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

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Chapter 16 - Of Kisses and Jellied Eels

Chapter Summary: Tigôn’s confusion increases when the alluring Sûla kisses him; meanwhile Annatar pokes up the bees during a banquet.

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As Tigôn filed his way through a veritable warren of servants' passageways in his search for the elusive Sûla, his thoughts were all a jumble. What was he going to say to his former friend? I’m sorry, Sûla, for being an insensitive prick. No, surely not that. Sûla, where did you really learn black magic because I don’t believe the Haradrim taught you. Not a good tact either. Why am I having dreams about kissing you, Sûla? Crap, crap, crap! He wished he was one thousand leagues away from here.

He took a wrong turn and ended up in the kitchens, which were a hive of activity. Cooks turned spits of sizzling sea bass, game birds, and an entire ox; others pulled arm-waving crabs and writhing eels from cold water tanks and dropped them with hisses of steam into huge copper pots. They garnished platters and rushed about with baskets heaped with fresh-baked breads. The plethora of fine smells made Tigôn’s mouth water. He hadn’t eaten anything since a bowl of porridge that morning.

A man wearing a purple-splotched apron emerged from a cellar carrying a large wine cask on his shoulder. “Who in bloody thunder are you?” he demanded.

“Ar-Pharazôn’s messenger. I’m looking for the musicians,” Tigôn said.

“Well, you’re quite out of the way here,” the man said. “They like to practice in the solarium. He tilted his head. “Go through there, up the stairs, take a right, then a left, and you’ll find them. Maybe.” He grinned.

“Oof,” Tigôn exclaimed when a cook carrying a sack of flour ran smack into him.

“Get outta here, Númenórean,” the man grunted. Brushing flour from his jacket, Tigôn hastily retreated.

He followed the directions as best he could, taking several wrong turns before he heard a tap-tap of drums and a breathy wail of flutes. He followed the echoing sound to its source and then peered around a colonnaded arch into a large room edged with hundreds of potted trees arranged in rows around a fountain and lit by hanging lanterns that cast flickering shadows. Ah, found him.

Sûla was dancing. He was at the center of a group of musicians: four drummers seated on steps around the fountain and three young men playing flutes. Six beautiful dark-haired women wearing tight bodices and long, flowing skirts danced around him in swooping circles. But it was Sûla who commanded Tigôn’s attention. He had never seen his friend in a dance costume before and he was a sight worth looking at.

Sûla wore a sleeveless top of fine metal mesh that stopped short of his navel. The shirt was loosely cut, shimmering as he moved. Black silk trousers rode low on his slender hips, displaying his flat belly and the sinuous curves of his loins. A long red scarf was tied about his hips, its fringed ends dusting the floor and then whirling and fluttering after him. Gold wrist guards and the curling dragon adorned his arms and an elaborate filigree circlet fitted with a single garnet rested upon his brow. Heavy earrings peeked from his rippling black hair that flowed loose about his shoulders. His face was painted more heavily than normal: black kohl lined his eyes, a rosy golden tint brought out his cheekbones, and his upturned mouth was painted red as a ripe fruit.

He danced in the Umbarian style, which meant much expressive gesturing with his hands and an angular bend to his wrists, elbows, knees. Barefoot, his feet made a slap-slap sound on the tile flooring; tiny bells about his ankles jingled as he spun and undulated to the beat. He was quite simply breath-taking and Tigôn could not stop staring.

Sûla looked up, halted in mid-stride, and staggered slightly as if unbalanced. Tigôn watched as emotions chased themselves across his face, a hopeful rise of the eyebrows, replaced by a petulant frown. The musicians ceased playing and all in the solarium looked at Tigôn. He felt his face bloom with heat. Some of the women tittered behind graceful hands. Tigôn realized his mouth was open and shut it. A woman murmured something and Sûla smiled. Then they were speaking rapidly in Umbarian with much gesturing and Tigôn remembered that these were Sûla’s own people. No wonder the zirâmîki seemed to fit in here.

“Well, what do you want, messenger?” Sûla called. Striding forward, he came near enough that Tigôn could smell the hot citrusy scent of him.

“Um,” Tigôn faltered, although he couldn’t take his eyes from that lithe body. Sûla's chest rose and fell heavily from the exercise. A sparse line of fine dark hair began just under his tightly coiled navel and trailed downward, disappearing into the waistband of the low-riding trousers. Embarrassed, Tigôn quickly looked back at Sûla’s face.

Sûla put his hands on his hips and laughed. “It’s rare to find a King’s messenger tongue-tied. As I recall, you were not at a loss for words last time we met.”

“No. It’s just that . . . I didn’t expect you to look like . . . you do.”

