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

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Chapter 18 - Dreams of Illicit Longing

Chapter summary: Sûla endures the Lords of Arandor and then seeks out his friend, Tigôn, who has confessions to make.

 

 

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Sûla cut short a gasp. Mirandor stood over him, wearing naught but a long silk undershirt and sporting an erection level with Sûla’s face. Sûla started to speak the freezing spell, could actually feel his mouth begin forming the words, when he bethought himself. If he froze the lack-wit’s hand shut, he might not be able to pry the vial free. He didn’t want to waste time breaking the man’s fingers. Besides, broken fingers would be a difficult thing to explain. He was already in enough hot water

Mirandor’s other hand slid under the shirt, stroking reflexively. “I like to w-watch what Dulgi does.”

“Do you now?” Sûla said. Slowly he stood, his heart hammering in his chest. Careful. No wrong moves, he told himself. Putting on a smile, he said,“Would you like a taste of your brother’s pleasure? All for yourself?” He put his hand, fingers splayed, on Mirandor’s chest and then trailed it downward. “Why should you merely watch when you can feel it too?”

The strange young man flinched, eyes rolling. “N-no. He m-m-might . . . D-dulgi will n-n-ot like it.”

Sûla leaned forward as if to kiss him, then brought his knee up hard into Mirandor’s bollocks, at the same time grabbing the man’s wrist and snatching the vial from his hand. Mirandor’s breath hissed inward as he clutched his groin.

“Mirandor!” Sûla said, then the rest of the spell roared from his mouth like blue flames fanned by the wind. The man turned to stone, his face frozen in an open-mouthed rictus.

“Gods, gods!” Clutching the vial to his chest, Sûla collapsed to the floor. What was happening? The spell seemed so much stronger this time. He felt sick to his stomach, as if black bile dripped down the back of his throat. He feared to use it again.  No time for panic now. Dulginzin would come unstuck any moment. Sûla pulled the stopper from the vial with his teeth and dumped its contents in the goblet that he’d placed on the floor under the chair, all the while murmuring the spell Annatar had taught him. Then he scrambled over to the door, and flung it open. Grasping Mirandor under the arms, Sûla hauled him into the next room and laid him out on the floor, before flying back into the room. Quietly, he shut and bolted the door behind them, just as he heard a groan from the bed.

“Where did you go?” Dulginzin growled. “Ai, by Angband’s pits, my head! What just happened?”

Sûla picked up the goblet and came towards him in a swaying walk, all the while trying to still the drumming in his chest. “You said you were thirsty, my Lord.”

“That is not how I remember it. I was just about to . . .” Dulginzin put a hand to his temple.

Sûla knelt, holding up the cup. “Here, this will help your head.”

From his crouching position, Dulginzin sat back on his haunches, and then swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting with a thump. “Why did I call for a drink?”

Sûla said nothing. Dulginzin merely plucked the cup roughly from his hand, gulped it down and sighed. “Now, what were we about?” He set the cup on the floor and then, in a surprisingly swift motion, grabbed Sûla by the back of the neck, thrusting his face into his lap. “See that! You left me still wanting. Take care of it.” And so, Sûla found himself engaged in the second such servicing of the evening.

“Most marvelous,” Dulginzin groaned. “No wonder you’re the King’s favorite. What a mouth!”

Sûla imagined himself removing the source of his misery with one snap of the jaws. But the punishment did not last long.  Unlike the King, Dulginzin was quick to find his release. The beast moaned, jerked, and then emptied himself in hot pudding-like spurts. He pushed Sûla’s head down further and Sûla gagged, and flailed, unable to breathe.  He couldn’t even form the words of the spell.

Dulginzin laughed as Sûla struggled. “Too big, huh. Can’t take it all!” He flung Sûla backwards and  his rear connected sharply with the floor behind him. “Just wait until I’ve recovered, you won’t walk for a sennight.” Dulginzin passed a hand over his face. “I feel strange. Too much drink. Come warm my bed and I’ll take your arse later. Plenty of time until dawn. . . so that . . .”

Mid-sentence, he fell over on his side, landing with a bed-shaking thump.

By the gods, that took long enough. Sûla wiped his mouth with the back of a trembling hand. “There, you mangy son of a bitch! I hope you have the biggest headache of your life in the morning. Fuck you and your lout of a brother!” Dulginzin twitched but fortunately did not awaken.

