A/N: Tolkien's characters. In the books, unlike the movies, Narsil didn't just sit in the arms of a statue for sixty years until Elrond got around to reforging it. However, that still leaves the question of how much Aragorn actually used it before it was reforged as Anduril. This little series of drabbles is intended as a peek into the mind of one who would use a broken blade.
Estel stared forlornly at the broken blade in his hand. Really, of what use was it? He could not fight with it. If you did not know its history, it was not even all that impressive to look upon. Certainly, at one time, Narsil had been a heroic weapon in the hands of kings, but now, it was not really a sword. Now, there was not even really a king.
If Narsil was but a useless remaint of a glorious past, Aragorn was even less than that. He was but a man, for Elbereth's sake; a man who did not even know the customs of other living men that well! And here he had foolishly thought that a broken sword and a forgotten crown gathering dust in a forgotten room of some land he'd never been to would be good enough to impress an elven lady. Narsil had more use than that, he decided, running a finger against the edge. The broken blade was sharp enough to draw blood.
Estel felt a hand brush against his shoulder. "You won't learn to use it just by looking at it, little brother," Elrohir said. Standing behind his twin with an armful of daggers, Elladan flashed the youngster a wink. "Come to the training yard, and we'll see if we can't find some method of wielding it in battle."
