@aspecardaweek Day 6 - Alternate Prompt: Found Family - with art I commissioned from @aroacebaggins-art!
The fic I posted for Day 3, as well as the fic I posted for Aspec Arda Week 2025 both feature Amathorn and Gil-galad's found family relationship, and I have something longer in the works with the two of them!
The mention of rebirth rather than reembodiment in LaCE and further fleshing out in NoME really intrigued me because it sounds both delightfully messy and also just... a really good way to explore things like trauma. So, I'm sticking Gil-galad back to his factory settings in a WIP fic where he is reborn in Valinor to Finrod's daughter (another OC, named Berinya). The fic also has an unusual answer to "son of plothole" but for the purposes of the story now, Gil-galad has no memory of his original father. He remembers his original mother, who brought him to Falas and Círdan, but she died in the chaos when Falas was destroyed. Amathorn happened to be at the right place at the right time to hear a child crying in the rubble, and managed to evacuate a young Ereinion without realizing who he was. Círdan was grateful for his help, and with Gil-galad having latched onto his rescuer like a duckling, Amathorn was appointed as his personal guard following the death of his mother. Their relationship is a lot more than that though, and does not really fall into any neat category, nuclear family or otherwise. Círdan was Gil-galad's foster father, but he also had a lot of responsibilities, so Amathorn helped care for kid-galad a lot too. He would describe himself as a heavily armed nanny, and Gil-galad would say that does not even begin to cover who Amathorn was to him as a child. Their relationship changes as he grows up. Amathorn remains Gil-galad's chief guard until the time of his death and they always have had a close and familial relationship. When Gil-galad is reborn in Valinor, Amathorn finds him again, and is extremely helpful in untangling the mess of mostly-veiled memories that leak through from Middle Earth.
I write Gil-galad as aroace, with a hard pass on any and all pressure to continue Finwë's line in Middle Earth, which seems significant for an otherwise duty-driven character. This is actually important to the plotline of rebirth as, per Tolkien's notes, that only can happen for unmarried Elves. Amathorn is demisexual, gray-aromantic (which loosely can be a baseline interpretation of Elves in my mind based on some things in LaCE and NoME) and gay. He falls in love with a Telerin artist once he sails to Valinor, which was the focus of my 2025 AAW fic!
Under the cut I have some fluff of Amathorn gifting a (smaller, blunted) replacement of Aeglos to Gil-galad Fingal (as he is known to his current parents) for his 25th begetting day. That is equivalent to roughly his 7th birthday as far as I can math out for Elven child development from Tolkien's notes. This is from the point of view is of Berinya, his 2.0 mother:
~~~~~~~~~~
I have something for you," Amathorn said, holding out a strangely shaped package. Fingal scampered over curiously. Upon Amathorn's encouragement he unrolled the fabric and a long, thin, silver object was pulled forth. He squealed, delighted at the sight of a metal version of the plush spear "Aeglos" that Amathorn had given him nearly twenty years earlier. The toy had been patched and restuffed several times at this point, but her child still slept with it every night and it was fair game to whack Amathorn, and only Amathorn, with it during the day.
When Amathorn had asked permission to give her child a blunted spear for his twenty-fifth begetting day, she had raised an eyebrow at him and asked if it was really in his best interest to give Fingal something metal to hit him with.
Amathorn has laughed then, and was laughing now as Fingal twirled the spear with a child's lack of grace and smacked himself in the shin. Fingal laughed with him, and pointed the blunted tip down before hugging Amathorn in thanks.
The hug did not last long however, and Fingal soon bounced backwards gripping the spear again in a fighting stance.
"I do not think there is any reason to focus primarily on the thrust volley while you are small this time." Amathorn stated.
"No! No one is trying to kill me here!" Her child agreed cheerfully.
"Indeed, this is for enjoyment now, rather than survival. We can experiment with what you remember that still works while you are halfling sized."
Fingal made an affronted face, and took a swing at Amathorn, which fell short. Amathorn laughed.
"Your arms are not as long as you remember them being!" He sidestepped, beat her son's spear to the side and advanced forward to lightly tap him on the chest with his wooden training sword.
"That's not fair, you're bigger and stronger than me now." Fingal grumbled.
"Oh? I seem to remember no mercy once you outgrew me before! Turnabout is fair play!"
Fingal's only response was to stab Amathorn in the chest with the blunted spear and stick out his tongue once he scored the hit. Berinya was very glad they both had blunt weapons.
Amathorn seemed to have come to similar safety qualms. "We will need to have a helm made for you, and at least a padded gambeson if we are going to spar. I thought you would want to practice against a post first, but I suppose I should not be surprised you want to fight."
