But what of little Anarion, the boy who was to all eyes the child of the Steward of Gondor, and grandson to a King? How would he manage, growing up as he did at the feet of the White mountains, and caught between the worlds of elves and Men? It was as well that Anarion was a blithe and carefree soul, for he managed very well indeed.
As an infant, he had been effortlessly endearing. Thorongil, who would frown even when the sun was shining, cooed and fussed over him without the slightest hesitation. Thranduil would carry him out onto the balcony and point out to him the trees and the birds in elvish. And his aunt Eowyn could never resist giving him a little pinch, for soon he became a very podgy baby boy.
"He grows like an oak!" Legolas would exclaim, as his son giggled and spooned more sticky syrup, his favourite treat, into his mouth.
"He has a good appetite, that's all," Boromir replied lightly. "It will keep him healthy." Boromir was rather proud of his fat and cheerful son. It pleased him that he looked most un-elvish, with his slightly curly dark hair and his round, sweet face. As he began to walk and talk, everyone commented on the resemblance to his human father, and elves visiting Legolas for the first time could not hide their surprise at the great, strapping child he had borne.
Legolas himself cherished his son so much that sometimes he thought his heart would burst with love. He could hear no sweeter sound than Anarion's laughter, which was loud and deep and came from his belly, and was heard often ringing throughout their home. Neither could he fail to be amused at the sight of Boromir pacing from one important council to another with long, marching strides, while a little dumpy figure trotted at high speed beside him, determined to keep up, all the time chattering in an excited voice. Invariably, Boromir would be forced to take him up onto his shoulders, and he would sit there proud as a king on his throne, his short legs sticking out into the air like two fat sausages. Anarion probably had a vague sense that his father's work was important, but it was clearly nowhere near as important as his duty to entertain him. "Horsie!" was his favourite command, and they would spend hours laughing together as Boromir crawled around on all fours, with Anarion beaming on his back. Despite repeatedly grumbling that his son was getting heavier and heavier, and that soon he would get too old for these sort of games, Legolas knew that Boromir enjoyed their play as much as Anarion. This was in no small part due to the regard in which the little boy held his father.
"My Papa fought in the great War of the Ring, and he was the bravest, and the strongest, and the tallest man there!" he announced proudly to his friends. And though none of them really knew what the War of the Ring was, or any of the men who had fought in it, they would all open their eyes round and wide, and nod their heads, and agree with Anarion that his Papa was indeed the best man living.
But though it seemed that this small family, brought together by misfortune and misery, had succeeded in finding happiness, it could not be so easy. For the years passed, and the seasons changed, and the man and elf busied themselves with their everyday lives - yet still, something was missing. Legolas had no second child. He had been certain that he would have a son or daughter by Boromir to join his firstborn, but it was not so. Boromir, too, had expected that sooner or later he would be surrounded by the large family he had always dreamed of. But as time went by, and still there was no sign, they came to accept that this might never be. Legolas felt ashamed in his heart, to fail in his duty as a husband, and his barrenness was the cause of an unspoken sadness between them both. As for Anarion, he noticed nothing amiss. For he adored both his parents so ardently - how could they, in his innocent mind, do anything other than adore each other?
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