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

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Chapter 29 - Bite of the Dragon

Chapter summary: Sûla discovers that something is very wrong with his armband. He tries to help Tigôn while keeping Annatar from learning about their tryst in the solarium. Warning: m/m sex scene Contains B2MeM 2012 prompts

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Watching Tigôn’s buoyant stride as he disappeared through the solarium doorway, Sûla almost wished that he could have gone on believing that his friend had betrayed him. At least then his path would be clear. The plan Tigôn had dangled before him, that the two of them would run off to live blissfully together in Andúnië was a future Sûla wanted in a way that was almost physically painful. But he knew better than to hope. He had never been well served by trusting or being trustworthy. Annatar would find out what they had done. The very thought turned his stomach.

And now there was a new worry. He lifted his arm to glare at the sleek, golden beast that curled around his bicep. Currently, it appeared to be nothing more than a finely-wrought piece of jewelry. He twisted the band off his arm and held it up to the light. Was it alive?

“What did the Zigûr do to you? And why did you bite Tigôn?” He shook it hard. There was no answer, which, when he thought about it, Sûla realized was good. Zizzûn only knew what he would have done if it had spoken. What was he going to do with the thing? He couldn’t get rid of it. Selling it in Rómenna was key to the success of Tigôn’s plan and if he sold it in Umbar now, Annatar would notice its absence, especially after the fuss he’d made to get it back. Had it heard them plotting? If so, could it somehow tell Annatar?

“Don’t worry,” he told it sternly. “That messenger was just a bit of fun. I have no intention of meeting him or of selling you. I know what a good master I have.”

The dragon’s ruby eyes glittered in the light, just as they always did. Sûla decided he’d worry about it later; now he needed to return to Annatar’s chambers.

He stopped at the servants’ baths to wash off the evidence of his encounter with Tigôn. As he stripped off his clothes, Sûla remembered with a delighted shiver the pleasure of his lover’s voice husking in his ear, his hands and mouth in the dark. Tigôn was his izrê, his beloved. How would he endure the next two fortnights without him? Quickly, he stepped into the tepid pool and rinsed off.

While drying himself with a cotton cloth, he glanced in the mirror, then looked more closely, alarmed at how plainly his emotions were showing. He must be careful not to have these thoughts when he was with the Zigûr. The sorcerer had known immediately what had happened when Dulginzin attacked him in the camp. How much could Annatar know from him if he wasn’t standing in the truthsayer’s circle? What would he do if Annatar attempted to read his mind? He must bury thoughts of Tigôn’s plan deeply. The shop in Rómenna where they were supposed to meet was called the Eagle Eye. He needed to fix that name into his head in a way that Annatar couldn’t understand. He pressed his fingers to his temples and pictured the vast white cliffs of the port of Rómenna with swirls of gulls squawking in the wind, heard the sigh of waves breaking on the rocks, smelled sunlight, fish, seaweed, and tar. Perched on the rocks high above, a large eagle winked back at him.

When he’d thoroughly buried his thoughts, he touched up his eye-paint, plaited his unruly hair into one braid, then took a deep breath. Well then, time to face up to his master. He left the bathing chambers, pausing outside in the corridor. Now what should he do? Would the Zigûr be dining with the King this evening? Perhaps not. Everyone was readying to take ship on the morrow. He should get the Zigûr some supper, just in case.

~o0o~

Sûla entered the bustling, steamy kitchen, picked up a tray and stood in line with the other servants at one of the tables, while craning his neck to see what was on offer today.

One of the cooks dishing up the ubiquitous Umbarian fish stew eyed him intently. The man was short and ugly with a red, unshaven face, a lumpy nose, and grey hair pulled back in a queue. Annoyed, Sûla lowered his eyes, but when he looked up again, the cook was still staring.

“Is there something you want?” Sûla said.

“You’re the King’s zirâmîki. The one they tried for murder and then flogged,” the man replied.

“What of it?”

“They say you belong to the Zigûr now.”

Sûla nodded and attempted to move on to the bread table, but the man laid a hand on his arm. “They say he’s invented a potion to renew youth and cure ills. Is it so?”

Everyone around him stopped what they were doing and turned with intent expressions. So, the word had gone around. Not surprising. It was the same at Armenelos. Schooled as he was in court intrigue and in keeping secrets revealed in the King’s bed, Sûla knew better than to say anything. Instead, he rolled his eyes. “How should I know? I’m only a servant. Now unhand me or I’ll tell my master who caused the delay in getting his meal.”