Fingal yelled a battle cry in Sindarin that she did not fully understand and stabbed at Amathorn again. Amathorn laughed, sidestepping and then rushing Fingal. He grabbed the spear shaft and overpowered her son, pulling him into a headlock with it. Fingal squirmed and bit down on the inside of Amathorn's elbow, but it still seemed playful.
"You remember!" Amathorn cried happily and released Fingal.
"I bite, hard enough to break the skin until they drop me. As soon as I run away I spit as much as I can and wash my mouth with alcohol because mortal blood carries bad diseases that could give me an infection." Fingal recited.
"That's my Star," Amathorn praised and ruffled his hair.
Their demeanour was happy, but what they spoke of told Berinya a lot of things about Fingal's previous childhood that disturbed her. Amathorn had clearly trained him from a young age with a priority of survival by any means necessary.
Fingal tried to continue wrestling Amathorn and was consequently scooped off his feet giggling as Amathorn changed his grip and held him upside down by the ankle. Fingal attempted to resume his attack with his three remaining limbs, but Amathorn just held him at arms length outside of Fingal's reach. Amathorn then used his knee and other hand to flip Fingal back to right side up and put his feet back on the ground. Fingal had continued laughing through this entire process.
Fingal hugged Amathorn's legs then, no longer craving violence. "Thank you for the spear," he said, and Amathorn scooped him up in a much more comfortable sitting position on his hip.
"You are very welcome, my Star. I am looking forward to seeing you use it again."
Fingal beamed up at Amathorn before snuggling his cheek against Amathorn's tunic. He looked at her then from where she stood behind them, smiling so widely that it squeezed his eyes.
It was quite a queer thing, sharing her child with Amathorn like this, but the result of it was unquestionably Fingal's greater happiness, so it brought her joy as well.
------
If you're interested in this, you can subscribe to the series now so you get notified when I post the first chapter of the main fic!
Fic this time for Day 3 of @aspecardaweek, Respite - on AO3, filling the "across the a-spectrum" prompt, I am hitting elves with the gay demi hammer after 4.5K years of existence. Enjoy!
Amathorn's life has always been full. As Gil-galad's chief guard since his childhood on the Isle of Balar there was no way for it not to be. He never found romantic love, and that never bothered him, he was busy.
When he feels the call West half a millennium after Gil-galad's death, he assumes this must mean that he is to be released from the Halls of Mandos and re-embodied soon, and goes to him gladly. This does not turn out to be the case however, and instead, he crosses paths with a beautiful Teleri artist.
Amathorn has lived for over four and a half thousand years. He has never felt like this before. Oh no.
Also, my Amathorn tag is here. This is a prologue to a much longer fic about Gil-galad's rebirth in Aman, because I found that alternative to re-embodiment in the Elven Life Cycles part of LaCE really fascinating and want to poke it with a stick.
A snippet from my fic of Gil-galad rebirth in Valinor/malicious compliance with son-of-plothole that is still a WIP, but this flashback in the War of the Last Alliance stands alone nicely. Amathorn is my OC chief of Gil-galad's guard, and their relationship is some blurry line between that of family and friends.
"You are not coming."
Amathorn scoffed and continued buckling his armour.
"I am quite serious."
"I am your guard."
"Not this time."
"Ereinion, if you think I am letting you go up against a Maia by yourself-"
"This fight is for Elendil and I alone. We have designated our survivors. For him, it is Isildur and Elendur. I have chosen you, and Elrond."
"Sauron is going to kill you."
"If that is so, then why would I bring you with me?"
Amathorn shot him a cold look.
"Death marked me the moment I accepted this crown. The fact that I have lived thirty five hundred years is a testament to the fact that you have done your duty well. I will not have you die needlessly for a sense of duty to me."
"I swore to protect you."
"I can order you away from me."
Amathorn muttered something under his breath that Gil-galad did not quite catch, but it made him smile. He stepped towards his eternally loyal guard, and took his hands. Kissed his forehead before angling his neck down to rest his own forehead against Amathorn's.
"Watch over Elrond for me, please. Especially if Elendil and I fail."
"Taking Elrond and I with you would lower your chance of failure," Amathorn grumbled.
"I want you both to live. If we succeed this will bring us a new era of peace. The Noldor will need Elrond to lead. And I want you to have a life that doesn't centre on protecting me. You deserve to live for yourself."
"Protecting you has never been a burden. It has brought me great joy watching you grow. And I could say the same for you, I wish for you to have a life that is not centred on leading the Noldor."
"You would have to take that up with my father, whoever he is. Perhaps I will know soon."
Tears leaked from the corners of Amathorn's eyes.
