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

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Chapter 19 - Love in the Shadows

Chapter Summary: Sûla initiates Tigôn into the pleasures of love-making, while Annatar demonstrates his skills to Ar-Pharazôn and discovers something is rotten in Umbar.

Warning: tasteful but explicit sex scenes

 

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How delicious Tigôn’s mouth was! Warm, responsive, eager. Sûla found himself caught up in a rush of unfamiliar feelings. Often when engaged at his trade, his mind wandered away from what his body was doing, but this time he felt alive and aware, savoring every texture, scent, and shiver of Tigôn’s body. His natural sweetness dispelled the bitter taste that had filled Sûla ever since he had hurled Annatar’s enchantment at Mirandor. Sûla wanted to paint the way Tigôn looked, felt, and tasted into his memory to take out and savor later, for chances were this might be both the first and the last time. It was not Sûla’s lot in life to choose his own partners.

Everything about the messenger was enticing. His cheeks, which were on the verge of losing their youthful roundness to firm into the lines of manhood, blushed with excitement, his mouth was swollen from kissing, and his curls were touched red-gold by the firelight. Sûla’s face tingled from the incipient beard on Tigôn’s upper lip and chin, a pleasant change from the burn of the King’s late night bristles.

Sûla reflected that he might be feeling the influence of the aphrodisiac that Dulginzin claimed he had put in his wine, as his loins positively flamed for Tigôn. But it had to be more than simple lust. He had never felt quite like this before. This was no intimidating King, foul Regent, or beast-like lord of Arandor. Tigôn was a friend and, for the moment, Sûla allowed himself to dream that he could be more.

Sûla pulled away, their lips separating with a slight pop, and Tigôn moaned the loss. He was coming along nicely, although still rather shy about expressing his desires. Sûla wanted to leap on him but the best move when stalking a bird was not to startle him. He knew all the ways to loosen a man’s inhibitions.

“Do you like that, lordling?” Sûla asked and received a slight nod. “Come, sit up here a bit, against the pillows.”

Tigôn struggled up on his elbows. As he did, the sole garment he was still wearing, a woolen chemise, rode up to his waist, revealing a prodigious erection. Tigôn looked down, blushed delightfully, and moved to cover it with his hand. But Sûla laughed, and brushing Tigôn’s hand aside, replaced it with his own.

“Oh,” Tigôn breathed as Sûla curved his fingers about the rigid flesh and stroked it experimentally. It was a pretty thing compared to many he’d seen and a near match in size to his own. Groaning softly, Tigôn leaned back against the wall. Sûla spat on his hand and went to work until moisture bloomed at the head, which he spread about with his thumb.

“Has anyone else held you like this?” Sûla cooed.

“No,” Tigôn admitted, rolling his head side to side against the wall.

“Shall I stop?” Sûla asked, still stroking, knowing full well the answer. No one he’d held so intimately had ever wanted him to stop.

“No, oh no,” Tigôn gasped. He bit his lower lip and then smiled that adorable lop-sided grin. “I rather like it.” His glance dropped to the same shape tenting Sûla’s black silk trousers.

“Want a look at mine?” Sûla asked.

Tigôn swallowed and nodded. Sûla sat back a little, pushing aside the long red sash around his hips, then slowly unbuttoning the placket on his trousers, all the while keeping his gaze on Tigôn’s face. He wanted to savor every nuance of his friend’s first time, wanted to make it good for him. The messenger’s innocence affected him, making him forget for the moment about his own darkness. Reaching within the flies, he pulled himself out to be displayed like a piece of lewd art, a pale sceptre against black silk.

Tigôn stared.

“You can touch me,” Sûla said.

Tigôn stretched out two fingers, sliding them along Sûla’s length. The tentative brush sent heat curling through Sûla’ groin more effectively than the more skilled attentions of the other zirâmîki. “Do you handle yourself so gently?” Sûla asked.

“No.” Tigôn laughed.

“Well, then, have at it.”

Tigôn leaned forward, slid his hand about Sûla’s shaft, gripping tightly, and pumping rather inconsistently.

“By Zizzûn, your technique needs a little finesse.”

“Oh, sorry,” Tigôn released him, his cheeks flushed.

“No need to be sorry. It felt good. We’re at a bad angle. Here.” Sûla moved forward on his knees and then straddled the messenger’s thighs, pushing him back against pillows and pressing their shafts together, the feeling like tingling anticipation. He went back to devouring that increasingly pliant mouth, gathering more little breathless moans and adding his own to the chorus.

“What do you like, messenger?” Sûla asked. “Do you like to be dominant or submissive, the slave or the master?” He seized Tigôn’s wrists, pulled them up, and held them pinned against the wall over his head. Tigôn moaned. But he did not resist.

“I really have no idea,” Tigôn said.

“I’ll know by the time the night’s out,” Sûla replied. He eased off the bed and slowly peeled off his black trousers and set them aside on the stool. He left the red sash on, but adjusted it low about his hips. Tigôn watched him, chewing his lip a little, both eager and nervous. Sûla knew he had the messenger’s full attention.

“What do you think? Like it?” Sûla asked, putting his hands on his hips and strutting about. Tigôn nodded and Sûla struck a dancing pose called the tiger, one arm curved up, the other down, bent elbows, fingers like claws. He dropped into a low crouch, and rose slowly with a little growl.

Tigôn sat up. “Oh, would you dance for me like you did at the banquet? Just for a bit?”

“Why, do you find it enticing?”

Tigôn nodded, his eyes bright.

