Wandering Star

Title: Wandering Star.
Author: Az (ElladanadoresElrohir@gmx.net)
Pairing: Namo/Rumil
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: char death implied. Very AU, no happy end- or?
Disclaimer: Don’t own them, don’t sue me.
Summary; Rumil gets lost in a strange snowstorm in the middle of autumn, where did it come from? Who made it?
Author’s note: Well this I wrote after a Danish tune called /Den sidste vals/ - but I was trying to make it fairytale like, and my own little hidden fascination of Dracula is hidden in there too :P. And my own free enterpitation of Namo, and yes Namo is the original name for Mandos. Id like to thank Bersa for being my everlasting support and to tell me when I wrote some crap. And to Miriel who no only betaed this fic, but also convinced me it was good enough to send. And at last but not least Ziggi my little bright shining star, who always force me to read the snow princess to her.
At the end of my long speech here, id like to say that this fic is written for Esteliel’s winterfic challenge – thankies for getting me going. – Please go read the other brilliant fics in her challenge http://www.mil-ne-gloss.de.vu/ (Mil-ne Gloss means Love in the snow)

-Az - http://www.nad-no-ennas.net


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Please could you stay awhile to share my grief,
For it's such a lovely day,
To have to always feel this way,
And the time that I will suffer less,
Is when I never have to wake.

Wandering stars,
For whom it is reserved,
The blackness of darkness, forever,
Wandering stars,
For whom it is reserved,
The blackness of darkness, forever.
Portishead – Wandering star

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Wandering Star.

Rumil had been surprised by the snowstorm; he had not even felt it coming in the air. With a normal snowstorm he would be able to feel it in the wind, and smell it in the air. But this was no normal snowstorm, not natural at all. Rumil could feel the magic in the air, and it frightened both him and his poor horse.

He was on his way from Helm’s Deep to Lorien, bearing sad news for his other brother Orophin—Haldir, their eldest brother, had fallen in battle. Rumil had stayed behind to take care of matters, for there had been much for him to do before he could venture home. He had been the single surviving Elf from that battle, besides the Prince of Mirkwood, but that one had left with the remaining Fellowship in a hurry, only stopping by to console Rumil quickly. Rumil had had to arrange all the pyres and identification of the dead Elves so their families would know. He had worked for the entire fall on this, and he now was ready to venture home, his saddlebag full of those damned letters, and now suddenly he had been caught in this snowstorm.

It had started slowly, and too quickly it had become too thick for him to see a hand in front of his face. The horse whined nervously and Rumil patted it gently on the neck. “It is all right, my friend, we will find our way out quickly,” he whispered to the frightened animal.

Then from afar he could see lights. /Lights? Why are there lights out here?/ He was nervous but curious so he spurred the horse towards the lights. If there was a house, he might be able to stay there until this most strange snowstorm had blown over.

It was large building he had never seen before, and he looked upon its gates in awe. A castle? Here? This made no sense. Though, even if he did not really feel the cold, the horse did, and he felt the muscles tremble under his legs. “There there, my friend, soon you will be in a warm stable,” he murmured and dismounted the horse, then grabbed the rein and walked up to the gate. It looked heavy but when he pushed on it, he found that the gate opened without a sound and no effort. As if it were opening by itself. Rumil decided not to think too much of it and walked into the courtyard. “Hello?” he called, but no answer came other than the howling wind. He looked around and saw the stables; they looked clean and warm from what he could see, and he dragged the horse there, then walked inside. It smelled of clean hay, and lights were burning. The food was plenty and fresh for the animals, yet none besides his own horse were there. Rumil frowned but led the horse to a large stall, taking off the reins and guiding it in. “See you tomorrow when the snow is gone,” he whispered and left the stables. He really should go find the lord of this castle.

When he came out in the courtyard he suddenly noticed that the snowstorm was less violent now. There were snowflakes slowly falling from the sky, landing and melting on his hand and on his cloak. But gone were the harsh wind with the ice that had hurt his face and dimmed his sight.

Rumil slowly walked up to the large double doors. There was a huge golden door-knocker, but as he was about to use it, the door opened. He hesitated for a second before stepping inside, feeling like an intruder. “Is anybody here?” he shouted, and like before no answer came. He quickly spun around as he suddenly heard the large doors slam shut. He sighed to himself—now there was no other way to go than further in the house—there it was! He heard something, the first sound he had heard here; and it was music. /Music? Someone has to play that tune, so someone is here./

He ventured further along the corridor. The music became louder and louder until he could at last determine what room it came from—it was a large hall, beautifully decorated with depictions of the trees of Valinor, and Nienna standing in the middle of them, and on the other wall, amazing tapestries showing Ulmo and the roaring sea. Rumil looked up in the ceiling where he saw a large almost fluid but breathtaking being, painted there. /Illuvatar!/

After his first amazement had calmed, he looked at the actual room. A large table that Rumil figured could sit twenty-five Elves around it was filled to the brim with food, and the huge fireplace was going with a nice steady fire. And then he saw what he had neglected the first time. An Elf. He was pale as the snow and his hair as black as raven wings; he was wearing a midnight blue robe with delicate gold embroideries. He was standing next to one of the large windows playing a violin, his eyes closed, concentrating on the tunes that flowed out of the instrument. And when Rumil looked out the window too, it looked as if the snowflakes were dancing to his very least sound. If he played fast, the storm would increase, and when he played softly, almost caressing the violin, then the snowflakes would fall from the sky in little white kisses.

