The sky was clear, Anar's light bright and warm, and the young heir to the King of Númenor had little care for anything else as he pulled himself up to sit on the fence, watching the horses gallop. Ah, if only I could do that!

"Falassion, what dost thou, hina?"

The prince turned his gaze to his cousin as she approached, a thin smile ghosting across his face. "Lindórië," he drawled. "What a...surprise to meet thee here of all places. Has thy father then let thee off thy lead?"

As the boy expected, Lindórië's face flamed with rage and embarrassment. He smirked, but let out a yelp as Lindórië whisked him down from his perch.

"Do not speak to me so! I am thine elder," she snapped. "What dost thou atop that fence? It is dangerous, little boy!"

***

There was a stir by the fire as the storyteller exclaimed the line, dramatically, and Inziladûn's eyes widened. He leaned against his grandmother's side. "Did you really speak to Grandfather so?" he asked, and the woman chuckled, her laugh a throaty warble.

"Oh yes, Inyo, I did indeed," she said, a touch of smugness in her voice. "Your Grandfather was an extremely naughty little boy, you know, and his son is not far different, I daresay."

Inziladûn blushed, wriggling in his seat. "Oh, don't speak so of Father," he protested in dismay. "What if he should hear about it?"

"And who will tell him, Little Flower? Hmm? Your brother?" Lindórië, the Queen's mother, looked to her younger grandson, curled up on a pallet near the dancing flames. At just five years of age, it was no surprise the lad had fallen deeply asleep, curled like a cat by the warm fire.

"Gimilkhâd is Atto's favourite," Inziladûn said. The fourteen-year-old prince didn't sound jealous or upset; he stated it bluntly, categorically, as a fact everyone knew. "He would make my brother his heir."

"King or no, Telemnar is ruled by the law, for 'tis the law that makes him a King," Lindórië replied dryly. "He cannot do that and will not."

***

"Valandilya, do pay attention."

Valandil sat up straight at Queen Meduieth's gentle admonition. The six-year-old rubbed his eyes, gazing into the flames as the minstrels sang. The tales sung in the Hall of Fire were real, he knew, but Lindir didn't make them seem exciting enough for the boy to appreciate. Of course, he knew the tale of Númenor, and that these names applied to it. But Uncle Elrond and even Amme had never seemed to make the Star Isle truly real.

"If you pay more attention to Master Lindir's tales, yonya, you might not have such difficulty with Master Erestor's history lessons," Meduieth chided.

"But Amme, he's boring."

***

“Surely not,” Estel – no, Aragorn – sputtered in disbelief as Lindir had told him all their tale. “He who was to be High King called you such things, and I am kin to this rude folk?”

“You are the son of Elrond Peredhel, and for now that is all that matters,” Lindir said quietly. “They were but children.”

“I am the long-son of Elros Tar-Minyatur,” Aragorn said with a bitter smile. “The Chieftain of the Dúnedain. That matters more from now on, I should think. But I shall always be a child to you, shall I not, Lindir?”

“Aye, I am afraid so,” the minstrel laughed, though his gaze was sympathetic. “Go to your people, Estel. But remember, we are your people too. The hour of the Dúnedain had not yet come. Perhaps it will be yours to fulfill.”

“Perhaps,” Aragorn said with a sigh. “Indeed, if what adar asks of me is to pass, it must be so.”

“There is no one better taught than you to do it, Estel. Remember you, too, are a son of Elrond, and may Eärendil watch over you.”

Aragorn bowed and took his leave of his friend. The Angle awaited; if he was to prove himself worthy of Arwen, he had much work to do. He would be better than these children of Men, his fathers.

It would be a long road, and a lonely one, but his hour must come.