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

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Chapter 5 - Taking the Bait

Chapter summary: Sauron (Mairon) begins his seduction of the King and we learn more about Sûla, the courtesan.

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Mairon shifted, trying to get comfortable.  The eastern side of the tent was glowing golden with the morning sunlight, but it was still quite cold within.  The guards had chained his wrists together and then hoisted his arms overhead with another chain that attached to one of the support ribs holding up the roof of the tent.  They had allowed him a stool to sit upon, and he could rest his arms by leaning his weight against the chain.  His feet were chained together as well, with a short span between them. 

Mairon hated being chained and he hated being confined in a small tent.  It was making his skin crawl.  He practiced breathing deeply and thinking of nasty things to do to the guards who stood at the door, watching him warily.  One of them, a man named Dâur reminded Mairon of a weasel with twitching whiskers; the other guard, named Hozdûnik, a man with craggy cheeks, stared at him with a mixture of loathing and lust: two emotions Mairon knew well how to manipulate. He had taken to calling them Weasel-face and Leering Boy.  A sense-probe confirmed their fear, their weak minds, even though he could no longer read their thoughts without the preparation of the spell circle – another result of discarding the Ring.  He had discovered through experimentation that he could send suggestions to them. Undoubtedly, in time he could make them do whatever he wished, including unlocking his restraints, but that ability needed to remain hidden. 

The tent had little in the way of furniture or anything to look at.  However, Mairon was sufficiently amused by recalling the shocked consternation on the counselors’ faces when he’d said that he could make them immortal. The King’s longing expression had told him everything he wanted to know–Ar-Pharazôn was taking the bait.
                               
The King had listened to Mairon’s proposal that they divide up Middle-earth, argued about some of the specifics, and then said he would discuss it with his counselors.  Throughout the conversation, Mairon had felt the King’s eyes drinking him in like he was a forbidden intoxicant. It had been all he could do not to laugh in the King’s face.

Having considered the situation, Mairon concluded that no matter what the Númenóreans decided, he would win.  If they accepted his division of the lands, they would return to their little island, and he would be free to continue extending his control just as if they had never invaded Middle-earth.  If they took him back to Númenor as a prisoner, he could work his plans from within.  Executing him was the least acceptable outcome: painful and inconvenient. He liked the new body and if they destroyed it, well, it would take years to gather his spirit again, but even that wouldn’t be a permanent defeat. 

However, it was still a delicate point in time; he must be patient and endure these inconveniences . . .  these humiliations.  He would remember them later.  But by the Door of Night, it was taking them long enough to decide what to do. He was becoming most uncomfortable from several quarters.

“Hoi! You! I need to get out of this.” Mairon jerked at the chain and the guards looked at him stupidly.  Idiots! He might have to try sending a thought suggestion after all.
                       
The sound of heavy boots and the clink of armor outside.  A voice called, “Open up for the King!”  

Ah, at last. 

The guards swept the tent flap aside. Dipping his head under the low opening, the King entered.   His face was blandly handsome: square jaw, intense blue eyes. For a moment he stood looking at Mairon, then he rubbed his hands together.  “It’s too cold in here.  Get us a brazier,” he said to one of the guards. 

Mairon lowered his eyelids alluringly and pitched his voice to sound like floating silk.  “A brave deed, my King, coming here by yourself. I sense fear from everyone else.”

“Tell me, should I be afraid of you?” Ar-Pharazôn asked. 

“Examine the facts for yourself, Lord King.  I came to you alone, trusting in your reputation for fair dealing when I have the means for surrounding this encampment and killing all of you.”  Mairon’s lips quirked.  “I had imagined this would be a civilized discourse, for such is the reputation of Anadûnê.”  He yanked on the chain over his head.  “Instead, I am treated like a wretch: chained, given neither food nor drink, and not even provided with means for certain . . . um . . . bodily functions.”

Ar-Pharazôn blanched. “That had not occurred to us.  We know so little about you.”

“Then, be assured, in this body, I have all the same needs as you.  All of them.” 

