It Should Be Made Again by StarSpray

It Should Be Made Again

“But doom and great deeds are at hand. For the Sword that was Broken is the Sword of Elendil that broke beneath him when he fell. It has been treasured by his heirs when all other heirlooms were lost; for it was spoken of old among us that it should be made again when the Ring, Isildur’s Bane, was found.” - The Fellowship of the Ring, “The Council of Elrond”

- -

In the chaos of the days and weeks following word of Isildur’s death, the heirlooms returned to Imladris by Ohtar and his companion were set aside, and, for the moment, forgotten. Elrond dispatched both his own best scouts and soldiers of Arnor to search for bodies—and other things. Sauron’s Ring lay heavily on everyone’s mind. But they returned empty-handed. The bodies of Elendur, Aratan, and Ciryon were found and returned to Annúminas, where they were entombed and laid at last to rest. But Isildur’s body was not returned. It was not found.

And neither was the Ring.

Valandil was still a child, really, just a gangly boy of fourteen, young enough that he did not even remember his father, not really. And with three elder brothers, Lícumiel knew her nephew had never expected to be crowned king. But king he was, and a king needed a sword fit for the office. It should have been Narsil, passed down from Elendil to Isildur to Valandil, but like so much else, that was now impossible.
Unless it was reforged. More than one of Arnor’s lords suggested it, once Arnor was reasonably settled and Lirulin secure in her Regency, but Lirulin was reluctant, although Valandil was very much in favor—unfortunately for him, his mother was Regent until he came of age, and hers was the final word.

“I don’t know why,” Lirulin admitted when Lícumiel asked her. They stood together before the pedestal on which the shards had been laid, atop a soft cloth the color of the night sky, so deeply blue it appeared almost black. “I just feel that the time is not right.”

Lícumiel gazed at the sword. They had last seen it whole in Elendil’s hand, raised high and gleaming red in the rising sun as he had shouted encouraging words at his army, before departing to join Gil-galad for the long march south to Mordor. “I think you are right,” she said. “Someday, Narsil will be forged anew, but it will not be for Valandil.”

Lirulin looked at her. “If not for Valandil, then who?”

“That, I cannot see.” Lícumiel shook her head. “But let them stay as they are, to remind us all of the Last Alliance, and the valor of Elendil the Tall.”

And so the Shards of Narsil were left untouched, in a place of honor in Valandil’s high hall in Annúminas, and a new sword was forged for him with great skill by the Elven smiths of Imladris, and given to him by Elrond when he reached manhood and came fully into his inheritance.

-

Fornost was burning. Everyone scrambled to gather enough to get them out, get them somewhere safe. Fíriel did not know where Arvedui was, or Aranarth. She shoved whatever clothes she could reach into a bag, and then tried to think of food. What did they have? What could they pack? What would keep?

As she strode down a corridor, a hand reached suddenly from a shadowy room to grasp her arm. It was a bony hand, skin soft and wrinkled as crumpled parchment. Fíriel nearly screamed, but bit it back as a face emerged from the gloom. “Malbeth!”

“The sword,” Malbeth rasped. She had been ill for some weeks—old age was finally catching up with her, though her grip was almost painfully hard on her Fíriel’s. Fíriel did not know exactly how old the seer was, only that she had been old when she’d first come to Arthedain. “You must take the sword! Keep it safe!”

“What sword?”

“Narsil!” Malbeth coughed again. “It will be reforged—when Isildur’s Bane is found. Remember this. Take the sword!” She released Fíriel suddenly, swaying, her gaze suddenly far away.

“Malbeth, let me help you,” Fíriel began, trying to ignore the sudden chill in her heart, but the old woman collapsed, falling into her arms, the life gone from her eyes. Fíriel caught her, surprised at how light she felt, and somehow managed to get her back to her bed. There was no time for burial, no time for the honors due this woman, who had been counselor to so many for so long. Fíriel covered her with a blanket, and locked the door behind her.

Fíriel herself carried the Shards of Narsil the long miles to Rivendell, where they remained in the safety of Elrond’s keeping, until Isildur’s Bane should be found.

-

Gilraen woke suddenly near dawn, sweat prickling on her arms and the back of her neck. She could not remember what she had been dreaming about, only that it had been dark and terrible, and she had felt horribly exposed, and hunted. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Gilraen sat up, throwing back the blankets. Someone was singing outside; there was a pause and then a peal of laughter, before the music resumed. That had not woken her—Gilraen was long used to the music of Rivendell, both silly and serious. Listening to them sing now about the stars and the water helped to calm her further, though she knew that sleep would not return.

Anxiety weighed on her over the next several days, though she could not discern its source. It eased, a little, when Mithrandir departed with his Halfling friend, who had played such a strange and important part in the death of Smaug and the reclamation of Erebor and Dale, but Gilraen did not know why. Mithrandir had ever been kind to her, though even he was not privy to her secret, or Estel’s. And the Halfling had been as pleasant a visitor as had ever come to Rivendell. Certainly he had left the cooks much happier, and with new recipes, as well.

Then Estel came to her with tales of all he was learning, about the War of the Last Alliance, and the fall of Sauron and the deaths of Gil-galad and Elendil. “—and Isildur took up Elendil’s broken sword,” Estel picked up his own toy sword—unbroken—and slashed at the air. “And cut off his Ring!”

“Yes,” Gilraen said. “And he took it, as weregild for his brother and father’s deaths, and kept it.”

“But Isildur died on his way back to Arnor.” Estel lowered his sword. “What happened to the Ring, Mama?”

“I don’t know. No one does.” Gilraen stood. “But the Shards of Narsil have survived, though all these years and the fall of Arnor. Would you like to see them?” It was suddenly very important. This was a piece of Estel’s own history, his heritage, though he would not understand that fully for many years yet.

“Yes!” Estel threw down his toy and took Gilraen’s outstretched hand. “Are they here? Why are they here?”

“They were given to Elrond after Arthedain fell, as you’ll no doubt learn soon in your lessons, for safekeeping.”

“Because nowhere is as safe as Rivendell.”

“That’s right.”

The Shards of Narsil bore a special place among the various treasures housed in Rivendell. A special statue had been carved, of a woman holding a platter, upon which a soft cloth had been laid, and the broken sword upon that. It gleamed in the pale sunlight that slanted in from a nearby window. “Do not touch,” Gilraen warned as Estel leaned forward with a soft exclamation.

“Elendil’s sword,” he breathed.

“Even when all our other treasures were lost,” Gilraen said, “this sword has been treasured and protected. It has long been said among our people that it will be remade when Isildur’s Bane is found, though none know when that may be.”

“And who will wield it?” Estel asked, looking up at her with wide eyes.

You, Gilraen almost said, but stopped herself. There was no reason to think that, was there? Whatever her mother had foreseen of Estel’s destiny, there was no reason to think it would be connected to the Ring. The thought sent chills down her spine. “Isildur’s heir,” she said instead. “Whoever that may be.”