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There are very few people in this world who understand a peredhel child. Idril was forced to raise her own son by trial, error, and foresight, and the last of those was a rare gift indeed. For little Elwing the matter was further complicated; her parents were dead, her carers were too young to remember her father's childhood, and the Maia blood complicated matters further.
Rarely were those Idril's concerns, as she watched her son play with his father in the shallow ocean water. For all the horrors Tuor seemed calmer here, like the sea put him at ease - him and her Eärendil too.
So she sat on the bank, nervous about the nearby grass combination of sand and delicate prosthetic mechanisms, quietly watching them play as she had done so many times before.
What she did not expect that day was for another child to approach her - Princess Elwing of Doriath herself. A quick glance around showed that she had slipped her minders; Idril had half a mind to take her back, to avoid rumours of Noldorin kidnappings, but the girl looked exhausted as she sat at her side.
Sat down. Fixed her posture. Stared out to sea.
Idril, uncertain, left the other Princess be. She, too, turned back to face the ocean - watching not the waves but her family play. She wondered if perhaps the younger Princess was also watching them, envious of Eärendil's family, yet no, it was the seagulls that she watched.
The realisation triggered something in Idril's mind, a half formed vision of a much older Elwing falling, falling, falling, eyes closed and face blank as grey and white feathers drifted more slowly down beside her. In the vision she still wore the silmaril, a harsh choker around her neck, and Idril thought that, perhaps, it was cruel to leave such a burden on a child - even the woman in the vision - so young.
It was clearly foresight, but of what? Some of her visions were clear, some decipherable, and others still so seeped in metaphor that even Idril, with all her years of practice, could not decode it. Grief beyond imagining, the depths of despair, a hope cruel in it's manifestation - those are the emotions Idril deciphers in the message, and yet she can decipher none of them.
"Princess," Idril asked, trying carefully not to reveal the ripples of concern that her foresight caused. "Does one require my assistance?"
Elwing always moved slowly, as though there was thought in every step and every gesture. It was strange, then, that that day she snapped her head towards Idril, fast as an owl spotting its prey.
"You are also a Princess," Elwing told her. "I am practicing."
And then Elwing turned back to the seagulls.
"Practicing?" Idril asked, curious herself now.
"You are a Princess, I am a Princess," Elwing replied, still looking at the birds. "In imitating you, I might learn my duties."
"As a Princess of the Noldor, my duties differ from your own," Idril cautioned, already aware of how she acted inappropriately even then. "It may not be appropriate for me to teach you."
"I am the Princess not of Doriath, but of Sirion," Elwing replied with all the certainty of a child. "My subjects are of many races, so I must learn."
Idril turned, and studied the girl before her. So young - the same age as her Eärendil, and yet the burden placed upon her shoulders was heavier nonetheless. She wished to curse her father's cousins for all the grief they had wrought upon such a young child, and yet it was those self-same cousins who taught her just why one should never speak in passion.
"And..." Elwing hesitated, looking younger once again. "Our cities lay decimated, but you saved more than I ever did."
"You were an infant," Idril reassured her. "It was not your fault."
"It was not," Elwing agreed, before bringing a hand to lay upon the gemstone at her throat. "But it will happen again."
And Idril, in that moment, knew with absolute certainty that it would.
Idril taught Elwing as much as she could - mathematics and etiquette and politics and public speaking. Elwing refuses the forge - not an apprentice in craft but statecraft - but took well to the crafting of leather armours instead. Less resilient than steel, but more practical for on the shore. Art and posture, economics and supply, just enough battlecraft to study enemy movements, and plan a way to flee.
Just enough with a sword and bow to defend herself, and buy the time to run.
"Your first duty is to your people," Idril told her one day, the two sat at a small table and sharing a pot of tea.
Elwing had learnt a lot in their time, now pouring the pot with the grace and efficiency of any member of the Courts of Valinor.
Grandmother would love her, Idril thought, before crushing the memories of a woman she was likely to never see again.
"And then to my kin," Elwing replied. "I have a question, however."
Idril took her teacup, and gestured for the girl to continue as she took a first sip of the mediocre tea.
"You left your father to die," Elwing said, too bluntly; with centuries of practice Idril is able to hide the shudder, the sudden assault of watching her father be crushed beneath the tower, of seeing the last parent she had die for his ignorance. "Many of your people too. Why?"
Idril took a deep breath, swallowing the memory whole. She had promised herself that she would be honest to Elwing, just as she was honest to her Eärendil - as much as she could be.
