The summer they were fourteen, the Dark Lord died every day; the morning’s elaborate, cunning strategies always ending in a furious sword fight. Sauron had only one hand, and they fought as a strong, valiant team. How hard could it be once they confronted him? Halbarad, supporting Aragorn as he wrested in truth with the Dark Lord high in Helm’s Deep, had a moment of nostalgia for his lost naiveté.

Aragorn’s hands gripped the table, pressure crescents of red and white showing through the dirt on his nails. The bright currents within the ball reflected the hilt of Andúril, then hid, then flared against the flint-hard brightness of Aragorn’s eyes. His face was set into stern, proud lines, lips moving in an occasional soundless mutter, looking as if they would snarl had their owner less control.

Aragorn had the right to use the palantír, and the strength. His need was great, and the consequences of failure, dire.

“I have never been a fool, Hal,” he’d said as they entered the room, enigmatic cloth-wrapped lump held close. They had both recognized the flare of fondness for the impractical schemes of their youth. “I trust you with this, as I’d trust no other.”

When Halbarad understood what Aragorn wanted, he had gripped Aragorn’s shoulder. “I promise to do it, but I will not have to. You will not fail.”

Watching Aragorn, he still believed that, although the confrontation raged on. Halbarad felt the tension build to a nearly unendurable peak. Soon, Aragorn would either wrench the palantír to his own uses or Halbarad would have to fulfill his promise and prevent Aragorn from revealing any secrets. He took a firmer grip on the bit of rough sacking in his left hand and stole a fleeting glance at the knife in his right.