~ by Vanessa Parry-Elwen

He set the bundle upon a table, only staring at it for a long time. When his hand reached out to lift the cloth, he noted its tremor and paused to clench and unclench his fist until it stopped. Finally, as he had done every year on this date, he lifted the blue cloth to display one of the few relics of his greatest friend that remained.

The shaft had long since rotted away. Orc blood could be corrosive over time and it had been soaked through in their black ichor when Elrond had retrieved it from the battlefield, many days after he had buried its owner, his King. But Aeglos’ mithril blade was clean and bright, the engraving as crisp as the day it had been wrought. He had cleaned it himself, his tears anointing it as he worked.

Elrond smiled, remembering how, Gil-galad had allowed him to heft it once. With the impetuosity of youth, he had almost taken off his foot at his first swing. Gil-galad had laughed and sent him for lessons with the swordmaster, declaring that with a shorter weapon Elrond would be less likely to do harm to his friends or himself. Determined to prove himself, Elrond had become a master with the blade.

Years later, at the Siege of Barad-dur he drank his fill of fighting and death. Lance and sword were put away; replaced by lancet and scalpel. Now Elrond of Imladris wielded only healing in his strong hands.

He stared at those hands now, turning them this way and that, and moonlight glanced blue upon Gil-galad’s parting gift; both power and shackle. One day he hoped that it too would become some cloth wrapped relic; that he would hug his dearest friend close once more before the world drew its final breath.

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