Mairon looked into the King’s eyes, then projected a single image: his head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut, and mouth dropping open in ecstasy.  It was so brief that he knew Ar-Pharazôn would never suspect the source and would think he’d imagined it.  The King’s eyes lost focus for a moment. Mairon kept his expression neutral. He liked this game.

Several servants bustled in, carrying between them an iron brazier of hot coals, which they set in the center of the tent. 

The King said gruffly, “Bring us food and wine . . . and a chamber pot.”  He looked at Mairon.  “I’ll just step outside for a moment, shall I?”

Mairon raised his hands making a harsh chinking sound.  “I’d be obliged if they would unfetter my hands . . . unless, of course, you want to hold it for me.”  His mouth quirked.

The pause told him he’d ruffled the King’s sensibilities, and, most probably, had excited his imagination. 

“Since you are the one chained, it would be wise to be much less insolent!” Ar-Pharazôn punctuated the final three words with an almost crone-like shake of his finger.  He turned on the servant.  “Well, free his hands!  I’ll be back shortly.  We have some things to discuss.”

Weasel-face unlocked the cuffs and Mairon dropped his arms and rubbed his wrists.  He stood and shuffled, clanking, over to the pot.  Lifting his tunic, he started to untie his breeches and then noticed that Leering Boy, the craggy-cheeked guard was watching. 

“Yes, I have one,” Mairon said.  “Do you want to see it?” 

“Uh, nay,” the man grunted and shifted his eyes while Mairon got on with it.

“Much better,” Mairon sighed in relief as he fixed his clothing and sat back down on the stool.  He grinned at the man.  “Did you enjoy your eyeful?  Uncommonly large, isn’t it?”

“Shut your mouth,” Leering Boy muttered.

The King returned, followed by servants carrying a small table, wine, bread, and a roasted quail stuffed with shallots, corn bread, and raisins. It smelled divine.  Mairon was surprised to find that he was hungry and he set to with enthusiasm.

“You’re not what I would have expected,” Ar-Pharazôn said, leaning back in his chair and cradling a cup of hot wine in his large, bejeweled hand. 

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know.  Not . . . this,” he replied, waving vaguely at Mairon. “Nothing about you is as reported.  You seem very reasonable, not . . . an insane fiend.”  He stopped as if wondering if he should have spoken so freely.

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Mairon replied. “You may find the rumors of me don’t match the reality.  Fear makes people see monsters where there are none. Fear and ignorance.”

“That is so,” Ar-Pharazôn said.  “But if you are telling me that all the tales of your deeds are untrue, I’ll find that hard to believe.”

“No doubt your tales come from the elves, who have reasons for hating me. But as I said, there are two sides to every story. If you give me an opportunity, I could tell you my side and you might decide that I am right.  I find the elves insufferably arrogant, convinced of their own superiority because they are favored by the Valar. But they are stagnant as a race with no ambition beyond composing more endlessly boring songs to that bitch Varda. Melkor himself often told me there was more promise for growth and innovation among the Edain. Tell me, are your people not estranged from the elves?”

“Indeed,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “Through no fault of our own. For many years now they have not deigned to visit our shores or hold any concourse with us.”

“Then perhaps you might find that we have much to offer one another, for I too believe in the promise of men. The elves have no future in Middle-earth, even if Gil-galad thinks he has a permanent foothold.  As the years pass, more of them depart for Aman than are born.  It doesn’t take a wizard to figure out the end result of those numbers.” 

Mairon smiled at him and the King’s face relaxed into a near-smile of his own.  Good. Ar-Pharazôn seemed to be warming up to him.
   
“My father used to say that the first men to encounter elves were primitives who were just learning to crawl up from the mud.”  The King steepled his fingers together. “The elves with all their power and knowledge overawed them, so they treated them with the reverence due Eru, until they learned to plant and forge for themselves. We have progressed from those times and now know that the elves are not superior to us.  We have built a great civilization with our own scholars, and inventors, and builders. It is unfair that Eru gifted the elves with everlasting life and not us.”   He grimaced.

