i have passed my days by the sound of your name by AdmirableMonster  

Maglor is asleep and snoring loudly.  Hemmoril rolls her eyes.  He swore he was going to stay awake the whole night, then tried to show he could outdrink the newcomers in the Yule festivities, and promptly passed out along one of the table benches, thus forcing everyone to spend the rest of the evening trying not to sit on him.  To herself, Hemmoril admits that she’s jealous.

It’s quiet now.  The fires are dying down, and the feasts are over.  The next morning, they will exchange gifts—a Mannish custom, but then it is a Mannish celebration to begin with.  Even their newest Mannish allies seem to celebrate it in some fashion, though not with the same dishes or decorations.  Maedhros is adamant that they will follow the year-patterns of the Edain, and Hemmoril finds them comforting, in an odd sort of way.  They mark time very differently from the way it was marked—if at all—in Valinor, and it helps anchor her to these days.  Sometimes keeps her from thinking too hard about the things she has lost.

Maglor watches her sometimes in concern.  Hemmoril doesn’t think she’s given him any cause.  She’s grown quieter, perhaps, since the Bragollach.  Her face has grown thinner.  She has taken to riding even more often, and she always keeps a cracked vase filled with wildflowers.  But she doesn’t drink the way her best friend does.  She doesn’t hide herself between smiles and false cheer.  She’s doing fine.

Now she wanders, unable to sleep, through a sleeping fortress.  Inside, the flames are dying down; outside, the wind howls and whips up white snow in a frenzy. She doesn’t even really know where she’s going.  Everything that can be cleared up has been cleared up.  And then she turns a corner and finds herself face to face with another waking soul.

It is one of the Easterlings, a young Woman.  She wears a jacket heavily embroidered with golden thread, above a thick, fur-trimmed skirt that matches a soft furry bonnet that frames her face and hides her hair.  Her face has been made up with red along her wide cheeks to look as if she has been running in the wind, and her dark eyes are glittering with a kind of eagerness.

Hemmoril nods to her, in a little confusion, and starts to go past, when the girl grabs her sleeve.  “Wait,” she says, and she smiles, one tooth worrying at her lower lip.  “My lady Elf, I would ask you a favor.”

She is close enough to make Hemmoril’s heart beat in a way she would not have expected from anyone other than Gweriel, and she is too befuddled to pull away as the young Woman leans up on the very tips of her toes and pulls her head down to kiss her on the mouth.  Her mouth is very soft, and it is a long minute before Hemmoril grabs those muscled shoulders and pulls the Woman back.  “What are you doing?” she asks.

“Won’t you come to bed with me?” the girl asks, speaking the language of the native Secondborn precisely, though with a strong accent.

“Come to bed with you…?”

“It’s good luck to find a partner on this night,” the girl says, with a dimple and a wink.  “And I bet my brothers that I could bed the Lady of the Horses.”

Hemmoril expels air in a snort.  “No,” she says.  “I am bound to another.”

The girl wrinkles her nose.  “Ah,” she says slowly.  “And the Elves do not…?” She makes a face, smoothing down her skirts, and now Hemmoril sees her hands are trembling just a little.  “I didn’t realize.  I didn’t see you with anyone.”

Pain lances sharply through Hemmoril’s lungs.  “She is dead,” she says shortly.  “But Elves still…the Elves of my land still, often remain…” Would Gweriel really mind?  If she is in Mandos, waiting for Hemmoril (she must be), would she frown, or would she rather laugh and clap her hands?

The young Woman nods slowly.  “Please forgive my misunderstanding,” she says.  “I would not want to make difficulties for my people.  Though my brothers will laugh at my failure.”

“Wait,” Hemmoril says, as she starts to turn away.  “What is your name?”

“Gerel,” says the girl, and Hemmoril’s heart seizes up.

“Wait,” she says again.

* * *

Gerel has small breasts, the sort that Hemmoril has always liked, small and pert—and they flush very nicely indeed with Hemmoril’s mouth on one and her hand working between Gerel’s legs.

“Oh—oh—my lady of—”

Hemmoril looks up at her with an awkward smile.  “Just call me Hemmoril, I am no lady.”

“Hemmoril, then.”  Gerel’s face is lit with eagerness, and her hands catch at Hemmoril’s head and drag her into a heated kiss, all sharp teeth and wild tongue.  Hemmoril lets the sensation of it go to her head, grinding against her thigh, shivering her pleasure at the feel of it.  “Hemmoril,” Gerel breathes in her ear, sounding mischievous.  “Do you have anything—I mean, I like having something in me more substantial than a finger, sometimes.  Do Elves have, um, implements like that for the bedroom?”

Hemmoril breathes raggedly herself at the thought. “I don’t,” she says regretfully, after a moment, then pauses.  “Well—I could fetch one, though.”  Maglor won’t mind.  Maglor had better not mind.  Maglor has done far worse, in his time.  “I’ll be right back,” she says. “Don’t—don’t leave.”

A startled blink.  “Of course not.”  She settles herself more comfortably against the bed.

It’s too easy for Hemmoril to find the thing she’s looking for.  She shouldn’t know where he keeps these.  But his room isn’t even locked—perhaps unsurprisingly, since he’s currently passed out in the dining hall.  Hemmoril snags one she doesn’t think has been used—or at least, not often, that would feel too strange—and hurries back the way she came.

