1. Chapter 1
Pairing: Námo /OFC(Súrelindë=Windsong)
Rating: R through NC17
Warnings: AU, Het sex
Author's notes: *In my little corner of Arda, peredhel grow and mature at the rate of the mother's race, until they reach maturity (18 for humans/50 for elves). Then they slow down until they choose their race.
*Also, the Valar are not married to each other.
*FEEDBACK is always desired and appreciated.
He was keenly aware of the growing pool of blood. Life's precious nectar seeped from a slash on his thigh, a gash on his head, the arrow wound in his shoulder and a gaping hole in his abdomen. Being rather certain that his physical body would soon be dead, Námo wondered if this is how it felt for all Ilúvatar's creatures. He let out a strangled moan as intense pain surged through the broken body. He could just give up, leave his mortally wounded body, and return to his hall as if nothing happened. However, that also meant that he would give up on his desire to have a mate. Although he knew once his body died that dream would end anyway, he wished to hold on as long as possible. He saw the other Valar and first-born with their soul mates and he envied them. No one wanted the Vala of Death, Doomsman of the Valar. No one wanted to join him in his cavernous realm, tending to the souls in his care. Tears fell unbidden into the mud as the world began to fade away. Soon the beautiful Vala would loose his rhaw [body] forever, and hope of finding a companion with whom to share physical love and more would be gone.
Námo slowly became aware of his surroundings. He heard the strumming of a harp and a voice softly humming. 'Odd,' he thought, 'there is no music in my halls.' He struggled to open his eyes. Then it registered: if his body had died he would not need to open his eyes; he would not feel the cool sheets under him or smell the fresh air. Somehow, his body had survived. He felt a small well of hope being to bubble inside. Again, he willed his eyes to open and this time they obeyed. Unfortunately, crushing pain also assailed him as the rest of his body awoke. He groaned and his eyes closed again. As the wave of pain subsided, Námo noted that the harp stopped. He opened his eyes yet again as he felt a presence approach.
A young woman sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. She clumsily reached for a rag in a basin of water. She squeezed out the excess water, and after locating his head with her other hand, she began to cool his brow. The Vala watched her intently but she continued to look ahead, ignoring him. She made no indication that she saw he was awake. Námo attempted to speak but his throat was raw and his lips dry.
"Water," he said in no more than a whisper.
The woman startled. She placed the cloth back in the bowl, strangely without looking. "I will fetch the healer," she said hastily. She stood and with hesitant steps made her way to the door.
The injured Vala watched her leave. He did not understand why she did not simply help him to the glass on the bedside table. His musings were interrupted when an ellon entered. Though young in face, Námo knew this elf was millennia old. The woman shuffled in behind.
"Ah, you are correct, Súrelindë. Our patient is awake. Mae govannen, my lord. How do you fare?" The healer approached the bed, picking up the water as he sat.
"Thirsty," Námo rasped.
"Certainly. Let me help. Relax and let me do the work." The elf carefully lifted his patient's head just enough for him to swallow the water. The healer encouraged a couple of more sips before resting Námo's head back on the pillow. "Good, now let me check your wounds again. You were quite a mess. How you did not pass into Mandos' care is still a mystery."
Námo bristled at being referred to as 'Mandos'. He had a name, why could people not use it? That always bothered him. Irmo and he were the only ones called by their realm's name instead of their given name. He always felt it made him an object, not a living caring being. The healer now addressed the woman, "Súrelindë, please bring me the roll of bandages. They are on the second shelf next to the two big jars. I also need the tin of ointment. It is on the bottom self, about a body length from the left edge." Námo wondered at the detailed directions as both items were in plain view. Perhaps the woman was…how did the mortals put it…slow?
Súrelindë walked with measured steps to the shelves. Keeping her head and eyes level, she reached out and touched the self. Fingers ghosted around until they touched a glass jar. Side-stepping a bit, she moved her hand over the shelf until she felt the bandages. She grabbed them. Next she reached out with her left arm, her hand reaching the side of the shelf. Stepping to her left, she reached in front of her and found the tin of ointment. The whole process took but a few moments.
"She has come a long way since the accident," the healer said in a voice only an elf could hear, when he noticed Námo watching the girl. Questioning eyes met the healer's compassion-filled ones. "Lost her sight in a storm; struck by lightning." Súrelindë returned with the necessary items, handed them to the healer and stepped back, waiting. "Hennon le. You are free to go now. Would you like me to have someone return your harp to your rooms?"
