. “Of course, I had to use most of it in the healing potions and poultices I gave you… and the others. But there’s still enough in there to keep you alive for a good long time, if you’ll just have the sense to use it properly…”

Listening with only half an ear, the blond scout curiously opened the pouch and glanced inside - and recognition hit him with an immediacy that sucked the bottom right out of his stomach. The rich green colour, the light, powdery substance, along with the oddly whimsical scent that playfully rose to his nostrils, brought a surprised smile to his face.

"Fairy dust!" He looked from the pouch to the old Healer, smiling in pure, childish excitement. "It's fairy dust!"

The Healer fell silent and cocked his head to the side.

“So you know about it, then?”

“Yes. I used to have a pouch of it, just like this one… Saved my life - I don't know how many times...”

Judeau stuck his finger into the fine dust and the familiar, faintly warm and almost tingling sensation against his fingertip filled him with a surprisingly strong and pleasant sense of nostalgia. Finding something so familiar so very far away from home was bringing him way back - further, even, than the last time he had owned a pouch like this. Back to a time before demons, commanders and mercenaries, before commitments and complications, when this faint scent and warmly tickling touch had been accompanied by the subtle flutter of gossamer wings and the bright sound of childish, excited laughter. When a game of 'Catch Me If You Can' had still been the ultimate thrill and a skilfully executed prank had been the epitome of good humour.

Yes, he'd sure had the perfect partner in mischief, back then... and the perfect confidant when he'd been discovered and reprimanded. Those punishments had never stung for long...

Memories of happier and infinitely more carefree days rose from deep, forgotten corners of his mind and presented themselves with unexpected clarity. Even the bittersweet memory of the day he’d left childhood behind to become a mercenary made him have to stifle a giggle. A small voice, bright even with the badly concealed tears therein, scolded him haughtily from across the years:

“Now, don’t get killed out there, y’hear?! You can’t count on me anymore, if you’re so intent on leaving, remember that! From now on, you’re actually going to have to be careful!”

“Huh,” Shammael grunted, interrupting Judeau's happy trip down memory lane. “Well, good, then you know how to use it.”

Judeau nodded with a wide grin on his face.

“Yeah, I sure do. Thank you, Shammael, this will definitely come in handy. Thank you very much.” He closed the pouch and gave it a playful toss into the air, catching it easily. As he tied the pouch to his belt he returned somewhat to the present, and gave Shammael a slightly uncertain glance.

“Uh... You can replace this, can’t you?”

The Healer waved dismissively. “Oh yeah. I just have to hang out some chimes and streamers, and every fairy in this forest will be fluttering hither. Er… that is… when I’m…”

Shammael trailed off, uncertainly clearing his throat and suddenly looking everywhere except at the blond young man in front of him. Judeau understood, and his smile finally faded away as more or less warranted feelings of guilt pressed it from his face. His branded hand almost subconsciously closed into a fist.

When I’m not here anymore, so that your aura will work again.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, trying to think of a good way to change the subject and keep the mood light. “I, uh, understand that the others have been pestering you a bit about coming along…”

A shadow of weariness passed over the old Healer’s face and he heaved a small sigh.

“Ahh, they just don’t understand. I’ve told them that I can’t but…” He shrugged and scratched his neck thoughtfully. “The girl kind of gets it, but I can tell that she still can’t really... accept… Well, she’s a clever and very practical-minded girl. I think it's just easier for her not to understand that it’s precisely because you’re really going to need me that I can’t come along.”

Judeau smiled a little lopsidedly and nodded. "Yeah... I guess so."

Shammael made a weird snorting sound and looked up at Judeau with a sparkle of humour in his grey-blue eyes.

"Pheh, like you understand it so much better."

Judeau couldn't keep himself from grinning apologetically. "Shammael, I-"

The Healer cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand and turned away with a rather light-hearted huff.

"Ahh, how could you, anyway? You’re not a Healer, and neither are they. I can't understand how you can... live the way you do, so why would it be any easier for you to see why I can't?" He shrugged and tossed Judeau a dismissive wave over his shoulder.

"Get out, boy. I'm done with you. Go finish your packing before the other maniacs grow impatient and... I don't know... start chewing on things or something."

