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

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Chapter 31 - Summoning the Wind

Chapter summary:  Responding to strange reports, Lords Azgarad, Amandil, and Elendil compare notes in a tavern and their concern deepens; Annatar mouths off and earns the ire of the head of the Bawîba Manô priesthood; and we get final thoughts from all the major players as they board ships Númenor-bound. Finally.

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In a quiet back room of the creaky old tavern known as The Merry Fishwife, Amandil drained a glass of cool ale, nutty in taste with just the right amount of head. He plunked it down on the table and sighed. “That went down easy,” he said. “What a day this has been.”
   
“Mustache decorations, Ada,” Elendil said, his eyes crinkled with amusement. It was an old joke between them.  

There was a muffled sound of cheering from the rowdy group of Númenóreans bidding goodbye to the local orzini beer in the front room. Amandil rolled his eyes, wiped his mouth with a napkin, then looked at his son who chuckled and nodded.

“So, what is your news, Azgarad?” Amandil growled, turning to the newly appointed Regent.

Azgarad had been quietly nursing a mug of mulled wine.  He cleared his throat.  “Last night there was a murder down in the village.”

“Is that so uncommon?” Amandil snorted, leaning back in his chair.   

“Unfortunately not,” Azgarad said.  “But this one seemed strange to my ears. Igmil, the captain of the Umbarian prison guard approached me at breakfast saying that watchmen in the village had taken custody of a new prisoner—a cook in Rabêlozar’s service who was found wandering the streets last night.  He was blithering, didn’t know where he was or how he got there, but he was bleeding from knife wounds in his hands and his clothes were soaked in blood.  Following the bloody trail, they discovered a woman dead in her home.  One of the guards recognized her as Sûla’s relative—the one who turned him in.  They said the room was like a slaughter house. She must have put up a fight.”

Amandil and Elendil looked at each other.
 
“What was the cook doing there?” Elendil asked.

“No one knows, not even the man himself.  According to Igmil, the cook didn’t remember leaving the kitchen last night. But unfortunately, we couldn’t question him further as he died in prison within hours after being put in his cell.”

“Died? Of his wounds?” Amandil asked.

“No. A fever it seemed.  They said his skin was burning up and his forehead was swollen and appeared to have marks, as if bitten by some fell serpent.  Now, I would have thought that the fever had caused him to lose his mind and commit the murder, but then I recalled something that Izindor’s son Mirandor said that morning when I went to investigate Dulginzin’s death. Under questioning, he said that Sûla had bewitched him the night of his brother’s murder.”    

“I believe he said something like that at the trial,” Elendil said. “But I thought he was either  delusional or lying.”  He picked up the pitcher of ale. “More, Ada?” Amandil nodded.

“We all did,” Azgarad replied, eying him solemnly. “Izindor’s son is not right in the head and so I paid him no heed.  Perhaps I should have. But I put that together with other tidings. Another prisoner died mysteriously in his cell this morning, one of the King’s guards, by the name of Hozdûnik. He had been recovering from the flogging he got as punishment for stealing, but he didn’t die of that. The surgeon said he was strangled, yet there was no evidence of a rope or anything else that could have done it. You might recall, he’s the one who whipped young Sûla so enthusiastically.”  Azgarad raised an eyebrow. “Too much of a coincidence, I’m thinking, that two people who hurt Sûla have died mysteriously. The guards in the prison are terrified, but for a different reason. Igmil tells me they believe that the Regent Rabêlozar has returned as a wrathful ghost. They’ve warned me to beware of his vengeance.”

“Well if he comes after you, you’ll be forewarned of his presence by the smell,” Amandil said.

“True enough.” The corners of Azgarad’s lips quirked.

“I don’t believe in vengeful ghosts,” Amandil continued, “but I do agree that the connection with Sûla is disturbing.”

Elendil said, “There is more to this.  Something was reported to me during the battle at Arzog’s Pass. Sûla unexpectedly appeared at the entrance of the Pass along with Hazûn, the new captain of the King’s guard. You’ll remember that a Southron attempted to capture Tigôn and ride off with him? Hazûn was in the patrol standing next to Sûla and he swore that the zirâmîki said some strange words in a language he’d never heard before but he thought it might be Black Speech, and then a sudden wind came up, spooking the Southron’s horse, which shied and dumped its riders. We were busy with the aftermath of the battle and at the time I paid the story no mind. Hazûn wasn’t sure about it himself and said it could well have been a coincidence. But since then it’s bothered me. When I mentioned it to Tigôn, he didn’t deny it.”

Amandil took a swallow of ale. The disquiet that he had been feeling ever since they’d captured the Zigûr rose up again to knot his guts. “There appears to be a common thread to this strangeness.”
 
“Yes, I could give that thread a name: Sûla,” Azgarad said. “And since it seems to have begun when we captured Annatar, we know who is ultimately responsible.  I fear he is extending his claws through his servant.”

“Indeed,” Amandil said with a grimace. “The Zigûr is capable of bewitching people. Remember the surgeon’s wife Zôri?  Yanak claimed she wasn’t right after she returned from tending Annatar’s whip wounds.  Then she tried to incinerate Annatar with a firepot and he knocked her off a cliff with his catapult.  I haven’t forgiven him for that.”
 
