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

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Chapter 9 - Melkor’s Apprentice

Chapter summary: Sauron (Mairon) remembers his past as Melkor's servant, and sets events in motion so that the unwitting Ar-Pharazôn is drawn further into the web.

Warning: This comes with a jangling bells warning for violence, animal cruelty, BDSM, Melkor/Sauron and Ar-Pharazôn/Sauron.

 

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Note: Mairon is Sauron's real name. 

* * * * 

A shriek of wind shook the tent, momentarily breaking Mairon’s concentration. Glancing at the stone-faced guards standing by the door, he plucked at the webbing of the spell that kept them compliant. It held. Good. He pulled the blanket closer about his shoulders. What a miserable existence this was: feeling cold and damp and surrounded by irritating dolts. Oh, to be back in the warm confines of Barad-dûr, planning experiments or plotting battles. Sighing, Mairon examined his wrists, red and raw from the chains. His glance fell on his right hand, so naked and vulnerable without the Ring. He rubbed his thumb across the first joint of the middle finger, missing the familiar feeling of smooth, heavy metal, and resolved to find a substitute as soon as possible. But for now, he must shed it from his thoughts. There were things to do.

He adjusted himself more comfortably on the hassock of stuffed cowhide, closed his eyes, and sent forth tendrils of power, hungry as coursing hounds. They sniffed around that oafish lordling Dulginzin as he lay dreaming of violence in his tent. A smile crept onto Mairon’s lips. How easy it had been to manipulate that one, requiring only a slight suggestion when the Umbarian slave boy walked by in Ar-Pharazôn’s tent. Dulginzin’s attack had worked to push Sûla more completely into Mairon’s arms. And indeed, young Sûla was the perfect tool, drawn to authority and desperately needy. Like a master harper tuning a string, Mairon could sense that the King’s catamite was exercising his new-found power upon another hapless boy, the mere use of the spell binding him and the new victim in subtle ways. Mairon softly plucked that thread, knowing that very soon now Sûla would be telling the King the lies he had fed him. Mairon had put the lure properly in place; now he could begin drawing it in. But it must be done with care so that the King would actually welcome the gently tightening noose. This might take years. Mairon’s lips curled in anticipation. Greedily, he sucked on the side of his forefinger. Playing this game was immensely pleasurable, like a powerful aphrodisiac.

But he must brace himself for what was coming. This could prove tricky, perhaps even more than taking down the elves in Ost-in-Edhil had been. He’d have to endure more privation and pain for some time before he could turn events to his advantage. It was challenging to test himself in this manner. Perhaps he might even enjoy it for the sheer sensation. It had been a long time since . . .yes.

* * * *
His thoughts skipped backward thousands of years to the first time that Melkor had approached him alone, in the guise of one of the newly-awakened Firstborn. In his mind’s eye he saw himself standing at Aulë’s forge set within a shelter, one side open to the leafy clearing so as to dissipate the terrible heat. So intent was he upon watching the metal held in the tongs over the coals as he worked the bellows with his foot, waiting, waiting for the tell-tale blue color that he barely noticed the sensation of another source of heat behind him. Mairon turned, running a hand through his prickly hair, sheared short to avoid being singed in the flames, and startled as the huge form materialized. Melkor. Such an audience was a singular occasion. He set the tongs down next to the hearth and inclined his head. “Your Eminence.”

That sumptuously deep voice, smooth as glass on the surface, but with an underlying gravelly rattle, said, “I have heard that you are Aulë’s most promising apprentice.”

Mairon straightened up, preening a bit, as he looked into Melkor’s glittering gaze. Aulë rarely flattered him, and by Eru, he ought to. “You have heard correctly,” Mairon purred. “There is no task that the Lord Aulë gives me that I do not quickly master.”

“Mmmm, what conceit.” Melkor stretched out his bulk upon an iron bench under the spreading linden tree. In taking the masculine form of the Firstborn, Melkor had chosen an excessive musculature, huge shoulders and a massive chest that tapered down to a slender waist. He wore naught but his long, dark hair, twined with silver thread into numerous snaky plaits, and a fine cloth kilt of iridescent colors tucked around his loins that covered a singularly large bulge. Mairon found it difficult to keep speculative eyes from it.

