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

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Chapter 28 - Unbridled Hearts

Chapter summary: Tigôn has a plan; he just needs to try to convince Sûla.

Warning: mildly explicit sex scene

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Crouched behind the pillar, Tigôn breathed in an intoxicating scent of humid greenery and sweet orange blossoms. Trees and flowering bushes rose from man-sized earthenware pots laid out in rows around a gently splashing fountain in the center of the solarium. The foliage spread and intertwined into an overarching canopy so dense that he could not see from one end of the room to the other; vines snaked around the pillars that upheld the roof. The early morning sunlight coming through windows in the ceiling cast faint, dappled shadows on the mosaic floor. Red ants had somehow found their way inside and were marching in a line past him. Tigôn paid them little heed as he was intent on watching the arched doorway.

This was folly of great magnitude. Tigôn knew that. He had no business lurking here and none at all attempting to contact Sûla. He wondered how much trouble he would have if caught. Possibly Lord Elendil would dismiss him and he would be flogged, just as Sûla had been five days ago. Perhaps he would be cast out in the streets of Umbar to fend for himself. He might even die. Yet, despite the danger, here he was. Last night as he tossed and turned in his bed, he’d been overcome by an idea that, although quite mad, he figured was their best hope. He simply had to try to get Sûla to go along with it. But curse him, where was he?

Just then Sûla strode in soundlessly on bare feet in that easy dancer’s glide, his arms swinging. Tigôn’s heart jumped into his throat. Oh, he was beautiful! Just what magic did the zirâmîki possess? It was more than the harmony of features, a delicate jaw, high cheekbones, a strong nose, and sweeping eyebrows that framed those remarkable light brown eyes. It was his attitude, the jaunty throw of a hip, the curving smile of his lips that suggested sensual delights enough to warm anyone’s dreams. It was no surprise that he’d attracted Ar-Pharazôn’s attention, and Tigôn wondered how the King could have given him up. But he was glad of it. Aside from the kohl outlying Sûla’s eyes and a brushing of malachite on the lids, his face was bare of its usual paint. Two plaits of black hair were pulled away from his face and joined at the back of his head with a clip. The rest was worn in loose ringlets about his shoulders. He was garbed in his silk dancing trousers and, surprisingly, adorned with the jewelry that Tigôn thought had been taken from him in prison. The golden dragon curled ostentatiously about his bare bicep. Ah, that was perfect—just what they would need.

Sûla stopped in the open area next to the fountain and adopted a wide stance, his back to Tigôn. Grasping his left fingers with his right hand, he stretched his arms over his head, swaying side to side. Then he bent and touched the floor with his palms. Tigôn watched the silk trousers mold tightly over Sûla’s shapely buttocks and felt a crawl of desire. For a moment he hesitated. What if Sûla rejected him? No doubts, he told himself. He must act quickly before someone else came. “Sûla,” he whispered sharply.

Sûla stood bolt upright, then turned to face him. Tigôn emerged from behind the pillar and gave him a tentative smile.

Sûla’s eyes filled with knives. “What are you doing here?”

Completely taken aback by his reaction, Tigôn glanced at the doorway. “There’s no one here yet. We can talk. How are you? Does your back still hurt?”

“We are not permitted to speak. Now go, before I call the guards and have them haul you off to be flogged,” Sûla sneered. “I would enjoy seeing that.”

“Sûla, what is the matter with you?”

“You know full well, you bastard!” Sûla snarled. “That sweet face of yours . . . you cozened me like an expert! I never guessed. Well, no more. Now leave me!”

Tigôn stood still, baffled into silence.

“If you won’t go, then I shall,” Sûla huffed. He turned on his heel and began to walk out of the room.

“What are you talking about?” Tigôn cried, although he was beginning to suspect the worst. He ran over to Sûla and seized him by the arm. “No, you cannot leave! Not until you talk to me.”

“How dare you touch me!” Sûla snapped, jerking away.

