An early-morning encounter between Elrond and one of Isildur's heirs.
The Half-elf sat up and squinted in the early-morning light pouring through the windows, now deprived of their drapes.
"Aravir? Why are you...?"
The six-year-old scowled at him. "My name is not Aravir."
Elrond shook his head, trying to focus his mind. Of course not. Aravir had been speared by an orc-captain; that was nigh fifty years ago.
The child stomped over to the bed, placing his hands on his hips. "My. Name. Is. Arador." The future chieftain stormed out of the room.
Why must Isildur have so many heirs? Elrond hurried after the child to apologise.