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

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Chapter 30 - The Shape of Dreams

Chapter summary: Annatar seduces Sûla, making him an offer he can’t refuse.

 Warning: m/m sex scene

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Sûla was trying not to think. It wasn’t hard, given the sensations flooding his body—like a rain-swollen river lurching and leaping out of its constraining banks.  This . . . this was the Zigûr’s hold on the King. And no wonder. It was overwhelming.

Annatar had pulled him from where he had been leaning against the wall to a more comfortable spot lying across his bed, and now the sorcerer was at him again, pounding him into the mattress with precise strokes, his loins smacking smartly against Sûla’s backside.  Each movement felt like a sword thrust of pleasure. Far from being in charge of himself, Sûla writhed and moaned and clawed the sheets helplessly under his master. Annatar’s skin felt hot and the very air about them seemed to crackle and glow. There was a sharp, fresh smell of lightning-rent air. Sûla was caught up in the wild current of sensation, tossed about like a cockleboat. Building, building . . .

“Give it up,” Annatar said in his ear, and just like that, with a low wail, Sûla released, capsizing into the depths. Drowning. He heard Annatar’s corresponding cry, a strange howl of ecstasy that made Sûla’s heart quail.  

For a time he lay trembling, panting, damp with sweat, and dizzy with a choir of sensation clamoring within. His head half hung off the side of the bed and below him on the tile floor he noticed a small feather from one of the pillows.  Feathers. That meant something.  But what . . . at the moment he could not fathom.   

He became aware of Annatar biting his neck, then sucking on it, marking him.  There was no pain, even though he sensed warm fluid trickling down.  His master gathered it up with a swirl of his tongue, and a breathy exhalation of pleasure. Sûla kept still until he was done.  Then Annatar pulled free from Sûla’s body and lay quietly, scratching his nails along Sûla’s back, extending and retracting his fingers. It felt good.

“Did you like that, my Lord?”  Sûla’s voice emerged all raspy and he had to clear his throat.

“Immensely,” Annatar replied. “I should have availed myself of your services long before this.”  He leaned back against the cushions, his fiery waterfall of hair cascading around his broad shoulders, bony in the lamplight. The nostrils flared on his long, narrow nose as if scenting prey from afar.

“Well, the voyage to Númenor is two boring fortnights long,” Sûla replied. He propped his head on one hand. “With much idle time.”  He hoped he wasn’t sounding too eager but, oh, his body craved more.

Annatar yawned lazily. “And the ship is a confined space with many listening ears.  Discretion will be called for between the two of us, due to the King’s sensitivities.  And most likely, I’ll be lodged in the King’s cabin instead of my own.”

“A desirable circumstance?” Sûla asked cautiously.  

Annatar laughed. “Hardly. The King makes love like an oliphaunt wallowing in the mud. You know it better than most, I suspect.”

Laughter burst from Sûla before he could catch himself.  “Perhaps I do,” he said. “If I had your skills, I’d still be his favorite.”

“And would you really want that?”Annatar pushed a lock of Sûla’s hair behind his ear.  “Aren’t you better off now?  Your Lord Zizzûn, whom you now know as Melkor, has blessed you. Now you can have everything you desire.”

Not everything, Sûla thought. He saw Tigôn smiling blissfully at him in the flickering light of the fire, as the two of them shared a pillow.  It seemed so long ago and so much had happened since that night. Quickly, Sûla shifted his thoughts before he might give anything away. Instead, he concentrated on how Annatar had just made him feel: like dark honey, sticky-sweet, and wicked.  He saw himself dressed in a robe of peacock feathers, sitting next to his master as they rode in a chariot through cheering crowds. As they passed, the people all bowed before them.  He felt elated, feverish with excitement. Then he saw Tigôn again, tossing and turning in the blankets, flinging an arm over his face.  Sûla shifted uneasily.  “My Lord?”

