III

            “Come with me, Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

            The use of his birth-name by his adar surprised Estel enough to bring him directly to his feet.  He automatically dropped the lap harp he’d been playing onto the padded bench on which he’d been sitting as he followed the one he’d ever considered his father out of the Hall of Fire.

            Lindor had risen as Elrond entered the chamber, and as the young Edan disappeared from the room, the Elf approached the bench and lifted the harp into his own arms, testing the strings to make certain they’d stayed unbroken and true in tone.

            The song Estel had been composing was in keeping with those the minstrel had heard from countless of his lord’s former fosterlings.  So many of the heirs of Isildur had been enamored, each in his turn, with the Lady Arwen.  Why would Elrond react so sternly with this one?  Then he realized—all were becoming aware that the final confrontation with Sauron was looming—that this particular mortal was likely to be the Man who would face him and either prove victorious, or who would fall before the Dark Lord, dragging all of Middle Earth down with him.

            “Estel perhaps has the power to rob our Lord Elrond of his greatest remaining treasure—his daughter.  Oh, but what bride-price will he impose on this youth for the woman he desires to take to wife?”