Elegy for Númenor - Volume 1: Journey to Umbar by elfscribe

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Chapter 2 - The Elf from Ost-in-Edhil

Chapter summary:  Sauron has plans for a prisoner held in his dungeon for 1500 years. 

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Ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred. Fingaer shifted his grasp to the next set of bars, and began again, banging his head lightly against them as he counted. One . . . two . . . three . . . He could detect a slight change in the air. Did it signify a door opening somewhere? He tested the air with his tongue, then ran it uselessly against the bars. Iron, poorly forged, just as he’d thought nigh unto eight thousand times. Would he count the frequency of all his thoughts? Despair cloaked him. He shook it off. Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . There was no single spot of his cell that he had not investigated in every way possible, in every posture possible, with every thought possible. Sometimes he could shut down all his thoughts and just float in oblivion. There was some relief in that, but he couldn’t maintain it, and awareness always returned . . . to this.  

Why was he still here? The others had died—long ago. One by one. He knew the minute it happened, when their thoughts, like moth-wings of comfort, had ceased brushing against his. Now, there was little to save him from this desperate tedium. Twenty . . . twenty-one . . . What would dinner be tonight? Of late, it seemed he could taste a different type of grain in the porridge and spent some time sifting through distant memories of other tastes to see if he could identify it. An interesting exercise. But what if it were all illusion? What if he had no real memory of these things and was just imagining that he remembered?

That thought caused him to howl in frustration, fling himself away from the bars, and crouch on the sand that floored his prison, rocking, rocking. He tugged at hair that was coming loose from the rough plaits. Wondered briefly if it would be worth the punishment if he began pulling his hair out again. Somewhere back in the mists he remembered doing that and twisting the strands around a bone needle to fashion flowers and insects and leaves. He’d arranged them around his cell, given them names and imagined their histories, blew on them to make them dance. But they’d taken his creations away and beaten him for pulling his hair out. He’d rebelled and tried it again, and again, until finally, it was not worth the effort anymore.

He’d managed to hide one away—one flower made of his coppery hair.  He crawled to the loose stone in the wall, pried at it with his fingers until it came loose.  Reaching into the hole, he took the little figure into the palm of his hand, blew on it. “My love, dance for me,” he said softly.

Horrible screams from a cell nearby startled him.  It was a relatively recent neighbor, some wretched glamog who, he imagined, had crossed a superior in some manner. They never lasted long. There were times when he’d even tried to talk to them, but there was little to say and they usually snarled and cursed at him. However, the sound had been enough to make him nervous.  Carefully, he replaced the flower and slid the stone back into place.

Clutching his knees to his chest, he began rocking again. Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four . . . . Why did they keep him? It was the most frequent of all the unanswered questions. They fed him well enough to keep him in flesh, even if the fare was poor. They punished him if he hurt himself. Every few days they took him from his cell and made him run and lift rocks until his muscles ached and he would beg for surcease. Grateful as he was for the diversion, it made no sense. Why hadn’t Sauron tortured him to death as he had done to others? Was this then his fate? To be kept alive for eternity in this living hell? Perhaps that in itself was his answer.

Death had become his beloved. His desire. Come for me, he begged. Let me fly to Mandos! Anything, anything to be relieved of this. Sixty-five . . . sixty-six . . . . He licked cracked lips. It was always dry here with a bitter tang in the air. He had tried drinking his urine, but that made him even more thirsty, not to mention sick. Where was the glamog with the water bucket? He should be here by now. Fingaer rose and pressed his face to the bars, straining to peer down the hall that was dimly lit by a distant torch. It was a disgraceful sign of weakness, he knew, but he had come to love the lumpish keeper who brought the water. He would whimper and kiss his hands, although the glamog laughed and struck at him. Seventy . . . seventy-one . . . seventy-two. Even his hatred of his captor had dimmed with time. Now, he thought cynically, he might even kiss Annatar's hands if he offered him the key to this cell.

Then it came, suddenly as always—the whispering. It descended on him from all sides accompanied by an acrid burning stench. He screamed and whirled in a circle, crouching and covering his ears to shut it out, but he heard it even so. He screamed again until he was hoarse. That was no use either. Desperate. He was beyond desperate. Did he even know what that word meant anymore?  Did he know what any words meant?  The sound of a friendly voice, how he ached for it.  The whispering stroked his skin, making him flinch.