“No doubt you wish me to fulfill my part of the bargain,” Annatar said, stroking the back of Sûla’s head, playing with his hair. “What if I reconsidered, saying that you have not yet given me everything I asked for?”

Sûla went very still.  He swallowed.  “What have I not given you . . . my Lord?”      

“Your will,” Annatar said.  His eyes darted back and forth, scanning Sûla’s face. “I sensed a certain resistance.”

“I’ve given you all I’m capable of,” Sûla replied.  “And Lord Zizzûn considers oaths made over the bones to be sacred.”  Even as he said it, he realized he had sounded petulant.  Not good. He cast his eyes down submissively.

But Annatar chuckled.  He leaned over and kissed Sûla hard on the lips. “You remind me of myself when I was . . . younger.  Clever, with a keen sense of self-preservation.  It’s what I need in a servant as long as that servant doesn’t get above himself.”  He tapped Sûla’s nose with a finger heavy with warning.  “Indeed, my master always managed to twist his vows to suit his own interests. But do not fear.  I consider myself bound by my oaths. And it would be a shame for your charming messenger to receive Ilúvatar’s dubious gift, would it not?”  

Fearfully, Sûla nodded.

“Very well.  Clean me up and we’ll work on it.”
                                
Shortly afterwards, they were dressed and Annatar was rummaging in his bags, packed for tomorrow’s voyage. The dragon bracelet was still lying on the table, untouched since Sûla had taken it off.   He dearly wished he’d never seen it.  He was feeling all hollowed out, shaky and strange inside.  And worried. Had Annatar detected anything from him while he was in his unguarded throes? He must not slip, not even once, and was regretting all the unwatered wine he’d drunk earlier; he needed to be sharper than he was feeling.  

Annatar pried up the wax seal on one of the jars containing the elixir, and poured some of it into a cup. “Here, put this in the hob and make sure it doesn’t overheat.”

Sûla took it to the fire, watching Annatar out of the corner of his eye.  The sorcerer set a lamp on the floor. He redrew his chalk circle with the symbols on the tile then sat back on a cushion. “Hand me the dragon,” he said.
   
Sûla went over to the table, picked up the thing with a shudder, and carried it over to the Zigûr, who placed it in the middle of the circle.  Annatar closed his eyes, held his hands over it, and said some words in that strange tongue of his, which caused a vague ache in Sûla’s temples. The words echoed in his head while he chased after them in his thoughts, memorizing the sounds so he could replicate them later.  It was like trying to grab smoke. As he watched, the dragon shivered, uncurled, and raised its head.  A needle-like tongue darted from between its teeth.

“There’s our little beast revived from slumber,” Annatar said.  “Now then, this is your opportunity.  One who has been bitten by the bat seeker spirit is open to your suggestion.  Is there something you’d like Tigôn to do?”

Sûla shook his head.  “I just wish him to get well.”

“Wasted opportunity,” Annatar said, with a curl of his lip. “Very well then.  Perhaps you wouldn’t mind ordering the cook to do a favor for me?”

“What favor?”

“I need a message delivered to the sorcerer Magân in the weavers’ quarter.  I would send you but it’s best that I not be connected with this.”  Annatar’s golden eyes gleamed.  “I believe you have an aunt who lives near there. One with whom you are rather displeased.”

Sûla ground his teeth.  “You could say that.  She betrayed me to the Red Cloaks, knowing they would hang me.  Without a thought, she sold out her own flesh and blood.”  

“You now have the ability to be revenged,” Annatar said mildly, but his voice held an edge of excitement.

“I do?” Sûla asked. His master nodded slowly.  Sûla remembered Kathalômi standing in her yard, watching him with that greedy expression in her eyes while the Red Cloaks manhandled him. Something cold and dark crept into his heart. He cried out, “I want her to suffer, the way she made me suffer. And my step-father too.  The whole lot of them should die in agony.”