She re-enters the room to find that Gerel has, in addition to squirming completely out of her jacket and blouse, pulled her colorful skirts up around her waist.  Hemmoril stands in the doorway for a moment, just looking.  She’s never been good at the words, not really—Lanyë was always the one who whispered sweet things into her ears, Lanyë and Káno the two friends in her life who could make words do what they wanted.  Though whether Káno tried was always something of a question.

Gerel catches her gaze and wriggles invitingly, a cheerful grin on her sturdy face.  “Do you like what you see, Hemmoril?”

Hemmoril nods, shakily.  “Very much.”

“I do, too, but I would like to see more.”

Oh, that’s right, she’s still wearing her tunic and soft leggings.  Hemmoril runs an abashed hand through her hair.  She’s not unhandsome, but she doesn’t consider herself anything particularly special in terms of looks, and she hopes Gerel is not disappointed.

Well, she thinks, there isn’t much she can do if she is, and she strips easily and quickly, folding up her clothes and tucking them onto the little chair by the window that she made for Lanyë.  It isn’t a good time to think about that, to think about her wife sitting in it, watching and waiting for her to come home.

She shakes her head to dislodge the half-formed vision and turns instead to the Woman on the bed.  “I’m sorry if I’m clumsy, I’ve never used one of these before,” she says, holding up the phallic object in its leather harness.

“We can experiment,” Gerel says with a laugh.  “I don’t mind.  I much prefer to have fun in bed anyway.  Come here and I’ll help you with it.”

Hemmoril obeys the summons, sliding between Gerel’s thighs and looking up at her inquiringly.  Now that there’s time to slow down, she notices differences between Gerel and her previous partners—more coarse, wiry dark hair tufted between her legs and sparsely flowing down them, a wider waist and wider hips but less height.  She’s lovely.

“All right.”  Gerel’s hands feel around her waist, and she bites at her lower lip becomingly as she fusses with the object. “I think you’ll need to put your legs through these,” she says, with a little frown.

“All—all right,” Hemmoril says shakily.  They spend a few moments sorting themselves out, and then Gerel slips a hand between Hemmoril’s legs and gently moves some things around.  Hemmoril moans shakily as the rounded end of the smooth wood presses lightly into her cunt.

“There, I think that will work,” Gerel says contemplatively.  She takes the other end and guides it toward her own cunt.  “If you want to try, Hemmoril?”  Then, arch and mischievous, undercutting the formality that had previously made Hemmoril feel strange, “my lady of the horses?”

Hemmoril pushes her hips forward cautiously, feeling the implement slide home in a distant kind of way.

“Ooh!” says Gerel.  “That’s nice.” She laces her hands behind Hemmoril’s neck and shifts her hips.  The other end moves, and stars burst in front of Hemmoril’s eyes. She moans, long and ragged, dips her face for a kiss.

They begin to move in earnest as she pulls back, Gerel’s legs wrapped around her waist, the little Woman moaning loudly now, her little breasts bouncing as she Hemmoril rocks with her.  They fall into an easy rhythm, heat mounting between Hemmoril’s legs and coiling in her belly.  Gerel’s hand reach for her breasts, and Hemmoril’s breath catches in her throat at that sensation.

“Yes,” she whispers softly, and then she finds herself flattening herself instinctively across Gerel, kissing down that beautiful olive throat, squirming against her, thighs slotted against thighs—

Everything is warm and here, all the rest of it falling away, sorrow and happiness and fear and anger, in the face of just warmth. Gerel cries out, her hips tightening around Hemmoril, and all the warmth uncoils throughout Hemmoril’s entire hröa.

One more entwined heartbeat, and then she is curled at Gerel’s side, shaking, the leather of the harness twisted about her legs.

“Ohhh,” murmurs Gerel.  “That was good.”  There is movement and rustling, and then the little Woman gives a delighted peal of laughter.

“Mmm?” Hemmoril blinks lazily.

“You look just like a big cat,” Gerel says, and one small hand ruffles deliciously through Hemmoril’s long hair.  “Also, you’ve left the phallus in me.”

“Eh?” Hemmoril says intelligently, and then she realizes that the wooden object has popped right out of the harness at some point, and she’s on her side with her legs tangled around Gerel’s thigh. “Oh dear.”

“I don’t mind.”  Gerel pulls it out with a slick sound and tosses it carelessly to the side.  Hemmoril feels she ought to chide her, but it’s not as if Maglor would have treated it any more carefully, in any case. “I’m sleepy.”  She yawns and cuddles up against Hemmoril.

“Your brothers won’t laugh at you now?”

“They will not.  I’m certain I’ve done far better than they.”  She wrinkles her nose cheerfully, and leans forward to kiss Hemmoril on the lips.  “Won’t you sleep with me?” she asks.

“Yes,” Hemmoril says hoarsely. “I—would not want your people and mine to be at odds, after all.”  Her voice cracks a little, and she isn’t sure if the joke works, but Gerel giggles softly before her eyes close and she starts to snore.  Hemmoril sighs, looking down at her, then settles herself more comfortably and shuts her eyes.

She thinks she may sleep well this Yule.

Leave a Comment