THE RETURN OF THE KING

Elrond lifted the cloth from Frodo's brow and dipped it in the cool scented water, wringing it out before replacing it. His attention was caught as a single drop of water fell towards the table, splashing upon metal.

Estel had brought the hilt of the Morgul dagger to show him yesterday and after the initial inspection Elrond had not felt able to touch it again. So here it lay.

Its purpose had been served. Having delivered its poison shard to Frodo the rest of the blade had melted away in the dawn light and it was now harmless . . . no use to anyone. Elrond would arrange for its destruction later. This was definitely one weapon that would never be reforged.

The healer turned, brushing back dark curls before laying the cloth back upon his patient's brow. His thoughts turned to another broken weapon.

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Elrond found himself standing before the long plain wooden box. How many times over the past three thousand years had he stood here? He looked down at the stone floor. Mortal feet would have worn it away in that time but elven feet did not weigh so heavily upon the world. Even so, his keen sight could make out the tiniest of indentations . . . Too many times. And yet here he was again.

A long fingered hand, the nails perfectly manicured, reached out to stroke the silk-smooth wood, now aged and polished to a deep honeyed brown. He remembered when it was still pale and new. Loremaster Elrond was grateful for perfect elven memory but Elrond, Earendil's son, was not always so grateful. He smiled as he looked at the perfectly rounded nails. There had been a time when battle had broken and grimed them almost beyond redemption. Had he grown soft over the years? Would he be able or willing to take up such a weapon again?

The catch opened with a well-oiled snick and he lifted the lid. It was still there. Where else would it be? Who else would be interested in a broken sword? It lay nestled in its deep blue velvet, the razor sharp edges of the steel a contrast to the soft fabric that cushioned it. Sliding his fingers around the smooth hilt, he lifted it slowly. Only then did it become apparent to the casual eye that the blade had been snapped in two. Elrond hefted the broken sword in his hand.

With only half its blade the balance was wrong but Elendil had allowed him to swing it once when it was whole and he remembered the feel of it. Then it had been a thing of beauty, if one could consider such a bringer of death beautiful. Soon it would be whole again, ready to meet out more death and destruction. Elrond sighed and returned it to its winding sheet. He was tired of death.

For too many years now he had longed for the peace of the Undying Lands but he was tied to this place of death by the ring bound invisibly to his finger and by the blood flowing invisibly through the heirs of Isildur . . . the descendants of Elros . . . his brother. It was diluted by many generations but it was his brother's blood non-the-less. If Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, came into his inheritance as a result of the destruction of the One Ring, the blood of Elros and Elrond would be united once more. And even that, which should be a joyous occasion, would be bitter sweet for it would result in another death . . . Arwen.

So many times in recent years Elrond had wished that the sense of duty did not run so strongly in his veins. Had it not he would have gone to the Havens with Celebrian and all his children and they would be safe and happy in the West. His daughter would have given her heart to some elven prince and they would go on together throughout eternity. But Elrond had taken on the responsibility of wielding one of the elven rings of power and, as a result, his daughter had met Aragorn and now she would die.

He sighed and closed the box, shutting the lid on death. But Death would not be shut away and it walked with him from the room. It strode at his side as he walked the hallways of the Last Homely House and it stood with him as he entered Estel's room.

It was empty now, but for Elrond and Death, had been empty for days. But it still held something of Estel. It had been his room from the day he and his mother had arrived in Imladris, tired and grief stricken. Gilrean had been too deep in her own hurt to provide the two year old Aragorn with solace and Elrond had taken the wailing child from her arms, rocking him gently and humming a lullaby that Celebrian had sung to their own children. The child had quieted within minutes, tired grey eyes closing, one tiny fist knotted in the front of Elrond's robe.

Aragorn's foster father looked about the room. A cushion on the broad window ledge and a table nearby with a candle and a small pile of books was testimony to a favourite seat. Elrond smiled, remembering how many times he had chided a young mortal boy for trying to read by moonlight instead of lighting a candle. The young Estel had wanted so hard to fit in . . . and yet he was reminded every day that he was not an elf, by such simple things as having to light a candle when it grew dark. To be sure, the house was filled with candles, many of them lit. But they were not essential to those of elven sight. They were a decoration, like a vase or a painting.

Two dirty shirts lay screwed up on the bed. The ranger had stepped into the room only long enough to exchange one from his pack and the other from his back. Elrond made a mental note to get someone to wash them for him. Aragorn was away so frequently that his room was not checked every day. The elf turned to leave and Death drew his eye to the dresser where, across the corner of the small mirror, was draped one of Arwen's kerchiefs. It was the one that the mortal had held when he and Elrond had discussed his betrothal.

Once more, elven memory replayed every nuance. Elrond's first reaction had been anger. How could the young man that he had given a father's love to betray him in this way? How could he let this heir to a throne long empty kill his only daughter? But then he had seen them together, their eyes filled only with each other, and he had remembered how that had felt.

Elves felt such a love only once. If Arwen did not have Aragorn she would have no other and she would have to live through eternity with the loss. If they had never met it would be a different matter but the damage had been done and all that her father could do now was ensure that the mortal that she married would be worthy of her. No less than High King. And so now another path converged on the One Ring. Death grinned at him from across the room.

"Adar? Adar?"

Elrond turned to look at his birth son.

"Glorfindel has arrived. We are all assembled in the library," Elladan announced.

Elrond nodded and followed him from the room, shutting the door behind him. Death waited patiently.

TBC.