“Yes, clearly there’s black magic at work. And it seems quite suspicious that Annatar requested the boy as a servant after the trial,” Azgarad said.   

Amandil nodded. “It’s likely Annatar cast some spell on him early on.  I came upon them sitting together in a wain, cozy as could be, and I ordered Sûla to get out. And, as I recall, shortly after that Annatar attempted to seduce the boy, if we can believe him.”

“Clearly the King did. He flogged Annatar for the offense,” Azgarad said.  “But perhaps the story is more complicated than that. Perhaps he wasn’t trying to seduce him in the carnal sense of the word.”

“Is Sûla an unwitting accomplice?” Elendil asked.

“Or an all-too-willing ally,” Azgarad replied.  “What reason does an Umbarian slave have for loyalty to the realm?  Annatar is likely using that young man as a tool, although why the death of his aunt advantages Annatar is more than I can figure. Perhaps that was some mischief the boy has caused on his own. The cook is dead, but I will do my best to investigate further. In any event, I wanted to warn you that I believe Sûla may be dangerous. Upon returning to Númenor, you must find a way to get rid of him.”

“I would like to urge caution,” Elendil said. “We have nothing solid to go by.  How in Arda did a young bedslave suddenly become adept at black magic?  As far as I’ve been able to discern, he’s been a pawn in all this.”

Azgarad thumped a fist on the table.  “How much more evidence do you need before he creeps into your room and slits your throat one dark night? Perhaps he really did kill Dulginzin and then bewitched that servant into taking the blame.”

“That was not what the trial revealed,” Elendil said sharply. “I watched everyone’s reactions carefully and I’m convinced Sûla was blameless of all but his tryst with Tigôn. Perhaps he’s a conduit for Annatar’s spells?”

“Whether innocent or not, his actions are suspicious.  He’s a slave and expendable,” Azgarad declared.  “Kill him!”

“Even slaves have some rights under the law,” Elendil said, narrowing his eyes. “Are we to begin assassinating everyone we suspect of doing harm, my Lord? Without proof? That is not the road Númenor should start down.”

“Whatever his involvement, he bears watching,” Amandil interjected, patting Elendil’s arm. “We will keep our eyes on him, you may be sure of that. Annatar may well be using him to do his bidding.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Azgarad replied.  His face suddenly looked lined, care-worn.  “I understand caution, but my heart says we should cut out the sickness before it festers.”

Amandil frowned. “If Sûla can wield dark magic, then caution is all the more advised. I am most unhappy that they will be cooped up together on shipboard during a long sea voyage.  Time enough for the Zigûr to exert his influence on the King.  Neither Nimruzîr nor I will be there to counter it.  I did my best to convince Pharazôn to put him on my ship.  He wouldn’t hear of it.  By Manwë!”  Amandil’s frustration bubbled over.  He got up and paced the small room.

“That is not to my liking either,” Azgarad mused, drumming his fingers on the table. “We should tell him about the new evidence we’ve uncovered. Perhaps that will convince him that Annatar is scheming behind his back.”

“I certainly intend too, as soon as possible,” Amandil said.  “But I don’t see how I can get to him before he takes ship.  And who knows what Annatar will have done to him by the time we get home.”

“Take any opportunity to speak to the King. Perhaps we can get him aside before he boards,” Azgarad said.  “There are reasons I’m glad I’m not returning with the King to Armenelos. I might be tempted to knock some sense into him and end up hanging from a mast.”

Amandil snorted.  “You and me both.”

“And what of young Tigôn?” Azgarad said. “He and Sûla were lovers.  Are you sure of his loyalty, Nimruzîr?  You might consider sending him home to his father as soon as you land in Rómenna.”

“His family and ours go back a long way,” Elendil said.  “I regard him like my own son and I trust him.”

“Have a stern talk with him during our long sea voyage, ion,” Amandil growled, coming back and bending over his son. “Remind him of the consequences of further contact with that zirâmîki once we make landfall.”  Heavily, he sat back in his chair.

Elendil nodded. “That I will.”

“Be wary, both of you,” Azgarad said. “Warn the Faithful. Find allies. Keep your ears and eyes open.”  He gave them a wry look. “And now we have disappeared for too long. The King should be coming down soon, if he ever gets all his luggage stowed aboard ship.  We should be there for the Homeward Blessing.”

Amandil nodded. “I look forward to your return to court once the new Regent is appointed.”

“Ha,” Azgarad scoffed. “If you can remind the King of that promise, I shall be grateful. But out of sight, out of thought, you know. I fear that I shall not be returning to Númenor any time soon. His new ‘counselor’ Annatar was behind my change of position, I’m sure of it. He wanted to get me out of the way. You may well be next.”  He raised his thick eyebrows at them, paused, then extended his hand. “I have always liked and trusted you, Aphanuzîr, and you too, Nimruzîr.  I know you both to be faithful and true subjects of Númenor.  We three need to form an alliance.”