“Just for you, then,” Sûla laughed. He thought of the rhythm of the drums and began clapping his own time as he moved, turning, undulating. How different this was from dancing for the Lord of Arandor. Then he had only felt loathing. Now, he felt light, like a song. He put into the dance all that he had at the banquet and more, bending and twisting, whirling around and around, the red sash flying after him. He began exaggerating his movement for a comical effect, pouting his lips, and giving Tigôn a smoldering gaze. Tigôn’s open-mouthed appreciation was worth it all.

When he felt it was enough, he bowed, and Tigôn laughed and clapped.

Sûla smiled with pleasure. “Will you act the part of the King, then?” he asked.

“Shall I? What does he say at this point in the proceedings?” Tigôn asked. He deepened his voice. “That was most impressive, Sûla. Now come and kiss me.”

Sûla laughed. “Yeh, it’s something like that.” Bending over so that his backside was presented to his lover, he plucked the cup from the floor near the stool and took a gulp, then carried it back to the bed, alternately crossing his feet, one in front of the other, in a seductive walk.. He bowed, offering it to Tigôn. “Care for some more, my Lord?”

Tigôn nodded, taking the cup. He downed the rest and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, setting the cup aside on the stand near the bed. “Now what?” he said.

“Now,” Sûla purred as he climbed onto the bed, advancing on hands and knees towards Tigôn, who, smiling shyly, retreated until he was pressed back up against the wall. Sûla crawled between Tigôn’s legs, and from that strategic position, looked up at him. “Now, I plan to pleasure you . . . relentlessly, my Lord. All the way to full satisfaction.”

Tigôn’s mouth widened into a grin.

“Would you like that?” Sûla asked needlessly, as his hands roamed.

“Uh huh.”

“All right then, this is coming off,” Sûla said, reaching down to the hem of Tigôn’s tight, woolen chemise. Without waiting for permission, he drew it up until he was stopped by Tigôn’s arms. He tugged and couldn’t budge it further.

Tigôn chuckled. “I thought you were the expert in undressing the King.”

“Even the King helps somewhat,” Sûla grumbled. “Arms up, my Lord, now.”
“But it’s cold,” Tigôn said teasingly.

Sûla rocked his hips, rubbing himself against Tigôn’s cock, enjoying the little whimper he made. “You won’t be cold for long,” Sûla promised. “Hurry up now, or I might decide to go elsewhere.”

“Would you really exchange my warm bed for the cold night?” Tigôn asked, but he obediently raised his arms.

“Actually no.” Sûla worked his fingers along Tigôn’s sides as he rolled up the shirt.

The messenger convulsed in laughter. “Quit it, Sûla.”

“Oh, a ticklish one. Now I know the secret to torturing you. Come. On. Now. Off.” He tugged impatiently at the shirt, and managed to draw it over Tigôn’s head, trapping his arms and revealing a line of hair in his armpits. Sûla leaned down and licked, appreciating the tangy musk, and eliciting a muffled exclamation from Tigôn, who quickly freed himself from the shirt, throwing it to the floor. His hair had bushed up in a golden nimbus about his head.

“Uck! Disgusting,” Tigôn said, rubbing a hand under his arm.

Sûla laughed.

“You are wicked!” Tigôn said.

Sûla widened his eyes. “Are you surprised? You know what I am, Tigôn. A zirâmîki and a wielder of dark magic and I’m about to be your first. What do you think about that?”

Tigôn’s mouth quirked. “I suppose one can’t be a virgin forever.”

“Ha,” Sûla laughed. “Well you could remain a virgin. Some of the Bawîba Manô priests do, so I’m told. But why should you when you have someone in your bed who wants very much to deflower you?”

Tigôn smiled tentatively. “I think . . . I would like that. But I’m not sure about . . .”

“Hush now. There are no questions once you say yes. You must relax and give yourself to me completely. Do you trust me?”

Sûla saw the exact moment that hesitation gave way to desire when Tigôn lowered his eyelids, and nodded, his lips parting.

“Do you know how delicious you look? How much I’ve wanted you ever since I first saw you in the vestibule being fitted for a messenger’s livery?”

“That must have been half a year ago,” Tigôn said.

“About then, yes. You know what I thought? I thought, that boy has a lovely arse.” Sûla smoothed down Tigôn’s bushy hair with gentle strokes, running his fingers through the curls until they reassembled themselves.

“I never thought of myself that way,” Tigôn said. “Not as a person anyone would want to bed.”

“Silly! You are blind to your own charms. You could have any number of lovers if you wanted. I’m glad I got here first.”

“I was always an awkward, skinny thing, terrible with a sword. My older brother used to tease me; they said that girls would run at the sight of me.” Tigôn laughed a little.

“Your brother was just jealous,” Sûla replied, as he took Tigôn’s hand and closed it about his prick, relishing the sensation. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not a girl.”

“I noticed,” Tigôn said and Sûla felt his grip become more assertive. Tigôn leaned forward and their mouths met again in a soft, juicy kiss. Tigôn’s tongue reached for his, at first a tentative probe, then becoming bolder, exploring his mouth and tongue. Sûla felt an unusual thrill flowing through him. It was so good to kiss him like this.

Sûla continued the kiss across Tigôn’s chin and nibbled down his neck, discovering that it made the messenger melt. He must remember that. He bit down, making Tigôn cry and struggle a bit before relaxing under the pressure of his teeth. Sûla thought his shy friend might actually become a lion once he let himself go. He was suddenly seized with a fierce desire to mold him into that lover of his dreams. He could feel Tigôn’s heart pounding and his loins throbbed in syncopation. Oh, he wanted to do him thoroughly, from one end to the other!