And so, she must answer.
"It was... difficult," Idril picked her words carefully. "My father was a stubborn man, then struck by grief as he realised his stubbornness and refusal to listen to my husband and I had damned us all. I had foreseen such, of course; I cannot be angry with him for what was already set in stone, nor hate him for who he had always been. He, and my people... Perhaps, I could have saved more, had I stayed, especially as once he fell his authority passed to my son, and by him me. But... to do so would have been my life. How many more would have died since, without my guidance as we traversed the wilds? Who would have held the authority to negotiate with Gil-Galad on their behalf, or to be believed when they named him High King of the Noldor? Without guidance how many would have splintered away, fled alone into the night? My husband is a good man, but he is a man, and many of our people refuse him for that. And my son is a child; how could I press that burden onto him? No, duty is to people and kin, but a dead woman cannot fulfill her duty to anyone. A Princess must live, else beside her hope dies."
"I do not think I could do it," Elwing confessed. "Leaving people behind."
Idril looked at her with the grim knowledge of one whose sight was blessed by the Valar, and did her best to give a smile.
Elwing shuddered, which only means that Idril's lessons have helped her determine truth from fiction once more.
"And I hope you never have to," Idril told her.
"But I will."
Idril inclined her head ever so slightly, only just avoiding her hair catching in her tea. "But you will."
It was the day that Idril's son was to marry - Prince of Gondolin to Princess of Doriath. Tuor was with Eärendil, Idril having been thrown from the room laughing as her son begged a chance to discuss more intimate things.
Her heart ached, knowing just why the marriage was rushed, and what she and her husband must soon do. Still, she walked out of their house and down the street, crossing over the road and to the bride's home.
With a brief knock at the door she let herself in, striding in the direction of voices. Even through a closed door Idril could hear Elwing argue with her maid and former nanny about the placement of hair pins, and Idril smiled at the behaviour from the usually quiet girl.
So Idril also pushed open that door. Immediately Elwing caught her eye in the mirror, and sagged just slightly in relief.
"Princess of Gondolin," Elwing greets, more formally than usual. "May I help you?"
"It was I who meant to assist you," Idril smiled as she said. "My dear son and husband have expelled me from the house, so I thought my lady might wish for assistance."
Elwing hesitated for a moment, hair pin in hand, before turning to the staff beside her, "would you check on the cooks? Both of you?"
The two recognised the order for what it was, bowing and heading out.
Idril waited a few seconds before closing the door, and coming to claim the seat the maid had been sitting on. Her prosthetic creaked as she did so; she paid it no mind, and offered out her hand.
Elwing placed the pin in it.
The action already felt like a goodbye.
"How would you like it?" Idril asked a question that she knew the young princess rarely heard.
Elwing took a moment to reply, then moved and held her hair in place.
Idril examined it for a moment, before inserting the pin so as to hold Elwing's hair in place.
"And, how much make up?"
"As little as possible," came Elwing's firm reply.
Idril hummed, and examined the options. After a moment she picks up only the eye shadow and blush, knowing that the official painter would fill in the rest regardless.
Elwing consented to the decision, and so Idril began.
Eye shadow first, the more delicate task, then a small sprinkle of red on each cheek...
"Must you?" Elwing asked, as Idril finished that task and returned to arranging Elwing's hair.
"Must I?" Idril froze where she was, waiting for clarification.
"Leave," Elwing answered, distress building in her voice. "Must you leave so soon? I marry your son today, and you leave by the week's end? It wasn't me, was it? Please, Idril, I don't want to be alone."
"You won't be alone," Idril promised, the word tasting strangely like ash. "You will have Eärendil, and Meleth, and all your own people. They will be here to assist and be with you, you only need ask."
"But /teacher/." Idril startled, hearing the Noldorin word on Elwing's lips. "Teacher, please, I cannot do this without you."
Idril cupped Elwing's cheek, and brushed a stand of hair from her eyes.
"You can," Idril told her. "You will and you can, for you are brave, and good, and you are not alone."
"You are leaving me," Elwing sounded on the verge of tears. "I marry your son, and you are leaving me."
"Oh, little songbird," Idril's own heart stuttered as she watched Elwing try not to cry, certain beyond doubt that her husband was having exactly the same conversation with their son. "It's not your fault. Tuor is old, older than any man should be. He would have answered Ulmo's call hears ago, if he were not begging Eru to let him see this day. And he is my husband, Elwing, I will not let him sail alone. I would stay if I could, but you have Eärendil and, I promise, I will see you again someday."