“Good or bad?” Sûla said, seemingly amused.

“Um,” Tigôn said again, feeling like a complete dolt. He straightened up. “The King commands . . . ,” he began.

Sûla came closer, stretched out a hand and swiped a finger across Tigôn’s cheek. “You have something white here,” he said.

“Do I?” Tigôn replied. “It must be the flour.”

“Flour? Were you kissing a cook, my friend?”

“No, I ran into . . . it matters not,” Tigôn said, wiping his face as best he could with the heel of his hand. The feeling of Sûla’s touch lingered almost like a burn. “What I’m trying to say, Sûla . . .”

Turning to face the others, Sûla said loudly. “This is Tigôn, hero of the battle at Arzog’s Pass. He says he prefers women, so please bid him welcome.”

Next thing Tigôn knew, he was surrounded by the pretty dancers, all softly speaking words of welcome. A fox-eyed woman with a sharp chin reached up to touch his curly hair, and laughing, said something to Sûla.

“They don’t see blonds too often,” Sûla said. “She says your hair looks like flax.”

Completely flustered now, Tigôn stepped back. “My pardon,” he said to the women, and gave a little bow, “but I’m here on an urgent matter. Sûla, the King commands you to appear at the banquet and I’ve lost time trying to find you. We should go at once.”

Sûla frowned. “I figured he’d be at Council half the evening.”

“They finished fairly quickly,” Tigôn said.

“Then I guess we should not keep the Great King waiting,” Sûla replied. He spoke to the musicians, who began gathering up their drums, then he gestured at Tigôn. “Well, lead on, messenger.”

Tigôn cleared his throat. “I’m afraid someone else will need to do that. I have no idea how to get to the banquet hall.”

The musicians were already moving past him, talking and laughing. The women followed. The one who’d touched Tigôn’s hair gave him a sly smile over her shoulder, then she was out the door. Tigôn felt himself blushing.

“I think Lillu likes you,” Sûla said as he and Tigôn followed the group down the hall. “That could turn into a good time for you. These women are the Regent’s zirâmîthin, his courtesans.”

“Oh,” Tigôn said. “Then, I doubt the Regent would take kindly to her . . . um, showing me a good time.”

“He loans them out sometimes to guests, so Lillu told me.”

“Really? How loathsome,” Tigôn declared.

Sûla arched an eyebrow. “Oh no, they prefer it to sleeping with the Regent, who is said to have terrible body odor and a penchant for inflicting pain. A most unpleasant combination. A handsome mîki like you would be a treat for them.” Tigôn scowled and Sûla chuckled. Then he spoke more softly behind his hand. “I’m a little worried since they said Rabêlozar also likes boys. See the two flute players there? They’re his zirâmîkin. And one of them overheard the Regent praising my looks.” Sûla chewed on his lower lip.

Tigôn was aghast. “The King wouldn’t loan you out. Not you. You’re his favorite.”

“The King’s fancies don’t stay with one zirâmîki too long, so I’ve heard. I’ve been lucky so far. But I expect it’s a matter of time until he tires of me and throws me out on my arse.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Tigôn said. “Not especially after he sees you dancing.”

Sûla sighed. “You don’t seem to understand what being a slave means, Tigôn. My body belongs to my masters to use as they will. So, if he decides to gift me to the Regent . . . .” Sûla shrugged.

“I don’t have to like it, do I?” Tigôn said.

“Your feelings have little to do with the way things are,” Sûla replied. “I’d thought you learned that by now.” Then a smile flickered across his face. “Did you like my dancing, truly?”

Tigôn nodded. “It was fantastic. I am impressed.”

“Mmm, well perhaps if the King agrees with you, I can keep my position for a while,” Sûla replied. There was a long awkward pause as they walked. Then unexpectedly Sûla said, “So, what would you say to a little tryst?”

Startled, Tigôn glanced over at him, striding along all silk and metal, his trousers making a soft swishing sound, his mesh shirt chinking slightly. “Um,” Tigôn said.

Sûla laughed. “A tryst with Lillu. What did you think I meant?”

Tigôn felt his temper flare. “Do you purposefully do that? Or is it just your nature?”

“Do what?”

“You know what I mean. You bait me. You’ve been doing it since we first met.”

Sûla stopped. The others had gone on ahead and it was just the two of them in the hall. Sûla’s eyes flashed and suddenly he shoved Tigôn up against the wall, pressing their bodies close together. “Do you think I want a piece of you? A spoiled lordling who can’t even thank me for saving his life because he has such contempt for a zirâmîki?”

