Estel stood before the statue of the reverent woman. If she had a name, he did not know it. He'd thought to ask Lord Elrond about it; but, he'd always hesitated, halted, retreated. Lord Elrond was very old, though he did not look it. Almost all elves were very old and didn't look it; but with Lord Eldrond... sometimes there was a weariness behind the elf's eyes that seemed to Estel very deep and dark. And Estel suspected that the statue of the reverent woman had something to do with that, so he dared not ask.

Or, more likely, Lord Elrond's weariness (and Estel's wariness) revolved around the broken sword which rested on the stone platter the reverent woman held in her stone hands. The sword was not stone, but steel. Or something much like it. The shattered blade was silver and its shards seemed to shimmer subtly in the moonlight which came through the library's grandiose windows; though, that shimmering might be a trick of Estel's eyes in the darkness. And the library, indeed most of Rivendell, was dark at night, save for the moonlight- elves so delighting in the moon and stars that they only lit candles when they wished to read something or other.

But optical illusion or not, Estel often found himself in this room when he'd given up on sleep and resolved to wander the estate, hoping a bit of wandering would calm his restlessness. Rivendell was all he'd ever known. All he could remember; though, he had one vague memory of being outside, amongst humans, on a cold night, in front of an enormous fire. Or maybe that was a dream. Ethel didn't know, but in his twenty years of life, he'd only seen a few humans.

Rivendell was an elf place, and were it not for the mirror in his room, Estel would probably think he was an elf, too. But it was plain as day that he was not an elf, nor half of one: Estel knew his ears were rounded instead of pointed, he noted that the bones of his face were broader and rounder, and growing wider by the month; and, somewhat alarmingly, his face was growing thick black hair. He had to shave himself every morning now, though his face would be rough by midday. Regardless the effort.

Lord Elrond assured him that this was natural amongst humans, and it meant he was no longer a child. He was a man, now. Yet, despite the different noun: Estel didn't feel any different. His life remained the same as it ever was: lessons in the morning with his tutors, sword training and exercise in the afternoon with his trainers, and an end-of-day appraisal of his progress by Lord Elrond himself: always a duel, either of wits or of blades; and always a defeat followed by blunt observations from Lord Elrond on where it had all went wrong for Estel. In fact, this night's insomnious wandering was at least half-caused by a deep bruise from Lord Elrond's training blade- an unexpected backslash had found Estel wide open.

But in the library, with the full moon shining down like a gilded sun, Estel forgot the bruise, forgot the restlessness, and he stared at the broken sword. His mind was blank save for some insistent feeling that there was-

"You come here often," said a musical female voice. An elvish voice.

Estel jumped with startlement, his mind jerking back from the brink of a meditative trance. His eyes snapped to the source of the voice: a shadowed part of the library, pitchblack to his own eyes. A graceful movement gave a humanoid suggestion to the shadows. He perceived the silhouette of an elf woman standing up from a chair. Someone had been in here before him, apparently gazing at the moon.

Elves did that sort of thing quite a bit. Most of the residents of Rivendell did not follow any set sleeping pattern that Estel could discern. They took their rest when they wanted, and became active in daylight or moonlight as it suited them. Meanwhile, Estel found his eyes shutting of their own accord within hours of sunset, and opening with the rising sun. But sometime betwixt: he would wake, toss and turn, and then wander- inevitably encountering elves like this one, doing the pensive things elves seemed to devote much of their time to: like sit in the dark alone and gaze at stars.

The elf stepped into the moonlight, and Estel was transfixed. The starlight caused her long, dark hair to shimmer at the edges with a silver shine. Two blue eyes gazed out of a pale face, like sapphires, seeming to have a light of their own. Estel took in a ragged gasp. This was beauty he suddenly and desperately wanted to hold in his arms, to grasp to him; but it was also a beauty that was nigh divine, surely forbidden in its perfection

Then, Estel's mind caught up and he realized exactly who this woman was.

His breath froze in his chest: it was Lady Arwen- Lord Elrond's own daughter, recently home from a long visit in Lorien. And this 'long' was in the elvish sense: hundreds of years. Estel had heard some idle gossip (for elves did seem to savor moments which broke the routine): that Lady Arwen was somewhat rebellious in regards to her father's expectations of her; That she had a young soul; That she was as feisty as the Bruinen River in spring.

For himself, Estel had only briefly met her during her welcome-back feast two weeks prior, and since then, had not seen her. And while Rivendell was big- it was not that big. She either spent most of her time off the grounds- or was purposefully avoiding him. But now, they alone in the unlit library in the dead of night, Lady Arwen was giving him a direct stare.

Estel realized he'd been standing quite a while and hadn't said a thing. He needed to say something or be considered rude. Or worse: a dolt. But what could he say to this lunar-haloed princess he'd stumbled upon?

"Lady Arwen-," said Estel, gazing back into her sapphire eyes. No longer surprised, her beauty hit him with full force. And his mind froze up. "-uhhhh…"

She laughed.

But it was not a mocking laugh. It was amusement. A lighthearted thing that chimed in Estel's ears with the purity of honest mirth. Her eyes laughed, too. They narrowed into almond shapes and sparkled like gemstones.