The cook grunted and withdrew his hand. “Forgive me, young master. Let me make it up to you. They say the Zigûr likes cheese. He’s always sending some mîki down to the kitchen for some. An unusual blue variety has just come in that he might like. Would you care to follow me?”

Sûla hesitated. Perhaps a little bribe would not go ill with Annatar. And he needed every advantage he could get just now. ‘Young master,’ the man had called him. Sûla liked the sound of that much better than the names he was usually called. “Very well,” he said.

The cook handed the soup ladle to another server and then led Sûla through the boisterous kitchens and down a narrow set of stairs. The man had a gimpy leg, forcing him to go down sideways like a crab, one step at a time.

“May I introduce myself,” the man wheezed as he descended. “I’m Burôda son of Kirib, assistant to the head cook. And by your look and your speech, you are Umbarian. Are you not?”

Sûla nodded. They reached the bottom of the stair that led to a cold cellar, where the kitchen sounds were faint and far away. Burôda limped down an aisle. On either side well-stocked shelves rose to the ceiling. They were hemmed in by rack upon rack of wine casks and bottles, dimly illuminated by flickering lamps.

“Well, Umbarian, you have come up in the world for one so young,” Burôda said, “First you were a bedwarmer for the King . . .”

“His cupbearer,” Sûla corrected.

Burôda chuckled. “As you say. And now personal servant to the greatest sorcerer ever known. What is your secret?”

“Zizzûn has had his way with me,” Sûla replied. “My luck has gone up. Then down. Then up again. I suffered a whipping and disgrace to be where I am now.”

“Ah.” Burôda put a finger aside his misshapen nose. “Gifts from our Lord Zizzûn, he who rolls the bones, always have a price. Tell me, Lucky One, what is it like to serve the Zigûr?”

“A position. No more,” Sûla replied.

“He’s very clever they say. There are those who worshiped him hereabouts before the Númenórean King took him captive. Of course, I wouldn’t know myself.”

“It’s best not to ask too many questions.”

“Hmmm,” Burôda replied. “I never put much stock in the stories people told about him before, but I know some who were there at your trial.” He lowered his voice. “They say he took the shape of a dragon. Life size, it was. Them as saw it said he was terrifying. Is that so?”

“It is,” Sûla replied.

“Does he scare the paint off you, sweet boy?”

“No,” Sûla lied.

“So then, you can talk to him? Ask questions?”

“After a fashion.” Sûla couldn’t help preening a bit.

“Good.” Burôda came to a stop. “Here we are at last.”

They stood in an open area surrounded by more shelves stocked with foodstuffs of all kinds: dusty jars of preserves and spices, sacks of flour, bins of nuts, onions, and garlic. One wall held large wheels of cheese, encased in wax or cloth, resting in slotted shelves. The Regent had been well provisioned.

Sûla set his tray on a wooden table while the cook pulled a wheel out of its slot. Grunting under its weight, he thumped it down next to the tray. He peeled back the cloth, cut a thin slice from it, riddled with blue-colored pockmarks, and offered it to Sûla on the edge of the knife. “What do you think?”

The smell was rather pungent for Sûla’s taste, but it had a strong, nutty flavor and creamy texture. Annatar would like it. He nodded. The man set about cutting out a generous slice and putting it on Sûla’s tray. Then he set the knife down and rewrapped the cheese.

“I’ll be sure to tell his Lordship about your gift,” Sûla said, as he lifted the tray to head back up the stairs.

But the cook stood in his path. “Hold on, young master. I wish a favor in return.”

“What favor?” Sûla asked suspiciously.

“Tell me, what would it take to get some of the Zigûr’s curative?”

“I told you, I know nothing about it,” Sûla snapped.

The man grimaced. “Don’t play the fool with me. I heard it direct from another cook who talked with Dâurphursâr, the Regent’s food taster. He tried the brew the Zigûr made and said it cured all his aches and pains. It has to be true; he was kicking about like a youngster. And,” he eyed Sûla, “he said you drank it too, and right before his eyes it cured up all those whip marks on your back. That’s something special, that is. Now, look here.” Setting his hand on the table to steady himself, he lifted his foot encased in a leather sandal. The joints on his toes were swollen huge and knobby, the toenails cracked and yellow. “You see this? I’m all big with the gout,” Burôda said. “It’s come to the point where I can scarcely stand. So long hours in th’ kitchen’s right agony. I would pay quite a bit for a taste of the Zigûr’s magic.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth against his fingers.

Sûla shook his head.

“Two abarîm? Three?”