“It is not conceit, just fact. I do not believe in false modesty,” Mairon had said. He glanced back at the iron bar noting that the metal had already cooled to yellow. Annoying. “What do you want, my lord?” he said, trying to keep the edge from his voice.

“How do you know that I desire something?” Melkor said, shifting the stance of his legs wider apart.

“You have never approached me before, so I assume that you wish something of me.”

“What a saucy little Maia,” Melkor chuckled, smiling at him. “I’ve been watching you from afar and I find you most intriguing. I have a task requiring someone of particular skill. No one but you will do, I think.”

Mairon remembered the upwelling of pleasure those words had engendered, even though he knew he ought to be wary of the flattery. Instead, he merely asked, “What task, my lord?”

“I have a problem worthy of an exacting smith: how to forge a metal blade, both supremely flexible and completely unbreakable.”

“For what use do you wish to put it?”

Melkor toyed with one of his braids, threading it under and over his large fingers. “Weapons. I wish you to forge me a sword, a helmet, and hauberk.”

Mairon felt a flicker of nervousness. “There is no need of those things in Valinor. Has not Manwë forbidden them?”

“Have I come to the wrong apprentice?” Melkor asked, the plaintive gravel increasing in his voice. “I had thought you brave, perhaps even brazen. I heard about your arguments with Aulë, and I agreed with your opinion over his. It appears that I was wrong about you, though. No matter. I suppose I should ask Aulë to do it for me.”

“Why do you want weapons?” Mairon asked again, curious.

“I desire to travel in the wilds of Endórë and there are evil things there.”

“Surely none that can hurt a Vala,” Mairon said. “Or that you haven’t created yourself and therefore owe you allegiance.”

Melkor narrowed his eyes. “You have a reputation for being clever, Mairon Aulendil. Is the reputation undeserved?”

Those words drew him like a hound to spoor, and thus began the relationship that would define Mairon for the rest of his days. How was he supposed to know at the time that this simple act would forge an unholy alliance that would bind him as surely as years later the chain Angainor would bind his Master? But Mairon did not ask the important questions. Instead he threw himself into the challenge, experimenting with various metals and temperatures, and finally after thousands of trials, he developed a sword that could flex but not break and a corselet of metal rings, light to wear but impossible to pierce. With a great feeling of triumph, he helped dress Melkor in the hauberk, set the helmet on his head, and then knelt and presented the sword. Melkor swished it about in the air, then pointed it at Mairon. “Spar with me,” he said.

“I am a smith, not a swordsman,” Mairon replied.

“That must change if you are to accompany me to Endórë. I need someone worthy at my side. I have deemed you a good candidate.”

“Me, Lord Melkor?”

A corner of Melkor’s mouth quirked upward. “Come then, show me what you can do.”

Grabbing one of his earlier creations, Mairon had fought with him, back and forth across the glade until Melkor paused and nodded, weighing the sword in his hand. “It seems adequate.”

Sweaty and light-headed from the fight, Mairon leaned against a tree, “Adequate,” he declared scornfully. “You’ll find nothing better anywhere in Arda!” Melkor strode toward him, tall and menacing. He pulled off the hauberk, throwing it down in a clinking pile at Mairon’s feet and then doffed the gambeson. Bare-chested, he drew close, grasping Mairon’s chin in a gloved hand. He smelled caustic, like burning iron. With a shiver of fear, Mairon glanced down at Melkor’s tented kilt, the heat inches away.

Melkor said, “You are brilliant, Mairon and have proven your worth. Come with me to Endórë.” He leaned down, palmed the back of Mairon’s head and took his surprised mouth in a kiss that scorched Mairon’s mind and left him gasping with desire.

Was that how it had happened? Mairon frowned, tapping his temple. Or had it been like this instead?

The Vala’s lips quirked into a sneer. “Apparently you do have some skill as a smith. You could be very valuable to me if you are willing to free yourself from Aulë and become my apprentice. And I have noticed your presumptuous gaze. It causes me to wonder if you have skill in other arenas. Here, take your reward. On your knees, little Maia,” and he lifted his kilt. Almost against his will, but awed by Melkor’s power, Mairon dropped, opening his mouth like a nestling, choking as his throat was filled with thick-veined flesh. He felt Melkor’s fingers vainly trying to grasp his short hair, then settling to the back of his head, pushing and pulling it into a vicious rhythm. Some time later Melkor shoved him away and Mairon fell gasping to the ground. As he lifted glazed eyes, wiping bubbles of glutinous fluid from his lips, Melkor snarled, “Grow your hair, Maia, so next time I have a hand-hold.”