Mairon nodded. “I have thoughts concerning Eru’s motives and they are not flattering. Your father must have been very wise.  I have heard that he was . . . unappreciated by a certain faction among your people.”

Ar-Pharazôn cocked his head.  “You are well-informed.  Yes, that’s so.  We still have a remnant of the old beliefs, people who do not see the situation as clearly as did my father or, apparently, as well as you.”

Mairon inclined his head.  As he had thought, this was turning out to be even easier than bagging a quail in a pit. 

“So,” Ar-Pharazôn continued, “Annatar, if that is what you wish to be called, I want to know, and do not lie to me because I’ll know at once . . . can you truly . . . I mean, do you know the secret of eternal youth?  Can you make men deathless, like the elves?”

Ah, that must have been eating at him.  The King was doing his utmost to appear casual, as if the answer did not mean the whole of Middle-earth to him.  

“The short answer is I can renew a semblance of youth, but I cannot make you immortal,” Mairon said.  He played with one of his ruby earrings. “There is, of course, a longer answer, full of arcane logic and words of foreign origin.”

“Oh,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “Couldn’t you just tell me how?  The short version.”

“And why should I?”  Mairon laughed.  “Do you think I’m such a dim player, to show all my cards to you?  In any case, the knowledge alone would avail you nothing. I’m the only one who can apply it.”   From habit, he began to twist the Ring, only to find a void where it used to encircle his finger, tight and comforting. For a moment he felt a sense of loss.

“Oh,” said the King again, sounding as disappointed as a boy being refused another helping of pie. He thought a moment.  “I could force the knowledge from you.”

“No, you can’t.”  Mairon said.  “Trust me on that one. In my time, I’ve been worked over by the Master.” He sent a brief image of himself, hands bolted to the wall while a lash was being cracked expertly across his bare buttocks.

Nervously, Ar-Pharazôn passed a hand over his open mouth.  Mairon continued, “And even if I did tell you what I know, I’m the only one with sufficient power to work the magic.  Instructions taken by force would be meaningless.”

“Ah, so you say,” Ar-Pharazôn said distantly.  He was rubbing his chin with the heel of his hand. “If I can believe anything you tell me.”

“You can believe the surface of what I say.  It is up to you to decide about the undercurrent.”

“You’re playing with me. I don’t like it and may decide to have you punished,” Ar-Pharazôn growled.

“Mmm, how do you know I wouldn’t enjoy it?”  Mairon licked his lips.

“You are a strange beast, surely,” Ar-Pharazôn replied. 

Mairon laughed delightedly. “So, Great King, tell me, now that you have the dragon by the tail, what do you intend to do with me?” He slipped a finger into his mouth and sucked quail grease from it with a soft kissing sound.  Withdrawing it slowly from his lips, he lifted his eyes to assure himself of the King’s undivided attention, then sent an image of a head, face obscured by a cascade of silky red hair, moving up and down over the King’s lap.

The King inhaled sharply, and shifted his weight, bringing his knees together. 

“What do I intend?” the King asked.  Abruptly he stood. “I have not decided yet.”   He turned to his guards.  “Chain him up again, but make sure his . . . needs are met.”   Then he hurried out.

Warg’s breath! Mairon thought, in frustration.  He slammed his fist down on the table making the crockery jump. 

“Hey, no need for that,” Leering Boy chided. “You’re lucky the King gives you an audience at all. It could be the executioner’s block for you, mîki.”

Mairon hissed at him and he stepped back a pace.

“Come on, let’s chain ‘im up,” Dâur, the Weasel-face said.

Both guards advanced upon him. When Weasel-face reached for Mairon’s wrists to reaffix the chain, for some reason, Mairon had a moment of panic.  He sent the man an image of a bat flying right at his face and at the same time shot Leering Boy one of a huge rat underfoot. 

