Chapter Text
There is a beauty in the balance of it, when he finally holds the sword. His not-brother hands it to him in silence, and Sam takes a moment as the makers mark glistens in the torchlight, the blade pointing to the earth, before he takes it.
If there is strife to come, he will not fear it.
Henry takes a breath, goes to say something, but when their eyes meet he loses his words. Sam cannot seem to find his either, and takes his eyes back to the hilt. There is so much symmetry here, the casting almost perfect. For the first time in his life he has found himself wondering if his father was a careful man, rather than the rogue he had assumed. He wonders if his love for his mame was an act of out-of-character recklessness. Perhaps he had lost his control, as Sam knew he can lose control. They must have been about the same age, a funny thought that makes his mouth dry. Mame was beautiful, that is true. Mame was also important, and that is also true, and perhaps that held some sway to an ambitious man with more gall than sense. Or, perhaps, Martin was just as careful as he was in his craft, falling in love in slow hammerfalls, but it was the world that did not care in the end.
He turns the sword about in his hands. It is lighter than he thought it would be, the balance making the blade swing like a pendulum. He is not the sort of fighter suited for this kind of weapon. This kind of heavy instrument feels to him like the sword of an executioner, an instrument of pride and belief in man’s right to take justice from its righteous place.
“There’s an inscription.” Henry’s voice is thick and charming, much like the man himself. Sam looks down. So there is.
“Per mortem et sepulturam tuam, libera nos, domine,” Henry continues. “Through Thy death and burial, deliver us, O Lord.”
Sam laughs, though he knows he shouldn’t. Henry is trying, and he is kind, but he is clumsy, and his Latin sounds poor on his tongue, and he is naive and quite possibly a fool.
Still, he is here. He is here, and he has brought this sword, and in the wide silence that will follow the evocation of a Lord that has no place here they will both drink wine from wooden cups, and both wonder what the man who was and wasn’t father to them would think if he could see them.