The only escape was to dream . . . relive again memories of long ago or to invent new ones. The dreams were his salvation, that which kept him from going completely mad, although he could no longer separate dreams from living memories. Sometimes he wondered if anything he remembered had been real. Had he ever had a life beyond this bleak existence at the roots of Barad-dûr? He decided that it did not matter for the images were there in his head, vital as ever.

His thoughts slipped off to his favorite dream, the one he'd thought of so often it was as if the memory formed a groove in his head.  His beloved, the one who had inspired his flower. In this dream, his beloved is dancing. His hair whirls after him like a golden banner. Every movement is prelude. The flash of fingers, the self-assured curl of the lips, the limbs bending and flowing to the beat of drums and the piping of flutes. He holds the crowd in the palm of his hand. With precision, he comes out of an endless spin and, faster now, leaps like a young stag. So graceful and masculine. One impossible leap after another as he flies around the clearing. The drums roll to a finish and he collapses onto one knee, head bowed, arms raised. The applause is like a spring torrent.

He rises, cheeks flushed, eyes aglow. As the crowd leaves, they congratulate him and his smile lights up the night. He is easily the most beautiful thing Fingaer has ever seen.  He called him Gûren, my heart, for that's what he was, forever and always.

The audience has dispersed and his beloved flies to his arms: supple waist and a powerful back, easy laughter, fingers caressing his cheek. A whisper, “Where were you? Did you see my dance?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it.”

“We must be careful, your father . . .”

“ . . . is closeted with Annatar again—probing the secrets of metallurgy. We have the evening.”

“I don’t trust Annatar.”

“I don’t trust either of them. Ada is acting strangely. And Annatar . . . there is something insincere behind that charming smile. Something does not feel right.”

“You and your feelings!”

“There is one good thing in this. Ada won’t catch us, not tonight.”

The arms about his waist tighten, pulling their bodies together in tantalizing contact. With a knowing smile, Gûren shifts his hips against Fingaer to show his intent. Fingaer can feel him lengthen, smell his arousal.  His skin is flushed from exertion.

“Do you love me?” Gûren teases. “Don’t just nod. Speak beautiful words to me. Open your heart.”

“Very well then.” Fingaer draws a breath, seeking words worthy of the depth of his feelings. “I love you more than the green of summer leaves, or the rich scent of the earth, the wind in the trees, or the sighing of the surf. You are my song, my joy, my soul.”

His lover laughs, then offers his mouth, sending a burning flush to Fingaer’s loins. “The poets have no cause to worry about competition,” he says, smiling. “I have but three words in reply: I want you.”

“How?”

A finger teases Fingaer’s lips. “In every way conceivable.”

They are running, hand in hand through the starlit night, the breeze warm in their faces. They reach their place, their secret bower.  He trips and they both tumble to the ground, landing in soft moss, hands in each other’s hair, mouths wide, vigorous tongues flowing together, slick and warm, rattling gasps, eager loins pressing and grinding. He pulls back to look into that face, into those green eyes smiling gently, lit with love.  “Take me,” his lover says. With a sharp groan, Fingaer enters his beloved’s body, sheaths himself deep within that most blessed vessel . . . heat, hands, skin, rocking to joy. “Vanima, ithil a giliath nîn—my moon and stars,” he cries into his lover’s hair. “Never leave me, never. Promise me, no matter what happens.”

“I promise.”

“I’m close, so close. Gûren, I love you!”

Forlornly, he heard the words echo about the stone chamber, although he could not distinguish whether he had spoken them aloud or if they were merely audible memories.

Reaching under his ragged tunic, Fingaer grasped himself, finding his shaft as hard as it had been in his memory. He jerked his hand . . . one . . . two . . . three. Faster now. Ah there! Blessed release found in a slippery grip. For a moment, he was free.

My love, where are you now? Off in Mandos’ halls awaiting me? Of all Sauron’s deeds, your destruction cut me the deepest. A tear escaped his burning eyes, fled down his cheek. He wiped it away with a sticky hand.

Down the hall a torch appeared. And another. Hideous black shadows came marching along the wall. What was this? Something different? Slowly he stood.

* * * * *

Mairon sliced himself a wedge of the yellow cheese sealed in red wax. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes to savor its sharp, creamy taste. It was one of his weaknesses and very hard to get in Mordor. He’d tried raising a small herd of cows, but the milk did not taste the same and they sickened and died here, perhaps due to the fodder, or the water, or the air. He’d never tried any experiments to determine which. Instead, he’d had to make do with unreliable imports from the grass country. Soon, he mused, all that would change.

