THE SILMARILLION ONE SHOTS, IMAGINES & SH*t

If Eärendil chose mortality:

Summary:
Idril is clearly of finwes line, like damn with that temper!!

"Must you?" asks Elenwe.

Idril does not answer, simply shoulders the pack and kisses Tuor on the cheek. His hand is warm on her wrist, though he doesn't say anything more; they've both spent too long in this dance to regret their decisions, or to unmake them. The only thing to do is to continue.

(When Gondolin burned, Idril did not weep. She was too busy to weep: her people needed her strong, and she knew far too well the worth of a strong beacon, a bright symbol. But she spent her nights staring into the dark flaming ruin of her father's city. It was Tuor that wept; it was Tuor that wept, endlessly, staggeringly, and kept them moving grimly southwards.)

(One of them looks back. One of them grieves. It works for them.)

"She must," says Tuor gently, and releases her.

Idril does not smile- this is not a week in which she can smile- but her relief must show on her face. Tuor nods to her, and she turns, and she walks into the sharp juts of the Calacirya.

...

By the time they learned of Earendil's arrival, it was too late. Idril had ridden her horse harder than she'd ever ridden it before but still came to Mahanaxar after it was decided: the Valar had made judgment, and offered her son a choice, and he'd made it, though Elwing had not yet chosen. She had been in tears. They both looked so young, Idril remembers; young and afraid, the brightness of the Silmaril highlighting every mark of fear and grief carved into their faces. But then Elwing chose to be immortal and let the glitter-shine of the Silmaril touch her breast, and Idril knew that she'd lost a daughter in that moment as well as her son.

The Valar were kind. They allowed Earendil to live in Aman if he so wished it, and he built a home for himself twice-over: once in Tirion, to be with Idril and Tuor, and once again on a seashell-ridden beach near Alqualonde for Elwing. But his greatest love had been neither the glass-silvered city nor the wave-echoing tower, but rather the path between the two homes: winding between the mountains, sandy and salt-winded, shrubby and icy and stunningly beautiful. He spent more time traveling between their homes than spending time in each one, and that was how Idril's son liked it.

It's where they bury him, at the end: a small hollow in the Calacirya, tucked away from the elements but with fresh wind and cool shade.

...

Every year, Idril travels to her son's grave. She doesn't take much with her, but each piece matters: a fresh cut of goat meat, two worn boots, a cookpot and herbs, a cloak rolled up small, a multitude of mint in neat pots. She sits in the hollow. Hangs up the cloak, places the boots at the entrance. Starts a fire. Cooks the goat and the herbs into a slow, thick stew. Plants the mint in a semicircle. Closes her eyes, breathes in: this is what Earendil had done countless times. The cloak is his. The boots are his. The mint filtering into her hollow is sharp and sweet: all as close as Idril can get to her son's scent. If she closes her eyes and lets her imagination take her, she can imagine they're in Sirion once more, Idril and her golden-haired son, and that he's stepped outside- gone to wash the dust from his hair, that hair that he was always so particular about- that he'll be back any moment, smiling that crooked smile that he inherited from his father.

The vision breaks, of course, as it must. But this week- the week of her son's death- is Idril's deepest, most truly-held faith. She'd never been one to adore the Valar- that was Tuor, of the two of them, and he has faith enough for both now- but even her desire to adhere to the old traditions has withered beneath her grief. What kind of a mother can watch her son die before her eyes and remain assured of the ineffable sanctity of their gods? Well: there are a multitude of examples in Idril's own kin, but she doesn't count herself among their number. Idril has always loved those she chose to love too dearly. Her husband, her father, her son, her aunt- Maeglin had never been among them. She does not dream of his death, but Tuor does, even now, and wakes, shouting.