“Arrrrgggg,” Weasel-face screamed, wildly flinging his hands in the air while Leering Boy performed a little hoppity dance yelling,“Ossë’s arse!” They looked at each other in confusion and then at Mairon. 

Mairon bit his lip to hide the smile.

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

Wearing this, he could pass for a prince, Sûla thought. He sat on a stool in the King’s tent, holding a silver mirror and turning his head this way and that, admiring the way his Majesty’s diadem of gold and emeralds glittered on his brow. He straightened the links on the gold necklace the King had given him, then examined the embroidery on his fine wool tunic dyed an expensive crimson. He had ordered the tunic made with a neck wide enough to allow one shoulder to peep out lasciviously. Now, he cupped it, feeling the slender contour in his palm, testing the softness of the skin. He lifted his chin, imperiously, and raised the hand in a commanding gesture. “Down on your knees, wretch!” he said and then giggled at his reflection.

Slapping his smooth cheeks, one after the other, to bring a bloom to honey-golden skin, he then tilted his head, deploying his rosy, upturned lips into a coy smile.  Ah yes, the smile that had impressed a king.

He knew he looked good, but looks were not his only asset. His stepfather, that perverted bastard who had sold him into slavery at age thirteen, the one who oft had told him that he’d never amount to anything more than a suckcock, would not have believed how high he had come in five years. Already, the King had given him presents rich enough that he could have paid off the tax debts of his whole village. Not bad for the son of an Umbarian blacksmith. He’d earned them too; keeping the King’s interest was hard work. Although, sometimes, as he serviced the King, his stepfather’s harsh cry of “whore!” echoed in his mind.

Feh! A full belly was worth it. His fine clothes and soft bed and light workload were worth it; worth the terrible nausea of the stormy voyage from Umbar to Númenor, the humiliation of the slave block, the beatings and the perversions of his first master. How lucky he had been that Lord Azûnê had chosen to bring him to court, and that, while pouring the wine at the banquet, Sûla had managed to catch the King’s eye! He had been decorative, efficient, and clever and, within a month, he’d been promoted to King’s Cupbearer. That was not a small thing amidst all his pretty rivals. Now he was sleeping next to the most powerful man in Arda! He could scarce believe it. Who knew what he could achieve next? And lately, he’d been able to slip in a word here and there that the King heeded. Such favors were making him friends in court, and some enemies. Too bad.  It would be worth it if he could earn an estate of his own. He simply had to endure his Majesty’s unsubtle lovemaking until the King tired of him. Well, that was the story of his life.

Was that all? His dark, kohl-lined eyes looked back at him from the mirror, as if waiting for something, for some higher purpose.  Sûla clicked his tongue dismissing such a thought.  Then, he noticed a small red blotch on his chin. No, it couldn’t be. He leaned towards the mirror to examine it.

There were voices outside the tent. Oh Zizzûn, Master of Fate, his Majesty was returning! He'd figured the King’d be gone all morning, drooling over that pretty sorcerer they had copped. Sûla snatched the diadem from his head and quickly set it on the velvet cushion on the grooming table. Then he ran over to the bed and flung himself down upon it. He had just enough time to arrange himself provocatively, fluffing his hair, and letting his tunic drop off his shoulder, when the King entered.

Ar-Pharazôn strode the length of the tent and then turned, his fists clenched. He picked up the satchel that carried the Zigûr’s maps and heaved it against the side of the tent where it hit with a sharp thwop, then rebounded from the canvas to land on one of the many furs covering the floor.

Sûla sat up. “My Lord, what has happened?”

“Nothing. He’s maddening! Maddening!”

“The Zigûr, my Lord?” Sûla slid off the bed, his long silk sash trailing behind him. “Do you wish some mulled wine? I will have them water it well so there’s no headache.” He came up behind the King, and began kneading his shoulders, gently.

“Yes, yes, have it brought,” Ar-Pharzôn said, shrugging him off.

“What did he say to anger you so?” Sûla asked.

“‘Tis not so much what he said; it’s what he didn’t . . . . He affects me in ways he shouldn’t. I think I’m going mad; I don’t know who to trust.”