“How dare I?” Tigôn replied, suddenly flushed with hurt anger. “You didn’t mind when I did it before. We risked everything for our night together. Are you telling me it was all for naught?”

“I belong to Lord Annatar now, a powerful sorcerer. He’s like to shrivel your stones if he hears about this.”

At that, Tigôn lost his head. He grabbed Sûla by both arms and shook him. “Do you know what it’s been like for me since the trial? Do you know what I’ve endured? The snickers, the glares, the disgust! The other pages make obscene gestures at me whenever I come near. And half the citizens of Umbar think I’m a cheap lay and make eyes at me. The King himself grabbed a handful of my arse after your ordeal at the flogging post. I nearly puked right there. And all I’ve been able to think about is you!”

“So, now you know what it’s like to be a zirâmîki,” Sûla said, as he tried to break away from Tigôn’s grasp.

Sûla was agile as an eel, but Tigôn held on grimly and they twisted across the floor, flailing at each other. Sûla began kicking, trying to hook Tigôn’s legs out from under him and Tigôn shoved him hard up against one of the planters. Sûla grunted as his back hit the ceramic surface. He spat in Tigôn’s face.

“You little shite!” Tigôn cried, and brought his knee up into Sûla’s groin, which made the zirâmîki double over, cursing. He lashed out, striking Tigôn in the gut. Then they went at it, hammer and tongs, punching and grappling, until Tigôn caught Sûla unbalanced and knocked him over. Sûla’s elbow struck the tile and he yelped in pain just as Tigôn flung himself onto his lover’s stomach, seizing his wrists and forcing them to the floor. Tigôn’s blood was up; he was breathing rapidly. “Talk to me,” he cried.

“Get off!” Sûla snarled in his face. “Or I’ll use the freezing spell on you.”

“Go ahead, do it,” Tigôn panted. “I dare you. The musicians will be here any minute, won’t they? How will you explain that little trick?”

“Then I’ll leave. Get off me, traitor!” Sûla wriggled hard under Tigôn and almost unseated him, but Tigôn threw his whole weight into his hands holding Sûla down. “You’re not going anywhere until I have some answers. Tell me, how did I cozen you?”

Sûla glared at him through a tangle of dark hair, his chest heaving. “I’ll tell you nothing unless you get up. Your touch disgusts me.”

That hurt worse that the blows Sûla had landed. Tigôn relaxed his grip, sitting up. “Truly, Sûla?”

“Yes,” Sûla said, staring up at Tigôn, his beautiful eyes narrowed in hatred.

But as Tigôn shifted to slide off, he contacted a long ridge at Sûla’s groin. The revelation sent a corresponding pulse through Tigôn. “My touch disgusts you?” he said with a harsh laugh. “I think not.” He repositioned himself, pressing his own member hard against that alluring shape.

Sûla twisted suddenly, throwing Tigôn to the side. Wriggling free, he leaned his back against the planter and brought his knees up, wrapping his arms about them. Like the mercurial creature he was, his expression shifted from hatred to despair. “Look what you’ve done,” he said, slapping dirt off his pants. “Annatar will know. He knows everything.” He shivered.

“No, he doesn’t. Not if you don’t tell him,” Tigôn said. “Just don’t let him touch you. Don’t let him put you in his truthsayer’s circle.” He moved next to Sûla. Seeing how distraught the zirâmîki looked had taken the anger clean out of him.

“Oh, you don’t know. You have no idea,” Sûla replied. “I hate you!”

“I don’t believe that!” Tigôn said. “If so, then everything we did together is meaningless.”

Sûla stared sullenly into space.

“Tell me what happened,” Tigôn urged. “What did Annatar say to you? You owe me that much.”

“You don’t know? Really?” Sûla said sarcastically. “You must be thick, or else you think I am.”

“I assure you, I think nothing of the sort,” Tigôn replied.

“You’re a liar. What did you promise me in prison? ‘I’ll never betray you, Sûla,’ you said. But you did, you did, you did.” Sûla put his face in his hands and his breathing caught and rattled, as if trying to suppress a sob.

