Animal Companion
Every so often, it so happens that I'll write a Gen Fic. Here is one...
Not (as would be expected Huan, but another good boy)...Enjoy! (feat. Navëquen, my beloved)
Characters:Námo & Irmo & Gorgumoth
Words: 1 800
Warnings: /
“Here boy,” Námo called softly and smiled upon hearing the discreet footfalls, announcing the arrival of his most loyal companion.
“How are the souls?” he asked, patting Gorgumoth’s massive head tenderly while he gobbled up the treats his master was holding out to him in an invitingly extended palm. “Have you kept them in line?”
In a completely unexpected show of innocence and delight, the thus questioned being flopped onto its back and presented its soft, furry belly to the long, spindly fingers of the Lord of Mandos to welcome the congratulatory rubs and scratches that were undoubtedly deserved.
Both the Lord of the Halls of Waiting and his pet were a mystery to many—few were those who could glimpse even a fraction of their thoughts and motivations, and even fewer knew the true story behind the frightening creature at Námo’s ghostly heels.
The first thing that might have surprised those who knew little about the Fëanturi was that Gorgumoth was very much real. He was neither shadow nor dream—he was as substantial as Navëquen and just as vicious if need be.
The second was how much honest love and devotion there was between master and beast, and how much they relied on each other in their daily lives.
“How do you feel about visiting my brother?” Námo suddenly asked in a serious tone, trusting that the huge, dark canine would communicate his opinions unequivocally. “It has been a while.”
They were both easily absorbed by their work, and thus it made sense for them to also share some much-deserved time-off in another, less dismal environment with cheerier company than the ever-moaning dead.
Gorgumoth wagged his heavy tail twice, his ears perking up, and it seemed to Námo that his watchful gaze instantly grew brighter with enthusiasm.
This was to be expected, after all, it had been Irmo who had first brought the pup into the Halls of Mandos, swearing that Gorgumoth was a perfectly well-behaved being that would never gnaw on Vairë’s thread or tear Námo’s slippers to shreds.
Irmo, as was his wont when he saw fit, had blatantly lied.
“You need a friend—for companionship and succour—and I, as your loving sibling, have brought you this fluffy fellow for that exact purpose,” the Lord of Dreams had chirped, and—suspecting his sister’s, as well as his sister-in-law’s involvement—Námo had been patently unable to refuse.
Of course, Irmo had remembered how tender and loving his older brother had been to him during his own youth, and so it made sense for him to suspect that Námo was secretly yearning for someone to care for, who had not yet been traumatised by the ordeal of their demise.
At that time, Gorgumoth had been but a tiny ball of fur with huge, luminous eyes, and—even though he would never have admitted it—Námo had been devoted to him from that very first meeting on.
“His name is Gorgumoth,” Irmo had explained, “and he’s a chipper pup. He won’t mind the gloomy atmosphere and your sour mood—he just wants to be fed and loved. I know you can do that, but I feel as if you’re slowly forgetting about these strengths of yours—and I cannot let that happen.”
Thus, it had all begun, and from that moment onward, Námo was rarely seen without the ever-growing beast, following him around with the loyal admiration only dogs were ever capable of.
Bestial Maiar were always a risk, that was a universally known and brazenly disregarded truth amongst the Valar, and—after some reflection—the Lord of the Dead had judged himself just as capable and deserving of adopting and managing one of these potential catastrophes as any of his colleagues.
There was no actual time in Mandos, but Gorgumoth had grown bigger and stronger continually. To his master’s astonishment, nobody seemed to object to the muddy paw prints and the dusting of hair that consistently ruined the ephemeral, ethereal aesthetic of ever-shifting minimalism Námo usually favoured.
From that lack of protestation, Námo had soon deduced that more than just his brother had deemed him overly morose and lonely. At first, it had certainly stung his pride to realise that his friends and family had concocted the absurdly clumsy creature to palliate his isolation, but—in time—the undeniable solace the pup gave him far outweighed his petty misgivings.
“You are such a good friend,” he now said and bent down to breathe an insinuated kiss onto the dog’s brow. “Irmo really is much wiser than I give him credit for.”
Gorgumoth looked up at his Lord with twinkling eyes that seemed to say, “Of course, haven’t you raised us both?”
“No,” Námo laughed. “No, my friend, you’ve been much more obedient and eager to learn than that flighty fool has ever been.”
Indeed, Gorgumoth had—from the very start—been dutiful to a fault. Even in his earliest youth, when his paws had been too big and round to manoeuvre successfully across the polished floors of flickering grey, he had endeavoured to please and delight Námo at every opportunity he got.
He was a diligent guard dog and a skilled shepherd, making sure that all the souls in their keeping were accounted for and that none wandered off by mistake or by rebellious intent.