Yes, that must have been how it happened.

* * * *
Absently, Mairon tugged on a strand of his long, silky red hair. What would Melkor think of him now? Would he be enamored of the new body? Pleased that his pupil had surpassed him? Hardly. The Vala could never stand competition. Instead, with words wielded like the crack of a whip, he would have cut Mairon down to size as he had always done. Melkor the Exacting. He for whom nothing was ever good enough. The One who held him in thrall forever, who still haunted his dreams. Melkor had never recognized Mairon’s superiority, rarely praised him, used him when and how it suited him, and kicked him when it didn’t. Mairon had become a master at hiding his true self, but somehow he had never managed to grow a hide thick enough that Melkor didn’t know how to get under it.

* * * *
The wolf cub was the best he’d bred so far, smart as a whip, and with those huge paws, destined to be bigger than the sire. Most auspicious. Mairon liked the pattern on his head that resembled a black hood coming to a point between the cub’s eyes. He reached down and fondled the cub, which whined softly. “You want up, don’t you, you little filth?” Mairon asked affectionately. He lifted the cub by the scruff of the neck and set him on his lap. The beast roughly washed his fingers with a red tongue. Curious. Obedience through fear was a good trait in a beast, but affection? The other wolves in his breeding grounds skulked and cringed when he came nigh, but not little Baran. Once separated from his mother and allowed the run of Mairon’s chambers, the cub had boldly clamored for the privilege of climbing into bed with him, and lately Mairon had allowed it. Strange to say, he found himself actually enjoying the wolf’s company.

“I have such plans for you, little one,” Mairon crooned, as he scratched behind the cub’s ears. “You will be the father of a great race, blessed with the keenest noses and most vicious jaws. You’ll be able to snap off a Noldorin head with one bite, won’t you?”

The wolf yawned. Snuggling down into Mairon’s black robes, he promptly went to sleep, while Mairon continued to idly splay his fingers in the soft fur. Lost in his plans, he suddenly looked up, sensing a movement of air and then the Presence materialized in flames.

“Such a pleasant domestic scene,” Melkor purred. “Feckless Master and Fell Beast, snuggling up together.”

“Don’t you ever knock?” Mairon growled. The cub awoke with a snarl, backing away against Mairon’s chest.

Melkor looked around. “It’s been too long since I visited you. You’ve vastly improved this place since stealing it from the elves. A veritable Angband in miniature. Don’t you have any original ideas, Mairon?”

Plenty, you old fiend, Mairon thought. Most dealing in creative ways to roast you slowly over a fire with the spit thrust right up your arse. But he stood, shaking the pup onto the floor. “I seek only to please you. Don’t you know that imitation is the greatest flattery? What may I do for you, your Eminence?”

“It’s been a long time since you came to Angband. I worry that you don’t care for me anymore.” Melkor sniffed dramatically.

Mairon bowed. “How can you think that, my Lord? I’ve just been busy, you know, crushing a rebellion here; torturing some of your enemies there; keeping a watch on your borders; becoming a bat. What would you do without me?”

Suddenly, Melkor slammed a hand around Mairon’s throat, lifting him onto his toes. “I’ve been lax in your discipline, Maia, allowing you to become insolent.”

The wolf pup growled and then yipped frantically, half-hidden under the hem of Mairon’s robe. Mairon gasped for air as his hands flailed uselessly at Melkor’s immense, meaty arms. Slowly he lost all vision, save a whiteness filled with floating black specks.

“What did you try to say?” Melkor leaned close to Mairon’s face; his carrion breath smiting Mairon’s senses, nearly causing him to completely black out. “Mmm . . . my .. . lord . . .” he rasped. “Pl .. . .please.”

“Cease that racket, you little cur,” Melkor snarled, looking down.

Mairon heard his cub yelp and then there was a soft thud on the wall behind them. “Nnnnnuh,” Mairon choked, even as he tried to turn his head to see what had happened to the animal.

