Author's Note:
You may have missed one update before this.
Eldarion
He clutched the sword in his hands, both of them fitting snugly on the hilt. He gave it a few swings and loved the way it sliced the wind. He swung around the room in an intricate dance, felling imaginary foes at every turn until he stood in front of his aging king.
Aragorn smiled up to his son, his hair now as white as snow and wrinkles creasing around his lips and eyes. Gnarled bony hands with popping blue veins gripped his sceptre.
"Well?" Aragorn asked, voice rasping against his throat. "What think you of Andúril?"
Eldarion frowned and looked down at the glimmering blade. For as long as he knew, he never saw it once with a dull or notched edge. He picked up the sheath lying on the bench beside his father and covered it in one swift move. He offered it to his father, hilt first.
"It suits thee more than it does me." Eldarion said. Aragorn smiled and accepted it.
Author's Note:
I always wanted to know what Eldarion thought of Anduril. Did he feel it was his by right of birth? Or did he revere it enough to let it rest along with his father?
