Hospitality by Russandol

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Hospitality

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Andustar, Year 3268 of the Second Age of Arda

Never before during my crossings of the Great Sea had I faced waves that dwarfed a ship and tossed its fragile hull from the foaming edge of their curled heights to chasms closing hungrily above its masts.

Never, until I sailed to Andórë for the first time.

Our captain shouted desperate commands as all hands fought the groaning rigging to steer clear of the rocky outcrops, black and slick with the lashing rain, and deadly in their proximity. Foaming walls of water crashed onto the deck with mighty roars, like fangs of a monster rising from the depths to swallow us. I prayed to Ossë that he loosen his angry grip, fearing him deaf to all but his own rage.

Maybe he heard me, after all. On the third day the storm abated, and Anor came out, unfazed and queenly, to warm our numb, exhausted hröar. Our cheer was short-lived, though. After a short respite, she deserted us to the mercy of the cool ocean gales that swiftly spread a blanket of charcoal clouds all the way to the horizon on the four compass points.

Two days later we were at last able to reach our rendezvous point. After dusk, the agreed signal flashed through the drizzle from a point half way up the sheer cliffs. Our skipper gave the order to lower the small boat that would take me ashore. As soon as an oar scraped rock, proving that we had reached shallow waters, I jumped out and began wading towards the shingle beach. The two sailors who had rowed the boat whispered a hasty farewell, only too glad to return to the ship.

The rumble of the rolling pebbles under the steely clouds and a humiliating dunking when I lost my footing near the shore became my ominous welcome to the Land of Gift.

Strong arms grasped me from under the armpits to pull my head above water. I struggled to stand and tried to wrench myself free.

‘Do not fight me,’ cried an anxious voice. ‘Keep walking.’

I obeyed, half blind from the stinging salty water.

‘Thank you,’ I coughed and sputtered. The bitter taste burnt my throat.

When we were out of the accursed surf, another man threw blankets over us both, his arms lingering a moment over the shoulders of his soaked friend. He murmured something too soft for me to hear before they turned grave faces towards me.

‘Na-chaered palan-díriel...’ my rescuer said.

‘O galadhremmin ennorath,’ I answered, as expected.

I was rewarded with two sighs of relief and with the not too subtle movement of hands releasing dagger-hilts.

‘We thought you might have sunk,’ said the man who had pulled me out of the water. ‘You were meant to be here at mid-summer, and it is four days past.’

‘We almost hit rocks out from the coast below Sorontil,’ I said. ‘I have never faced fouler weather.’

I tucked an annoying strand of soggy hair behind my ear. At that precise time, the crescent moon burst free through a gap in the clouds. White spears of light stabbed the waves and the narrow beach where we stood.

‘One of the Nimîr?’ cried the man who had waded into the sea to meet me. His eyes gleamed with wonder. He had bared his head from the blanket to wrap it closer around his body. A mane of thick curls was plastered over his forehead and cheeks; the breeze was blowing a halo of gold around his head.

‘Let’s go,’ said his companion. His dark almond eyes, keen as knives, and the high cheekbones reminded me of the peoples of the desert lands beyond Umbar. ‘You’ll catch a cold.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Can you walk?’

‘I’m not hurt. Just swallowed several bucketfuls of water, and lost my pack in the surf.’

‘This is not the time to search for it,’ replied the fair-haired man. ‘If Ulmo smiles upon you, it may wash ashore and we shall find it in the morrow. Now we must go.’

Silently, they guided me along the beach to where a large group of boulders stood, and we climbed up the slippery rocks until we found ourselves on a steep grassy slope. The two men set a fast pace, often looking to their sides and behind us, as though expecting an ambush.

Heavy rain came down on us. Drenched in brine as I was, the sweet water that washed away the salt from my face was rather welcome.

The path followed the perilous edge of the cliffs until it approached a fir wood, then it veered inland. Soon the slight upward incline relented, and we descended towards a cluster of winking lights in a dell hugged by wisps of mist. A handful of houses were cradled amongst the trees. We headed for a small dwelling on the edge of the hamlet.

