I own nothing.
There were many things that could be said of Idril Celebrindal, but only one thing that she alone would say of herself. She was no Lúthien.
In fact, Idril often wondered how Lúthien had lived with her decision; she was, after all, in a similar position to Lúthien herself. It was all too clear what Lúthien had given up. In choosing to follow her mortal love, she had chosen the doom of mortals, and had thus chosen eternal separation from her family, friends, childhood companions, everyone she had ever known. This, Lúthien had given up to be with Beren, and Beren had made no such sacrifice to be with her.
Maybe it had been the madness of new love that had driven Lúthien to make such a decision; Idril could not say for sure. But when that madness wore off, Idril wondered how Lúthien felt about her decision then. Did she still stand by the decision she had made? Or did she regret it? When he died, Beren was surely greeted by all of his dead kin. Who greeted Lúthien?
No one, until the breaking of the world.
Idril was no Lúthien.
Tuor was racing towards death before her eyes. It wasn't apparent in Gondolin, but he was still young in Gondolin and did not experience such hardship as they did in Sirion. But is he not still young? The process of aging that Edain endured still bewildered Idril, even after all this time. She and Tuor had spent so little time together. How could he now be old?
The silver hairs gathering in his hair and beard, the lines furrowing ever deeper into his skin, they told the tale. So too did the way he had difficulty getting up in the morning and was no longer as spry as he used to be. His limbs were stiff, and fine movement with his fingers was becoming difficult.
What was more unnerving was the way he was becoming forgetful. In his mind, dead friends were suddenly resurrected, Glorfindel and Ecthelion and Annael and others, only to die again when his eyes cleared and he remembered that they were dead. He would think that they were in Gondolin, the Mithrim camp, ruined Vinyamar. He would remark about something Turgon wanted him to do. He would call Eärendil by the names of childhood friends long dead.
Not long after their wedding, the jewel-smith Enerdhil had come to Idril and given her a brooch with a green stone set in it that he called the Elessar. He had originally crafted it for himself, still in mourning after more than five hundred years for the daughter he had lost in the crossing of the Helcaraxë. Idril, who knew a thing or two about mourning for the dead, could sympathize with Enerdhil. Oh yes, she could.
But for reasons Enerdhil had never elaborated on, he had decided to give the Elessar to Idril instead. He said that when one peered through the green stone, they would see aged, weary, marred things made good and whole and young again. Idril had never used the Elessar in such a way; it was but a simple cloak clasp to her. If she did, she felt that she herself would break. It was difficult enough, trying to set Tuor to rights and shield Eärendil from the true extent of his decline; Voronwë helped her, and Elwing seemed to know enough not to draw attention to it, but it was still difficult, seeing him like this. If Idril had to be reminded of the person he used to be…
When it took him a full five minutes to remember her name and who she was, Idril knew it was time to leave.
Eärrámë, their ship, she was nearly complete. It would be just a few days more before they would be ready to leave. Voronwë was coming with them, as were a handful of Noldorin mariners willing to brave the Doom of the Noldor and the enforced exile from Aman. Tuor understood the nature of their voyage, and was unafraid of the idea that he might be struck down as a mortal attempting to enter the Undying Lands. Herself, Idril did not fear the Doom. If she, who had been a child unable to disobey her parents when the Noldor fled Aman, could be struck down trying to enter her old home, then that was proof that the Valar really had abandoned them.
Neither Eärendil nor Elwing would be accompanying them. Idril did not like having to leave them, her son and her soon-to-be daughter, for what could well be thousands of years, or even until the breaking of the world. There was nothing for it, however. Elwing was Queen over the Sindar and had her duties to her people. Eärendil would not be separated from Elwing, and though Idril did not fear being struck down for violating the Exile of her people, she would not risk her son's life for the sake of his father.
There was healing to be found in Aman. Idril didn't remember much of the home of her birth, but she knew that there was healing in the West. She would appeal to them, the Valar, the rulers over Arda she had never met, and ask them to heal her husband's mind and body of the strange process of aging. She would ask them to let him stay with her.
If Tuor did die, Idril would accept it. She knew how to accept death, after all of this time. She wanted to see her parents again, her grandparents, her aunt and uncles, her cousins. She wanted to see the friends she had lost. Idril loved Tuor, loved him dearly as her husband, the father of her child, and her friend, but she had only known him for a tiny fraction of her life. The time she had spent knowing and loving him was insignificant compared to the time she had known and loved her family.
The sun was setting, and cloaked in the dark shadows of sunset, nearing twilight, Idril remembered her dead. Her father, standing tall and proud and refusing to acknowledge the danger all around him (In this moment, she remembered the one she refused to acknowledge as one of "her" dead, and banished him from sight). The pale shadow of Elenwë, wan and faint and wispy as one of the hairs on Idril's head. Aredhel, restless, frustrated, crackling with the want to expend her energy on a wider space than the Vale of Tumladen. Fingon, smiling and confident and kind. Fingolfin, distant but kind, weighed down with more responsibilities than Idril could ever have imagined until she became leader of her people. Lalwen, distant but kind, never a part of her life. In the shadows of the dying day, Idril even remembered Argon, however faintly.
It could take hundreds, maybe even thousands of years, but Idril would see them all again if she waited long enough. If the Valar chose to strike her down for attempting to enter Aman, she would see them all immediately.
Idril Celebrindal was no Lúthien.