Disclaimer: I have kidnapped the Founders from JK Rowling for a little while, but I do not actually intend to harm them. And since they are hers, I suppose I shall have to give them back.

It was a good sword. Godric had said so at least three times while turning the thing awkwardly over in his hands, looking for any excuse to put it down. The smile he was giving Rowena was rather fixed, although she hadn't seemed to notice. Or maybe she just didn't care.

Salazar saw Godric's implied point, however. The sword was hardly the man's style. It was, for lack of better words, pretty, bejeweled, and above all ornamental. No one who wore that sword could possibly intend to get into a fight, because no one wanted to cover egg-sized rubies with corrosive dragon blood. Godric, on the other hand, hardly thought before covering himself and the surrounding area with corrosive dragon blood, never mind his sword.

So now Godric was shooting Salazar pleading looks for help around his attempts to get Rowena out of his office, trying desperately not to curse the air blue at the stupidity of this gift in front of the gift-giver, and she was smirking at him.

The sword was likely a very subtle indication that Godric was getting on in years and it was perhaps time to leave the real dragonslaying to the next generation. Those who can, do, those who can't, teach, after all, Salazar couldn't help but think as he watched Godric awkwardly fish around for compliments about the craftsmanship. And not only is he a teacher, now, we've all been trying to get him to understand he's a bit old for doing before he kills himself.

At least, Salazar hoped it was that she was indicating. Engraved, bejeweled, goblin-forged swords were a bit expensive for Rowena to have had it made just to get on Godric's nerves after he had asked her if she'd thought about marrying before she got too much older. Rowena had gone white with fury at that, and completely failed to notice the way Godric was gripping the back of her chair with his other hand hovering over her ebony curls, not quite daring to provoke the hex she'd inevitably send his way should he touch them.

Rowena was a wonderfully intelligent woman, but she was possibly the most romantically challenged person Salazar had ever met. And she had a vindictive streak even Salazar was afraid to provoke.

Finally, Godric appeared to decide being tactful was far too much effort, which was fortunate. He was no good at it anyway. "Rowena, don't you have a class to teach?" he asked desperately.

"I don't think so," she answered. "It's Sunday."

"Something to do with Helga, perhaps?" Godric suggested, shooting Salazar such of look of desperation that in the name of common humanity (which Salazar usually had no truck with), he relented.

"I'm sure you've got something to do, Ravenclaw," he drawled, using her surname as he did whenever he wanted to be rid of her. He did the same thing to Godric; Helga was the only one he never called "Hufflepuff," but that was because Helga was not only capable of taking a hint, but obliging enough to do so."I'm afraid Godric and I were discussing something important before you barged in on us."

Rowena glared at him. It was true that she had barged into Godric's quarters without knocking, but it was also true that she had caught them in the middle of an argument concerning the chess game now forgotten on the table. "You have an odd definition of important, Serpent-tongue," she said coolly. "Still, I'll come back when you're both in a more conversational mood."

She swept out, and as she closed the door Godric stared after her, running his fingers absently through his blonde mane and looking as completely lost as Salazar had ever seen him. "Any idea what that was all about?"

"At a guess, I would say she presented you with a new sword, and your lack of enthusiasm offended her," Salazar answered. "Or amused her. She had to know that it wasn't to your taste."

Godric held up the sword. The light from the fire highlighted his name, emblazoned on the silver hilt. His look of confusion hadn't cleared. "Why would she get it made if she knew I wasn't going to wear it, though?"

"She wants you to wear it," Salazar explained, rolling his eyes. "What she doesn't want you to do is use it. She's trying as tactfully as possible to tell you you're getting old."

"Rubbish," Godric answered. He pulled out his wand, strode over to the fireplace, and fixed the sword above the mantle with a simple sticking charm, then stepped back to look at the effect. "There. The room needed a bit of brightening up anyway, don't you think?"

Salazar rubbed his black beard speculatively, trying to gouge Rowena's reaction. She couldn't have realistically expected Godric to wear the glittery thing, really. He shrugged. "And you couldn't get yourself down to Hogsmeade and buy drapery?" he asked dryly.

Godric rolled his eyes and, completely ignoring the chess pieces still patiently waiting their turns to move, opened his chest and pulled out his other sword, buckling the sheath around his waist. Then he drew it.

This sword was also goblin-forged, although it was goblin-forged iron rather than silver. Little else was strong enough to pierce a dragon's hide. The hilt, rather than jewel-encrusted gold, was simple, bloodstained leather, and it was about four inches longer than the sword Rowena had just presented him with. Maybe it was the way the sword was made, simple and strong, or maybe it was just twenty years of use by the man, but it had somehow intrinsically become Godric Gryffindor's sword in a way that Rowena's fancy one never would be.

He made a few speculative passes with it, causing Salazar to back hurriedly against the wall.

"What are you doing?" Salazar demanded of his friend.

"There's a dragon in Whitshire that's been feeding mostly off of cattle, according to one of the students," Godric explained, shrugging. "I need to slay something, so I thought I'd go take care of that problem."

"How noble of you," Salazar answered, half-sarcastic. "Just . . . draco dormiens nunquam titillandus," he added, remembering Godric's tendency towards acts of idiotic bravado.

Godric grinned. "Of course not. The only thing you do with a sleeping dragon is poke it in the eye with a very sharp sword."

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Author's Note:
And this plotless piece of Founders humor was brought to you by a reread of CoS. I'm probably the only person in the fandom who, looking back on the sword in the Chamber and thinking about the man Godric Gryffindor must have been, would think "There is no way that thing is Godric's style." He does strike me as the most straightforward of the Founders, without Salazar's endless nuances in morality or Rowena's in intelligence or Helga's in motivation, and I expect his choice of blade would reflect that— nothing fancy, just what it takes to get the job done. So Harry killed a basilisk with Godric's mantlepiece ornament. I suspect he's glad that the thing was finally put to good use. Only took a thousand years. Cheers! — Loki