He was a stark contrast to Idril's brightness, and indeed, to her physical appearance. He was dark, with the raven hair of his family line, and brooding next to Idril's golden hair and happiness. But she cared not for the differences and looked upon him greedily, happily. He was beautiful, flesh of her flesh and descended from her son! And yet there was hardly a trace of her son inside him. Idril approached him and braced his arms in her hands, then leaned forward to hug him.
She held him thus for an extended moment then slowly peeled herself away, hooking his arm in her own to walk deeper into the fields, the flowers still blooming at her feet as they went.
"I have been waiting for this chance for many days now," she said brightly, looking at him, "as you are son of my son. And I have wanted so to know you, and Tuor has as well."