He dared not interrupt the Elf as he played; he looked so lost in his own world. Then he suddenly heard a soft voice, as if were it whispered in his ear. “Welcome Rumil.” He spun around but no one was there. When he looked back at the strange Elf he had put down the violin, looking at him with his black pearl eyes. To Rumil’s surprise he smiled and gestured towards the table. “You must be starving,” the marble Elf said.

“Y-yes,” Rumil stammered. He walked towards the table and sat down.

Rumil felt a caress to neckneck and turned his head, but the strange Elf was at the other side of the table. He frowned. “W-where am I?”

“Nowhere,” the Elf said softly and sat down to study Rumil with his intense gaze. “Here with me.”

Rumil paled. “How can I be both nowhere and still here with you?” he asked, feeling slow.

“This is my hall, and my hall is nowhere and everywhere,” the Elf said and poured wine for Rumil.

Rumil started to eat in silence, growing increasingly uncomfortable under the strange Elf’s gaze, until he finally broke the silence. “You know my name; may I know yours?” He smiled nervously as the other Elf did not even react at his question. “You have been such a kind host, but I do not know who to thank.”

“I am Namo,” the Elf said with a strange smile.

“Namo,” Rumil said as if he were tasting the word.

“Yes, my name is Namo,” Namo whispered and picked up a strange fruit from the table and took a bite.

Rumil felt like he should know who this Elf was, but still it rang no bell. It was as if all he could sense was this room. He had a hard time even remembering why he was here—he blinked, confused—he was going somewhere, but where? And why? Was it important? He could not concentrate. So he shrugged and took another sip of his wine.

He looked right into the liquid depths of Namo’s eyes and smiled. He would not go anywhere, for he was home. This had been where he had been going—his destination all along. And when the pale Elf lord caressed his cheek, he did not flinch. It felt right and good; it felt like he had been caressed like that a thousand times before. Rumil smiled and leaned into the caress

“Come,” Namo whispered, and Rumil stood up and walked around the table. He sat himself on Namo’s lap, wrapping his arms around the raven-haired Elf.

“I have been waiting for you, Rumil,” Namo whispered, and rested his hands on Rumil’s waist.

“Yes,” Rumil whispered back.

“I have been watching you for far too long,” the Elf said.

“Yes,” Rumil said again.

“But I wanted to taste and touch.” Namo kissed Rumil’s cheekbone, ghostly light. “Would you like me to do that?”

“Yes,” Rumil purred.

Namo smiled to himself when Rumil began to nibble at his cheekbone and further down his neck. He grabbed the little Galadhrim and stood up with him in his arms, carrying him over to the fireplace. A bearskin and several richly decorated pillows were suddenly, and he lowered the silver-haired Elf down into the soft nest. All the lights had faded, only leaving the light from the flames in the fireplace.

Rumil briefly wondered why he was suddenly naked, but when he felt warm hands run over his stomach, he just closed his eyes and enjoyed the light touch.

Namo smiled again at the sight below him; Rumil opened his eyes and wet his lips in the most sensual way. “Let me pleasure you,” the Galadhrim said and leaned up on an elbow. Exchanging places with Namo, Rumil kissed the marble chest, so soft and flawless. No scars from battle or bruises from training, just the white soft skin begging for his hands and lips.

Rumil kissed his way down to Namo’s navel, licking the small cave and purring at the sensation it gave him. He felt as if he did not only feel his own pleasure, but also Namo’s. Rumil smiled when he saw Namo squirm ever so slightly under him, and he proceeded until he kissed the top of the pale Elf’s erection. When the tip of his tongue ran along the slit he felt a wave of pleasure in himself. This made him curious, and he took Namo’s length in his mouth, twirling his tongue around it as if it were the most delightful thing he had ever tasted. And the more he pleasured Namo, the more he felt as though his tongue was on his own flesh as well.

He had to break contact with the other’s skin before he himself would climax. He lazily crawled up to the flushing lips of Namo. “Rumil, my desire,” he whispered huskily and let out a soft gasp as Rumil placed himself over his groin.

This fire had been started which would not end; he needed more, and when Namo suddenly held him tight he let out a gasp of disappointment. “Please,” he begged, “let me pleasure you.”

