A/N: Not my sword or characters. This part takes Aragorn into Rohan for the first time...
The supply sergeant studied the lanky boy before him, nonplussed. Hrolf had outfitted him as best he could with armor, spear, and shield, and had even given the boy money for brand new riding boots, knowing that there would be nothing in the supplies that would fit the dark young foreigner as well as a proper pair should. "You've been issued your equipment. What else do you want?"
The boy looked slightly abashed; to his credit, he did not pick at the too-wide breastplate he wore. Hrolf had felt lucky to find one long enough for the gangly dark-haired youth, let alone one that he might yet grow strong enough to fill out, given plenty of time and luck. "I need a sword, sir."
The sergeant snorted, motioning to the tightly cloth-wrapped pommel above the youth's shoulder. He had never seen the boy draw the blade, but Sergeant Hrolf had rarely seen the strange youngster without it, either. "You would volunteer to serve Rohan, even if you are not of her people, but you would not present Thengel King with your own sword? Are we Rohirrim really so far beneath you?" Hrolf leaned back in his chair, watching the boy flush under his withering gaze.
"It's not that! Not by any means," the dark-haired youth stammered. "I would be proud to draw the blade of my fathers next to your king, but as of now, that is simply not posssible." The boy removed the scabbard from his back, taking great care to remove the peace-bonds without unwrapping the hilt. Reverentially, he drew his sword at last, or what was left of it. More than half the blade had broken off from some unknown blow, leaving a jagged edge a mere nine inches or so from the hilt. The boy sheathed it before Hrolf could get a better look.
"You could get that fixed," the supply sergeant offered hesitantly.
The boy shook his head. "For one thing, I haven't the money. For another, - " the ghost of a smile flickered across his face as he set the scabbard back across his shoulders, his hand lingering upon the hilt. "They don't make them like this anymore."
"Thank Bema," Hrolf finished for him, handing him a plain, utilitarian saber.