“I heard you were breeding an army in opposition to mine. I should destroy you right now.” Melkor shook Mairon like a wolf with a rat, making Mairon feel as if his head was snapping off. Melkor must really mean it this time. Mairon worked his thumbs under his Master’s hands just enough to allow his vocal chords to move. “Nuh, no, my Lord, not so. L-look into my thoughts if you don’t believe me.”

He put up the mental shields just before a searing pain flared in his skull. Lights popped and exploded and he landed on the stone floor. Every bone in his body ached. He coughed, then managed to whisper, “I would never betray you, your Eminence. Surely you know that.”

Melkor’s head cocked in a strange mechanical fashion. He examined Mairon shrewdly, “Ah, but you aren’t loyal to me, not like you used to be. I can feel you slipping away. Well, I won’t have it. Is there any truth to what I’m saying? Or do I need to flail the skin from that Lieutenant Gothig.”

“Do it! Flail him! He’ll admit he’s lying. I have always been your most loyal servant,” Mairon crawled to Melkor’s feet, kissing the tip of his iron boot, even as he reflected that Melkor must have secreted spies among his servants, who had betrayed him. Time for a cleansing. “I’ll prove it,” Mairon continued. “Ask anything of me. I’ll do whatever you command. I’ll take the lash again. Service an orc for your amusement.”

“Hunh,” Melkor rumbled from above him. Abruptly he sat down in a large chair near the crackling hearth.

Mairon sat up, with a hand to his throat, hoping it was over, knowing that it probably was not. He felt a push against his arm and was relieved to see that the wolf cub was not seriously hurt. Unconsciously, he gathered the cub into the shelter of his arms, where the beast shivered and whined softly.

“It seems fond of you,” Melkor said pleasantly.

“I’m breeding them, my Lord, an army of ravening wolves to augment your forces. See how I think of you always? This one is the best of the lot so far. Very smart.” He knew he sounded proud. He couldn’t help it. He coughed again, trying to clear his crushed vocal chords, glad to be able to divert Melkor’s attention.

“It seems craven and overly affectionate. Hardly worthy of my army,” Melkor said.

“He’s still a baby. I assure you, this one will be as vicious as its sire, Draugluin.”

“It’s defective. Kill it,” Melkor said.

Mairon looked up at him, shocked. “But my Lord . . .”

“You said you’d do anything to prove your loyalty. So prove it. Do it now before I shred your flesh from your bones.”

Mairon cradled the trusting creature in his arms and felt a surge of desperation. For a moment he considered defying his terrible Master, even though he knew that the result would be hideously painful.

Melkor rose from the chair and went to the hearth, selecting one of Mairon’s roasting spits from the rack. “I wonder how long the thing would take to die if we roasted it over the hearth,” he said.

Mairon grabbed the pup, and with one quick twist, snapped its neck, then tossed it to the floor. Carefully, he clasped his hands together to still their shaking.

“Very good, my little monster,” Melkor said. He grabbed Mairon by the front of his robe and dragged him upright, taking his mouth in a violent, crushing kiss. Then he shoved him back to the floor. “You forget how jealous I am, my love. There can be no room in your heart for anything other than me. You hear? Complete and absolute devotion, that’s what I require. Now, I summon you back to Angband. I have need of your services in plotting our next campaign.”

“Yes, my Lord Melkor,” Mairon said dully, wiping a trickle of blood from his lips.

With a loud pop, a glowing coal jumped from the fire, landed on the floor, and slowly went dark.

* * * *
The memory filled Mairon with anger, as if pus had suddenly erupted from a wound that had long since scabbed over. Somewhere, in a distant part of himself, he thought he heard a mocking laughter that only served to increase his agitation. He rose from his cushioned hassock with a cold clinking of chains and paced back and forth by the brazier of coals. Their soft glow reminded him of the fires of Orodruin and he gripped the bare finger in his other fist, feeling again the pain of putting on the Ring for the first time. The laughter increased. “Shut up, shut up,” Mairon hissed. Was it some vestige of Melkor – still haunting him? “You can not hurt me now, you vile old bastard,” Mairon taunted. “You are gone for good. Thrust forever beyond the Door of Night where you can gnaw all you like on the ends of vainglorious plots. Whereas I, your “unworthy” servant, am still here, am I not? I, Tar-Mairon, who single-handedly toppled the proud and self-satisfied Gwaith-i-Mírdain. And I’ll do it again with the Númenóreans. You’ll see, you unholy piece of filth! The future will show which of us is superior!”