“I didn’t, I swear.”

“Your promises are meaningless, just like everyone’s. All the world lies to me.”

“What did Annatar tell you?”

Sûla raised his head, eyebrows knit. “You were spying on me for Lord Nimruzîr, weren’t you? Don’t deny it, I know it to be true.”

“How . . . ,” Tigôn started to say, then stopped. He remembered Annatar putting him in the truthsayer’s circle in his room the morning of the trial. There was a hole in his memory. That’s what had happened. “He took it from me,” he said, smacking his fist into his palm. “When I went to him to plead for his help with the trial. He took it from my thoughts without my knowledge.”

“So, you don’t deny it!”

“No,” Tigôn said softly. “It’s true and I wish it weren’t.”

“Then we can never speak again,” Sûla said in a voice cold as death. “If you come near me, I swear I’ll tell the Zigûr.” He struggled to stand but Tigôn brought a hand heavily on his shoulder, keeping him in place.

“Why do you think he told you about it, Sûla? Don’t you see what he’s trying to do?”

“I don’t care what Annatar’s motives are. The truth is what matters here, and you lied to me from the beginning.” Tigôn could hear the pain in the zirâmîki’s voice.

“Hear me out,” Tigôn said. “If after that you wish to throw away what we found in bed together, that’s your choice.”

Sûla’s jaw twitched, but he slumped back down. “Better make it good,” he said. “I don’t have all day here.”

“Neither do I,” Tigôn replied. “Lord Nimruzîr is expecting my return and I’ve risked much coming here. So yes, it’s true. I was spying for the Lords of Andúnië. We were fearful of the Zigûr and you, of all people, should know why. So they asked me to gather some information. But I never felt right about it, and I swear to you, Sûla, once we began to be friends, I stopped telling them anything. Before I went to see you in prison I went to Lord Nimruzîr and told him I couldn’t do it anymore. That’s when I begged him for the letter that enabled me to see you. If he hadn’t written it, the guards would not have allowed me to pass. So, he is not your enemy, Sûla. I am not your enemy. Look at me.”

Slowly, Sûla raised his eyes. He said, “I have so many lies running around in my head, I don’t know who to believe anymore. You came to see me in prison, true enough. You came when no one else did and brought me food and a cloak. Why did you do that?”

“Yes, that’s a good question. Why would I do that? What possible reason could I have to do that?”

Sûla stared at his hands resting on his knees. He began twisting his golden ring set with rubies around his finger. “I don’t know.”

“If I didn’t care, if I was only using you, do you think I would have come to see you? You were going on trial for murder. We all thought you’d be executed. Why would I risk seeing you when it might only reflect badly on me? Why would I speak up for you at the trial and risk everything, including my position and my family honor, in your defense?”

There was a long silence. Sûla fidgeted. “Annatar said . . . .”

“Annatar is only out for himself, Sûla. He’ll say anything to you. Surely you can see that.”

“He told me that emotional entanglements, that’s how he put it, would only get in the way. And I’ve come to believe it’s true.”

“In the way of what?”

“My advancement.”

“What kind of advancement does he have in mind?” Tigôn asked. “Because I can’t think that it would be anything good.”

“Why not? Because I’m a zirâmîki?”

“For bloody Ossë’s sake, Sûla, no! Because he’s not doing it out of kindness. He’s using you.”

“You were using me,” Sûla reminded him. “The King used me and threw me away. Everyone uses me. That’s all I’m good for. Thinking you or anyone else had feelings for me was my worst mistake. So now I’ll take the Zigûr’s advice and turn my heart to stone.”

“Do you truly want that? Do you? Because if so, I’ll walk away right now,” Tigôn said. He stood up. Sometimes you have to wager it all on the final throw. His heart was beating hard in his chest. An angry tear coursed down his face. What if Sûla wouldn’t forgive him? What then?
 
