I own nothing.
Tuor and Eärendil are down at the quays again; Círdan's paid a visit to the Havens and with Eärendil's ever-mounting love of sailing, it seems inevitably that he would want to pay the Falathrim Lord a visit, and drag his father along with him. Idril will pay her respects later; Tuor has promised to give Círdan her excuses. Idril does not possess her son's, or even her husband's love of the sea and sailing. She's not the only one who doesn't.
"Lady Idril?" Idril feels a soft press upon her left hand, and looks down to meet Elwing's wide, solemn quicksilver eyes. "Thank you for helping me."
Idril summons a smile to her face and tells herself that it is not a sad one. "You're quite welcome, Elwing."
The little girl-queen of the Sindar can not sew. With the whole world falling apart, you would think that this would be the least of Idril's concerns. You would think that the governance of the Gondolindrim in the Havens of Sirion, who look to her as their leader, would take top priority over everything else. But sometimes, time simply must be made for other things, and Idril has no intention of listening to those (and there are many) who tell her that the only child she should concern herself with is her own.
"Now…" Idril takes up the length of linen cloth she has ready to hem in her right hand, and the needle in her left. "Watch what I do closely." As she sew a few stitches into the cloth, Elwing does indeed watch her, with the sort of intensity Idril has always found surprising in this frail twelve-year-old girl. The silence and unsmiling seriousness, however, is neither unusual or any longer surprising. Idril passes the cloth and needle into Elwing's tiny hands. "Now you try. And be careful of the pins n the cloth."
Elwing nods and starts to put stitches into the cloth as Idril showed her. She bends low over the cloth, and all Idril can see is a mass of glossy-black, corkscrew curls. She has entirely too much hair for such a small body, Idril muses pensively, resisting the urge to take up a stray lock of the girl's hair in her hand. Of course, I can not see any of what she's doing, thanks to all of that hair.
Finally, Elwing finishes, and hands the cloth back to Idril for inspection. Idril looks over Elwing's stitches, brow furrowed.
They're definitely better than they were, Idril will admit. Elwing's hem stitches look like they might actually hold now, and not come undone at the slightest pulling. They are still quite sloppy, though, Idril can't help but note. The stitches, done in red thread for ease of notice, are uneven in length and distance apart from each other.
Elwing, Idril knows, does not like to be complimented falsely, and moreover has great aptitude for discerning lies. Therefore, Idril says to her, "Let's practice some more, shall we?"
The first look Idril Celebrindal got at Elwing the White, daughter of Dior, will forever be burned into her mind. It had been two weeks since the bedraggled remnants of the Gondolindrim had made camp outside of Sirion, negotiating with the Sindar for entry. That was the day, at last, that Idril was permitted to lead her people through the hastily-built, crumbling gates, the day, at last, that she was able to ensure her people's safety. If only until the next attack hits us.
Idril, Tuor, and a small group of the surviving lords of Gondolin went to meet with the Sindarin court and thank them for allowing the Gondolindrim entry into the Havens. A tiny child greeted her, the same age as Eärendil, as slender as a willow wand, with white skin, an abundant mass of black curls, and wide, watchful quicksilver eyes. Who was this child? Idril wondered. Could it be that she was the daughter of one of the Sindarin lords, and her parents had not been able to find someone else to look after her?
But the girl's features did not match with any of the lords and ladies gathered, and none of them possessed hair so dense a black. The girl was introduced as Elwing, daughter of Dior and Nimloth, heir of Thingol, High Queen of the Sindar.
So much responsibility on such slight shoulders. Even if most of the responsibilities are divided amongst the lords of her court, I wonder how that must weigh on a child. The weight of the crown is heavy, indeed. Even I, an adult of more than five hundred years, can feel it on my neck. So alone.
"Who taught you how to sew?" Elwing asks suddenly. She has her chin rested upon her balled-up fist, her elbow resting on her knee, an oddly childish posture for a girl who rarely behaves like a normal child.