“You may trust me, my Lord King.”

The King’s expression softened and he took Sûla’s face in his large hand, studying it. “Is that so, my little trifle? I wonder how long your loyalty would outlast my gold.”

Sûla let him hold his chin a moment longer, and then said, “Permit me, my Lord, to do as you bid.”

Abruptly, the King dropped his hand. He took off his short leopardskin cape, tossed it on a divan, and resumed pacing while Sûla went to the door and whispered to the guard, ordering the wine, telling him to hurry or risk the King’s displeasure. He returned and knelt down at the King’s feet, touching his head to the ground and then sitting up. “Do you wish some ease, my Lord?”

“Some ease?” The King stopped. He reached down and took hold of Sûla’s hair in a strong grip. “Yes. I want that.” He hauled him upwards, then his mouth was on Sûla’s – hard and hungry, teeth scraping against Sûla’s lips. The youth resisted at first due to sheer surprise. When he saw how it was, he relaxed, visualizing his body bending like a young tree. Ar-Pharazôn put an arm about his waist, hugging him close. Sûla could feel that he was hard against his leg.

“Oh, my Lord is anxious for it,” Sûla said slyly.

The King dragged his other hand down Sûla’s cheek along his neck to that bare shoulder. His fingers dug into it. “Off,” said hoarsely. “Take them off.”

“As it pleases you, my Liege,” Sûla responded. Time for a show. He stepped back, untied the sash and pulled it off, then he took the hem of the tunic, along with the woolen undergarment, and in an undulating motion pulled them slowly over head. He threw it over the divan, shivering a little in the cool air. He was wearing loose silk trousers with the crotch and seat cut away revealing pertinent portions of his anatomy. The sight of this garment always had a positive effect on the King.

Sûla flashed his entrancing smile, arched his back, and ran his hands provocatively over his chest, squeezing his nipples; then he turned, presenting what he knew from having been told many, many times, was an extremely pleasing rear view. He looked over his shoulder at the King.

The King stepped forward; his hand slapped up against Sûla’s arse and grasped one cheek hard enough to hurt. “You are a work of art, Sûla,” he breathed into his ear.  Brushing the youth’s hair aside, he bit down on his neck.

A servant arrived with the cup of wine. It was the cute, curly-haired page, Tigôn. He stopped at the doorflap and quickly averted his eyes from the scene.

“A moment, your Majesty,” Sûla said as he pulled away from the embrace. He walked over, stood in front of the young man, and pointedly looked down at himself dressed only in his altered leggings and jewelry. As he bent to take the cup, he whispered in Tigôn’s ear. “Too bad none of it’s for you, mîki.”

The page’s lips curled derisively and he hastened out backwards, getting tangled for a moment in the canvas flap. Sûla laughed, and carried the cup to his King. “To your health, my Lord.”

Ar-Pharazôn took several quick gulps, wiped his mouth with his hand, sighed, and set the cup down. He grabbed Sûla by the shoulders, pulling him into another greedy, wine-tainted kiss. His breath had the harsh edge of someone who drinks too much. Sûla knew that taste all too well.

**
The kiss became more frenzied, devouring, and then the King pushed him backward onto the bed, and fell heavily on top of him. He began biting Sûla’s neck.  Sûla cried out, knowing that the King liked him to be noisy. No doubt when he left the tent, the guards would give him that look – that combination of disgust and hunger. He cared not. This was what he wanted, the King’s approval. Continuing downwards, the King nipped along his chest. Taking a tender nipple into his mouth, he rolled it around his tongue, sucking hard, and then biting down. Zizzûn, that hurt!

“Ow!” Sûla cried, “You are hungry this morning, my Lord. I think you will eat me for breakfast.”

“You little tart,” the King replied. “I’m going to sod you so thoroughly, you’ll be choking on my balls!”