“No amount of money will suffice,” Sûla said. “Excuse me, I’m late already and my master will be displeased.”

The cook’s knuckles whitened around the edge of the table. “I’m desperate. Name your price, zirâmîki.”

“Oh, so it’s zirâmîki now, is it.” Sûla glared at him. “I warn you not to try anything with me. It will not get you the desired result.”

The cook looked hard at Sûla, then ponderously sank to the floor, clutching at Sûla’s knees. “Have pity on me, friend,” he whined. “I have a daughter. Her louse-ridden husband has run off, leaving her and the baby to bide with me. I’m their sole support, but my feet can’t take no more.”

“I have some hard luck stories of my own,” Sûla replied with a shake of the head. “But the answer is no. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. There is no more of the potion. The King had the last of it, and I assure you, nothing I can say would move the Zigûr to brew more if he didn’t wish to.” That was not quite true. He’d watched Annatar pack up the last of the elixir into two large jars sealed with wax—for the King’s personal use. Sûla was not about to touch it. “I can’t help you,” he said. “Petition the King.”

“As if that would do me any good,” Burôda snarled. “Aren’t you shoving off tomorrow? It’s all for the lords and none for us, huh, slave? Shouldn’t we have our share too?”

“It’s not a fair world,” Sûla said harshly, “as I learned when my aunt betrayed me to the Red Cloaks and nearly got me hanged. Out of my way.”

But the man would not release his knees and commenced weeping piteously. Sûla tried to pull free, but Burôda swiftly reached up to the table top and grabbed the knife, bringing the point to Sûla’s groin.

Sûla reacted instantly, almost without thinking. “Burôda!” he cried, and the words of the freezing spell rose almost by themselves from his tongue and roared past his lips. The man knelt there, eyes lifted in shock, frozen in place.

Suddenly, Sûla was overcome by the urge to be sick. Easing away from the knife still held in Burôda’s hand, he set down the tray abruptly on the table, then ran to the corner and puked on the floor. The heaving sensation in his stomach continued for many moments longer, along with a blinding headache that slowly dissipated. By the gods, Annatar would know for certain. Sûla had already seen how he could sense any use of the magic. He felt a strange tickling on his upper arm, looked down. To his horror, the dragon blinked and opened its mouth, revealing two tiny pin-like teeth.

“Did you bite him too?” Sûla cried. But the beast merely froze back into an innocent bit of ostentatious jewelry.

Sûla’s knees turned to water. He grabbed the edge of a shelf to keep from falling and began to shake. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he returned to the table, and bent to examine Burôda. There appeared to be two minute red punctures on the cook’s forehead. If he hadn’t known to look, he would never have noticed them. Better run like a rat. Now. Sûla grabbed Annatar’s dinner tray and fled, pausing only long enough to take a bottle of wine, no better make that two, from the racks.

~o0o~

Mairon stifled a yawn. How long would he have to sit here listening to the Umbarian dross whine at the King? Ar-Pharazôn had commanded Mairon to be at his side in case a truthsayer was needed while listening to townspeople’s petitions, and Mairon was more than happy to prove his worth. He’d drawn his chalk circle on the tile in front of the King’s dais, but so far there had been little call for his skills. Most of the requests were for recompense for damages caused by drunken Númenórean warriors celebrating their final days of freedom in Umbar’s taverns—fairly straightforward as the King gave the petitioners half of what they requested and bid them be happy that those same warriors had so freely spent their wages in Umbar, not to mention saving the townspeople from becoming vassals of the Haradrim.

Robed all in black with his hair pulled severely back from his face, Mairon sat on the dais, slightly behind the King’s chair. From there he lapped up the whiff of fear he could sense from the Umbarians as they approached and averted their eyes not from the King, but from him. If the supplicants so much as blinked in protest at the King’s decisions, Mairon amused himself by transmuting his face to the image of a hideous black dragon. The King couldn’t see it, but those poor Umbarian merchants could. They blanched and fell to their knees. Mairon watched Ar-Pharazôn’s satisfied expression. Ha!

On the King’s other side sat Lord Azgarad, fingering the patch of beard on his chin. He looked up and caught Mairon watching him and his expression hardened. That one was no fool. Azgarad knew who was behind his sudden change in position from King’s Steward to Regent of Umbar. Mairon drew his lips back from his teeth in a snarl. Azgarad’s eyes narrowed and Mairon quickly schooled his expression. That was one enemy neatly out of his way. For now. He glanced over at Aphanuzîr, the new Steward, who seemed uncomfortable in his new position. Mairon gently clawed his fingernails over his silk-clad thighs, thinking.