Judeau's smile returned in full, and with a light shake of his head, he left the old man to his own business.

Yeah, I'll miss you too.

He paused briefly in the doorway.

"Thank you, Shammael."

"Yeah, yeah."

~
When the sun had risen almost half way up into the clear morning sky, the odd team of warriors departed from the Healer's little cabin.

Shammael shook hands with each of them and accepted their various expressions of gratitude once more, and then watched them until they were no longer distinguishable between the trees. Judeau turned back three times to wave, and the third time Shammael threw a pinecone after the blond boy. The resulting, distant laughter brought a grin to the old man's wrinkled face, and as he turned back to the house he gave Paw's shaggy head a brief scratch.

"You know," he murmured to the grey wolf hybrid, "Laughter really is the antidote to pain."

Paw rose and quietly followed his master back to the house, stopping only briefly to glance over at the confused Tail, who was pacing uncertainly back and forth in the direction the party had disappeared, whining and whimpering to himself. Paw gave the brown dog a silent huff, but didn't wait for him to make up his mind.

As the door slid shut behind his bushy tail, Paw sat back on his haunches and begun staring intently at the quietly humming Healer. Shammael's smile slowly withered away under the intense, yellow-eyed scrutiny, despite his best efforts to ignore it by taking inventory of his remaining herbs and drugs. Finally, he forcefully set one of the small wooden boxes down on the table and met Paw's eyes with an annoyed glare.

"What?!"

Paw tilted his head slightly to the side, his gaze never wavering.

"Told who? About what?" Shammael huffed and turned back to his herbs. "Tail? He'll get over it, he's a very ordinary dog. In half an hour, he won't even remember that they were ever here."

Paw's ears flicked backwards. Shammael threw a quick glance down at the dog, and then sighed heavily.

"I wouldn't know where to start, all right? They were all such strange people... and it's not always necessary to know everything about everybody - that can cause more trouble than it'd prevent, you know."

Paw huffed, lowering his muzzle a little as if to stare up at the Healer through his brows. Shammael abruptly straightened up and sent a very serious glare down at the wolf hybrid.

"Yeah, well, so what? I'm a Healer, just what do you think you can expect from me? Sure I take the easy way out sometimes, but it's not like they won't be able to handle any of it, or to protect themselves if necessary. I mean..." He started pacing back and forth and articulated his points with wide gestures, Paw following his every move with calm, yellow eyes. "...The elf can handle himself. He must have been doing that for a really long time already, and, well, he's an elf, so there's nothing I can do for him anyway. Nothing. And he knows that. And whatever that is inside the girl, it's dormant. If it hasn't caused any trouble for her yet, why would it ever? And if it has, she wouldn't be any happier if I told all of her comrades that there's some kind of... of... frighteningly... malicious energy... sort of... inside the energies of her spirit. I mean, she likes her team mates, I can tell. She wouldn't want to hurt them. If it was anything she couldn't handle, and she knows about it, I really don't think she would stick around and endanger them."

Paw tilted his head to the side again. Shammael stopped and defiantly crossed his arms over his chest.

"But if she doesn't, then what's to say she ever will find out about it? What if it never 'wakes up' and I've alienated all her friends and made her worry for herself constantly, for the rest of her life, for no reason at all? No, I'm not doing that!"

Paw huffed and lay down, finally breaking eye-contact.

"Shut up," Shammael grunted sourly, self-consciously twiddling with the leather straps of one of his herb-bags. Silence prevailed for a little while, and then the Healer muttered, seemingly to himself:

"’Sides, I think she knows. It’s basically behaving like a Birthright, so I think it is… since she had one but really didn’t want to talk about it, and all... And for that matter, I could have told them about Judeau, too. He's not properly normal, either - and I'm not talking about that rune."

Paw's ears perked up in curiosity and he opened his eyes. Shammael was quiet for a while longer, and when he spoke again an uncertain hush had crept into his voice.

"His wounds were wide open. Wide open. When I found him, he should have been lying in a pool of blood - if not bled out completely. Yet... he didn't start bleeding until I picked him up. I even healed him before that, and I felt... I felt nothing. Nothing was keeping the blood from flowing out of him. Nothing at all." He paused and shifted uncomfortably.

