LOTR FICLET: A Long-Awaited Reunion
Aug. 15th, 2016 04:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fimbrethielDearest Min, you might want to hold onto something. I finished The Story. *dies*
Happy belated last year's birthday, or early this year's birthday, whatever suits your preference. *g* Thank you for your enduring friendship, your endless support, and the occasional verbal smack when I desperately need it. Love you much, dearest. <3 <3
A note for context for everyone else:
This ficlet is a sort of companion/complementary/reverse-POV piece to a ficlet called Another Chance, written by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
minuial_nuwing. This universe is our shared personal canon for multiple RPGs we have played over the years, where Glorfindel and Amrod were childhood friends and later lovers. A series of spiraling events caused their breakup. This ficlet recounts, as the title hints, their long-awaited reunion at the beginning of the Fourth Age. *g*
Glorfindel is mine; this Amrod is only a pale and sorry imitation of her beautiful, emotionally tortured elf.
* * *
In the seconds before Glorfindel raises his hand to knock on the door of Amrod’s cabin on the western edge of nowhere, he is as frightened as he has ever been in either of his lives. This moment is one he has dreamed of for millennia, but now that he is here, he is terrified. Even the Balrog, even the slow, gut-churning helpless fall to his own death… neither can compare to the sheer terror of this moment. Of the possibility that he might be summarily turned away. That Amrod might feel their relationship damaged beyond hope of repair. That his former lover may be so wracked with guilt that he refuses to face Glorfindel.
Or worse, that he might resent Glorfindel for leaving.
As it turns out, Glorfindel’s fears are for naught. Once the door opens and the first awkward hellos are fumbled through, Glorfindel wonders why he was ever so nervous. Amrod welcomes him with – if not open arms, at least a genuine smile. The smile is a shy, hesitant little thing, but it’s there, and when it's turned on him, Glorfindel’s heart skips a beat the way it used to all those years ago.
With a sunny smile of his own, he presents a tin of Findis’s ginger cookies that Amrod has always loved, and from then, it’s as easy as falling off a horse. They sit side by side on Amrod’s sofa and nibble cookies, drink coffee, and talk of inconsequential things, slowly reestablishing the cornerstone of a wary friendship. And within the first hour, Glorfindel confirms what he has suspected for ten thousand years. He’s as hopelessly in love now as he was then.
As Glorfindel prepares to leave late that night, he is careful not to make assumptions about returning. He will, gladly, but it must by invitation, and at Amrod’s instigation. The seconds awkwardly stretch into minutes and Glorfindel’s heart starts to sink, until Amrod finally, with uncharacteristic reticence, asks the question Glorfindel has been hoping to hear. “Will you come again tomorrow? Please?”
Glorfindel rejoices, but his answer is purposely casual. “Of course,” he says with a teasing gleam in his eye. “There isn’t much call for war heroes these days, and my schedule is wide open.”
He returns often over the next few days and brings tidbits to share: more ginger cookies, wine of Elrond’s prized Imladris vintage, a few bottles of an especially tasty ale brewed by Glorfindel’s younger brother. They also play dice or cards, and occasionally pore over books of Middle-earth geography that Glorfindel has brought with him.
More often, though, they simply talk. They talk about everything and nothing at all. Conversation has never been difficult between them. The teasing gibes of their youth still flow as easily as philosophical debates, and they reminisce about family and friends, playfully argue over politics and rumors. They talk about every subject that comes to mind - but never that one. The Bad Night. By mutual unspoken agreement, that topic is taboo.
When it is very late, Glorfindel politely says goodnight – he doesn’t ask or expect to stay, or even attempt a goodbye kiss - and walks the long distance home under stars and moon to the lonely bedroom at his parents’ home where he has been staying since his return. He hasn’t felt the desire to move out on his own. Perhaps part of this reluctance is the hope that someday he and Amrod will have their own home to share, but this is a hope he nurses secretly, not even sharing with his mother, in whom he frequently confides.