“Not yet,” Namo whispered back and kissed Rumil’s lips. Rumil eagerly opened up for the kiss and let Namo invade his mouth. The slippery wet tongue twirled around his own, as if wrestling for dominance, but Rumil gave in quickly and allowed Namo to take control. Even when Namo let go his iron grip, and Rumil could wiggle his way to try to impale himself, they did not break the kiss.

Namo had a hold on Rumil’s buttocks, and spread them so he could thrust inside the smaller Elf easily. They both let out a gasp as sweet shivers trembled them. Rumil ended the kiss and sat up straight to ride Namo as if he were a wild horse. He arched his back and grabbed a hold of Namo’s thighs, rocking back and forth, trying to strike his prostate every time.

He opened his eyes and watched the raven-haired Elf under him. His eyes were closed, his hair clinging to his face with sweat, both from their lovemaking and from the heat of the fireplace. The flames there gave Namo a golden shine in his skin he had not had before, and his made him look even more beautiful to Rumil. He watched as the Elf grabbed the bearskin, his hands grasping the thick fur. And then the sound; he for the first time heard Namo’s sweet moan—it sounded like the sweetest song he had ever heard, forcing himself to close his own eyes and ride harder, wanting to feel more of what made the beautiful Elf moan so.

Rumil climaxed with a strangled moan, followed quickly by Namo. Even the tingling in the body after, they seemed to share, and the young Elf slumped down next to Namo. “Thank you, Rumil,” Namo murmured softly and brushed away silver hair from Rumil’s face. Rumil watched the black liquid eyes and smiled; to think he had just given this divine creature such pleasure.

“It is I who thank you, Namo,” Rumhisphispered and cuddled up to the larger Elf.

“Hush, sleep now, my sweet, and rest assured we will meet again.” Namo caressed the dozing Elf’s cheek. “I will look forward to seeing you again.”

“Again?” Rumil mumbled, half asleep. Why had he become this tired? When had he last slept?

“There is much you must do, but we will meet again, and I hope you will remember me with as much joy as I will you,” Namo whispered, and clasped something around Rumil’s wrist. “This will help you remember me.”

Rumil was almost asleep and did not bother to see what it was. The warmth from the fireplace, and the comfort of the sweaty warm body entangled in his—listening to Namo’s voice. And far away he heard Namo say, “Do not cry too much, beautiful brave Rumil. I will take care of your brother…”

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Rumil’s eyes fluttered open, and he quickly sat up. Day? Had he slept? Where was the castle? Where was Namo? He blinked, disoriented, then was quickly brought back to reality by his horse, who pushed Rumil with her nose and whinnied happily.

The storm was gone and the snow fell in large tranquil flakes. The storm, he remembered, the snowstorm in the middle of autumn. It had felt wrong. He grabbed some snow in his hand tasted it; this tasted like real snow—it was real snow! How long had he been here? Had it all been just a dream…?

He slowly stood up and brushed snow from his cloak. Namo. He remembered making love to him, and he still felt sore, so it must have been real... And then his eye caught something glittering like silver around his wrist. He pushed back his sleeve and looked at it—it was a necklace wrapped several times around his wrist, with a pendant. Two silver snakes set with a black stone, and to just look into it made him dizzy. It looked exactly like…like…and then he remembered. Namo’s eyes, it was like Namo’s eyes!

He unfastened the necklace and put it around his neck; it was important to him to keep it safe. It had all been a dream had it not? Who was the mysterious Elf, and where was the castle? But then why was he sore? And why was it winter? Why did he have this token, and where was it from?

He decided to journey home to Lorien and ask the wise Lady Galadriel if he had lost his mind. Perhaps the sorrow over Haldir had finally made him insane, making up imaginary Elves in imaginary castles. He mounted his horse and slowly steered her back to the track he thought to be the one to Lorien.

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Mandos had been sitting in his chair, watching Rumil from his seeing stone. He smiled to himself at the courageous little Elf. Too bad he had not been able to keep him here. The raven-haired Elf pouted and draped a cloth over the stone again. “We will meet again, dearest Rumil, rest assured my friend.”

He couldn’t help but smile when he made his way to the dining room. The bearskin was still there, and he sat down on it, flopping back in the pillows. “Before you know it, you will be back where you belong, back here with me,” he whispered. Until then, he would wait—trapped here in his halls. For others, these halls held no hours or seasons. But for Namo it was a prison. He had watched Rumil many a time through his seeing stone, feeling the urge to collect this soul before time, but he had not—it would be cheating for his own desire. And that was what he did; he had desired Rumil since he had first seen the silver-haired Elf. This little interlude he had been able to have; it had been sweet and delightful, but now his heart was full of longing and grief.

Mandos sighed. “Namo, you old fool.”

Now he would have to wait until the end of Arda until he could taste those sweet lips again.


-The End-