"I don't know what that means."

Then he sent a glare over at where Paw laid and growled decisively, "But it sure ain't normal! Hmpf, trust me, whatever weird thing happens to those people, they are weird enough themselves to handle it."

Paw met his master's gaze for a moment and his tail bounced a few times against the floor. Another brief silence filled the little cabin, interrupted only by the subtle rustling of dried herbs.

"It was nice having them here, though," Shammael murmured after a while. "Even those damn stubborn dwarves. If more people had their resistance to damage, my life would be a whole lot easier." A small, self-conscious smile settled on his lips with a weary sigh. "And a lot harder, too. And Judeau and the girl were very easy to like. They laughed a lot."

This time, the silence was very thoughtful. Paw watched the Healer almost pensively, but still without lifting his shaggy head from the floor.

"You know," Shammael finally mused out loud, "I think it'll work out just fine to have an apprentice this year. Yeah. I can't see why not. In fact, I'm going to start looking for one tomorrow, I think."

Paw's head abruptly rose and a small sound of surprise escaped his throat. Then, his jaws slowly opened and his tongue lolled out in a canine grin, his tail beginning to thump a quick rhythm against the floor. Shammael sent the dog another annoyed, sideways glance and sniffed.

"Oh, shut up."

*
Some days later and a long way from the little cabin, in that vaguely undecided zone where the dark, heavy forest slowly fades into the wide, open Ducarri plains, the dying embers of a small cooking fire struggled vainly to keep some warmth in little cauldron above them. In front of said campfire, the bowl and spoon in her hands as forgotten as the makeshift hearth, sat Samina. With dry mouth and fluttering heartbeats, she followed every move of Judeau and Steelwing as they danced around each other on the top of the small rise in the clearing, swords blazing and flickering in the rays of the early morning sun that just rose over the hill, providing the scene with a dramatic backlight.

It was beautiful. To someone as used to swordplay as Samina was, the spectacle on the hill was a display of pure, moving poetry. Sure, Judeau was plainly no match for Steelwing, but not in any way unskilled: Though the Crusader easily evaded every attack and seemed to be effortlessly leading the blond human around each blow, Samina knew her elven companion well enough to tell that he was not holding back, nor playing around. The speed alone at which the combatants exchanged blows was a testament to how impressive their abilities were - as well as a hint at a rising frustration in Judeau.

And despite the early-morning autumn chill, both men had discarded their shirts by now - effectively making the scene just that much more interesting.

Then, unexpectedly, a deep, melodious baritone spoke up right behind Samina and she snapped upright with a suddenness that sent her bowl tumbling to the ground, spilling out all the cool porridge in it:

"What in Vontar's name is this?!"

"Oh, Thirgynn." pressing a hand against her chest, Samina turned and gave the miracle-worker a quick, breathless smile. "You surprised me."

The dwarf looked from the spilt mush to the bounty-hunter and raised one chalk-white eyebrow at her.

"Apparently. Now, that doesn't happen very often, Samina. I ask you again: what by the Anvil of Durgin is going on up there?"

A sudden, sharp clang of steel brought Samina's attention back to the two men on the hill. Judeau was at the point of one of Steelwing's blades, holding only one of his own swords in his hand. As Samina and Thirgynn watched, the other of the blond man's scimitars landed impotently on the ground several arms' lengths away from the two combatants.

After a very brief but remarkably tense silence, Steelwing quietly, calmly spoke up:

"Interesting technique, Mr Judeau. Would you care to demonstrate that again, just a little faster this time?"

"Sure," Judeau panted, his voice noticeably strained. "Just give me a sec."

As the blond man stepped back and turned around, Steelwing withdrew his blade – and Samina felt a stubby finger somewhat impatiently poke her shoulder. She turned back to the dwarven miracle-worker with an apologetic grin.

"Ah, I'm sorry, Thirgynn. They're just sparring, that's all."

"Sparring?" The dwarf cast an incredulous glance up at the hill. "That's sparring, is it? Seems more like a duel to me. The way two dwarves would spar, in fact." He frowned and scratched the thick, chalk-white stubble on his chin. "I am surprised."

