amathlan

The winds snapped and billowed around the small camp, causing the Northling to pull the furs up further across his head and body shortly before a boot softly nudged into his thigh followed by a amused voice. "Breakfast is ready, runt."  The man sat down beside him, placing a plate infront of Ioranir who simply replied with a growl.

a sequel to this story

This is a second sequal to this story.

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a sequel to this story

“The end of a matter is better than its beginning, and patience is better than pride.”

this story is a pure allegory for what Amathlan fears he will become. view Pride's POV here. view Patience's POV here.

It is not often that I get to take a long breath. A deep breath. Usually my breathing is marked by the dire straits of adrenaline in war, or by the choking pressure on my throat of pride and anger. For once, I can breathe freely, and all is well. The air in Imladris is fresh and without fear, and it is welcome in my lungs. 

I stare down at the ring on my finger. Unlike the traditions of Men, we bear our rings on our right index finger. This is the one time I am grateful that I bear arms with my left hand; there is less of a chance of me losing the ring whilst swinging a sword. (Though it is not as if I plan to bear arms again anytime soon). 

"You never told me where you would. Make a home for yourself, that is." He had asked, seemingly nervous.

He has told me many a time, how one day he will build a home, in the hills of Evendim. A home that overlooks the glittering waters of the wide lake. A home where he can observe the sun climb and then sleep over the mountains.

“Kill him like you did the other elf, and send the ribbon to his bitch.”