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Sûla watched the tear progress down Tigôn’s cheek, and realized that, far from turning to stone, his heart was made of fire.  Before he came into the solarium, he thought he’d settled his feelings for Tigôn, who he thought had betrayed him in the worst way. It was better to forget him and start over, just as Annatar wanted. But the messenger’s confession had rent aside his protective shield, and now he was confused, angry, and fearful all at once, making it hard to know what to do. Annatar would surely find out about this. He had an urge to run away from all of them, Tigôn, Annatar, Ar-Pharazôn, and take up residence in a cave.   

Then he heard voices down the hall and a light tap-tap, rattle of drums. Startled, both he and Tigôn turned their heads towards the noise. 

“That’s the musicians who play for me,” Sûla said.  “Lord Annatar has given me leave to exercise every day.  He’s says it’s good for me to keep supple.”

Tigôn rose to his feet.  “We need to hide in a place where we can talk. I saw a door on the other side, just past the bushes down there.  Come!”  The voices drew nearer.  “Quickly now,” Tigôn said.

Their feet thudded across the mosaic floor patterned with a huge, naked Lord Ossë blowing a shell in the surf. They sped past the splashing fountain, the potted trees and the pillars.  “Here,” Tigôn said, opening a door in the wall behind one of the pillars. He entered, pulling Sûla after him, and carefully shut it. The only light came from the cracks around the doorframe.  At first it was pitch black. Tentatively, Sûla felt the floor with his bare feet, fearful of stepping on something.

Tigôn was breathing heavily from their run. Sûla could smell a spicy heat coming from him.  The messenger moved at his side, shuffling his feet and there was a soft clunk. “Ow!” Tigôn whispered.  “Oh, it’s a broom.”

Sûla heard him carefully setting the handle against the wall.  There was a rasping sound as it slid again and Tigôn swore.  Sûla tried to suppress a giggle and couldn’t. “C-careful,” he said, “we’re in a tool shed. There’s more here ready to bite your clumsy arse.”  He heard Tigôn’s answering snort of laughter. “Shut up,” Sûla whispered, “they’ll hear us.”  He leaned back against the wall and encountered a hook so that he had to shift sideways. 

“Shut up, yourself,” Tigôn replied, but his choked breathing continued, threatening to erupt out of control any moment. Sûla fumbled at Tigôn’s face, trying to cover his mouth with his hand, and instead poked him in the eye.

“Ow, thanks for blinding me,” Tigôn said and he elbowed Sûla in the ribs.

“Toad!” Sûla whispered, sending them both into more paroxysms of silent laughter. 

Tigôn stepped on something else that fell with a clunk and, unbalanced, lurched against Sûla, clinging to his waist. For a dangerous moment, they swayed. Sûla’s upper back connected quietly with the wall and he felt Tigôn’s weight land against him.  “Uh!” Sûla grunted and then he snickered.

“Sûla!”  The faint call came from the far end of the solarium.    

They froze. 

“Idiot! Don’t move,” Sûla whispered.  He felt Tigôn’s smooth cheek against his—he must have shaved that morning. His pleasant masculine odor went straight to Sûla’s loins. Their chests were pressed together, shuddering with suppressed laughter and down below . . . he could feel every little shift of Tigôn’s hips, and just as earlier on the floor, the hardened length of his cock lying astride his own.

Long moments crept by, quelling their laughter. They clung to each other and strained to listen.

Tigôn’s breath huffed softly in Sûla’s ear and with one finger he started caressing a strip of bare skin on Sûla’s back, between his low-riding silk trousers and his vest. The touch hovered between erotic and ticklish. Then the messenger’s fingers spread to encompass Sûla’s buttocks. Through the fabric he felt Tigôn’s finger delineating the divide in his cheeks—a feathery light motion, stroking up and down, creating a warm, tingling sensation with each brush against sensitive skin.  Sûla inhaled a gasp. He should not want this, but he did, oh he did.

There was another call for Sûla, closer now. Footsteps sounded on the tile outside.  Several more calls, one near their hiding place.  “Sûla, are you playing with us?” Sûla thought it was Gimilbâr, one of the drummers.