He paused, breathing heavily, then pressed hands to his heated face. “Be still,” he snarled at the mysterious voice in his head. He must not lose control like this. Never. His future balanced on the edge of a knife and if he wasn’t careful, it might well be him thrust on the wrong side of the Door, doomed forever to endure his former Master’s embrace. Where was that imbecilic King any way? He was overdue.

Then in the distance, Mairon heard the rapid, syncopated tramp of steel-shod boots coming his way. Good. Quickly, he released the guards from the spell just as six more flipped open the canvas door and rushed into the tent, bringing a cold breeze with them. Two seized Mairon by the arms, crushing him between them. Ar-Pharazôn entered, ducking his head, his eyes, bold with fury, sought Mairon.

“Take them into custody,” Ar-Pharazôn said, gesturing at the guards who had been under Mairon’s spell. “They have much to explain.”

“What? My Lord!” one guard said and they both crashed onto their knees clasping their hands in supplication. “What have we done?”

“You allowed this beast here to attack my cupbearer,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“No, my Lord, no such thing happened,” the guard named Hozdûnik said, wildly looking about as if for confirmation.

“Take them into the yard for discipline. Fifty lashes,” Ar-Pharazôn said, jerking his chin in that direction. He turned to Mairon. “You! You have abused my hospitality.”

“Some hospitality,” Mairon rejoined, struggling against the guards holding him.

“Filth! You will bow before speaking to me!” Ar-Pharazôn roared. Little flecks of spit flew from his mouth, hitting Mairon’s face.

Mairon raised his chin defiantly. The guards immediately threw him flat onto the ground, and jerked his elbows up at an angle behind his back. “Uh!” Mairon cried, as pain shot through his shoulders.

“Good, you can feel pain, like any mere mortal. Bring me a seat,” Ar-Pharazôn said. Another guard hastened to grab the hassock Mairon had been sitting on and carried it to the King.

“Raise him, so I can see his face.”

Mairon was lifted up and slammed onto his knees, which hurt even worse than having his arms nearly pulled from their sockets. A guard seized his hair, jerking his head back to look up at the King seated across from him, his slate-blue eyes sparking like iron striking a flint. Ar-Pharazôn looked as if he’d over-indulged in drink last night and dressed hurriedly this morning; his face was unshaven and puffy around the eyes and his short leopard-skin cloak was askew about his shoulders.

“By Manwë, you’ll learn your place,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “You’re my prisoner. It is only due to my forbearance that I haven’t lopped your head from your worthless neck.”

“I assure you, I’m more valuable to you alive and intact,” Mairon said.

“Strike him,” Ar-Pharazôn growled. Instantly, Mairon felt such a blow to his face that his head snapped to the side. His cheek hot and stinging, Mairon slowly turned his head back and narrowed his eyes at the King. He could feel emotions buzzing all around, mostly of fear, adding to the rapid pounding of his own heart.

“Believe me, you’re walking on thin ice here,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “I’ll tolerate no more insolence. The next words out of your mouth determine whether you live or die.” He gestured at a guard who drew his sword and held it level with Mairon’s neck. There was a fulsome silence.

“I can tell you about the elixir of youth,” Mairon said.

Ar-Pharazôn sat back. “Say on.”

Mairon looked pointedly at the guards. “These secrets aren’t meant for lowly ears.”

“You must think me a fool,” Ar-Pharazôn huffed, but Mairon could tell he was considering the implications.

“Not at all,” Mairon replied. “But can you trust others with such knowledge?”

“I don’t trust you, not as far as I could kick you,” Ar-Pharazôn said. He paused for a moment, then snapped his fingers at the guards. “Strip him and chain him standing with his arms over his head. There are ways to enlist his cooperation.”