“This cook Burôda can take my message to Magân and then you could send him to pay a visit to your aunt.”

“Yes, I want that. What should I do?”

“Take the dragon in your hand and say the following words,” Annatar replied. Sûla repeated what his master said, and the same oily feeling erupted in his stomach as when he’d last used the freezing spell. He pressed his lips shut against nausea.

“And now project your intention,” Annatar said.

Sûla nodded, imagining the cook hobbling his way towards Kathalômi’s house in the weaver’s quarter, just as he had done after Dulginzin was murdered.  

“Tell the dragon how you feel.”

“I hate her!” Sûla declared, and suddenly he bent over choking as something poured forth from him like vomit, but it was shadowy and insubstantial.  Then he spoke in a strange, echoing voice. “You, Dragon, tell Burôda he must come to see the Zigûr to receive a message for the sorcerer Magân.  Once it’s delivered, he should take out the anger he feels towards his feckless son-by-marriage on Kathalômi, the weaver. Let her feel the terror she made me feel. Tell him he will be cured if he does.”  

The dragon’s eyes gleamed.  The lamp flickered and wavered and eerie voices whispered in the air.  A shadow rose up from the bracelet like a snake uncoiling. It grew about them, mingling with the shadow that Sûla had belched forth. Although he was terrified, the fear was accompanied by a surprisingly sensual feeling.  It was as if some pulsing nexus bright with culmination lurked just out of reach. Annatar’s cat-like eyes glowed, the dark pupils wide as the shadow expanded, then suddenly disappeared.

“Very good.  You have a natural talent for this,” Annatar purred and Sûla felt a fluttering warmth from the praise. “Now then, I shall teach you to reverse the spell for Tigôn.”

“Oh, the elixir!” Sûla cried. He hastened to the hob and opened the door. Protecting his hands with a cloth, he withdrew the steaming mixture, and carried it back to his master.  

“Set it on the table,” Annatar instructed.  He put out a hand, allowing the dragon to slide up his wrist and wrap around his lower arm.  

“Does the elixir need more, um . . .?” Sûla gestured at himself.

“You spilled a goodly amount onto my sheets earlier.  Do you already have more you’d like to contribute?” Annatar’s sumptuous mouth quirked.

“If we need it for the spell to work . . . .”

“We don’t, actually,” Annatar said.  “Once I’ve added the seed, the reaction will hold for a period of time.  Although the longer the elixir is kept in storage, the more the potency will diminish.  It’s best when taken fresh.”

“Why did you require seed from both me and the King but not the Regent’s food taster?”

“Ah, sharp lad,” Annatar said, turning to look slyly up at him. “As I’ve said, you show great promise. Come sit.”

Sûla came back and sank down cross-legged opposite the sorcerer.  

“The mixture works best if the man who uses it provides the seed.  The healing is stronger and lasts longer. Hence, I wanted some from you and the King, since you were both going to use it.  But it will still work with nearly as much efficacy for someone else, as the food taster proved.”

“Lasts longer?  Does it wear off?”  That was an unnerving thought.  Would his whip weals reappear?

Annatar smiled. “Wounds and illness heal forever.  But nothing can permanently reverse Ilúvatar’s Gift to Men.”

“Does it work for women?” Sûla asked.

“It should. According to my experiments, the seed should activate the formula for any of the Edain who take it.  But I have not yet tried it on a woman.” Annatar tapped his lip thoughtfully.
    
“I’m sure you will have plenty of candidates who would be happy to test it for you,” Sûla said.

“No doubt,” Annatar replied.  “Although the subjects in the early stages of experimentation were not exactly . . . happy with the results.”

Sûla shuddered.  He didn’t want to know any more about that. “So, what must I do to cure Tigôn?” he asked cautiously.

“You begin the magic now to reverse the spell.  To complete the cure, the dragon must bite him again, to draw back the poison.”

“Why does he need the elixir?” Sûla asked.