What an appetizing image, my Lord, Sûla thought. But then the King’s hand slid down Sûla’s belly and grasped his cock, stroking with an insistent, upward pull. The friction was arousing but uncomfortably dry. A blunt finger snaked behind his balls and penetrated him to the first knuckle.  He felt a cold ring poking at his entrance. Ouch! Oh gods, was the King not going to use any oil again?

Sûla worked his hand between them, outlining the leather-clad lump at the King’s groin with his fingers. “My Lord, may I prepare you?” he said in his most sultry voice. “Remember how divine that oil from Pelargir felt?”

“Hurry, I am in need,” Ar-Pharazôn growled, but he did move off him a little. Quickly, Sûla slithered out from under him, pulled off the King’s boots, and managed to remove his jerkin, unfasten his pants, and haul out his goods before the King had grasped his hair, pushing him down. “I can’t wait. Use your mouth,” the King growled.

No oil then. Sûla complied, conjuring up as much spit as he could and letting it drool down. He was working the entire length, long strokes, as his Majesty usually liked, but Ar-Pharazôn grasped his hair and began pushing and pulling, forcing him into a much quicker rhythm. By the Gates of Wrath, what had gotten into him? The King usually wasn’t this hot. The broad head pummeled the back of Sûla’s throat, until the King’s earlier threat nearly became true and he had to tense his stomach muscles to keep from gagging.  He pulled away, burying his face in the King’s soft tunic to catch a breath.

“That’s enough, then,” the King said. “Turn over.”

As Sûla turned, he spat on his hand, and reaching back, smeared it between his cheeks. He crouched, rear tilted up, head down. The King held him by the hip with one hand; the knuckles of his other hand with their rings brushed against his arse. Moments later, he felt the hard push of the King’s poleaxe, opening him up with a raw stretch. “Aiiiiiiii, yes! Valar have mercy, my King!” he yelled. Technically, his stepfather had been larger, unpleasantly so, but Sûla knew that a little flattery in that area never went amiss.

“You little minxcat, you feel so, unnhhh, so good,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted.

“My Lord, please, please fuck me. I ache for it,” Sûla gasped.  A little pleading never hurt either.

A slow withdrawal nearly all the way out. Large hands gripped his hips. Uh, here it comes, Sûla thought. Reaching up, he laced his fingers through the coiled filigree of the iron bedstead. Then he was being pounded within an inch of his life, to the tune of the bedstead's raucous objections.

“Oh, my L-L-Lord . . .”  Sûla said, his teeth practically rattling in his head as he held on.

“Beautiful, gorgeous little ass,” Ar-Pharazôn gasped. 

As usual, it was taking the King a while to get off.  He would pull nearly out and make little jerky motions and then suddenly plunge deep again. His loins grew slippery with sweat against Sûla’s arse, which made the action a little easier.  Eventually, he leaned his weight against Sûla’s back, pushing him down into the bed. “Press your legs together . . .  more,” he said, his voice gruff in Sûla’s ear.  He put his hands down on either side. “Stroke yourself,” he commanded.  “I like to feel you spend, like to feel you quake around me.”

Sûla licked his hand, reached down, found himself not nearly hard enough and set about vigorously changing that.  He thought of the King’s other pretty ziramîkin, thought of a banquet not so long ago, the couches filled with writhing bodies and glorious debauchery, thought of curly-haired Tigôn with his shy smile and how he’d like to suck him off.  And then he thought of the Zigûr coming into the tent with that pervasive sense of power, the surprise of that glorious  red hair cascading down, imagined those lush lips kissing down his chest, tongue snaking out to tease the head of his cock, and suddenly with a loud, “Gahhhhh,” Sûla exploded.

“Yes, that’s it. Mmm, by the gods, that’s it,” Ar-Pharazôn crowed.  And then he piked Sûla, groaning in pleasure as he thrust.  He paused, shuddered, roared, shuddered some more, stopped, and then fucked him some more until he had fully expended himself. 

The creaking abruptly ceased and their breath sounded loud, huffing in Sûla’s ears. He turned his head and sighed in relief. The King swatted him hard on the backside and fell next to him, softly laughing with pleasure. 

