Aragorn cursed under his breath as his knife slipped off the wood, narrowly missing his fingers.

"Here," Boromir's voice said behind him, "use mine." He handed Aragorn a small knife, hilt-first. "It's still sharp."

Aragorn took it with more reverence than it perhaps deserved... among the Dunedain, the offer of a knife was a binding promise. Boromir seemed to read his thoughts. "Keep it, Aragorn. You have need of a well-honed weapon at your side."

Aragorn solemnly offered his own knife to Boromir, who took it and slid it into his own sheath. Swordbrothers, bound by steel--and by love.