A rectangle of golden light dazzled me as the fair-headed man opened the door. I trampled behind my companions, dripping all over the plank pines of the floor. With a loud sigh of relief the Umbarian shut the door and locked it behind us. A bright fire crackled in a wide stone hearth in a large, modestly furnished room with whitewashed walls.

The two young men stared at me in the amber light. I had thought them handsome under the faint moon, but in firelight they were both breathtaking, though as different as Anor from Isil.

‘A nimir?’ repeated my dark-haired host, clearly dismayed. ‘You are mad, by Zizzûn, setting foot on this island! Do you know what will happen to you if you’re captured by the King’s men, or worse still, by the Zigûr?’

‘Let the man get out of his soaked clothes and warm up,’ said his companion. ‘We can talk over some food. I don’t know about you both, but I’m chilled to the bone and starved.’ His face was split by a friendly smile as his eyes, bright as moonlight, peered into my face. ‘Forgive our clumsy greeting, my lord. Please come by the fire and tell us what purpose brings you here.’

‘I am not a lord,’ I replied, as I squelched my way towards the warmth of the flames. Then, despite my bedraggled appearance, and still wearing the wet blanket on my shoulders, I bowed to each of them in turn with my right hand on my chest. ‘I am Erestor. I serve Elrond, master of Imladris by the grace of our King Gil-galad.’

The fair-haired man returned my gesture solemnly. ‘You may call me... Gimilzîr.’

‘I am Azûlzôr, or just Zûl,’ answered the Umbarian. He did not bow, and instead averted his eyes when I nodded at him in acknowledgement.

‘We welcome you to our home,’ said the man who called himself Gimilzîr, ‘but as my friend has already observed rather bluntly, we are concerned to see one of your kind here. I wonder if you shouldn’t just return to Ennor straight away. You risk too much.’

‘I am tasked with gathering the truth of what is happening on the island. The tales that are being relayed by our agents are too wild to be true.’

‘And what wild tales would that be?’ asked Zûl with a frown. ‘The black rituals to the Darkness? The arrests in the dead of night? The tortures and secret executions? We can tell you all you need to know, and more.’

‘Anything you have heard is probably true,’ confirmed Gimilzîr. ‘Ever since Sauron was taken prisoner, the King has been under his spell and consents atrocities that none of his forefathers ever dared perform. Those who call ourselves the Faithful were helpless to fight the guile of the Dark Lord when he first poisoned the King’s ear, and now we’re powerless to fight the corruption he’s spreading amongst the people of this island. Unless your lord is prepared to bring an army in our aid very soon, we will all end up as slaves to the Deceiver. But enough gloom for now.’

After lighting two lamps hanging from hooks screwed into the ceiling beams, Gimilzîr stepped to one corner of the large room and brought back a bundle of dry, folded garments. He placed them on a chair next to me.

‘You can go upstairs if you desire privacy, or to sleep after your journey, Erestor.’ He waved his hand towards a ladder that led up to a platform built into the eaves at ceiling level, half the size of the ground floor. On it I could see the feet of a large bed covered with a brightly patterned blanket. Several cushions were strewn on the floor. ‘But if you are not too tired, maybe you would like to share dinner with us.’

‘I shall not rob you of your bed,’ I said, glancing briefly at each of them. ‘I will just be happy with a dry blanket to sleep down here. I am half dead from exhaustion and could fall asleep on my feet, but I would not refuse some food first.’

While I stripped off my soaked clothes and put on their borrowed ones, I felt the touch of their curious gazes over my skin. I smiled. There were many bizarre myths about those of my adopted kind amongst the Second-born. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Umbarian wince and bite his lip at the sight of my scarred back, but he said nothing. From his brief grimace of pain and the way he purposefully peeled his shirt off without turning his own back to me, I wondered whether he might have once been a slave, still bothered by the memory of the lash.