"I do not want you to die."
"I do not wish to die. Least of all do I wish for you to witness my death. But Sauron must be defeated. There is no other hope for Middle Earth." Gil-galad pulled away, and squeezed Amathorn's hands. "Let us not part in sorrow. I will see you again someday."
They stood for a moment, both unwilling to be the first to let go.
"Have you told Elrond this yet?" Amathorn asked, a hint of a smile in his eyes.
"I have not. I expect that conversation will go poorly compared to this one."
"I will watch over him for you."
"Thank you," Gil-galad murmured. "Please remember to live for yourself as well."
"Same to you. If you die," Amathorn's breath hitched. "When you are reembodied, I hope that you can live for yourself. I know you cannot say no to duty but-"
"I hope that in Valinor there will be no shortage of kings and I can retire somewhere for other pursuits."
What other pursuits he may find, he did not know. He had never had time to develop a craft of his own. He enjoyed many things, astronomy, music, reading, but never quite found time for them.
This was not the place for those thoughts. Whatever regrets he had in his life… they were personal. He was proud of what he had done leading the Noldor. If he were to die today, he could do so with confidence he had done all he could. He was leaving Elrond with a bit of a mess regarding succession, but it could not be helped. Elrond would figure it out.
He would see them again someday, and that was a comfort. He could not imagine the conversation that Elendil must be having with Isildur and Elendur. Leaving his child and grandchild to go beyond the world to Eru and the unknown was very different than Gil-galad leaving the Elves he loved behind. He loved them no less, but there was certainty in his future if he died today. Gil-galad hoped the Gift of Men was as much of a comfort to Elendil as the knowledge that this was not his end was to him.
He kissed the top of Amathorn's head again.
"Thank you," he said softly. "For everything. I will see you again in the West."
Amathorn opened his mouth to speak, but the sound he could make was not words. He just shook his head, eyes full of tears.
Gil-galad wiped his eyes gently.
"Do not cry for me. I go willingly to one last act for these lands, and then my rest. And hopefully answers. My fear will be brief, and my sorrow will pass knowing I will see you, Elrond, and Círdan again eventually. There are many I love who are there already, and I can hold this parting with their reunions."
Amathorn nodded, and found his voice.
"I know you will find your parents there, at long last-"
"They will never replace the love I have for you, and for Círdan."
Amathorn took his hands again and squeezed them. "Nevertheless I believe you have outgrown me calling you my little star for millennia now."
"Perhaps in stature, but it will always bring warmth to my heart. Live well until we see each other again."
With that, he tore himself away and left the tent. He had to, if he were to have time to speak with Elrond and Círdan before the battle and then settle himself for what was coming. He truly went willingly for all Middle Earth, but for those he loved personally it made the path towards death easier. He was doing this for them, and he would see them again.
If you would like more with these two, there is another fic here, and if you are interested in the rebirth/fun with who's his father concept, the series is here if you want to subscribe for when I really start posting it!
...with a snippet from my WIP Gil-galad rebirth in Valinor / malicious (and strange) compliance with son-of-plothole fic!
The concept from Tolkien's notes in LaCE/NoME of rebirth rather than reembodiment is something esoteric I think deserves poking with a stick as the implications are delightfully messy (to the point that in Tolkien's last writings a few months before his death he decided it caused too many problems and should be thrown out. But no! The complications make it interesting!!!)
Gil-galad is currently known by the name Fingal in this fic, having been reborn to Finrod & Amarië's daughter, Berinya (OC). Amathorn is another OC, who was Gil-galad's chief guard since (his first) childhood.
When Fingal's hands were busy, his mind seemed to wander back to Middle Earth. Typically it was something pleasant, singing a song that he did not fully know the words to but did his childish best to fill in what was still veiled. Occasionally it was outright adorable. Not long ago Amathorn had seen him drawing a river and valley that looked suspiciously like the Bruinen and Imladris while sing songing "Elrond, Elrond, Elrond" as he coloured.
This was not either of those cases.
One moment Fingal was on the floor, drawing the leaves they had seen today when he froze and dropped the pastel. He sat up abruptly, eyes wide and flicking across the room until he came upon Amathorn in the doorway.
"Amathorn," he began, and his voice had lost the childlike quality. "We have not set aside enough stores of grain for winter!"
Fingal got to his feet, hands clasped in front of him they way they had as an adult, as High King, when he was distressed and trying to hide it.
Amathorn crossed the room, scooped his little body up, and bent again for the abandoned paper and colours.
"Fingal," he said, placing deliberate emphasis on his new Amilessë, "there are no shortages of resources in winter here in Aman. The seasons are not that extreme. And even if they were, that is not for you to worry about little Star."
