Elegy for Númenor – Volume 2: The Darkening by elfscribe

1. The Talisman

Chapter Summary: Ar-Pharazôn sails home to Númenor with his captive, Sauron. About a week before they are due to land, the ship becomes stuck in the doldrums. Bored, Sauron riles tempers and makes mischief — with consequences.

Read 1. The Talisman

Second Age 3262

A single drum commanded the rowers in the cockle boats that towed the King’s ship, the Zimrazra. The sound reverberated through the wooden hull into Sûla’s spine— thud, thud, thud.

Sûla wafted a fan to the beat, attempting to cool those seated around Ar-Pharazon’s table. The door was open to invite any stray ocean air to circulate in the cabin where the King, his captive, Lord Annatar, the ship’s captain, and Manwë’s high priest had gathered to dine. Today, more than usual, these four made for a volatile combination.

They were dressed minimally in their knee-length cotton tunics pinned at the shoulders with broaches of varying value, all except Ikar-lak, the priest, who must be suffering valiantly in his feathered robe and eagle-beaked headdress. The air hovered dense and still, too hot for anything other than stoking tempers. Despite the best efforts of their exhausted crew, their progress was minimal as long as the sea remained glassy and the wind non-existent. Becalmed. That’s what they were, for three days now. Sûla had never seen it so bad in any of his previous voyages including the first one when, newly auctioned off as a slave in Umbar, he had been shipped to Númenor in chains. But he wasn’t going to dwell on that horror, not when his current status, despite some drawbacks, was so much better.

Until the wind had quit, they had been barely a sennight out from the docks at Rómenna, but now, well, Sûla hadn’t seen any other ships from the fleet for days, so he could only fret about what had happened to his friend Tigôn, who sailed with Lord Nimruzîr. Lately, because Sûla had time, he’d been thinking—of how and why his life had changed from the time he’d accompanied the army to challenge Sauron, who then unexpectedly surrendered to the King, to when Sûla had been imprisoned in Umbar, flogged, and nearly hung for a crime he did not commit, to his lot now, returning to Númenor as Annatar’s slave rather than the King’s. Remarkable how Lord Zizzûn, Master of Fate, liked to play with him. Most of all, he’d been thinking of Tigôn, the King’s former messenger, who in a series of strange events had become his forbidden lover, and of the promise Sûla had made to him. He wondered if their scheme could actually work or if he had the courage to even try.

“It’s supposed to be winter, for Eru’s sake,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “What aberration of nature is this? This heat, this uncanny stillness.” He turned to Annatar, who was sullenly slashing a knife through a tuna fillet. “Can’t you do something about this? After all, you summoned the wind when we first left Umbar. Pray, humor us all and do it again. Or are you refusing to use your power to spite me?”

Annatar raised a chunk of fish on the knife-point, dripping sauce. “As I’ve explained numerous times,” he said, as if trying to teach basic addition to an idiot, “I do not have the power to create a breeze from nothing. I must have something to work with, and at the moment, the airs above us are stagnant as a stinking cesspool. Sire.” He popped the bite into his mouth.

“So, Gorthaur, I have to take your word for it?” The King leaned forward with a scowl. Sûla’s master curled his lip at the derisive name given him by the Sindar. A name Ar-Pharazôn rather consistently used when needling him. The King continued, “Perhaps you are revenging yourself upon me by refusing to call the airs, hmm? Or merely delaying your fate once we disembark upon the shores of Anadûnê and I parade you in chains before my subjects?”

Annatar’s luminous golden eyes narrowed to slits. “I would have thought you’d had enough of that sort of spectacle in Umbar, my Lord. I assure you, I’m as anxious to get off this beastly barge as anyone here.”

Captain Nadroth scowled behind his short beard, carefully clipped to a point. “Be careful of your words, prisoner,” he said. “I’ve heard many say you are a great sorcerer. But what use is a wizard who can’t perform simple weather-casting?”

