Andúril, Flame of the West

Trembling, still white-hot.  Elves raise it from the forge; their tongues cry loose words of power.  Runes gleam down its side.  It must protect Hope.

Yet, the sound still rings though time, will always; shattered metal as it clinked and pinged off of dead rocks, dead soil.

King and King’s son…wielded in desperate hour, soul straining, strong to wound this black, cruel thing.  Strike and struck down.

Cool velvet, reverent hands, and reverent voices. Years broken.

Sudden heat.  Time to rise again.

Only one strong enough.White flames reflected in it; in his eyes.

King’s line.