“I guess he didn’t come this morning,” someone else said.

Sûla held his breath and felt Tigôn do likewise.  The scuff and squeak of feet receded and then it grew quiet.

For several long minutes they stood unbalanced against each other, tensely listening. Then they heard more voices in the distance. A faint drumbeat started up, soon joined by two  more drums, one higher in pitch and one deeper, swelling into a compelling rhythm. 

“I guess they decided to practice anyway,” Sûla whispered.

“We’re trapped here for a while, then,” Tigôn replied.   

“Yeah,” Sûla said. He couldn’t help smiling. As one, their bodies relaxed. Tigôn’s hands resumed their exploration of Sûla’s arse and the zirâmîki melted into the sensation, flexing his hips against Tigôn to the beat of the drums. Back and forth, back and forth they undulated against one another, each movement calling forth a rush of sensation.

Sûla felt a wet tongue on his earlobe, then heard soft breathing and little metallic clicks. Tigôn was chewing on his earring. That felt delightful. “Mmm,” Sûla moaned as their hips continued their maddening dance against each other.  Tigôn’s mouth left Sûla’s earring and moved gently along his jaw.

When their lips touched, Sûla felt overwhelmed by a shooting sensation, like tingling honey. There was no doubt that Tigôn wanted him, no lies in the movement of his lips, in the relaxed curves of his back, or the grip of his arms.  So tender was that kiss, so full of the depth of Tigôn’s desire that Sûla found himself yielding, as if he were butter melting in the sun. This was what he wanted, how it should be.  Sûla opened to him, took in his tongue and then they were tasting each other, over and over again, as if they could join together into one being through their mouths.  

While they kissed, Sûla began hiking up Tigôn’s long tunic until he eased his hands under it to feel his bare back.  His skin was smooth and hot.  The twin columns of his back muscles hard. Tigôn pulled away and Sûla could feel him fumbling at his front, trying to unbutton Sûla’s vest.  

With a chuckle, Sûla pushed him away and undid the buttons himself and took off his vest hanging it from the nearby hook, while moving his feet and situating himself better against the wall.  By now he could see somewhat in the dark. There was a ripple of movement and a rustle of clothing as Tigôn undid his laces, pulled his own tunic over his head, and then took Sûla in his arms again. Their chests connected in a haze of warm skin and soft gasps of delight. 
 
Tigôn’s head dipped as his mouth descended to Sûla’s chest. The zirâmîki threaded his fingers in those abundant curls, shuddered when lips found his nipples, pulling and sucking, and even more when the messenger’s warm tongue lapped in a soft, swirling motion.  Good, so good. He wanted that mouth lower, more.  He pressed on Tigôn’s  head, urging him down and Tigôn obliged, nipping and tonguing his belly. Oh yes.

It was annoying not being able to move much, propped against the wall.  He would rather be lying in a big soft bed.  The sound of the drums was good though—they throbbed in his blood, making his limbs tingle and dance to the beat. It was so arousing. If he ever became a lord, he would commission drummers next to his bedroom. Tigôn’s lips paused maddeningly at his waistband. Sûla gave him a grunt of encouragement and then the messenger grasped his inner thigh and began kissing him through his trousers, pressing his mouth up and down his cock, mouthing him, turning the cloth damp. Sûla had enough presence of mind to worry about stains, but then that problem went away with a tug on the tie at his waist. His trousers jerked down, catching on his erection, and then there was nothing between him and an eager mouth. 

“By the gods, Tigôn, are you sure you want to . . .?”  Sûla asked.

Tigôn’s answer was to engulf him completely in the moist heat between the arch of his palate and a sinfully mobile tongue. A whisper of teeth encircled the base of his cock.  The feeling sent shock waves of pleasure shooting through Sûla’s loins.  He played with Tigôn’s hair and leaned back against the wall, biting his lip to keep from moaning. Tigôn was trying out various tricks Sûla had shown him during their night together: sucking hard, taking him all the way down, then pulling back up and lapping at the underside of his tender head.  Sûla thought he should tell him to slow down a bit, and then he imagined how much fun it would be to train him to do it better, and then he couldn’t think much at all. 