Fingal, although he was much more of a miniature Gil-galad at the moment blinked a few times, and then shook his head. He rubbed at his eyes.
Amathorn handed a green pastel back to him once his hands came away from his face. The child stared at it for a moment, and then grabbed for his paper and squirmed from Amathorn's arms. He flopped back on the floor, but just stared at the leaves on the page rather than continuing to draw.
Amathorn sat beside him, and rested a hand across his tiny shoulders.
"Did you remember something?" He asked.
Fingal would not look at him for a long moment, but his eyes started to well up with tears.
"There was always so much to worry about." He said, his voice small.
"There was," Amathorn agreed. "But not anymore. You are safe in Aman now. No wars. No scarcity. No responsibilities."
Fingal's little face turned up towards him.
"Who takes care of everything then? I didn't - I didn't - Elrond never wanted to," he paused, glancing around conspiratorially. "Elrond never wanted to lead."
Amathorn leaned in closer and kept his voice soft. "Elrond never wanted a crown. He is perfectly content to lead from Imladris. Círdan is taking care of the Havens and helps the Lindon Council when they need it. You need not worry about any of that. You are here to be a child again, remember?"
Memories and moods of Middle Earth had bubbled to the surface before in Fingal, but unlike in the past, this was not dissipating from him quickly. He seemed frozen.
"Come," Amathorn decided. "There is still time before lunch to go put our feet in the stream and look for pebbles to give to your mother. What do you think of that?"
Fingal nodded slowly, but did not move.
"Come on," Amathorn deliberately picked the child up again precariously and tossed him in the air before catching him in a better grip, attempting to jar him out of whatever this was.
Typically Fingal would giggle and clap at being thrown, and ask for it again and again. He did not even smile.
Perhaps the cold water would help.
This was reminding Amathorn more and more of what he had heard Elrond say about how traumatic stress presents itself long after the events take place.
"I died. I think - no, I know. I died, and that is how I came here?" He blinked up at Amathorn.
"Yes, my Star. But you do not need to dwell on that now."
"No! I died! I died! I - I -"
Berinya rushed into the room, no doubt having felt her child's distress. At the sight of her, Fingal burst into tears.
"I died! I really died! I don't remember why!"
Berinya reached for Fingal and Amathorn handed him over. She cuddled him close to her chest, kissing his cheeks and making soothing noises.
It struck Amathorn how unfair it was to have her trying to manage this. How unfair it was for any of them, including Fingal to be suffering through this. He stepped closer to them, taking a little hand, still very soft with childhood, and kissed the palm.
"You do not need to remember that right now. Your memories are veiled for a reason. You previously seemed to recall something of Mandos and what he said to you. Does that help calm you?"
Fingal gave a few more hiccuping sobs.
"Mandos said I would not remember much at first. That it would come back later as I got older. He said - oh!"
The child slumped in her arms.
"Fingal? Fingal!" Berinya cried, shaking him gently and slapping lightly on his body. Amathorn's heart dropped. Berinya was on the floor with him checking for a pulse, and Amathorn joined her, checking breathing. He felt exhalation coming from both his mouth and nose.
"His pulse is strong," Berinya said and relaxed minutely.
"His breathing seems clear too," Amathorn leaned in as Berinya leaned back and put an ear to his chest, listening to tiny lungs. "Yes, his airway sounds normal."
Amathorn sat up, and Berinya put her hand across Fingal's forehead, reaching for his fëa. "He is just- he is only sleeping. He is not unconscious, he did not faint or anything of that sort."
"Strange," Amathorn said, feeling better. "But I will take it."
Berinya ran her hands over the child's body again, checking for unseen injury.
"I suppose we should put him to bed," she said hesitantly.
"I think we would be well within reason to stay with him while he sleeps."
Berinya tucked him in, with his plush Aeglos next to him and Elrond-the-plush-bird in the crook of his arm. She stepped back with a sigh. Amathorn placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
"I am sorry-" he began, but was interrupted by a sharp knocking on the front door.
Berinya looked at Fingal and then back at him, clearly not wanting to leave her son.
"I will go see who it is," he suggested. She nodded.
Amathorn was not sure who he expected to be at the door, but it was not a Maia.
"May I come in?" She asked.
"Um, yes?" Amathorn made a snap judgement to what Berinya would likely want.
The Maia marched past him to Fingal's room. He followed, catching Berinya's startled gaze towards their visitor. The Maia smiled sadly at Fingal, and bent over to touch his forehead.
Fingal's eyes closed. Berinya gasped.
