I miss her. The light and life that is inside of her.
Itarillë she is called in Quenya and Idril in Sindarin. 'Sparkling brilliance' in both tongues. She's blonde, like her mother before her. She likes to go barefoot through all her journeys, though nevermore than when we lived near the sea.
I miss her wisdom and her laughter. I miss her happiness. In some profound way it was tied to my own. I think, perhaps, because I did everything I could to see her smile again after the death of her mother.
And truly, she fought hard to see me smile too.