“That’s not it at all. Get off of me!” Tigôn said in a panic. By Mandos, he hoped that Sûla had not detected his unfortunate and embarrassing response. He gave Sûla a shove but the zirâmîki’s metal shirt stung his hand and Sûla simply shoved back. Tigôn’s shoulders connected sharply with the wall. “When will you learn that I don’t want you,” Tigôn said tightly and for a moment they glared at each other. One of Sûla’s golden earrings winked as it hung from his lobe, trembling in the torchlight.

“Ha,” Sûla said, rocking his hips against Tigôn. “Your mouth says one thing and your body another.” Tigôn could feel the hard ridge at Sûla’s groin pressing against his own through the thin layers of cloth. Sûla shifted his hips again and fire jolted upward from Tigôn’s loins.

“Get off or I will punch you,” Tigôn growled.

“I don’t think you really mean that, messenger,” Sûla said. “Seems like you’ve got some interest down there.” Putting his elbows to either side of Tigôn’s neck, Sûla sank his fingers into Tigôn’s curls, massaging along his scalp.

“We’ll be late and the King will be displeased,” Tigôn choked. Powerful sensations coursed through him and despite his words, he felt himself relaxing into Sûla’s embrace.

“Are you sure you don’t want me?” Sûla asked, softly. “I could make it feel quite good, pretty boy. It’s my profession after all. Tell me what you’re feeling now.” Again he rocked his hips, more gently this time.

“What I’m feeling? I don’t know . . .” Tigôn hesitated, watching Sûla’s wickedly red-tinted mouth. Sûla took Tigôn’s face in his hands; then his head tilted and his lips parted. Closing his eyes, Tigôn moaned softly in surrender. He felt Sûla’s mouth touch his. So warm and strong, gently at first, then increasing in urgency as those lips took his again and yet again, now opening a little wider, sinking deep, drawing Tigôn’s mouth along, nearly against his will. This was nothing like kissing his cousin where he had all the control. This was masterful, possessive . . . and familiar. Tigôn had felt this in his dream. His heart drummed a dance throughout his body. He put his hands on the warm bare skin of Sûla’s back, although whether embracing him or pushing him away, Tigôn could not have said.

“There,” Sûla said, pulling back, still gently holding Tigôn’s face. His mouth quirked with amusement. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you. So, I’ll consider that your thanks to me for saving your life. Don’t worry lordling, you need never do it again.” He ran a thumb over Tigôn’s lips. “Better get rid of the paint. We can’t have you resembling a whore, can we.” He gave Tigôn a look that seemed like it was meant to be a smirk, but instead looked strangely sad. Then he set off down the hall. The twin ridges of his lower back muscles flexed as he walked, the top curve of his buttocks just visible above the silk trousers, his ankle bracelets jingling ever so faintly. Tigôn stared after him, his whole body aflame.

********
Pharazôn sat in a large chair at the head of a long table, resting after the course of jellied eels. To his right, he heard the Regent expounding on the virtues of the next course which he promised would be a spiced bass stuffed with crab. He heard the musical clink of cutlery on plates and voices engaged in many conversations. The room was pleasant. On the wall opposite there was a brilliantly colored painting of fishermen raising nets into a boat; behind him blazed a brazier of coals. In the background, a musician played a lyre.

It was a relatively private dinner for the King and key members of his entourage. Two dozen men all told. Most of his Counselors were here. Among them were his old friend Aphanuzîr and his charming and diplomatic son Nimruzîr; Izindor and his two odious sons; and Ikar-lak, Manwë’s head priest, who sat toward the end of the table next to three more of the Bawîba Manô. The priests wore their feathered and beaked headdresses even at meat and Pharazôn had the distinct impression of a group of vultures waiting patiently for him to die. Fortunately, the priests took a vow of silence during meals with outsiders, which was the only thing that would save Pharazôn the bother of throwing them out at some point for being insufferable pricks. To his left sat Annatar, resplendent in his black silk that contrasted nicely with the fiery hair worn loose. A string of black onyx beads were plaited into the braids over his ears. Azgarad, the steward, was notably absent, having gone back into the city to attend to matters.

Already Pharazôn felt the beaming ease engendered by good food and wine and was working diligently on getting soused. The Regent kept a fine larder, doubly appreciated after weeks of eating campaign food. He reached for a pickled quail’s egg, musing that a table was useful for holding the many plates and platters filled with delicacies, but he missed the dining couches from his palace that came equipped with a lithe young body to feed and stroke him. It made meals so much more enjoyable. For the most part, this meal, for all its fine food, had lacked sensuality and interesting conversation.

