He laughed quietly as he took the sword handed to him. "A seven and a half, at least," he insisted modestly. Gabriel was lucky enough to remember his time as an archangel as well as recall one of his previous reincarnations spent as a Templar, both in which he wielded a sword. "And what about you?" he questioned his brother with some concern. "We certainly never used wooden practice swords but you may actually feel more confident once you get your hands on an actual sword," Gabriel explained, giving his sword a casual twirl or two in his hand. The weight was off, the feel, the hold -- everything. He understood the need for wooden weaponry, but if a gladiator had that much of a rivalry or hatred for another, there would be very little stopping them from killing the other. A weapon was a weapon; no matter wood or steel.
"How much do you remember as of now, brother?" he questioned curiously, resting the tip of the sword on the ground and holding the hilt at arm's distance. It was unfair to Barachiel, knowing more about him than he knew of himself, but that was why Gabe had been so eager to help his brother. Though he didn't want to overload the other archangel with too much too soon, it was like amnesia patients; hearing things about yourself didn't feel right until you actually started to remember. Gabriel didn't want to build his brother up with a false confidence; he wanted it to be real.