Sûla stood for several long moments listening to Dulginzin’s breathing deepen. Then he went to the water basin, and washed his face and mouth out thoroughly. By Zizzûn, what he’d give for a good steambath right about now. Watching the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest, he indulged a momentary fantasy of strangling him, reveling in the slow gurgle as his breathing ceased. But he would never get away with such a thing. They would know in an instant who had done it. It would be prudent to keep a vigil there for the night, but he could not bear the thought and was seized with a fervent desire to be free of the room that still stank of his humiliation. It wasn’t possible to return to the King’s bed before the night ended. So where? With a sudden swelling of the heart, he knew where he wanted to be. With Tigôn. This might be the only time he had a chance. He had what – maybe six hours left until dawn when he needed to return here to show that he had kept the King’s bargain. And after all, Tigôn had invited him.

Moving stealthily, he gathered up his clothes, slipped them on, and then unbolted the door, pushing it open with a creak. He heard a congested breathing. Mirandor lay on the floor exactly where he’d left him, seemingly sound asleep. The servant Pâroth was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t dare try to go that way and risk waking someone. Quietly shutting the door, Sûla went back into the room, pungent with the smell of Dulginzin’s drunken breath, and opened the door to the balcony. It was quite cold outside, but the night was well lit by the waning moon. He peered over the balcony wall. It didn’t look too difficult to climb down.

* * * *

The wine jug sat mostly untouched on the table as Tigôn miserably tossed and turned within the linen sheets and heavy furs of his bed. He kept reliving Sûla forcibly pushing him up against the wall, the feel of that warm, mobile mouth on his, the zirâmîki’s scent of citrus and musk, and the sensation of his rigid flesh pressing against his own, separated by mere layers of cloth. The memory pulsed hotly through him. Taking himself in hand had barely provided relief. If only . . . he didn’t even dare finish the thought. What was happening to his friend? Would Dulginzin hurt him? Why would the King have agreed to this? It was not fair. None of it was fair. Sitting up, he shivered, and rose to poke up the embers of his fire. Outside, the wind shrieked and rattled the shutters, echoing loudly in the small room. It sounded mournful, like some kind of spirit calling his name.

There it was again! He jumped, then listened intently. By the Door of Night, it was his name being called, along with a sharp rap, rap on the door that led out to the small balcony. He paused to pull his woollen tunic over his naked body, ran over, unbolted and opened the door. There, crouched outside with his arms wrapped about himself, was Sûla, clad in his scanty dance costume. His skin seemed blue in the moonlight.

“By the thunder, what are you doing out there?” Tigôn cried.

“Freezing, you dolt. Are you going to let me in?”

“Yes, of course. Come in,” Tigôn said. “I was just poking up the fire. Come warm yourself. Here.” He ran and took up one of the furs from his bed, handing it to Sûla, then gestured at his stool by the fire. With a groan, Sûla sank down onto it.

“This vest feels like ice,” Sûla said. He unlaced one side and drew off the glittering mailshirt, folding it carefully over his arm, then setting it down on the floor. Tigôn tried not to be fascinated by the sight of Sûla’s shapely chest with the tightly puckered nipples. “It belongs to Lillu,” Sûla explained, gesturing at the shirt. “I have to give it back to her. Gods, what a night!” He drew the fur close about his shoulders.

“I’ll heat up some wine for you,” Tigôn offered.

“Wine,”  Sûla said dully.  He coughed and put a hand to his throat. “It feels as if I’ve still got some of Dulginzin’s vintage up my nose.”
 
“Do you not want any?”  Tigôn asked, staying his motions.

“Yes, just water it down a bit,” Sûla said, coughing again.

Tigon poured the remainder of the jug into a pan, added some water from his ewer, and set the pan by the coals. “Tell me what happened.”

In the flickering firelight, Tigôn could see that Sûla’s face paint had faded. He looked tired and pale with circles under his black smudged eyes. “Dulginzin is a beast, a son of a dog,” he declared with a level of loathing in his voice Tigôn had not heard from him before. Sûla shivered again.

“What’s this?” Tigôn asked, indicating Sûla’s cheek.

“He struck me. Is it visible?” Sûla touched his face and winced.

“It looks like it’ll bruise. You should bathe it in cold water.” Tigôn went to his water basin, soaked up a small wash cloth and brought it to Sûla, who held it to his cheek.

“Maybe I should let it bruise, so the King can see what the beast did,” Sûla said. “But then maybe his Majesty won’t want me if I’m marred. Truly, I want a bath so I can wash away all trace of that bastard! He had better watch out. Some day he’ll meet with an accident, if I have anything to say about it.”

“What else did he do?”

“What do you think?” Sûla laughed harshly. “Although I suppose it could have been worse. He passed out before he could do any real damage.”

“The King did not know this would be the likely outcome of lending your services to him?” Tigôn asked, horrified.

“Of course he knew,” Sûla said bitterly. “I’ve done my very best to keep the King’s interest. And yet it has been flagging of late. I don’t know what I have done wrong.”

“I doubt that you’ve done anything wrong,” Tigôn said. “From what I’ve heard, that’s how he is. His lovers are toys to him, nothing more.”