“To undo the damage the spell has already wrought on his body,” Annatar said.  “This is a powerful spell, not to be used lightly.”

“I can see that,” Sûla said.  “Thank you for your mercy, my Lord.”   

Annatar’s eyes narrowed.  He grasped Sûla’s upper arm.  “I will only show you how to do this if you swear your undying loyalty to me.  My will, my wishes must come first in all things. I own your body, your desires, your very soul. Do you understand me?”

Sûla felt a terrible wailing begin in his heart, but he nodded.

“Swear! Say the words, slave.”

“I swear, my Lord.  I am your devoted servant in all things.”

Annatar smiled. “Good.  Just remember, a favor given deserves one in return.  You will maintain your friendship with Tigôn once we get back to Númenor so that you can bring me information I can use. Yes?”  He gripped Sûla’s arm more tightly.  

Sûla nodded. “Of course, my Lord.”  He didn’t think this order would be too hard to obey, since being with Tigôn was what he most wanted, but oh his heart began to twist. He’d been so angry when he’d found out Tigôn had been spying on him and now he would turn around and do the same thing to his friend?  Could he live a double lie?   

The little dragon uncoiled itself from Annatar’s wrist and transferred itself onto Sûla’s arm.   Sula tried hard to repress a shudder, but couldn’t. Annatar chuckled.  Sûla was beginning to realize that there was little his master didn’t notice.  He felt his heart thumping.  

“Take the words from my breath,” Annatar intoned.

As Sûla leaned towards the sorcerer, he caught a glimpse of their reflections in the bronze wall behind them, distorted and grotesque.  

************

Sûla paused outside Tigôn’s door. Hidden under his cloak, he was carrying a flask filled with Annatar’s elixir mixed with wine. The dragon felt heavy on his arm. He would dearly have liked to leave it behind, but the little beast was key to Tigôn’s cure.  Getting it to bite his friend without him noticing was going to be tricky, but Annatar had told him that no one must learn about the dragon’s capabilities.  ‘You’ll know what to do,’ the sorcerer had said.  Sûla was becoming increasingly worried about this power. It made him feel sick when he used it and that couldn’t be good, could it?  But now a purring voice spoke in his ear. All your life you’ve felt helpless in the hands of others, subject to their whims. Now, you have the power to protect yourself.  

He entertained the thought of going back to his village in Brûni so that the dragon could bite Khunig, his step-father.  He would stand over him, listening to him plead for mercy, then he would say, ‘I have the power to cure you, but remember all those times you beat me; when you raped and nearly drowned me; when you sold me off as a pleasure slave? I remember. Now you can suffer just as I did.’  Sûla’s lip curled.  They would see, all of them.  No one could hurt him anymore . . . no one except his new master.  With that sobering thought, he raised his fist, and knocked.  

There was a groan from within.

“Tigôn?” Sûla  called softly.

“Come in; it’s not locked.”

Sûla opened the door, peering around it.  In the flickering lamplight, Tigôn lay on his bed, wearing naught but a pair of leggings, his chest pale and alluring. He was sprawled on his back with one knee up, his arm slung across his eyes, just as Sûla had pictured him earlier in Annatar’s room. Sûla took in a breath. This was his doing.  He must make it better. He felt torn up inside, angry, dark as a shadow, but the sight of Tigôn made his heart beat more quickly.  

Tigôn withdrew his arm, opened his eyes, sea dark in the dim light, then struggled to sit upright, smiling a wan welcome. “Sûla! By the gods, I never expected . . . What are you doing here?”

“Shhh.”  Sûla slid into the room, quietly closing the door.   He threw the bolt, locking it.

“You should not have come,” Tigon groaned.  “It’s dangerous. The other pages, they’d tell the King in a heartbeat.” He flopped back down on the pillow. “But I am glad to see you.  Sorry that I’m such a slug.  I’ve a bit of fever and my lord Elendil, I mean Nimruzîr, sent me to lie down. That ant bite is bothering me, it seems.  I feel so weak.”