Sûla realized he was slowly sliding down the wall; he spread out his arms to brace himself and started to rise, then reflected that making a sudden move like that whilst teeth surrounded a vulnerable part of his anatomy was not a very good idea. “Wait, I’m slipping,” he whispered.  “Come back up here.”

Tigôn released him and kissed a steamy path back up his belly and chest until he reached Sûla’s mouth. He tasted of a musky tang that Sûla couldn’t resist. 

“Did I do it right?” Tigôn whispered. 

“Perfectly,” Sûla said and gently bit his lip.  Tigôn pulled him close, so they were pressed together the length of their bodies. Sûla noticed that while Tigôn had been pleasuring him, he’d removed his own cock from his breeches. Sûla thrilled to the touch of that throbbing hot skin on his.  He reached down and fondled them together in his hand, feeling the moisture and slip of skin over rock-hard shafts and was rewarded with Tigôn’s groan of pure lust.  He unfastened the top button on Tigôn’s trousers and pushed them down, along with his linen loincloth.  Then he took up their pricks again, rubbing them together. 

“Sûla, ah, you’ve made me . . . I want you.  Um, I know this isn’t the best . . . oh gods, please.”

Sûla kissed him hard, sucking on his tongue, and devouring his mouth.  He wondered if their lips would look kiss-swollen later. He should be careful; this was not wise.  “Your turn,” he whispered.  “Lean on the wall, here.  Watch out for the hook.”

Dropping down gracefully, he took Tigôn’s shaft in his mouth, enjoying the feel of it, inhaling his scent, feeling the tickle of hair on his nose.  He was rewarded by a groan and a burst of fluid. Unlike the King, Tigôn tasted sweet. Bracing himself against Tigôn’s leg, Sûla gently kneaded the messenger’s sacs with one hand and worked him in a way that he knew to be particularly effective.  Tigôn’s hand eased into Sûla’s hair, cupped the back of his head. He was gasping as he thrust into Sûla’s mouth.

After some time, Sûla’s thighs began trembling with the strain of crouching. He pulled off and stood up, pressing their groins together as he nuzzled Tigôn’s neck.  “Are you close?” 

“Yes, rather,” Tigôn panted. “I’d like to get inside you.” 

“Not a good idea. We don’t have any oil,” Sûla said. “I want to be able to walk straight.” 

“I think I’m going to die if I can’t take you,” Tigôn replied.

“Thrust between my legs,” Sûla said.  He gave him one more kiss, then turned and braced himself with one hand against the wall.  Tigôn pressed up behind and Sûla spit in his hand, reached down and wet him with saliva, and then closed his thighs tightly about him. The messenger grasped him about the chest and began to move, sliding back and forth in the same rhythm as the insistent drumbeat outside. Feeling that weight and warmth against his backside, Sûla felt emotionally close to him at that moment, as if this was what they were made for, to do this together. And more.  He didn’t want it to end. Reaching down, he took himself in hand, stroking hard.  Tigôn was saying, “Oh Sûla,” over and over against his ear. Then he groaned, tightened his grip about Sûla’s chest, and his thrusts grew erratic against Sûla’s newly slippery thighs. Knowing that Tigôn had found his release triggered an unexpected wave of pleasure and Sûla increased his efforts, following soon afterwards in an explosion of delight.

Colored lights burst in his vision, dancing to the drumbeat.

For a long moment they clung to each other.

“Thank you,” Tigôn panted against his neck.  “That was . . . I needed that.” 

Sûla wiped his hand on the wall and turned.  Tigôn fell into his arms and they kissed each other, slowly, thoroughly, making the buzz of good feelings last. But as his head cleared of lust, Sûla realized what a mistake this had been.  Annatar would know, he was sure of it. 

