Summary: A certain Elf worries for the safety of his son in wartime. (The POV should be obvious once read.) This is more stream-of-consciousness than normal poetry, I suppose.

Pacing.

Counting the steps in my study.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Turn about.

I cannot think...

 Unbidden, his blue eyes swim before me.

So like mine...

I curse the day I sent my youngest child to Imladris without me.

But I had to stay here.

"Had to"? I could have slipped my own guard.

I've done it before.

A rueful smile flickers across my face. My Chief Advisor would have had something to say about it.

His guard came home without him! Valar damn it...

Elrond will not like it when next I see him...

Belain, keep my son safe. Keep him safe. Bring him home.

 Of course, this prayer went unanswered.

I paced for many days, cursing my Peredhel cousin until I could think of nothing else to call him.

 Then the letter from Lothlorien came. Cousin Cel! 

 Mithrandir...gone? Dead? The Balrog! And my own son saw it...

 But...he survived. He survived.

Some prayers might be answered...part way at least.

His own letter came in time, from Ithilien.

Gondor has a King. Arnor will be revived. Estel...Elrond's boy. Estel...

My son was a Prince in a faraway land. The King of Men had returned.

My son is alive, no matter where he dwells. I will go to him.

Guren...my heart....

I am coming.

 The End