Suddenly, his hands and nose tingled and a name faintly hissed in his ears. Feeling along the power lines, he sensed the source and his lips quirked. Every time Sûla used the freezing spell, the boy fell more deeply under his power. But it was dangerous for him to use it so often. Mairon wasn’t ready for others to find out about his gifts to the zirâmîki. Not yet.

Mairon cleared his throat and Ar-Pharazôn turned to him. “Are we nearly finished here?” Mairon said softly. “I have preparations to make before we sail on the morrow.” He sent the King a subtle flow of fatigue and a vision of his inviting bed.

Ar-Pharazôn nodded, covering a yawn. “It has been a long day.” He waved at his scribe, Aglahad. “Send the rest away.”

Aglahad set down his quill and stood. “Petitions are closed for the day,” he announced. Despondently, the remaining Umbarians stepped out of line and headed for the doors.

Lord Azgarad glared at Mairon, his eyes like beads.

~o0o~

When Mairon entered his bronze-sheathed room, Sûla rose abruptly from the chair by the fire and bowed. He bent to set a wine cup down on a low table, his single braid of wavy, jet-black hair sliding forward over one shoulder. Mairon noted a flicker of emotion, apprehension perhaps, on his face before it smoothed into a look of solicitude.

“Oh, you’re back, my Lord. I brought some supper,” Sûla said. He indicated the table, which was laid out neatly with a covered dish, a basket of bread, a small flagon of oil, a knife, spoon, goblet, and a napkin.

Mairon went over and lifted the cover revealing a bowl of soup filled with chunks of fish, clams, potatoes, and leeks. Next to it under a napkin, lay a large slice of white cheese with blue marbling. How delightful! He leaned over to inhale the delicious fragrances and his stomach rumbled. Sûla moved deftly to his side, pouring out some wine from a pitcher. Mairon noticed a faint red blotch on the boy’s neck just under his ear. Interesting. Sûla’s eyes were averted so he couldn’t read them, but Mairon was getting a sense of anxiety. Perhaps it was residue from using the spell.

“I’ve been waiting for you for some time, my Lord, and I fear the stew is cold,” the boy said. “I can warm it up if you like?”

Mairon nodded. Sûla picked up the bowl in both hands and tucked it into a hob by the fire while Mairon sat down at the table. He cut a slice of the cheese, tasted it, then closed his eyes in bliss. Rich and creamy with a sharp flavor that made his mouth water. Really, it was such a shame that cows died in Mordor.

“Do you like it, my Lord?” Sûla asked.

He sounded eager to please. Different from the sullen youth with whip weals that he’d bathed only a sennight ago. “You are learning my tastes,” Mairon said. “Most gratifying.”

The corners of his servant’s mouth moved upward, but his eyes remained troubled.

“You used the spell, again,” Mairon said.

Sûla paused, glanced down, then nodded, tight-lipped. “There was a cook, a man named . . .”

“Burôda. Yes, I heard that much.” Mairon gestured at the bread, and Sûla cut him a slice, then poured a dollop of olive oil on a small plate. Mairon dipped the bread in it and took a bite. The oil was flavored with rosemary, which tasted delightful. “Tell me what happened.”

“He said he had a new shipment of cheese that you might like and took me to the cellar. But he wanted a favor in exchange.”

“Of course he did. Let me guess. He has aches and pains. He wanted some of the elixir.”

Sûla’s eyes widened slightly. “How did you know?”

“Wasn’t it inevitable that the word would spread, once the servants knew? This is what we want.” Mairon chewed and swallowed.

“It is?”

“Yes. It will be good for rumors to circulate. More power and awe for Númenor.” And for me, he thought. He raised the goblet to his lips, inhaled the fruity aroma, then took a taste. Very good. On the dry side with a hint of smoky oak. It mixed well with the cheese. He had to admit he was enjoying the sensations this body afforded him, especially since the elf was no longer giving him trouble. Well, perhaps not as much as before. He still had strange dreams filled with a sense of yearning that must come from the trapped fëa. Mostly, it was annoying and yet he couldn’t help being affected. He would have to find a way to quell this weakness.

Sûla picked up a cloth and used it to remove the bowl of stew from the hob. Carefully, he set it steaming in front of Mairon, who dipped up a spoonful. Ummm, just the right amount of garlic and basil in the broth.

“Is it good, my Lord?” Sûla asked.

Mairon nodded and continued eating while Sûla stood attentively at his side. When satisfied, Mairon pushed back his bowl.

“My Lord, I have a question,” Sûla said.

