"But, Naneth, I cannot slay Orcs with this!" The little boy stared at his mother, then at the wooden sword in his hands, eyes wide with disbelief.
"You are not supposed to slay anything for many years to come," Gilraen replied, directing her words more at Lord Elrond than at her son. "Now, what do we say when we receive a gift?"
The child looked up at the Elda. "Le hannon, hir nín," he recited dutifully.
Elrond nodded and smiled. "You are very welcome, Estel. Practice your skill and perhaps later you shall receive a finer blade."
Gilraen kept silent.
-x-x-x-x-
Aragorn's fingers closed around the sword hilt and the blade shimmered in the light of the fire as he unsheathed it – the Flame of the West.
"May you wield it to better fortunes than your ancestors," Elrond said, assessing the Adan with both tenderness and doubt. He had done all he could for this future King of Men, but had he done enough for the son he had been entrusted to raise?
Aragorn caught his look, understanding and remembering. "Le hannon, hir nín," he answered. He did not need to explain that he was not only referring to the sword.