"Me too. Judeau had just got out of bed and was about to have some breakfast, when Steelwing just walks over and says: 'You use twin blades. Spar with me.' You know how he gets, sometimes... he had that look in his eyes, so Judeau just went along."

"I see." Studying the elven Crusader with true dwarven suspicion, Thirgynn crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. "I wonder what he's up to."

"I don't know," Samina mumbled, turning back to watch Judeau resume his position in front of Steelwing. "But I tell you... It's well worth watching. A real display of skill."

After a very brief pause, the miracle-worker gave a strange little snort. "Pheh, it's just because you're watching."

Samina turned to Thirgynn in honest surprise. "What?"

The dwarf shrugged, not trying very hard to hide his amusement.

"It is a well-proven fact that males will try extra hard when a female is present - especially in combat situations."

Samina gave Thirgynn an amused snort as the stout miracle-worker sat down beside her. Throwing an annoyed glance at the neglected campfire, the dwarf muttered a quick incantation that instantly made steam rise from the porridge in the cauldron. Reaching for a bowl, Thirgynn then hesitated for an instant. "Except for dwarves," he added with a thoughtful frown. "We always try our hardest."

~
Judeau had gone from being mildly perplexed at first, to confused, to frustrated, to seriously annoyed, and was now teetering dangerously on the brink of anger.

He held the grey, unreadable gaze of the elven Crusader firmly, resolved not to lose patience and be the first to attack, this time.

Besides, if I am to do that trick again, I need him to attempt an attack first.

Damnit! He's playing with me, I know he is! But why?

Steelwing's grey, hard eyes bore unblinking into Judeau's, and for a flash of an instant, it appeared to the scout as though their colour shifted into a very deep and penetrating blue. The seething anger in Judeau's heart bloomed alarmingly, but he still stubbornly refused to make the first move - though he could feel his eyebrows knit together and his jaw clench.

What is it that you want to prove, Steelwing? That you're better than me? For god's sake, man, I've seen you fight! I know how good you are!

Why show off like this? Do you really call this sparring? Every time I try to match you, you increase... I could understand if you did this to test my skills or something, but if that's what you're doing then why won't you just tell me so?

Or are you trying to tell me something? That I'm not good enough? Is that it? Are you trying to show me just how easily I can get myself - and anyone else - killed? Well, I knew that before, thank you very much.

Do you want me to realise my limitations? Then, by all means, consider the lesson learned - though I didn’t need you to teach me that, believe it or not.

What do you hope to achieve with this? Are you gaining something? Is it just giving you some sort of ridiculous satisfaction to best someone obviously inferior to you?

He never saw it coming. One moment he was standing, body tense, jaw clenched and hands tightly gripping his swords - the next, he was staggering backwards, effectively disarmed, with such a sharp pain shooting through his arm that it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Quickly regaining his balance, Judeau clutched his injured arm tightly, fully expecting warm, sticky blood to seep out between his fingers - but as he stared back at Steelwing in astonishment and pain, he dimly realised that the Crusader had hit him with the flat side of his sword.

"Hey, what the...!" the rest of Judeau's angry outburst caught in his throat. For the first time this morning, there was a trace of emotion in the elf's cold, aristocratic features. And it wasn't triumph, or arrogance - not even a hint of smugness. If anything, the subtle frown held a mildly annoyed disappointment.

Gazing at Judeau along the length of his blade, Steelwing's frown deepened a little.

"Where was your mind just now, Mr Judeau? I could have taken your head off just as easily as your arm. In battle, you must never let your vigilance falter." He relaxed his stance with a subtle shake of his head. "Really, if that is the amount of concentration you apply in combat, it is a miracle that you have survived thus far."

Judeau blinked, feeling an uncomfortable blush strive to reach his face. He fought it off, trying not to sputter:

"Wha-? Hey, Steel- ...you..." He forced himself to pause and take a deep breath, but when he carried on, he couldn't keep his irritation at bay any longer. "This was supposed to be sparring, Steelwing! Not a real duel!"