Ráca whined and nudged him with his nose. “You want some, you overgrown pig?”

“Aye,” the wolf growled.

Mairon laughed, scratched behind his pet’s ears and then fed him a slice of the cheese, which the beast bolted down with a flash of white fangs.

Dolgu disapproved of the plan.  Although he would never say it outright, his hints and sighs had been enough. Too bad. Dolgu was overly protective. And although that had a certain charm, it meant he didn’t think creatively enough. The more Mairon pondered the options, the more elegant the idea was. For certain, there were risks, but not unacceptable ones. Humans made a much easier target than the curséd elves. Their weaknesses were many. This would be like harpooning whales in a pond.

“Do not underestimate them,” the Ring warned. “Thou art taking a dreadful chance, Lord King.”

“Hush. Cleverness can trump chance, as you well know or you wouldn’t be here,” Mairon scolded and gave the Ring a twitch. “Be alert. I shall require your help soon.”

He reached for his wine cup and sipped it, noticing with pleasure how the taste of the cheese and wine blended. Ah, to indulge the senses again. For much too long, he had eschewed them while he immersed himself in the design and administration of war. Holding a mouthful of the vintage, he let it spread over his palate. Yes, this could be a pleasant respite, an intellectual challenge wedded to sensuality. Soon there would be much better sensations.

Mairon returned to the yellowed scroll in his lap, which had taken some time to find in his library, and ran a finger over the title of the spell. ‘On transmogrification of fleshe: fëa to a new hröa.’ To dislodge fëa from hröa required the proper incantations and a drink of powerful herbs; then both donor and recipient must be sufficiently physically intimate to allow the fëa of one to move to the hröa of the other. With his tongue, Mairon felt the lumps in his gums where his fangs would appear, allowing him to render the victim immobile.  The incantations had not been hard to memorize, and fortunately all the ingredients for the potion had been in his larder. The pot hanging in the fireplace was simmering nicely. He leaned forward to inhale the fragrance, then wrinkled his nose. Nasty. He threw in a pinch of drake-horn, which hit with a sharp hiss, releasing a puff of smoke. Then he smiled. All was made ready.

The Ring whispered, “My King, the Númenórean is here. Art thou certain thou desirest to continue this course? For he speaketh truly that it carrieth risk.”

Mairon turned to see Dolgu entering the room, black-robed and dour, holding a chain attached to the neck of the Noldo captured so long ago from Ost-in-Edhil. Behind him stood a long-armed uruk, holding an ugly sword at the ready. Mairon beckoned them forward.

“My Lord,” Dolgu said with a bow.

“What took you?” Mairon asked.

“We had to clean him up.” Dolgu’s lips quirked in distaste.

Mairon turned his attention to the creature, which stood swaying slightly and squinting at him in the bright torchlight. His tangled, waist-length hair was wet, making it hard to tell the color, but it appeared to be dark red. His eyes, grey as rain, stared with an unhealthy look of bemused madness, as if the Valar had finally revealed their joke to him. He was wearing a simple linen shift that exposed well-formed arms and legs, if a trifle too thin. His face, ah, his face was exquisite with that fine elvish bone structure, and his lips, though cracked and swollen, were plump and artfully curved. It was clear that he had been a beauty and with a little care would be so again.

“Do you know why I’ve brought you here?” Mairon asked, speaking in Sindarin.

The elf licked his lips as if he would speak but could not. He coughed.

“Bring some watered wine.”

The uruk hastened out.

“Do you know who I am?” Mairon demanded.

Another cough, then a rasping voice. “. . . a fool not to know.”

“Saucy,” Mairon purred. He rose and began walking around the elf, keeping him off-balance as the elf turned his neck to watch. Mairon could sense the strength of the personality. Most likely, it was what had allowed him to survive for so long. Mairon did not know whether that strength would be beneficial or detrimental for his purpose.

The uruk reappeared with a server who offered him a flagon.

“Not me,” Mairon said. “Him.”

“Of course, Excellency,” the uruk growled, and thrust the flagon at the elf.
There was that tongue again, a quick flick at the lips. The elf hesitated, then grabbed the flagon and downed the wine. He wiped his chin defiantly with the flat of his hand. “Will you finally kill me, then? By Mandos, you took your time about it.” The voice was a little stronger.

“Not sufficiently cowed even after a millennium and a half of confinement,” Mairon said, tilting his head. “Interesting.”