Mairon raised an eyebrow at him.

Sûla twisted off the dragon armband, set it on the table, then stood back from it. “This thing, it came alive and bit the cook. I saw the marks.” He gestured with two fingers at his forehead. “Just here. This, this should not happen. I’ve worn it for days now after it was returned and nothing . . . not before today. Did it truly try to strangle Hozdûnik? Did you do something to it?” He cast a nervous tongue over his lips.

Mairon chuckled. “‘Tis your doing.”

“What?” His kohl-rimmed eyes anxiously met Mairon’s. “How is that possible?”

“Sit.”

Sûla carefully drew up a chair, perching on the edge of it.

Mairon eyed him speculatively. “So, here is your answer. Ar-Pharazôn forgot about his promise for several days until I reminded him. You can thank me later. I must admit that the King has been somewhat . . . distracted at night.” He winked at Sûla conspiratorially and the young man cracked a smile in return. Mairon had a moment to muse at the irony of trying to cultivate camaraderie with his servant through their similar positions as catamites to the King. How strange was that? After Melkor, he’d vowed never again. He said, “The King ordered the prison guards who had charge of you during the trial to appear before me. The truthsayer’s circle is a powerful tool. I soon learned that Hozdûnik had taken the whole lot from the prison vault and sold it in the Umbarian market.”

“Ha,” Sûla said. “I suspected as much.”

“He found the experience . . . somewhat unnerving.” Mairon swirled the blood-red vintage in his cup, remembering with a delighted shiver the sound of the man’s cries. The odious lout had deserved all he got. “In my search through his thoughts, I discovered something interesting. When he took the armband from you, you told him that it would try to strangle anyone attempting to steal it. Did you not?”

Sûla’s mouth twitched. “I merely sought to frighten him. I had no idea . . .”

“You are a neophyte in wielding the power I gave you and don’t yet know the extent of it. You cursed him, Sûla. I merely enlarged upon the idea.” At this, Mairon flashed a beguiling smile and watched Sûla lean forward, eyes hot upon him.

Mairon enjoyed another slice of cheese. “I sent out a bat seeker, a powerful spell that attaches itself to the object. It revealed the location of your jewelry and I was able to tell one of the King’s messengers, that young imp Darîkil, where to go to retrieve it. I instructed him to return the items to Hozdûnik in prison, to put them right in his cell. You’ll remember that Hazûn informed us that the man awoke from a most interesting dream.”

“Not a dream,” Sûla said. “Hazûn said there was a red line about Hozdûnik’s neck. I thought it odd when he told us that, but now I believe it. I’ve seen the dragon come alive with my own eyes. Tell me, what revives it? Why did it bite . . . the cook?”

“How did you feel when Hozdûnik and his friends stole it from you? When they wrested it from your arm?”

“Furious, desperate. I earned that bracelet, by Zizzûn.”

“Did you want revenge?”

“Yes, of course.” The boy’s eyes flashed deliciously, framed by shapely black brows.

“Then you should be pleased that the seeker animated it. It is your protector now and will be brought to life by strong emotions. You have naught to fear from the likes of Hozdûnik or Lord Dulginzin again.” In addition, Mairon thought with satisfaction, it will keep you on my leash.

“And what will b-befall those it bites?” Sûla asked. His voice broke on the word ‘befall’ and Mairon eyed him carefully. Surely he couldn’t care about a cook or the man who had flogged his back raw, yet tension was wound like iron bands about him.

“Its bite is like that of a viper,” Mairon said. “The man will swell and become feverish. For a while you would have control over him, if you care to exercise it, before . . .”

“Before what?”

“His spirit burns up like kindling in dragon fire and he dies.”

Sûla’s whole body stiffened. “How long does he have?”

“Several days, perhaps as many as five, depending on how strong he is. If he needed the elixir, he must have been ill, so he might not last long. That fool Hozdûnik is dying as we speak.”

“He is?” Sûla covered his mouth with one hand.

“Mmm,” Mairon said. “Of course the healers will think the fever comes from the flogging.”

Sûla swallowed hard. “The cook,” he said. “He was just a harmless old man trying to take care of his family. Is there . . . is there a way to reverse the effect of the bite?”

“There is, but tell me, why do you care?”

“Please, my Lord,” Sûla whispered. “I must know. I couldn’t live with . . . the guilt.”