The elf's frown took on a reprimanding air. "I know, otherwise you would have been dead many times over. But even when I hold back, I never allow myself to lose sight of the seriousness of the situation."

"What seriousness?" Judeau tried to keep his voice at a reasonable level, but it was becoming harder all the time. "What are you talking about? This is not a life-or-death situation! Steelwing, we are just. Training."

"Training for what, Mr Judeau?"

The blond man blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Training for what? For a show of swordplay, or for battles to the death?"

Judeau suddenly got the vivid and unbelievably annoying suspicion that the Crusader had a very valid point in there somewhere, but he was much too agitated to admit that right off. He crossed his arms impatiently over his chest and raised one eyebrow at the tall elf, quietly fuming but ready to listen.

Steelwing nodded, almost imperceptibly, and continued:

"How can one prepare and train for a life like ours, Mr Judeau, if one does not treat every combat situation with the outmost seriousness? How can we be prepared to fight for our lives if we do not intend to do just that, every time we draw a sword?" His eyes hardened raptor-like, and he raised his swords again. "Don't fight like you want to test your techniques. Fight like you intend to kill me."

Judeau let out a huff and turned away from the Crusader, picking his swords up from the ground.

"Are you crazy, Steelwing?" He faced the elf again, demonstratively holding one scimitar up in front of himself. "These are sharp blades! If we fight with the intention to kill each other, we will!"

"Certainly not, Mr Judeau," Steelwing said with almost bored confidence, as if explaining something painfully obvious to a petulant child. "I have full confidence in my ability to hold back, and you are not skilful enough to defeat me."

The brazen truth in that statement really stung. So much so that Judeau forgot to think before he spoke, quietly and with more venom than he could reasonably be proud of:

"Oh, really? Maybe you're being just a little bit too sure of yourself, Mr Steelwing."

The elf gave another barely perceptible nod. "That's the right attitude, Mr Judeau. Come at me."

In a flash of hesitation, the scout got a brief but intense suspicion that he had been baited - and swallowed it hook, line and sinker.

All right. Okay. Fine. If that's what you want, that's what you'll get. No holds barred.

"No," he said quietly, assuming his guard. "You come at me."

He got no warning before Steelwing launched at him, but managed to parry and turn the attack. Their exchange of blows waged back and forth for a moment longer, as Judeau struggled to show the Crusader just how much he'd been holding back before - And he felt as though he was finally putting some pressure on Steelwing, right up until...

Swish - Clang!

It was over before he knew it, and he found himself stumbling past the elf with empty, smarting hands once again.

He quickly turned around, fighting the childish urge to amend his wounded pride by simply walking up to the Crusader and laying him out flat with one well-placed fist. Besides, with the way things had been going so far, the one who would most likely end up sprawled out on the ground if he tried that would be him.

Steelwing, seeming blissfully oblivious to the dark, seething cloud of aggression that surrounded the scout, was nonchalantly sheathing his swords.

"Tell me, Mr Judeau," he asked briskly, "Have you ever had any proper swordsmanship training?"

On the very verge of explosion, Judeau didn't even try to keep his voice light anymore.

"And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" he growled.

Steelwing calmly looked back at him.

"Have you ever received training from a true Swords' Master?"

Not placated, but temporarily put off, Judeau gave the Crusader a suspicious glare while surreptitiously rubbing his sore palms against each other.

"Depends," he muttered. "I don't know if he would qualify as a 'Swords' Master' to you, but the man who taught me to fight with two swords sure knew his way around blades. He performed with them in the travelling troupe I grew up in, with a precision that I’ve seen very few people match, ever. And before you say anything about how different it is to be performing with blades and to fight with them," Judeau aggressively added, "The roads we travelled were not exactly safe. There was a war going on and it had been doing so for about a hundred years, so there were always some kind of waylay men - deserters, stray mercenaries, desperate villagers or common bandits - who wanted to part you from your valuables and/or your life. We all had to know how to fight. And Hakeem saved our lives many times over. He more than proved his value in combat."

Steelwing seemed to consider this for a moment, and then nodded agreeably.

"I see. So, how long did you study for this man?"

"'Till I was about thirteen." Judeau turned his back at the Crusader and went to pick up his swords again. "Then I joined the Hawks, where I got more combat training and a lot of practical experience." How's that, huh? Good enough for you?

