Shards of Narsil
By: Vilya
Disclaimer: Um. I don't own any of it that I'm aware of…do I?
A/N: Whaddya know. My first posted LOTR fanfiction. The idea hit me in the middle of class one day, and, having my poor memory, I wrote it down, and a story just kind of built itself around it. So here it is. Told from the perspective of Boromir.
Norli: And give it a chance. I hate Boromir, but I loved this!
Vil: And I know it's short. But it's just one moment in an entire story, after all.
There lies within my actions a sense of foreboding and wariness, for I have not officially been given free run of these halls. But I am as welcomed here as any of the recent arrivals, and so feel that I can and should go where I please.
It is in this manner that I have found myself in this great room, partially exposed to the outside, yet nothing in it ever fading or losing any of its brilliance.
I find myself before a meticulously detailed painting, a rendering of the defeat of the Dark Lord by Isildur, once the King. In his upraised hand Isildur holds the broken hilt of Narsil, the mighty, or once-mighty, sword of Elendil. His face bears a look of defiance as he faces down the Dark Lord Sauron and his might and power. On his hand is his Ring, the One Ring, the ring of power, that which I have come to discuss.
There is a man in this room with me, though at first I believe him an elf, for this is indeed an elven realm. I sense his eyes on me before I see him, and I turn slowly as though I am not surprised. This man is so like to the representation of Isildur that I resist the urge to look again at the painting. This man, for I now know he is a man, holds a book in his hands, though it is clear that he has not glanced at the pages for some time.
"You are no elf," I say, thinking that if there is a man in this elven haven he must be of some importance, and indeed I would like to know his purpose.
"The men of the south are welcomed here," he replies, gesturing slightly at the intricately designed halls. His eyes rest for but a moment on a statue in the center of the room, but then they meet mine with intensity unlike any I have ever known.
"Who are you?" I ask, my curiosity getting the better of my instinctive caution.
"I am a friend to Gandalf the Grey," he states, naming the wizard who has also recently arrived here. He is rumored to be a very powerful man, and no doubt is here concerning the One Ring. Which makes this man, nearly the exact image of Isildur, here on business of the Ring as well.
"Then we are here on common purpose," I say, pausing for a moment, then adding, "friend." If he is indeed a consort of Gandalf the Grey, he can be trusted, and so can be called my friend. But I have learned to be careful of whom I place my trust in. Turning from the man, whose gaze has shifted back to his book, I look at the pillar before me. The six pieces of the sword Narsil lay spread on a shimmering cloth atop a pedestal that is a sculpture of a woman.
Slowly, reverently, I lift the hilt of the sword Narsil from the pedestal on which it rests. "The shards of Narsil. The blade that cut the ring from Sauron's hand." Taking it in both hands, I am surprised at its weight and, testing it on my finger, razor-fine sharpness. "Ah! Still sharp…" And even now, as just a broken shard, it has perfect balance, as though untouched by the passage of time, preserved in faultless condition for eternity.
I feel his eyes on me again, this man so like to Isildur. The way he studies my movements, my actions, almost as though he can see my thoughts and feelings, sends fear through me. I glance at him and hurriedly place the hilt of Narsil on the pedestal, muttering, "Nothing but a broken heirloom."
As I turn to go, the sword hits the floor with an echoing ring of metal-on-stone, and I wince and pause momentarily, wondering if I should move to pick it up or just let it lie. Shaking off the shock of the sound, I continue walking, slowly and deliberately. If the man will put the sword back, it is his decision. Narsil is not mine to claim. It is no one's, now, for there is no longer an heir to the throne of Gondor.
My father believes there is, somewhere. My brother believes. But I know that none could have survived. Any such heir would have been found and killed long ago. His only chance might have been here, safely hidden and perhaps renamed in the halls of Rivendell.
In my mind forms a suspicion of this man who seems to guard Narsil, but I drive it away. The line of Isildur died with Arathorn. And that was long ago.
+~*~+~*~+~*~+~*~+~*~+~*~+~*~+~*~+~*~+~*~+