Pharazôn pressed a napkin to his lips to catch an eel-flavored belch and reflected that he had reason to celebrate. Things were going better now than he ever remembered during his reign. What an ally he had in the Zigûr! Even Azgarad had seemed duly impressed. Annatar possessed a keen mind, knowledge of war engines and tactics, not to mention the elixir of youth that would make Pharazôn exceedingly rich once he forced the secret from him. Who knew what other magic he possessed? All of this knowledge he now controlled as long as Annatar was his captive. He stole a glance at the sorcerer, admiring his exotic elvish features, the long limbs, elegant white neck and the silky red hair that Annatar was now pushing back over his shoulders. Capturing him was a brilliant move on his part, one that would surely change Númenor’s fortunes for the better.

Drinking resolutely, Rabêlozar the Regent sat to the King’s right. Pharazôn turned to speak to him and caught a whiff of something unpleasant. Wrinkling his nose, the King decided that he would have to gift Rabêlozar with a crate of perfume. It had the advantage of being both a rich present and at the same time somewhat insulting. The Regent’s time would soon come. Azgarad was making inquiries concerning the taxes Rabêlozar collected for Númenor. There had been discrepancies.

“You keep a most sumptuous table,” Pharazôn said to the Regent.

“I am pleased you are enjoying the viands, my Lord,” Rabêlozar said, all three chins wobbling with sincerity. “Just wait until they bring out the sweets. I have a cook who has made them a specialty.”

“I can see that,” Pharazôn remarked amiably. He lifted his empty wine cup to be refilled and when a servant didn’t immediately appear, he wondered where Sûla was. Ah yes, he’d sent him off to prepare with the musicians. Pharazôn smiled at that. The Umbarian court was in for a treat when his favorite zirâmîki danced, but right now he missed Sûla’s attentive service. Perhaps he should have called him back sooner so Sûla could wait on him before the performance. In truth, a kiss from those lovely lips would be most welcome right about now. All the better if it troubled Ikar-lak’s sensibilities. Where were the dancers anyhow? He’d sent Tigôn after them more than an hour ago.

Absently, the King fingered the gold thread in his sleeve. He rather regretted the necessity of what he needed to do, but no slave should get so far above his station that he could ignore his sovereign’s orders. Sûla had become too close to the royal ear and Pharazôn knew there was talk about it. Earlier that evening he’d conceived an idea that would spear three fish with one thrust. It would punish Sûla for his disobedience in a way that would not damage his worth but still show the court that he did not receive favored treatment; it would smooth Rabêlozar’s ruffled feathers at having to entertain the whole Númenórean army; and free his own bed for the night without anyone suspecting his motives. Pharazôn had a suspicion that his Counselors would not appreciate what he had planned, particularly Aphanuzîr, who was becoming more critical all the time. For a moment he admired his own cleverness. He would surpass his father in greatness. Surely, he rivaled even the Zigûr, who sat so docilely at his side.

Annatar had closed his eyes to savor a slice of cheese. As if sensing the King’s gaze, those eyes opened, the pupils slitted in the bright torchlight. He smiled prettily at Pharazôn. A pointed tongue darted over that sumptuous mouth. Pharazôn imagined it flicking over certain parts of his anatomy and suddenly there was no need for the padding in his crotch. The images and sensations from the time he’d so roughly taken Annatar blazed up in his thoughts, tantalizing him again. Such thoughts seemed to appear at the oddest moments. He reached down to adjust himself and swore he could hear a low chuckle from the sorcerer. The King raised his cup again. “Where is the wine?” he growled.

Rabêlozar’s bushy eyebrows drew together in a frown. He snapped his fingers and a young woman carrying a jug hastened from the far end of the table to fill the King’s golden goblet.

“My cupbearer is far more attentive than this,” Pharazôn commented.

“Would you like her flogged, my Lord?” Rabêlozar said, rubbing his dimpled hands together.

The woman paled and then bowed low. “I humbly beg pardon, your Highness,” she said in accented Adûnaic.

As Annatar freed another small round of cheese from its red wax coating, he remarked, “I find flogging excellent incentive among my own slaves, but it shouldn’t be undertaken for trivial reasons. Like any good sycophant, the Regent seems rather eager to please you, my Lord.”

Rabêlozar looked most annoyed at this assessment.

“It’s not necessary to flog her,” Pharazôn said good-humoredly. He waved the woman off. “I was just missing my zirâmîki, Sûla.”

“A most talented servant,” Annatar agreed, stroking his finger along his chin. “Umbarian, isn't he? He has the coloring.”

“Oh yes, that one,” Rabêlozar said. “I noticed him right away in your entourage. Lovely boy to be sure. A good servant, you say? Is he as attentive in the bedroom?”

“Better,” Pharazôn replied. “Tight as a knothole and a mouth sweet as honey.”