Amandil glanced at Elendil, who nodded.  

“Let’s swear to it now,” Azgarad said.  

Amandil reached across the corner of the  rickety wooden table and grasped Azgarad by both hands. “It is so sworn,” he said.  “I’ll keep you informed to the best of my ability and you do the same.”

“And so shall I,” Elendil said, joining his hands to theirs.

“Agreed, then,” Azgarad said.  

“Take care of yourself, Azgarad,” Amandil said.  “If I were you, I’d employ a personal guard—or two—in case ‘Rabêlozar’s ghost’ returns.”
                                                
“Already done,” Lord Azgarad said. “May Manwë’s breath speed you on your way.”

~o0o~

Mairon was becoming highly irritated with the pomp and delays involved with the King’s exit from the city.  The King’s retainers had to line up in the gardens in front of the palace and then wait interminably until all the luggage had been sent down, including the King’s furniture, armor, weapons, trunks of clothes and gold, and his immense stores of food and wine. Mairon stamped his feet in the damp chill and thought of what he would like to do to the King later as payment for this discomfort. The fog  covering the town below them burned off as Anor rose, ever so slowly.  Mairon extended his senses aloft, feeling for a change in weather. For a long while, he searched.  The wind was coming, he concluded, but not for several hours.

Two guards stood on either side of him: Milzagar and that beaky-nosed lout Sikhulzin, who kept belching; bringing up a sour stench, probably from over-indulgence in wine. When Mairon had had quite enough of the smell, he sent the thought of a spider creeping up the inside of Sikhulzin’s breeches, biting as it went. The guard flinched, grasped his crotch, then slapped excitedly as he danced about with his hand thrust deeply into his breeches, searching for his invisible tormenter.

“Are you daft! What’s wrong with you!” Milzagar declared.

“Blasted bugs! I’ll be back,” Sikhulzin cried, and scurried off, slapping as he went.  

Mairon laughed quietly to himself.    

It was nearly noon when all was made ready and they finally began wending their way down the steep hill from the palace towards the docks.  Aznat, the King’s herald led the parade dressed in blue velvet and sporting a plumed hat. Then came a raucous chorus of Umbarian musicians playing drums, horns, and nasal-sounding flutes.  Behind them trooped that self-righteous idiot Ikar-lak, head of the Bawîba Manô, along with his three priests in their ridiculous costumes, their faces submerged within their feathered headdresses. Mairon wondered what pinhead had first thought up that costume.  If  Manwë ever bothered to come down off his mountain to watch the Númenórean’s antics, he would probably decide to destroy the whole lot of them.

A fifth priest whose tunic embroidered with foam-capped waves showed him to be devoted to Ossë carried an oiolairë branch, taken from the prow of the King’s ship. Its prickly leaves had turned brittle and brown.  No doubt the priest would use it to renew the ceremony of blessing. How quaint, Mairon sneered. Fat lot of good a dry stick would do them if his brother Ossë decided to kick up a storm.  By the Door of Night, he was tired of all this.
 
Mairon and his guards were required to walk behind the King, who was riding a white horse and dressed in his gilded finery, his spotted lion’s skin cloak draped artfully about his shoulders.  Mairon had chosen more practical garb for a sea voyage consisting of a light woolen cape and a soft linen tunic and breeches.  His armor had been sent ahead to be stowed on board ship.  Instead of his helm, he wore a broad-brimmed hat to shield his pale skin from the light of Anor and Sûla had braided his hair back from his face. Behind him waddled Nibanuzîr, Ar-Pharazôn’s head of household, along with servants, guards, pages, scribes, cooks, dressers, armorers, not to mention more luggage.  Mairon rolled his eyes.

Sûla strode at his side well dressed in a cape and a black and gold tunic, his eyes lined with kohl.  He was struggling with the weight of a heavy bag he carried over one shoulder that held the brewing vessels and ingredients for Mairon’s various potions, including what remained of the elixir.  Mairon would have to dole that out to the King carefully over the next month.  

With a feeling of delight in a beautiful possession, Mairon’s eyes lingered over his servant’s fair form. It was amazing the boy could still walk after the fucking he’d given him this morning.  That had been most enjoyable—for both of them, he was certain. Sûla was coming along very nicely. During this morning’s bout Mairon hadn’t noticed any of the resistance that he’d felt from him last night. Sûla lifted his eyes and noticed him watching, then cast them down again with a little smile. Very good.   

The road was lined with scores of Umbarians gathered to watch the Númenóreans depart.  No doubt their feelings were mixed, Mairon thought. Númenórean gold was welcome; their attitude of superiority less so.  Here and there he saw his Lorcastrîn, with their braided hair tied off in red strips of cloth watching him intently. He sent out thought calls and some nodded as he passed.  He wondered if Sûla’s cook had delivered the message to Magân before killing the woman. The message was: ‘Once the King of Anadûnê has left Umbar, infiltrate the palace, and seize power from the Regent. Lord Zizzûn shall prevail.’