Rolling to the side, Sûla stroked a hand down Tigôn’s torso, pinching first one nipple, then the other. Tigôn jerked away with a laugh, which became a sigh as Sûla continued downward, snaking a finger along the iliac line delineating his loins. He skirted Tigôn’s shaft in favor of cupping his balls, and laughed at his startled jump. Sûla waited until he relaxed, weighing the cool flesh in his palm, playing with his stones by rolling them gently within the loose sacs. Tigôn stared down at Sûla’s hand and what it was doing, as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Do you like that?” Sûla asked, to which he received the mute nod. Lowering his mouth to Tigôn’s chest, he ran his tongue down the center groove, across the ripples of his abdomen, pausing to suck on his navel. Tigôn giggled and flinched.

“That feels strange,” he said.

“Hmm, maybe you’ll like this better,” Sûla replied as he gave the bollocks a final squeeze, listening to Tigôn’s little grunt. Scooting down, he held Tigôn’s shaft upright and licked a long, wet stripe down one side and up the other.

“Ai, what are you doing?” Tigôn gasped.

“What do you think a zirâmîki does?” Sûla said with a chuckle. The scent of Tigôn’s loins made Sûla ache for him. Gently easing back the skin, Sûla flicked his tongue back and forth across the slit, licking the welling fluid. Tigôn tasted good.

Tigôn sucked air in through his teeth. Sûla lowered his voice to a throaty whisper, allowing it to vibrate on the tender head. “Now watch me, messenger. Don’t you dare take your eyes away.” And abruptly he descended, taking Tigôn all the way in, closing his mouth around him tightly and feeling the tickle of hair on his nose.

Tigôn gasped out, “Sûla, oh you don’t have to do that!”

Sûla came off him and looked up through his lashes. “Right Tigôn. For the first time in my life, I don’t have to do this. So, that must mean I want to. Now shut up.” He returned to his task, applying his considerable skill, sucking, tonguing, stroking, and enjoying every moan, every writhe and twitch that an increasingly incoherent Tigôn was making. Oh, he liked the way that the messenger’s staff filled his mouth. Tigôn was striving towards his peak, legs rigid. When he started shuddering, Sûla rapidly came off him and pressed his thumb into the channel behind his stones.

“Oww, ai gods, no, why did you stop!” Tigôn howled. Sûla held him a bit longer until his prick calmed, then slithered up his torso stopping when their cocks lined up side by side. Tigôn’s pupils were blown dark, his cheeks blotchy with excitement.

Sûla took his chin in his hand and kissed him slowly, greedily. “Taste that, that’s what you taste like, Tigôn. Isn’t it delicious?”

“Not so bad, I guess.” Tigôn was still panting. “You are wicked to stop like that. I feel like my bollocks are going to bind up.”

“Do you? When I’m done with you, you’ll spend so hard, they’ll turn themselves inside out.”

“Oh, charming notion, Sûla,” Tigôn laughed.

“Trust me, I know what I’m doing. It will be so much better when you finally blow. And now, for the next step in the ritual.” Sûla bit Tigôn’s neck as he stroked a hand over the messenger’s chest and tweaked one of those tender nipples – hard.

“Ow, stop doing that!” Tigôn said. “What’s the next step?”

“You are going to do it to me.”

“I . . . um, really? I won’t know what to do.”

“Do what I just did to you. The same. There’s nothing easier.” Sûla rolled over. He grabbed a pillow and shoved it behind his head against the wall, then spread his legs. “Go ahead, mîki, give me the treatment.”

“Oh, are you playing the King now?”

Sûla paused, taken with the idea. “Yeh, for once, I would like that.”

Tigôn laughed nervously. “As long as you don’t order me flogged.”

“Perhaps I shall, if you don’t service me well enough.”

“What if I were to refuse . . . my Lord?” Tigôn said with a grin.

“Then life will become most unpleasant for you, Slave. But tell me, do you really want to refuse? Don’t you wish to know the pleasures of making the great King lose control to his humble servant?”

“Would that be satisfying? I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Shhh, it’s a secret,” Sûla said placing a finger on his lips. Then he lay back against the pillow, arranging one of the furs about his shoulders. “What are you waiting for? Show me what you can do. If you please me, I’ll reward you most handsomely. If not, it’s the kitchens for you.”

“Can’t have that, I’m a terrible cook,” Tigôn said. “Perhaps first we should have this off.” He fumbled with the knot on Sûla’s sash.

“That’s right. I don’t want anything but skin between us.”

“But you are still wearing all your jewels . . . my Lord,” Tigôn said.

“They stay on,” Sûla laughed. “As demonstration of my superior status. Now then, mîki, make me hot for you.”

Tigôn worked the knot free and pulled off the sash. He hesitated and Sûla smiled encouragingly. Solemnly, Tigôn looked down, running his finger along the fine line of hair that began just under Sûla’s navel. Sûla sucked in a breath, shivering in anticipation. Tigôn lowered his head.

The first touch of his mouth was like lightning. Sûla threaded his fingers through the golden curls, gently helping the bobbing motion, and then threw his head back. “Oh yes!”

*********
Hoarse from shouting, Ar-Pharazôn rolled away from Mairon, falling on the bed with a loud whump. “Marvelous! I’ve never felt the like,” he husked.

For Mairon it had been less than marvelous, but then no one rode him like Melkor had done. Mairon could almost feel the iron claws digging into his hips. He turned towards the King, propping his head on his hand. “Enjoyable, was it?”

“Yes, indeed,” the King replied, breathing heavily with exertion, “I do not know what you are doing, what sorcery you are working, but I am . . . most pleased with it.” He slid his hand admiringly down Mairon’s flank, and gripped a handful of his arse. “None of my zirâmîkin bring on quite the . . . intensity,” the King babbled on. Mairon wished he would shut up.

“I told you that we Maiar have certain energies we can bring to bear. It is nothing,” Mairon said. “With your permission.” He slid away, rose, and went to the King’s nightstand where he cleaned himself, then he drew his long black robe over his head, smoothing out the wrinkles.