**
More than an hour later, they lay together completely naked, face to face under a fox fur blanket. Sûla's arse and thighs were slippery with the King's seed. He longed to get up and clean himself, but the King was enjoying him still, playing with Sûla’s hair as he kissed his face, his neck, anywhere that took his fancy. This part of their coupling was what Sûla lived for.

“You are magnificent,” Ar-Pharazôn murmured.

“As it pleases you, my Lord,” Sûla said. “Do you feel better now?” He gave the King a bright smile, hoping that twice would have satisfied him; not only did his rear end ache, but during the first hasty bout, some inconvenient buckle on the King’s clothing had scratched up the small of his back and it stung.

“I feel more relaxed,” the King said. He went for Sûla’s mouth again. “You are so pretty, I want to chew you up.”

“Very flattering, my Lord, but then I would no longer be pretty,” Sûla suggested, to which the King laughed.

“I wonder,” Ar-Pharazôn said, curling a black ringlet around his finger, “how you would look with red hair?”

Sûla glanced sharply at him. “I’ve never thought of it before, perhaps it would be attractive. May I ask, what made you so hot this morn?”

Ar-Pharazôn sighed and rolled onto his back. “Frustration,” he said.

Sûla leaned up on an elbow, tracing a finger around one of the King’s fuzzy pectorals. “It’s the Zigûr you captured, isn’t it?”

“I never thought he would actually surrender. And then I never expected him to be . . .”

“Beautiful?”

“Yes that. And so reasonable and charming. The reports described him as a blood-thirsty shape-changer. I imagined him looking like some kind of ghoul, not . . . hmmm, like he does. And the things he says make so much sense. But Aphanuzîr is correct; his surrender without a fight is deeply suspicious. I’d be a fool to trust him. So, I don’t know what to do. I’m not going to divide up Middle-earth with him. He has no right to any of it and I’m certainly not going to pretend that he does. If I let him go back to his fortress, he would resume his conquests – of course he would. So would I in his place. And if I execute him . . . well there are reasons I’d rather not do that. He said I had a dragon by the tail and that fits the situation to a nicety. How do I let go without getting burned?”

“Ah, who says you need to let him go, my Lord?”

“What?” The King half-turned and looked at him intently with those bright blue eyes. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“There is a saying in my village: if you have an eel by the tail, hold him at arm’s length and watch closely his teeth. What if you take this zigûr back with you to Anadûnê? Keep him in prison there. That way you can watch him and make sure he does not bite.”

“No doubt he could still do harm in ways I’ve yet to imagine,” Ar-Pharazôn sighed. “But yes, I’ve wondered if that wasn’t the best course of action. He has very useful knowledge that, in time, he might be persuaded to share.”

“Useful knowledge of many things,” Sûla replied. “He said he knew the secret of eternal youth. What is he, my King?  Where do the zigûrin come from?”

“He’s what they call a Maia, a servant of the Lords of the West and they come from Aman.  It’s said he used to serve Morgoth, the fallen Vala.  I don’t know the extent of his power. Tales of him go back thousands of years; he is one of the deathless.”

“I sometimes wonder if that would be a good thing, my Lord?  Would you not become sick of doing the same things over and over for all time?”

“Spoken like someone who has yet to feel the grip of age.” Ar-Pharazôn stroked Sûla’s cheek. “You are shiny with youth. There is not a line or an age spot on your face, oh, except for a youthful lesion here.” He touched Sûla’s chin. 

Sûla felt heat rise to his cheeks and he leaned on his hand so that it covered his chin.  “I am sure you are right, my King.  In any case, he who holds the secret of immortality would have immense power.  I would think that alone is worth the risk of taking him to Anadûnê?”