As they passed the fish market and a row of taverns near the docks, a rowdy crowd poured forth from various doors, waving mugs and cheering. The Númenóreans among them joined the parade.  As Mairon looked back over his shoulder, he noticed three figures emerge from one of the taverns, one by one, and slip into the crowd: Azgarad, Aphanuzîr, and Nimruzîr.  That was an interesting association.  He would store up that information for the King later.  

Aphanuzîr caught up, cast a wary glance at Mairon, then walked along next to the King’s horse.  When they reached the docks, everyone paused while Ar-Pharazôn dismounted.  Holding the horse’s reins, Aphanuzîr leaned forward and whispered something to him.  The King made a dismissive gesture.  “Later,” he said.  
                    
The priests stopped and faced the Umbarian Regent’s gold-painted barge with the scarlet awning tied up to the pier.  They formed themselves in a semi-circle around an iron brazier filled with glowing coals. The men who were gathered along the docks quit what they were doing and stood reverently.               

Mairon was shoved up behind Sûla in the sudden press of bodies. The sensation of Sûla’s warm backside was alluring, but Mairon became aware that his servant’s attention was riveted to something else some distance away.  He followed Sûla’s glance and saw Tigôn, carrying a duffle bag over his shoulder, working his way through the crowd.  Tigôn looked up and stared at them. He mouthed something. Sûla turned his head, looked at Mairon, and his expression glazed.  He sighed and shifted his backside surreptitiously against Mairon’s thighs. “Don’t think you can fool me, mîki,” Mairon said softly in his ear, and Sûla tensed.

Ar-Pharazôn strode to a place opposite the arc of priests, with his back to the sea. Mairon noticed that Aphanuzîr came forward to stand next to him, which was his right as Steward. Elendil and Azgarad were situated not too far away. He needed to be closer himself. Mairon sent a whisper of suggestion to the King, who abruptly looked up, and beckoned to his guards.  “Bring the Zigûr here,” he said.   The men took him by the arms and pushed through the crowd until Mairon was standing on the King’s other side.  Much better.

Ikar-lak began a long chant of praise to Lord Manwë Súlimo, Most High King of the Bârî an-Adûn, he who rules the winds, begging for a fair breeze to send them swiftly to their home in Anadûnê.  Mairon yawned.  The ritual was as likely to bring about the desired result as taking a piss into the ocean would raise the tides.    

One of the other priests stepped forward and poured olive oil over the coals as an offering. The embers crackled, spit sparks, and a column of blue smoke drifted aloft releasing a pleasant cooking smell to contrast with the bitter salty air. The smoke crept upward in a curling spiral as the priest formally embraced Ar-Pharazôn with a kiss on each cheek. “May the Lords Manwë and Ossë, and the Lady Uinen bless our journey,” the man intoned.  

Mairon couldn’t help himself.  He folded his arms. “It would do you just as much good if you blew your offering towards me,” he sneered.

The priests all turned.  Ikar-lak glowered at him. There was some nervous tittering in the crowd.  

“Are you suggesting we make sacrifice to you?” Ikar-lak asked, incredulously.

“Why not?” Mairon shrugged.  “I’m much more likely to hear your words, since I’m standing right next to you. Who knows where my brother Ossë or my Lord Manwë are just now?  I know Manwë well and he’s a capricious fool.  I daresay he’s much too busy sitting on his remote mountain top doing lewd things to an eagle to bother listening to your whining.”

Ar-Pharazôn’s mouth twitched into a smile, but Ikar-lak’s face flamed red as an apple. “That’s blasphemy, Sauron!” he roared. He turned to the King. “How can you abide this, Ar-Pharazôn?”

“Pay him no heed, Ikar-lak,” Ar-Pharazôn replied gruffly. “He is just trying to vex you. Apparently it worked.”

Aphanuzîr stirred. He said, “My Lord, as your Steward and head of the Council of the Sceptre I must protest this slander of our Lord Manwë.”  Then, when Ar-Pharazôn turned his head, Aphanuzîr whispered so softly that Mairon’s sharp ears barely caught it.  “You cannot let this pass, my Lord.  It makes you look weak.”

Ar-Pharazôn stepped back, raking Aphanuzîr with a furious look.

“I agree,” Azgarad said. “We cannot allow such talk about the Bârî an-Adûn.”

Aphanuzîr’s son nodded.

Ar-Pharazôn’s mouth set into a hard line. He gestured at the two guards on either side of Mairon.   “Force him to his knees,” he roared.

The guards blinked for a moment, then grabbed Mairon by his arms, shoving him down.  He landed with a painful thump on the uneven boards of the dock.  The crowd grew silent, watching.  
Ar-Pharazôn pulled a jeweled knife from his belt and came up to Mairon, pressing the flat of the blade against his lips.  “You, Annatar, remember that you are my prisoner.  Have a care with that tongue or we may have to have it out.”  

“Yes, O King,” Mairon said.

“So that you’ll remember that fact, you shall spend the first sennight of our journey in the brig below decks.  Now apologize to the Bawîba Manô.”  

No! He would not be shoved in some dark, smelly hold, lurching about and getting ill. Mairon’s hands suddenly began to sweat. Curse Aphanuzîr!  