“Of course, I am used to having a servant to wash me afterward,” Pharazôn said.

“I imagine so,” Mairon said, with a curl of the lip. “I like having servants myself.”

“You’re not going to . . . I could order you to serve me.”

Mairon laughed.

“Must I remind you that you are my prisoner,” the King said. “You could be rotting in the dungeon right now.”

Mairon gave a little bow. “I could. You could also be watching the tremendous slaughter of the better part of your forces. Remember who I am and treat me with respect, my Lord. You could call one of your servants to wash you. Oh, but I forgot, you sent your body slave off to spend the night with the son of Arandor. A little short-sighted that.”

The King rose with a snarl, performed the service himself, throwing the cloth on the floor when he was finished and then donned a robe. Mairon noted that, although his broad chest was well muscled, he was developing a roll about his middle. The aging process was ever his friend in dealing with mortals.

All of a sudden, Mairon felt weak and his vision blurred, just as before. He sat down in a chair by a charcoal brazier and summoned his energies until his sight improved. His gut fluttered most alarmingly. A glance assured him that the King had not noticed. As casually as he could muster, Mairon said, “When are you planning to send Sûla to the market for those ingredients?”

“In the morning. How long will it take you to brew the elixir?” Pharazôn replied. He was at his sideboard, pouring himself a goblet of wine. Interesting, the amount he drank. It was another observation for Mairon’s catalog.

“Several days,” Mairon said. “I should like to accompany him to the market. The exact ingredients are important. He may not know what to get.”

Pharazôn’s smile vanished. “Then you will send him out again until he gets it right. Asking such a thing tasks me, Annatar. Your freedom will be won slowly. I do not trust you, as yet. I cannot take the risk that you’ll escape. You are treading a fine line with me. I urge you to remember that.”

“Your distrust is misguided,” Mairon said. “How long must I continue to prove myself to you?” He stretched out his hands to the warm coals, thinking that this was a dismal time of year to be in Umbar, cold and damp. His missed the fires of Orodruin.

“As long as it takes,” the King replied.

“I would have thought winning the battle at Arzog’s Pass and apprising you of your Regent’s misdeeds would have been points in my favor.”

“My thanks for your service in the battle have been duly noted. As far as my Regent, that has yet to be proven. Since Númenor is a civilized nation, he is entitled to the benefit of a trial,” Pharazôn said, pompously.

“How long will that take? It would be a trivial matter in my kingdom,” Mairon replied with a curl of the lip. “I have the ability to uncover the truth in remarkably little time.”

“I have found torture is an inexact way to get information. After a while, a man will tell you whatever you want to hear.”

“Indeed, torture is a crude technique, more useful as a weapon of terror than in getting the truth from someone. No, I have more subtle methods. Do you remember the images I showed you in your field tent? I have the ability to draw such images from men’s minds. If allowed to do this, I would know the truth.”

“How would I know you were accurately conveying what you saw?” Pharazôn said in a hard voice. He sat in the chair opposite him.

“If you would know, then call one of your guards.”

With a grunt, Pharazôn went to the ornate door and called. One of the guards entered, a man with a pudgy face who was blinking and rubbing his eyes. It was rather late, after all.

“Do whatever the Lord Annatar commands,” the King said, settling himself back in his seat.

Mairon stood and made a show of cracking his knuckles. He took a piece of charcoal from the brazier and drew a circle on the floor and a series of symbols within it. When he was done, he commanded, “Stand here before me.”

With a look of confusion and nervousness, the man stood in the circle, his glance shifting nervously to the King.

“Now then, what is your name?” Mairon asked.

“Kulbî, son of Kirib.”

“Kulbî,” Mairon rolled the name about on his tongue. “I presume you are a loyal servant of the great Ar-Pharazôn?”

“Yes, of course,” Kulbî said, with a bow towards the king.

Mairon sent out his senses to sniff about him, then muttered the words that would enable him to See. Long moments passed. Ah, he was getting something. This one was easy to read. A weak mind.

“Have you ever stolen anything, Kulbî?”

The man’s face turned white. “Nay, of course not. What is this, my Lord?” He looked at Pharazôn.

“It will go easier if you confess now,” Mairon said mildly.

“I have done nothing, I swear,” the man said. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

“Haven’t you?” Mairon stalked about him. “I see a late night visit to an opulent room with marble columns. A golden bracelet is lying on the floor next to a large bronze chair. You are picking it up and dropping it behind your breast-plate.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the man stammered.

“You presume to challenge me?” In disgust, Mairon barked the truth-saying spell. Both the guard and the king cowered down, covering their ears. “Look, Ar-Pharazôn,” Mairon cried as he focused the vision and brought it to life. And there, for all to see was Kulbî, looking around, then bending to pluck the piece of jewelry from the floor, and quickly leaving.

“By the gods,” Pharazôn said in surprise, “I wondered what had become of that piece.”

Kulbî fell on his knees and raised his hands in supplication. “Please, my Lord, t’was years ago. I had a gambling debt and it was just lyin’ there. Forgive me.”

“You know the penalty for stealing,” Pharazôn growled.

“Aye, I do. Please have mercy. It was just a little thing. I thought no one wanted it.”

Pharazôn went to the door and summoned his other guards. “Take this one to the yard and give him fifty lashes, then dismiss him from my service,” he said curtly. “And have a servant bring me more wine.”

He turned to eye Mairon warily. “That was remarkable.”

Mairon composed himself on the chair. “You see, Ar-Pharazôn, I have much to offer you. You have yet to see the full extent of my talents.”

“I’m beginning to realize that,” the King replied, stroking his chin.

