Estel sat on his bed, hugging his legs and resting his head on his knees, and mused over the unfairness of life. They were having a feast and he was stuck in his room. It was always the same. You are too young, Elrond said, wait a few years, his mother said, you have to grow some more, the twins said. But how much did he have to grow? The smallest one of the newcomers' company was surely smaller than he; so why was that one allowed to come and he was not? Estel hopped down from the bed and opened the door to his balcony. He could clearly hear the voices raised in song. "Unfair," he shouted and kicked one of the boards. "Estel," came the angry call from his mother in the next room, "come in this instant. It is past your bed time!"

Down below in the garden Bilbo Baggins turned his head, wondering where the voices had come from. Maybe there was another who felt somehow out of place. "Who is there?" He called back. But the only answer he got was the slamming of a door.