Title: Thoughts of a Dagger

Author: Eärillë

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: First Draft, (brief, semi-graphic) Violence

Summary:
I was forged for one single purpose, for one single person. But the world is wide, and the dangers aplenty, and one single purpose and one single person could turn into many.

Genres: Action, Framed Story, ShortStory, Spiritual, Supernatural

Place and Timeline: First Age to the End, Hithlum to Valinor

Characters: Bilbo, Ereinion Gil-galad, Erestor, Fingon, Frodo

Words (in MS Word): 1,105

Point of View: First Person, Past Tense; Third Person General, Past Tense; First Person, Present Tense

Challenge: Day 17: Bree-lands:
Hobbits are well known for their gift-giving traditions. Write a story or poem in which the exchange of gifts is featured, or use "gifting" as a theme for a piece of art.

Story and Author’s Notes:
The story is divided into sections, each with different perspective and tone. I attempted to label them with time and place, but it ended up ruining the whole setting. So if you would like some clarification, please contact me. (I am sorry for the inconvenience.)
The rating is actually only for near the end of the story and the end itself, but I thought warning you right from the start would be the best thing to do, especially with the fact that it is mainly the point of view of a dagger anyway, and daggers at that time were not worne to make someone look flashy. I did not even wish to write about this, originally, but I was defeated in the end. Hopefully this is not too far an interpretion of the prompt.
I paraphrased a passage from The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, towards the end of the story. I wanted to just quote the said passage, actually, but the difference in writing style disturbed the flow and I was forced to tweak some things here and there. And (before I forget it, again), this story takes its background from my larger one: Brother Mine. Unfortunately, however, it is not yet posted in this site also, and I have not yet posted the revised version anywhere… So sorry, people.
And with that, I bid you farewell – for now.
Enjoy!
Rey

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I was forged by early grief, by sorrow and hopeless yearning, by a fierce need to protect a weak but terribly precious being. But most of all, I was forged by love and protection, care and courage, to give hope to an endless battle.

*

The blade of the long dagger caught the weak light of Hithlum’s early morning, and refracted it sharply as a silver beam stronger than its source. The handle, grasped lightly but expertly by the new High King of the Ñoldor, was made of what looked like bone carved painstakingly with ivy and leafy patterns.

“To protect you in your journey, son,” Fingon whispered, gazing intently into little Ereinion’s eyes. “Obey Erestor; do not hastle him. I want you both arriving safely to Círdan’s abode.”

His eyes then moved towards the young man holding Ereinion in his arms, as he resheathed the dagger and proffered it to his son. “Your lives are worth more than almost everything in my life, Erestor. Please do not take undue risks or detour from your path,” he said just as quietly. And, smiling wanly, he added, “I could not think of a proper gift for you, nephew. But if I might make a last effort to convince you: Please consider my father’s sword yours, completely. You know that Ereinion does not like long blades; and you also know that I would rather you wield it than anyone else.”

A matching wan smile flashed across Erestor’s taut countenance, tinged by rueful acknowledgement. Nodding solemnly, he briefly grasped the hilt of the sword hidden beneath his cloak, before helping Fingon to fasten the dagger to Ereinion’s belt. – The ten-year-old was all too silent, and the weight of the parting was impinging more and more insistently on his own conscience, and he could see that Fingon was suffering from the same plight.

“–I forged the final touches myself, and imbued it with Notes of protection. It shall glow blue if the Enemy’s forces are nearby; the strength and position of the glow indicate how many and how near they are to your own position. I dearly hope that you will not have to make use of this… but I fear it is just an empty hope. Promise me the two of you are not going to be your reckless selves and endanger yourselves unnecessarily? I shall–“

And the King was almost rambling; not a good sign. Erestor moved forwards a little and touched the King’s shoulder gingerly, ignoring Fingon’s slight flinch on the sudden movement – if not the gesture itself, his mind berated him. Looking up, he met Fingon’s pain-and-sorrow-filled eyes, and whispered, “I promise you, Uncle.”

A flash of surprise and great joy visited those blue orbs, all too briefly. Half laughing and half sobbing, Fingon at last forwent all restraints and gathered the two young ones to his chest in a tight embrace. “Go with my blessings and prayers, my kin. May you live long and find happiness wherever you are.”

And without a backward glance, Erestor fled the fortress, a quietly-crying Ereinion snuggled in his arms.

The blade of the dagger, hidden in its sheath and two layers of different cloaks, warmed slightly in warning. It would have glowed all over with a faint blue sheen if only it were currently in use.

*

I was kept safe… as decoration. The little one I was supposed to protect grew daily, sheltered in a hidden city with all the protections those of flesh and blood longed in this time. I was taken care of with love and great pleasure, but by then I was not more than a trinket to remind the little one of the forger he had lost.

And then came the great turmoil, and I was forgotten, hanging on the place of honour above the mantelplace of a still-burning hearth. Enemies neared, then, but I had nobody to warn, as per my duty when I had firstly been forged.

Filthy hands took me; impure hands. I heated up in anger and revulsion, burning them away. Unfortunately, others took me, swathed in dirty rags that choked me and stifled my given powers. I did not know where I was brought, and I had no care of the passing time, as it could not affect me as much as it did my lesser brethren. I was passed here and there, spoken to by those vile ones with fear and resentment but also with greed, until I ended up hanging in a dingy place whose air wreaked of fear and the stench of man-slaughter.

And then a pair of small hands, larger than my little one and strange to my sense, picked me up from my gloomy resting place, looking at me with such innocent curiosity and admiration. He carried me away from the dingy place and used me often in his journeys.

He was my new master, but he was not the last.

*

Bilbo took a small sword sheathed in an old shabby leather scabbard, and drew it with a flourish. And its polished, well-tended blade glittered suddenly, cold and bright, as if moonlight rested upon it. "This is Sting," he said to the agape Frodo, then proceeded to thrust the blade, with little effort, deep into the side of the box wherein it had rested. "Take it, if you like. I shan't want it again, I expect." He smiled hopefully, winningly, at his nephew and adopted heir, and Frodo could only nod mutely in response.

*

I was never treated so well until that other little-and-yet-not-little one took me as his. I never left his person, and times and times over I bit into the Enemy’s creatures, bathing myself with their blood in glorious victory. My new master trusted me to always warn him of danger, and I, in turn, trusted him to never let go of me.

The trust was never broken, at least not willingly. And in the end, past a change of worldly age and a wide expanse of salty water, I was reunited with my forger and his little one – my little one, who was grown up and yet little again. I was thanked and blessed by the Smith-of-all-worldly-smiths, and my little grown-up one promised to never let go of me again for any reason save his death; not even mine.

I was content.

And I am now, as I am lodged in the heart of the Black One, the being forging all those horrible creatures. His blood scorches me, melting me, but it is too late. He is dying, just as I am.

I am content.