In all this time, Amrod never touches Glorfindel. They touch, certainly – chastely and accidentally, but it is never the type of touch that Glorfindel craves. A casual bump of fingers while reaching for a pastry, a quick brush to a forearm to emphasize a point during a moment of laughter, the careless nudge of a hand passing a wine glass. Each time, Amrod pulls away quickly, stammering an apology, and the mood sobers.
Then one day, something changes.
It is late one afternoon as the sky purples with the setting sun that Glorfindel's hand, reaching for a pair of dice, once again accidentally brushes Amrod's. Glorfindel never learns why this day is different than any other, but this time Amrod doesn’t pull away. His hand lingers, and for a second Glorfindel freezes, almost afraid to breathe. The air is thick with uncertainty as Amrod’s fingertips gently brush ancient scars of battle, trace the ropy tendons of Glorfindel’s wrists and forearms. The years unwind, back to before the Oath and blood, back to the simple days when they were just Laurë and Pityo, young and in love.
Then Amrod makes a defeated, whimpering sound and his lips are suddenly on Glorfindel's, hard and demanding, begging forgiveness with every kiss. He doesn't need to beg; Glorfindel forgave him years ago.
They never make it to the bedroom, instead falling among the pillows of the sofa, half clothed and urgent. There are muffled sobs and a quietly shushing voice, a whispered plea and a gruffly chuckled response. There are breathless moans and slick fingers, limbs entwined, chests heaving, needy kisses and a bright flash of pain, and then the world shifts in a kaleidoscope of colors, a pair of voices crying out each other’s name as they reach the peak and tumble down together.
When it’s over, they sleep together where they lie, the peace of cool moonlight a soothing balm for ragged emotions and aching bodies, half clothed and with a tattered blue blanket their only covering.
They wake in the wee hours of the morning, hot and hard with need, silently reaching for one another in twilit starlight. This time when it’s over and they are sated and spent, they drift to sleep again in one another's arms, hair and legs tangled in a space far too small for two, but too euphoric and drained to move, and too silently superstitious to break the contact between them. That the stumble to Amrod's bed, however brief, would somehow destroy this beautiful, fragile magic that they have inexplicably created.
The dawn brings a chill and Glorfindel wakes once more, the wavering sunbeams of a new day slashing over his face. Sprawled halfway atop him, Amrod is still deeply asleep, his weight pinning Glorfindel in place and unable to move even if he has the desire. He doesn’t. He’s sore, half cold and half sweating, his neck is cricked painfully, and one of Amrod’s knees digs into his thigh, but he is also happier than he has been in more years than he can remember. He would bear this discomfort and much more just to savor this tranquility for a while longer.
Glorfindel lies still for a long time, watching Amrod’s face and listening to his lover breathe. In slumber, the pinched furrows of lingering guilt that so recently creased Amrod’s forehead, the lines of sorrow that bracketed his lips, are smooth. He looks impossibly young and improbably innocent, and eerily like the breathtakingly beautiful youth Glorfindel fell in love with millennia ago.
He hears the clopping of hooves up the path, a shrill whistle his only notice before the front door swings opens and startled eyes meet his. The eyes are a hint more hazel than true grey, the hair a half shade paler, the shoulders perhaps a fraction of an inch narrower, but the face is identical.
Amras' eyes slowly widen, and the twitch of a lip curls into an amused yet approving smile as he takes in the scene before him. Glorfindel raises a silencing finger to his lips, and Amras nods and retreats, silently closing the door behind him.
Glorfindel dozes in the dappled sunlight and wakes again some time later to the vision of storm-grey eyes gazing down at him, still drowsy with sleep but also bright with hope – and love. A look passes between them, and they shared a private, wordless smile of understanding.
Instead of focusing on the ruinous past, they will look to the future and what their relationship now has the potential to become. They have been granted a second chance for a new beginning, and Glorfindel vows that he will never, ever take that gift for granted.
