He decided that if he was yet alone and without a clear path forwards by the 22nd anniversary of his birth, that day was the very one upon which he would set out from Androth’s caves, turn Northeast for a change, find his way across the ruin of Anfauglith to the Hill of the Slain, and there lay himself down beside his mother’s bones to rest. 22 years since her death, and she would only be twice that, were she alive.

Then one day in early Spring, he realised that his 22nd birthday must have passed him by that Winter whilst he was busy keeping warm. And by then it was well into the Stirring—the thaw had begun, the flowers budding, the songbirds were starting to sing, and there was work to get on with besides. He elected to postpone his travels for another day and to choose a new deadline: the next anniversary of his birth, he thought. By the time Tuor realised he was 23 years old, it was because Voronwë had asked him.

Very well, he thought, if I fail on my quest, ‘twould yet be better I take my leave and heed the call of deep waters. Three more years, then. Tuor was busy on his 26th birthday with the arrival of the year’s first snowfall: a day for solemn remembrance in Gondolin. The Lady Idril held to his hand.

Perhaps 29, then—his father had died near his own 29th birthday; he was fairly certain. Three more years. On Tuor’s 29th birthday, he and Idril agreed to marry.

By Tuor’s 50th birthday, old age had in so many ways begun to creep upon him. His bones often ached, fingers sometimes slipped, memory more than occasionally failed. And ever the call of the Sea grew louder, stronger, more insistent, until it was often difficult to hear anything else.

Yet he looked upon the faces of the people of Sirion, and of Idril, Voronwë, Eärendil, and Elwing most of all, and on that day he sent a desperate prayer over the water for what time with them Lord Ulmo could grant. A prayer he realised he had then said seven times: I beg you, Lord, please—just three more years.*