For a moment Artur paused. Could he actually do it? Could he actually kill a living being? 

And if the elf was so unafraid of death, why was he not dead yet? It would be easy: be caught by an angry mob, slip and fall in front of a cart, let those knights -- Artur refused to consider that they might be Guardians -- do the deed. He would have to ask. 

Those thoughts fled quickly, however, before he could dwell on them. Artur usually tried to act distinctly not-seventeen, but he couldn't help wanting to throw a tantrum. He was confused. He felt [i]helpless[/i]. He wanted to sleep. He closed his eyes and silently recited the first ten proverbs, composing himself.

"I apologize for my behavior, but please excuse me if I continue to doubt you," he opened his eyes and looked at the elf, "Thank you for healing Apocalypse. We . . . have been together a long time," he offered the personal detail as his way of clearing the air, if only a little bit. "Here," he took the wrap of trinkets out of his robes and tossed them to the elf, then knelt to examine his stallion. It seemed the magic had put him to sleep. Artur took off his bridle and tied his lead a tree.

"Are you sure you know nothing about the sword?" he asked as he was working.