Sûla came and stood by his side. They had a moment, looking at each other.  Tigôn’s expression grew soft. It was so open and honest, it made Sûla feel as if something were rotting inside him. Even though he’d bound himself to Annatar’s wishes, he must not betray his lover.  

“Let me see this bite,” Sûla said.

Tigôn held out his arm. It was swollen and red with two black marks where fangs had punctured the skin just above the crook of his elbow. Tiny livid lines emanated from them. That didn’t look good at all.  Sûla felt his friend’s forehead, which was burning hot to the touch, then he went to the table holding Tigôn’s wash basin and poured the contents of the flask into a ceramic goblet.

“What’s that?” Tigôn asked.        

“Oh, I was on an errand for my master and ran into your Lord Nimruzîr,” Sûla said smoothly.  “He told me you’d gone to bed early, not feeling well.  So,” he lowered his voice, “I brought a bit of the elixir out to you.  You must not tell anyone or I’ll get into trouble.”  He dipped a cloth into Tigôn’s water basin, wrung it out, then returned with the goblet and the rag, settling on the narrow bed next to Tigôn.

“The elixir of youth?” Tigôn asked.  

“Yes, it cures all sorts of ills.  Remember how my back looked after the flogging.  Did you notice any marks on it while we were in the closet?”  Sûla smiled as he swiped the cloth over Tigôn’s forehead and his swollen arm.

“Oh no, I didn’t.”  Tigôn smiled back. “As I recall your back was perfect: smooth and hard . . . just like the rest of you.”  He paused.  “I am happy you’re here, even though it’s dangerous.  Strange, you know, there were whispers in my dreams, and some of them were about you.”

“Fever dreams are like that,” Sûla said.  “Pay them no heed.”  He turned and picked up the goblet from the table.

“Why waste the elixir on an ant bite?” Tigôn said.  “It should go away soon.  Once, I was stung by a wasp in the garden where I grew up in Eldalondë.  It swelled up real bad like this one, but it went away in a few days.”  

“Umbarian ants can be quite venomous,” Sûla said.  “I knew a man who died from their bites.  Now don’t argue, mîki, and let me take care of you.  Here, sit up; drink this.”  Sûla pressed the goblet into his friend’s hand.

Tigôn eyed it dubiously.  “Was this made with the ingredients I got from Magân?”

“Yes.”

“Uh!” Tigôn made a face.  “Do you have any idea what’s in this? Because, unfortunately, I do.”

“Of course I know what’s in it; I watched the Zigûr brew the stuff,” Sûla said, with a laugh.

“Does it taste terrible?” Tigôn asked.

“Never you mind that.  Drink it up.  You’ll feel better immediately.”

“You didn’t see the things I watched Magân pull out of those jars, bit by nasty bit,” Tigôn said. He hesitated, then tilted his head back and swallowed the contents of the goblet in three quick gulps.  He set the cup down abruptly, sticking out his tongue in disgust.  “Gah!”

“It’s worth the bad taste.  You’ll see,” Sûla said.    

Tigôn settled back against the pillow. He picked up Sûla’s hand and rubbed his thumb across the back of it.  “I’m truly glad to see you.  I was thinking what a long voyage it will be before we meet up again and I was missing you already. You remember what I said . . .”

“Yes, yes, I remember—that we might see each other again in Armenelos,” Sûla said. He looked down at the dragon on his arm.  No movement.
                                    
Tigôn frowned. “Have you changed your mind about . . .?”   

Sûla glared at him, pressed his lips together, and shook his head. He watched the dawning of suspicion on his lover’s face. Sûla pulled Tigôn’s hand to his chest. “You must trust me.”

“You don’t think I do?”   

“I know you do and perhaps you shouldn’t.  But trust me now; I must do something to help make you better.”

