Robb did wish he could have actually looked at his new sword a bit more closely, but steering a boat down the Anduin, he found, was a difficult enough task on its own. As it were, Airilírë sat comfortably at his hip while Robb paddled downstream, following the other three ships steered by Aragorn, Boromir and Legolas.

In front of Robb Pippin sat, for once quiet, admiring his new belt.

Robb let his gaze wander to the river banks where trees stood closely together, providing ample cover to those who wished to observe their Fellowship without themselves being observed in turn.

His lips twitched when he spotted a flash of grey fur through the trees—it seemed Grey Wind had sensed their departure from Lothlórien and was now bounding along, trying to keep pace. However, Robb suspected that despite Grey Wind's size and speed he would not be able to do so for much longer. They were going downriver, after all. To the Falls of Rauros.

Well—that was what Robb had been told. And even though he did trust his companions, both to be truthful with him about their way and to stay on the right path, not having any knowledge of the land irked him.

Which reminded him—

"Ah, fuck." Robb let his head fall back with a deep sigh.

Pippin turned around, eyes questioning. "What's the matter?"

"I forgot to ask for a map again!" Robb drew a hand over his face in despair. "I've been hoping to get one of this place since the moment I arrived and I always forget."

He groaned again. "A month, Pippin! I had a whole month's time to ask for a map—from Thanarwë, Maeniliel, hells, even Aragorn could have procured one from somewhere, I'm sure—and yet! I still have no way of knowing where in the name of the Gods I am, or where I need to go in case we are ever separated."

Pippin giggled, entirely uncaring of Robb's predicament. It was hurtful, really.

"I'm sure that won't happen," he grinned, reaching back to pat Robb's knee, which was the only thing within his range. "But if it helps, Mordor's south-east of here. I think."

Robb huffed a faint laugh. "Ah, yes, thank you, Pippin. I'm certain it will be that easy."

They continued downstream, Grey Wind long out of sight, and stopped only in the evening, when an impassable stretch of rapids forced them to carry the boats over land for a while. Once they were back to safe waters, it was unanimously agreed that a few hours of rest would do them all good.

It was then that Robb finally had the chance to admire his new blade. Sitting down by the fire, he drew it from its sheath, careful to not get in the way of Sam next to him—it wouldn't do to ruin their dinner, after all.

Beyond the winged crossguard and the pommel, both of which shimmered in a colour somewhere between silver and gold, the sword consisted of ordinary steel. The blade flared the tiniest bit near the bottom, but came together again just before it met the crossguard. Otherwise, it was as straight as could be. Robb could make out inscriptions in what he assumed to be Elvish—the more difficult kind?—on the blade.

Legolas took a seat beside him and crossed his legs, graceful as ever.

"Do you know what this says?" Robb handed the sword to the Elf, who spent some moments admiring it before turning his gaze to the runes.
Legolas squinted his eyes like someone trying to make sense of an indecipherable book.

"'Amarië, melda tari, melinyel,'" he read out. "It is… a declaration of love to a lady by the name of Amarië. Finrod's beloved, if I remember correctly."

Legolas sighed, returning the sword to Robb's hands. "But beyond that — it says, 'Tenn' enta lúme' — I do not know. Quenya is similar to Sindarin, yet too different for me to speak it fluently. You would have to ask Aragorn."

Robb sheathed the blade again, happy enough with the translation Legolas had given, and tilted his head. "Are those the two kinds of Elvish? Quenya and Sindarin?"

"Yes, although there are more than two. My father and I are Sindar, but our people are Silvan Elves, so they speak Nandorin. Lady Galadriel is a Noldo, and her mother tongue is Quenya, but that language was forbidden by the king of my father's people long ago, so now she too speaks Sindarin most often. Besides, her people are Sindarin. And Lord Elrond… well, his family tree is complicated. His upbringing even more so. And you do not know him."

Legolas stopped, then huffed a laugh. "Now that I say it out loud, all of it is complicated. It is best not to question Elves, or so Gimli tells me."

