Ander followed Leon through the slit between the doors and into the main courtyard. The ground, still wet from morning frost and the rare bits of dirty snow still clinging to the earth, was muddy, and stuck to their heels as they moved over it. They passed over the tent, and made their way toward the forgery. Before he entered, Leon took a moment to rub the hide of his red-dun horse, Gūllen. The beast, like the swordsman, was muscular, and of great stature. The stallion was delighted by its master’s affection, and huffed in appreciation. Ander’s chest tightened as he watched. The ease with which Leon offered affection to the creature felt like a foreign language to him. Love, after all, had long since been beaten out of him.

Leon, in all honesty, looked much alike the young Idris. Both of them had golden manes, although the elder male’s hair was longer, and had more volume. Their eyes shared a green color, but Leon’s were brighter, and could stare into your soul or straight through you, depending on what he wished. It took no great length of time for Ander to see his aspirations incarnate in Leon. Everything he had once hoped to be was standing before him. But no vision of the future resided in the younger man’s mind. His dreams had died long ago, and the luxury of greatness had perished with it.

“Who’s the fastest horse of the lot? Who's the fastest horse of the lot!” The man smiled at his horse, who was nudging the man with the side of its head. “I’ll get you some feed in a minute, Gūllen. Ander, through here.”

Leon motioned toward the forgery to their right, whose entrance promised a dark and balmy interior. Ander followed his command, and entered the workshop, shedding his black pelt to hang on a nearby rack, as did his peer who followed behind him. In days long forgotten, the place had been filled with ash and smoke all-day round, but now it found use only on occasion. In absence of any flames, the structure ran cool, warmer than the outside air, but in no way hot, or uncomfortable. Yet the smell of charcoal was etched into the walls, which were painted black through use.

“Have you been in the forge yet?”

“No, I haven’t,” he replied, running a finger down the length of a nearby wall. His digit left a trail through the black coating.

“This is where we do weapon upkeep, as well as general forging. Anything metal related that breaks, or needs studying up, we bring it here.”

“...Okay…”

“Going by your, how may I put this, disinterest, may I assume you know not of today’s importance?”

“I do not.”

“Great, that means I get to tell you, have a seat.” Leon motioned towards an old wooden stool beside the hearth. The younger man took up the seat, adding more to the difference in height.

“You’ve been here for about a month, Ander, and it’s done you well. You’re not the same bag of bones I carried over my soldier in an alleyway, that’s for certain… The night you arrived, the six of us, or more specifically me and Sylas, debated over what to do with you.”

“My kin have made it a habit to remind you that by coming here, you took an oath to become one of us. A thief, an outlaw, whatever term you wish to don. It was decided on the night you came here that you would take up under me, and my chosen art. We didn’t wish to put a burden on you that your body couldn’t bear, and so we put it off until your strength came back to you. But now that you can bear it, you are to begin your apprenticeship. Am I understood?”

“You are,” Ander returned in a soft voice.

“Great. Ander, what I am about to say, you must not forget. You are listening, yes?”

“I am.”

“Okay. I will be your mentor. I will teach you all I know about the sword, and its uses. I will mold you into one of us, but this will not be an easy trial. There will be hardship, and it will take great attentiveness, and effort on your part. You are to put your full faith in me, and not question my lessons, nor my commands. All I instruct you to do, you must do in earnestly, and to completion. Is this understood?”

“I-I understand,” he stuttered, but only briefly.

“What I am about to tell you, I wish you not to repeat to the others, even though they already know it. What we do, as a clan, is counter to what I teach you. The sword can only be swung by deft hands and an honorable heart. While our trade may not be righteous, our hearts may differ, and they must if we are to follow this path. But this choice will bear extra burden. You know this well: the night we left you in the forest. Though it was by necessity, it was wrong, and it tarnished us. In your time here, you will be forced to act against what is right. But when possible, you must do what is right, always. It is often our will to do what is easy, and unjust, rather than hold ourselves to what is right, and honorable. Do I make myself clear? Will you follow my teachings with honor in your soul?”

“...What if I don’t know what is right, and what is wrong?”

