The sword surprised him; he knew a fine Elvish blade by sight after watching the Elves hammer them into shape in the Forge. His hand hovered over it and he was momentarily entranced by the beauty of the silver. This blade was made for a skilled warrior.

Had there been a battle? The all too familiar knot surfaced in his chest at the thought. Aragorn was not fond of battles. Battles meant death, pain and chaos. He would never shy from them, yet he did not seek them as other Men his age did.

Jumping at the voice, he turned and fixed Maedhros with a pair of grey eyes that were not unlike Elrond's own.

"Am I disturbing you? I can leave..." but he was already moving to the bed, frowning in concern, "I am called Estel or Aragorn."