Old Swords by StarSpray

Old Swords

Read Old Swords

Elrond knew all about runes of every kind. That day he looked at the swords they had brought from the trolls’ lair, and he said: “These are not troll-make. They are old swords, very old swords of the High Elves of the West, my kin. They were made in Gondolin for the Goblin-wars. They must have come from a dragon’s hoard or goblin plunder, for dragons and goblins destroyed that city many ages ago. This, Thorin, the runes name Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver in the ancient tongue of Gondolin; it was a famous blade. This, Gandalf, was Glamdring, Foe-hammer that the king of Gondolin once wore. Keep them well!”

- The Hobbit, "A Short Rest"

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As the dwarves and Bilbo Baggins left Elrond with their map, heads bent together to discuss the moon runes and what they meant, Gandalf lingered. Elrond sat down by the window and poured himself a glass of wine. Gandalf seated himself nearby, Glamdring across his knees. “You do not altogether approve of this adventure?” he asked.

“I approve greatly of ridding the world of a dragon, and restoring Erebor and Dale,” Elrond said, “but what a halfling and thirteen dwarves can do, I cannot tell.”

“Nor can they, nor can I,” said Gandalf cheerfully. “But there is more to Master Baggins than meets the eye—as I keep telling them all—and I am looking forward to telling Thorin I told you so, when my words prove true.”

“All to the good, perhaps. Smaug will expect no great threat either,” said Elrond. “And I will, of course, do all that I can to help.”

“Speaking of dragons,” said Gandalf, and lifted up Glamdring. “This sword—it belonged to the king of Gondolin, you say? To Turgon himself?”

“Yes,” said Elrond, leaning back in his seat. “Which you did not need me to tell you.”

“I have had little time to examine it,” Gandalf said, sounding a little bit like Master Baggins at his most prim. He drew the blade carefully from its sheath again, and turned it this way and that. The metal caught the lamplight and gleamed coldly. “Why, is this Turgon’s name where the maker’s mark should go? He made it himself, then.”

“Yes,” said Elrond. He sipped his wine and sighed. It was light and sweet, tasting of sunshine on leaves and of the joy of those who had pressed the grapes and fermented the juice. “It seems that you shall have need of such a blade, Gandalf. It was no mere chance that brought weapons out of Gondolin to a troll-hoard in Eriador.”

“Are you sure you don’t want it?” Gandalf asked, raising an eyebrow. “He was your great-grandfather, it is yours by right. And if you feel I shall need a sword—and I have managed quite well without one thus far—I can find another one easily enough.”

“I have no need of it,” said Elrond. He rarely left Rivendell anymore, and when he did he had an entire armory to choose from. “I think its maker would rather it be used as it was meant to be, rather than lying about gathering dust, especially in these days as the Shadow grows stronger.” Certainly it was preferable to lying about in a troll hoard. Elrond wondered what Turgon would think of that, should he ever learn of it. “I feel that if I were meant to have it, I would have found it. But if you doubt your abilities, please see Glorfindel before you leave. I would hate to hear that you’d skewered yourself half an hour after leaving Rivendell.”

“I beg your pardon, Master Elrond!” Gandalf tried for outraged but failed, instead falling into laughter. “Don’t worry. I understand the basic principles—which end to stick where, and so forth—but I shall indeed consult with Glorfindel before we leave—if only to see his face when I show him Turgon’s own sword!” Elrond laughed, and poured them both more wine.