There was a muffled choke and a clanging sound of a metal cup being knocked over. Pharazôn looked up in surprise and met Ikar-lak’s glare. The two dozen dinner guests fell silent as a servant rushed in to mop up the spill. By Ossë’s balls but the priests were a prudish lot! Pharazôn deliberately set down his cup. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard a man praising the skill of a servant before, Ikar-lak, especially since you have a few of your own.” Pharazôn let the innuendo hang there.

The priest worked his mouth as if tempted to speak, but he did not. Instead, he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if brushing the topic aside.

Pharazôn heard a strange noise like a congested mule trying to bray. Snock, snock, snock. It was that weird, half-wit son of Izindor snickering at something his brutish brother Dulginzin was whispering behind his hand.

“It appears someone has a private joke,” Annatar said in his dulcet tones that nevertheless carried. He popped a piece of cheese into his mouth.

“Pray, share it with us,” Pharazôn called. “I could use a laugh.”

Izindor looked up abruptly. “My sons’ sense of humor does not appeal to everyone.”

“Let me be the judge of it,” the King replied. He was disliking Izindor and his sons more than usual this evening.

“My Lord,” Dulginzin said, straightening up, “we were just agreeing with the Regent’s opinion of your cupbearer. His looks, I mean. I wouldn’t know how tight his knothole was.”

The half-wit with the wall-eye snickered again. What was his name? Mirandor. That was it.

“Tread carefully,” the King warned. “You’re talking about my personal servant.”

“Indeed yes, my apologies,” said Dulginzin. He stood unsteadily and raised his own wine vessel. “To the King’s Umbarian zîrâmiki and his fine . . . knothole. May all the Umbarians give as good service . . . .”

“Dulginzin,” his father interrupted sharply, “perhaps you’d like to recount the tale of how you slew a score of Haradrim during the battle.”

“Oh, with pleasure, Father,” Dulginzin said. Puffing out his bronze-plated chest he began a drunken retelling of his heroic smiting and slaying with much gesturing and repetition that soon had Pharazôn’s eyes glazing over. How many times could the man say, ‘And then I thrust my sword through his craven heart’? Dulginzin ended with, “Our most generous King gifted me with a . . . gift of my own choosing. So, my Lord, I’m thinking about what would be most suitable. Perhaps some well-trained slaves? Ones with mouths sweet as honey.”

“Allowing a gift of one’s choosing was a most generous offer,” Rabêlozar said.

Pharazôn nodded. “Rewarding good service keeps men loyal. One of the few worthwhile things I learned from my uncle, Tar-Palantir, along with the importance of honoring promises. It was my father who taught me that punishing poor service is equally as important for maintaining discipline. And I do honor my promises–within reason.” He narrowed his eyes at Dulginzin, but the man did not seem to heed the warning.

“I’d like a warrior’s reward, perhaps a new dancing girl,” Dulginzin said.

Izindor scowled at his son. “You have no need for another dancing girl, Dulgi.”

“You have several days to make up your mind,” Pharazôn said.  “Choose wisely.”

“Lord Izindor, your son seems to have a considerable appetite,” Annatar purred. “Let us hope desire does not cause poor judgement.”

“I would agree with you, Annatar,” Rabêlozar said. “All things in moderation.”

“Mmm, yes, as you demonstrate yourself when you sit down to table,” Annatar returned.

Rabêlozar’s jowls shook in indignation. Dulginzin chortled.

“Speaking of dancing girls,” Izindor said, “we have heard rumors of the skill of the Regent’s dancers and were looking forward to seeing them perform. So, tell me Lord Annatar, do you indulge in zirâmîthin or are zirâmîkin more to your taste?”

“Neither,” said Annatar. “I did not have time for frivolity in Barad-dûr, or in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and most certainly not in Angband.”

Pharazôn noticed a visible shiver go through several of the guests at the bold reminder of Annatar’s past. Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr simultaneously ceased chewing. But Ikar-lak nodded agreement. Pharazôn was becoming tired of the implied criticism.

“Relaxation and contemplation of beauty are not frivolous pastimes,” Pharazôn humphed. “I find watching beautiful dancers during the evening meal enables the mind to engage more fully with one’s duties in the morning. You might well have done the same to good effect, Annatar.”

“I assure you,” Annatar replied, “watching my orcs leaping about wearing tiny costumes would neither be relaxing nor aesthetically pleasing.”

There was a muffled explosion of tittering around the table and again that obnoxious snuffling laugh. Izindor’s arm moved suddenly under the table. Mirandor jumped and his mouth formed a silent O. Pharazôn chuckled.

“And the elves in Ost-in-Edhil, did they not dance . . . before you destroyed them?” Aphanuzîr said, thumping his cup down.