Steelwing's voice, dispassionate as always, froze him in his tracks:

"I will take that as a 'no', then."

Judeau froze and slowly turned around, blinking at the tall elf. His voice sounded surprisingly soft to his own ears:

"...What?"

Steelwing gave him another subtly reprimanding look.

"Well, even if this 'Hakeem' was a real Swords' Master, you could not have had the maturity - physical or mental - to fully benefit from his teachings at that age. Also, though there is a lot to be said for experience, it is not the same as being advised by an experienced teacher." He made a soft, almost snorting noise. “And combat training in an army of mercenaries? Really… I admit I don’t know how things were done in your world, but here, that is not very impressive: The swords for hire usually only care to teach their men how to swing a sword without cutting their own heads off. That is hardly true swordsmanship.”

Judeau stood perfectly still for a moment - he was smart enough not to make a complete fool of himself by trying to say something smart and sensible when he couldn't even manage a coherent thought. He pinched the bridge of his nose, let out a quiet puff of air and resolutely poured a proverbial bucket of cold composure over his inner turbulence.

"Alright, Steelwing," he said, calmly looking up at the tall elf. "I know I am not the best swordsman in the world. What are you getting at? What are you trying to say?"

Steelwing raised one eyebrow and held Judeau's eyes for a while in a silence that seemed more contemplative than anything else.

"I suppose," he said quietly, not a hint of emotion or intention in his features, "That I am trying to say that you could be much better than this."

Judeau calmly pushed his bangs away from his wet forehead, then he crossed his arms over his chest and raised a sardonic eyebrow right back at the Crusader.

"Really? And I suppose you’d teach me, then?"

"I would be honoured to."

Judeau paused, and blinked.

"Hnh...?"

The elf crossed the distance between them with a stride that was only an attitude away from being a saunter, and gave Judeau a direct, steel-grey look.

"Do you admit that my skill is greater than yours?"

The smouldering resentment threatened to flare up inside Judeau again, but he resolutely smothered it and met Steelwing's eyes without falter.

"I'd be a fool if I didn't," he muttered, "Wouldn't I?"

Steelwing nodded calmly. "Indeed." He paused for a moment as if waiting to see Judeau's reaction. The scout just raised his eyebrows in a gesture for the Crusader to go on, and Steelwing gave another subtle nod, stepping a little bit closer.

"However, Mr Judeau, that is precisely why you will not win. Indeed, you are good. Impressively skilled, in fact - and even more so, considering the training you have received. You have an excellent grip on the basics and you know many high-skilled and unexpected techniques... some of which I think you have taught to yourself. Am I right?"

Judeau nodded cautiously, trying to figure out where Steelwing was going here. The Crusader carried on, never taking his piercing silver eyes off of Judeau's:

"You have the skill, the experience and the ability to improvise necessary to defeat an opponent like me. The only thing that is keeping you from doing so is your attitude. A true Sword's Master must know and master the techniques of the mind as well as those of the sword. To a select few, these techniques come naturally. Others, like myself - and you - can be taught them. You can become a Sword's Master, Mr Judeau. Let me teach you."

Judeau knew that the expression on his face must have looked pretty funny right then, but the sincere seriousness in Steelwing's features did not falter for an instant. Stalling for time, Judeau carefully wiped the sweat off his brow.

"So... you're saying you'll teach me to fight like you... what, out of the goodness of your heart?" He frowned at the Crusader, but this time more uncertainly than angry. "I don't get it. What's in it for you?"

Steelwing’s eyebrows dipped downwards. “A companion whose skill I can not only trust, but rely on,” he said. “Not to mention that it is the code of the Crusader to not only be a good example to those around him, but to help them improve themselves whenever possible, as well - especially those who accompany him on his quest.” He paused for a moment, nodding back towards the campfire. “I have taught Samina what I could, and she will surely agree with me that she is a better warrior for it.”

The scar-faced woman huffed from over by the campfire, but it was with a smile that she jabbed her spoon in the general direction of the tall elf, who had not turned to look at her.

“Yeah, sure, but it's not like I was crap before, mind you!”

