I own nothing.
Honestly, Elwing likes Tuor, certainly likes him better than the other Edain she's met in Sirion—perhaps something to do with his upbringing. She considers him a friend, an appellation she does not hand out lightly, nor with ease. He has always been warm and personable, always someone whose honestly Elwing can trust. Tuor is 'reliable', to put it in short tones.
So it is said.
Idril once said that Elwing could be a scout, for all that her eyes and ears perceive. "And your memory is a marvel," she remarked. Elwing remembers things better, sees and hears more clearly, when she stares into her Silmaril, but she does not go so far as to say this to Idril. Saying so, revealing her Silmaril's existence and presence here, could cause… problems, problems that Elwing would rather avoid.
Idril praised Elwing's sharp eyes and keen ears, but sometimes she wonders if she doesn't see and hear more than Idril would care for her to, as regards to Tuor. Especially now. Elwing watches, and listens, and gathers evidence in her mind.
A moment, one afternoon, when she comes across Tuor in a hallway, and he seems lost, disoriented.
A moment when he calls Eärendil 'Glorfindel.'
A moment when, late at night, Elwing hears thumping on the wall, faint and distant, down the hall.
A moment when he's eating dinner in the great hall with the rest of them, and his eyes glaze over and Elwing is sure that Tuor has no idea where he is or what he's doing there.
A moment, atop ten, fifteen others, when Idril reports that her husband is unwell and she must tend to him. Alone, she says quite emphatically, painting a false smile as brittle as glass on her face to dismiss Oropher and Egalmoth's concerns.
Tuor is unwell. Elwing can see that. She can always detect sickness in Edain, before even they know it. She can practically smell it, thick and sweet and musty. It's part of why, generally speaking, she dislikes dealing with Edain. In Tuor, Elwing can see it too. Fingers that have no idea what they must grasp. Lips that have no idea what words they must form. Eyes that have no idea what they must see. His mind becomes circuitous and shadowed; she watches him ponder and struggle for long, awkward moments over the simplest of questions. She asks again, just to be sure of what she's seeing.
So Elwing asks Idril about it.
"Lady Idril… Your husband… He seems…"
Idril sucks in a deep breath, and in that moment deep lines furrow in her face like an aged Edain woman. "So you have noticed that then, Elwing?"
"What is wrong with Lord Tuor?" Elwing asks quietly, not really caring about Idril's answer one way or another—she herself can see, quite clearly, what is wrong with him—but perhaps Idril's answer will shed light on some issue Elwing was not aware of.
Idril pauses, her quill poised in her hand over a written request an increase in the grain allotment to the ninth district—that district is populated entirely by Noldorin refugees, and thus Idril has say-so over what happens there. "I… I am really not sure, Elwing," she says to her, seemingly calm—there's a strong undercurrent of tension beneath that calmness. "I am supposed to understand that it's something that happens to Edain sometimes, when they grow old."
It must be something that happens to Edain. The idea of something like this happening to one of her own people as they grew older is so alien to Elwing that she can not fathom it. She can not fathom a lot of things about Edain. Edhil are born perfectly sound in body and mind, and barring injury will stay that way for the rest of their immortal lives. They do not suffer in the mind the way Tuor does, not in a life spent free of injury.
Is this the fate of the Second-born, then? To deteriorate in their minds as much as they do in their bodies as they age? Elwing's own grandfather is of the Edain, and she carries his blood in her veins. All the same, the Edain feel alien to her, and she is glad to count herself an Edhel—Elwing shudders at the thought of having to endure such a fate.
Idril focuses her blue eyes on Elwing's face. "Elwing…" She sighs, putting down her quill and rubbing her forehead wearily. She who once seemed so bright and indomitable to Elwing now seems weary, and shows her weariness all too much. "I would appreciate it if you didn't speak of this to Eärendil."
Elwing does not know why Idril makes this request of her, and doesn't ask. Shielding Eärendil from the fate he could possibly suffer if he takes after his father seems a worthy cause in itself, and Elwing knows how to keep secrets. She can keep Idril and Tuor's, if necessary, if she wants to.
She continues gathering evidence in her mind, and counts herself fortunate to be an Edhel, and not belong to the Edain.
Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)