One

            He is, oddly enough for one living in the vale of Imladris, alone—the only child within the valley.  There are many Elves here, and others who come and go, although he is rarely allowed to meet visitors.  He watches the Dwarves from the cover of the vines that twine about his balcony, knowing they cannot see him.  They come behind the Wizard.  He’s heard much of Gandalf, but has not yet met him.  But that one—the one who rides the last pony—how small he is!  Will he have a playfellow now, at long last?

Two

            He’s had two fathers.  His memories of his papa are little enough:  a tall Man who would pick him up, swinging him into his embrace and then onto his shoulders every time he returned home.  And he remembered the hardness of his father’s ring as he was held warmly in Papa’s grip.

            His adar loved him no less, although Ada was not the sort to swing a small child about as had Papa.  And Ada, too, wore a ring—Estel often felt its presence when Ada took his hand.

            But he could not describe what either ring looked like.

Three

            “They had three Kings?” asked Estel of Erestor, intrigued by the idea.

            “Oh, yes—Elendil, the father, was High King and ruled mostly here in the north, in Arnor, from his city of Annúminas or from his fortress of Fornost.  His sons, Isildur and Anárion, ruled together in the South Kingdom, which was called Gondor, Isildur from Minas Ithil and Anárion from Minas Anor, although the capitol of all was Osgiliath.”

            “Sounds confusing.”

            “Oh, when Arnor was divided into three Kingdoms after Eärendur decided he wished for each of his sons to be a King it was far worse.”

Four

            “There are four kindred of the Children of Ilúvatar that we recognize,” Ada explained, “although there are more creatures who are able to think and reason and speak beyond these.  The Elves comprise the Firstborn, and are eldest and wisest, and do not die lest they are slain or die of weariness of spirit.  The mortal After-comers include Men, Dwarves, and the Periain, or Hobbits.”

            “And the one who came with the Wizard and the Dwarves—he was a Hobbit,” Estel commented.

            “Indeed, so he was.  A hardy race, Hobbits, and full of surprises, or so we have found.”

Five

            “You put your fingers here,” Lindir explained, carefully helping young Estel to set his hand correctly over the strings of the small lap harp the child held.  “Now you strum, like this.”  He demonstrated with a glorious fall of musical tones.

            Estel’s attempt to copy the master harpist’s movements resulted in a traumatic discord that sent his white cat scuttling out of the room, crying its discomfort.

            Seeing Gilraen’s wince, Glorfindel quipped, “When it comes to the harp, I fear your son has five thumbs upon his hand!”

            “I have to agree!” she replied, wincing again.

            Thwank! went the strings.

Six

            Estel led his mother to the open kist in the corner of his room.  “I found her in here,” he explained.  “I think it’s time for the kittens to be born.”

            Gilraen peered down into the depths of the chest.  Two wary green eyes peered up at her.  She could hear soft questing sounds.  “I suspect, my son, that they are already here,” she said quietly, gently rolling Imogen onto her side.  “Look!”

            “Oh!”  Estel’s voice was filled with wonder.  “Six!  She had six kittens!  How small they are!”

            Six tiny forms pressed against their mother’s flanks, seeking a meal.

Seven

            Estel sat on the railing to his balcony, looking out at the seven stars of the Valacirca and singing a song he’d learned from Erestor in his history lessons.

            “Seven stars and seven stones, and one white tree,” he sang, wondering what the stones were like, and if the stars were those of the Sickle or perhaps the Seven Sisters, or maybe seven of the stars, the shoulders, hips and shining belt, that helped make the figure of the Swordsman.  Menelmacar would be a good one to honor, he thought.           

            And he wondered where the White Tree might be found….

Eight

            “You will be eight tomorrow,” Elladan reminded the child.  “Your uncle will be here tomorrow to take part in your birthday feast.”

            It was one of the differences between himself and his Elven brothers, that they celebrated their begetting days, while he celebrated the anniversary of his birth instead.  “Will any others come with him?” Estel asked.

            “Perhaps your Aunt Anneth as well.  It’s been several years since she last visited.”

            “Just be careful not to fall asleep at the table as you did last year,” warned Elrohir.

            Estel groaned.  No, they weren’t about to let him forget that embarrassment!

Nine

            “The Úlairi?  How did you come to know this name?” demanded Adar.

            “I found it in a book on the Enemy,” Estel answered.  “What are they?”

            Elrond took a deep breath and held it before making his decision.  “Once they were great kings of Men.  But the Enemy offered them rings that could grant them great power and immortality.  So many Men fear death, not recognizing it is indeed a Gift from the One.  So now they are not dead, but neither can they be said to live.”

            “How many are there?”

            “Nine—more than enough for his purposes.”

Ten

            When one of the kittens died, Estel and his mother, as the two mortal residents within the valley, went out together to a pond where Imogen and her brood loved to play to bury it.  “She loved to lie in the sunlight.  This is a good place to bury her,” Gilraen suggested.

