Respite by Augustine  

Amathorn did not think he would ever fall in love.

He had lived quite happily for well over four thousand years without it. He was not violently repulsed by the idea of romantic love or sex like Gil-galad was, but he just … could not bring himself to care. He was busy, always so busy, and he had no shortage of close friends, including Gil, who was also a good deal of the reason he was always occupied. Who has time for romance when you are Captain of the Guard to the High King of the Noldor? His relationship to Ereinion was… intense. He did not have a specific word for it, for it was many things and had grown and changed over millennia. What started as pulling a young child out of the rubble in Falas and helping Círdan watch over him in the chaos of the first years on the Isle of Balar grew into deep fealty and deeper friendship as that child grew up, up, taller than he, and into adulthood.

And despite his best efforts, the curse of the Noldor kings took him too. The thought of it still pressed the breath out of his chest, his own scream echoing in his ears as he desperately ran across the battlefield, too late to stop Sauron from burning Ereinion's radiant light out of existence. Not that he could have done anything about it if he were closer but die with him. At Falas, Amathorn had held the little child close to his chest as he ran down towards the boats that would carry them to safety. For all of Gil-galad's massive adult stature, there was not anything left for Amathorn to hold, for fear that what remained would crumble to ash beneath his fingers. Instead he held Elrond and Círdan as they all wept.

Which was how he had found himself here in Aman, having sailed from all he had ever known in Arda.

One thing he had thought he had known, was the reasoning that if he were ever to fall in love, it already would have happened at some point in his near four and a half millennium.

He had not taken into account the fact that the Elf he would fall in love with had been spending their own thousands of years here in Valinor. Nor had he taken into account how rudderless he would be without his role of Captain of the Guard in Lindon or… well he had no official title in Imladris but it was understood that while Elrond would refuse the crown, he was Gil-galad's heir, and Amathorn had happily been of service to him and the Valley where the spirit of Gil-galad's kingdom lived on, even if not in name.

He had stayed in Imladris for a few hundred years. Watched over Elrond and Celebrían's children while they grew, all three of them were equal parts precious and feral wargs, so his help had been appreciated. He had enjoyed watching their family grow, and had always felt welcomed and loved there.

But -

Before long, Amathorn had felt the call West. He had reasoned that meant Gil-galad would soon be released from the Halls of Mandos and was glad to go to him. It had only been around five hundred years, but Amathorn missed him fiercely, and considered his oath of protection unbroken by death and not irrelevant in the safety of Aman. His goodbyes had been sad, but he had looked to the horizon with hope of seeing his King and dearest friend again soon.

Amathorn arrived in Valinor, took in the sights, and met with those he had known in Arda. Some who had died in the War of the Last Alliance had already been released from the Halls of Mandos. Gil-galad was not among them. Amathorn decided he was glad that he was taking his time. The Valar had to know how much had been placed on his shoulders in life. There was no need to rush his time in death. There was no one more deserving of rest.

Amathorn was happy to wait. He explored the lands, climbed mountains, filled several sketchbooks, and thought about where Gil-galad might like to live here. He guessed that at least at first he would not want to be part of the courts of Tirion or any of the large cities. As much as he would want to reunite with all of his people who were here in Aman, there was no chance Gil-galad would want to immediately reestablish his own court, and Amathorn knew that if they did not stay away from the large population centres, leadership would be thrust on him again over time through a thousand tiny cuts as Gil-galad was thoroughly unable to say "no" to duty.

Well, except for one duty, and Amathorn was still proud of him for drawing that boundary line.

In the meantime, Amathorn felt himself drawn to Alqualondë. The proximity to the water was a familiar comfort to him, and of his options, it was close enough to the path to the Halls of Mandos that it would be a relatively short journey there to meet Gil-galad when he was released. He collected a few things he thought Gil would want immediately upon having a body again. Some clothes Amathorn thought he would like, the closest he could find to his favourite wine, some hair sundries, as well as things that reminded him of Círdan and Elrond. He had a sketchbook of Elrond and Celebrían's children ready for Gil-galad to pore over, and a few of the children's drawings had been sent with him as well. Amathorn was particularly looking forward to showing him their renditions of the stories their father told them of his adventures with the King.