“What!” Mairon cried, feigning shock. But already the guards had unlocked his wrist and leg cuffs and were roughly removing his cloak, tunic, undergarments, wool leggings, and boots. Mairon struggled against them and was rewarded by another crack across the face. He could feel one eye swelling shut. Sha! The chains binding his hands were tossed over the wooden struts that supported the roof of the tent, and pulled taut so that his body was stretched, but he could still stand flat-footed upon the frozen ground. Then, they chained his legs to either end of an iron bar, forcing him to stand splayed. He sensed the King’s gaze passing greedily over his body. Despite the cold air, sweat pricked Mairon’s face and chest. He had not remembered how vulnerable this made him feel. It had been a long time.

“Pin up his hair,” Ar-Pharazôn commanded. Mairon's long hair was roughly twisted around and then clipped in place on top of his head.

“Give me the flagellum and leave us,” the King said. “Surround the tent and don’t let anyone enter. Stay within calling distance.”

“Yes, my Lord King,” the guards said, touching fists to their shoulders before hurrying out. They seemed glad to be leaving.

“Now then,” Ar-Pharazôn said, walking around Mairon while slowly swinging the many-thonged whip back and forth, “maybe we can scourge some truth out of you.” Mairon felt the King’s breath puff hot upon his neck as he rested the handle of the whip on Mairon’s shoulder and then pulled the thongs down over his back. “I must admit you are exceedingly fair to look upon,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “I would never have anticipated this. Such perfect skin.” Mairon flinched as the King ran a hand lightly over his arse.

Mairon sent him an image of himself bent over a couch, red lines decorating his buttocks, which were parted just enough. He felt the ripple of response from the King. “Are you planning to thrash me, yourself, Pharazôn?” Mairon said. “As I’ve told you before, I’ve been worked over by the Master. Nothing you can do will compare to it.”

The King stepped back. There was a loud whoosh, then a crack as the many strands of the whip landed on Mairon’s back. He jerked, the stinging threads like the tentacles of a jellyfish. The whip landed again and again across his back, buttocks, and thighs. “Uh, Pushdug sha!” Mairon cried out after a particularly vicious hit. He had to admit, the King had a good arm.

“This is just the beginning,” Ar-Pharazôn snarled, “so that you know not to cross me in future. How dare you attempt to seduce my slave!”

Mairon moaned, jerking away, as the knotted ends of the lash tore at his skin. “Clearly, uh, that was ill-conceived.”

“I want to know why you did it,” Ar-Pharazôn panted as he continued the rain of blows. “I know you aren’t that stupid.”

“Your slave is beautiful. I was feeling lonely,” Mairon hissed. This earned him a particularly wicked smack on his inner thighs.

“Try again.”

“If you were in my place, would you not attempt some form of escape?”

“Ah, now we’re getting closer to the truth. And you thought Sûla would be able to help you?”

“So I thought, but seemingly, he is completely loyal to you.” Breathing hard, Mairon sagged against the chains. He could smell the bright musk of the King’s sweat. It was all he could do to keep himself from casting a spell on him, something particularly vicious. Control. That was the key, but dragons’ breath that hurt! His backside was on fire. Sweat ran chill under his arms. He shivered.

Ar-Pharazôn was also out of breath. Wielding a lash was tiring work, as Mairon well knew. Ar-Pharazôn came up close, speaking into Mairon’s ear. “You are my prisoner, Annatar. You live or die at my whim. Never forget that.”

“I swear I won’t,” Mairon replied as contritely as he could. He could feel something trickling down his back. Sweat? Blood?

“Now that we understand each other better,” Ar-Pharazôn said, “I want the truth.” He came around to face Mairon. “You told Sûla that you knew how to brew a drink that would make a man immortal but that you would never do it for me, as long as I held you prisoner. You had better rethink that.”

“I’m afraid your cupbearer misunderstood me. I know how to renew the body back to a semblance of youth. You can see the result by looking at the body I currently wear, but I do not yet know how to make a man immortal.”

“That is not what you told me and my Counselors in the tent. Why should I believe you now?” Ar-Pharazôn’s hand came up between Mairon’s legs, grasping his balls.

Mairon licked his lips nervously, shifting his weight to his toes to gently extricate himself from the King’s grip. “What I told you in the tent was that I knew the secret of eternal youth. That was perhaps misleading; I can make a man feel and look young, for the length of his normal life span, but only the Valar can bestow immortality.”

