How long had he been hiding...keeping out of the spotlight... lurking in the shadows... having nothing to him, not his own name, not the sword that was the symbol of his heritage, nothing...

Rationally he knew that there were reasons, sound reasons, for that but looking at the Gondorian warrior stride arrogantly around and pick up the shards of Narsil he felt hot rage burn through him.

And hot rage was something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Raised by the elves, his life had been the life suspended in time of those for whom time holds no meaning. Human passions and desires distilled across entire ages until they became dulled, tamed and felt like they were not a necessary part of life.

A life centered on a mission, with no room for self-indulgence.
A fiance chosen to better fulfill that mission, to be a symbol at his side and nothing more.
And he had truly come to feel that nothing more was needed...

And now this arrogant blond guy walked around acting as if he owned the place, grabbed the shards of his sword as if they were just a common piece of weapon forgotten about by some careless warrior...

Blood roared through his veins, rushed through all of his body, bringing it back to life, forging it into hard, hot iron.

He stepped from the shadows and silently walked up to the blond Steward who was still looking at Narsil. As he grabbed his shoulders and brought him against his body, he spoke.

"Mine."

Narsil would be reforged one day.
The man who would wield it had been reforged now.