"Peace," said the Maia. "He is unharmed. The veil was growing too thin, my Lord Mandos is working with the help of Lord Irmo to restore those defences. His fëa is strong, and burns very hot. We were unsure how much his lineage may affect the process of rebirth." She smiled, "the little scamp is just causing some mischief. My Lord is seeing to it. He will not remember more than he should when he awakes."
"His lineage?" Berinya asked.
The Maia turned back towards her, cocking her head. "Not all has been revealed to you yet, daughter of Finrod. Or to him. That time will come, but it is not today." She looked back at Fingal's sleeping form, nodded satisfiedly, and vanished.
Berinya looked at Amathorn.
"Do you know…?"
"I do not. Is he the first Finwëan reborn?"
"I believe so. But that doesn't seem like it would affect -"
Amathorn shook his head. "I would not think so," he agreed.
They were both at a loss for further words.
This fic has the prologue posted on AO3 so far, with the much longer fic in progress. You can subscribe to the series here if you're interested! It is a very esoteric answer to son-of-plothole + lots of examination of all the weirdness that would come with rebirth.
Amathorn is a Sindar elf, who is Gil-galad's captain of the guard. Relevant to today's prompt, he is gay, having met and married his husband after sailing to Valinor towards the start of the Third Age.
Amathorn picrew credit
He popped into my head while I was writing out a story that Elrond tells my Ranger OC Tindîliel (post 1, post 2) about Gil-galad figuring out just how much he will not be producing an heir (I'm interpreting him as aroace and very repulsed since he was willing to do a lot of things for the Noldor, but apparently continuing his bloodline was just... not one of them). This takes place before Elrond himself is born, and Gil-galad's Captain of the Guard shows up (quite protectively) instead. I was surprised when that character stuck around and became a major player in another fic idea I have had exploring the option of rebirth (rather than re-embodiment) that is laid out in LaCE. Amathorn arrives in Valinor a few decades before Gil-galad is released from Mandos, and in that time he falls in love with a beautiful artist he meets there. They are very different Elves.
Amathorn has been through... a lot over the ~5,000 years he spends in Middle Earth. He is Sindar, having been born in Falas in the First Age and serving as part of the Guard there under Círdan's rule. I haven't decided exactly when he is born, but he is well into adulthood when the Fall of the Falas takes place, and he is just in the right place at the right time to help evacuate Gil-galad (who is a pretty young child at that point) with the survivors to the Isle of Balar. As the danger was only growing, Círdan assigned Amathorn to Gil-galad's personal guard. He continues to distinguish himself in his competency, and approximately thirty years later when Gil-galad is choosing who will be coming with him as his guard as king, Amathorn is at the top of the list. Amathorn serves him as Captain of the Guard and fights alongside him through everything. They get separated in the chaos of the final battle against Sauron, and Amathorn is too far away to do anything but watch Gil-galad be struck down.
I really need to come up with a name for his husband, but here he is! Yes he did embroider both of their tunics to match.
His husband on the other hand has never left Valinor which makes him rather sheltered compared to Amathorn. Their relationship really works though, and they are head over heels in love with each other. His husband (who I am still coming up with a name for), is the soft artsy type, he plays something like a lute and sings, and he loves to embroider and paint.
When they first meet and start courting each other, both are self conscious about what they perceive as shortcomings compared to the other. Amathorn feels comparatively inartistic (for an elf) having spent most of his life very focused on military training. He has only really developed artistic skill in the realm of drawing, and when comparing himself to his (eventual) husband who has a wide range of artistic talents he feels deficient. And Amathorn can't even make him a proper courting gift either! Amathorn sees that he loves to wear jewelry and finely decorated clothing, and all he can give him that he makes with his own hands is yet another drawing of this bird/tree/sunset/etc. that he saw. Ugh! (Every single drawing is cherished and appreciated immensely, it just takes a while to get that through Amathorn's head.)
On the flip side, his eventual husband is flipping out that he must seem so pathetic to Amathorn who can wield innumerable weapons with millennia of practice and was Captain of the Guard to the last High King of the Noldor and fought with him against Sauron. Who is he compared to that? Some soft Valinor Elf who would probably would get eaten by something the moment he set foot in Middle Earth.
It's fine, they'll figure it out and stop just blushing and tripping over each other... eventually.
I'm a day late, but I still have more to yap about, so here we go. I have talked about my Gil-galad rebirth in Valinor fic three other days of this week, tldr; I am exploring an idea that was published in Elven Life Cycles part of The History of Middle Earth that elves who die can either be re-embodied, or reborn. In this fic, Gil-galad has chosen rebirth when his fëa is ready to leave Mandos, and his former Captain of the Guard from Lindon has found him and is helping his 2.0 parents with him while he still has not confessed to them about who exactly he was in his first life. Gil-galad is known by the name Fingal to his 2.0 mother at this point, who this snippet is from the point of view of. Reborn Gil-galad is in his early 30s here, so the equivalent of being about 8 by our standards.