There was a stack of letters from Círdan, Elrond, and a few others that he kept sealed in a box with his sketchbooks so the paper did not deteriorate in however many years passed before they could be delivered.

At some point however, Amathorn ran out of things to prepare. He spent time with others he knew from Lindon, drew, trained, and taught himself some skills he had not had much opportunity to devote time to before. Something within him itched however. He had never been without purpose like this before.

That changed abruptly.

It was not love at first sight. Maybe love at first sound though. Amathorn had been in the market, picking up what he needed for food that he could not catch or grow himself. He had become quite taken with his garden in the past few years, but it could not provide him with everything.

It was there he heard someone singing. That was not unusual. Here in Valinor, almost everywhere he went someone was performing. It made him feel incredibly inartistic and uncultured, having never thrown himself into an art beyond his casual sketchbooks.

But this voice.

Something about it reverberated in his very fëa.

He turned to find the singer, a dark haired Teleri with warm brown skin. He had always found ellon attractive aesthetically. Elves only. The male mortals were too hairy in the wrong places for his tastes, and typically they smelled unpleasant. He had never put much thought into it beyond a shrug. It did not really matter. He was busy, and more than content in his life, happy when not living under the shadow of evil in Arda, and stressed but fulfilled in his role as a warrior and protector when that shadow was cast.

While he had found other ellon attractive, this was different. He felt his fëa pull towards him, and his breath caught in his chest. It was the most peculiar sensation. He stood dumbly and open mouthed listening to him sing and play his lute. He wanted to approach when the song was finished, but did not know what he would say. Amathorn stuttered out compliments to his music that were not worthy of how the performance made him feel. Names were exchanged, introductions were made. He felt strangely self conscious when the follow up question of where he had lived led into him explaining his roles in Lindon and Imladris. This ellon, Ciurān, seemed equally self conscious that he had lived his entire life in Aman, and had no "great deeds" as he put it to his name. He seemed to find it shameful, but it made Amathorn feel… strangely protective. Until that moment he had not considered how blissfully innocent those who had been born after the Flight of the Noldor and had lived their entire lives in Aman must be.

He had still not shaken the paranoia that some great darkness could still fall at any time, that evil could rise even in the Blessed Land. It had happened before. While he knew he could relax, and he had relaxed, he would not fully be letting down his guard. And upon meeting Ciurān, he found that he wanted to shelter him if such a time did arise.

It was quite a lot to comprehend. Four and a half millennium without these feelings, well, he was coping with the change, and that was about all that could be said. He felt like a blushing adolescent. He probably looked like a blushing adolescent, fumbling his words, generally making a fool of himself. Were the Valar punishing him for how much he and Gil-galad had teased Elrond when he fell head over heels in love with Celebrían? At least Elrond had been able to speak with her normally. Elrond's problem has been the opposite, he did not let her know his feelings for an absurd number of years. Amathorn could not hide his feelings if he tried. He spent a lot of time in the training yard, hitting dummies with his spear while he tried to sort out what he wanted to do about this.

Their courtship began with a missing polishing cloth. He had a total of three cloths to wipe down the metal parts of his weaponry after running through his drills in the training yard. He would cycle through them as they needed to be washed every few days. There had been two in his cubby yesterday, the third one was currently drying on the washing line at his home. But now the cubby only had one cloth. He would not expect theft here, and nothing else had been disturbed. He would not have minded if someone had used something like his linseed oil, but that looked undisturbed. All of his other repair tools and weaponry paraphernalia appeared undisturbed as well.