Happy belated last year's birthday, or early this year's birthday, whatever suits your preference. *g* Thank you for your enduring friendship, your endless support, and the occasional verbal smack when I desperately need it. Love you much, dearest. <3 <3
A note for context for everyone else:
This ficlet is a sort of companion/complementary/reverse-POV piece to a ficlet called Another Chance, written by
minuial_nuwing. This universe is our shared personal canon for multiple RPGs we have played over the years, where Glorfindel and Amrod were childhood friends and later lovers. A series of spiraling events caused their breakup. This ficlet recounts, as the title hints, their long-awaited reunion at the beginning of the Fourth Age. *g*Glorfindel is mine; this Amrod is only a pale and sorry imitation of her beautiful, emotionally tortured elf.
* * *
In the seconds before Glorfindel raises his hand to knock on the door of Amrod’s cabin on the western edge of nowhere, he is as frightened as he has ever been in either of his lives. This moment is one he has dreamed of for millennia, but now that he is here, he is terrified. Even the Balrog, even the slow, gut-churning helpless fall to his own death… neither can compare to the sheer terror of this moment. Of the possibility that he might be summarily turned away. That Amrod might feel their relationship damaged beyond hope of repair. That his former lover may be so wracked with guilt that he refuses to face Glorfindel.
Or worse, that he might resent Glorfindel for leaving.
As it turns out, Glorfindel’s fears are for naught. Once the door opens and the first awkward hellos are fumbled through, Glorfindel wonders why he was ever so nervous. Amrod welcomes him with – if not open arms, at least a genuine smile. The smile is a shy, hesitant little thing, but it’s there, and when it's turned on him, Glorfindel’s heart skips a beat the way it used to all those years ago.
With a sunny smile of his own, he presents a tin of Findis’s ginger cookies that Amrod has always loved, and from then, it’s as easy as falling off a horse. They sit side by side on Amrod’s sofa and nibble cookies, drink coffee, and talk of inconsequential things, slowly reestablishing the cornerstone of a wary friendship. And within the first hour, Glorfindel confirms what he has suspected for ten thousand years. He’s as hopelessly in love now as he was then.
As Glorfindel prepares to leave late that night, he is careful not to make assumptions about returning. He will, gladly, but it must by invitation, and at Amrod’s instigation. The seconds awkwardly stretch into minutes and Glorfindel’s heart starts to sink, until Amrod finally, with uncharacteristic reticence, asks the question Glorfindel has been hoping to hear. “Will you come again tomorrow? Please?”
Glorfindel rejoices, but his answer is purposely casual. “Of course,” he says with a teasing gleam in his eye. “There isn’t much call for war heroes these days, and my schedule is wide open.”
He returns often over the next few days and brings tidbits to share: more ginger cookies, wine of Elrond’s prized Imladris vintage, a few bottles of an especially tasty ale brewed by Glorfindel’s younger brother. They also play dice or cards, and occasionally pore over books of Middle-earth geography that Glorfindel has brought with him.
More often, though, they simply talk. They talk about everything and nothing at all. Conversation has never been difficult between them. The teasing gibes of their youth still flow as easily as philosophical debates, and they reminisce about family and friends, playfully argue over politics and rumors. They talk about every subject that comes to mind - but never that one. The Bad Night. By mutual unspoken agreement, that topic is taboo.
When it is very late, Glorfindel politely says goodnight – he doesn’t ask or expect to stay, or even attempt a goodbye kiss - and walks the long distance home under stars and moon to the lonely bedroom at his parents’ home where he has been staying since his return. He hasn’t felt the desire to move out on his own. Perhaps part of this reluctance is the hope that someday he and Amrod will have their own home to share, but this is a hope he nurses secretly, not even sharing with his mother, in whom he frequently confides.