Once the three of us were dry and clad, my hosts began to get the meal ready. I offered to help, but they bid me sit down and poured me a cup of hot mulled wine which, in my chilled state, tasted as good as miruvor and was as reviving.

The table was set, and Zûl waved me to the chair opposite him. Then he lifted a small cast iron pot from the fire, placed it gingerly on a trivet on the table and took off its lid. The mouth-watering smell of fish stew filled my nostrils. Yet we stood.

After Gimilzîr faced West and offered a prayer to the Valar, we took our seats. If he was offended at my failure to join in his thanksgiving, he gave no sign. Instead he ladled large portions into our bowls and passed the bread around. As soon as my hosts began to eat, I applied myself thoroughly to the task of devouring the stew. Flavour burst in my mouth while warmth began to spread inside my chilled hröa. The two men watched me in amusement while I all but scraped the bottom of the bowl with my spoon and mopped any remains with chunks of soft rye bread.

‘And to think we were always told you First-born lived on starlight, music and berries,’ chuckled Gimilzîr. ‘Admittedly, you are tall and muscled. A warrior?’

‘When needed,’ I answered with a shrug. ‘Forgive my lack of manners. Since the storm hit us, it has been almost a week without tasting more than a few wafers of soggy lembas.’ I sighed, pleasantly full. ‘Your stew is delicious. So tasty.’

Without prompting, Zûl filled my bowl again, cut another thick slice of bread and offered it to me. As I took it, he gave me a small smile when my fingers brushed against his hand.

‘Tig-... Gimilzîr’s stew is renowned in these parts,’ he said, correcting himself swiftly. ‘It sure is the best thing in this whole wretched island.’

‘My stew, the best thing?’ Gimilzîr laughed, resting a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Is that all?’ Zûl leant eagerly into the touch.

‘Mmmm, well, maybe your grilled lamb chops, too,’ he said, eyes sparkling; they darted briefly to meet mine, before regarding Gimilzîr’s fair face fondly. Zûl‘s parted lips were red and enticing like ripe cherries.

I found myself staring and turned my attention to stirring the spoon in the rich stew. Something else had stirred between my legs in response to the joyful, wanton flirting between them.

‘What is the plan, then?’ I said, to mask my discomfort. ‘Are you appointed as my guides?’

‘Not me!’ cried Zûl, now almost angry. ‘Wild horses won’t drag me back to Armenelos or anywhere within three leagues of the Zigûr. As for you,...’ He looked at his lover with pursed lips, radiating disapproval.

‘Tomorrow evening I will take you to Lord Anárion, Erestor,’ said Gimilzîr. ‘Those are our instructions. I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out what you are.’

‘Your eyes shine like stars,’ said Zûl, walking around the table until he stood at my side, so close I could feel the warmth of his slender body. He was sensuality made flesh, lithe and graceful as though moving to music. ‘Like the Zigûr’s. They remind me of him, but his can become hard like beetle’s wings when he’s angry. And your hair is like his, too. Pure silk. May I touch?’

When I nodded, he raked his fingers down my drying hair, combing it gently and twirling its ends. Then he began to massage my scalp. My spoon stopped in mid air. I put it down.

‘Shall I stop?’ he said, but not to me. I wonder what other silent messages he was conveying over my head when his friend shook his head, feigning dismay, but kept watching him intently, trying not to laugh.

Ignoring their glee, I sighed in contentment. ‘You have skilled fingers, Zûl. What you are doing is bliss.’ Gimilzîr snorted, then grinned. Intrigued, I asked, ‘You say you have seen Annatar close? What is he like?’

‘He is beautiful, like you. Deadly beautiful. Cruel, too.’ Zûl shivered, and his fingers trembled on my head. ‘I’d rather not talk about him.’

‘I apologise. I am grateful for your hospitality and for the risk you are taking on my behalf. If you give me directions to Anárion’s house I will make my own way at dawn.’

