Elessar
This man… he is different; mysterious.
He is a man who would lead armies to battle,
whom men would follow to whatever end.
He reminds me of… a sword.
Not just any sword.
A sword fit for kings.
A sword like Andúril.
See him in your mind's eye:
Kingly, long, broad-hilted.
The smooth pommel, curved to fit under the hand,
to slide in and rest as if it were merely
an extension
of the hand that now holds it.
The hand grip, wrapped in dark, time-worn leather,
sleek and supple
bound with hair-thin silver wire
too elegant, too strong to be made by mortal Men.
The graceful bloodchannel, carved, flowing down
the deadly length of this yet beautiful weapon,
to the delicate, glittering tip.
He is made for killing, for slaughter,
bred to rejoice with the black blood
dripping down the noble blade, soaking the dark leather even darker,
steaming in the dust as it drips from the delicate, glittering
tip.
The runes traced on its gleaming, silver-red blade are not
those of lesser Men.
They are mystical, powerful, potent
hiding a strength of savage will and might
its heritage of nobility shining through,
from Númenor.
It is a keen blade,
a slender edge of sharpened death
honed to perfection for the slaughter
polished to flash like the dark burning eyes
behind its intricate patterns of mind-dazzling light.
There is no flaw in this sword.
The sword flickers in the grey twilight
the blade reflects the white stars of an age gone by long ago
the runes sing a song of victory
of inheritance claimed at long last and the promise
of a future king come into his own.
This sword is the sword of kings.
Andúril.
Flame of the West.