A little drabble for Ardhoniel Marvelite, who thought this up.
Idril gazed unhappily to where her little son lay. He was sleeping, a little smile framed by golden curls. He looked so happy but this was not right. He was half of a year now, and still could not walk.
Tuor came in, his golden hair twisted into waves of confusion by the autumn wind. "Good evening, my love!"
Idril stood up, casting him a fleeting smile. "Tuor, we need to talk."
Her mortal husband sat down on a chair. "Aye, and about what?"
Idril fidgeted with the golden curls that fell to her waist in thick glory. "I-I am worried about Ëarendil."
Tuor glanced over to the infant. "I see nothing wrong with him. He's sleeping."
Idril nodded. "Exactly. He's sleeping. All the other children his age can walk….By a year they can dance and sing!"
Her husband sighed. "Celebrindal, dearest, they are all Elf children."
Idril looked blank. "So?"
"He's is doing remarkably well for his age, honestly." Tuor cleared his throat, looking almost embarrassed. "You see, mortals have slow growth, compared to the Eldar."
"Including of the mind?" asked Idril, her brow furrowed. Ëarendil could hardly speak.
"Yes…."
"Oh, I see!" she chirped, skipping over to kiss his forehead. "That explains so much!"
Tuor slouched down in his chair and muttered something.