Title: Under the Silver Moon
Pairing: Rúmil/Curufin
Rating: R
Warnings: AU and slash
Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no profit.
Notes: Written for my friend Larian. This ficlet is based on our role play,
and is completely outside of the realm of canon possibility. Slightly
crackish. Rú is a Mary-Sue. And I didn't use a beta. * gasp! *

~*~

Curufin trudged glumly through the dark underbrush, cursing softly as a
low-hanging limb brushed past his face. He swiped at it and cursed again,
making a point to use his brother's name in vain. After all, it was
Celegorm's fault he was out here in the middle of nowhere, searching for
someone who did not wish to be found.

Lúthien. Celegorm was obsessed with her. Though he'd managed to capture her
and hold her prisoner for a time, she had escaped with the help of Huan. 

"I love her, Curufin," Celegorm had said. "You will help me find her, won't
you?" His brother's tearful pleadings swayed Curufin, and he reluctantly
agreed. Now, he bitterly regretted it. 

For nearly a week, he had been searching relentlessly, riding over hill and
dell, looking for the beauty who had stolen his brother's heart. He rode
well into the night, stopping to rest only when his horse demanded it.
Determined to press onward, he tethered the weary beast and continued on
foot into the deep wood.

 As the trail wound ever deeper into the woods, the trees grew taller,
darker, and more ominous. Shadows seemed to move of their own accord.
Darkness crept in on silent feet, looming like a giant. Fearful sounds and
frightening visions stalked Curufin's every move. "It is magic," he told
himself, but it did not assuage his fears. He clutched tightly to his
sword, lest some creature of the darkness take him unaware.

In the distance, he heard a sweet melody. It carried on the evening breeze,
clear and bright, in sharp contrast with the gloomy woods. Such a beautiful
song could only be sung by Lúthien herself! Encouraged, Curufin quickened
his pace and picked his way through the dense underbrush until he reached a
moonlit clearing.

A lone Elf stood naked in the center of a grassy hilltop, surrounded by
towering Mallorns, his face lifted up to the starry sky. He was pale and
perfect, washed in cool moonlight and painted with the silver luminescence
of the stars. Curufin was held in thrall. The song continued, wrapping all
within its reach in gossamer veils of enchantment. Mists rolled down from
the trees, silver blending with the golden leaves that lay strewn on the
ground. It was magic. Magic that meant to charm him. He would not be
ensnared.

"Who are you and what manner of enchantment do you weave with your song? If
you are a wizard, I mean to slay you where you stand," Curufin cried out to
the Elf. "I am no mere Elf of modest origins! I am Curufin, Son of Fëanor,
and your charms will not hold me in sway!"

Curufin charged the hilltop, sword drawn, intending to strike the Elf where
he stood. The Elf turned his head to gaze over his shoulder at the
rampaging Noldo. 

"Son of Fëanor, you have entered the land of Melian. Do not be so quick to
dismiss her power," stated the Elf with a quiet authority. He did little
more than raise his hand, but the movement drove Curufin to his knees. The
sword fell harmlessly from his hands.

"She is a witch," hissed Curufin, "and you are her minion!"

At that, the Elf smiled and took a step toward Curufin. "No. I am Rúmil,
Guardian of the Grove. I am no minion, but all in this land fall under her
protection. She will not allow any violence or bloodshed."

Curufin realized with growing horror that he could not rise from his
kneeling position. The slender Elf, Rúmil, drifted closer still until he
stood above Curufin, peering down at him with glittering eyes. "This is my
grove that you have breached. Such an intrusion is not taken lightly."

"Your grove? Then do you command the very trees and grass?" Curufin growled
from his spot on the grass. Again, he made a move to rise, but the
enchantment held him firmly in place.

"Yes. And I rule all that lies within. Whatever ventures inside is mine to
do with as I please, thus sayeth the Lady."