An apprentice had likely been sent to fetch a cleaning cloth and simply grabbed from the wrong cubby. Many Elves trained here, storing their various supplies and sundries in open and unlabelled cubbies where they changed in and out of their working clothes. It would be easy for someone to mistake his cubby for their teacher's. Hopefully it would be returned, but if not, well, it was just a piece of fabric.

A few days later, the missing cloth reappeared. Neatly folded exactly where he had previously left it, as if it had never been gone at all. Perplexed, Amathorn picked it up, and it unfurled in his hand. Blue and silver embroidery flashed past on the bottom corner. His did not have that, was this not his cloth after all?

Tears pricked his eyes as he saw what was embroidered on this cloth. It was a very small but perfectly detailed rendition of Gil-galad's heraldry in silky threads. This was his polishing cloth, but who had - ? Whoever it was had clearly put time into it, and was highly skilled. They also had the good sense to place the embroidery on the very corner of the cloth so that its function was not impeded by the design.

He had little evidence of this, but his suspicion was that it had been Ciurān. Amathorn's friends from Middle Earth were unlikely to abduct his belongings for guerilla embroidery unless they thought he needed cheering up, and while they teased him about what he was going to do with himself until Gil-galad was released from the Halls of Mandos, they knew he was fine. Right?

He suspected Ciurān because every time he saw him, the ellon's garments were covered in embroidery. It had seemed likely that it was Ciurān's own handiwork just for the sheer amount of it, and he had complimented it and asked not long ago. Ciurān had blushed and thanked him, saying that it was his work, and that he had once apprenticed as an embroiderer.

So.

This was probably Ciurān's work.

Amathorn resolved to pluck up his courage and thank him for it. As terrifying as the prospect was, he was growing tired of them both dancing around this, afraid to name it for what it was after all these millennium independent.

It was quite frankly, ridiculous that this made him so anxious. He had faced down all manner of evil in Middle Earth. But telling this beautiful, artistically gifted, perfect ellon how he felt made him want to hide.

Amathorn found him at the market again, singing with his harp this time. He lurked for a while, working on a strategy. He did not want to ask him somewhere this public, but he was not sure how to get him alone. If he was finishing his set, Amathorn could offer to carry his harp for him.

Here he was again, manual labour was the most he could offer, unskilled as he was in most arts.

How was he ever going to court him? Assuming that Teleri culture here was similar to what he had seen in Lindon and Imladris, an exchange of handcrafted gifts was essential. Amathorn desperately wanted to make something for Ciurān that showed him how he felt. Sheets of paper with drawings of birds in trees did not feel like enough.

Ciurān finished a song, to much applause, and appeared to be taking a break, drinking from water that someone had brought him.

Stupid. Why had he not thought of that? Bringing him water would have been a perfect opportunity to start a conversation.

Amathorn forced himself to take a deep breath. He was not stupid. He had been praised for both his strategy and quick thinking back in Arda. Elrond would happily discuss books with him, and recommend further reading he thought Amathorn may enjoy.

Why did Ciurān make him just want to be better at everything?

With a sigh, Amathorn pushed himself out of his hiding spot and made his way towards Ciurān and his harp.

Ciurān blushed when he saw him, but his darker skin tone did not betray it as obviously as Amathorn knew his own fairer skin was showing the heat he felt across his cheeks.

He was so beautiful.

"Amathorn!" Ciurān greeted

Amathorn decided to put into practice the Telerin he had been learning.

"Él síla lúmena vomentienguo!"

Ciurān beamed at him. "That was good!"

Amathorn felt his flush deepen.

"I wanted to thank you," he began, and now it was Ciurān whose blush deepened. "Your embroidery work is perfect as always. It is a dear reminder of home. I will treasure it."

Ciurān busied himself with his harp. "It was nothing."

"Well," Amathorn tried desperately to think of something either complimentary or clever to say. "Feel free to come by the training grounds any time. I could show you around. If you want to learn a weapon I would gladly teach you." A thought struck him. "Or, I suppose, if you were there already, you must already practice with one. What is it?"