“As you say, my Lord,” Mairon said, lowering his head and spreading out his arms. “My apologies Ikar-lak, to you and your esteemed brethren. I’m sure your prayers to Manwë will result in a wind . . . eventually.”

“You are insolent,” Ikar-lak said to him in a low voice. “I shall see to it that you are confined permanently to a dark tower in Armenelos.”

Mairon gave him a look of scorn.  “Try it,” he said under his breath.   

“Shut up,” Ar-Pharazôn warned.  “Or I’ll lash you both. You two, take the Zigûr to the barge.”  He turned on his Steward.  “Is the Council satisfied now, Aphanuzîr?”

Aphanuzîr nodded, but his lips were pressed together unhappily.  His gaze seemed to linger on Sûla.  Mairon glanced at his servant to see if anything was amiss, and Sûla returned his look, wide-eyed. The guards hauled Mairon to his feet, steering him towards the boat.

Enraged, Mairon felt himself drawing upward into his dragon shape and stopped himself just  before he lost control. For a moment he visualized himself marauding the entire coast, raining down fire and destruction. Several Lorcastrîn were watching him with sneering expressions. Now was the time. He needed a display of power.

Mairon extended his senses aloft, feeling for the air currents. Ah, excellent, he found one—coming up fast. He shrugged off the guards, sending them the order to move away, turned facing the crowd, and raised his arms to the heavens.

“O Manwë Súlimo, hear me! Forgive my insolence,” he called, “I have naught but respect for your wisdom and forbearance.  Hear now my prayer for your children, the mighty Edain of Númenor. Send us the winds, my Lord.  I humbly beg of you.”  

There was a long pause.  He heard someone snicker. But then, ever so faintly, he felt it, the whisper of a breeze, flowing in from the sea—from the west.  A piece of parchment skipped along the dock.  Banners flapped and somewhere a bell clanged.  

As one, the priests turned their eagle-beaked heads towards the sky and then lowered them to stare at him. The guards stepped back from Mairon as if he had ignited into flame; Ar-Pharazôn’s eyebrows rose, then he grinned; and the crowd began to murmur. Several of the Lorcastrîn sent up a ululating cry that was soon joined by others, “Zigûr, Zigûr,” they chanted.  

Mairon’s mouth curled upward in triumph. He bowed.  “From my lips to Manwë’s ear. There, O King, is your wind.”  

~o0o~

All the while Tigôn had been walking with the procession down the hill, he’d been racking his brain trying to remember the dream. Only bits had returned to him, but he was sure Sûla had been in his room last night and that he’d given him some of Annatar’s elixir, which had healed him.  He could not fathom why Sûla had needed either the chalk circle or such secrecy. And the thought that his lover’s dragon armband had come to life like that and bitten him? Well, that couldn’t be true.  The very idea was weird and unnerving.

When Tigôn saw Sûla’s face in the crowd, eyes staring blankly ahead, he felt his heart tumble over.  Then, he distinctly heard Sûla’s voice in his head: 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.  There had been a kiss too in his dream, a passionate one.  Tigôn ran a finger over his lips. It was real. Sûla had spoken those words, then kissed him. Tigôn could feel it, just as he had dreamed about the kiss Sûla had stolen more than a fortnight ago after he spoke the freezing spell in the King’s tent.  Sûla raised his head and their eyes met with a force that belied the distance between them.  

Tigôn mouthed, “It was not a dream.”  

Sûla’s eyes widened. He turned to look at his master and then Annatar bent over, whispering something in his ear.  Sûla dropped his gaze, his face masked again. The almost palpable connection between him and Tigôn broke.  

No matter what happens Sûla had said.  Tigôn didn’t like the sound of that.  What was Annatar doing?  He wanted to scream, to run over and wrest Sûla away from him.  Patience, he thought.  We have our plan.  

While Ikar-lak began his invocation to Manwë, Tigôn’s thoughts were far away.  He imagined disembarking at the docks in Rómenna, worried because the King’s ship had reached port several days prior. He made his way through the bustling market to the Eagle Eye shop, entering its dusty, dimly-lit confines with the many cases filled with glittering marvels.  His father’s friend Akhâsadûn greeted him with a short bow, saying, ‘So glad to see you Tigôn, son of Eärdur.  You have a visitor awaiting you.’ He guided Tigôn to a back room and there was Sûla in his dance costume sitting with his feet propped up in front of the fire. He raised his beautiful eyes, and oh, he looked good enough to eat after the endless days at sea. ‘It took you long enough,’ Sûla would say in his scornful manner, but then he would smile happily. Tigôn would rush into his arms and kiss him like fire. When they finally separated, Sûla would say, ‘I’ve already sold my dragon to your friend and booked passage on a ship to Andúnië.  It leaves in an hour.’ And Tigôn would say,‘An hour is just long enough,’ before pulling him into a closet and ravishing him. Ha! Well, he could imagine it, couldn’t he?