In all this time, Amrod never touches Glorfindel. They touch, certainly – chastely and accidentally, but it is never the type of touch that Glorfindel craves. A casual bump of fingers while reaching for a pastry, a quick brush to a forearm to emphasize a point during a moment of laughter, the careless nudge of a hand passing a wine glass. Each time, Amrod pulls away quickly, stammering an apology, and the mood sobers.
Then one day, something changes.
It is late one afternoon as the sky purples with the setting sun that Glorfindel's hand, reaching for a pair of dice, once again accidentally brushes Amrod's. Glorfindel never learns why this day is different than any other, but this time Amrod doesn’t pull away. His hand lingers, and for a second Glorfindel freezes, almost afraid to breathe. The air is thick with uncertainty as Amrod’s fingertips gently brush ancient scars of battle, trace the ropy tendons of Glorfindel’s wrists and forearms. The years unwind, back to before the Oath and blood, back to the simple days when they were just Laurë and Pityo, young and in love.
Then Amrod makes a defeated, whimpering sound and his lips are suddenly on Glorfindel's, hard and demanding, begging forgiveness with every kiss. He doesn't need to beg; Glorfindel forgave him years ago.
They never make it to the bedroom, instead falling among the pillows of the sofa, half clothed and urgent. There are muffled sobs and a quietly shushing voice, a whispered plea and a gruffly chuckled response. There are breathless moans and slick fingers, limbs entwined, chests heaving, needy kisses and a bright flash of pain, and then the world shifts in a kaleidoscope of colors, a pair of voices crying out each other’s name as they reach the peak and tumble down together.
When it’s over, they sleep together where they lie, the peace of cool moonlight a soothing balm for ragged emotions and aching bodies, half clothed and with a tattered blue blanket their only covering.
They wake in the wee hours of the morning, hot and hard with need, silently reaching for one another in twilit starlight. This time when it’s over and they are sated and spent, they drift to sleep again in one another's arms, hair and legs tangled in a space far too small for two, but too euphoric and drained to move, and too silently superstitious to break the contact between them. That the stumble to Amrod's bed, however brief, would somehow destroy this beautiful, fragile magic that they have inexplicably created.
The dawn brings a chill and Glorfindel wakes once more, the wavering sunbeams of a new day slashing over his face. Sprawled halfway atop him, Amrod is still deeply asleep, his weight pinning Glorfindel in place and unable to move even if he has the desire. He doesn’t. He’s sore, half cold and half sweating, his neck is cricked painfully, and one of Amrod’s knees digs into his thigh, but he is also happier than he has been in more years than he can remember. He would bear this discomfort and much more just to savor this tranquility for a while longer.
Glorfindel lies still for a long time, watching Amrod’s face and listening to his lover breathe. In slumber, the pinched furrows of lingering guilt that so recently creased Amrod’s forehead, the lines of sorrow that bracketed his lips, are smooth. He looks impossibly young and improbably innocent, and eerily like the breathtakingly beautiful youth Glorfindel fell in love with millennia ago.
He hears the clopping of hooves up the path, a shrill whistle his only notice before the front door swings opens and startled eyes meet his. The eyes are a hint more hazel than true grey, the hair a half shade paler, the shoulders perhaps a fraction of an inch narrower, but the face is identical.
Amras' eyes slowly widen, and the twitch of a lip curls into an amused yet approving smile as he takes in the scene before him. Glorfindel raises a silencing finger to his lips, and Amras nods and retreats, silently closing the door behind him.
Glorfindel dozes in the dappled sunlight and wakes again some time later to the vision of storm-grey eyes gazing down at him, still drowsy with sleep but also bright with hope – and love. A look passes between them, and they shared a private, wordless smile of understanding.
Instead of focusing on the ruinous past, they will look to the future and what their relationship now has the potential to become. They have been granted a second chance for a new beginning, and Glorfindel vows that he will never, ever take that gift for granted.