Ar-Pharazôn responded by squashing Mairon’s bollocks together in his big hand. Tears pricked Mairon’s eyes. He’d forgotten how fragile that area of an elf’s body was. Celebrimbor had become instantly compliant when he had been the one standing in Mairon’s place. Too bad it hadn’t been enough to get the information he’d wanted. His grudging admiration for Celebrimbor went up a notch. “Pharazôn,” Mairon gasped.

“You will address me as my Lord,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“My Lord,” Mairon sucked a breath through his teeth.

“It’s amazing how polite a man suddenly becomes when another has hold of his stones,” Ar-Pharazôn said with a grim smile. “Tell me, what is to keep me from smacking them between two blocks of wood and turning you into a eunuch?”

“My Lord, if you would let me finish . . . As I said, I can restore a feeling of youthfulness. Allow me to brew my restorative potion when we reach Númenor. You’ll feel the effect immediately. I promise you. And your prowess, t’will be amplified four-fold. Not, of course, that you need that.”

Ar-Pharazôn grunted, considering. “You may just be attempting to poison me.”

“No doubt you can figure out a way to test the elixir before trying it yourself,” Mairon said. He felt the grip increase, squeezing out another groan.

“I swear if you are lying, I’ll rip your bollocks off with hot tongs and then stuff them down your throat,” Ar-Pharazôn said through gritted teeth.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mairon replied tightly.

“You’ll find that while I punish disobedience, I also reward those who serve me well. The carrot or the stick. Which would you like, Annatar?”

“Clearly, my ‘stones’ would prefer that I serve you well,” Mairon said, and was greatly relieved when the King chuckled and relaxed his grip.

“Do we have an understanding?” the King asked. “You will not make any more attempts to manipulate my servants or to escape. And if you please me by employing your talents in my service, you might earn certain freedoms.”

“Whatever you desire, my Lord. I am yours to command.”

“A wise decision.” Ar-Pharazôn’s hand moved upward, cupping and stroking. “I applied the whip lightly, thinking it would be a shame to permanently mar such a lovely skin.”

“For which you have my gratitude,” Mairon said, with conviction. His treacherous body was responding to the stimulation like a dog scenting a bitch in heat.

“So you like this?” Ar-Pharazôn asked. He leaned forward, his lips skating along Mairon’s neck.

“I respond to certain touches just as any man would,” Mairon replied with a shudder. His shoulders were aching, his arms felt numb from being raised above his head, and his back was alive with pain. But the King’s hand was creating quite a different sensation. The pain and pleasure were beginning to blend into a euphoric brew.

“Sûla told me that your potion has an interesting ingredient,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“Curse him for having a loose tongue,” Mairon replied.

“Did you really think you could tell him something that wouldn’t be reported directly to me? You are a fool.”

Ha, Mairon thought, who’s the fool, falling like a fly into the web? But he replied, “As I said, I underestimated his loyalty to you. I won’t do so again.” He wished the King would just get on with whatever he wanted to do to him and then leave him alone.

“Did Sûla speak the truth? A man’s seed?”

“It is a key ingredient,” Mairon conceded.

“I should think that men would be lined up to help you with your alchemy,” Ar-Pharazôn said.

“No doubt,” Mairon sniffed. “You may find that I become very popular when you bring me to Númenor.”

At that, the King tossed his head back, laughing. “You are nothing like I would have expected.”

“I don’t know whether that is a compliment or not,” Mairon said.

“A compliment, I suppose. There is a legend that you can turn into a creature of the night. A bat or a wolf. Sûla said you told him that was no longer true. Is he right?”

Mairon managed a laugh. “If I could still do that, don’t you think I would have by now?”

Ar-Pharazôn’s lips quirked into a smile. “I suppose so.” He brought his hand up and splayed it on Mairon’s belly. “I can’t imagine you as one of those foul creatures. You are too beautiful . . . and quite tempting.” The hand moved to Mairon’s chest over his heart and then pinched a nipple.

Mairon hung his head as if defeated. “What do you want with me, my Lord?”

The King moved behind him. There was a long moment of silence in which Mairon braced himself. He could feel the lust flowing from the King, could feel impending violence. “Ar-Pharazôn?” He attempted to twist his head around to see what the King was doing. “Please, please,” he whimpered. Let the King think what he liked about whether Mairon was pleading for him to do it, or not to.