Tigôn said, “What more needs to be done, because I’m feeling better already.  That elixir must really work, huh?”  He worked his hand up under Sûla’s tunic and curved it around his waist. “I love touching your skin. You feel so good.” He leaned forward, pursing his mouth for a kiss.

“I have little time for games,” Sûla said more sharply than he meant.  “My master expects me back soon.”

Tigôn looked surprised and slightly hurt.  He withdrew his hand.  “Sûla, what’s going on?”

Sûla said the words to the freezing spell and watched Tigôn become rigid with his mouth parted in mid-sentence.  Now, he must be quick.

Tensing his stomach against the nausea that followed the spell, Sûla slid off the bed.  He pulled a bit of the Zigûr’s chalk from his pocket, kicked aside a throw rug near the bed and drew a circle on the tile. Then he took the dragon from his arm, set it in the circle, and spoke the batseeker awakening spell.  It worked. The dragon twitched and uncurled. When Sûla held out his hand, it slithered up around his wrist. He scrubbed away the circle and dragged the rug back into place.

This was the time when Tigôn would be open to suggestion.  Sûla rose and sat on the bed, then spoke the influencing spell, feeling the shadow slide from his tongue.  He said,“When you wake, Tigôn, you will think this was all a dream. Remember, just a dream.”  

He set the dragon on Tigôn’s arm, shivering as he watched it inch upwards and then sink its tiny teeth into that tender-looking skin. The snake-like body undulated, as if sucking up something; then it retreated, moving down Tigôn’s forearm to Sûla’s hand.  It circled his arm once with a cold metal shiver, recoiling itself around his biceps.   

Sûla waited a beat until it had solidified, then he yanked it off, wrapped it in the damp cloth he’d used on Tigôn’s forehead, and ran to the door.  He tossed it into the hall, then closed the door, rebolted it, and ran back to Tigôn.  Throwing himself down on the bed next to him, Sûla kissed him hard on the mouth. “Izrê, listen to me. My master . . . there are forces at work . . . I may do and say things I don’t mean.  Please believe that I love you. No matter what happens, never doubt that.”  He kissed him again, then said, “Remember what I said as part of your dream.”

Tigôn’s mouth began to tremble with reawakening. It was agony but Sûla managed to wrench himself away. He fled, shutting the door quietly behind him.
                                        
Scooping up the bundled cloth, he retreated a distance down the corridor, then dumped his golden keeper out into his hand.  The beast sat there innocently, unmoving.  Sûla pressed it back onto his arm, then clapped a hand to his forehead.  He’d forgotten the flask.  Well, there was no going back there now, not if he wished to maintain the illusion of a dream.

While walking back to Annatar’s chamber through the lamplit halls, Sûla was suddenly overcome by a feeling of dread. The dragon opened its mouth, hissed, and a quick series of images flashed before him: the sound of footfalls, a threadbare chamber with a single loom; a kitchen table cluttered with the remains of a meal; a large butcher knife; a grey-haired women in a red-and-black striped robe bending over a fireplace.  She turned and straightened, her sunken eyes widening in horror.  He heard her shrieks, echoing horribly in his mind, then silence. A fly floated in a pool of blood on the stone floor.  

Sûla bent over double, retching, until finally the sensation passed.  He knew what he had just witnessed, and felt a grim satisfaction in the deed. Surely, she had deserved it.  But he did not feel elated, not the way he had thought he would.  

Unsettled and wary, he hurried back to Annatar’s room. The hour was quite late and only a few people were walking about the halls.  Tomorrow the King’s fleet would sail, following the troops that had already departed. All of their fates were bound up in their destination—Númenor.  Sûla found himself dreading any future there that he could realistically foresee.  Pausing outside the sorcerer’s door, he swallowed hard.  Lord Zizzûn might be rolling the bones, but Annatar was fixing the game.