Annatar gave him a withering look. “Weather-casting, you’d have from me, huh, and here I thought we carried an expert on board for that very purpose.” He turned to the priest.

Ikar-lak, head of the Bawîba Manô sect, raised a heat-reddened face visible through the eagle-beaked headdress and said in his deep voice, “Your ‘guest,’ my Lord, is not known to be one of the Maiar with power over either the deeps or the airs. I believe his stunt at Umbar’s quay was mere serendipity.”

“Was it?” Ar-Pharazôn poked Annatar.

“It worked, didn’t it.” Annatar shrugged. “And after all your machinations failed, Ikar-lak. So, then, High Priest of Manwë, if you have so little faith in what you saw with your own eyes, pray tell me, what have you done to court the winds?”

Ikar-lak’s beak quivered with indignation. “From the time I was a boy, I have devoted myself to our Lord Manwë and I’ve risen through the ranks to my present position of service to Anadûnê. For this voyage, I’ve said the prayers, done the rituals that have been proscribed for generations.” He made a series of gestures. “I have no doubt Manwë will favor us once he perceives the prayers I’ve sent. The Valar have much to occupy themselves so they don’t always hear us immediately.”

Annatar threw back his head and laughed. “Nonsense! Who else among us has actually met the Valar. Mmm? The reason they don’t answer prayers is they don’t give a gnat’s reflection for what happens to men. You, my friend, wouldn’t know how to get any of the Ainur to pay attention to you if you balanced naked on top of that mast out there and spit at each passing cloud.”

“My Lord King!” Ikar-lak thumped his hands down flat on the table, trembling the cutlery. “Sacrilege comes so easily to his lips. He regularly insults the Valar with his sly insinuations. How can you allow this unnatural villain to keep his blasphemous tongue! I daresay, our present becalmed state may be due to the Valar’s displeasure at having him on board. Maybe we’d merit a wind if we roped him to the mast and bled him into a bowl.”

Annatar hissed. Sûla’s temples throbbed in response and Ikar-lak recoiled. For a moment, it seemed a shadow fell on the room. The priest made the sign against evil.

Ah, don’t, don’t fuck with him, Sûla thought. We none of us know what he’s capable of.

Although Sûla had only known his master a scant three fortnights, and only about half that closely, he likely knew the Dark Lord better than anyone here. Annatar was capable of an astonishing amount of self-control, but his patience was tactical. Underneath seethed a deep well of malice and resentment, which occasionally erupted to the surface. And Ikar-lak seemed to bring out the worst of his master’s ill will. A volcano was brewing. Sûla mouthed a calming spell he’d overheard Annatar use. And waved the fan.

Ar-Pharazôn looked disgusted. “Enough squabbling, or I’ll banish you both to the hold,” he growled, gesturing at the guards standing by the door. “Since we’ve only one, you’ll be confined to the same cell for the rest of the voyage in rather close proximity. Whichever one of you emerges alive, I’ll appoint head of the Council of the Sceptre.”

“I’ll happily wager on that outcome as I don’t require sleep.” Annatar smiled like a shark. And oh gods, he appeared both beautiful and deadly. Sûla couldn’t help but be moved by him.

Within the shadow of his beaked headdress, Ikar-lak’s mouth twitched.

“Captain Nadroth,” Ar-Pharazôn continued. “Can’t you get more out of the rowers? Increase the beat. Perhaps we could pick up a wind once we get closer to Anadûnê.”

Nadroth plucked at his beard. “With all deference, my Lord, they are already exhausted. I was about to let them off for the night and put in a new shift rowing just enough to maintain position. If we keep up the current pace, they’ll start dying, which would not suit our long-term goals. Maybe our Head Priest had the right idea: a sacrifice to our lord Ossë is in order.” He eyed Annatar balefully.

“To Ossë you say!” Annatar sneered. “By the wheeling stars, what a waste of time. For all your experience as mariners, haven’t you figured out yet what a moody bastard my brother is? He simply doesn’t care. Do you think that nailing that pathetic oiolairë branch on the bow of your ship means anything to him?” He gestured in the vague direction of the prow.