There was a thud and soft hiss as the whip dropped to the floor, then a tell-tale shifting of clothing. One of the King’s broad hands skated down Mairon's back, becoming slick with moisture. A quick, squelching sound, then the King pressed one hand hard against Mairon’s flank and Mairon was pierced so forcefully that he was shoved up onto his toes. A shock of violation shuddered throughout his being and Mairon cried out in pain.

“Come back here,” Ar-Pharazôn grunted, pulling him down with a hand on both hips. “Oh yes, that is glorious. You’re tight as a virgin.”

Mairon had a moment to contemplate whether or not his body was in fact virginal. Its former owner had taken a lover, but that had been a long time ago. By Melkor, it hurt bad enough to be the first time. He pulled against the chains, gritting his teeth, as the King worked himself against his backside. Yes, indeed, if it took a thousand years, he’d get his revenge for this – he’d take it out on the hides of every last one of the curséd Tarks. And yet, and yet . . . he could feel himself feeding on the King’s pleasure, swelling into a throbbing lust of his own that drew from the pain, and made it worse. He saw Melkor standing before him, huge body sculpted in the firelight, sweat gleaming from his muscles as he raised the whip. Mairon screamed, closing his eyes, and for a time he drifted, riding the currents of fire deep within Orodruin.

When he came back to himself, the King was still thrashing and grunting against him. Mairon rolled his eyes. He could feel the King wide open to suggestion, as he ascended into the realm of sexual ecstasy. Time to gain control. Subtly, Mairon began feeding the sensations back to Ar-Pharazôn, so that his pleasure doubled with each new thrust.

“By Ossë, that’s good,” Ar-Pharazôn gasped. “Oh gods in Aman . . . finally, yes, finally!”

Mairon’s lips curled in triumph as the King roared out his climax, shaking and shuddering, and squeezing his arms like iron bands about his chest. He sent an emissary deep into the King’s thoughts to lie there hidden. Ar-Pharazôn swayed forward, his weight pulling on Mairon’s raised arms. “Sha! Are you quite finished?” Mairon snapped.

There was a thump as Ar-Pharazôn fell backwards and lay gasping on the ground. Looking over his shoulder, Mairon saw him, his cock still at half-mast, protruding from his breeches and covered in blood. Matter dripped stickily down the inside of Mairon’s thigh. He couldn’t wipe it off. Disgusting.

Ar-Pharazôn groaned. He struggled upwards and ran a finger along Mairon’s thigh, smearing the fluid into the skin.

There came a nervous voice calling from outside the doorflap. “My Lord, are you well?”

Ar-Pharazôn laughed. “Yes, yes,” he called. “Stay where you are.” Staggering to his feet, he tucked himself back into his breeches. Then he licked alongside Mairon’s neck while at the same time squeezing a handful of his rear. “That was most rare,” he said, his breath hot against Mairon’s ear. “Tell me, why did it feel so good?”

“You’ve never had a Maia before, I take it,” Mairon said. “We are gifted. Now, if you’ve had your fill, Ar-Pharazôn, I beg you, unchain me. I’m in great pain.”

“As well you should be,” Ar-Pharazôn swatted his arse. “Just remember what happened this night, Annatar, and be a good little mîki from now on so we won’t have to repeat the performance.”

“You’ll want to, my Lord,” Mairon said huskily. “Once you’ve had a taste, you’ll want more.” And he tossed out an image of the King as a supplicant on his knees, his mouth just beginning to open.

---

Chapter End Notes

Endórë (Quenya) - Middle-earth
Baran (golden brown in Sindarin)
Pushdug - dungfilth in Black Speech
Sha! - an expression of contempt in Black Speech
mîki - an elfscribe-invented word. Mîk - means baby boy in Adûnaic. Mîki is a slang word that has a slightly jeering meaning, like saying “pal” or “boyo.”

I know there are some words in Sindarin like Angband or Draugluin that should probably be in Quenya for consistency, but I left them in the form more familiar to readers.  As the scribe of this story, that's my translation prerogative.  *g*

Betas: Thanks to Malinornë, Ignoblebard, and members of the Lizard Council especially Russandol