“A toy to be used, broken, and cast off,” Sûla replied, with a sniff. He wiped his nose with the cloth and then put it back to his cheek. “I’ve seen it before. The first signs that he’s losing interest. It happened to Urug, whose place I took. The King took a fancy to me and the next thing Urug knew he’d been loaned to a visiting dignitary and afterward relegated to the zirâmîkin wing of the palace, so now he only entertains the King when all of us are at a banquet. I had to be careful around him for fear he might poison me. I think it was only terror of the King that kept him from doing so. He tries to cover up his hatred, especially when we have to perform together.” Sûla shook his head. “Others have been sent to work in the kitchens or given to another lord.” He paused, taking the cloth from his shapely cheek. “That is assuredly my lot. Though, I thought . . . I thought I could keep his interest at least long enough to save some money, buy my freedom, and set myself up in business.”

“What would you sell?” Tigôn asked.

“Most probably my body. I could run a whore house,” Sûla said.

“You need not do that; there are other possibilities,” Tigôn declared.

“Well then, what else, lordling?”

“Well, you’re good at bones.” Tigôn smiled. “Too good. I’ve lost my shirt to you on several occasions.”

Sûla sniffed. “A gambling house then.”

“Maybe.” Tigôn stuck his finger in the wine. “Uh, it’s hot enough now.” Wrapping a cloth around the pot handle, he poured some liquid into his cup and handed it to Sûla. “Here.”

Sûla took the cup, held it for a moment in his hands, then took a sip. “Ah, that feels good.” He nursed it quietly for a while, then said, “You know, Tigôn, you are like . . . ,” he raised his cup, “like a draught of hot wine after a cold night. I thought, while I was riding to your rescue at the Pass . . . ” He paused and shook his head.

“Thought what?”

“That I’ve never had a real friend before. I mean someone who didn’t just want my body.” He gave Tigôn a look that seemed uncharacteristically shy, a rarity for the brazen dancer.

Tigôn sat down on the bed, watching the fire. A log shifted and fell. The quiet darkness of the night seemed to urge confession of all the heart’s layered secrets. There were things he needed to say but he felt inadequate to the task. Looking at Sûla’s beauty in the wavering firelight, and feeling his presence as palpable as a touch, he both feared and longed for something more. He cleared his throat. “Sûla, when I first met you, I have to say the impression was not favorable, but you have surprised me several times since I’ve come to know you. You’re not, in truth, you’re not what you appear.”

“What do I appear to be?” Sûla laughed.

“Don’t interrupt or I won’t get this out,” Tigôn replied. “I didn't expect honor and courage from a zirâmîki. There, I said it. I'm admitting my fault. You saved my life and I was ungrateful. It was wrong of me. You had every right to be angry. I don’t want it to come between us. What I want . . . .” He paused. Sûla watched him. “I want to say thank you.” Having finally unburdened himself, Tigôn sighed, leaning back on his hands, waiting for Sûla’s reaction. The zirâmîki’s face remained impassive, but his eyes flickered.

“Your apology and your thanks are accepted,” Sûla said. He took another sip of the wine cradled in his slender hands, and then pulled the fur closer about himself.

“I don’t know how I can repay you for such a gift,” Tigôn said. “It is overwhelming to me. Just -- I need to know . . . .”

“Ah now, here it comes,” Sûla said.

“I’m sorry, but I have to know,” Tigôn said. “How did you learn to freeze a man in place like that?”

“That must remain my secret.” Sûla’s eyes widened as he met Tigôn’s glance.

“Truly? This whole thing makes me very uneasy, Sûla. I sense that you are allying yourself with something dark and unwholesome.”

“Ha,” Sûla said. “My whole life has been dark and unwholesome. There is no light for me, Tigôn.”

“I think there can be,” Tigôn replied. “You just need to reach for it.”

Sûla’s expression softened, becoming more beautiful. “I’m drawn to you, King’s messenger, despite my better judgement,” he said. Setting down the face cloth and his cup, he reached across the gap that separated them and put a hand on Tigôn’s bare knee. Although his touch was cold, it sent a fiery tendril of feeling through Tigôn’s body.

“I too,” Tigôn whispered. “And I know that it is a bad thing, very likely to get us both in trouble. Mandos! Your hands are freezing!” He took up Sûla’s long, slender hands with their many rings, rubbing them vigorously between his own.

“Yes, you are trouble for me too,” Sûla said. “You must not tell the King I came here tonight.”

“Won’t Dulginzin wake up and report that you left?”

Sûla laughed. “I gave him a sleeping potion in his drink. He should be out for the whole night.”

“Clever of you,” Tigôn acknowledged. “How did you get hold of that?” Sûla’s hands felt warmer. Tigon stopped rubbing and simply held them pressed between this own. Sûla’s mouth curled into a sly smile and Tigôn released his hands.

