Tradition

The moon had fully risen when Legolas came into the courtyard. Spying the cheerfully wrapped packages sparkling in the half light, he bent to place one last parcel under the White Tree. It seemed like a strange idea at first, then, as the years went by, not so strange, and now it was tradition; every Mettare the tree was laden with gifts, yet few saw the comings and goings of the ones who left them. No one claimed to even know who had begun it. The first snow began to fall when Legolas turned to leave, and then thought better of it.

"You can not hide from me," he said to the empty courtyard.

And, one by one, they revealed themselves. Six in all. Even dressed as they were in the darkest green, their faces shadowed in the folds of their hoods, Legolas recognized them; Elves from the settlement at Aderthad in Ithilien. He smiled.

"Ah, child," said a seventh, stepping out. "I should have known we could not fool you."

Legolas’ eyes widened in surprise. He covered the distance between them swiftly, embracing his old friend.

"Mithrandir!" he laughed, "Happy Mettare!"

And, together, eight eager Elves awaited the dawn.