"I do not," Ciurān blurted, "I was just there, I mean- I am sure I do not know what you mean."

What?

Oh.

As Amathorn came to the market to see Ciurān, Ciurān had been to the training yard to see him. Why had he not said anything or come to meet him?

Judging by the scarlet blush growing deeper across Ciurān chestnut cheeks, Amathorn suspected Ciurān had been watching him. Amathorn blushed further as well, recalling that the day his polishing cloth had gone missing he had taken his shirt off in the training yard when he became too sweaty.

"I must go," Ciurān stood abruptly packing his harp away.

"Could I help you carry your harp wherever you are going?" Amathorn asked, and then instantly realised he was likely inviting himself to Ciurān's home.

"I can manage!" Ciurān's voice had pitched higher.

"Oh," say something nice and get out of here, Amathorn thought furiously. "I hope you have a good day." Well. It was better than it could have been.

"You as well."

Amathorn fled.

A week later, it seemed Ciurān had taken him up on his invitation to visit him in the training yards. Not that he saw him, but the tunic he had been planning to change into after his drills and spar was not in the cubby where he had left it.

Amathorn wondered idly how often Ciurān was here watching him if he had figured out which cubby was his. Or possibly he had a friend here who had pointed it out to him.

Amathorn took his current tunic off, wiped as much sweat off as he could, and put his sweaty clothes back on, grabbing the trousers he had been planning to change into and made a direct trip home. There was little point in changing into only half a set of clean clothes. It was not comfortable, both to still be in the sweaty clothing, and because he had not taken the time to unbraid, wash, and restyle his hair, so loose silver strands were sticking all over his neck. It would be worth it though, he was extremely curious to see how his tunic was returned to him.

This time it took longer to return, and when it did, neatly folded in his cubby when he arrived, he could see why. It was a deep blue tunic, and Ciurān had embroidered the first constellations of night in the summer sky around the collar in shining silver thread. It was beautiful, an absolute work of art, and Amathorn could not help but gasp as he took it in.

His drills that day were distracted. So much so that his new friends noticed when they sparred. They said little, but knowing glances were exchanged. Amathorn wanted to sink into the ground. He could join Gil-galad with Mandos, that would be fine.

Gil-galad would likely tease him even worse, if the way they had ganged up on teasing Elrond was any indication.

His distraction thinking about what Gil-galad would say earned him an unblocked thrust to the stomach with a training longsword, knocking him backwards into the dirt.

Amathorn finished out the sparring rotation, and then retreated into the changing room. He took the time to go to the connected bath house, soaking his sore abdomen in the hot pool while he took out his braids and then sank further into the water, laying back to wet his hair fully.

That strike was going to bruise colourfully. His opponent had apologised, but he had assured her it was his own fault. He did not know her well, fortunately or unfortunately, so she did not know to tease him for the reason of his lapse in awareness, and he was not about to tell her.

When he had soaked long enough, he moved to the soaping and rinsing pools, taking more care than usual to clean himself before putting on his newly embroidered tunic. He took advantage of his wet hair to braid intricate delicate patterns into his hair that were beyond him once his hair was dry.

He was going to go find Ciurān while wearing this tunic, thank him, and invite him to dinner, and he was going to look his best while doing so.

As much as he knew he would be teased, he did wish that Gil-galad, Círdan, or Elrond were here. Círdan to help him with his hair, theirs was the same fine type that was difficult to braid at times. Elrond would be helpful for advice on courting, hopeless romantic that he was with Celebrían. Gil-galad, well, Gil-galad would probably just laugh at him, but he would be supportive in his own way, with a squeeze of the shoulder and soft words that he was happy for him.

None of his cohort from the Lindon guard were even here at the training yards today.

He had not realised that coming to Aman would be so lonely.

Of course, he had thought that his sudden call westward was an indication that Gil-galad would be released soon. He had come expecting that intense and undefined companionship, but…

He was beginning to think maybe it was another who he had been called here to.

