a sequel to this story
“I cannot sleep,” I admit to him, my voice soft. I have betrayed my weakness to him in the shadows that creep towards us through the flickering candlelight. My grip is so tight against the handle of the candle that my knuckles have paled.
“Is it the nightmares?” He asks me just as softly, his brows furrowing in worry. I remember then that I had briefly mentioned them to him before, but never in detail.
“Yes,” I reply.
Ithilwe opens the door for me fully, allowing me inside his room. To my right is a sitting area off of the entry. In front of me I see the room deepen, and that is likely the bedchamber. He takes my hand and leads me further in. I set the candle aside on a bookshelf. He sits on the bed, and faces me.
I take note of his appearance once more - his eyes are dark, and his hair a mess. He was sleeping and I have disturbed him. I cannot help but feel guilty. I should be able to deal with such nightmares on my own.
Ithilwë manages to coax from me what it is I fear in these dreams. I do not tell him… everything. But I tell him enough. I worry that I have brought him more fear now than I did before. Wide now are his eyes, and I note the way that he hesitates to answer my explanation. I notice the way he is not yet quick to approach me.
“I have frightened you,” I say. “I should go.”
“Nay,” he insists, rising from the bed to grab my hand. “You should stay. You need rest, and you will not find it alone.”
I hesitate, looking down at his hand in mine. The silver band around his finger is all it takes for what little willpower I have left to crumble, and to cede to him. When I speak, it is barely above a murmur.
“Very well. If you say I am not intruding; but...I do not wish to speak of it any further.”
Ithilwe asks of me, “What can I do to help you?”
I raise my eyes to meet his, and though they are tired, they are earnest, ever shining bright. His lips, parted as if about to press of me another question; though I find him not delicate as others do, I crave the softness of his lips against mine. The moonlight settling in his silver hair casts an ethereal glow about him, one that I could never hope for myself, for Ithilwë was all I could never hope to be. I am not old enough to have seen the beauty of Varda with my own eyes, but ere I do, Ithilwë is what I imagine to be the nearest to it on Middle-Earth. I do, however, remember to thank her for the stars that so bless his visage.
“Would you braid my hair?” I ask breathlessly. It is a tradition we have shared, but not one we have been able to indulge in since before I went away to Angmar. He smiles, brightly like the moon, and scoots back onto the bed. Ithilwë invites me to join him, that I might sit in front of him so he may braid my hair as requested. I do so. It is then I realize how deeply I missed his touch, as he begins to weave strands of my hair together in a practiced way.
The sensation coaxes my breathing to slow from the panicked rate it had reached when I relayed the contents of my nightmares to Ithilwë. He hums a song he learned from his mother in Gondolin, and I am further tempted to relax.
Ithilwë traces lines along my scars; I bear them all over. Puncture wounds from arrows, slashes from swords, and most notable a burn scar that takes up the majority of my back. These scars cover also my torso, my shoulders and my arms; to an extent as well my neck, and there is one that sits across my left cheek. But he traces the lines amongst them as one would trace constellations in the night sky. My love presses his lips briefly to my shoulder and calls them “beautiful” - nay, he calls me beautiful.
His touch is intoxicating nonetheless; it is gentle and comforting, and I find myself laying back against him. I am tired, and terribly so. His arms wrap around me, and he speaks lowly, his words reverberating in his chest and through me.
“You need rest, Amathlan. You should sleep.”
I protest. I change the subject. I tilt my head back to see his face.
“Tell me something of yourself that I know not already,” I beg.
I know by the way his eyebrow quirks at me that he sees through my ploy, yet he still indulges me. I learn that his horse bears the same name as the toy he had as a child. I learn that he would skip his lessons and hide in treetops with his books, sending his poor tutor on a wild goose chase for him in his youth. I tell him of my distaste for cinnamon after my sister tainted my drink with it once. I tell him also of how I once cut my hair above my ears in Sirion, and how my mother lamented the loss of my red locks for months. He tells me to never do it again, and I laugh.
As my laughter subsides, I feel a yawn overtake me. I have evaded sleep for so long, but now I feel it is inevitable. Ithilwë knows; he has been waiting for me to tire, I think, and I do feel guilty for keeping him awake due to my own fear. I feel him lay further back on the bed so that I may rest easier. Even still he holds me, and I do not want him to let go.
“You should sleep,” he tells me. “You need it, as do I. I will watch over you, Amathlan. You needn’t fear.”
And for once, in a very long time, I sleep. And I dream of him, and I am not afraid. All is well.