*********

Tigôn raised his head, wiping saliva from his mouth. Sûla was panting, his eyes closed. His long black hair was splayed about his shoulders as he slumped against the pillows. Tigôn thought he could gaze forever at the delicate beauty of his high molded cheekbones, flawless golden skin and plump, sensuous lips. He was the embodiment of wicked desire.

“Did I pass the test, my Lord?” Tigôn asked, even though it appeared from the moans, gasps, and wriggles that indeed Sûla had enjoyed what Tigôn had offered.

“You surpassed it.” Sûla gave him a sultry look with those kohl-lined eyes.  “I find it hard to believe that you’ve never done that before.”

“I learn quickly . . . , my Lord. Will that suffice, or do you have further need of my services?” Tigôn grinned. Sûla arched an imperious eyebrow at him.

“Neither of us has been fully satisfied,” he said. “So you are not yet dismissed. Are you ready for the next stage of your training?”

Tigôn nodded, suddenly feeling apprehensive.

“Come up here and kiss me.”

Tigôn crawled up to sit in Sûla’s lap. The feeling of their bodies pressed together caused another ripple of lust to course through him. He had not expected to like being with Sûla so much. To be sure, there was a twinge of fear in the back of his thoughts. What if the King found out, or his father? The other half of his mind, aided by his traitorous body, thrust that idea away. In the flickering red firelight of the tiny room, he felt cozily isolated from the rest of the world. No one would know and Sûla surely would not tell, bound even more fully than he into secrecy. And, Tigôn mused, if the Haradrim had killed him at Arzog’s Pass, he would have died a virgin and never known the sensations that enchanted him now. These thoughts freed him. Tomorrow would bring what it would. Tonight, he wanted whatever Sûla would offer him. His body thrummed with desire.

He took Sûla in his arms and kissed him hard, enjoying Sûla’s passionate response. Their mouths opened wide as if each sought to devour the other. Their yards ground together, igniting sparks that flared and crackled in Tigôn’s loins as surely as the fire on the hearth. He desperately wanted release. “Sûla,” he whispered. “What now?”

“Are you hot enough, my friend? You see, I did promise to warm you up.”

“You spoke truly. Must I still play a zirâmîki? I am unsure . . .”

Sûla laughed as he traced a finger about Tigôn’s lips that felt raw from kissing. “Do you have any oil?”

“Oil? Wha . . oh,” Tigôn said as the reason dawned on him. “Yes.” In fact, he kept a flask of olive oil for dry skin. It was nearly gone.

“Good. Go get it,” Sûla said. He gave him a little push. “Hurry.”

Tigôn crawled awkwardly out of the bed and padded across the cold floor, stark naked. Shivering, he fumbled about in his luggage packs in the corner. Ah, found it, finally. He turned and saw Sûla buried under the furs on his bed, leaning his cheek on one hand and watching him with a wistful smile. The firelight played over his face, starkly lighting those cheekbones. Tigon saw the shadow of a bruise on his face. One of his dangling earrings gleamed fitfully. “What are you looking at?” Tigôn asked and immediately felt stupid.

“You, bending over.” Sûla licked his lips, much like a fox eying a pigeon. “Get back here or I’m likely to finish myself off just watching you.”

“Do you flatter the King in this way?” Tigôn asked as he returned bearing his prize.

Sûla widened his eyes at him. “What do you think?”

Tigôn set the bottle on the side table, next to his wine cup, and slid under the furs, sighing when he contacted Sûla’s warm body.

“Ack, you’re cold,” Sûla said.

Tigôn pressed his freezing feet against Sûla’s legs and laughed as he flinched away.

“Heartless boy,” Sûla said. He grew serious. “I don’t wish to talk about the King or even think about him, do you understand?”

Tigôn nodded.

“Just now there are no other lovers, no lords or servants, no past, no future, no fears. It’s just the two of us, warming each other on a cold night.”

Tigôn nodded. “Agreed,” he said.

For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes. Then Sûla said, “Hand me the oil, mîki. And we shall see what can be done with it.”

Trying to stifle his apprehension, Tigôn gave him the flask. “I’ve heard that it hurts the first time.”

“It does,” Sûla said. Sitting up, he pulled the cork off the flask with his teeth and poured a handful. Leaning forward through his bent knees, he applied it to his nether region. “Fortunately, it’s not my first time.”

Tigôn felt relief go through him. “Oh, you want me to . . .”

Sûla chuckled. “We can’t scare you off right away by popping your oyster. I want you to know how good it feels. Come here. Sit up.” He grasped Tigôn’s prick, stroking it with his oily hand. “See what I mean?”

“Yes.” In fact, the sensation was marvelous. His yard, which had begun to flag, stood back up at full attention.

“Now,” Sûla lay back in a movement as smooth as a cat’s. His eyelids lowered seductively. He swirled the tip of his finger over one of his nipples. “Come take me, Tigôn.”

Tigôn shuffled forward, took his prick in hand, hesitated.

“Be quick, Master Tigôn, I’m in need of you,” Sûla purred, with a little thrust of his hips.

Tigôn pressed forward, pushed, and suddenly felt himself partly enveloped by an exquisitely tight heat. His prick looked so strange, disappearing like that into a place Tigôn thought it had no business being. With great willpower, he stopped, feeling his heart pounding. “Doesn’t that hurt?” he choked out.

Sûla began to laugh, a chuckle that gathered in force until Tigôn could feel it vibrating all around him. For a moment he felt foolish for his outburst. Of course a zirâmîki must be used to it.

“No, it doesn’t hurt,” Sûla said. “I like it. Truthfully, I would be obliged, my friend, if you would skiver me all the way down.”

At that juncture, Tigôn didn’t think he could have stopped himself if he’d wanted to. He pushed forward, sinking deep until he could feel the pressure on his bollocks. So tight all around. “Oh, by the gods,” he groaned.