Robb blinked and tried to process that information. "I– yes. Aye, I believe he's right, there."

He put his sword aside when Sam nudged his arm, holding out a bowl of stew, and started to eat.

After swallowing, he asked, "So, who was Finrod? Beyond Lady Galadriel's brother, I mean. Why would she call giving me his sword 'poetic justice?'"

"He was a great Elven lord, Robb," Aragorn interjected, plopping down on the other side of Legolas with his own dinner.

Robb nodded, leaning forward a bit to better look at Aragorn.

"Well, Finrod chose to accompany Beren on his quest to steal a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown. When their company was captured by Sauron and he had them killed one by one by a wolf to make them give up their purpose—well, eventually, only Finrod and Beren were left. As the wolf made to kill Beren, Finrod—unarmed and unclothed—fought it with his bare hands and teeth. And although Finrod did die of his wounds, he managed to kill the beast as well, saving Beren."

Robb let his gaze fall to the sword at his side.

"Aye, that is poetic justice, then," he mumbled after a moment of silence.
Aragorn hummed in agreement.

"Was it not Finrod who gave your ancestor this ring, as well?" Legolas asked.

Blinking, Aragorn looked down at his hand, where a silver ring of two snakes with emerald eyes sat.

"Ah, yes. He gave it to Barahir, Beren's father, as thanks for saving his life. In fact, it signified the very vow of aid and friendship which compelled Finrod to join Beren on his quest."

"Oh, so, wait–" Robb tilted his head– "then Beren is one of your forefathers? That would make for an… interesting family tree, to be sure."

He had wanted to say 'legendary,' but did not think Aragorn would appreciate a reminder of the already heavy expectations that rested on him.

Aragorn grunted into his bowl of stew, thus proving Robb's suspicion. "Much to live up to, as well."

"The First Age was a time of legends, mellon nîn," Legolas sighed, a hand coming up to rest on his friend's shoulder. "Even for us Elves. I'm sure nobody expects you to fistfight Sauron himself."

Huffing a laugh, Aragorn sat up a little straighter. "Perhaps not."

"And in any case—" Legolas continued with… was that a wink? "—some parts of history are already repeating themselves, are they not?"

Aragorn groaned. "Only partly, Legolas, as you well know. She is leaving for the Undying Lands."

Robb's eyes went back and forth between the two as if he were watching a high-stakes game of Cyvasse.

"I believe, my friend, you underestimate Arwen's affection toward you."

Shaking his head, Aragorn murmured, "Leave it, Legolas, please."

The Elf looked at Aragorn for a moment longer before conceding with a nod, lips pursed. The next minutes passed in silence, with the three of them listening to the crackling of the fire as well as the conversations of their friends. Robb stayed staring into the flames, mulling over the new information in his head. His gaze unfocused, Robb only noticed how tired he was when his eyes drooped shut and he almost dropped his empty bowl.

Mumbling a curse under his breath Robb put the bowl down and rubbed his eyes. He looked around and, oh, he must have been absent for quite some time—the Hobbits had already retired to their bedrolls and Boromir was in the process of doing the same. Slowly, Robb got to his feet, catching himself with a hand on Aragorn's shoulder when his sluggish body decided to disobey his mind's orders.

"Sorry," he said quietly, but Aragorn only quirked a smile at him. "I'll go to sleep."

The few left awake wished him a good night, and after thanking them, Robb made his way over to his bedroll. He stripped off his sword belt and put the dagger down by his side, the sudden absence of light making his eyes close periodically.

When Robb finally laid down, not a single thought was wasted on the fact that his nightmares might return.

Sleep came within seconds.

___________

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Another week, another chapter! We've left Lothlórien and down the Anduin we go. Next week, things are getting tense👀

In other, more self-serving news: I drew some Elendil fanart this weekend amd Lloyd Owen reposted it on his story! Very excited about that.

If you want to follow me on Instagram, I'm @saasrahm over there :D
Aaaand that's all from me, have a nice week!