He was startled from his thoughts upon hearing some nervous laughter around him, then Ikar-lak yelled something about blasphemy. The King seemed to dismiss it, but Lord Amandil stood up and challenged Annatar’s words in front of everyone, then bent to whisper something to Ar-Pharazôn. Lord Azgarad and his own master, Lord Elendil, backed Amandil up, demanding an apology from Annatar. Tigôn could hardly believe it.  What had the Zigûr said?  

Ar-Pharazôn commanded the Zigûr’s guards to force him to his knees. In a flurry of motion, they threw him down on the dock. Tigôn sensed a sudden strange energy in the crowd and flinched at the black hatred he saw on the faces of two Lorcastrîn nearby who were staring at the King.   

He looked for Sûla and found him standing back from the commotion, a look of consternation on his face.  Tigôn had a sudden desire to touch him.  Slowly, he pushed his way through the crowd. Tigôn came within an arm’s length, and Sûla looked into his eyes.  

“Remember the Eagle Eye,” Tigôn mouthed.

Sûla’s glance abruptly shifted away, and Tigôn felt a hand heavy on his shoulder.  He twisted his head and saw Elendil frowning terribly at him.  “Once we’re at sea, we’re having a talk, you and I,” he said.  “Go get in the cockleboat. Now.”

With one last backward glance at Sûla, Tigôn headed towards the small dinghy, but he hadn’t gone three paces, when the Zigûr pushed away his guards and invoked Lord Manwë.  And then—incredibly—Tigôn watched him summon the wind.   

~o0o~

Somberly, the King and his entourage including the Zigûr and his servant filed into the barge. A man freed their mooring, pushed off from the docks, and the rowers ponderously began their strokes, moving the barge out to his Majesty’s ship, the Zimrazra.

Still astonished and rueful about the game they’d just played and lost, Amandil murmured to Elendil,  “How in thunder did he do that?”

“He’s a Maia, Ada,” Elendil replied. “We keep forgetting how powerful he is.  I think he’s mumming weakness.”

“We are in trouble,” Amandil said, heavily.  “And there goes the King to his ship.  No possibility now of getting a word with him, not after Annatar’s theatrics.  Do you think the sorcerer planned it all ahead of time?”

“Either that or he’s one lucky bastard,” Elendil said grimly. “I doubt it would even matter if you talked to the King at this juncture. Especially after this. Ar-Pharazôn was unhappy enough that you crossed him in front of his subjects. His Majesty is besotted.” Amandil made a noise of disgust and Elendil grasped his arm.  “Ada, we shall simply have to be vigilant.  I suggest we put it from our minds for a time and concentrate on a safe voyage home. All I want right now is to see Lórellin and the boys again.”

From the dinghy Amandil’s navigator called, “Captain Aphanuzîr are you coming?”  

“Yes,” Amandil waved at him. With a sudden fierceness, he embraced Elendil. “May the wind be at your back, ion nîn,” he said.

“And you,” Elendil said.  “I’ll try to keep you in sight, but who knows about the vagaries of Ossë.  I’ll see you in Rómenna.”      

They parted. Both got into the waiting boats and were rowed out to their vessels.  Amandil climbed up the rope ladder and surveyed his ship as he balanced upon the gently pitching deck. His men were busily hoisting the sails, which swelled in the breeze.  “That’s enough sail,” Amandil called.  “The wind is rising fast. Raise anchor. We’re heading home!”

He heard cheering from all sides and felt like cheering himself.  He stood near the tiller, listening to the clanking chain as several men worked the winch.  Amandil looked back to shore where a number of men were still bustling about the docks and spied the lone figure of Lord Azgarad shading his eyes, gazing after them.

A feeling of apprehension washed over him.  He would much prefer that Azgarad was returning to Númenor. He’d been an excellent Steward, capable, loyal, exacting. Amandil had not desired Azgarad’s office. No good would come of  these changes; he was sure of that. Why couldn’t life have remained the way it had been in Tar-Palantir’s day?  Although ascetic, somewhat fey, and given to strange fits in which he had visions, Tar-Palantir had been a king worthy of Númenor’s great heritage.

Amandil remembered his dream the morning the Zigûr was captured in which a raven sat on Ar-Pharazôn’s shoulder, pecking him bloody. His stomach twisted. Fervently, he wished his current monarch had never come to these shores, nor insisted on carrying home such a perilous prisoner.  
 
~o0o~  

Since there were no immediate tasks for Sûla to do—his master had retired into the King’s cabin, shortly after they had cast off—he leaned on the railing of His Majesty’s immense ship Zimrazra and tried to keep out of the way of the mariners rushing about, their bare feet slapping on the deck.  

Listening to the soft shushing of the water as the ship cut through the waves, he couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face at his master’s triumph over the Bawîba Manô priests.  He had no love for the Bawîba Manô, who made no secret that they hated everything Sûla was.  Annatar had stuck it to them in a way that no one could dispute. He found himself feeling proud that he served such a brilliant master.  

The gulls dove and flapped about the three masts while the ship creaked and shuddered, listing over a bit; the sails bellied out taut with the strengthening breeze. Dotting the horizon as far as he could see, floated the other ships, all slowly moving off.  He could still see Elendil’s ship, the Izrê flying its blue banner with the white ship following a blazing star. The Izrê, what an appropriate name. And there was a figure with golden hair. Could it be Tigôn? Would they be able to meet in Rómenna and run off together?  