His undeniable, relentless competence had soon gained the respect if not the affection of the other Maiar under Námo’s care, and Gorgumoth knew exactly who to seek out for an extra treat or a good cuddle.
Even those who were not inordinately fond of his shaggy fur and wordless communication eventually came to tolerate him as a colleague of sorts—as a matter of fact, the fur-covered guardian of the Halls quite enjoyed Navëquen’s taciturn company, for example, whenever his shift had been extraordinarily wearying.
He was happy in the Halls of Waiting, he was comfortable in Vairë’s workshop, and he loved visiting Námo’s siblings, because Irmo was much more playful than his own master and occasionally threw him a stick or a ball, and Nienna gave the indisputably best cuddles.
In a word, Gorgumoth deemed himself the happiest creature in all of Eru’s creation, which did not prevent him from nudging his master’s long, shapely legs encouragingly now—he had been promised an outing, and he was eager to set out.
Obedient to a fault, Gorgumoth sat down prettily and made the evanescent ground beneath him tremble by drumming his tail against it rhythmically.
“Yes, I miss him too,” Námo admitted and shrugged. “Let’s go visit Irmo then—I am very much looking forward to his newest stroke of genius when it comes to gently manipulating everyone into doing things only he’ll find amusing.”
Gorgumoth would never have disobeyed or deserted his master, so there was no need for leashes or collars as they walked silently towards the gardens of Estë.
“Námo,” she cried as soon as she saw her brother-in-law appear like a threatening but profoundly welcome raincloud on a bright day. “And if that is not my good boy!”
Instantly, a juicy treat materialised in her hand, and she threw it high into the air to see Gorgumoth leap after it.
Her laughter felt like a soothing caress against Námo’s raw, overtaxed nerves, and—without noticing or consciously deciding to do so—he smiled as well.
“Oh, you two are good for one another,” Estë declared, evidently congratulating herself on the stroke of genius she seemed to consider herself to have been a part of. “My husband should be around here somewhere—he will be so happy to see both of you.”
Nodding patiently, the Lord of Despair and Desolation could not help but be cheered by her boundless joy; Estë was a healer to the very depths of her core, and nothing gladdened her heart more than seeing alleviating and mending measures in action, especially if those blessings were then shared and passed on.
It took a moment before he realised that Gorgumoth had not returned, and he was about to whistle when he descried his very own sister, walking beside the huge dog and talking to it softly.
Námo was not sure which of the two seemed more consoled by the other’s presence, but he decided not to interrupt their intimate conclave.
There were things he did neither know nor understand about either of these wonderful, mysterious, merciful beings, and he accepted this as a rare shortcoming of his own with all the noble humility of one who was usually right.
“Brother!” Irmo’s form coalesced out of a quickly approaching cloud of iridescent pollen dust and paper-thin mothwings. “How have you been? What an immense pleasure to see my two favourite sharp-fanged jailors here. I trust you are not in need of healing yourself?”
“In a way,” Námo replied and melted into his youngest sibling’s expected and hoped-for embrace with stoic passivity. “It was time.”
“Are you checking on me, or did you merely miss the endless treats and sweetmeats my wife and sister will conjure up for their guests of honour?” Irmo teased without letting go of the tall, lithe frame he was holding as tightly as he could.
“Nienna visits me often,” Námo grumbled. “I am thankful for her company, and I would never stoop so low as to demand or expect any kind of present.”
“Evidently, your dog does not share your high-minded sense of haughty independence,” Irmo laughed and pointed at Gorgumoth who was in the process of being thoroughly spoiled by the afore-mentioned Valiër. “You should take his example—I seem to recall that only this morning, my wife has brought fresh fruits, given by Yavanna’s grace, which she has not dried into a poultice or turned into a tea. Could nothing seduce you off your path of righteousness? Not even a pie made by my dear spouse and infused with my best wishes?”
Mellowing at Irmo’s charming coaxing more than the actual allure of the pastries, Námo gave an exaggerated sigh. “In the name of collegiality and loyalty—for he is ever faithful to me—I shall not cut short Gorgumoth’s well-deserved enjoyment. You may lead me to those liberally commended baked goods, and I shall follow meekly.”
Irmo shook his head indulgently, threw his arm around his brother’s shoulder, and pulled him towards the small table in the shade of an old Weeping Willow resolutely—he had known and loved Námo for too long to believe even for a single second that the stuffy, old curmudgeon objected to any part of this situation in the least.
Seeing his master move away, Gorgumoth gave a short huff of alarm and then bounded after the swirling clouds of darkness and dreams with joyful anticipation, leaving the Ladies chuckle indulgently at his shenanigans.
Thank you so much for reading <3
-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)
