The Hospitality of Tirion

A Lord of the Rings Fan Fiction

by Murasaki99

Any LOTR character you recognise belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs. I don't own 'em, I'm just borrowing them for some non-profit fun.

The place: Tirion the Fair, Aman, the Undying Lands.
The players: Herumor of Anadunë, Nazgûl and survivor of the downfall of Sauron, and Moro, his infant daughter.

Herumor rose, wrapped himself in his robes and moved silently through the hall in which he was quartered. Moro was sleeping soundly, well fed and comfortable. He felt she would not wake for several hours at least, and so he wandered, barefoot and silent as the night breeze, out of the room he shared with his child and into the greater structure. Like all elvish architecture he had seen since his arrival, the hall was open in many places to let in air and light. His slow perambulations brought him to a portico that led out into a large garden. Trees with high arching branches screened the moonlight, casting it into a thousand drifting patterns of silver on the stone walkway. Untamed mounds of night blooming honeysuckle and jasmine grew along the winding path, forming screens that promised a certain measure of privacy. Moving off the track, Herumor paused beneath a graceful tree and became still, listening. Far in the distance he could hear scattered notes of soft music, and closer, the singing of a nightingale. He was quite alone.

With a soft sigh he stood under the tree, letting his dark robes fall open. Dappled moonlight caressed his translucent skin like fine silk and he turned, letting the coarser earthly fabric slide down his shoulders onto the moss. Eyes closed, he could feel the touch of the moon, friendly and familiar even in this strange place and he sighed again, letting his tension flow away into the earth. Raising his arms he let the light play over his body, robe pooling at his feet. Slowly he moved his hands over his chest, skipping with a shiver over his sensitive nipples, down his ribs – still gaunt – over his stomach, and lower still. It had been a long time since he had pleasured himself and he did so now slowly and carefully, rebuilding the faded memories of touch, movement, and sensation.

The last time he had indulged had been before he and his ring-brothers had crossed the Anduin on that fated night. Where were they now? Gone with their dark master? The thoughts colored his memory with sorrow and gave to his self-lovemaking some of the feeling of a wake. In the midst of his sadness he smiled suddenly as he realized his Captain would have been much amused by Herumor's way of making a memorial. For you and for all, some one of us still is still alive to feel, he thought, before thinking became too difficult in the steadily tightening spiral of pleasure. Before the face of the moon he turned in a slow dance. The keen shudder of release caused him to lean against the tree; it held his weight without complaint and Herumor rested against its smooth trunk and waited for the world to come back into focus.

"You are beautiful, Man of the West," a soft voice whispered.

Herumor's eyes opened wide. Two elves, one male and one female, were gazing at him through the screening branches of a tall shrub. Their eyes were shining as they looked him up and down with open admiration. He sucked in a lungful of air to exhale in annoyance. Elves, always nosing about when you want a little privacy. I should have known better. Aloud, he said. "Your eyes deceive you. I am no beauty, even I know that." Kneeling, he gathered up his robe and rose smoothly, drawing it over his shoulders and shrouding much of his nude body from view.

"But you are!" The lady moved forward, followed by her companion.

They were both golden-haired and handsome, like many of the people of Tirion, and dressed in light robes that hung open in front. They were unclad beneath. Herumor blinked at the view.

"You shine like mithril in the moonlight and your seed sparkles like diamonds."

Herumor was not sure he could blush in his current condition, but he felt as if he were, a tingling of the skin on his face. "I beg your pardon," he said stiffly, looking away. "It was not my intention to give a performance."

"Forgive us!" cried the man, his voice low and distressed. "We did not intend to spy upon you, please believe us."

"Truly, we were seeking a private place in the garden for our own similar pursuits. When we saw you were so occupied, we did not wish to disturb you." The woman looked at him and smiled. "It was beautiful and you were beautiful. You shake your head, but I speak the truth."

"Thank you, I think," said Herumor, giving them a polite bow while holding his robe closed to avoid further exposure. "The night is yet young and you wish some seclusion, so I will bid you a fair evening and go back to my chambers." He turned away.

"Wait!"

"Please wait."

Their voices caught at him like fine cobweb, slowing his gait. Herumor hesitated a moment too long. The elves were at his side an instant later. Gently they laid their hands on him. Held fast by their light touch he was unable to stir a step further. The elf woman moved to stand before him and the man stood behind. In perfect unison they stroked their hands up his body, sending a wave of sweet sensation through him.

"Stay with us, Man of the West," she murmured. "Stay and share the beautiful night, the stars, and your shining self."