High above him, two gulls began a battle over a small fish. Amidst squawking and flapping wings, a pale grey feather drifted down, landing on the deck.  Sûla leaned over and picked it up.  He remembered the flights of the myriad birds that infested the port of Rómenna, including the magnificent sea eagles that nested on the cliffs and he realized why last night after his first bout with Annatar, he had noticed the feather on the floor. It was his promise to Tigôn, the one he must keep hidden. The Eagle Eye in Rómenna. Annatar would never know, so long as he was careful.  He tucked the feather into his waistband.     
    
“Ah, there you are,” a familiar voice called.

Sûla jerked his head up and saw his master emerge from the King’s cabin. He was missing his hat and his hair was unbraided, flowing wildly about his shoulders. Annatar cast a disgusted look back at the cabin. His guards stirred from their positions by the door, and followed him, keeping their distance. Their faces again wore that strange, bland expression that meant the Zigûr had them under control.  They would only see or hear what he wanted them to.  The reminder made Sûla shudder.     

“Don’t you have to go to the brig, my Lord?” Sûla asked.     

“No.” Annatar’s eyes shifted sideways. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  “I’ve done my penance already and that was unpleasant enough. His Majesty said that since I had demonstrated favor with Manwë, he would forgive my ill-considered words.”  His sudden creamy smile suggested that he did not regret any of his ‘ill-considered’ words. He settled next to Sûla, leaning his elbows against the polished wood railing.  Sûla felt a prickle and swell of lust just from standing so close to him. Unbidden, the sensation arose of being pinned underneath him this morning looking into his catlike eyes. He found it difficult to breathe. Annatar glanced at him and his smirk suggested he knew exactly how he affected Sûla.

Annatar continued, “I believe the King was amused by it all.  He is not especially fond of the Bawîba Manô.”

“Who is fond of them?” Sûla said.

“Not many I’m discovering,” Annatar smirked.  

 “Well, I’m just glad I won’t have to carry your dinners down to the bottom of the hold, going past every arse-pinching sailor on the ship.”

“Is that a problem?”  

“It usually is,” Sûla said.  “My Lord.  Although this time I have defenses.”  He put his hand on his upper arm where the dragon curled in slumber.   

“Not wise to employ your new skills here,” Annatar said in a low growl. “Too many men, too close together.”

“Yes. Of course, my Lord.”  

“Tell them they’ll have to deal with me if they do it again,” Annatar said, affably.  He closed his eyes, seeming to relish the breeze. His hair lifted like tongues of flame about his finely-honed features.   

“I wish you had been around when I crossed over the first time, five years ago,” Sûla said, pressing up next to him to absorb more of that tingling pleasure.  “I was just thinking how different my position is now.  Then I was but another slave among dozens being sent over to the auctions in Rómenna.  I had to fight for every sip of water and scrap of bread, until I learned that some of the crew would share their food if I took care of their needs.”  He raised his chin.  “I survived. There were others not so lucky.”
 
“You are resourceful. That’s why I wanted your service,” Annatar said, regarding him with those yellow cat-eyes.  “And you are quite practical too, so I’m wondering why you stuck a feather in your belt.  It can’t have any use.”

He didn’t miss a thing Sûla thought, dismayed.  He fished around and drew it out, holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger.  “I thought it was pretty.”      

Annatar took it and ran a finger along one edge.  “A feather is a marvel of engineering.  It almost makes me believe in the wisdom of Eru.  Let us see the path it takes now.”  He placed it on his palm and blew forcefully on it.  The feather leapt from his hand and spiraled down past the prow of the ship that was slicing through churning mats of seaweed, then disappeared, indistinguishable from the foam.

Sûla hated him at that moment, even though his body still thrummed with desire. He ran two fingers over his lips, where the feeling of Tigôn’s mouth still lingered. Izrê.

~o0o~

When he cast away the feather, Mairon sensed sudden anger from his servant. Interesting. He remembered picking up some strange thoughts from Sûla when he was riding him last night. Images of gulls flying.  What was the boy hiding from him?  Well, whatever it was, if it was important, he would find it out, eventually.

Mairon smiled broadly, enjoying the wind in his face. He had taken the risk in surrendering to the Númenóreans, rolled the bones, and won.  Far from being in chains, he was now a member of the King’s Council as a truthsayer; he had rid himself both of the traitor, Rabêlozar, and of the King’s Steward, Azgarad, one of his main rivals; had revenged himself upon the Haradrim for failing to join his forces; and had acquired a most promising servant who fulfilled his needs in every way. The King was controlled, almost docile in fact. And even if he still had to perform unpleasant services for him, he could tolerate that. He’d been trained by the master and knew well how to play the catamite. Now, they were finally on their way to Númenor, leaving plenty of time to plot his next steps.  