“We’re here, aren’t we?” Ikar-lak said. “We rode through that storm a fortnight ago with no damage. Personally, I have seen what happens if a ship doesn’t affix its branch and there is no resident priest aboard. The vessel is nearly always lost to the sea.”

“Superstitious tripe!” Annatar declared. “You forget who you’re speaking to, Priest. At this moment, it’s likely my brother lounges in the depths, high on fumes issuing from a warm volcanic vent, and fucking a squid or perhaps eating one, he often doesn’t differentiate. Nothing you say will move him if he does not wish to be moved.”

Ar-Pharazôn chuckled.

“That does it!” Ikar-lak pushed away from the table and stood, quivering with fury. “First you defame my Lord Manwë on the docks of Umbar and now this. You’ve insulted our gods and likely we’ll pay the price. My Lord, I beg of you, do something!”

Ar-Pharazôn held up a hand. “You are right, Ikar-lak. Annatar, you’ve gone too far.”

“Oh, that was too far?” Annatar replied with soft menace. Sûla’s body prickled with the elixir of his master’s anger. “You want a sacrifice? You haven’t seen anything yet, oh King.” Abruptly Annatar stood, his sheaf of crimson hair sliding over his broad shoulders. “You all are praying to the wrong gods. I personally served one much greater. Here, I’ll show you the limits of your feeble pratings.”

Before anyone could stop him, he shoved past Ikar-lak, charged out of the cabin, down the steps to the main deck, bare legs a blur. Dismayed, they all followed. Annatar pushed past three of Ikar-lak’s astonished acolytes on their knees praying for wind, blew past Tala, the navigator, sampling the current, up a set of stairs past the drummer giving the beat and out to the bowsprit. There he leaned over the railing and with a sharp snap of dry wood, wrenched the withered oiolairë branch from the clutches of the carved eagle figurehead, held it aloft, then tossed it into the brine, where it bobbed to the surface and floated off. “There,” Annatar said with satisfaction. “See if that makes one jot of difference in our progress.”

A collective gasp went up from nearby crew. The drummer faltered, then stopped. “Gentlemen,” Annatar shouted to the rowers below. “You have me to thank for your moment of relief from toil.” Standing behind Annatar, Sûla choked back a laugh. Ar-Pharazôn’s face blossomed red. The King could not tolerate such insolence from a prisoner, no matter who he was and particularly not in front of the others. His master had indeed gone too far. What now?

The King got right up in Annatar’s face, even though he had to tilt his head back as Annatar stood half a head taller. He snapped his fingers at the guards who had trailed behind. “Bane of Middle-earth,” he snarled. “I banish you henceforth to the bilge, until you can learn to hold your Valar-forsaken tongue and cease desecrating our beliefs. Take him below!”

The guards hesitated. Annatar had gentled all the King’s guards weeks ago with spells, an easy enough task during the boring voyage. But this was Hazûn, the Captain of the King’s Guard, and an underling named Narûkh, who were less susceptible. They had no choice but to obey as Ar-Pharazôn gestured violently at them. “Now!” he roared.

Hazûn and Narûkh seized Annatar by the arms and dragged him struggling to the hatch. Narûkh climbed down first, while Hazûn shoved Annatar after him. The last Sûla saw was the top of his master’s head, furious golden cat eyes glaring above the hatch before he allowed himself to be spirited off. Allowed himself was the correct interpretation, Sûla knew, even if no one else there did.

