Work Text:
Turgon is no carpenter nor shipwright, but the palm-sized wooden boat he has carved with its tiny cloth sail is recognisably a boat, and even better, it actually floats. Even better than that, his toddling grandson is thrilled with it.
“Look at my boat, Abu!” Eärendil cries, over and over as he sprints around the fountain. “Abu, look at my boat!”
“I see it, little one,” he tells the boy, fondly, “it’s wonderful. Don’t make yourself dizzy.”
Eärendil gives a joyful whoop, and as he laughs, Turgon does not miss how the fountain seems to run clearer. The child hears Ulmo’s song clearer than anyone, and in turn he silently sings every note back to the god.
From your house and mine, a new star shall rise, Huor had said.
Eärendil is no ordinary boy, it is clear. But he is just a boy, playful and cheeky and only three summers old.
O Vairë, he is only a child, Turgon thinks, have pity on him, do not weave for him a bitter fate, do not cut the thread of his life so short.
“Abu, can I jump in the water? Please?”
He is only a child.