I own nothing in this story, and I have no desire to profit from it. My only intention is to honour Prof. Tolkien's work and contribute to the community of imagination he inspired.

Perhaps, Tuor thought as he watched his wife's relentless pacing, he should have anticipated her reaction to their son's announcement. It simply hadn't occurred to him that the betrothal would come as a surprise. He'd been expecting it to come at any moment for at least a year.

“But they are so young!” Idril exclaimed, not for the first time, dismay and confusion filling her voice. “It is not natural—it is not wise.”

“It would not be thought strange among Men,” Tuor repeated for what must have been the hundredth time that day. “You yourself have marveled at how quickly they have matured. In this way, at least, they seem more like Men than Elves. They are full-grown in body and—”

“Marriage is more than bodies,” Idril snapped. Tuor held up his hands in a placating gesture, and she sighed and sank into a chair.

“They are so young,” she murmured yet again, her mind scrambling to articulate her fears. “How can they know their own hearts?”

“They know each other,” Tuor answered. “Haven’t they spent nearly every day in each other’s company since we arrived? I have never seen so close a bond so quickly formed. They have had abundant time to learn of one another, and of their own hearts’ feelings. There can be little they do not know of each other after all this time.”

“Yet they know so few others!” Idril sprang to her feet and resumed her progress around the room. “I love Elwing as if she were our own, you know I do, but Eärendil has kept company with so few maidens. What if he—”

“Few maidens accept his company,” Tuor interrupted. Idril looked at him with some surprise, wondering at the tension newly present in his eyes and voice.

“Few maidens welcome his presence, and he knows it,” Tuor continued grimly. “Our child is perceptive, Idril. He knows how others look at him. They see him as a child at best, a strange sort of half-breed at worst. You know I speak truly.”

“You have said they will respect him as a leader,” Idril protested. “You said you have no fear for his ability to lead when—” Her voice broke. She was, as usual, unable to bring herself to speak of her husband’s death.

Tuor sighed deeply. “There you touch on yet another argument for the goodness of this match, for Elwing, too, is by right a leader of her people. Their union would do much to bolster his legitimacy, and might indeed be a key to the continued unity of this settlement.” Seeing Idril about to protest, he raised a calming hand.

“Yet that is a discussion for another day, and I wander from my point.” A loving, melancholy look spread across Tuor’s face as he stepped toward Idril and took her hand.

“Few among the Eldar are as open in mind and heart as you, my dear, or as Nimloth,” he murmured. “Surely you know this. There are many who would trust the strength of our son’s lineage sufficiently to follow him from a distance, but who would falter and flinch at his closeness.”

Still with Idril’s hand in his, Tuor led her to a low couch where they could sit looking into each other’s eyes. He smiled sadly as memory welled up within.

“Remember the days of our courtship,” he urged. “There were many who were glad to have me fight for Gondolin, who would even follow me into battle, but who would not meet my eyes if we crossed paths in the street.” He sighed. “I do not say they meant ill by it—many, I think, simply did not know how to speak to a mortal. They did not know what differences lay between us, nor how to bridge them.”

Eyes alight with sympathy, Idril moved closer to her husband and reached up to run delicate fingers through his greying hair. Rarely did they speak of these past times, so painful were the memories of what had fallen to Morgoth’s onslaught—yet seeing pain of a different kind in her husband’s face, she wondered what hurts lingered in his mind that might be eased were they expressed.

“Many warriors,” Tuor continued, “cheered your father’s choice to let us wed, but would have fought me to their last breath had I loved one of their own daughters. I was most blessed by Turgon’s oddity in that regard.”

Idril smiled affectionately at that, as her husband had intended. “My father had many faults,” she said, laying her head on Tuor’s shoulder, “but his judgment of my suitors was exemplary!”

“It pleases me to hear you say so!” Tuor laughed. After a moment, he became grave again. “Your father’s acceptance of me was extraordinary,” he said, “and not to be expected as a matter of course. He could as easily have been another Thingol. Knowing this, I confess myself relieved that our son’s heart is given to one whose guardians will not fight his advances.”

Idril nodded reluctantly, but still protested. “But surely if a maiden truly loved him, her parents could be convinced…”

“Convinced by what means?” Tuor replied. “Think again of Thingol! Would you wish our son put to such a test?” He sighed again and pulled Idril closer.

“Think also of your boldness, and the ease with which you laid claim to me. I think no other maiden of your people could imagine looking on me with love.” The ghost of old insecurities haunted Tuor’s half-smile. “Remember when our betrothal was announced, how the ladies of the court were all aflutter? And after we wed? The furtive looks. The half-veiled questions. The way they whispered behind their hands of your fearlessness in taking a such a creature to your bed.”

Idril winced at that. Tuor had never mentioned his awareness of the salacious gossip surrounding their marriage, but she was not entirely surprised. Having learned that mortal hearing was less keen than their own, many in Gondolin had overestimated the difference, believing Tuor heard far less than he did.

“You see my point, do you not?” he continued. “The path of our own courtship is proof enough that few our son might undertake could be trod without great hardship. Should we not rejoice, then, that he has in Elwing one as eager to receive his love as he is to give it, who accepts him fully and without thought of controversy?”

Idril sighed heavily.

“I see the good sense in your words,” she said. “But it grieves me to think Eärendil should feel himself unwanted, or to think he must accept the simplest as the only choice. If he were to love another—”

“But, my dear, he does not love another,” Tuor cut in. “He loves her: she who is in front of him, she who has been by his side since they were but two small children who had lost their homes, finding comfort in one another.”

Tuor smiled and reached out to smooth a strand of hair from Idril’s face and tuck it behind her ear.

“Tell me truly, dearest: is it not your fear and desire to protect our child that leads you to misconstrue me? I do not say that Eärendil should marry Elwing because only she will have him. I say only that to other joys is added this: he will be spared the pain of desiring one who would judge him unworthy, or who would be prevented by kin or friends from receiving him. He will love and be loved by one who does not find him strange, who understands him in a way no other living being can. What more could we hope for our son, young or old?”

Idril sat for some minutes in silence. Finally, to Tuor’s surprise, she laughed softly and leaned over kiss his forehead.

“This from my youngling of a husband!” she exclaimed. “How did you become so wise?”

“Not wise, perhaps, but beyond doubt well-versed in unconventional wooing,” he answered wryly. “As to that, I confess I was highly motivated.”

The two looked long and tenderly into each other’s eyes, breaking their gaze only when Idril stood and gave a decisive nod.

“We will give our blessing when next we find them keeping company together.”

At that, Tuor rose and walked toward the door.

“Prepare your blessing, my love, for I believe we have found them,” Tuor said, chuckling at Idril’s startlement. Her expression turned rueful when he tilted his head toward the window. There stood Eärendil and Elwing, their faces anxious but determined, hands clasped with fingers wound tightly together.

“Ai, so soon!” Idril murmured. “I had thought to prepare my words.”

“Speak what your heart tells you, my love,” Tuor advised. His lips quirked upward in amusement. “I doubt they will hear much past ‘yes’ anyway.”

With that, Idril came to stand by his side, and they opened the door to their son—and she who would be their daughter.