The orc hit the elf in the stomach with his armored fist and the elf dropped the flagon and fell to his knees coughing.

“You will learn deference, pushdug ilid,” the orc snarled.

Ráca growled and bared his teeth, looking to his Master for permission to attack.

“Did I ask you to hurt him?” Mairon responded mildly. He raised two fingers. The orc’s hand flew to his throat and he made a choking sound. “I don’t want this body damaged in any way," Mairon continued over the increasingly desperate sounds. "Do you all hear me?”

“My Lord,” Dolgu bowed.

Mairon released the orc, who immediately threw himself on the floor and made abject squeaking noises.

“You and you, leave,” Mairon said indicating the uruks. “Dolgu, take his chains off. The neck collar as well.” Dolgu hesitated. “Now!” Mairon growled.

As Dolgu unlocked the chains, Mairon turned to the elf. “Don’t be so eager for your death, Noldo.  I can make it most unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant.” The elf laughed softly. “I dream every day of escaping to Mandos’ halls. Therefore threats of death do not frighten me, Sauron.”

Mairon flinched at the name. Sauron, the Abhorred, so the elves had called him. “You are not frightened? That is spoken from ignorance . . . what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” the elf replied and met his glance for the first time. There was definitely a mind in there, weakened but resistant. Mairon sent his thoughts like flames of shadow to press upon him.

The elf’s eyes widened. His eyes flicked downward as he grasped the top of a chair and rocked. “One . . . two . . . three,” he murmured.

“Your name, if you please,” Mairon said. “I can take it from your thoughts if I wish, but I promise you, you won’t like it.”

“Fingaer,” the elf gasped.

“That’s better,” Mairon said. “You see, there is no need for hostility, Fingaer Celebrimborion. I remember who you are.”

“And I will never forget you!” the elf said through clenched teeth. “Although you don’t much resemble Annatar, the betrayer of my house and my city! There are no elvish words foul enough for your deeds!”

“Perhaps,” Mairon said. “Would it surprise you to know they grieve me as well? Yes? Be assured that it was necessary in the great scheme of things, although I don’t expect you to understand.”

The elf’s lips worked and he attempted to spit at Mairon’s face, but only managed a dry spray.

“Give him some water,” Mairon said, turning away to stir the pot on the fire. He heard the gurgle of a water pitcher and the elf’s quick gulps. “Now, Dolgu, remove his garment.”

“What?” The elf stepped back and set the cup down abruptly on the table.
In one violent motion, Dolgu seized the neck of the elf’s shift, tore the flimsy garment in half, and threw the pieces over a chair. The elf’s body was pale, long-limbed, and beautiful as a marble sculpture. He looked stricken and suddenly quite vulnerable. Putting his hand on the table as if to ground himself, he shivered and began to rock again.

Mairon’s groin tightened in anticipation. Having control over another was the ultimate aphrodisiac.  He sweetened his voice. “Come closer to the fire, Fingaer. I wouldn’t want you to become chilled.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Ah, do I now hear some fear in your voice?” Mairon moved close enough to hear his prisoner's rapid breathing. He placed a hand on the elf's shoulder and he flinched violently away. Mairon grabbed his chin. “If you don’t hold still, I’ll have Dolgu restrain you. Open your mouth.”

“Why should I do anything you ask? You’ll just kill me anyway.”

“Do you know that, Fingaer?” Mairon asked. “Ponder this for a moment. Why have I kept you alive all this time?”

“Do you think I haven’t asked myself that very question every day since you captured me?”

“Knowledge comes to those who are patient. Today you will finally discover the answer,” Mairon said mildly. He grasped the elf’s jaw and squeezed, forcing the mouth open. “Mmm, good teeth still. He's missing a molar on the top back here.”

“It fell out one day,” the elf hissed. “What do you expect with the food you were feeding me?”

“You seem filled out well enough. I daresay you shouldn’t complain about your treatment, when you are still here, able to speak so cockily after so many years. There aren’t many who can say the same.” Mairon slid his hands down the elf’s neck, running his thumbs over his windpipe, settling them on his chest.

“Don’t touch me!” Fingaer cried. He pulled away violently, batting Mairon’s hands away. His eyes were wide with hatred.

“Dolgu,” Mairon said quietly.

With the speed of a striking snake, the Chief Nazgûl grasped the prisoner, pulling his arms tightly behind his back. The elf inhaled sharply in sudden pain. His bare chest heaved. Quite an appealing sight, actually. Mairon licked his lips and continued his inspection.