“Let me . . . fix . . . , I need your loincloth,” he whispered as he reached down and grasped a portion of it and used it to wipe off his thighs. Then, he pulled up his trousers, doing up the tie, and fastening his vest.  Tigôn was doing the same, putting his clothes back together. 

“We should not have done that,” Sûla said.

Outside, the drummers had rolled to a dramatic finish and now appeared to be leaving. There was laughter, talking, pit-pats of drum beats here and there, slowly dying off in the distance.  Then finally silence.   

************
       
Tigôn was giddy with happiness.  He took Sûla in his arms again, stroked his hands down his back, fondled that delectable rear, and kissed him. “I don’t care,” he said.

“You may in the future,” Sûla replied.  “Our masters would not take kindly to this if they knew.”

“Our masters are wrong,” Tigôn replied.  He bent to Sûla’s ear. “I love you. Run away with me.” 

Sûla laughed.

“I’m not joking,” Tigôn said.  “I thought about it last night.  It’s the only way we can be together.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?” Sûla said sadly. “I’m a slave, or have you forgotten? You saw how well it worked to run to my aunt. They would hunt me down and hang me for certain this time.  Besides, what would we do in Umbar besides sell our sweet young bodies in some den?”

“No, I don’t mean now. I’m thinking we’ll run after we make port in Rómenna.”  

There was a heavy pause. “You’re mad.” Sûla pulled away from him. “I’ve got to go.”

“Hear me out,” Tigôn continued breathlessly, hanging onto his arm, and reeling him back in. “Once we disembark, you should have a day or two before the march to Armenelos. You must obtain leave to go to the market area. I’m sure you can find a reason to go, something that Annatar needs for his potions. Go just at dusk. There is a shop there called The Eagle Eye where we can meet.  It’s owned by a friend of my father.  His name is Akhâsadûn and he deals in gold and precious stones. You can sell your dragon there so we can buy passage to Andúnië in the west.  We should still have some gold left to give us a start.  I have an aunt named Azrabêth, who runs a tavern by the docks. I’m sure she would take us in.  We could work there and we could be happy together.”

He felt the resistance in Sûla’s body. “Tigôn, this idea has as many holes as a fishing net,” Sûla snorted. “The Zigûr went to some trouble to obtain my services and I doubt he would take it well if I ran off. He would send hunters or  post a big reward and then your aunt would turn us in, just as mine did.”       

“No, she won’t. You don’t know her. She’s rather eccentric and she doesn’t hold with slavery at all. She caused a bit of a scandal in the family because she ran away on her wedding day . . . with another woman.” 

Sûla chuckled.  “I think I like her already.”

“She would love you,” Tigôn said enthusiastically. “I know it. And Andúnië is far away from Armenelos. We will take other names and keep our heads down until they forget about us.”

“What about your family?  Surely they will seek you?  And Lord Nimruzîr?  You can’t just leave his service like that.”           

“I’ll find a way to tell them, once things settle down.”

“Do you know what the Lord Annatar has offered me?” Sûla asked. “Power, wealth, influence. People would fear me.  How can I say no to that and instead run off in some puff-fish scheme? What can you offer?”

Tigôn grasped him by the back of the neck, pulling him into a scorching kiss.  At first Sûla tensed, but Tigôn persisted and suddenly they were kissing greedily, deeply. Tigôn put his arms about him and Sûla clutched at him. When they finally separated, Tigôn said, “That.  He can’t offer that, Sûla.”

“No,” Sûla sighed.  “I guess he can’t. What should I do?  He’ll know.  He can read my mind.”

“Not if you don’t let him,” Tigôn said.  “As I said before, don’t let him put you in his truthsayer’s circle. Play your part. Don’t give him a reason to suspect. I know you’re strong.  I saw you stand up against Korizar at Arzog’s Pass.  You were frightening!  And you made the King believe you lusted for him, when I know you didn’t care a fig. You can smile, make your face lie like a good little slave, until it’s time . . . .”

“It will be at least two fortnights on the ship, cooped up together like chickens. It’s hard to keep secrets.”