Whatever had gotten into his master? It must be the heat, Sûla thought. Over the past few days, he noticed his master’s temper getting shorter and shorter, especially when crossed or reminded of his subservient position to the King. But being banished below decks was a revolting development, as now Sûla would have to take Annatar’s meals down to the bottommost level, brushing past every fuck-deprived sailor who had eyed him lustfully over the past three weeks. And likely in the Zigûr’s absence, the King would want his services again too. So much for his arse’s vacation. Well, he’d done service under the King before; he could grit his teeth and suffer it again. As for the handsy sailors, Sûla had ways to protect himself, although sadly, he couldn’t be caught using them. He eyed his golden armlet in the shape of a dragon that curled around his right bicep. Wearing it was a necessary evil, given his situation. Then he patted the dagger strapped to his thigh, hidden under his tunic. Never again would he allow himself to be as vulnerable as he had been the first time he made this voyage. As much as others aboard ship were dangerous, Sûla counted himself their match.

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Chapter End Notes

Anadûnê — (Adûnaic) meaning Westernesse or Númenor. Anadûni means western from an-Adûn, ‘of the West.’
Hazûn—(elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) guard who “captured” Annatar and later becomes Captain of the King’s guard.
Ikar-lak— (elfscribe-invented name) Chief of the Bawîba Manô, Eru’s high priests of the sect of Manwë. Bawîba Manô (Adûnaic, bawîba means ‘wind’ and manô ‘spirit’ - combined by elfscribe into a new term). They wear helms shaped like an eagle’s head with an open beak for the visor.
Captain Nadroth — (canon Adûnaic, meaning "hind-track", the wake of a boat) [I used this name in Ossë’s Gift]
Narûkh—(elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name combining man ‘naru’ and shout ‘rûkh’) The guard who accompanied Tigôn to the sorcerer Magân’s shop in Elegy, vol. 1.
Nimruzîr – canon Adûnaic for Elendil.
Sûla— (canon Adûnaic, meaning ‘trump’) Ar-Pharazôn’s former cupbearer and zirâmîki. Currently Annatar’s slave.
Tala – (Adûnaic. Meaning unknown) Navigator aboard the Zimrazra and one of the few female crew members.
Tigôn—(elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) Ar-Pharazôn’s former messenger and now part of Elendil’s household.
zirâmîki — (plural zirâmîkin; elfscribe-invented Adûnaic term, meaning ‘beloved boys’ from canon Adûnaic ziran meaning ‘beloved’ or ‘desired’ and mîk, ‘young boy’) male courtesans.
Zizzûn — (elfscribe-invented Umbarian name) Master of Fate, a god of the peasants around Umbar.

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On the design of the Númenórean ships:
I spent some time researching the type of ships the Númenóreans likely used, poring over images of ancient Phoenician, Greek, and Roman galley type ships that used oars as well as sails; as well as later 16th - 17th century workhorse vessels like Spanish galleons and carracks. I read what fans have to say on the subject; as well as Tolkien’s descriptions. He describes Ar-Pharazôn’s fleet as having “many oars and many strong slaves to row beneath the lash.” (The Silmarillion, 1977, Ballantine Books, NY, p. 344) He describes Ar-Pharazôn’s ship Alcarondas, the ‘Castle of the Sea’ as “many oared” and “many masted.” However, near as I can tell by researching historical examples, the oared galleys were primarily ships that stayed close to land and were prized for their maneuverability. They were relatively small compared to the large cargo ships of a later age and usually had one mast or at most two. An extended voyage across the seas, especially on a mission of conquest to Middle-earth such as Ar-Pharazôn had undertaken, would have required considerable cargo space as they would have to carry enough food and fresh water to make a month-long trip, not to mention war supplies, horses, fodder, wagons, tents and equipment, and whole armies of men. Accordingly, I think, a better model is a Spanish galleon, which relied on sails, not oars. However, even the tall sailing ships occasionally required manual power. In those instances, the sailors would get into cockle boats normally mounted on deck (life-boats) and tow the main ship by rowing. So, that’s what I’ve depicted in this fic. I freely admit that I am far from an expert and that other interpretations are quite possible.

2. The Storm

Chapter Summary: Confined to the bilge for blasphemy, Annatar develops a strange illness. He sends his servant, Sûla, to the King’s cabin to retrieve a magic curative, while a monster storm wrecks havoc on all aboard Ar-Pharazôn’s ship.   