“One of Rabêlozar’s zirâmîthin,” Sûla replied. “It’s commonly used for sleeplessness.”

“I could have used it earlier. I was having trouble.”

“Guilty conscience, eh?” Sûla said, then laughed. “Well, it's good you couldn’t sleep or I'd still be freezing my arse off on your balcony.”

Tigôn smiled at that. By now he knew that Sûla covered up his feelings with his sharp tongue. For a time they listened to the fire. Tigôn kept thinking about what he wanted to say, forming the words this way and that. Finally, it just spilled out. “Sûla.” Tigôn’s voice was husky, catching in his throat. “Why am I dreaming of kissing you?”

The courtesan laughed, tossing his dark locks. “Perhaps because you find me attractive.”

Tigôn felt his face growing hot. “Listen, I must know. When you did that, earlier, when you kissed me, it felt familiar. And I’ve wondered . . . that night in the King’s tent, I remember it was as if you’d moved away from me in a sudden jump like a rock skipping across a pond and it didn’t make sense, so I just thought I was tired. But then, when you froze Korizar, well, later when I thought about it, I had to wonder, did you freeze me with a spell too?”

Sûla tucked his hands between his thighs. “Yes,” he said.

“Why? Why did you do something like that!” Tigôn asked angrily. “You had no right.” He rose from the bed, seized the poker, crouched down and jabbed at the coals. Sparks flew like fireflies. One burned his bare thigh and quickly he brushed it off.

“You are correct, I had no right,” Sûla said sullenly.

“Were you mocking me, having fun?” Tigôn asked. “Because it was a cruel trick.”

“Not cruel,” Sûla said. “I know you won’t believe me and who would blame you. I’m a zirâmîki who fakes affection for a living, but I did it because . . . .” He paused.

Tigôn threw on another log, then turned toward him. “Go on.”

“Because I wanted to kiss you, that’s all. I knew you weren’t interested in boys and would not do it of your own accord. But, Tigôn, believe me, I’ve never . . . you, you made me feel like I wanted to do it.”

“By using dark magic on me. By tricking me,” Tigôn scoffed.

“Yes, I knew that was all I could get. I only did it once. Believe me.”

“You mean you didn’t do it to me every night while we were playing bones?” Tigôn said. He smiled. “I thought that must be how you won so often.”

“No,” Sûla said, seemingly insulted and refusing to return the jest. “I beat you at bones fairly. No, I only did it that once.”

“Why didn’t you keep doing it to me? You had the power.” Tigôn sat back down on the bed. The air was throbbing between them, feeling like destiny.

“Because I found it was not enough,” Sûla said, miserably. “It was wrong of me, Tigôn. I swear to you, I won’t do it again. So, get over it, will you? We’re even now. Will you hold it against me forever?”

“No,” Tigôn said softly. He stroked a finger over his lips as he thought, yes, I do hold it against you, because I cannot rinse the taste of you from my mouth. But he said, “I can’t help it. It bothers me. It’s because you made me . . . .”

“What?” Sûla let the fur slip off his shoulders. Then he rose in that silky smooth uncoiling of the body that made Tigôn’s mouth go dry. He sat down next to Tigôn on the bed, reached over and gently kneaded his shoulders. “I think you should relax.”

“I’ve never felt like this before,” Tigôn said unhappily.

“And how do I make you feel, Tigôn? Is it so bad?” Sûla sifted his fingers through Tigôn’s hair, lifting it away from his scalp in a way that felt most pleasant.

“It is because I should not want you,” Tigôn whispered and his cheeks burned. His eyes shifted to meet Sûla’s.

Sûla chuckled softly. “Oh ho lordling, I thought you were immune to the charms of boys, especially wicked boys like me.”

“Don’t tease me,” Tigôn growled.

“That’s what you always say,” Sûla replied. “At some point teasing must give way to . . . something else.” He leaned forward, so close. Faintly, Tigôn could smell his perfume, like a breath of sin. “Well, then, King’s messenger,” Sûla said, his voice a sensuous burr. “The teasing ends here. If I kiss you now, will you kiss me back?” He pushed the curls away from Tigôn’s forehead, and looked at him expectantly, his lips parted, ripe for the taking.

Tigôn made a small noise in his throat. “I think you should try it, just to see,” he said. And then he didn’t know how it happened exactly, but Sûla’s mouth was on his, firm and desirous, and the Valar help him, yes, he was kissing him back, with a deep hunger that he could barely contain.

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Chapter End Notes

Urug - canon Adûnaic meaning bear

Thanks as ever to my wonderful betas, Malinornë and to Russandol who has served as a second beta.  You guys are fabulous!