My dearest own Elanor,
Little golden child I hold in my arms. I sing lullabies to you whist rocking you to sleep:
A Elbereth Gilthoniel
Silivren penna miriel
O menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-diriel
O galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, lelinnathon
Nefaear, si nef aearon!
Your mother lets me keep you in a cradle next to my writing desk so that I can stop and play with you during breaks from writing the History of the War of the Ring. You seem to like hearing me recite some of the poetry, though you like the sound of your Uncle Tolman’s penny whistle equally well. But we are inseparable, you and I. When your Mother allows it. We even take afternoon naps together, my dearest, though you are only two and I am fifty years your senior. The only one of you I shall meet in person. The Valar have blessed me by letting me know you for a little while before I leave.
Lover of languages and adventures. Child of journeys both large and small. I give unto you a collection of poems titled “Laurie lantar lassi surinen.” You will find it in the old wooden chest at the foot of my bed. Take care of this treasury. It comes from the great library of Imladris (or Rivendell in the Common Tongue), which, unfortunately, is gone by the time you read this. I can foresee you will never get to go to that beautiful realm, so I brought a part of it back with me to leave in your keeping.
Please translate the poems into the Common Tongue so that your children may enjoy them, and the ages of the Eldar in Middle Earth are not totally forgotten. I know you will grow up to be the last hobbit to read, speak, and write in Sindarin. It falls upon you to preserve the past for those who come after us all. Keep up your letters to your friend, the Queen. She can assist you in the translations, if you become stuck on a word or phrase.
The world is very wide and marvelous as you will experience as none other of your generation. Or perhaps I should say, as you HAVE experienced. I can see you in the palaces of the King and Queen of Gondor, and also in a new house near the sea. But I cannot tell which is to come first, and which follows, nor can I tell if your home is in the Shire. I think it is nearby, but not in the Shire I know. It is no matter now. But of this I am certain: You will have experiences which other hobbits will not believe. So write them down. Create your own book of tales. Illustrate the books with pictures so that even those who cannot read will understand. Teach your own children that the world is larger than the confines of the Shire, and adventures are to be embraced for their ability to broaden ones own horizons.
Farewell, my beloved child of golden hair and blue eyes. I have loved you far too briefly.
Namarie,
Uncle Frodo
Again, the room was silent as Elanor held the letter up to her cheek and closed her eyes.
“It’s his scent,” she softly said. “I remember what he smelled like. Like… like honey and old books. I don’t remember what he looked like, but I do remember this.”
“What’s Namarie mean?” Pippin asked.
“It means farewell,” Ruby whispered. The others turned and looked at her in surprise. “I know a few words,” she explained. “Medical words, mostly. Elly taught me ‘namarie’ though.”
Daisy and Primrose got off of the chest and opened it up. Inside were several gift wrapped items. On top was a package done up in golden wrapping paper, tied with a blue ribbon and labeled “To Elanor” in Frodo’s handwriting. Daisy handed the package to her eldest sister and re-closed the chest. “I don’t want to spoil anyone’s surprise,” she whispered to Primrose.
“Go on, Elly,” Merry said. “Open it up.”
Elanor carefully untied the ribbon and removed the wrapping paper. It was a rather large book; oversized for smaller hobbit hands. The original scribe was evidently an Elf, as the book’s size lent itself to someone of their stature. The book was bound in soft, velvety red leather, with gold embossing and thin slivers of precious mithril embedded into a sensuous leaf design on the outer cover. “Laurie lantar lassi surinen.” Elanor read aloud the title as her hands caressed the precious volume.
“What’s it mean, Elly?” Goldilocks asked.
“It’s the first line of a poem about the Elves longing for their home in Valinor beyond the Sundering Sea,” Elanor whispered. “Queen Arwen used to sing it to me when I was one of her handmaidens at court. I remember it, or at least parts of it. So lovely. So sad. All Elvish and mysterious and beautiful.” She looked up with tears shinning in her blue eyes. “That was so long ago. I think I had almost forgotten it. I never asked for a book of poetry to take back home with me when I was staying at the handmaid’s suite, even though I had access to the Great Library on the Sixth Level.” She turned to her brother Frodo and lightly shook her head. “How could he know I would travel to Gondor with Mom and Dad? How could he know I now live beyond the Shire on the edge of the Sea?”
“Guess that settles the question of visions,” Hamfast said, pointedly not looking at Faramir.
“It’s the perfect gift,” Elanor quietly said to herself as she thumbed through the book. “I’ll never forget you, Uncle Frodo. Never.”
“Who’s next?” Robin inquired.
“Frodo,” said Bilbo, who had taken over from Elanor at the desk. “The next letter is addressed to Frodo-lad.”
“My nickname,” Frodo said as he walked over. “Uncle Frodo left before I was born. How…? Oh, never mind. Let me see that letter.”