Something prickled in Mairon’s mind and he felt a surge of anger. The boy was hiding something. How dare he! Mairon shoved back his chair and stood. “Come to me, mîki.” Slowly, Sûla rose and approached Mairon, stopping several paces short of his reach. “Closer,” Mairon said softly. The young man took a step more, ducking his head, clearly terrified. Then Mairon struck. Lunging forward, he grabbed Sûla by the throat, forcing his head back. “There is something you’re not telling me,” he snarled.

“My L-lord,” Sûla choked. “Please!”

“I do not tolerate disobedience or deception from my servants. Is that clear?” Mairon tightened his grip, sending him fear. Sûla nodded frantically. Red-faced, he struggled, pushing at his master’s arms in an attempt to free himself.

Mairon absorbed his panic, then remembered a similar scene of himself caught in his own dreadful master’s grip. His anger dropped away into something else, cold and calculating. He must control himself. Too much and the boy would bolt, which would upset his plans. Mairon relaxed his hand. “You’ve lost the sponsorship of one master,” he warned. “Do you wish to lose my favor as well and be thrown out to fend for yourself in Umbar?” The young man shook his head violently. Ah, yes, the fear was flowing from him now. Mairon breathed it in. “I thought not,” he said. “Do not worry. I’m inclined to be lenient with you, if you tell me what happened.”

Sûla nodded quickly.

Mairon stroked his servant’s cheek. “Good boy. Go, sit on the divan over there.” The young man hastened to do so. Mairon picked up Sûla’s cup, went over to the table and poured a draught of wine for him. He returned, settled himself next to his servant, and spoke a word of quiescence over the cup, watching it steam for a moment. “Drink,” Mairon commanded.

Sûla took the cup, eyed it dubiously. He coughed.

“Go on,” Mairon said soothingly. He reached out and stroked an errant strand of Sûla’s hair away from his face. The young man flinched. “Steady now,” Mairon said. “You will find it calming. Would I harm you after all the effort I’ve taken on your behalf? Do you not see that I value you? You are such a clever one.”

Sûla shivered. He took a sip, and then another. Mairon continued petting his hair. He pulled the tie off Sûla’s plait and pulled it loose with his fingers. Then he stroked down the young man’s cheek with the back of his knuckles, feeling the soft rasp of an incipient beard. Sûla shivered again; Mairon felt both tension and a prickle of ardor from him. “You must know you can’t hide anything from me. Tell me, why are you so concerned about a cook who tried to get you to steal some of my elixir? Or is it perhaps something else that worries you?” Mairon brushed a finger over the mark on Sûla’s neck. “An assignation with a lover, perhaps?”

Sûla’s eyes darted up to meet Mairon’s. He coughed again and his eyes brightened with tears. “I beg pardon, my Lord. I should have told you right off.” He took another gulp of wine. “But I feared to do so. Today, when I went to the solarium to dance, I met up with Tigôn.”

“As I thought,” Mairon said. “Now you will tell me everything.”

There was a moment of hesitation and then Sûla’s words came tumbling out. “I didn’t go seeking him. He found me. Somehow he knew where I’d be. I accused him of being a spy. And he admitted it, bold-faced. We, we fought, my Lord, with blows. Here’s the bruise on my elbow to show you I speak the truth. But then I remembered that you told me that turn about was fair play. What if I could spy on him and his masters—for you, my Lord?”

“You’re a liar, Sûla,” Mairon said. The servant opened his mouth to protest and Mairon made a silencing gesture. “I believe you met him there, that you fought. Then the evidence suggests you reconciled. I would be surprised if any talk of spying or politics was involved.” Again, he touched the bruise on the young man’s neck, watched Sûla glance down guiltily. Yes. With some probing, he’d hear details. “So tell me, what did your young lover have to say? Anything about his masters that I’d find interesting?”

“As you guessed, we didn’t talk much, once we stopped fighting.”

Mairon continued fingering the love bite with a teasing, swirling motion. A vein on the young man’s neck pulsed under his touch. Mairon’s eyeteeth tingled. “Fighting and love-making are not far removed sometimes, are they?” he purred. “So, did he lay you down on the tile amidst the potted trees?”

“No. When the drummers came, we fled, so that no one could see us together. We hid in a closet and well . . .” Sûla’s eyes lost focus. He set his empty cup on the floor.

“You plied your trade with him,” Mairon said.

The brief look of indignation told him much. So, the little zirâmîki fancied himself in love, even after discovering Tigôn was spying on him. Mairon felt a prick of annoyance and something else—a memory of the two of them together, revealed in the trial. Based on his observations of Sûla, the young man was desperate for a show of affection.