Hair as nice as he could make it, clothes straightened and embroidery glittering around his collar, he took another moment to rub his favourite cedar cologne on his wrists and neck. With a final spin in the mirror and deep breath, he set off.

Ciurān was not at the market.

Or at least, he was not in his usual spot. Trying not to lose his nerve, Amathorn began searching methodically down every aisle.

He realised partway through how ridiculous it was that this was the only place he knew to find him. He did not have the faintest idea where he lived, or spent the rest of his time. Every metre of the market investigated, Amathorn doubled back to his starting point to try again. The result was the same. Without any idea where else to look, he admitted defeat for the second time in the day and headed home, head down.

He did not get very far down the road before he heard Ciurān's voice call his name. It took all of his self control not to whip his body around at the sound, and instead turn in a measured and controlled manner.

They drew closer together, and Amathorn waited until they were at a distance where they did not have to shout. "It is good to see you," he began "I went to the market looking to thank you. You did beautiful work."

Amathorn saw Ciurān blush. Why were they both so bad at this? They both turned into a couple of awkward centenarians around each other, it was embarrassing.

"Thank you," Ciurān replied, "I am pleased that you like it."

"I am glad that you saw me," Amathorn continued. "When I could not find you at the market I realised that I did not know where else I might find you."

"We should meet elsewhere too," Ciurān blurted, and Amathorn felt happiness swell in his chest that he agreed.

"How about you come to my home tonight for dinner?" Amathorn suggested. "I will give you directions, it is not far from here."

"I would like that."

They both smiled shyly at each other.

"I will see you at sunset then?" Amathorn asked.

Ciurān agreed, and they both hurried off in opposite directions.

Or they did, until Amathorn realised he needed several things from the market if he were to cook something nice for the two of them.

Dinner went well, and at the end of it Ciurān invited Amathorn to his own home for dinner in three days time.

This continued. Their relationship and knowledge of each other grew. They found themselves out in a field under the stars talking about their lives. Amathorn loved hearing about the arts Ciurān had studied, creations he had made, and carefree wild stories of growing up in the absolute safety of Valinor.

They shared their first kiss there, out under the stars. Brief and chaste, but wonderful, it sent a tingling feeling through Amathorn's entire body.

They lay there for a while, comfortably snuggled together against the chilled air. Ciurān asked for stories of Amathorn's own childhood in return, and he had to explain that the First Age in Arda was one of peril, and he had been taught to shoot to defend himself almost as soon as he could hold a bow.

It had been his choice to go into a military career, but at the time there was little else to do but fight to defend Beleriand. All things considered, his life had turned out a pretty cushy one as the head of Gil-galad's personal guard. He lived quite comfortably when they were not at war, and when they were, his duties to the King kept him from the worst of it. At least, until Gil-galad could no longer be corralled away from the worst of the fighting with the placation that he was too young, and that the line of Kings must be protected. That had not lasted very long. Nor had the better food and accommodations. Once Gil-galad figured out he was receiving special treatment he had immediately put a stop to it, saying he would go hungry with his troops. It hurt Amathorn's heart knowing that Gil-galad was no stranger to hunger. Food had become scarce for the refugees on Balar in his childhood, and Amathorn did not like the thought of him having to relive it.

Anyway.

He tried to keep his stories from Arda light, or at least victorious. Ciurān hung on his every word, and squeezed his hand in the grass whenever there was danger. He praised Amathorn for his daring and valour, and admitted he would be willing to learn to use a sword if Amathorn was the one to teach him.

That proved to be its own peril.

Close quarters, stripped down to their trousers because Amathorn quickly learned he could not just tell Ciurān which muscle group he was supposed to be using, he would have to point it out on his or Ciurān's body because the silly ellon did not know his own musculature system. Why would he, Amathorn supposed, beyond core muscles for singing and playing music?

But.

If the romantic feelings that had budded two years ago were not confusing and embarrassing enough after four and a half millennia, well.