***********

Amandil shaded his eyes as he peered across the harbor at the myriad anchored ships gently listing up and down, their red and yellow sails slack. The fog that had obscured them from view was burning off rapidly and the day was turning fine, except for one critical element—no breeze. It needed to pick up or they wouldn’t get too far today and that was a truly frustrating thought. Overhead the gulls squawked in their rusty-hinge voices as he leaned against a barrel to ease his aching feet.  The Zigûr’s elixir would come in handy about now.

Everywhere about him men swarmed the docks, loading cargo into dinghies and taking them out to the ships, then rowing back for more. Those awaiting their turn to go were gathered on the quay, playing dice games or singing.  The atmosphere was festive.  Everyone seemed happy to be heading home.

Rubbing the serpents’ heads on his ring as he was wont to do, Amandil thought of logistics. It had been a week of hard work getting all the stores, equipment, livestock, and people loaded onto their ships. Lord Rothîbal and his troops from Ondosto and Izindor and his company from Arandor had departed the day before, along with one third of the fleet.  Ar-Pharazôn would sail with the greater part of his force today and the final fifty ships would follow on the morrow. Amandil and Elendil would each captain their own ships as part of the royal escort. Elendil’s Izrê and his own ship, the Pûh, were nearly loaded and ready to leave.  They just needed a wind.  The Bawîba Manô priests would perform their usual ceremony just before departure that asked Manwë, Ossë, and Uinen for good sailing weather, but Amandil was skeptical.  Sometimes it worked; often it didn’t.  And it was still winter on this side of the sea. The time of storms.

A dozen yards off, one of his men was attempting to manhandle a barrel into a dinghy.  It slipped from his hands, and dropped smartly onto the dock, cracking open one of the staves. Biscuits spilled everywhere with a slithering clatter.  

“By the dog, Bansil, easy with those barrels!” Amandil bellowed.  “D’ya want to go hungry halfway home?”
                                
“No, my Lord Captain,” his man replied, abashed. He and others began gathering up the spill, but they weren’t quick enough to thwart the gulls, who swooped down screeching as the men danced about, batting them away.

Amandil shook his head, trying not to laugh as a gull made off with a tan square in its mouth. That bird would find it a tough bite.

“Ah, Lord Aphanuzîr.  A good morning for setting off, wouldn’t you say?”   

Amandil turned. Lord Azgarad was walking towards him, dressed in his formal blue robes.

“Better if we could get a wind,” Amandil said. He waited until Azgarad was nigh and then said quietly, “I’m most sorry you won’t be coming back with us.”

Azgarad frowned. “You no more than I,” he replied.  “This is a Valar-forsaken spot besieged by the murderous, skin-flaying Haradrim who now have sworn a blood feud against Númenor. There will be a war soon, count on it.” Azgarad’s eyes flashed. “But the King has spoken and I am a loyal retainer who knows his duty.” The former steward bent his head and lowered his voice. “I have some news for you about Annatar’s new slave, that little troublemaker, Sûla.  But we should withdraw.  There are too many watchful eyes here.  Find me in the back room of the Fishwife.”  He gestured with his chin at a tavern just off the main pier.  

“Very well,” Amandil agreed.  The new Regent of Umbar moved off while Amandil went back to overseeing the flurry of activity on the docks. He noticed Elendil getting out of a dinghy and climbing onto the pier, then he waved as he made his way through the crowd.   

“All is made ready, Ada,” Elendil said when drew alongside. “Most of my men have boarded already.”

“As have mine.  I am merely awaiting the King’s departure,” Amandil said.  “Evidently, Lord Azgarad has some news. Wants to meet me in that tavern over there.  Are you free?”

“For the moment,” Elendil said.  “After the morning I’ve had, I could use a drink.”

Amandil looked about at the men rowing out to the ships, and the gulls still fighting over scraps.  A drink and a chance to get off his feet sounded good, though he doubted he’d like Azgarad’s news.
 