"But I…" Her kiss silenced his protests as she leaned in firmly against his body. Her robe parted, allowing her bare skin to touch his own. Liquid fire brushed his lips, embraced his chest, ran down his belly, flooded his loins. The light of her spirit penetrated his mind. While he was so thoroughly distracted, her partner removed the lady's robe entirely, lifted Herumor's cloak from his shoulders, and then took off his own robe, tossing the clothing aside to drape over a convenient tree limb.

The man returned to press against Herumor's back, nibbling on his neck. Joining hands with the woman, they drew themselves close, rubbing against him. Herumor groaned into the lady's mouth as fire and light sandwiched his frame.

"Do you like that?" she whispered.

"You are very bright and hot. You burn me a little," he said when he could finally manage to draw in enough air to make sounds again. His knees felt as wobbly as a newborn fawn's.

"We will not leave thee in pain, Man of the West. True, your flesh is different from our own." Her hand worked between their bodies, stroking downward. Herumor gasped and jumped. "It is cool, like the snow." Her fingers curled around, stroking. The man behind supported Herumor, preventing him from falling as his leg joints threatened collapse. "But still you are formed like to us. We should share nothing but joy."

"Your names?" he spoke slowly, trying to marshal his scattered thoughts. "I am called Herumor."

"Mirima," she replied.

"Verfallë am I," said the elf man in turn.

Their genuine desire soothed Herumor, easing the intense sensations somewhat. He tried to keep track of what they were doing, two pairs of hands wandering over his body, caressing. His own hands clutched their bright forms, first hers, then his, hotness against his palms and fingers, their silky hair brushing lightly across his skin. His eyes were wide open but he could see only light, as if the stars had taken form to company him. He could track their movements solely by feel.

"This is better," said Verfallë, tracing a slow line down Herumor's spine with his mouth, delicately kissing each bump formed by the bones. "He is relaxing."

"His body adapts. If we go slowly, I think it will be enjoyable for all of us," said Mirima, her voice warm. She likewise began to work her way down Herumor's torso, pausing to speak with her lips against his sternum. "Very enjoyable indeed."

Herumor shivered in a delight made only sharper by the contrast of their heat against his coolness as the elves slowly moved over his body with hands and mouths. I should not, he thought in a haze, not with elves… but oh—! He could not get away, held as he was between them, and his strength of will evaporated under the steady assault of their lusty intent.

At last Mirima sought to mount him standing as they were and Herumor screamed. Or he tried to scream. Some time earlier he had expelled all the air from his lungs and forgotten to inhale and so his attempt to cry out in pain was soundless. Mirima felt it however and hesitated. "What is wrong?" she asked gently. Backing off a little she stroked him and found him wet. "You are ready for me."

Sucking in a shallow breath Herumor gasped. "You are too hot inside. Burns." He managed to take another breath. "You elves are so… intense, so bright. I've been in the dark for too long; it's hard to bear."

"We cannot?" Mirima's voice was sad. Her fingers still held him in place.

"Wait a moment." Verfallë went to rummage in their clothing and soon returned with a small pot of the sort that contained unguents or oils. "I will need this anyway, but perhaps for you as well, my love? A layer between you might offer some protection and allow him to enjoy us as we intend." He removed the lid and held it out to Mirima.

With a smile she scooped out a generous amount of the substance in the pot and began to smooth it gently over Herumor's arousal. He caught the faint scent of flowers, sweetly clean rather than cloying. The stuff spread welcome coolness over his too-sensitive skin. Handing the unguent back to Verfallë, Mirima rose up on her toes and once again settled herself over Herumor, pushing herself down smoothly. He held her hips to support her weight. This time their joining was merely very warm, not agonizingly hot, and he exhaled in relief. He gasped again as Verfallë, now likewise coated with the same slippery stuff, drew close behind him and slowly entered his body. Once he was entirely interlaced with them, they clasped hands and rocked in slow unison.

Like the deep ocean, Herumor thought as little sounds escaped from somewhere in his throat. The ship goes up the great waves and then rushes… down… he lost the thread of his thoughts entirely as the sea of sensation rose up and drowned him thoroughly.

Authors notes: And that is how Herumor innocently caused the'diplomatic incident' that he later describes to Glorfindel in Just an Old Friend. This story takes place about one year after the destruction of the ring and the downfall of Sauron.

Many thank-yous to Khazar, Ozma, and Vulgarweed for beta-reading, feedback and encouragement! Props to The Encyclopedia of Arda for reference material.