Minas Tirith, 11th March, 3018

In case you don't have an edition of LoTR with the appendices, the chronology entry for that date is:

'Gollum visits Shelob, but seeing Frodo asleep nearly repents. Denethor sends Faramir to Osgiliath. Aragorn reaches Linhir and croses into Lebennin…'

The room was chill, the air heavy. He set down the lamp carefully on the table and went to close the shutters in obedience to the ban on showing a light. Without his volition, his fingers sought the familiar grooves in the stone of the embrasure: B and F. There was still a minute scar on his left thumb where his hand had slipped with the knife.

'I shouldn't have thought there was as much blood in the whole of me as there is in my thumb.'

'Well I don't want it, go and bleed somewhere else.'

A shelf of books. A bundle of papers – sketches, lists, scribbles.

'Say them over again.'

'Mardil, Eradan, Herion, Belegorn, Túrin, Húrin…'

'No, it's Húrin, Túrin…'

'All right, know-all…'

Chests of clothes. Broken toys. A box of lead soldiers in tarnished array.

'You hid those behind the curtain. Ambushes aren't allowed.'

'Why aren't they?'

A small dagger in a tooled leather sheath, the leather beginning to crack. Stray arrows with broken feathers.

'That's two in the gold to me, and one to you.'

'It should be two all, you distracted me on that last shot.'

'I didn't move a muscle. You just can't bear losing.'

'Oh well, if you insist, two to you and one to me.'

A collection of orc-weapons and helmets, most of them rusty with blood.

'Why do you have to keep those ghastly things?'

'It shows what I do to enemies of Gondor.'

'As if we didn't know!'

And finally, a long sword complete with scabbard and belt. He took it over to the lamp, half-drew it and ran his thumb lightly along the edge, noting the instant thin line of red. There was no rust on the blade, and the leather of the belt was supple. Though set aside, the sword had been cared for.

'You can have my old dagger if you want. This is a full-size sword, a man's sword. You couldn't even lift it.'

'I could so!'

'Let's see you then. Not like that, idiot, you have to use it one-handed.'

'That's not fair, you never said one-handed.'

And five years later:

'You can have this one now, Father's given me his.'

But the smiths had offered him one of his own, one they had made with such care and devotion that he could not set it aside, knowing they had made it not for the Steward's son but for the silent small boy who had once spent so many fascinated hours watching them at their work.

'You don't mind if I use this? I shouldn't seem to despise their gift?'

'Of course not. Use it. The other will keep.'

He drew the sword fully, testing the feel. The balance was good, the weight no greater than that of his present weapon. The grip was a little broader than he was used to, but not uncomfortably so.

'Do you realise we're much the same height now?'

'Yes, but not the same breadth, strong man.'

'I'm not as broad as old Forlong.'

'No, he's as broad as he's long.'

It was time. He re-sheathed the sword, buckled it on, took up the lamp and went out.

Wait for me, brother, I'm not far behind you.