---The Shards of Narsil---
My fear soon gave way to curiosity, as the day gave way to night…Rivendell was indeed a labyrinth. Puzzling, vast…and full of treasures, namely those of art and ancient wisdom; treasures waiting to be unlocked, and explored...
The serene song of birds at twilight led me to a great passage filled with statues of marble, a fine example of Elvish craftsmanship- their artistic skills at least, I had come to admire in my brief time spent traversing their halls. But the great statues, their beauty even more apparent when bathed in the light of the fair moon, did not hold my attentions as long as the great painting which now captured my gaze…I stared in wonder. A tribute to Isildur?
I did not expect to see a glorification of Man in the house of an Elf. But lo! There it was…as I examined Isildur's painted features, I began to contemplate his regrettable fate. What great and terrible power could turn hero to coward, knight to knave? The saviour of Middle Earth fell to ruin…but I knew this was not due to the weakness of Men, but a result of the inner cowardice of Isildur himself…his power, placed in righteous hands, could not be used for wicked deeds. A stronger man would not be led astray…
At this thought, I became aware of another presence, which the weight of my thoughts had blinded me to. I snapped around swiftly, and much to my surprise and delight, I saw a Man- not an Elf. I was indeed glad to see a kinsman, the strange androgyny and unearthly nature of the Elvish men had unnerved me for an eternity, it seemed.
The man sat casually, with a worn looking volume nestled in his ring-encrusted hand. He was rugged, with unkempt hair the colour of new chestnuts, and a beard that rivalled my own. I would have thought him dishevelled, had his clothes not been of finer quality. He looked almost…at home in this place…his posture and demeanour suggested he was well acquainted with this residence of Elves. But how could that be?
Curious as to his origins, I questioned him, and discovered that he had arrived with Gandalf the Grey. I had suspected that none of the race of Men had business here save myself…if he was not an ambassador for our people, then what was his role? It mattered not: if he had been summoned, our purpose was one and the same…I exclaimed as much, and perhaps in haste, I called him 'Friend'. I may as well have deemed him a loathsome dog, for the icy silence I received in return. Much puzzled, and somewhat insulted, I directed my gaze elsewhere in hope of another distraction- one that would relieve me of the need to converse with so indifferent a stranger.
I found one quicker than expected…no sooner had my eyes shifted from the man's cold features, they rested upon an object altogether more delightful and wondrous to behold: the shards of Narsil, the instrument of Isildur- a weapon undeniably intertwined with his victory over the Dark Lord. It seemed as old as time itself, but there it lay: glistening as it rested upon a cloth of silk, in the hands of a figure carved in the spirit of solemnity. Without hesitation, I took the hilt- just holding it inspired feelings of greatness within my heart. I felt a deep thrill of excitement run through me, as I marvelled at its form. Even in pieces, it was still a magnificent weapon; truly worthy of its legacy.
Careless in my euphoria, I ran my fingers across its silken blade and drew blood. Remarkable…could it be, that after many a Great Age had passed, the sword was still fit to slay? The sword could still be wielded, if its fragments merged once more? As I wondered in silence, I felt a sharp and sickening sensation rush through me; as though the spectre of Isildur himself had whispered his scorn at my folly. As I turned my head slowly, I felt the scorn of another: the man I called friend gazed at me so intensely that it left me fearful. Was he truly a man? Or was he an Elvish fiend, merely donning the guise of my kin? Surely no man could possess a gaze so sharp, so penetrating…I felt as though he perceived my thoughts, nay, the very stirrings of my heart…
Suddenly, I wanted to flee: but my pride saved me from humiliation. I muttered some falsehood about my contempt for the blade, and purposefully replaced it in so careless a manner that it clattered shrilly to the ground, echoing my sentiments. As I walked towards the doorway that would lead me out of the accursed room, now drowned in discomfort and great tension, I turned my head once more towards the unsettling creature. I was a fool to think I could find solace in these lonely and wretched halls…I was a fool to think I could find one truly of my kin, in a place so foreign and dreary…this stranger was no Man. I retired that night with his piercing gaze imprinted upon my mind, and as I lay restlessly, longing for sleep, I could not help but wonder who or what he truly was…