Disclaimer: I own none of it (as if I COULD come up with ANY of it). Character, blade, verse, and background belong to the great JRR Tolkein, master of the fantasy genre.
"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost."
An owl hooted overhead, gliding silently through tree boughs in search of his next meal. Aragorn looked up at the night hunter, watching his flight. Not all those who wander are lost. The owl's flight seemed aimless, as he drifted past the trees soundlessly, yet it had purpose. As, Aragorn hoped, did his own journey.
As for the first line, it's meaning remained ambiguous to him. Tarnished gold, like good men with bad reputations, didn't always show its worth. On the other hand, the meaning was easily reversed. People could be deceptive, as was gold that didn't shine.
His weight shifted, only half-consciously, and he felt his sword tap against his side. Aragorn's hand unconsciously slid down to it, fingering the top of the hilt as the owl faded from view.
He realized what he was doing and glanced down at the sword. His hands wrapped completely around the hilt, hesitating a moment, then drawing the first of the shards out. The hilt was large; he gripped it in both hands, as it would be used in battle.
The hilt of Narsil. The shard of sword— perhaps the only one— that had once dripped Sauron's blood. . . .
"The old that is strong does not whither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost."
Aragorn rubbed the top of the hilt with his finger. The edge if the handle was buffed more than the rest of the blade due to his absent attention. Narsil was immensely old, of course— it had seen two thousand years, enough to have severed Sauron's fingers. Yet, the jagged edge remained sharp enough to do it again.
Or perhaps that line didn't refer to Narsil, rather his bloodline. He was Isildur's Heir, one of a long line, yet he still bore resemblance to the man his line was named after, as if the blood had barely diluted itself at all.
Deep roots are not reached by the frost. He smiled wryly as his finger slipped up the hilt, leaving a thin, shallow cut on the pad. Deep roots weren't purged, no more than deep corruption, whatever it was caused by, could fully fade or be reversed.
"From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring."
The moonlight filtered through the trees, reflected off the sword blade and shining into the shadows, causing lights to dance under the tree's canopy. It brought to mind another line of the verse. A light from the shadows shall spring. It sounded to him a bit like hope in a tight spot. Estel . . . hope. Or perhaps that allusion was reading into ideas a bit too much.
As for the line before that, it could have any number of meanings. Perhaps the rekindling of the old war— the Shadow was rising in the East, after all, and war and fire seemed similar enough. Certain parts of the first war, after all, hadn't been fully laid to rest, much like live coals hidden in ashes. Isildur had kept the ring.
Interesting how both lines had been side by side, fire and shadow, light and darkness, perhaps hope and hell.
"Renewed shall be the blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king."
Running a finger he hadn't cut across the hilt design, he remembered the last of the lines of the verse. They at least, were easy enough to make out the meaning of. Narsil would be forged again, and eventually Isildur's line would return to Gondor.
Why Narsil might be remade was simple— once again, Middle Earth would be threatened by Sauron, in pursuit of the ring he'd lost. He'd already begun to stretch his fingers across the land in pursuit of it, and the hobbit that carried it.
As for the rest of the verse— The crownless again shall be king. Was it truly the wisest thing? Isildur's weakness, the weakness of men, had let Sauron's spirit survive the first time, and perhaps his blood, or that of men, could let it do so again. The Elves were preparing to leave in the midst of cataclysmic events, leaving men without much to turn to. Someone had to take the reign of men, but had destiny chosen wrong?
Wiping his blood from the edge of the blade, Aragorn returned the hilt of Narsil to it's sheath, glanced up at the moon, and continued out of the clearing.
"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not whither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost;
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be the blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king."
Author's Note: I realize this doesn't really have a conclusion. I confess this is the first serious thing I've written with the LOTR series, the only other thing being a crossover with Harry Potter, so I'm not sure how consistently IC I've kept Aragorn. That's where you come in, dear reader. Where can I improve? As for the symbolism, I know the verses go with Aragorn rather than Isildur's Heir, but he IS Isildur's Heir, and all the conclusions drawn from the verse are mine, not anyone else's. Anyway, I'd love to hear what you think. Cheers! — Loki Mischief-Maker