A relaxed Amathorn in Valinor (picrew credit)
She was pretty sure that Amathorn and Fingal did not realize the window was open and she could hear them in the garden. They typically spoke Quenya when they knew she was around out of politeness, even if she did have a conversational grasp of Sindarin herself. It sounded like they were still playing chess in the library.
"Elenya, you are growing up you know."
Also out of politeness, she tried not to eavesdrop when she did hear them speaking Sindarin to each other, but the Quenya nickname mixed with the rest of the Sindarin words caught her ear, out of place as it was.
"Someone who was with us on the Isle of Balar would recognize you now in body even if they did not know you well enough to recognize you in fëa. And you only have less than twenty years until anyone who was in Lindon would recognize you. You had not lost all of your baby cheeks by the time," Amathorn paused. "Well, you know."
"I know."
Her child sounded miserable.
"You need to tell your parents before someone recognizes you."
"I knoooow."
Fingal's voice had a bit of a whine to it, that she rarely heard. She would have laughed if this didn't feel so serious.
"What do you fear?"
It was a long moment before her child responded.
"I don't want them to treat me differently. I just want to be loved as their son, not for any other reason." His voice grew quieter. "I do not want to be held at arms length. To be treated like some precious object rather than a child."
"Elenya, I do not believe they would do that."
"I know, I just - it was so hard, so lonely before. I never had many peers, and once it happened, everything changed, I - "
She heard muffled sobs, from her son, and soothing whispers from Amathorn. She felt like she was about to hear something she shouldn't, and abruptly stood and moved as quietly as she could from the garden out into the orchard, out of earshot.
The last thing she heard of Amathorn soothing him was "Oh Star, Star. I'm so sorry. This was never fair - "
He switched fully to Sindarin, and was not mixing 'elen' in any more, but using 'gil' instead for Fingal's nickname. How odd.
Her heart ached at her son's reason for secrecy. She would love him the same no matter what! He had to know that. What possibly was his secret that would make him so frightened?
She wanted to go kiss those plump baby cheeks that he had evidently still had when... something had happened that would make him recognizable to Elves of an entire city. From what she had heard of Arda, Lindon had a fairly large population. What could he have done while still a child that would have changed the way people treated him?
From what she had been piecing together, her best guess was that he had been some kind of military leader or great warrior. Undoubtedly against Morgoth and his agents since Amathorn said he was not a kinslayer. Had he fought in some battle as a child? Slayed some great beast that elevated him in a way it destroyed his childhood?
Her child was so, so gentle. He was always flipping bugs off their backs when he found them stuck, and leaving water out for the animals on hot days. Her husband had disastrously tried to take him hunting and he had cried when his father shot the deer and had run away after seeing the blood when his father slit its throat to finish the kill. Fingal had not eaten venison for years after. Maybe it was because of the violence he had seen in his first life, but his little fëa seemed very soft for a lifelong soldier.
He had clearly once been lethal with that spear though. She had watched Amathorn running him through simple drills with the child sized and blunt tipped spear he had given Fingal for his twenty fifth begetting day. While the muscle was not there on his young body, his mind clearly remembered a different body where it was. His feet were swift, and while he did not have adult control of his movements, she could see millennia of practice.
She sat herself under a tree and looked up, counting the number of ripe peaches, debating if there were enough to make a pie. Her child was bribable with his sweet tooth she had learned, and if Amathorn was trying to cajole him into the difficult conversation, well, maybe it would help.
She wanted him to know he was safe. He would be loved no matter what. Whatever he had been pushed into too young before would not happen again, she would not allow it. This was Valinor, there was no need for warriors, no horrible creatures to fight. He would be safe.
Wouldn't he?
Whatever Námo had promised him he would not have to do, she would do everything in her power to make good on it. If he was going to be recognized and did not want that, they would move somewhere that he was not.
She wondered again why he had no interest in finding his original birth parents. Was it simply because he was clinging to anonymity? Or was he not on good terms with them? Were they kinslayers? The sons of Fëanor were her distant cousins... But their only descendant was Celebrimbor and he had already been reembodied.
She had heard whispers about how damaged Celebrimbor still was. Being tortured to death by Sauron left wounds that evidently could not be healed by Mandos alone.
