Elrohir looked at the dull bits of shattered steel and worn leather skeptically. “This is it?” he said, his disappointment clear in his voice. “I have seen this every day for a hundred years!”
Elrond let the obvious exaggeration go with no more than the chiding arch of an eyebrow. “Sometimes we do not see the things we look at every day, ‘Rohir.”
“But, Ada,” Elladan objected, “Erestor said that Narsil was shiny like the sun and the moon and all the enemies were afraid of it.” He shared a dubious look with his brother, then glanced again at the broken shards where they lay on their simple pedestal.
“All that is gold does not glitter, child,” Elrond said mildly. “The worth of many things is hidden until the moment of destiny arrives.”
Elladan nodded sagely. “Like when that awful white glop becomes porridge with apples and cinnamon?”
Elrond chuckled. “Yes, ‘Adan. Something like that.” Patting each dark head affectionately, he added, “And now, as much as I have enjoyed the break, I must get back to my correspondence. You may await Glorfindel here, if you promise not to touch the sword.”
“We will not touch it, Ada,” the twins chorused, shaking their heads in perfect unison. “We promise.”
Elrohir watched his father walk away, then turned back to the broken sword, his brow furrowing in confusion as he pondered the dull silver-white glow. He glanced at his brother, who was also studying the shards with a fierce frown. It was never wise to contradict Elrond, but...
“’Dan?”
“Aye?”
“That is not gold!”