As far as he could see, like a flock of scarlet and golden swans, the King’s fleet was on the move.  The palace perched on the high hill of Umbar swiftly receded behind them—and good riddance. The ships were still enveloped by the long, narrow arms of the gulf, but in a day or so they would be on open water.  Two fortnights, if his sniveling brother was willing, and they’d reach the distant shores of Númenor. He found himself growing excited at the prospect, desiring to see for himself the fabled country that Ossë had raised from the depths of the ocean. The city of Armenelos was rumored to be filled with engineering and architectural marvels. Mairon cradled his chin in his hand as he gazed out over the foam-crested waves.  There was so much he wanted to do and Númenor had such potential.  He would be a far better ruler than the current King, that was certain.  Everything was going perfectly. In truth, he felt like celebrating.

“Go down below and get me a cup of wine,” he said to Sûla, who was standing uncomfortably close. “Remind anyone with wandering hands just who you belong to.”   

Sûla bowed and left.     

Mairon glanced back at the door leading to the King’s cabin. He remembered Ar-Pharazôn’s voice, shuddering with pleasure as Mairon worked him with his mouth: “Oh, you’re far too good at this to be stuck down in the hold for an entire sennight.”   

Sûla lifted the hatch and disappeared down the stairs into the dark maw of the ship.  Mairon watched him go, quite glad that he wasn’t being dragged down there to sit in a cage, lurching about, listening to the waves churning against the sides.  He didn’t think he could have borne it. Suddenly he shivered all over, then the world tilted.  Dizzy and nauseated, he grasped the railing and rocked back and forth, once, twice, thrice.  

A silvery voice husked from within. No, never.  I’ll never be locked up again!  I’ll cut my own throat first!  Your throat.  

Mairon straightened up, suddenly alert. Not again.          

So cocksure, aren’t you, Sauron. Don’t forget I’m still here with you, watching every move, waiting for your inevitable mistake.

“Then you’ll wait a long time, arsehole!” Mairon roared.  A sailor passing by flinched and scurried off.  

I’ll eat you from within!

Mairon swayed away from the rail, realizing that he had better go immediately to his cabin and brew more of the potion required to suppress the cursed elf.  By Ossë’s foam-soaked bollocks this was infuriating!

Ha, Gorthaur, even the best-laid plans can go awry. Look up!  

Mairon raised his eyes. Far aloft he discerned an eagle, flying swiftly against the wind.

The End of Volume I        
~o0o~

---

Chapter End Notes

Ada - Sindarin meaning “Father.”   
Anadûnê - Adûnaic for Númenor.
Bârî an-Adûn - Adûnaic for ‘Lords of the West’ meaning the Valar.
Izrê - canon Adûnaic meaning ‘beloved or ‘desired.’
ion nîn - Sindarin meaning ‘my son.’
Pûh - canon Adûnaic meaning ‘breath’ or ‘spirit’
Zimrazra - from canon Adûnaic, meaning ‘sea jewel.’  Thank you Malinornë!

The oiolairë bough: In The Unfinished Tales: Aldarion and Erendis: A Mariner’s Wife, Tolkien describes the Númenórean  custom of placing a branch from a fragrant evergeen called oiolairë on the prow of a ship as an offering to Ossë and his wife Uinen to ensure good fortune and a safe return.  The bough was supposed to be brought by a close female relative of the captain.  For a fleet as large as Ar-Pharazôn’s, the blessing might well have been done in a mass ceremony before departing. I have imagined that Ossë’s priest is simply renewing the blessing for the return voyage. 

 

Author's note:

I finally finished this!  It was a long, long haul to get here and I couldn't have done it without support. My groveling gratitude to all my wonderful friends as follows:

Thanks so much to my betas: Malinornë , who stuck with me for the entire 3.5 years that it took to write and was so helpful with language questions and finding nits and Russandol who joined the team around chapter 19 and has become an indispensable partner. She has sustained me with honest and positive feedback, cheered me on, helped me keep my sense of humor, and made me banners. I can't thank her enough.

Also if you'd like an AU version of a possible future in Elegy, check out Russandol's wonderful cross-over fic with her story Chasing Mirages called Hospitality, in which Eönwë meets up with two OCs from Elegy. 

I wouldn't have continued to write this without the support and positive comments from a bunch of my LJ friends: Thanks for your patience in sticking with me: Leaf Light, Spiced Wine who also made me icons, Kymahalei, Oshun, Lisse_C, Chaotic Binky, Erulisse, Oloriel, Lilith Lessfair, Minuial Nuwing, Himring, Esmeralda, Angelica, Thevina.

Thanks also to Thendeathsaid for her fantastic fanart rendering of Annatar (on the title page).

In addition thanks to members of the Lizard Council who offered concrit: Russandol, Oshun, Kimberleighe, Marchwriter, Kymahalei, Grey Gazania, Erulisse, Elf of Cave, Aearwen, Pandemonium, Surgical Steel, tanis, Darth Fingon, Randy, sanna, Moreth, Crowdaughter.

I especially want to thank Spiced Wine for her unflagging support and promotion of this story especially on Tumblr.  She also wrote a wonderful fanfic for my 10th anniversary in fandom called Drink the Sunset, a cross-over with her Dark Prince series. 

Now, on to Elegy for Númenor  2!