By Vanessa Parry (alias Elwen)
Word Count: 875
Rating: G
Summary: Elrond shows Aragorn the shards of Narsil for the first time.
Elrond gathered Estel onto his knee and, with the carelessness of long familiarity, the youngster shuffled until he was comfortable. His foster father waited patiently . . . as he always did . . . and tried to ignore the little booted heels that dug into his leg.
“Ready?” Elrond asked with a smile as he drew a long wooden box towards them across his desk.
Estel nodded and Elrond had to tuck an arm about the small waist or the youngster would have slipped off his perch in his eagerness to see the promised history aid. His foster father’s nimble fingers released the clasp and lifted the lid.
Eyes widening in awe Estel leaned closer for there, nestled in blue velvet, was the sword of the last crowned king of Gondor. When he would have reached forward to test the edge of the blade Elrond captured his small hand easily. “No. It is sharp,” he warned.
Before Estel could pout Elrond took the small hand firmly in his and separated one pointing finger, curling the others safely into his palm. He guided the little finger slowly along the tang of the long blade, tracing the letters engraved there in an elven script Estel had not yet been taught. As he moved the finger Elrond spoke softly.
“Sun and Moon Birthed Me. Telchar Wrought Me. Narsil Am I.”
Then he moved Estel’s hand higher to touch the leather wrapped grip with its jewel tipped pommel, allowing the lad to to take some control here. The still chubby fingers were not yet long enough to wrap around the hilt, but Estel compared the different textures for a few moments. When he had taken his fill of exploring he leaned back to look up at his teacher.
“Did you really see King Elendil cut off the nasty man’s finger with this?”
Elrond smiled. “I did. He even let me swing Narsil once, long before it was broken.”
Estel considered. “You are very old,” he commented, before moving on swiftly to ask, “Is it heavy?”
“It is, indeed. Much heavier than my own blade.”
Small grey eyes grew wider and Elrond tried not to wince as Estel wriggled around to face him, those sharp little heels kicking him in the shins several times. “I didn’t know you had a sword, Adar. Where is it? Can I see it? Can I hold it? Why don’t you carry it?”
Elrond raised a hand to stem the sudden rush of questions. “My sword is safely locked away and I do not now carry it because I have no need of it within the safety of this valley. Perhaps I will show it to you upon another occasion. As for holding it . . . I think you will need to grow a little first.”
Estel grinned a gap toothed smile. “If I had a sword I’d wear it all the time and go into battle every day.” He threw his arm wide to demonstrate the breadth of his swing and Elrond tucked back his head just in time to avoid getting a black eye. His shins were not so lucky, however, as Estel turned about once more to examine Narsil.
“Where is it broken? You said it was broken in the big battle.” When he would have reached out to touch Elrond captured his hand again. Then, as he had before, he guided Estel’s finger to a point about two thirds of the way down from the hilt. The two halves of the blade had been married up so carefully in the box that the break was all but invisible to mortal eyes, but Elrond ran his foster son’s finger unerringly along its breadth. What could not be seen by mortal eye could be felt and Estel gasped with delight at this further evidence that this truly was the blade wielded upon that big bad Sauron.
“Is it ever going to be fixed?”
Elrond’s gaze grew distant. “Perhaps it will one day. If a new king comes to claim the throne. And when it is it will need a new name.”
Estel settled more comfortably as Elrond closed the lid of the box and fastened the clasp securely. “When you are a man, full grown, you will have a sword and you will need to give it a name.”
“I shall call my sword Melegrist!” Estel declared firmly.
His foster father grinned, thinking the title more fitting of an axe. “Mighty Cleaver? That would be a fearsome blade indeed.”
In the distance a bell rang and Elrond began to set down his little pupil. “It is time for your lunch, Tithen Pen.”
Estel scrambled up to peck his cheek. “Hannon le, Adar.” Then he scrambled down, inflicting further bruises to Elrond’s shins in the process.
Once the little Edain had departed, slamming the door behind him in his eagerness to reach the luncheon table, Elrond reopened the box. Down many generations of man he had related the tale of the last great battle and revealed to Isildur’s heirs this now ancient blade. Would Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, finally be the one to claim the birthright of his line?