Bloom by Elrond's Library  

Idril Celebrindal perhaps should not have been surprised that upon welcoming Tuor, son of Huor, and Voronwë, her father the King passed their keeping and care to her and her House. The duty of providing for guests, a lauded task for all wives – or lacking wives, sisters; but  Turgon her father lacked both wife and sister, both taken by the tragic turn of Doom – so the task fell to Idril.  

She had hosted Tuor’s father and uncle in their long stay in Gondolin too, had watched with rapt fascination as they grew from awkward youths to stalwart young men. Tuor seemed much the same, the evidence of once having been a gangly youngster was hidden underneath armor that seemed to overwhelm him. The top of his head barely came up to her shoulder – Turgon had evidently not expected the champion Ulmo would send to be quite this short! 

They followed her out of the King’s Hall and through the winding streets of Gondolin in a tense silence, the winter dusk painting the clouds in streaks of pink and purple and blue. But once they had reached the main thoroughfare, Voronwë quietly begged leave to return to the House of the Hammer of Wrath, to return to his family. He departed, then, after a kiss had been laid gently on Tuor’s brow and a bow given to Idril, with his cloak’s hood hiding his face. Voronwë had always been a quiet one; attention disagreed with him, the King’s especially so.

Tuor looked at her with unabashed curiosity, his gaunt face worn from many years of hardship. Her heart swelled with what might have been pity. 

“Come,” Idril gestured down a side street. “You are in need of a good meal, methinks, and a hot bath. This winter has been harsh.”

More like his entire life has been harsh, she thought to herself. How old was he, anyway?

“My thanks, Princess,” Tuor replied, smiling crookedly, a little self-deprecating. “I honestly cannot remember the last time I had a hot bath or a meal that wasn’t thin camp stew.”

Idril guided him through her House’s gate, delicate wrought iron designed by her cousin Maeglin to mimic two giant eagle’s wings in flight, the tips overlapping. Her senechal took one look at the Man at her side, and sent for hot water, fresh linens, and a hot meal to be sent to one of the guest suites.  

She herself brought up a tray of food after giving him time to bathe and rest. It would be well within her right to pass on this task to some member of her House but … there was something about Tuor that made her want to provide for him. To get to know him better. 

She thought, she hoped, that breads might rest easier on his stomach, half-starved as he seemed. She remembered the days on the shores of Lake Mithrim, and the things she had made for her people as they recovered from the ordeal that was the Helcaraxë, and again, what her cousin Maedhros had eaten once Fingon had brought him back from his torment. Flat bread slathered with fresh butter and garlic, bubbles golden; sage and chicken sausages wrapped in a fluffy pastry; a steaming soup of soft carrots, onions, celery, and short noodles; slices of braided sweet cake filled with cinnamon, apples, and raisins topped with honey; water and fruit juice and a flask hot tea that would stay warm throughout the night. 

Idril watched him eat with a content half-smile on her face. 

With time and under her care, this Man would bloom. 

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