            Afterwards, as they sat in the May warmth, they heard a low muttering as a mother duck led her brood of hatchlings to the pond for their first swim.

            “Look, Nana,” Estel said, his grief set aside with the delight of the new experience.  “She has ten ducklings!”

Eleven

            Estel listened to the report Elladan was making.  “We met a troop of eleven yrch not far from the foot of the pass.  The last was determined, and took some time to subdue.  I fear we were not able to bring him here to question—he died before we made the ford.”

            “Not that we truly wish to have such—guests—within the valley,” Elrond responded.  “But it would be good to know who it is that inspires the orcs of the Hithaeglir to breed so prolifically.  I fear the Wise must soon move against the Necromancer.”

Twelve

            “We shall need a dozen fresh eggs if I am to bake honeycakes for your birthday feast,” Meliangiloreth advised Estel.  “Now go!”

            He returned from the poultry runs within half an hour, covered with dust and feathers, a basket of eggs in hand.  After a thorough bath and clean festival garb he was back in the kitchens as the first twelve cakes came from the ovens, followed soon after by many more.

            At the feast Estel’s uncle was amazed to see the boy eat twelve all by himself!  Elrond sighed, explaining, “I fear your nephew gorges himself on Meliangiloreth’s baking.”

Fourteen

            A party of fourteen had followed the Wizard eastward over the mountains.  Only one returned with Gandalf—the Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins.  Estel watched the Perian with interest as Bilbo moved about Rivendell in the wake of his return.  “What is it he’s doing?” the child asked Meliangiloreth.

            “He appears to be fascinated with the manner in which we copy and bind books,” she answered him.  “And he is ever asking Elrond about matters of the history of the land.  It appears he wishes to gift his own people with knowledge of the world outside the borders of the Shire.”

Fifteen

            A herd of does and fawns grazed their way slowly across the meadow.  Estel watched with delight, and he automatically counted them.  “Fourteen!” he breathed.

            But Elrohir was shaking his head.  “Nay,” he corrected in a near whisper.  “Look again, Estel.”

            Estel scanned the scene again—and again.  Finally the boy saw it—a great buck standing on watch in the shadow of the trees.  “I see it!  Not fourteen, but fifteen!  And he is magnificent!”

            “Indeed—a lord among stags,” agreed his brother, “carefully watching over his own.”  And may you do as well, he thought.

Sixteen

            “Put one grain of barley upon the first square, and double that upon the second.  Keep doubling the number of grains on each subsequent square.  How many should you have upon the fifth square, Estel?”

            The boy held up one finger, a second, and then a third, mouthing a number as he raised each one.  As he raised the fifth finger, Erestor could see the expression of triumph in his eyes.  “Sixteen!” Estel exclaimed.  “And on the next thirty-two, and then sixty-four….”  He paused.  “Soon,” he said thoughtfully, “they would not fit upon the chessboard.  You would need a cart!”

Seventeen

            Estel examined the unexpected gift received from the Shire—a book of children’s stories as told by Hobbits to their sons and daughters.  It had been carried from Bag End to the Last Homely House by the Wizard Gandalf after his last visit with his friend Bilbo.

            There were seventeen stories, each written in Bilbo’s spidery handwriting.  He hoped he’d be able to make them all out, as this was writing such as he’d not seen before.

            “Do you like it, ion nín?” asked his adar.

            “Oh, but I do!” responded Estel.  “How can I send to thank him?”

Eighteen

            “Estel, wake up!  Did an evil dream disturb your sleep”

            “Not exactly evil, Nana.  I was with others, and I saw our feet.  I saw the boots of the Wizard; and my own, scuffed as if they had walked far.  And two boots black with silver piping, carefully polished to hide great wear but with new soles and heels.  Then the soft suede boots of an Elf, and the heavy boots of a Dwarf, stumping after.  Then….”

            “Then what, Estel?”

            “The feet of four Periain, bare and covered with hair as are those of Master Bilbo.  Eighteen feet, walking endlessly….”

Nineteen

            “I vow,” Gilraen grumbled, “that there is some spell set upon those who do the laundry!”

            Estel looked up from his book, distracted by his mother’s statement.  He saw that she had carried into his room his clean clothing and was carefully placing it within the chests and on the shelves where such things were kept.  “A spell?  What kind of spell?”

            “When I sent out our clothing to be washed I know I gave them a full score and four stockings, but only nineteen were sent back, and of those five are without matches.  Where do they disappear to?”

Twenty

            Estel examined his gift from his Elven brothers with delight.  Twenty small figures stood before him, each carved from wood, and each a marvel of skill and artistry.  “A king with his knights and men about him!” he murmured, lifting the figure of the King to admire it further.  A delicate mithril band encircled its brow, set with a sparkling gem, and at his hip hung a black sheath in which was housed the King’s sword.  And each other figure was also complete, swordbelts at their waists, the expressions proud and joyful.

