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


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


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

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

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 his neck 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

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,” Rumil whispered 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

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


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

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


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-


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