Curufin swallowed as he realized the depth of the situation into which he
had unwittingly sunk. "…then I am…"

"Mine," finished Rúmil with a cryptic smile. Again he raised his hand, and
the wave of power that rippled outward from it hit Curufin squarely in the
chest, sending him reeling backward onto the cool grass.

The moon illuminated the night sky with a shimmering glow and painted the
grassy clearing in a wash of silver. From where Curufin lay on the grass,
it seemed otherworldly, like a scene carved from mithril and inlaid with
sparkling diamonds. The golden-tipped Mallorns that loomed dark and dreary
along the forest path now sparkled and swayed in the twinkling light. 

Curufin blinked, and Rúmil appeared above him, flesh and blood born of
alabaster and marble. Though the song on his lips faded to twilight, his
movements were grace and poetry; the curve of his neck, the arch of his
back, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, eloquent. No, this was no
inanimate rendering of perfection, and to compare Rúmil to a cold statue
was to compare a goddess to a scullery maid.

A yearning sparked somewhere deep in the recesses of Curufin's heart. His
fingers twined desperately in the soft grass, for he dared not act on his
dark impulses. Whatever siren song had called to him on the night air had
just as certainly dashed him on the rocks at Rúmil's feet, helpless and
ensnared. He fought against it. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to
will away the spell that wound around him, over him, through him with tight
cords of silk and sinew.

"So this is what has my brother so ensnared," Curufin rasped. "Lúthien
reduced him to a shell of his former self. Until this moment, I could not
comprehend it, but now…"

"But now?" Rúmil hovered over Curufin's prone form like a vision. Though
his smile was serene, his eyes sparkled with cold fire. He bent closer and
closer until Curufin could feel warm breath against his cheek and the soft
tickle of silken hair against the side of his neck.

Curufin met the Elf's questioning gaze with one of stubborn defiance. "The
question of you, fair Elf, consumes me," he reluctantly admitted. "I want
to know if your touch will freeze my very soul or engulf it in a fiery
blaze."

"Touch me and know," breathed Rúmil against Curufin's lips. In a heartbeat,
their mouths melted together, warm and soft as liquid silk. The kiss
consumed Curufin, though not with fire or ice. What began with a glowing
ache of yearning, flared to a blaze of insistent desire.

They moved together as one, limbs entwining, fingers exploring, caressing,
lips searching for sensitive spots to kiss and suckle and know. Curufin,
though, felt as free as a wooden puppet, plucked along by unseen strings.
What was enchantment and what was free will, he could no longer discern.
All was hazy desire and shimmering delight, regardless of purpose or
intent. 

When at last they lay in glowing bliss, sated and entwined in one another's
arms, Curufin dared ask the question. "Why was I brought here? I was called
as surely as the sea calls to the sailor. Do not deny the web of
enchantment that you so expertly wove."

Rúmil raised his head from Curufin's shoulder and swept a length of pale
hair back from his brow with an elegant hand. "You wandered here of your
own accord. I played no part in that, though I did mean to alter the intent
of your journey," he said earnestly. "If you had found Lúthien, you would
have taken her…or killed her trying. Enough blood has been shed. Countless
horrors have been unleashed by the hands of the Sons of Fëanor, but it is
not too late to turn from the path on which you travel. The die has not
been cast. There is still a choice…"

Curufin closed his eyes and replied, "I have made my choice and there is no
turning from it. I swore an Oath. My word is my bond."

A single silvered tear slid down Rúmil's cheek. "So be it."

Darkness pressed down against Curufin, blanketing him in a thick dreamy
haze. Moments later, he was fast asleep.

Curufin awoke to the gentle whinny of his faithful horse who nosed through
the grass near where he lay, on the side of the familiar forest trail. He
pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around. Gone was the grassy
clearing, the silvery Mallorns and the lone Elf. In its place, an
indistinct longing for what he knew he could not have.

"Perhaps in the next lifetime," he murmured.