Annatar’s reaction was unexpected.  He actually blanched and lowered his eyes, staring at his right hand. He ran a thumb across the base of his middle finger. “They did dance and beautifully,” he said. “But not for me.”

Pharazôn was riveted. How curious. Was this some kind of weakness that he could exploit?

For a moment Annatar seemed unfocused, lost in contemplation, then the sly expression returned. He leaned forward to look past the King at the Regent. “So Rabêlozar,” he said creamily, “as I was hauled so painfully across town earlier in the day, I noticed your new temple to Zizzûn near the main square. I am wondering how you managed to find the funds to decorate the dome in gold leaf?”

“There’s a temple to Zizzûn?” Ikar-lak asked in a sharp tone, breaking his mealtime vow of silence. “That is a peasant god, not the choice for a Númenórean outpost! A shrine to Manwë would be more seemly.”

“You used gold leaf!” Pharazôn spluttered.

“We, ah, had a most generous donor, my Lord,” Rabêlozar replied, his forehead glistening in the lamplight. “It’s all accounted for in the books. Ah, here come the dancers, and the next course as well. Perhaps we should talk about this at a more convenient time?” He mopped his forehead with a napkin.

There was a flurry of movement and a quiet slap of feet on the mosaic floors as the bare-chested male musicians carrying their instruments and the female dancers in their colorful flaring skirts swirled into the room. Last came Sûla, scantily dressed and heavily painted. Oh thunder and lightning he looked delicious! Pharazôn wondered if he should rethink his plan. His page, Tigôn, followed and stood off to the side, hands behind his back.

Pharazôn turned back to the priest. “I agree; this is not the time, Ikar-lak. Day after tomorrow we will take this up in Council. Does that suit your Holiness?”

The priest rose suddenly, throwing his napkin down. “Pray, excuse us, Ar-Pharazôn. We have devotions to perform at this hour and portents to check. Staying to watch this,” his voice dripped with disdain, “is not in keeping with the pure thoughts required for our order.”

“Well, I would not want anything to sully the purity of your thoughts,” Pharazôn replied. “I wonder how you avoid them when you’re with your mistress.”

Ikar-lak’s jaw worked. He bowed and he and the three other priests left the table, striding off in a feather-robed procession of disapproval. Vultures indeed, Pharazôn thought. The priests were becoming much too haughty and had too much power. It was time he did something about it.

Annatar leaned over and said, “Eagles eat carrion, you know. I’ve seen it many a time.”

Pharazôn had a brief vision of Ikar-lak perched on the edge of a cliff, his clawed feet tearing a maggoty lamb in half.

* * * *

His body still humming from the kiss, Tigôn trailed some distance behind Sûla and the other performers as they threaded through the corridors. His tongue sought the zirâmîki’s lingering taste in his mouth, a combination of olives and sweet wine. Why had Sûla done that? What did it mean? Was Sûla enamored of him or just playing games? He felt intrigued and panicked all at once. He could still feel the weight of Sûla’s fragrant body against his, the pressure of his hips. Sûla glanced back at him once or twice, a question in his eyes, but Tigôn ignored him. He needed time to sort things out for himself. Best to stay away and not risk inflaming the situation further. It would have been better if their relationship had remained the way it was when he and Sûla played bones and traded innuendo at night in the King’s tent. That was innocent flirting. This had gone beyond that. But now Sûla’s taste teased Tigôn’s mouth and he didn’t think he would soon get over it.

When Tigôn entered the banquet hall, he had a sense that all was not well. The atmosphere was positively prickling as the Bawîba Manô priests and the King glared at each other from opposite ends of the table. The other courtiers shifted uncomfortably. The only one that seemed unperturbed was the Zigûr, who sat next to the King as tall and serene as a well-fed cat on a stool. There was some exchange that Tigôn barely heard, then Manwë’s priests rose as one and stalked out, passing him as if he were a shadow. There seemed a collective sigh of relief once they left. What in Arda had happened?

The rest of the guests turned expectantly towards the dancers who had arranged themselves decorously in a semi-circle near the tables. Sûla bowed low before the King, whose glower changed to a sudden pleased smile as he looked over his pretty slave. Perhaps Sûla's fears about being sent off to the Regent’s bed were unfounded. Although the Regent’s expression was decidedly greedy.

Rabêlozar stood. He was short but broad of shoulder and even broader of belly. “Come closer, all of you,” he called to the performers, “and allow me to present you to his Majesty Ar-Pharazôn, the mighty King of Númenor and to members of his court. They have been looking forward to your performance, so make sure you entertain them well.”

The musicians and dancers all bowed low. Sûla went down on one knee. “As you command.”