            “Such was Elendil the Tall,” Elladan told him.

Twenty-one

            “And did you make these three kraters yourself, Estel?”

            “Yes, Lindir.  The potters showed me how.”

            “They are very well wrought.  And what do you wish to do with them?”

            “I want to gift them to Naneth for Mettarë.”

            “She will like them.”

            “But they need something more.”

            “Flowers, perhaps?”

            “She loves the white narcissus….”

            He filled them with dirt and planted seven bulbs in each, and kept them hidden in a place Lindir showed him until the turning of the year.

            “Oh, Estel!  How lovely!  Twenty-one narcissus plants, all blooming!  What beautiful white blossoms.  I so love them all!”

Twenty-two

            Two and two, the twenty-two Elven warriors formed up their ranks, preparing to leave the valley to engage a great troop of yrch said to be emerging from the High Pass.  Glorfindel led with his second beside him, and the twins brought up the rear as they left the courtyard upon their great steeds.

            Estel watched after them with excitement and envy, vowing that soon enough he would ride with them, raising his own sword as a shining flame of freedom and defiance against the darkness the Enemy and his creatures sought to spread over the whole of Middle Earth.

Twenty-three

            Twenty-two went forth; twenty-three returned.  Estel hurried from the house to aid those who worked in the stables, taking leads as the warriors dismounted.  The stranger was tall, and his grey eyes filled with ancient memories that the boy could only imagine, and of all things he was bearded.  Estel stared with fascination—this was clearly an Elf!

            “Círdan!”  Estel’s adar was hurrying down the steps from the door, his face alight with both surprise and delight.  “Never did I think to host you here!”

            Círdan?  Now, this was a name out of legend, a name to conjure with!

Twenty-four

            They returned together, Ada and Círdan and those who’d gone with them.

            “Where did you go?” Estel asked his adar.

            “We had a mission to complete,” he was told, and nothing more.

            But he overheard Glorfindel being told, “Together we faced him with songs of power.  Perhaps they were not as powerful as those once sung by the likes of Fëanor or Finrod Felagund, but they were powerful enough to lift the clouds over his fortress and to send him flying southward once more.  Twenty-four hours we sang against him, and this time we prevailed—at least for now.”

Twenty-five

            “And what thoughts are you pondering, Estel?” asked his wife.

            He turned his head to look at her and smiled.  “And what makes you think that I had a single thought in my head?” he asked.

            “The expression on your face.”

            He felt his face grow more solemn.  “I was thinking of all that has come to be in the twenty-five years since the war ended and Elendil’s realm was remade.  So much is gone—and so many.  Your father gone west with Gildor and your grandmother, dear Bilbo and Frodo the Beloved; Halbarad awaiting me—and impatiently, if I know him—in the Halls of Waiting along with so many of the Dúnedain of Eriador I knew and loved; Théoden dying still faithful upon the Pelennor, and Denethor not realizing until the end how he had been cozened by Sauron the Liar….”

            He took a breath, looking at the child lying asleep in her lap.  Across the room Melian was reading to Eldarion, reading from the book that long ago Bilbo had prepared as a gift to him, one of those seventeen tales of the Shire he’d loved as a child.  The figures of Elendil’s men, gifted to himself so long ago, lay abandoned about their son’s feet, although the King himself was clutched warmly in Eldarion’s hand.  These had been brought south by his Elven brothers when they came to spend the Turning of the Year with their sister’s mortal family in Minas Tirith.  On the table near them lay a platter of honeycakes such as Meliangiloreth had made for him when he was a child, and Shire seedcakes made from Bilbo’s own recipe, which Pippin had shamelessly shared with so many within the White City.  Eldarion’s practice sword stood against the wall, a sign he was too swiftly leaving his childhood behind him, as mortal children tend to do; and a nosegay of winter blossoms stood in a vase, a gift from the son of Húrin and his wife Lynessë to the King and Queen’s elder daughter, another sign of the fleeting nature of mortal childhood.

            Life went on, with comings and goings, births and deaths, dawns and sunsets.  And here he sat, looking about at the signs of the richness gifted him in his life in these latter years, and he had to smile.  “At least we know that Adar is reunited with the other half of his soul, even as we rejoice in one another, my beloved, and that Frodo now dances again beneath the Sun; and one day we will be reunited with all we have ever loved.”

            “Yea, at the Remaking, or so we must imagine,” she answered, although he could see the small uncertainty that hid in her glance.

            “Ah, but you will see,” he murmured, drawing her to him and holding her close, settling her into the familiar comfort of his embrace.  “Remember—time itself is but an illusion, and one day we will be beyond it, and glad for that!”

            “Ah, but Ada did well to name you Hope,” she whispered into his ear as her fears eased away, secure in his arms.

            And the peace of Mettarë filled them as they listened to Melian read,

“And they lived on happily together, for the remainder of their joyful lives.”