Oh by Eru, was that why Fingal had been reborn rather than reembodied? Was he still healing from some brutal and torturous death at the hands of Morgoth or Sauron? She had previously been thinking perhaps a Balrog due to the way he seemed to subconsciously lean away from fire. But this...
She stood, wanting to run to her child and hold him. She forced herself to not, he might still be speaking with Amathorn. Instead she began picking peaches. She was definitely making him a pie with dinner. Amathorn was staying for dinner too, she decided. There was enough time for him to send a messenger bird back to his husband to invite him as well.
She did not think that she could heal what Mandos could not with a peach pie, but it was worth a try. She was going to love her child in every way she could.
You get some of the Gil-galad rebirth in Valinor fic! Gil-galad is in his early 40s here so... ~14ish by our standards (from the log scale I put elf development on anyway). This is shortly after both he has (finally) told his 2.0 parents who he was in Middle Earth, and he regained the memories of how he died. 😬
"You said Aeglos is in Imladris. Was there even anything left of it?"
Amathorn grimaced. "Not... really. But what I said is true. What remains of it is in Imladris, or at least with Elrond. Pieces were recovered. Some are in the alcove with the rest of his memorial to you, but a smooth piece he had put on a chain, that he wears around his neck under his clothes. He carries you with him, always."
Her son blushed a little, but seemed pleased. It did seem a little... intense, but she supposed that he had inspired great fealty. She was looking forward to meeting this Elrond. She knew Amathorn had a sketchbook of drawings of her son growing up that was for him since "He will be heartbroken to learn that he missed out on the opportunity to tote his High King around on his hip."
For every "🌹" received in my inbox I'll post one some random sentences of a random WIP I'm currently writing.
After Arathorn's death, Gilraen took her small son, Aragorn, to Rivendell for safety. There, she discovered her husband had not left this world without leaving her one final gift: she was expecting another child. Aragorn's sister, Amathorn, is a Ranger like him, and has sworn to follow her older brother for all of her days. She believes he is the one who will claim the throne of Gondor, even if he himself does not. When she helps him escort Frodo and the other hobbits to Rivendell, she meets a man who reinforces her belief that her brother is destined to restore the line of kings. Along the way, Amathorn realizes that for the first time in her life, her heart is being pulled in two directions...but does it have to be?
Chapter 1: Answering The Call
Amathorn watched from her post under an old beech tree as the cold pre-dawn light spread towards Buckland. From her hiding place, she could clearly see the Road as it wound across the landscape until it reached the border. She turned her gaze across the Road; even knowing where he was, she couldn’t see where her fellow Ranger, Lenglinn, had hidden himself. Good, she thought with approval. If I can’t see him, no one else can.
Suddenly, a loud, clear call rent the air. A great horn was sounding, its voice carrying all the way across Buckland to the two Rangers keeping watch. Amathorn tensed, gripping her strung bow tightly and nocking an arrow. A clatter and shouts of alarm were issuing from behind the wall.
Just as she was about to signal to Lenglinn that they should move closer to investigate, three black horses with hooded and cloaked riders blasted through the gate. They tore down the Road like demons, their horses snorting and frothing at the mouth. As she raised her bow, movement caught Amathorn’s eye.
Lenglinn, who had apparently already decided to move closer to the gate, was now in the Road, directly in the Riders’ path! Amathorn cried out a warning and loosed her arrow. It missed its mark, but Lenglinn dove to the side as the lead Rider’s horse swerved to avoid the projectile. The second Rider, however, spotted the downed Ranger, and his horse veered off the Road.
Amathorn’s heart leapt to her throat as a howl of pain pierced across the forest. Once the Riders had passed and gone around the curve of the Road, she sprinted from her post and rushed to Lenglinn’s side.
He was lying on the ground, his face white as a sheet, his left leg bent at an unnatural angle. A quick, gentle feel of the bone showed it was broken below the knee, thankfully only in one place. Amathorn quickly gathered two downed limbs, as straight as could be found, and placed them on either side of Lenglinn’s leg.
“Here,” she said, taking out a pair of leather gloves and offering them to him. “Bite down on this. I have to set the bone before I can splint it.” Lenglinn nodded, taking the gloves and clamping his jaw tightly around them. He groaned, clenching his fists, as Amathorn quickly aligned the bone before taking a leather cord and binding the wood tightly on either side of his leg.
She sat back on her heels with a sigh as she finished. “There,” she said. “It was a clean break. You should be back on your feet in a few weeks. Can you make it back to camp?”
Lenglinn nodded, still pale, but his jaw set firmly. “Help me up.”
As carefully as she could, Amathorn hauled him to his feet, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Slowly, they made their way across the Road and up the hill to his carefully concealed camp.