"Indeed," she said, half a giggle. Then, in faux severity: "It is I."

A low, short guffaw escaped from Estel's mouth before he could stop it. Arwen's comedy was unexpected- most elves he met were rather aloof like Lord Elrond, though none were quite so dour. Still, lighthearted foolery was not what Estel expected from the Lord's daughter. He immediately worried he'd overstepped some bound of propriety.

But Arwen seemed to brighten further. "So, you do laugh and smile. It's the first I've seen of it."

"You've… seen me? Often?" Estel wondered if she'd been spying on him? And if so, why? And wasn't it very arrogant to think she was?

"Of course," said Arwen. "You certainly stand out amongst my Father's people. And Rivendell isn't that big. I've seen you in this very room, staring at that blade, these last few nights."

Estel was somewhat alarmed to learn he'd been observed during moments he'd thought he was alone in this library. She was spying on him! "Then, Lady Arwen: Why only greet me now? On this night?"

A deep male voice interrupted: "Because I forbade it."

Arwen's blue eyes widened in shock. They both turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered figure in the doorway. Lord Elrond was not built like most elves: he was rougher. Muscular and scarred. Thousands of years of military practice, multiple wars, and an instinctively intimidating demeanor was not disguised by the soft, aristocratic clothing that passed for casual-wear amongst the Rivendell elves- if anything, it accentuated all those features and gave Lord Elrond the aura of a fabled warrior king who had somehow fallen out of his era and landed in this one.

"Arwen," said Lord Elrond, his grey eyes focuses entirely on his daughter. "Return to your chambers."

Arwen's chin rose. "No."

Lord Elrond's eyebrows raised like the billowing of threatening clouds, and his habitual frown somehow managed to increase in severity. Meanwhile, Estel felt an aura of tension wash over him like the advancing wind of a storm. He was entirely shocked. No one defied Lord Elrond- but then again, no one in Rivendell could claim to be his equal. Until now.

"Estel," growled Lord Elrond, "Leave us."

As a human resident, ward, and guest of the elven lord- there was nothing to do but obey. Not that Estel wasn't eager to murmur a polite excusal for himself, which he was sure neither Arwen nor Elrond heard while they glared at one another, and get out of there. The library had just become a frightening place- for both human and elf.

The next morning, Estel was awoken by a messenger: Lord Elrond would see him in the library. Now. And so: Estel went. Now.

During the walk, Estel wondered sleepily if he should offer some sort of apology, but after some groggy calculation of what he understood of elven custom, he decided he had made no transgression. And that made Estel feel a bit more confident about this strange and sudden summons; it most likely didn't have anything to do with last night and his encounter with Lady Arwen. Probably.

The library was gold in the morning sunlight, the wood architecture always seeming to maintain that freshly carved look despite likely being millenia old. Likewise, Lord Elrond seemed as he had been last night; grim, imposing, and wrapped in flowing cream robes which took on the golden hue of the sunrise. He stood in that pensive, patient pose most elves took up when they were idle: arms down, wrists against stomach, fingertips of each hand pressed together, pointed vaguely downward.

"You are drawn to this broken sword." Was Lord Elrond's greeting to Estel's arrival. "But you do not know why."

It was a statement framed as a question. A truth already known, despite Estel's long reluctance to ask. Well, it was no secret now.

"Yes," said Estel. "Who is that woman?"

Lord Eldrond's eyes narrowed. From a lifetime of experience, Estel knew that was how Elrond showed surprise. It apparently was not the question expected.

"That is-" Lord Elrond's brows creased together, craggy mountain ridges on his forehead. He was quiet a moment, staring at the statue which held the sword. Finally, he said: "I don't remember her name. But she was the wife of Elendil."

Estel knew that name, certainly. King Elendil "Elf-Friend". Founding king of both Arnor and Gondor, slain by the Dark Lord thousands of years ago. His wife was obviously the Queen of the same honors. Huh. Well, it made sense that it was a woman of stature and-

Wait, a moment.

Estel looked at the broken blade which so often enveloped his sleepless nights. It looked mundane now, in the bright light of the morning. Just an old sword. Well-made, yes. But dull, unremarkable steel with a elegant, but spartan pommel. But! But if the Queen Elendil held it, that must mean:

"This is Narsil," said Estel, his voice full of the wonder that filled him now. He stared at the fabled blade, nearly forgetting Lord Elrond still loomed over him, frowning his customary frown. "That's why I've been drawn to it. This blade saved all of Middle-Earth."

"No," said Lord Elrond. "You are drawn to it because it is yours."

Estel's head whipped around. Did? Did Lord Elrond just tell a joke?

"What?" said Estel.

"Estel. You are not Estel," said Lord Elrond. "That is not truly your name. Your name is Aragorn. You are the son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and so you are their chieftain by hereditary right. But more than that: you are the descendant of King Isildur and heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Gondor. It is time now, in your twentieth year, to take this sword, leave my house, and rejoin your own people; whom you are destined to rule."

"..."

"What?" said Aragorn.