Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, the Lord of the Rings or any of its affiliates, and do not receive any payment for my writing. I am a fan.
Arathorn, father of Aragorn
I fear for us, my son. I fear for our people, my people, now your people. You are barely two years old and yet will soon bear the responsibility of chieftain. Beloved Gilraen, my nobel men, they talk of healers or miracle cures, but I am no fool. My time in this world is up; I must depart.
I feel the strength ebbing from my weary limbs. Has it always been so taxing to move my arms? But I must. From my bloody finger I pull an ancient ring, encrusted with gore and dirt, but still visible are the entwined snakes of Finarfin. I hold it out to you, and you take it, the simple gesture laden with symbolism: with the ring, you have accepted the leadership and responsibilities of our people.
Your dear, inquisitive expression is one I hope shall remain with me as I pass on from the world. Your plump, bow-like lips curving up into a smile before, in your adorable lisp, "Pwetty. Pwetty Dada." Your wide smile, prompted by the success of your words, is my last sight.