“What if you do not know? That is a fair question, Ander,” Leon turned his back to the boy and paced the length of the hearth. “Such choices are often made with haste, as time is never in abundance… I, ahh, how may I phrase this? Ander, your query is made more difficult with how little I know of you, so let me say this. Mastery of the physical is not all you must seek. It is mastery of your soul, and your compassion, as well. To hold honor, you must know when to kill, and when not to. Look here.”

From Leon’s belt, he unsheathed his longsword, holding it out with his right hand to stand with its tip toward the ceiling. The blade demanded admiration. Along its sides glistened the polishing of its sharp edges, and up the length of the fuller was a line of blacker steel, bringing character to the weapon. The hilt was black, as was the leather of the grip, and the circular pommel below it. Even though it was held with one hand, it could fit two with room to spare.

“This is my sword. It was not I who made it, but a blacksmith from Vimbaultir. When he forged me this blade, even though I approached him as a shady character, he gave me advice that I will never part from, he said -

‘This sword here, boy, is much more than a weapon, you hear? It was made fer killin, and stabbin, just as much as it was made fer sparing, and sheathin. It’s up to you now what it’ll do, ‘member that.’

- he was vague with what he said, but what he meant was that a sword is not made with a purpose. It is its master who must choose what to do with it. While one may use a sword to cut someone down, another may use one to spare that same person. Honor is knowing when to show mercy to a man when he is beaten. But again, sometimes one has no choice but to take a life, for a good cause, or another.”

“To answer your question, with time, and temperance, you will learn what is right and what is wrong. It will become your nature to know, so have faith in me, and in yourself, and in my teachings.”

“I will have faith,” Ander looked through the darkness into Leon’s eyes, which beamed an emerald glare. “I won’t go back to the streets, or the alleys… I wish to learn how to wield a sword!”

“Hah, that’s the spirit!” Leon bellowed, sheathing his blade. “But that will not come today, nor tomorrow, nor next week. No, no, before you learn to use a sword, you must learn to care for a sword.”

“Care for a sword?” Ander raised an eyebrow at the notion.

“Yes. You must learn to care for a sword as you would care for your heart. There will come a time when your blade will be just as important as your heart, or your mind, or whatever other thing you need to live. It will save you, more times you will ever feel comfortable with. And such, before you throw your first swing, you must know everything about your sword, and perfect it.”

Leon walked behind Ander toward a corner of the forge. From the corner opposite to the furnace, there rose a ruckus of clanging and bangs, before a long *shiiing* rang out. The older man  reappeared in front of Ander holding a rather dull looking sword. Unlike his, this one appeared short, only the length of Ander’s arm. It had only one cutting edge, and it grew in width from the hilt up until the tip. The young Idris had absolutely no knowledge of the makes of swords, nor their names. But even with what little he knew, the boy could only imagine such a sword was used for slashing, and not stabbing.

“This is a falchion, and a rather poor one at that,” Leon looked over the sword. “It’s a bit rusted at the tip, the handle is worn, and its edge couldn’t dent a twig. It’s perfect, here.” Leon held out the blade to Ander, who took it with cautious hands. 

“

“This is what’s called a Falchion, it’s Svartari for sickle if you were wondering, don’t ask me why. It’s short, and somewhat heavy, so it's best for slashing, but it can stab if need be. When you swing it, its weight helps carry the arc, and it’s devastating against light to even medium armor. It has uses beyond combat, like cutting and other bits and bobs, it’ll do you well.”

The feel of the blade in Ander’s hands delivered Leon’s words all the more so. It was a different sensation than when he held Nina’s knife. The blade, though it was blunt and old, still carried a dangerous aura. Yet that aura was all of Ander’s making. He realized it would take an effort to keep his new mentor’s words in mind. The sword he held wasn’t made to hurt just as much as it was made to show mercy. It was up to him to wield it well, and that responsibility was a heavy one for the young man.

“Your first test will be to restore this sword. Don’t fret, I will teach you how to do it and I will walk with you as you work. But only your hands will touch it, and it will be a hard skill to master. Only when its blade is sharp, and its rust is polished, will you learn to cut with it.”

“And so I will learn to be a swordsman, like you?”