Once she settled him onto his bedroll, Lenglinn looked up at her, his face grim. “You have to go. Whatever the Riders were after, it plainly is no longer in Buckland. You have to warn Aragorn.”
Amathorn hesitated, torn. Her heart begged her to make haste and go to warn her brother, but surely duty demanded she stay here with Lenglinn?
As if sensing her thoughts, Lenglinn gave her a weary smile. “This camp is well-concealed, and if the Riders are after something that is no longer here, they will not be coming back. They will continue on and pursue their quarry.”
She sighed. “Very well. I’ll make for Saeradan’s cabin. I can gather supplies and send him to help you, while I go after Aragorn and his charge.” Amathorn began packing what few items she had left at the camp, which was little more than her bedroll and a few other small things. “Stay hidden until Saeradan comes for you. I likely won’t be back for some time.”
Lenglinn nodded. “Safe travels, sister.”
She clasped his arm gratefully. “Stay vigilant, brother.” With one last nod of farewell, Amathorn slipped off into the trees. She intended to cross the Southern Bree-fields, staying off the Road, and so hopefully she would come to Saeradan’s cabin before nightfall. It was no good heading for Bree; Aragorn would not linger, and passing through the town would draw unwanted attention as well as take valuable time.
The sun had just slipped below the horizon when Amathorn finally approached the cabin tucked away beside the hill. Silent as a shadow, she slipped up to the front door and knocked sharply, three short, two long. Friendly. Immediately, she heard footsteps inside, and a moment later a tall, balding man opened the door.
“Amathorn?” he exclaimed softly, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Hey, Danny Boy,” she said, lowering her hood with a small smile. “Is there anything for dinner?”
Saeradan rolled his eyes before ushering her inside and closing the door behind her. “I thought you were with Lenglinn, over by Buckland.”
“I was.”
He gripped her arm tightly, but his voice was steady. “He’s not…?”
Amathorn shook her head. “Injured, but alive. His leg is broken. I wanted to stay with him, but he insisted that I go on to warn Aragorn, and unfortunately, he was right. His camp is well-hidden; he’ll be safe.” Saeradan ladled out a bowl of stew and set it before her, along with a couple of slices of fresh bread.
She ate a few bites gratefully before meeting his gaze. “It’s as we feared, Saeradan: the Nazgul are in Bree-land.”
Saeradan, to his credit, gave little more reaction than for his face to turn pale. His voice and hands remained steady as he poured them both a cup of tea and sat across from her at the table.
“So you’ll be going after your brother, then?”
Amathorn nodded. “The Nine’s search will lead them beyond Bree, straight to my brother and the halfling in his care. Aragorn is a great warrior, but to face all of the Nine, alone, with a defenseless halfling to protect? Such a task is beyond even him.” She sipped at her tea. “And given what happened at Archet, and after…I cannot leave him to face this threat alone.”
Saeradan took a sip of his own tea thoughtfully. “You’ll be needing supplies, then. As much as you can carry.”
“I hope to catch them up before they make the Midgewater,” she stated. “If not, I can still aim for where I think they’ll go, but it won’t be certain. I cannot track them through the marsh, and trying to chase them through the Weather Hills could attract attention.”
“You’d best get some sleep, then,” Saeradan ordered. “You’ll want to set out before dawn if you want any hope of catching your brother, even with a halfling or two in tow.”
Amathorn quickly finished the rest of her hasty dinner before setting about packing her supplies. Her pack was bulging and heavy when she finished, but she knew the weight would disappear all too quickly once she left the Chetwood. She also penned a short letter, sealed it, and gave it to Saeradan.
“Send this to Esteldin,” she ordered. “You and the others will look to Halbarad in our absence. Aragorn has taught him well; he can keep an eye on Eriador until we return.”
In a rare show of deference, Saeradan bowed slightly as he pocketed the letter. “As you wish, my lady,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be gone before I’m up in the morning.” Saeradan gave her a playful grin. “If you run into Candaith out in those hills, tell him he still owes me five silver.”
Amathorn laughed. “I will, Danny Boy, don’t you worry.” She sobered, fixing him with a piercing gaze. “The Nine may be moving on, but I fear this will have consequences for the Little People. I want as many as can be spared watching the Southern and Eastern borders of the Shire. Gandalf charged us to protect it, and we cannot let him down now.”
“It will be done, don’t you worry about that,” Saeradan promised.
She turned to descend into the cellar, where the extra bunks were housed, before stopping and looking over her shoulder. “Stay vigilant, brother.”
“Safe travels, sister. Sleep well.”
Amathorn nodded and sought her bed, immediately falling into a deep sleep, knowing she would need to be up before the Sun to continue her journey.
