a gift from a friend (narrative)
"Wait outside," he'd told Leironuoth.
"Maybe," the elf replied.
It didn't seem like too much to ask.
Skandra was seated at a faded wooden table in the middle of a forge's expansive floor. The legs were uneven, the surface was rife with splinters waiting to happen, and the chairs were little better. On the surface of the table sat an oil lamp with those gently curving sides, a pair of tin cups and a fine ceramic bottle of alcohol. To that Skandra added the Vel - it hissed as it came free of his hip, and let a soft clank fly as it came to rest on the wood. Almost as though it were made of metal. Across the table, one of the most ancient elves in the known world raised his eyebrows.
"I cast this for a man," the elf said slowly. "A man who was not you."
Skandra stole a glance around the forge. There were bellows, of course, and pits of coal waiting to be stoked. The elf claimed to work only at night because he preferred the cooler temperatures. Must have been hell for his neighbors. There was a second level to this wide open space. Other elves were standing on the walkways of the higher realm, leaning against pipe rails and staring into the center of the forge. Skandra could only make out their outlines. This old face at the table in front of him was wrinkled and weathered. Hard living, the elf had said. Skandra wasn't sure he had the fellow's right name. But this felt very much like a dirty deed they were committing.
"He wasn't a man," Skandra answered, lifting the tin cup and killing the silence by knocking back a drink. "But he was my grandfather."
"Then you know his name."
"Shantar Tyullis. He called this the Vel, after Armas' weapon. The spear that used wisdom as a weapon."
"Ha," and the elf drained his awful whiskey without so much as batting an eye. "He did have a sense of humor, that one."
They sat this way, staring at one another. The elf poured from the ceramic bottle with collected dignity assigned by years. He was not one to be hurried. And he would ask what Skandra wanted if he decided to go on further. All the world must have been colliding behind those eyes. They studied the Vel for far too long. Lips pursed, he lifted the weapon. Arm extended, he closed one eye, aimed it at the rafters above. There were smatterings of laughter from the audience. More than one elf shifted uncomfortably from what Skandra could tell; they were waiting for this meeting to come to a point. Only when he'd satisfied his own curiosity did the elf spin the weapon on his finger, sliding against the guard, and offer the hilt of the thing back to Skandra.
"Good weapon," the elf appraised when Skandra accepted it. "Heavier than I remember. I did run a bit heavy back then."
"Just heavy enough to knock a man out," Skandra answered with a grin.
"That's a delicate piece of equipment," and now the elf's eyes narrowed. "You shouldn't be hitting men in the face with it."
"Well, I've taken good care of it, haven't it?"
Instead of answering aloud, the elf raised his tin cup and toasted to that. Skandra's cup collided with the elf's. They drank. Skandra hissed through his teeth; the second dose was worse than the first. This made another smile appear on the elf's face. As if treating his guests to this awful stuff was an amusement. Now the elf sighed gustily, and spun the tin cup like a top. It scraped and scratched at the wood, desperate to retain its momentum, and only when it came to a stop did the elf speak again. He lifted those ancient gray eyes to Skandra's face as he uttered his next question; they were more serious than they'd been in the past.
"Whatever happened to him?"
"Died after the Breaking. He was sick for a long time. Didn't tell me until after."
"And he left that to you?" the elf's eyebrows shot up again.
"I think," and Skandra raised the Vel up, pointing it toward the sky. "That he always meant for me to have it."
"That was what he said," and now the elf nodded. "You got tired of it?"
"Do you know what Ether is?" Skandra responded to the question with a question.
More than one whistle from the rafters above. The elf didn't react visibly; only a twitch of the eye, suggesting that his students were probably too vocal for his liking. Another drink was poured with additional ceremony. The elf drummed the fingers of one hand on the table in a complicated sequence. It took Skandra a half-second to realize that he was tapping out a song. The Barber's Left Hand, if Skandra recalled it correctly. The hand that destroyed everything it touched. Without irony the Immortal began to whistle - a low, bass thing that for once was musical in its own right. The only sound of proper pitch that Skandra Tyullis could make. The elf smiled, still staring at his hand.
"I know what it is."
"The Vel wasn't made for it. Half the time nothing happens; the other half, who knows?"
"You shouldn't be using it at all," and now the elf's eyes shot to Skandra's face. "Dangerous, that. Not for what it is. For what it makes men want."
"I," and Skandra raised his tin cup in salute. "Am also not a man."
They drank. The elf was still turning over possibilities in his mind. The elves above were whistling the song. It was a warning and an appreciation in the same instant. The elf raised his hand for silence; it was instantly delivered. They were all apprentices or employees, Skandra supposed, and he was used to having them under his thumb. Not quite night yet. They would be there soon. And soon enough Skandra would be on his way to Ceranarad. Thank the gods Fenrir hadn't caught up to them.
"Trust doesn't come easily, most say. I say it can't be earned. It's a gift from a friend."
"Time was I didn't think much of the people I drank with," Skandra shook the empty tin. "Now I only drink with friends."
"We all change as we age, don't we?" the elf grinned at him over the pouring bottle. "Shantar and I played stones in this very forge, some days. He was a brilliant alchemist."
"And he cheated at stones."
The elf roared with laughter; enough that some of his whiskey dribbled down his chin. The elves up above were dead silent. Skandra didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing; this conversation was laced with pitfalls and traps. Nobody ever pinned this elf down. Even Shantar would have a time with it, and the old man had been as good at reading people as anyone.
"I wish he'd cheated," the elf murmured. "He might have been a challenge."
When Skandra said nothing, the elf went on. "How soon do you want it?"
"A week from today."
"I'll have to abandon my other projects."
"Half the reason you're taking this," and Skandra leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the table. "Is that you don't have any other projects."
"And you want what?" the elf grinned again. "You want it to use Ether?"
"As little as possible. I drew up some things... somewhere..."
Wordless the elf watched as Skandra rummaged through one of his notebooks. A tearing of pages, and the sheaf of them was deposited on the table in front of the elf. With more speed than Skandra could credit the wizened creature began flipping through pages. One after another, in a grand hurry, as though a moment longer than he planned would destroy the whole affair. And when he was done, he laughed.
"I like you, young man," the elf proclaimed. "I will do my best, but you must know..."
"...yeah, I know. I brought it."
The bag made a heavy thump when it landed on the table. Neither one of them opened it. Looking at the stone to confirm it was there would have been insulting, and one did not insult friends. The elf regarded the bag for a moment before he asked his last question.
"What do you want me to do with the remainder?"
"Make a sword out of it. Something light."
"It will be done. Shantar paid in advance, so get out of my place, now. I'll find you in a week."
For a moment Skandra thought the elf was joking, but those gray eyes were so severe that Skandra stood from his chair without another word and started walking. Maybe in a week or so he'd find out if he was wrong to trust this fellow. Then again, given how reliable the Vel had been over the years, Skandra thought it was a chance well worth taking.
At the very least, it was all going to be exciting.