“Yes,” Sûla replied. “I suppose I did. But then, my Lord, while we were . . . so close together, Tigôn said he felt something bite him. He thought it was an ant. When I looked at it, I could see two pin pricks on his arm. I suspected it was the dragon but I couldn’t be sure until later when I saw what happened with the cook.” At this, Sûla slid off the divan onto the floor, clasping Mairon by the knees. “Please, my Lord, I do not know why it happened; Tigôn was no threat to me, or to you.”

“Clearly, your dragon thought he was. I wonder why?”

“I have no idea. I can understand why the thing bit Burôda because he pulled a knife on me, but Tigôn did nothing of the sort. I beg you to cure him. Or if you will not, show me how to do it. Please, my Lord.” He took Mairon’s hand and pressed his lips to it.

“And why should I? So far your little messenger has been naught but trouble. What is he to me?”

Sûla raised his head. “You said yourself that you wanted information about his masters. Perhaps . . .”

Abruptly, Mairon cut him off. He rose from the divan, pulling free from his servant’s grasp, and went to the fireplace, holding his hands out to the heat. “A good point about his usefulness. But you’ll have to do a lot better than you’ve done so far. You’ve brought me nothing I can use. I begin to wonder if I made an error taking you on after the King cast you away.”

“No, no, you haven’t,” Sûla murmured, turning on his knees to face him. He held out his cupped hands in supplication. “I promise. Whatever you want.”

“You have very little I want that I do not already own.” Mairon came back over to him, prodded him with his foot. “Get up.”

Slowly, Sûla rose. He twisted his hands together, shoulders slumped. Mairon put a finger under his chin and lifted his face. “I have been most patient thus far, because I see promise in you. You’ve already had a taste of power with the spells I’ve taught you. You can have it all, Sûla, wealth, influence, whatever you want. But you are walking on the edge now and I feel my temper flaring. Just remember your station and who has power over you.”

Sûla nodded rapidly. “Y-yes, my Lord. I am grateful for the gifts you’ve offered. Most grateful. But please, I did not intend for Tigôn . . . I do not want him to die.”

“Why not?” Mairon snapped. “Was not death Ilúvatar’s ‘gift to men’? Shouldn’t Tigôn embrace it with open arms?”

“‘Tis not a gift when it comes so untimely,” Sûla choked out.

“Is that heresy, my young pup?” Mairon said. “Or perhaps the Bawîba Manô priests are wrong?”

“I know not,” Sûla said. “I was raised to worship Lord Zizzûn, god of fate.”

“So you were. Will you trust to him now?”

“What?”

Oh, that lovely olive skin, those shapely cheekbones, and heavy-lidded eyes, so desperate and sorrowful. So needy. Mairon licked his lips. “Do you have a set of bones?”

“Yes, the King gave them to me.”

“Get them.”

Sûla disappeared behind the panel that formed his room, then re-emerged with a small wooden box banded in gold. Another expensive gift. Nudging Ar-Pharazôn to give up his favorite bedmate had been a formidable task. Mairon smiled to himself. Sûla presented the box with a dip of his head.

“Good,” Mairon said, opening the lid. “I shall make a bargain with you. We’ll let Zizzûn decide.”

Sûla looked startled and suspicious. “What are the stakes?”

“If you win, I’ll show you how to reverse the spell. Tigôn shall be none the worse for his encounter with your dragon.”

“And if I lose?”

“My whim shall rule.” Mairon reached in and pulled one ivory piece from the box. “And if it lands on the other sides, we roll again. The odds are equal, one to one.” He opened his hand and held out the ivory piece. “Call it.”

Sûla took the piece from his hand, snapping his fist tightly around it. He closed his eyes. There was a long pause. “Dragon’s tongue,” he said finally.

“Cat’s paw,” Mairon replied.

Sûla hesitated, holding the bone, then he held his breath and cast it out upon the table. The piece rolled and came to a stop with the side facing up showing the unmistakable pattern of the dragon’s tongue with its triangular tip.” Sûla sighed. Mairon lifted a finger casting out his intention and the bone made one more turn. A circle bordered by five smaller ones. Cat’s paw.

“No!” Sûla gasped. His eyes snapped up to meet Mairon’s.

“Don’t despair before you know my choice,” Mairon said.

Sûla waited, gently biting his lip.

Mairon pulled a long ringlet of his servant’s dark hair through his fingers and thought. He could let Tigôn die but it would not serve any purpose. Rather it would earn Sûla’s enmity and lose him a valuable connection to Aphanuzîr and his son, who were high on his list of targets. He said, “Who do you think your villagers were worshiping when they spoke the name of Zizzûn?”