"How can you promise that?" Elwing held her head back as she sobbed, trying not to streak her makeup with her tears. "How can you say that, when you are abandoning us?! Whatever happened to duty?!"
"Eärendil is an adult, now, by the counting of men; he takes my duty, just as you took your father's. I was only ever his regent, only keeping things together in his name." Idril softened her voice, kept herself still as she re-explained a conservation they had already had a thousand times. "And I can promise that, because I have foreseen it. Some day and on another shore, you and I will meet again."
"Do you promise?" Elwing asked, sounding like the child she had never been allowed to be.
"I promise," Idril asked, and opened her arms.
Elwing threw herself into them, clinging to her teacher as she sobbed into the shoulder of her dress. Idril held her a while - until the tears stopped, then longer - before ever so gently pushing her away.
"Come, now," Idril softly scolded. "I will be here a few days yet; let us fix your make up. This is supposed to be a happy day."
Elwing sails over Valinor, watching the small boat approach. It has been years since she arrived and Eärendil was forced into the skies, leaving her a lonely bird on the coast. No relatives she has ever known are here, no friends or servants either. The locals have welcomed her, but do not understand, and they fear her beloved husband even as he remains so far away.
She had thought that her teacher - not, her mother in law - had lied to her, when she could not find them here. When it was confirmed that, despite arriving decades later than the pair set off, that the pair had never arrived. That the ban held... There was only one answer, that both must have been lost at sea.
And yet they come, now, in a rowing boat. They laugh together and Idril wears no armour over her dress for the first time that Elwing has ever seen, and Tuor sits strong, and laughing, as it is his wife that rows.
The boat they travel in is too small for three - Elwing keeps to the skies, and guards the last little part of their journey. Perhaps she should fly instead to Tirion, to tell the Noldorin King that his brother's granddaughter finally returns, to tell the widowed former Queen that her granddaughter is safe, or even further to Valimar, and tell Elenwë's parents there.
But, no, no, Elwing does neither. They are her in laws - her teacher, her mother, and the husband of that woman. She will be jealous, just this once. Just this once, just this once... Let her have something for herself, something beautiful, and something good.
As soon as the boat touches the sand Elwing swoops down. She shifts just in time for her feet to hit the ground, using the momentum to propel herself straight into Idril.
"Teacher!" She calls her, between the sobs. "Teacher! Teacher!"
Again and again, the sobbing call of a bird.
Idril seems slightly unsure how to handle Elwing's newfound wings, but eventually slips one under and one above, holding her tight. Behind them Tuor ties up the boat, and Elwing continues sobbing in her mother-in-law's arms.
"Oh sweetie," Idril coos, pulling her tighter still. "Ulmo showed us; we know. It's okay, we know, we're here now, you're okay."
"I didn't tell your grandmothers," Elwing gasps out between the sobs. "I was supposed to tell your grandmothers. I- I was supposed to call your family, they asked me to watch, and I- I-"
The sobs win again.
She feels Idril turn her head, and a brief conversation in a language Idril heard often, but never studied, passes between the Noldo Princess and her husband
"You did no wrong," Idril says, certain and steady as she has always been. "Let us rest for now; the four of us can travel in land once Eärendil returns, greet them as a family. Together, this time."
Elwing cries harder as Idril calls her family, leaving more of her weight on the surely exhausted woman.
Yet Idril only kisses her forehead, and scoops her up as though she was nothing more than a child, even resting her on her hip and holding her still.
"Where are we going, little songbird?" Idril asks, a nickname not true, not when Elwing is a bird not of song but of the sea.
It feels good, though, and Elwing raises a shaky hand towards the lighthouse.
"You two go ahead," Tuor says, his Sindarin as heavily accented as it has always been. "I'll tie the boat and meet you there."
He looks better than he ever has, Elwing thinks, white haired and old, but strong in a way his body had not been those last years in Sirion.
"As you wish," Idril tells him, seemingly effortlessly keeping the very much adult Elwing on her prosthetic-side hip as she hikes the overgrown path to the lighthouse.
"Now," she tells Elwing, swaying only a little as they walk. "Ulmo showed us Sirion, and explained Eärendil's task. Let us watch over your little ones, too, until we decided to leave. But we did not see you here so, please, tell us what we have missed."
Elwing does not think she could speak at all, not with her heart tossing over itself, not with the weakness in her body and the tremble on her lips.
And yet, her teacher asks, and when teacher asks, the words always spill forth.