Arthael looked down at his bloody hands--and for what felt like the hundredth time, he asked himself what he had done.

He had not meant to kill the man--not truly. But the rage had come over him once again--the blind rage that made him just want to keep punching and punching until he could not punch anymore.

The first time it had happened was after the desert massacre--where he had seen his fellow brothers torn apart by the blood mage. After that, nothing was the same. Any threat of violence--and it was like he was back in the battle.

He shook his head and looked at the small house. A few of the men were trying to break in, and he could hear the screams of a woman. He turned and looked behind, but Roth and the others were gone.

The man he had killed did not deserve this end. He looked at the bloodied and bruised corpse, at the face that was indistinguishable from what it used to be. The look on the small boy’s face at what he had done. He knew it would never leave him, just like so many other times.

But perhaps this once, he could make it right. An idea came to him, and before he could stop himself, he moved towards the men and the house. He had ruined the child’s life, left him without a father, but perhaps one day--if the child ever came back, he could at least find comfort in a way that he never had.

A compulsion suddenly ran through him to find his own mother and father--but then the thought was gone, as if it had never occurred, and despite a slight twitch in his face, the stoic warrior did not so much as blink as he moved to kill once more.

Now, some forty years later, the man was free - free from the lessons and choices that had been forced upon him, free from the love he had felt for a king who did not love him or even love his people. And the part of them that had been stolen away - the soul of a child - had been returned. The magical chains that had repaired his mind but also bound it to his king had finally been severed.

A few of Cleaver’s men had come to his aid. They held onto the King, trying to stab him with their knives. The King whirled about, and the men flew off him, unable to hold onto the smooth bone armor.

In the corner of their eye, they saw a flash. Their body reflexively moved to meet it without their mind registering the motion. The child's mind marveled at the speed and strength of the man who had taken over, and the man noticed the child's surprise, and he felt a small echo of pride.

They held the huge hammer in a parry, and the flashing steel bit into the hard wood of the haft. The wood was thick enough and hard enough that the sword only seemed to scratch it.

Then another swing at a different angle. This time they stepped back, and the steel glanced off the tip of their hammer. As the man pulled back the sword for another swing, they pushed forward with the steel tip of their hammer, attempting to stab the man’s chest. The man dodged backward, and the move gave them enough time to see the man’s face. They stepped back, surprised.

The beard was longer now, but the angry brown eyes shone with an intensity the child had rarely seen in any other man. He was nothing more than lean muscle, and his cheeks were hollow. Dirty clothes were torn and scraped and browned across his dusty brown skin. A long angry cut shone across his chin, and one of his eyes was closed and bruised.

"Rebert?" they asked. The child hadn't seen the man for months, but it felt like much longer than that. A strange pang of guilt burned in their gut, and the child forgot that they had abandoned the man with Calk. But the Gnomen king hadn't given them a choice.

Rebert's eyes narrowed in anger. "Arthael."

They were about to respond, but one of the armored warriors moved up behind Rebert. They didn't have time to warn him. So instead, their hand reacted on its own. Without even a thought, their hand reached towards their belt and withdrew a small knife from its sheath.

Their hand shot out with tremendous speed, and the knife flew through the air to a small gap between the man's helmet and chest plate. The child did not know of this vulnerability, but the man had worn the armor for years - and he knew it was one of the weaknesses of the impenetrable armor. A look of confused surprise crossed the man's face as he fell to his knees and grasped his bleeding neck. Blood poured from his gauntleted hands, and he fell over onto his face into the dust of the barn.

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Rebert looked at them wide-eyed, and he lowered his sword.

"It's me," they said. Rebert stared at them without saying a word. They couldn't tell what he was thinking, but they didn't have much time to talk. Frustrated, they reached for him, and he flinched back, bringing his sword back up in a swift guard.

The child thought quickly back to their conversations, but everything seemed like a blur now. The few months of travel had become so distant amidst so much violence. They found it hard to remember what they had talked about or even what they knew about the man.

And then, memories flashed through their mind of the salt and the sea, and of the foul-smelling wreck of a city that was Portsmouth. It was there that the memory of their lost family felt like an infected scab that they could not forget. The pain had only seemed to get worse and worse until the sun and sea took them away and soothed their pain.

"You helped us get away," they whispered. The child remembered the feeling of debt they had to the man. "You didn't listen to Roth."

Rebert’s eyes widened in recognition. He made a strange motion on his chest and mumbled something in his native Shinarin tongue. Then he opened his mouth to say something and closed it, as if he was not sure what he had been about to say in the first place.

And then, a huge roar erupted from behind them. They turned to see Cleaver barreling into one of the warriors. A small sliver of hope emerged as they watched Cleaver hit the man in the face. But then they realized that it was none other than the king himself. The king held his ground, and his feet only slid back on the hard dirt floor. Somehow, the king had lost his huge hammer.

Cleaver looked down at his fist as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, which now seemed broken. Two of his fingers were crooked, and his knuckles seemed shattered. With a deep grunt, the king grabbed Cleaver by the neck and breeches and threw him. The nearly 8-foot giant of a man flew through the air with tremendous speed and crashed into the wall of the barn. The wood broke apart, and splinters went everywhere as Cleaver fell out of sight down the hill behind the barn.

The child didn’t know what to do, but the man knew this was his chance. He had long since learned now to hesitate when opportunity presented itself in the midst of a battle.

They rushed forward and swung their own hammer with the full force of a trained paladin. The king seemed to sense the blow coming somehow, and he dove forward, rolling out of the way as their heavy hammer narrowly missed his body. He looked back at them, and for a split second, he only looked confused. Then he frowned. “What madness is this, Arthael?”

He was no longer Arthael. He was two parts of a half that had now become one. Without any difference or separation of thought, they decided their new name was Milthael - a direct melding, two parts of a whole, but a new whole nonetheless. A new person. Milthael felt a grin stretch across their lips as they took pride in their new name and their new identity as one.

They enjoyed the emotions that played across the king’s face. First, the king had seemed confused, then angry, and then confused again. The man’s golden eyebrows finally settled into an angry frown, and then realization seemed to come over the king, and his eyes turned cold with hate.

"Who are you?" His voice was quiet but thick with anger. Arthael had only heard the King speak in such a way once before. He knew that if he didn't move quickly, the King would kill him.

Milthael moved forward and swung his hammer, but the King dodged back. Before Milthael could move forward again, the King spoke a quick succession of words. The words seemed to vibrate in his throat, and his loud voice chimed and resonated in the air. Milthael's hammer was stopped with a jarring force, as if it had hit a wall.

The King held a thick strand of golden light. The child inside Milthael was entranced by the sight of it. There was a certain beauty in the magic as the light shimmered and spun an aura of multicolored light. But then the King dropped the strand and wove his hands together. Milthael tried to move as he recognized the spell the King was casting, but it was too late.

There was a metallic snapping sound, and then a chain made out of golden light suddenly materialized in the King's hand. He flung it at Milthael, and before he could react, his body was encased by a golden chain. He could feel the heat through his bone armor, sizzling and burning. The child inside him panicked, but the man was not worried. He knew even the King's magic couldn't penetrate the coveted Gnomen bone armor.

The King flung his hands, and Milthael suddenly flew back into a wall of the barn. The wood of the wall nearly burst apart from the force of his body crashing into it, but somehow it held. Chains around his body crinkled and moved, and the light shifted. He realized that the chains of light had attached him to the wall, and he couldn't move. The child wanted to panic, to squirm, to cry out in frustration. But the man knew none of that would help. And so, Milthael settled their nerves, stilled their breathing, and waited for what was to come.