“Turn him around and hold his hair up, Dolgu.”

The elf had a good strong back. The skin was dry and rough. Oil baths should alleviate that. The muscles were still firm. Good. Mairon spanned his hands about the elf’s lithe and slender waist, then palmed the curves of his backside. Well-rounded. Perfect. Turning him back around, sliding a hand over the sharp point of a hip, Mairon spread his fingers out to test the strong, flat belly and then turned his attention to the shriveled organ below. He picked it up delicately between two fingers. It seemed adequately sized, although it was hard to tell. He said, “The skin appears chapped. Have you been entertaining yourself overly much, Fingaer?”

“What else is there to do in that shithole?” the elf snarled.

“Be careful or I’ll put you right back there,” Mairon said. Now, he could feel the fear flowing from the creature and he lapped it up like cream. Reaching down, he cupped the bollocks, and the elf jerked, then went very still. Mairon weighed them in his hand. “Are you fertile?”

“How would I know? I sired no children, Annatar. You might remember that my choice of lovers was a source of pain for my father.  Is that what you want of me—to breed some new abomination? Well, be forewarned, I won’t do it.”

The elf’s heart was beating rapidly; Mairon could feel the pulse. “How little you know of me,” Mairon said. “I am not Melkor and did not agree with his crasser experiments.” He moved his hand upward, curled it around Fingaer’s shaft, and stroked lightly. It twitched and expanded slightly, despite the elf’s fear. A good response. “You know,” Mairon said, as malice curved his mouth, “you greatly resemble your father. He too couldn’t resist a firm hand.”

The elf howled, and struggled mightily in Dolgu’s iron grip, a mad light in his eyes. Mairon smiled as he retreated a few steps. “I wondered if time had blunted your emotions. I see that it has not. Dolgu, let him go.”

“My Lord?” Dolgu blinked and then, with a smirk, complied.

Like an eagle, talons outstretched, the elf flew at him. Mairon raised a hand and Fingaer stopped as if he had hit a wall, then slowly dropped to his knees, hands clawing at his throat as he struggled to breathe. Ráca stood at the ready, fangs bared, a growl burbling in his huge chest.

“You cannot hurt me,” Mairon said. “So do not waste your strength trying.” He waved his fingers again and heard the elf’s sharp intake of breath as he crouched down, tucking his knees under his chest and covering his head in his hands.

“I want to kill you,” the elf said, his voice hissing with venom. “I want to watch you die in slow agony.”

“Thou hast chosen a mettlesome one,” the Ring murmured. “Art thou still so sure of thy plan?”

The elf’s head jerked up. “Who is speaking?”

Mairon picked up the ripped garment and flung it across the elf’s back. “Cover yourself and have a seat.” He indicated a nearby chair.

Slowly, the elf rose.  Shivering, he wrapped the cloth about his waist and then, looking dazed, sank down in the chair. Mairon said, "Dolgu, he seems cold, could you fetch a rug for his shoulders?”

Dolgu grunted and went into a nearby room. Mairon picked up the plate of cheese and offered it to the elf.

Fingaer touched his throat and looked at him apprehensively. “I do not understand your actions or what you want from me, O Lord of Gifts.” The last was said quite sarcastically, but Mairon was willing to overlook it.

“It is an insult to refuse hospitality, Noldo,” Mairon said.

The elf took the plate, tentatively ate a slice of the cheese, and then rapidly ate another one. Dolgu returned to drop a finely-woven blanket on the elf’s shoulders. Then he stood off to the side, arms folded. Ráca sat next to the elf, red tongue lolling, watching every movement of hand to mouth.

“Delicious, isn’t it?” Mairon said. “Here, I’ll get you something hot to wash it down.” He went to his small fire, picked up a ladle, and dipped steaming liquid from the pot into a beaker. Grasping it with a pair of tongs, he held it up to the light, and swirled it gently. “Do you know what this is, Fingaer?”

“Do not play with me,” the elf said around his mouthful.

“You are mine to play with as I will. That is a fact,” Mairon replied.  Holding the steaming beaker with the tongs, he approached and the elf shrank back from him. But Mairon went to the high table and poured a portion of the brew into the cups. Then he added wine to the mixture causing it to froth. “This is a mulled wine of sorts. I wish you to drink it with me.” He handed one of the cups to the elf, who eyed it dubiously.

“What’s in it?”

“It will calm your spirit, so that we may talk better.”

“What do we have to talk about?

