The First Sword that was Broken

Isildur winced as his brother’s howls ricochet off the walls. His eyes flicked to the bloody shard of metal held by the surgeon.

“Sweet Eru, she did manage to stick you good didn’t she,” Isildur said before erupting into gales of laughter which earned him nothing but a stern glare from Elendil and a scowl from Anárion.

“If you find it so funny, brother, next time you can give her lessons on how to properly wield a sword.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare!” Isildur exclaimed in between snickers. His eyes flicked to Anárion’s bare buttocks, exposed for all within the room to see while his brother lay upon his stomach.

“After all, you’re the one who gave her the sword despite your lady’s most wise protests. I don’t know which I should marvel at more; the fact you gave your seven year old daughter a blade, or the fact you found one so poorly made that the tip broke off in your rump.”

Anárion scowled even louder, “It was the only one I could find that was small and light enough for Anariel. It wasn’t even sharp!”

“Well that was your first mistake,” Isildur laughed. “You assumed that even a blunt object in the hands of a spirited seven year old couldn’t be used as a weapon. And second, you turned your back on her while she was holding said blunt object.”

Anárion was about to respond but instead he muttered a string of curses while the surgeon went to work on stitching up the wound.

“Maybe a fine pony would have been a better gift?” Elendil spoke up gently from the other side of the bed. “One of the young mares is ready for a new rider and she has a rather mild temperament.”

“Alas, Anariel would probably teach it to trample me into the ground.” Anárion spoke bitterly. Isildur learned back in his chair so that it rested upon the back legs.

“And all this time you begged the Valar for a son,” Isildur’s amusement over the situation had obviously had a ways to go before it ran out. “You should be more careful what you wish for, and especially what you give that daughter of yours. Now you will be unable to sit for atleast a week, dear brother.”

Elendil was about to reprimand his eldest son when a sharp snap caused everyone within the room to jump in alarm. Isildur went tumbling backwards, his arms and legs flailing in a most ungraceful manner. The chair lay underneath him in a broken pile of cushions and wood. This time it was Anárion’s chance to roar with laughter; even Elendil allowed himself a low chuckle once he affirmed the only thing Isildur injured was his pride. A smug look came to Anárion’s face as he spoke up.

“Keep that up, brother, and you won’t be able to sit for two.”