Saturday was our first day in the big city. So what do you think we did?

The mall.

Of course.

Spent too much, as usual. Mostly on music and videos. Near the end, the youngest son had one store he insisted on going into.

The Naked Edge.

Okay. Knife and sword shops are cool, especially when they carry dragon and Klingon paraphernalia. This shop has a couple dozen swords lined up high along the wall, of all variety of styles, both real and fantasy.

Youngest son wants to look at the three that are down on display lower on the wall.

Sting the Orc-detecting Hobbit sword, Narsil the sword of King Elendil that broke after severing off the Ring, and the sword of the Witchking, leader of the Nazgul.

Now, these are real replicas. Silver understands the attraction of these weapons.

But do you let a teenager buy one? With his own money, earned from his summer job? The money that doesn't go towards maintaining his new vehicle, and paying half his insurance?

To stall as I mulled these questions over in my mind, I asked if we could see the swords. To have them in our hands.

Sting was cute, but felt like a child's toy. The Witchking's sword looked cool, but felt a little out of balance. The carved end of the hilt was hard on the hands.

Narsil, however, was a dream. Comfortable, balanced. One handed or two.

Four youths came around the corner into the shop while the wife was wielding Narsil. There was never any hazard, but apparently they are not used to seeing the swords off the wall. Smallest lad, in the lead, threw his shoulders back and then backed into his friends at the sight of her holding the sword high in a two-handed stance.

The price? Two-week's take-home pay for the youngest, plus his bonus.

In a last ditch attempt to talk him out of this, and alleviating me of any decision, we looked at pics of the other swords available from Lord of the Rings.

Nope. Narsil is what he wants.

As instructed, he kept it in the box until we got home. He just got off work an hour or so ago, and had the sword out. Just to look at.

I asked to see it, as I hadn't handled it since the mall. And took it outside in the dark, where it could be swung high without stabbing the ceiling.

He immediately went to complain to his mother.

I want one.

As the proprietor was boxing up youngest son's Narsil, I asked him about another sword up high on the wall.

Of 20+ swords, many looking to be extreme fantasy objects, there was one I liked. Only one. Last on the right, actually slightly hidden in the corner. A simple sword, with black hilt.

Now I know nothing about swords, so simply asked him what it was.

A broadsword. A Scottish Claymore, to be exact.

Naturally. Is it an accident I was attracted to the weapon of my ancestors?

Ignoring the two young military men who came in the shop at that moment, I asked the owner if I could hold the Claymore. As he reached up to hand it to me, I heard one of the men behind me quietly mutter "Nooooo. Don't do this to me."

Seems he just came in to buy that very same sword. And thought he'd missed his chance by seconds. But I reassured him I was just looking, and not interested in buying (not yet, anyway... don't tell the wife). He was still standing there, on edge, as I handled his sword.

Not as balanced as Narsil. Certainly heavier. But the hilt felt right. I tried not to look at the buyer's face as I handed it to the wife to try. But I could feel his eyes boring through my back.

After a second feel, I handed the Claymore to it's new owner. The proprietor advised him that the sword was "battle ready," as in, made with tested steel. Suitable for real fighting (unlike the Rings replicas). The soldier immediately ran his finger along the blunt edge.

"Doesn't feel ready to me," he said.

I still want one.