“I have a task for you, Fingaer.”

The elf laughed dryly. “No doubt one that I cannot refuse. How do I know this brew won’t poison me?

“I shall drink it too. You cannot refuse a toast.” Mairon clicked his cup to Fingaer’s and then took a swallow. The taste was bitter. “Come, was the wine so terrible?”

“I have no reason to trust anything you say,” the elf replied.

“No, you do not, but then I have all the power here and no reason to lie. So hear truth now. If you drink it, I shall set you free from your dark prison.”

The elf blinked. He suddenly rose, took two steps, and set the cup down abruptly on the table. “I have finally gone mad,” he said softly, “and no longer have the ability to tell dreaming from waking. Since that is the case and this dream is most unpleasant, I shall take my leave now and leap from the walls. Perhaps I’ll learn to fly before I’m dashed on the rocks.” He began to stride from the room.

“Delusional,” the Ring said.

“What was that?” The elf whirled about. His eyes were shifting towards the whites, like those of a frightened deer.

“My dear Fingaer.” Mairon moved towards the hapless creature, slowly twisting the Ring about his finger. “You hear the voice of my Ring, nothing more. I owe your family a debt of gratitude as your father helped me in the researches and experiments that created it. I infused into it great power that enables it to see the desire in the hearts of others. It can show you the path to that desire.”

He held up his hand, palm outward, and the Ring suddenly blazed forth in a searing light. Dolgu cried out and flung his arm across his eyes. The elf stood still, stricken as a bird staring at a snake. The light was reflected in his eyes until they appeared to glow golden. “Drink,” Mairon commanded. He reached over and handed Fingaer the cup. Slowly, the elf raised it to his lips and downed the contents.

“Good,” Mairon said. Already he could feel himself leaving his body in a kind of blurred softness, a curious double sensation. The potion burned in his gut as he began the series of incantations, his voice rising in power until it reverberated about the room. The sorcery was possessing him, sending tendrils of intention towards the elf, as potent as sex.

“What is happening to me?” the elf cried. He ran a hand over his face, then turned glazed eyes on Mairon. “What have you done?”

“Keeping my promise, Noldo. I am setting you free.”

“Betrayer!  You never kept a promise in your life without twisting your words to suit your purpose. Is this to be my death then? Because I told you that I would welcome it. My fae shall fly to Mandos where I will be reunited with my family and my beloved. That is my desire, quite simply, and it doesn’t take your Ring to figure it out.”

Defiant to the end. It was both admirable and annoying.

Slowly Mairon approached the elf. “I think it only fair to explain what will happen,” he said. “You, my darling Fingaer, are being given a great honor, though I doubt you have the wit to appreciate it. Here is your destiny, the reason for your long incarceration. Your body shall become the new vessel to host my spirit. Unfortunately, my source is not explicit about what happens to the donor fëa in this procedure. Is it released to fly to Mandos, as you say, or does it remain trapped within the hröa as long as the flesh lasts? I myself do not know the answer to this. But keeping my promises is a point of honor with me. You are hereby freed from your cell in Barad-dûr, forever. Together, we shall leave this place and do great deeds, such as the harpers sing of.”

“No,” Fingaer cried, his voice breaking. He stumbled backwards and the blanket slipped from his shoulders. “I wish to awaken now from this foulest of dreams. Please . . .”

Mairon could feel his gums itch as the fangs erupted. The blood-lust roared through him; he sensed his prey’s heartbeat and inhaled his fear. Seizing the struggling creature in his arms, he pulled him close and whispered into his ear, “You are perfect for this task, my love. Be easy now. You need not be afraid. They tell me this will feel . . . most pleasurable.”

-tbc-

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Chapter End Notes

*fëa and hröa (Quenya) fëa means ‘soul’ or ‘spirit,’ and hröa means ‘body.’  The equivalent terms in Sindarin are fae and rhaw.  Fae is both singular and plural.
 *glamog (Sindarin) orc.
*gûren (Sindarin) my.
*pushdug ilid (Black Speech and fanon) ‘dung-filth elf.’ Ilid is a fanon term, not canon. Pushdug means dungfilth in Black Speech (but probably a debased form).
*Vanima, ithil a giliath nîn - Beautiful one, my moon and stars.  Vanima is Quenya.  The rest is Sindarin.  I use the Quenya with the idea that certain words, particularly endearments, might be hold-overs from the previous language, particularly for elves of Noldorin descent.   
*Sauron’s guise as a vampire is canon.