Sûla was watching him. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” He wriggled and thrust his hips slightly, getting the two of them better seated. “Now then, boy, make it worth my while.”

Leaning forward on his hands, Tigôn began to rock from his knees. It felt so natural that he was surprised he had been worried about doing it right.

“Harder,” Sûla cried. “Do it!” He clasped the backs of his thighs, drawing his legs up farther.

As his body’s imperative claimed him, Tigôn understood the whispers, the laughter behind closed doors, the King’s obsession. By the Valar and all that was sacred, this was the most marvelous thing he’d ever experienced. Bringing himself off was nothing in comparison. Sûla lay under him, the King’s zirâmîki, now the vessel to his own pleasure, skin warmly colored by firelight, dressed only in jewels, the ruby-eyed dragon curling ecstatically about his upper arm. His dark hair spread like a rippling mantle about his shoulders, spilling onto his chest, his huge, exotic eyes half-closed. It made Tigôn feel powerful.

For every thrust that Tigôn made, Sûla responded by pushing back, arching and moaning. Moaning. It sounded like something between pain and pleasure, as if he were actually enjoying himself.

“Do, uh, do you like that?” Tigôn gasped.

“You have no idea,” Sûla panted, “how good it feels, when you, yes, right, right there. Oh!”

The courtesan reached down and began stroking himself rapidly. The sight caused another ripple of sensation in Tigôn’s loins, already afire with need. It felt as if he were pulling a great bow, attaining a draw that he thought might be his limit, before discovering that he could pull it even further, impossibly so. His breath was coming fast, his thighs burning with tension.

“Harder, Tigôn!” Sûla cried.

Casting aside his fears that he might be hurting his friend, Tigôn went at him like a battering ram. Suddenly, Sûla threw his head back with a sharp cry as white drops spattered on his chest, accompanied by rhythmic convulsions all around Tigôn’s shaft. It seemed as if the bow suddenly loosed with a tremendous vibrating twang. Tigôn’s loins sang and a fire roared in his head. He cried out. Still he came, more and more, and still he thrust on until, as Sûla had promised, his bollocks ached, and his body screamed surrender. Gasping, he fell forward onto Sûla’s chest, buried his face against the zirâmîki’s fragrant neck, and attempted to catch his breath. As the feeling of joyful well-being continued to course through his body, Tigôn felt Sûla move under him, felt his hair softly stroked.

“Good, huh,” Sûla said, with a chuckle.

“Gods,” Tigôn moaned as he slipped free from Sûla’s body and rolled to the side, throwing an arm about his lover’s chest. “That . . . um, there are no words for that.”

“No, you are right. No words.” Sûla pushed Tigôn’s hair away from his sweaty forehead. “I think you’ve missed your calling all this time,” he whispered, his lips tickling Tigôn’s nose. “You gave me a perfectly wicked thumping.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, just the right amount. Not too much. Just enough to make me, um, pleasantly sore in the morning.” Sûla used a corner of the linen sheet to wipe off his chest. “Which I suspect will be here all too soon.”

“Let’s make it last. I can do without sleep,” Tigôn said avidly.

“I’ll try to stay awake,” Sûla said. “Hmm, let me clean up a bit. Move.”
He slipped out of the bed, threw another log on the fire before going to Tigôn’s water basin, wetting the cloth he had used on his bruised cheek and wringing it out. He cleaned himself and then brought it to the bed and carefully wiped Tigôn down. Cold water dripped down Tigôn’s thighs. He shivered and when Sûla was done, they both retreated into the warmth of the furs. For a time they lay in each other’s arms, listening to the crackle of the fire. Tigôn felt awkward, not knowing what to say. “I liked that,” he finally ventured.

“I could tell.”

“It was much better than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. I thought it would be like taking myself off.” Tigôn shook his head. “It was . . . much better.”

“It’s my business to know how to please.”

“Yes. Clearly, you know your trade. But I hope it was more than that for you.”

Sûla smiled. “Yes, it was good for me, too.”

Tigôn paused, feeling his heart slowly returning to a normal pace. “Tell me, when did you know you liked boys?” he asked.

Sûla snorted. “I was never given a choice. I don’t know what would have happened if I had been left to discover things on my own.”

“Oh,” Tigôn considered that. “I’m sorry. I feel like I continually ask insensitive questions.”

“You were raised like a hand-fed quail,” Sûla said, shifting a little. “You didn’t have to be afraid of being beaten all the time. Your parents didn’t sell you into slavery at age thirteen. I envy you, Tigôn.”

“I can’t even imagine your life,” Tigôn replied.

“I don’t want your pity, lordling. I’ve done well enough for myself. We can’t choose where we are born. All we can do is make the best of it. So, when did you know you liked boys?”

“Um, about the time you put your mouth on my prick,” Tigôn said, causing them both to burst into laughter.

“If only I’d known that’s all it would take,” Sûla chuckled.

“Yes, well, before I came into the King’s service,” Tigôn continued, “I never thought about how men might please one another. I knew about it, of course, but I don’t remember dwelling on it. Then, I came into the banquet hall to give the King a message and I saw . . . what you were doing to each other. At first I thought it was disgusting. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And then we became friends and you were . . .”

“What was I?”

“Like you are Sûla, a big tease, and I thought you were just making fun of me as my brothers used to, but then you saved me from the Haradrim, and I realized that you really did care enough that you put your life at risk, and I felt guilty for how I’d thought of you. And somewhere along the way, something changed.” He paused. “I don’t think I like boys, especially, not in the abstract . . .” He leaned forward and kissed Sûla’s lips. “But I do like you.”

“I think that’s the best thing anyone has said to me,” Sûla replied.

“So, what shall we do?”