“Actually, I think it will be easier.  There will be men around you at all times making it hard for the Zigûr to start asking you questions.  Sleep in the hold with the men.”

“Ha,” Sûla replied. “And what shall we do if one of our ships is late and we miss each other?”

“We’re traveling as the King’s escort, I doubt we’ll become separated and if we do, we’ll come up with another plan,” Tigôn said.              

“This is folly,” Sûla said unhappily. “I can think of a hundred things that could go wrong.”

“You are the one who likes to play dice,” Tigôn said. “Take a chance, Sûla. Roll the bones. Pray to Zizzûn, your master of fate.” 

There was a long silence.  Then Sûla took up Tigôn’s hand, entwining their fingers.  “You would do this for me?” he said softly.  “You would give up your position, leave your family—for me?”

“Yes,” Tigôn replied softly. “I’ve thought about it.  I’ve already disgraced my family. I’m scorned at court. I might as well join my black sheep aunt and start fresh.” He leaned forward kissing those alluring lips.  “I decided last night.  No matter what they say, they can’t make me feel differently than I do about you. Just think, we could make love all night long in a big feather bed.  We could be together.”
 
Sûla chuckled.  “I thought seducing men was my specialty.”

“Am I doing it well enough? Are you convinced?”

“It’s madness . . .”  Sûla clicked his tongue.

“Do you not care for me, Sûla?  If you do, you must make up your mind now as I doubt we’ll have a chance to speak again before we sail on the morrow.  Can I trust you to meet me in Rómenna?”

There was a pause. Sûla sighed.  He clutched Tigôn tightly and then nodded his head against Tigôn’s cheek.  “I will be there. The Eagle Eye in Rómenna, you said?”

“Yes. Don’t forget. Swear to me by your god of fate that you will come.”

“By Zizzûn, I swear.”  Sûla clasped his forearm. “And now you swear as well, by your gods.”

“By Manwë and all the Valar and Eru Ilúvatar himself, I swear to keep faith with you,” Tigôn said. “And you must promise something else—that no matter what anyone tells you, particularly the Zigûr, you must  not doubt my affections.”

“I swear,” Sûla said.  Tigôn put his arms around him and gave him a lingering kiss that Sûla tried to memorize so he could take courage from it during the long voyage oversea.  He sighed as they separated.

Tigôn felt a sudden, stinging jab under his arm. “Ow!” he cried, jerking away. “Something bit me!”

“Bit you?” Sûla sounded puzzled. “How can that be?  We need some light.”

With a creak, Sûla opened the door and light flooded the tiny storeroom.  Tigôn pushed up his sleeve and looked at his arm.  Sure enough, there were two tiny red marks on the underside of his bicep.  “I must have cut it on your arm band,” Tigôn said.

Sûla frowned, sliding his hand over the dragon. “There’s nothing sharp on this.”   

“Perhaps it was an ant, then,” Tigôn said, rubbing the sting out of his skin. “I saw some walking around earlier.  Well, it’s no matter. Two fortnights is a long time, but it will come to an end.  Stay strong and true.”

“And you,” Sûla said.  “We’ve tarried far too long, now. You go first.  I’ll bide for a bit and then follow.”

“Farewell,” Tigôn called.  He leaned over and gave him a final kiss, then turned away and broke into a trot.  He paused at the fountain and looked back. Sûla was staring forlornly at him with one hand covering his dragon bracelet. Tigôn waved and ran from the room. He was excited.  This would work.  It must.

---

Chapter End Notes

Akhâsadûn - invented name composed of canon Adûnaic akhâs - chasm and adûn - the west
Azrabêth – invented name from canon Adûnaic meaning sea-sayer. 
Gimilbâr - canon Adûnaic meaning star lord.

Many thanks to my peerless betas, Russandol and Malinornë, who help make this story much stronger than it would be otherwise.  And to members of the Lizard Council: Erulisse, Kymahalei, Elf of Cave, Aearwen, Grey Gazania