The King sighed. “I think so too. He may come to the conclusion that it’s better to give up that knowledge than be locked in my dungeon.  But I don’t know how powerful he is and it worries me.  He can make us see things, like his display in the tent earlier.  You saw it too, didn’t you?”  Sûla nodded.  The King frowned. “I wonder . . . But he didn’t show any greater power than that; he didn’t cause a whirlwind to destroy my camp or bring some mountain down on my army or some such. He seems constrained by the chains and I can tell he hates them.  I would think if he could get free of them, he would. So perhaps his power is less than fear makes it. The whole thing is very vexing.” 

“I’d be willing to watch him for you,” Sûla said eagerly. “I’d let you know everything he says and does. To cover it, you could assign me to him as a server.”

“Ah, my own little spy,” Ar-Pharazôn chuckled. “And you are not afraid of him?”
                                       
“I’d do it for you, my Lord.”

“And how could you watch him if you are face down in my bed? For I’d much rather you served me here than anywhere else.”

“That would be somewhat difficult.” Sûla giggled. “However, you are much too busy to keep to your bed, even if the activities there are pleasant.”  Gently, he nudged his hip against the King.

The King’s eyes were unfocused, floating away on some thought. “Maybe I should make him a guest at my banquets.”

Sûla smirked. “As guest or performer? Don’t you think he’d look lovely in the silks and chains?”

Ar-Pharazôn chuckled, as he grasped Sûla’s chin. “You, my dear Sûla, are wicked,” he said. He bent for another kiss and Sûla returned it with tongue. “You delicious tart,” the King said, “I may have to take you again.”

Sûla managed to turn his groan into a sigh of longing.

***********

It was the afternoon when Ar-Pharazôn finally returned to the tent where he was keeping Mairon prisoner. When the King entered, Mairon made himself appear calm, even though he was seething inside.

“Unchain his legs. Leave the ones on his wrists,” the King said to his guards.

“What are you doing?” Mairon asked as Weasel-face unlocked his leg irons.

“Bring him,” was the King’s brusque response.

The guard jerked him to the door and pulled aside the flap. Mairon blinked in the sudden light, although the sky was a uniform grey.  He detected a faint, sharp odor of sweat and sex coming from the King. Ah, it appeared his machinations this morning had had some effect on his Majesty after all.

“What do you see?” Ar-Pharazôn asked.

All about them tents were being pulled down amidst the sharp clatter of stakes and shouted orders. Men were everywhere: carrying trunks, loading up wains, hitching up horses.

“You’re pulling out, going home,” Mairon concluded. “Well, it was a merry meeting. Before you leave, I wish to put our agreement in writing.”

“No need for that,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “My duty as King is to do what is best for my people, and, as my counselors have so wisely pointed out, you are not to be trusted. Did you think me so foolish that I’d believe all you have told me?  I’ve decided it’s best to keep an eye on you. So, you’re coming to Anadûnê – as my prisoner.”

Perfectly played. It was all Mairon could do not to laugh. And now to continue the charade . . . “No!” he cried indignantly. “You can’t do that! This is a betrayal. I refuse to go!” He made an attempt to run for the door but Leering Boy hauled back on the chain. With a cry, Mairon was pulled to his knees. He scrambled about, attempting to rise; the guard smacked him across the face.

“You have no choice, Annatar,” the King replied. “Be a good boy, or I’ll have you whipped. You do feel pain, don’t you?”

The guard snickered and Mairon scowled at him, then put his hand to his throbbing cheek. He was recording every slight in the ledger kept in his head. Everything.

---

Chapter End Notes

*Azûnê (invented Adûnaic name) Sula’s former master in Númenor. Courtesy of Malinornë.

*Dâur (Adûnaic, meaning ‘gloom,’ elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) a weasely looking guard who appears early on watching over Annatar.

*Hozdûnik (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) a leering guard with craggy cheeks.

*mîki (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic term, from canon Adûnaic mîk meaning ‘baby boy’). Slang word for boy with a slightly jeering meaning, like saying ‘dude’ or ‘pal’ or ‘boyo.’

*Zizzûn or Zizz (elfscribe-invented Umbarian name) Master of Fate, a god of the peasants around Umbar.