Fael was surprised when the man knew of Ireland. But he was even more shocked as the words of a familiar tongue slid from the rulerès lips. Gaelic. He spoke Gaelic! Faelès eyes widened and the giant Gael stared at the King as he tried to process what he was hearing. If the King knew of Ireland and he knew of Gaelic, then perhaps...
"Sire..." He spoke quickly in Gaelic, excitement in his voice. "How come thee to know of my tongue? Am I not that far from my homeland of Ireland, then? Surely, this is nowhere near but yet, you come to speak my tongue fairly fluently, far better than any Saxon-bred can. How can this be?"
There was no brogue in Irish, for the tongue of Gaelic in and of itself was music-like. Gaelic was very mucch a rhythm and a dance, it was sung in a way and not spoken. The rhythm and cadence of the language made it difficult for non-speakers to get it correct. That impressed Fael much more than anything else. He continued to stare at this king that he could now understand far better than if he spoke in Anglo-Saxon. But the tall man was hesitant when the boy stepped forward for his sword. His eyes gazed up to the King and a sudden flash of fear struck him. He didn't want to lose his sword. This sword, the one that was meant to be completed on his deathbed, was his masterwork. It was everything to him. He almost wanted to protest but it was the King. What else could he do? He sighed deeply, closing his eyes as he reached behind him. He suddenly flipped the sword over his shuolder from the sheath, gripping it tightly by the pommel before spinning it flluidly aroud his hand to catch the flat of it in his other hand. He twisted it so that he was holding it by the flat of the blade and offered it to the boy that had stepped forward.
The blade was only partially built, still being worked upon. The metal was not perfect yet, it was not molded completely. But it had the beginnings of a sword, at least strong enough that it could cut through enemies. But the balance was not quite right yet. Fael had spent most of the beginning stages in building the hilt and pommel, making sure that it felt just right in one's hand. The crosshilt was built to be strong enough to sustaiin a strike against it. He smiled at the young boy who came forward.
"This is me masterwork." He'd reverted to Saxon again. "She is yet unnamed as she be incomplete. She's goin' ta be lon', very claymore-like. Be careful, boy, she not be completed yet." He sighed deeply. He really didn't want to be giving his sword away but if he had to, he had to.
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