“Your turn,” Sûla said. He patted Tigôn’s arse.

“No, I meant, what shall we do later, tomorrow, and the next day?”

The courtesan abruptly rose upon one elbow. “What we will do, Tigôn, is pass each other in the halls, nod pleasantly, and pretend that this never happened. Nether of us can afford the King’s displeasure.”

Tigôn felt a palpable sense of loss. Would this truly be the one and only time he would share this wondrous pleasure, this closeness, with Sûla? He said, “But he had no difficulty loaning you out to Lord Dulginzin.”

A scowl passed over Sûla’s face. “True enough, but it does not go both ways. He thinks of us like his possessions, like the jewels he keeps in his cabinet. He does not allow his zirâmîkin to have lovers on the side. Before you came, the King caught two zirâmîkin sleeping together without permission. In wrath, he sent both of them to work rowing galleys. They were lucky; it could have been worse. I don’t wish to give up my situation any earlier than I must, and I think I can keep his interest for a while longer. Lord Annatar said . . .”

“What?” Tigôn tensed. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. It is of no consequence.”

For a moment, Tigôn thought of probing further but he had decided he was not going to report to Elendil any more of what Sûla said, and therefore it was best not to know anything to report. All this spying and intrigue was not for him. The last thing he wanted was to get his friend into trouble. Instead he said, “I think you should be wary of the Zigûr. I have deep suspicions about his motives. His capture was all too easy.”

“So everyone says,” Sûla replied, angrily. “But I’ve seen as much of him as anyone and I think he’s been grossly misjudged. I’ve never been treated so well by a lord. And he’s brilliantly clever. I think he can be a powerful ally to Númenor.”

“I don’t want to argue,” Tigôn said, “certainly not tonight. Just heed my warning, will you?”

“Why? Do you care?” Sûla mocked.

“Yes, actually I do.”

There was that softening of Sûla’s expression. He stroked Tigôn’s cheek. “Dawn is not far off. Do you want to fuck some more?”

Tigôn felt his shaft twitch. “Yeah,” he said.

*********

“What makes your skin so hot?” Ar-Pharazôn said admiringly, as he stroked along Mairon’s naked chest.

“I am a being of fire,” Mairon replied, impatiently. Silently, he added, ‘idiot.’ The night had been long and what he’d had to do for the King unspeakable, but necessary for a number of reasons. He wanted no question in the King’s mind concerning his whereabouts this evening. There were delicate forces at work here, which he needed to control. And he didn’t trust his new body anymore. He could sense the duality becoming stronger. Soon, he would need the potion to cement the elf’s fëa.

Mairon cast out his senses, probing the shadows for signs, portents. Something was happening out there. He tensed suddenly and sat up in the bed.

“What is wrong?” Ar-Pharazôn asked, covering a yawn.

“Nothing. Go to sleep,” Mairon said. He snapped his fingers. Obligingly, the King slumped back and closed his eyes. Much better, Mairon mused. Now I can think without interruption. He rose and sat cross-legged in the chair and closed his eyes. He spoke spells of seeing and listening and not for the first time, regretted the loss of the Ring, which amplified his power. Then he waited. As a shadow figure, he stalked the halls of the palace from the top floor where they were, down to the dungeon. As ever, he was drawn to those he’d touched before. And drawn even more toward pain. Dark shapes of ugliness and violence were revealed to him. He probed further and then scowled. This was unexpected and definitely not part of his plans. The morning would bring a new set of problems for both him and the King.

**********

A bird twittering outside the window caused Sûla to raise his head from the nap he had not meant to take. A rush of apprehension and regret flooded him. Over, all too soon, and now he had to go back to endure the odious Dulginzin, who, no doubt, would use him painfully. He could hardly bear the thought. Tigôn lay next to him, on his back, his features limned by the blue light of early dawn. He was snoring gently. Sûla smiled, remembering how he had worn his friend out with pleasure. Gently, he stroked Tigôn’s bare shoulder. If only he lived another life and had been born a wealthy man, capable of ordering his own affairs. For a moment he allowed himself to dream of enticing Tigôn to run off with him. But what kind of life could they lead in Umbar? He had become far too accustomed to living in luxury and Tigôn was a soft noble’s son. He would never last. Well, Sûla thought, he had better hurry or he might get caught.

Carefully, he eased his body away from Tigôn and swung his legs off the bed. He shivered. The fire had died back to embers and the air was cold. Quickly, he slipped his trousers on. The mailshirt felt like ice. He didn’t want to put it on. Perhaps Tigôn had a cloak or a heavy tunic he could borrow instead. He rifled through Tigôn’s pack. Ah, a warm woolen jacket.

Tigôn stirred, flung an arm across his eyes and groaned. “Is it morning?”

“Nearly. Go back to sleep.”

“Why do I hurt in strange places?”

Sûla laughed. “It will go away. Can I borrow your jacket?”

Tigôn turned over and opened his eyes. “What?”

“It’s quite cold out. I’ll bring it back as soon as I can.”

“Oh. Yeah. Must you go so soon? I don’t think Anor has yet arisen.” Tigôn held out his arms with a warm, sleepy smile. Irresistible.

Sûla came back to bed and climbed under the covers next to him, kissing his curls, which looked grey in the faint light. “Are you sorry about what we did?”

“No,” Tigôn said. “Not at all. I only wish . . .”

“Remember, no regrets. We promised each other.”

“I do not regret anything. I just would have liked it to last much, much longer.” Tigôn sighed. Gently, he kissed Sûla. “Are you sure we can’t ever do this again? See each other in secret? Perhaps, when we go back to Armenelos, there may be opportunities . . . .”

“I’m afraid that it would be too dangerous for us both,” Sûla said. “Do not be offended if I ignore you in court. We must be careful.”