What usually happened when two elves loved each other very much was happening now too. He had known to expect this, but the feelings of yer stirring deep inside him were still shocking.

He knew this would last a couple hundred years at most, but he also knew that typically the desires were quelled by children, and he was not sure how that was going to work. There had been a few same sex couples in Lindon and Imladris, but as always, sex was a private thing so he had no idea how that had worked for them. He had mostly heard about sex from Elrond, and that had an incredibly clinical slant to it.

When he was not being clinical, Elrond had written beautiful poetry to Celebrían. Amathorn knew because Elrond had given to Gil-galad to proofread, as was their way as herald and king. Elrond would write, Gil-galad might tweak, and then memorise to speak aloud for whatever purpose. For this purpose Gil-galad had refused to tweak it in content, saying he was not wooing Celebrían, Elrond was, and that he had no mind for such things and would look it over for spelling and grammar alone. Not that Elrond needed help with that. So rather than watch Elrond pace holes in the floor, Amathorn had volunteered to be a second reader, under the stipulation that he also had no experience, he just was not as likely to make faces at Elrond while reading it like Gil-galad was.

Elrond was a true wordsmith, and he wrote Celebrían pages and pages of poetry to describe his feelings towards her that Amathorn knew would melt him if someone had addressed it towards him.

He wished again that Elrond was here now, he absolutely would call in the favour of both proofreading love letters, and he would not mind a refresher on a sex talk, especially anything concerning two ellon.

Time passed. Feelings continued to grow. Amathorn decided he would be the one to commission silver rings for them, as he has provided relatively little in the way of handcrafted gifts, and Ciurān was embroidering everything of his he found laying still. He was no smith, but he sketched out a design for both rings, an artistic rendering of the musical notation of the first song he had heard Ciurān singing in the market so long ago.

Ciurān's beautiful face blushed scarlet again when presented with them. He said yes immediately and pulled Amathorn in for a long but still very chaste kiss, gentleman that he was.

Their engagement year passed quickly. They began building a home together at the outskirts of town. It held a conservatory and several art rooms for Ciurān, a training yard and small weaponry repair shed for Amathorn, and left space for another dwelling they planned for Gil-galad if he wanted to live that near to them.

The only thing Amathorn regretted was that Gil-galad, as well as Círdan, Elrond, and the others still in Arda could not attend the wedding.

Ciurān had a large family, and many friends from the multiple crafting guilds he belonged to. Amathorn sent invitations to nearly everyone he was close to who had also arrived here in Aman, and was surprised both that nearly all of them said yes. Even more surprising was when he began to receive gifts from the Finwëans his friends had integrated into the courts of. Apparently they had been blabbing tales of his close relationship to Gil-galad to their new lords, for he started receiving lavish gifts from the royal line that were sent on Gil-galad's behalf along with their own good wishes and thanks for his millennium of service to the last member of their house.

Everything about love was so damn embarrassing.

Ciurān assured him he deserved their praise and gifts, saying they would have sent him something twice as grand if they knew the half of his service to Gil-galad. Amathorn teased him that it was just because, being Noldor, a common theme of what they sent were the finest of crafting tools and supplies, and that would be of more use to Ciurān than Amathorn. Ciurān laughed, but did not stop petting the finest bolts of silk either of them had ever seen.

The wedding was beautiful, Amathorn cried, Ciurān cried, and they were both dressed head to toe in his embroidery on the silk they had received from Fingon's house. Amathorn missed Gil-galad and the others, but he was too carried away in his happiness with Ciurān, and the raucousness of his own friends, mostly from Lindon, to dwell on it too much.

They had purchased wine for the celebration, but finer wine had inexplicably appeared addressed to them at the location of their wedding feast, stamped with the mark of the Finwëans' shared wine cellar. Amathorn was assured by several of his friends he should not worry himself with it. His eyes bugged out of his head more than a little when he saw the year on the bottle being served to him and Ciurān at the head table was not much later than that of his own begetting.

