IV: The Sword that was Broken

The Fellowship, as we are called, is to leave Rivendell in but a few days, and I must say that I am restless. I am anxious to go back to Gondor and aid my country once more. To be honest, I am eager to bring the heir of Isildur to Minas Tirith, as well.

A couple of days ago I asked Aragorn to spar with me. He accepted, and glad I am that he did! His skills are beyond most I have seen, and even I had a difficult time in the many matches we had. We did not keep count, but I admit that he likely won more matches than I did. His sword will be welcome in our battle against Mordor.

There is suddenly a knock on my door. "Come in!" I call, and to my surprise Aragorn is there, a smile lingering on his face.

"I have something to show you. I thought you would be interested," he says. Curious, I rise from my seat and follow him out of the room. He leads me out of the Last Homely House and down a windy path through Rivendell. In a small glade near the river are what I can make out to be forges with a couple elves working at them. Silently we enter the area and sit on a bench nearby.

The two elves in front of us are working on a sword. They seem to have just finished grinding and filing the weapon, and are once again heating the blade in the large fireplace. As they take it out and quench it in water, I suddenly recognize the pommel of the sword.

"Narsil," I mutter. "The sword that was broken now forged anew." Even in its uncompleted state, I cannot help but note its splendor and strength. There is already a dim glow coming from the sword as if it was alive. I remember old legends of Elendil wielding his sword like a living flame, but I always thought they were mere legends. I have never seen such magic before.

I turn to glance at Aragorn. He is watching the elf smiths with great attentiveness. I must wonder if he ever thought he would live to see the day Narsil was made again. I imagine even he had his doubts.

"When will it be ready?" I ask.

"Soon," he says. "Before we set out. Runes still must be written on the blade."

"What will the runes read?"

"I decided to leave the inscription to Elrond," he responds. "He is better suited for that task than I. However, I will be the one to give it a new name."

"A new name?" I am slightly surprised at first, but soon suppose it is logical that the blade re-forged would be named anew, as well. "What shall it be called?"

"Andúril- Flame of the West."

"A fitting name," I say. It is a strong name for the legendary blade.

We sit quietly for a few minutes as the elf-smiths continue working on Andúril. Aragorn has an odd look in his eye, a look I cannot place. He ignores my inquiring glance and rather keeps his thoughts to himself.

I am slightly annoyed that I did not have much time to get to know the man before we set off. Even after he came back from his long trip, he was often in the company of Mithrandir, Elrond, and Elrond's children. I did once espy a look Isildur's heir gave Elrond's daughter, and the slight lingering of her hands upon him only confirmed my beliefs. I have not spoken to Aragorn about it, for I deem it is a sensitive subject. Besides, I know little about the ways of romance, especially with an elf. I have little interest in marriage.

We will set off soon, nonetheless, and the journey will be long. So far he has impressed me with his skills with the sword, and he seems to be an honorable man. My few conversations with the Halflings only supported my supposition. The eldest of them, this Bilbo Baggins who burst at me at the Council, said nothing ill about Aragorn, who he called his friend.

Friend. Could I be friends with such a man, a man who is after the country I am next in line to rule? Could I support the man who would take the duty I was born for?

Still I remain unsure. But as I watch Aragorn and the forging of Andúril, I slowly start to believe that I may be able to.