“You look magnificent,” the King said softly to Sûla. Tigôn could barely hear him. The King raised his eyes, “all of you.”

“Don’t they,” Rabêlozar said. “They are the best in Umbar.” He introduced each performer, who bowed. The drummers tapped their drums when they were introduced and the flute players sounded a breathy note. “And tonight we are most pleased,” the Regent continued, “to have a guest performer, an Umbarian by birth, who has risen to a place of status as entertainer to the King, signifying the close ties our peoples have with one another.”

“Are we all buggering the Umbarians, then,” one of the Counselors sitting near Tigôn whispered behind his hand.

The Regent’s eyes flicked over Sûla. “We look forward to your performance.”

“I will do my best to please you.” Sûla inclined his head, his kohl-rimmed eyes lively.

Tigôn stood off to the side, feeling unwanted and out of place. The wonderful sight and smell of so much food was making his stomach growl. The King had said he was invited to the feast but he did not want to presume. He pressed a forearm against his stomach to stop the embarrassing noise and Lord Elendil looked over at him. He murmured something to the King.

“Ah yes. Tigôn.” The King wrenched his gaze away from Sûla and beckoned. “So, you finally brought the entertainment. It took long enough that I thought you must have gone to Harad to fetch them.” There were some chuckles.

Tigôn bowed. “They nearly were in Harad, my Lord, or so it seemed. But I persevered and here they are.”

“Well done,” said the King, clearly in a good mood. “Come join us, Tigôn.” He gestured at the servants. “Go now, get my page some food and drink. He earned it in the battle.”

A servant pulled a chair near the end of the table and Tigôn settled himself, mouthing ‘thank you’ at Elendil, who dipped his dark head courteously. It seemed that Elendil was looking out for him. ‘We Elendili need to come together now,’ Elendil had said to him when he’d asked Tigôn to spy on Annatar and the King. Tigôn felt ashamed that he had reported less than he could have about his conversations with Sûla. But he felt torn. More and more, he found that he did not want to pass on confidences that Sûla had shared with him. It felt like betrayal. But either way he was betraying someone. He signed. Politics was not a game he enjoyed playing. Rather too quickly, he downed the glass of sweet red wine that was offered him, then tucked into the full plate of delicious food, including a large fish with a creamy crab and bread stuffing. Its flavor burst like poetry onto his tongue, reminding him of the cooking at his parents’ house in Eldalondë. He felt a wave of homesickness. How he longed for his father’s gruff voice and for his siblings’ teasing. He had been gone far too long.

From where he sat at the table, he had a good view of the musicians opposite him as they arrayed themselves along the curving lines of a floor mosaic. The dancers froze into position in various poses and waited. A well-muscled man with a short beard rapped out a rhythm on a large drum clasped between his knees and then the rest joined in. The sound was vibrant, exciting, and Tigôn found himself tapping his foot, while he continued eating and drinking as if there would be no more tomorrow. Many other members of the King’s entourage relaxed into the beat, some slapping hands on their thighs. Ar-Pharazôn nodded at the Regent, who smiled back at him, all pink gums.

The outer ring of women dancers began to move, undulating, grabbing their skirts and whirling them about, the colors red, blue, yellow with little mirrors sewn in the fabric that reflected the light of the lanterns overhead. They were all dark-haired, dark-eyed, with the golden skin and strong features of the Umbarians. They held their arms bent at an angle and then moved them fluidly, like ripples on a pond. As Lillu passed, her eye caught Tigôn’s and she winked. Tigôn found himself blushing again. All the while, Sûla remained frozen in place, arms at his sides, looking down at the floor. The rhythm increased and then the flutes joined in, playing in breathy harmony. The drummers looked at each other, laughing and enjoying themselves. Then suddenly they all stopped and so did the dancers, who turned towards Sûla at the center of the circle.

As the drums began again, slowly Sûla began to move. First one arm, then the other. He sank down into a deep crouch, then his whole body undulated upwards. The way he moved was riveting; Tigôn found it impossible to look away. Stepping out as if stalking, Sûla came towards the women and danced with each in turn, palm to palm. They pushed towards each other and pulled away, looking in opposite directions and then the line shifted and Sûla went to the next one. The drumming increased, as did their speed. Then Sûla took Lillu by the hands and together they danced, laughing and flirting with each other. This went on for quite a while, back and forth over the floor. Finally, Sûla looked over at the audience. Both he and Lillu came towards the King. She danced at one end of the table and Sûla on the other. Standing squarely in front of Ar-Pharazôn, Sûla danced even more provocatively, moving his hips, rocking side to side, running his hands over his chest as he threw his head back, his eyes half-lidded, his face a picture of ecstasy. Then he leaned across the table, wetting his lips with his tongue and looking boldly at the King. Ar-Pharazôn reached out and palmed the back of his head, pulling him into a scorching kiss before finally letting him go.