Steelwing sent a glance over his shoulder at Samina.

“Certainly not. I readily admit that I admire the skill with which you can handle such a clumsy and unwieldy weapon as a mace - I would not do so well with it. But for that very reason-” he continued, returning his attention to Judeau, “-I could not teach her as much as I can you. Fighting with double blades is my forte.” The tall Crusader calmly crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you say?"

Judeau dazedly scratched the back of his neck, feeling almost a little uncomfortable under Steelwing’s direct, focused and above all else honest gaze. His anger had dissipated, but he wasn’t entirely sure of what he was supposed to be feeling in its place.

“I- uh…” The Crusader was good. Very good. Frighteningly good.

Something stirred in the back of his empty mind, a hint of an emotion he didn't really want to put a name on, much less have inside of himself.

But as the moment dragged out between them, with Steelwing's unblinking, unwavering, unreadable eyes boring into his, this restless stirring caused unbidden thoughts to form and surface, almost half-made:

I was so certain. It felt so obvious... I thought - I knew - that I had reached my limit. That I was as good as I would ever be.

Could I really be better? Could I possibly be as good as he's suggesting?

Impossible. I'm nowhere near that special. I know my own limits... don't I?

He focused on Steelwing again, intensely studying the sharp, confident features of the elf's face, his stance, his hard eyes. The uncomfortable feeling bloomed out in Judeau's stomach and almost made him want to cringe - but he couldn't.

He thinks so. He believes it.

If he believes it... someone like him... I always thought I did my very best... Was I...? Could I...?

Could I have been... that skilled - that strong...

...Back then...?

...Back then...

...It really could have made a difference, couldn't it?

A vivid image of dark, tear-filled eyes superimposed itself on his vision, bringing with it the faint, metallic taste of blood to his mouth. He immediately turned away, clenching his eyes shut - forcing the sharply painful memory out of his mind.

With a subtle, deep breath, he composed himself again.

"Yeah." He looked up into Steelwing's silver eyes again, feeling strangely subdued, but resolute. "Yes. Teach me what you can. Please." Then he managed a concealing and pretty genuine grin and gave the Crusader a little bow with a flourish. "Master."

His reward was seeing Steelwing's left eyebrow twitch downwards in annoyance or possibly discomfort, when he straightened up again.

"There is no need for that."

Judeau snickered lightly, gazing at the Crusader along the edge of his scimitar, half-pretending to search the blade for chinks.

"So now you're humble, all of a sudden. Where did that come from?"

Steelwing gave him a brief look, then turned away and briskly walked over to where their discarded shirts lay. He returned, tossing Judeau his tunic and scabbards.

"We will begin your training this evening," the tall elf stated. "Now, we need to eat and get ready to move on."

"Right." Judeau sheathed his swords. Steelwing's voice dropped to an almost thoughtful murmur:

"In the meantime, Mr Judeau, you can consider what it is that you want out of this training."

The blond scout looked up but Steelwing had turned his back and was pulling his sleeveless undershirt over his head.

"Uh... huh." Judeau said, nurturing the nagging suspicion that - again - he should already know what the Crusader meant, but he had too often been surprised, lately, to confidently dare a guess. "Okay. Sure."

Steelwing fell in beside him as they walked down the hill, towards the camp where Samina and Thirgynn's quiet conversation had just been interrupted by Taskkarr. The demon hunter came trudging out of the tent, grouchily scratching his stubbled chin and yawning widely enough to compete with the murvelbeasts, demanding breakfast, which he got, and beer, which he didn't – since there wasn't any to be had.

Judeau was almost startled to hear Steelwing's calm, silent voice in his ear when they'd gotten half way back:

"I do not know how human Sword's Masters teach, so I must refer to the way I was taught. An elf never becomes a true fighting Sword's Master - or a Crusader - if they do not fight for a purpose."

The last word was spoken with such unexpected intensity that Judeau couldn’t help turning to stare at the elf, but Steelwing's face - even this up close - betrayed nothing. He met Judeau's eyes with impeccable blankness, one that was fully mirrored in his voice as he continued:

"Find your purpose, Mr Judeau. This is the first step."

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