[ he takes it, fingers brushing abelas' palm for a moment before he returns it to his pocket. metal rusts, fabric falls apart within a few centuries, wood ages and cracks. nothing lasts. it's abnormal to be so attached to an object that will cease being useful soon, and yet-

well, it's far too small to have much use beyond peeling apples, or cutting the occasional stray thread, as opposed to abelas' knife. ]

I have been told they are marks of devotion, and less so... [ he's choosing his words carefully, slipping back into thinking in sindarin and speaking in common. he decides, finally. ] a signal, a-- sigil. Would you have taken them, if not for the sometimes-protection they offered?