*************

A thumping noise reverberated in Tigôn’s head. A little golden lizard was biting him. He tried to yell, instead he awoke with a gasp and looked at his arm.  Nothing. No golden beastie. He sighed. Merely a dream and a strange one at that, although it was fast dissipating in the manner of dreams.  Sûla had been in it; he remembered that much.  His friend’s arm bracelet had come alive and slithered up Tigôn like a snake, before plunging its fangs in his biceps. It had seemed so real, he could almost feel the sting, but when he raised his arm to look, probing the location of the bite, there was no trace of the itching, swelling, or heat that had been there last night. All he could detect were two tiny scabs where the bite had been. A fever dream, that was all.  

Again there came a pounding on his door that nearly made him jump out of his skin.

“Tigôn! Tigôn, are you up?”  

Tigôn groaned a reply. The door cracked open and Khibil, a member of Elendil’s staff looked in.  “Gah, you are a heavy sleeper,” he said with a laugh. “And you have a hard door. My fist hurts. Lord Elendil sent me to see how you were faring.”

“Well enough,” Tigôn said. “The fever seems to have passed.” In fact, he felt remarkably well.  The ant bite wasn’t bothering him a bit.  

“Good.  Then it’s time to shake a leg,” Khibil said. “The crews are gathering on the pier and we are already boarding the Izrê. Better hurry or you’ll get left behind.”  

“Tell Lord Elendil, I’ll be there in two shakes of my leg,” Tigôn said.

Khibil laughed and shut the door.

Tigôn leapt up and hurriedly dressed.  He had a bad taste in his mouth, so he drank a glass of water before splashing his face in the wash basin and running a comb through his curly hair. While he was doing that, his glance fell on a small flask sitting nearby. That was curious; he didn’t remember having that piece.  He picked it up.  It was of Umbarian make, painted with dolphins leaping in the surf.  He sniffed at the top, and wrinkled his nose. It smelled foul—like the taste in his mouth.  

Suspiciously, he cast his eyes about the room, looking for anything else out of place.  On the low table next to his bed sat the wine goblet that he’d taken from the dining hall last night. He didn’t remember leaving it there.  He went over, picked it up, and inhaled. Same smell. Tigôn felt a prickle on the back of his neck. Something wasn’t right here. A further look about the room revealed that the throw rug by his bed had a corner folded over on itself.  He knelt down to examine it and noticed a scratching of white on the tile. Pulling the rug away, he saw, ever so faintly, the remnants of a chalk circle.  Abruptly he sat back, his heart pounding in alarm.  Surely that hadn’t been there before. What had happened?  

Sûla had been here, he would swear to it.  When he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, he could detect his lover’s perfume in the air.  Had he slept right through it or was it something more sinister?  Had Sûla used the freezing spell on him again? But why would he do that? They had parted amicably and Sûla had agreed to their plan. And why the circle?  Was the Zigûr now teaching him his magic?  Or had Annatar been here?  Anxiously, Tigôn chewed his thumbnail.  What had been done to him?  He ran his hand along his arm, feeling no trace of the swelling from the night before.  It seemed he had taken no harm from it, whatever it was.  He’d never felt better. The strange dream with the dragon, that must be the key.  Had it really happened? It had certainly seemed real enough. He racked his thoughts trying to retrieve the last drifting threads.  

**********

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Chapter End Notes

Izrê - canon Adûnaic meaning ‘beloved.’
Khibil - canon Adûnaic meaning ‘spring.’  Khibil is a member of Elendil’s household.
Pûh - canon Adûnaic meaning ‘breath’ or ‘spirit’

Describing Annatar as smelling like “the sharp, fresh smell of lightning-rent air” is a nod to Pandemonium’s description of him smelling like ozone—which I always liked.
    
Many thanks to the marvelous Russandol, beta extraordinaire without whom I would not have gotten this far and to my other beta, Malinornë, who has advised on languages and canon issues.