‘You would not last the morning,’ spoke Gimilzîr dryly. ‘The patrols of the King swarm all over Andustar, hoping to catch us doing something forbidden and haul our arses into his dungeons for questioning. Once in there, those of us loyal to the Lords of Andúnië won’t come out in a hurry, or unscathed. One like you... who knows what they would devise as punishment for you.’

‘Then I must leave tonight. While I am under our roof you are in danger!’ I cried, pushing the chair back and trying to stand up. Gently, Zûl pushed me down.

‘We know we are,’ he said, very softly. ‘We have been for a long time, ever since the Zigûr crossed our path.’ His fingers began to move over my head again.

‘We try to be careful, very careful, and we have sworn not to be caught alive,’ added Gimilzîr. He pulled a small dagger from his belt and flipped it up into the air before catching it again and placing it back in its sheath. ‘Or better, not to let each other be caught alive.’ His glance to Zûl was both fearful and fiercely protective.

’You’d better watch your skin,’ came the reply from behind me. ‘You take too many risks. Have you not paid your debt to your lord thrice over, Tig-?’

Silence hung tense after his reprimand. I had already guessed a dark story behind them. I hoped I would hear it one day, but more than that, I wished they would survive the darkness that had conquered their island by stealth.

‘We don’t know how long we will be given,’ continued Zûl. ‘Zizzûn has rolled his dice, and we’ve cheated them several times. We live for today.’

One of his hands crawled down to my jaw, then to my neck. His caress was slow, full of meaning. He moved to my side, tilted my face towards him and leant forward to kiss me on the lips. Somehow, I was not surprised. A glance at Gimilzîr did not show me jealousy. His fingers worried a golden curl behind his ear while he licked his upper lip, lustful. My cock hardened inside the already tight trousers.

‘Leave our guest alone!’ Gimilzîr protested, too weakly to be convincing. ‘He’s tired and the customs of his folk...’

‘Shhh, let him speak for himself! Do you think I’ve forgotten what desire looks like on anyone but you?’ Zûl’s hand snaked further down until it rested on my groin that twitched with a will of its own. Smug, he gave me another kiss, this time parting his lips, so that I could taste his mouth. He withdrew slowly, laughing as I fell forwards to avoid breaking contact. ‘Gimilzîr, I believe our visitor might even consider sharing our bed tonight. Would you not, fair one?’

‘Most willingly,’ I replied without thinking, breathless.

‘You see, Erestor,’ continued the Umbarian in a conspiratorial voice, ‘Gimilzîr once told me of this fantasy of his...’

‘Sûla!’ yelled his lover, blushing to the roots of his hair.

Zûl, or Sûla, as revealed by his friend’s slip, reached out to grab our hands and led us to the foot of the ladder. He began to climb, while Gimilzîr and I watched his rear wriggle enticingly.

Gimilzîr laughed. ‘I am Tigôn. Will you tell me your real name?’

‘Eönwë,’ I replied, on impulse. To Mandos with Námo’s mandate.

‘Eönwë, like the Herald of Manwë of the legends about Tar-Minyatur?’ Tigôn chuckled. ‘The same Eönwë that could shift into the shape of a giant eagle and conjure lightning and thunder to fight the minions of the Black Foe?’

I shrugged, fighting to keep a straight face. ‘Same name, yes, but no conjuring tricks tonight. You can see why I would rather be called Erestor.’

‘Stop dawdling, you two.’ Sûla called from above. ‘Last one does the washing up in the morning!’

Both of us set a foot on the second step on the ladder at the same time.

‘Guests first.’ Tigôn sighed in mock defeat but his eyes glittered. His smile of anticipation made my legs tremble as I climbed up.

 

 

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

I don’t know how Elegy for Númenor will end, so for all I know, this story is completely AU.

Thank you, elfscribe, for letting me play with your beautiful original characters. Now I return them to you safe and sound (and hopefully sated and happy!) so that you can complete your own vision.