Sûla shook his head.

“My former master Melkor has many names,” Mairon said. “And often enough did I walk among your ancestors as his emissary. Do not believe all that you have heard of him, or of me. I am Annatar, the bringer of gifts to those loyal to me, and I am capable of mercy and . . . affection.”

Sûla’s expression softened. His eyes brimmed. “You’ll help him then?”

Mairon continued stroking Sûla’s hair. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” Sûla breathed. “What do you desire in return?”

Mairon leaned down, his lips inches from Sûla’s so that he could inhale the young man’s breath. “You. Your body, your soul. You will give them all to me and together we will do great things.” Ah there it was, another tendril of hunger. Mairon sucked it in, augmented it, and fed it back to him. Sûla’s eyes fluttered shut. Mairon grasped his arse with both hands and roughly pulled him close. The young man inhaled sharply.

Their lips met with an abruptness that spoke of mutual lust. The boy tasted of wine and dark magic. Fire roared within Mairon, flowing upward from his loins, engulfing him. His mouth widened and he bore down, devouring Sûla’s lips until he felt the young man relent, felt him growing hard against his thigh.

“Disrobe,” Mairon growled.

Sûla pulled away. “Do you wish a performance, my Lord?”

“Unnecessary.”

Sûla rapidly thumbed open the buttons on his vest, then in a quick, practiced movement, shrugged it off his arms. He untied his trousers and giving Mairon a smoldering look, drew them down, and stepped out of them. He straightened, holding his arms out to either side as if to say, ‘here am I.’ Now that was a lovely sight. Mairon remembered seeing him naked, lying on his divan, dewy from the bath, his pert backside striped scarlet. That image nearly caused him to lose control on the spot.

Sûla bowed his head. “I am yours, my Lord.”

Mairon hissed. He strode over and without preamble palmed the back of Sûla’s neck, claiming his mouth once more. All his. But there was something else he wanted. The images of Tigôn in the throes of ecstasy came to him. Yes, that. “How did he take you?”

“My Lord?”

“How did Tigôn take you in that closet?”

“There was very little room in there; it was full of junk,” Sûla said. “I, um, had to lean against the wall.”

“Show me.”

Sûla pulled away, went over to the wall near the dragon tapestry, and leaning his hands against it, presented what had to be one of the shapeliest bottoms in all Endórë. He looked over his shoulder, questioningly.

Mairon strode over to the table. Lifting off his sueded silk robe and ripping aside his loincloth, he poured a handful of oil, inhaled the rich smell of olives and rosemary. Rapidly, he applied it to his engorged organ, then strode over to his servant. He slapped him hard on the rear, feeling the pleasant give of flesh under his hand. Sûla cried out in surprise. Mairon pressed up behind him, clasping him about the chest, and sliding his throbbing cock along smooth buttocks. “Like this?” he whispered into Sûla’s ear.

“Yes,” Sûla groaned. “Only he thrust between my thighs.”

“What a waste.” Mairon pulled back a little, one hand on Sûla’s hip, took himself in hand, then abruptly pushed in, relishing the boy’s sharp gasp and his back arching like a fish on a line. Oh yes, the King had been right. Tight as a knot-hole. Mairon began to move, feeding him more pleasure until Sûla moaned and bucked hard against him. “What did he tell you?” Mairon whispered against his ear. “How beautiful you are? How much he cares for you? Did you plot to meet again?”

“We, uh, did not speak much, afraid of being discovered. Oh, by Zizzûn that feels so . . . What are you doing? No wonder the King . . . !”

“Most delicious, is it not?” Mairon said. “You are perfect. Ar-Pharazôn is a fool.”

Strangely, as his servant yielded all to him, shattering around him with a wordless cry, Mairon had a brief vision of gulls swooping and diving around tall white cliffs, watched by an eagle’s unblinking eye.

---

Chapter End Notes

Burôda - canon Adûnaic meaning heavy. izrê - beloved in Adûnaic
B2MeM prompts fulfilled in this chapter: Adûnaic - izrê; Diner’s Club - supper; Emotions - grief, apprehension, delight, cruelty; Write what you know - character something in common; (Sûla has a fear of the unknown future, something he can’t control). Relationship - same sex, seduction; Life Events - sex; Occupations - scribe (Aglahad, it was brief I know); Second Age - the Gift of Men. Textures - fuzzy, rough.
Thanks so much to my beta Russandol, for her sharp eyes, good advice, and pushing me to do my best. And thanks to Malinornë and Kymahalei for finding the nits.