Embarrassed, Tigôn thought that if the priests hadn’t left before, they certainly would have now. This was not the King's private banquet hall at Armenelos. He wondered if Sûla liked sleeping with the King or if it was all an act. If so, he was certainly good at it. A worm of jealousy crawled into his heart. Next to the King, the Regent’s face was aglow with greed as he avidly watched the kiss. Annatar looked on in sly amusement, seemingly detached. Amandil and Elendil seemed tense. Sûla moved down the row of courtiers, smiling, flirting with his eyes as he slowly rotated, moving his head, shoulders, arms, legs and hips to the rhythm in a way that was beyond enticing. The ankle bracelets shivered their silver sounds. As he passed Izindor and Dulginzin, Sûla seemed to miss a beat for a moment, then tilting his head arrogantly, passed by them, turning to the guests on the other side of the table. Dulginzin’s face darkened and suddenly Tigôn was afraid for his friend.

As Sûla continued his dance, Tigôn could feel the throb of interest between his legs. His face blushed hot. Perhaps Sûla was working his black magic on all of them? How else would he be so affected? Maybe it was the beautiful Lillu or the thrilling music making him feel like this. Helped by three cups of wine, Tigôn reflected that life at court wasn't so bad, really. Lillu paused before Elendil and ran her hand through his hair, while he blushed red. At least there were others who were discomfited.

Then Sûla was standing in front of him. His light brown eyes caught Tigôn’s and briefly held his gaze. He arched his back and for a moment his flat belly with the gorgeous curved lines was right there, almost in Tigôn’s face. What was he doing? Tigôn feared he would fall over backwards, but instead, in a graceful motion, Sûla flipped upside down, balanced on his hands, then dropped back to his feet. There was laughter and applause. He glanced sidelong at Tigôn and then turned his bright smile on the courtier to his left. It was a relief when Sûla and Lillu danced back to the rest of the group, who had been continuing their part of the performance unnoticed. Tigôn looked around, hoping no one thought the brief moment of attention Sûla had paid him could be taken for anything more than part of his dance. He caught Elendil looking at him thoughtfully and Tigôn lifted a forkful of fish as if to say that food had been the only thing he was interested in. Then he noticed Annatar’s yellow eyes fixed on him with a sudden interest that made him uneasy.

“Oh look,” he heard the counselor next to him exclaim. Sûla was engaged in a series of leaps, diving onto his hands and pushing off the floor in a beautiful arc, landing on his feet and immediately repeating the motion like a spring, continuing his flight across the mosaic floor, the tails of his long red sash whipping and floating behind him. Finally he landed upright and stood still, arms held out towards the audience, his chest heaving under the glittering mesh shirt. Everyone spontaneously broke out in applause.

Tigôn was dumbfounded. He had no idea his friend could do something like that. After a moment, he joined in, clapping enthusiastically.

Ar-Pharazôn rose to his feet still clapping, a pleased look of ownership on his face. “Excellent,” he called. “Come and have a drink with us. All of you.” But his gaze was on Sûla.

The dancers came and bowed before the King as the servers poured out ceramic cups of wine. Rabêlozar, looking immensely relieved, urged them to come mingle with his guests. He sidled over to Sûla and complimented him on his dancing, taking every opportunity to put his hands on him. He had the servants bring a chair so that Sûla could sit at a place of honor between the Regent and the King. All the time Annatar watched the proceedings with a crafty expression.

In the midst of all this, Dulginzin stood, swaying drunkenly. “My Lord,” he announced, “You promised me a gift and I’ve decided what I want.”

“And what is that?” Ar-Pharazôn said, tearing his gaze away from his alluring zirâmîki to cast an annoyed look at Dulginzin.

“I should like you to give me Sûla.”

There was a collective gasp around the room. Izindor turned to look furiously at his foolhardy son. Sûla’s smile dropped away; his body went rigid. Tigôn had never seen his cocky friend look so panicked, even in the midst of the battle at Arzog’s Pass. What in Arda would the King do?  Tigôn sat stricken, awaiting his friend’s doom.

-tbc-

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Chapter End Notes

zirâmîth – feminine form of zirâmiki. (zirâmîthin is plural). The word is formed from canon Adûnaic meaning beloved + young girl, but is not canon. Thanks to Malinornë for help coming up with the word.
Lillu – Umbarian name, an elfscribe invention.

Thanks also to the Lizard Council, especially Russandol for help grooming the prose.