Shards of a Line Unbroken by polutropos

Shards of a Line Unbroken

The world bent and, like Beleriand before it, Elenna was no more. But as a stone cast in a still pool sets a bright autumn leaf sailing to its hoary edges, the ships of the Faithful rode the wake of their kingdom’s downfall to the shores of Middle-earth.

Elendil and his sons observed no period of mourning, left no empty space in which to contemplate their loss: almost at once they set footprints of great cities atop the villages of Eriador. Monuments to their strength, their survival.

Soon, Elendil wrote, soon there would be time to visit the Last Homely House. But as the years wore on, it became clear that if Elrond wished to meet his brother’s proud heir he would need to make the journey to Annúminas himself.

“You look so like him,” were the first words the King of the Exiles spoke to the Lord of Rivendell, once the door of his meeting chamber was shut behind them. Before, he had stared, as he had failed to hide his astonishment — and, it might be said, discomfiture — behind a kingly reception.

“Who?” Elrond asked with half a smile, knowing full well who he meant.

“Elros,” Elendil answered, completely serious. “The statues and portraits—”

“Yes, he was my twin.”

Elendil shook his head, abashed. “I am sorry, I suppose it is… Artists are known to flatter their royal subjects. You do not think, seeing the statue of a king of legend, that he might really have looked so in life.”

Elrond laughed. “You have something of him in yourself, too, lord.” He did not say it was his self-assurance, his candour that nearly overstepped the bounds of common courtesy. For all it had irked him at times, Elrond had ever admired his brother’s boldness and was pleased to see it had not been dulled over the generations, even in the more humble strain of his descendants.

“Call me not lord,” said Elendil, then laughed and swept an arm across the room, beckoning Elrond towards a sumptuous green settee by the window. “But come, come. Let me have wine and cheeses brought — or perhaps you wish to eat a proper meal? I am sorry, you have come a long way, you must be tired. A bath, perhaps, and then we can meet again at supper?”

“No, no, I have all I need. I was hosted well at an inn on your city’s borders yesternight.”

“An inn!” Elendil cried. “You ought to have come at once to the palace.”

“My arrival was late.”

“Nonetheless,” Elendil said, and called to a servant positioned outside. “Solmion, have food and wine brought to us.” Sitting, he again addressed Elrond. “I do wish you had sent word of your coming. We would have had rooms and a great reception prepared.”

Elrond nodded and smiled graciously. He did not tell the king that his promises of pomp were the very reason Elrond had given no notice of his coming.

Elendil’s wine cup barely touched his mouth, so absorbed was he in tales of his ambition, his hopes for Endor. His hands flew expressively as he spoke, and Elrond's eyes returned always to the ring adorning the index finger of his right hand: the green emerald crowned in gold, the serpents devouring each other. The ring of Barahir: Elrond knew it from the histories, though how it came out of the ruin of Beleriand, he could not say. For all its fame in the great tales, a ring must have seemed but a small token in those days when Elros’ ships were laden with all the surviving heirlooms of Men and Elves. Now, many of those had no doubt been lost, and Elrond noted how securely the ring circled his finger, as though it had become a part of his hand — for so jewellery appears when seldom, if ever, removed from the wearer.

Elrond wore no such jewels.

Only one heirloom had come into Elrond’s hands, passed quietly from Gil-galad’s safekeeping, as if the High King felt some consolation was needed for all the times he had been passed over in favour of Elros. Elrond accepted the gift with gratitude, but in truth he had felt no jealousy for the many reminders of their legacy that had been heaped upon his brother the king. The heavy longsword, moreover, had never been Elrond’s weapon. For many centuries now Narsil had lain unused, awaiting a more fitting bearer.

Elrond bore it with him to Annúminas, for he had heard the sword of Elu Thingol had been lost at last in Pharazôn’s ignominious fall.

“The work of Telchar!” Elendil exclaimed, admiring the well-balanced blade. “How have I heard no rumour of this weapon?”

“Alas,” Elrond answered, “the heirlooms of the Edain are often overshadowed by those of the Eldar.”

Elendil hummed his agreement, not taking his eyes from the sword.

“I am told,” Elrond elaborated, “that it  was commissioned by Felagund for Bëor the Old and became, for a while, the sword of his House. But Barahir sent it from Dorthonion with his wife, Emeldir Manhearted. Its history in Brethil is obscure, but it was kept by those peoples in honour, for it was carried with them to the Havens of Sirion and thence to Balar. Gil-galad entrusted it to me —but ever has it sat uneasily in my hands.”

“Nonetheless, it is a generous gift.” Elendil sheathed the sword. “You can be assured that I and my heirs will bear it with honour, Elrond son of Eärendil.”

Great as its deeds had been, it was all too short a time before Narsil returned to Imladris in shards.

Elrond balanced them upon his lap as young Valandil played among the wildflowers, uncomprehending of his doom. Tears gathered in Elrond’s eyes and wet his cheeks. Such premature grief was ever the price of foresight. Somewhere, Sauron’s Ring survived. Long would be the road and many the losses before Elendil’s sword was lifted once again against the shadow of evil. 

Chapter End Notes

I’ve seen people make the (reasonable) assumption that Narsil was one of the many heirlooms passed down to Elros and his heirs. I’m also fond of the headcanon that it was Maedhros’ sword, but I admit I don’t find it the most canonically likely origin.  In any case, none of this is actually canon. All we know is that Telchar made it in the First Age and then it was Elendil’s and so on down to Aragorn. Like Gil-galad in this fic, I’ve thought it was a little unfair that Elros gets everything. He got Aranrúth (I’ve written a ficlet about my headcanon on that here, he didn’t need Narsil, too. So, here’s my alternative explanation.

I do have ideas about what happened to it between Emeldir and the Havens, but I decided, because it’s rather convoluted and involves women bearers, that history probably didn’t record it. If you’re curious, let me know in a comment and I can elaborate.

This is the first time I've properly written anything in the Second Age and I'm so nervous I've made some canon mistake or fanon faux-pas. The fic is what it is, but please feel free to tell me if I have. I gotta give credit to Rings of Power for inspiring me to venture into this territory.