The posture gives Idril hope, however, so she smiles slightly as she answers, "My cousin, Artanis." Seeing Elwing's blank look, she adds, "If you've heard of her at all, it's likely by the name 'Galadriel.'"
Idril had so hoped that she would find Galadriel in the Havens of Sirion, had searched for her cousin's face amongst the assembly of Sindarin nobles that had greeted her when she was first allowed into the city. She knew that Galadriel had dwelled in Menegroth, that she had married a kinsman of Thingol, and it seemed to Idril that surely she would be there. Idril can not even say why exactly she wanted for Galadriel to be in the Havens, except that it would have been so reassuring to see a familiar face amongst all of these unfamiliar people.
But Galadriel was nowhere to be found. Eventually, Idril asked around, and learned that after the flight of the Iathrim to Sirion after the Kinslaying at Menegroth, Galadriel had been barred from entering the Havens of Sirion. Therefore, she and her husband left, and have not been seen since. Where they are, no one knows.
"I think I have heard her name mentioned before." In this moment, Idril wonders if Elwing even remembers Galadriel at all; the little girl-queen was supposed to have been barely three years old when Menegroth was laid waste. "Was she very good at sewing?"
Idril nods. "Yes, very good."
When she was a little girl by the shores of Lake Mithrim, Idril once sat and watched for hours as Galadriel stitched, stitched, stitched designs into a bolt of rich blue cloth. She produced frothing, foamy waves, soaring birds with outstretched wings, slippery, shiny fish, a scene that looked so real that whenever Idril touched the cloth she expected her hand to come away wet. Idril wondered, for years and years, if she would ever be able to make something like that, if she would ever be able to produce such gorgeous, lifelike images. She never has, but sometimes she still catches herself staring at thread and cloth, wondering if perhaps just an ounce more of effort will yield such a vivid image as what Galadriel rendered so easily.
Alas, Idril will likely never possess Galadriel's level of skill, and for that matter, neither will Elwing. It might be too early to tell in Elwing's case, but Idril suspects that in order to render lifelike scenes onto cloth, one must have a genuine talent for sewing and embroidery and such, and not simply diligence at learning to do these things properly.
They repeat the process of Idril doing a few stitches, and then handing it over to Elwing, four, maybe five times. Most of this time is spent in silence; Idril isn't sure of what to say, and Elwing doesn't say much to start with. But after a while, a question starts to form in Idril's mind.
"Elwing… Is there any reason you wanted me to teach you how to sew?" Idril asks, as gently as she can manage. "Why not one of the ladies of your own court?"
Elwing stares up at her with her grave face, and says simply, "I wanted you to teach me."
Idril had thought her a beautiful girl-child from the moment she first saw her, but when she learned of Elwing's history, any admiration was shot through with horror and pity. Idril thought of her own child, who still had both of his parents, and thought of Elwing, who no longer had anyone at all. Elwing was alone, bereft, and that loss seemed stamped on her skin, her eyes, her very soul. She was small, silent, unsmiling. She never spoke of her family, but Idril could see their shadows behind her eyes.
It could be considered selfish, then, Idril trying to provide guidance to the girl-queen of the Sindar. If it is selfish, Idril giving Elwing support as she would have wanted someone to give Eärendil support if their positions were reversed, then so be it. More than that, though, she remembers. She remembers how someone once took pity upon her when she was young, and needed guidance and love. To deny the same to Elwing would be pointless and cruel.
Idril can interpret the answer Elwing has given her to mean this: She knows what Idril is doing. She knows, and she is accepting of it.
Idril smiles down at her, resting her hand on Elwing's shoulder. Elwing smiles back, and there is that rare radiance, a light so bright in her face that, every time Idril sees it, she wonders if the one who sits beside her wasn't imbued with the light of the Sun when she was born. If only she could see it more often, that light.