Tigôn frowned. “I understand, believe me. You will find me the essence of discretion. But I can always hope, can’t I?”

“I suppose. Who knows how the gods view our destinies?” Sûla conceded.
“Whatever happens, it was a good night. Truly good, Sûla. I mean that.” Tigôn smiled gravely and Sûla felt something in his chest, an emotion he was sure he’d never felt before.

“Well, then, farewell, my dear.” Sûla kissed him and attempted to pull away but Tigôn held him tightly. So, they lay together for a while longer while Sûla nuzzled his hair, trying to commit to memory how it felt to be so at peace. Finally the birds’ occasional tweets grew into chatter and Sûla knew he did not have much time. “Truly, I must take my leave now.” He pulled free, shrugged on Tigôn’s jacket, buttoned it up.

“Be careful of Lord Dulginzin,” Tigôn called.

“I will. And you. Good night, then.” He opened the door to the balcony, feeling the full pain of the frosty air. The eastern sky was brightening, pushing the darkness away. In the distance below them, he could see the geometric silhouettes of the many rooftops of Umbar and smell woodsmoke from cooking fires. A cock crowed somewhere.

“You mean ‘good morning,’ don’t you,” Tigôn said. He rose, shivering, came over and took Sûla in his arms. They shared one more deeply heated kiss that Sûla hoped would be enough to last the rest of his life. It was not his lot to be made happy by love.

Pulling away from the warmth of Tigôn’s arms, Sûla went to the railing. He glanced back once more at the tousled-haired youth, standing nude in the doorway, a solemn expression on his face. Then he climbed over the side, and dropped silently down to the balcony below them and from there again until he reached the ground.

Fortunately, the wing where the lords of Arandor were ensconced was not far away. After a long moment of trying to decide which balcony it was, he remembered that there had been a dead potted plant outside Dulginzin’s door. He climbed from one balcony to the next, his breath puffing in frosty clouds. When he reached the right door, one with peeling blue paint, he hesitated outside, listening hard for movement within. Perhaps, if he was really lucky, Dulginzin would remain unconscious and he could walk free without having to endure any more of his abuse. His bare feet ached with cold. Oh Lord Zizzûn, if you ever heard my prayers, hear them now. May he still be asleep and not wake when I enter, so I can go back to the King’s room.

Just then, a golden ray of light broke over the horizon, which he took as a good sign. Holding his breath, Sûla turned the knob and peeked in. All was deadly quiet. In the bed against the far wall, he could see the long shape of Lord Dulginzin under the blankets. He sighed in relief, and slipped into the room.

Immediately, he felt something wasn’t right. There was a smell, a heavy iron smell. He approached the large bed with its ornate wooden posts. Lord Dulginzin lay very still, one bare shoulder exposed, his face turned away from him. No movement at all. Sûla drew closer still and noticed that there was no slow rise and fall of the man’s chest. He leaned over the still form and was startled to see blood staining the blanket. Clasping the lord’s shoulder, Sûla pulled him over slightly, but the head rolled in a peculiar way, revealing a massive wound gaping across Dulginzin’s throat from ear to ear. Stifling a gasp, Sûla snatched his hand back. Slowly spreading out in the bedding underneath the Lord of Arandor was a wide black pool, blood and more blood, as if an ox had been butchered.

By the gods! Sûla’s mouth dropped open in horror. No, it couldn’t be! How could this have happened in the few hours he had been gone? And who had done it? He swept his gaze about the room. No one was there. The door leading to the sitting room stood ajar. Had he left it that way? He didn’t think so, but his mind was in a whirl and he couldn’t be sure of anything. The body was still warm and had not yet stiffened, so it had not happened all that long ago.

In a blind panic, Sûla backed away and sank down into a crouch, hands pressed over his mouth. Should he go and report it and hope they believed him? He smacked his forehead. Stupid! Stupid! They would seize him as the most likely suspect, of course they would! Many people had seen the King order him to attend Lord Dulginzin. Both Mirandor and the servant had seen him come to the rooms and go in to lie with him. He had no alibi. How would he explain that he had not been there? How could he prove he had not done it? There was no way that he could. Even if Tigôn would vouch for him, and that was problematic, he could have killed Dulginzin after he left Tigôn’s room. Tigôn could not prove otherwise. Gods! A slave killing a lord? He would be gutted and hanged and his body left for the crows. They wouldn’t even wait to investigate any other cause. He was a dead man! What to do? What to do? There was only one chance. He must run.

Looking down at his bare feet, he realized he wouldn’t get far without shoes of some kind. Dulginzin’s boots stood in the corner. He sprinted over, and sitting on the floor, drew them on. What else? Opening the wardrobe, he found the man’s heavy, fur-lined cloak. Well, Dulginzin wouldn’t need that anymore. He swirled it about his shoulders and drew the hood up over his head. Dulginzin’s field pack of equipment was strewn open upon a chaise lounge. Grabbing a knife belt, he buckled it about his waist. He didn’t dare take anything else. No time. He must fly!

Out the door and over the balcony railing he went, nearly falling in his haste. When he reached the ground, he crouched for a moment in the bushes, breathing heavily. He had an aunt in Umbar. He thought he remembered where she lived. Surely she would hide him for a day or so. He was wearing enough jewelry to buy her affection.

For a moment, he thought of returning to say farewell to Tigôn, to let him know he had not done it. But any delay might be his death. He could not risk it. Looking up towards Tigôn’s room, he touched his lips with his fingers and blew a kiss. Farewell my friend. We both knew it was doomed from the start. Think well of me.

And with hardly a rustle, he crept through the grounds, climbed a tree, slipped over the wall, and down into stinking back alleys of the awakening city.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Kulbî, son of Kirib: names are canon Adûnaic