"They certainly treat you right," and a kiss on the cheek had been Ciurān's take on it. After they had a bit of the wine he added "now imagine if we had waited for Gil-galad's reembodiment. He would have thrown you the royal wedding he never would have."

"I do not have to imagine," Amathorn replied laughing. "He tried to do that for Elrond. He and Celebrían nearly eloped rather than waiting for the end of the war. They would have done so if not for fear of her mother's wrath. Instead Elrond had to talk Gil-galad down." Amathorn felt the smile slip from his face. "And then Gil-galad never lived to see it." Ciurān reached over and squeezed his hand. In return he smiled to his now husband. "Why do you think I waited no longer for this?"

Late in the evening the crowd from the feast dispersed, and Amathorn and Ciurān headed to their recently completed home to finish their marital bond. With a few awkward moments and a good sense of humour, Amathorn felt the shift in their fëa as their bond fell into place. Ciurān resting on his very soul felt so perfect.

He was happy beyond words.

Years passed.

Amathorn was out in the small training yard he had cleared, running spear drills against the post when he heard a loud repeated banging sound. He was unsure what his husband would be doing to make that sort of noise. He leaned his spear against the post and gave his face and neck a quick wipe with a cloth as he came out from around the back their dwelling.

He did not see Ciurān anywhere, and he could still hear the pounding.

"Amathorn! I need to speak with you!"

He heard their door open and Ciurān say "Aranye?" as he rounded the corner to come to the front door.

Aranye? She was a friend from Lindon. Why was she pounding down their door?

"Where is your husband? I need to speak with him! Immediately!"

"I am here."

Aranye turned sharply to him. "Amathorn! I saw him! At the market!"

Amathorn felt his heart leap into his throat. "Saw who? You mean?" Surely she meant -

"Yes!" She cried. "Gil-galad has returned!"

Amathorn felt like sinking to the ground and weeping for joy. He was healed and free again. But -

"How did we miss his reembodiment?"

"He wasn't reembodied. Amathorn, he is a child! Less than ten years old!"

Now Amathorn did drop to the ground. Ciurān ran out, leaving the door swinging behind him and threw himself on top of him in a chaotic happy hug. Amathorn laughed. In all these years that he had been preparing for Gil-galad to be released, he had wondered if he would next see his friend in the battle weary hröa he had come to wear at the time of his death when the War of the Last Alliance had dragged on, or, hopefully, restored to a more comfortable form that he had lived in during the years of peace before that.

It had never occurred to him that his friend would choose rebirth instead. Now it seemed like the obvious choice. His childhood had been a fractured, stunted thing. What little childhood he had cut abruptly short when the news of Turgon's death had reached them. He had a second chance now, to grow up free of the violence and fear that was nearly all he had known the first few decades of life.

He would know his parents this time.

Amathorn would not be pulling him out sobbing from under the pulverised body of his mother after she had thrown herself over him in a final desperate act as the great stones of a building crumbled around them in Falas.

He smiled blissfully, kissing his husband.

I am alright my love. Just overcome with happiness.

Will you go to him?

Of course.

Amathorn broke from ósanwë, speaking aloud to Aranye "Where is he now? Who are his parents?"

"I saw him with Finrod's daughter. She and her husband live out in the foothills."

Amathorn had never met her, only seen her at a distance shortly after he had arrived to Aman and when he had introduced himself and shared what his role in Middle Earth has been, well-meaning elves tried unsuccessfully to integrate him into the court in Tirion.

Oh, Elrond will be devastated to miss this. Amathorn resolved that he would keep a sketchbook as Gil-galad grew for Elrond once he finally arrived here in the West.

Amathorn smiled up at Ciurān who was still on top of him.

Oh, this was going to be wonderful.

Chapter End Notes

If you enjoyed Amathorn, I have a tag for him on my Tumblr and he is present in another standalone fic from Aspec Arda Week 2026, and my much longer WIP mentioned above!

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