"No, thank you," the young woman replied. "I can manage." She walked with the same measured steps to the window seat, and reached down to collect her harp.
"It is leaning on the wall to your right."
"Hannon le," she said with a blush.
Námo watched as she moved from the room. Her walk was measured but graceful, her fingers barely brushing the wall. A sudden burning sensation brought his attention back to the healer.
"Forgive me. The arrow was poisoned. This balm pulls the poison out, but it is quite uncomfortable. I will check the stitches now and then you need to rest. When next you wake we will see about some food." The healer finished his ministrations and left his drowsy patient.
Námo struggled to figure out how he had gotten from the forest road to here, and where here exactly is. It made his head hurt as the answers just plain eluded him. He drifted into a dreamless sleep, a healing sleep as elves do.
When Námo next awoke, he found eyes the color of the angry sea staring at him intently. The eyes were set in a face framed by long silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The shipwright gave a lopsided grin.
"Mae govannen, Hîr nin," he said with a nod of his head.
"I am no lord," the injured elf began.
Círdan raised his hand to stop the protest. "I am too old for such games. I have lived long and seen many wondrous things, including the Host of the Valar who drove Morgoth from these lands. And I never forget a face!" he added with a cheeky grin.
Námo nodded in acquiescence. He quickly looked around, not wanting to be overheard. "I would prefer if my identity remain our little secret," he said in a hushed voice.
"Be at peace, Hîr nin. None will learn of it from me. I do wonder, however, why you are here and in such a state."
"I came on a personal matter and as such am forbidden to use my…gifts. I fear my physical form is not as strong as Tulkus' or Orome's and I greatly underestimated the dangers I might encounter. Tell me, I was certain my body would die. How did I survive?"
"I had a dream several nights ago. I saw the forest road about a day's ride from here. There were bandits lying in wait. I then saw a lone elf riding towards them. I tried to warm him but I could not. Next I saw the same elf lying near death. I awoke in such fear and with a compelling urge to save the elf. I knew the dream was a premonition. I dressed quickly, took several warriors with me and rode off. I am pleased to say not only were we able to reach you in time, but my scouts tracked the thieves and convinced them to return what they took." He finished with a wink. "I am keeping your things until you are able to move to more private quarters. We would not want anyone to figure out to whom a gleaming, black-bladed sword belongs."
"I am greatly in your debt, Shipwright. I will not forget your kindness."
"I am glad I got to you in time. It would be a shame for so beautiful a body to die." Námo felt himself blush and Círdan laughed. "You mentioned being here for a purpose that does not concern Eru. I do not mean to pry, but will you share with me what brings you from you halls?"
Námo began to answer when a knock on the door stayed his reply. Círdan called out for the person to enter. The healer smiled as he approached the bed. "It is good to see you so awake, my lord. How do you fare?" Círdan got up from his chair and moved to the window seat to allow the healer room.
"I am much better. The pain is no more than a dull ache," Námo answered. "I am most grateful for your excellent care."
"I am only doing what Eru put me upon this earth to do. Your wounds are healing remarkable fast. You are most fortunate. You still need to rest, but I think in a couple of days you could be moved to guest quarters."
"How long have I been here?" The Vala asked.
"A week's time. Like I said, you have a remarkable healing ability." The healer went on chatting as he removed the old bandages and re-dressed the wounds. Círdan, however, did not miss the flash of sadness and something else in the onyx eyes. He was extremely perceptive, and if Námo left his realm and those in his care on a personal matter, it had to be something very important. The ancient elf planned to help in any way he could.
When the healer left, promising to send food, Círdan moved back to the chair by the bed. He said nothing, but waited expectantly for the Doomsman to continue. When Námo did not begin, Círdan noted the tired look in the other's eyes. "I will let you rest before your meal comes. We will speak again later. When you feel up to it, just ring the bell on the nightstand and send someone for me." The elf stood gracefully and headed to the door.
"Wait," Námo called out. "The girl who sat with me, the bind woman," Círdan turned back. "She played the harp so beautifully. Would she be willing to play for me again? I found it most soothing." Námo could not explain why the woman's music comforted him, but he noticed it missing when he awoke.
Círdan looked at the recovering Vala. He found it hard to believe that this wounded, uncertain, troubled creature was the same being that smote evil creatures with deadly precision. "Her name is Súrelindë. I will ask her to come by and play for you a bit later. Rest now; you body demands it in order to heal."
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.