Warning: Attempted rape

Read 2. The Storm

Three days later . . .

Strands of Sûla’s long black ringlets shivered in a chill breeze as he shaded his eyes against the late afternoon sun. The cloak he’d thrown over his shoulders billowed behind him. Finally, a wind! But over the past hours it had increased, bullying a raft of clouds upward into towering demons. On the far horizon he discerned a faint rain curtain slanting against a lemon sky.

Beneath the ship, the sea churned and chopped. Sûla grabbed the polished wooden taffrail as a particularly large wave hit them. Lightning flashed within a cloud, momentarily brightening it like a lantern. Sûla shook his head. Zizzûn was indeed a fickle god. They finally had what they needed and had prayed for, but this looked to be far more wind than was strictly necessary.

Close to hand, Captain Nadroth leaned on the taffrail, with his straw hat tilted backward and a spyglass pressed to his eye. “Harrumph,” he grunted to no one in particular, as he collapsed it together. “She’s coming quicker than I’d anticipated.” Waving his arms, he shouted at the sailors on deck. “Reef the sails! Now! You fuckin’ lazy louts, go to, before she’s on us!”

The on-deck crew burst into action, pulling ropes and swarming up the ratlines, their cotton loincloths molding to their arses as the wind increased.

The ship shuddered over a wave. Behind Sûla, the door to the King’s cabin opened and Ar-Pharazôn himself appeared on deck, looking somewhat puffy-eyed. Grasping the banister, he staggered down the short flight of steps and crossed the deck. “Nadroth, report,” he barked. He passed close enough that Sûla could smell the wine.

“My Sovereign,” Nadroth shouted over the wind. “She’s a big one. Looks to be churned up by Ossë himself. We’re in for a rough night.”

“Indeed,” Ar-Pharazôn said, his mouth grim.
 
“If I could venture an opinion, Sire,” Nadroth said, “perhaps he’s just now found out about the oiolairë branch. What should we do?”

“Reef the sails, tie everything down, get extra crew on the pumps, and pray,” Ar-Pharazôn said. “Curse the Zigûr.”

“Being done as we speak,” Nadroth said. “All of it.” His beard stuck out in the wind like a broom. Behind them, a sailor hauled on the helm, attempting to keep the ship headed into the gusty wind.

“Would you say we’re still a sennight out from Anadûnê?” The King stroked his close-shaven chin.

Nadroth nodded. “Assuming we don’t get blown too far off course tonight.” The ship rolled and Sûla’s stomach lurched correspondingly. The King grabbed the rail. “I beg pardon, my Lord,” Nadroth said. “Perhaps it would be best if you kept to your cabin.”

“Do not forget the many voyages I’ve captained myself,” Pharazôn growled. “I’m not afraid of a little weather.”  

Nadroth nodded deferentially and then strode about deck, yelling more orders to the crew.

Ar-Pharazôn turned to the horizon, his shoulder-length, walnut-colored hair whipping about his face and the gold diadem he wore about his forehead. White squint lines flexed at the corners of his eyes and mouth, contrasting with his velvet blue eyes. He looked older, more weary than the day they had departed Umbar three weeks ago when he’d taken Annatar’s potion that renewed youth. On the voyage home, Annatar had hoarded it, doling out small daily doses. It had become apparent to Sûla that whatever dosage he was giving the King was not enough to maintain the full effect. As a result Ar-Pharazôn had become more impatient and irritable than was his wont. Testing him had been foolish on Annatar’s part. Last night while in bed together, the King had declared that Annatar would stay in the cage until ‘the hubris had been leached from him.’ Huh, Sûla thought, best be prepared to keep him there indefinitely.

Sûla! Attend me! His master’s voice snarled in his head. Sûla startled. Now what?
 
Sûla turned to the King. “My Lord, perhaps I should take the Lord Annatar some supper before the storm hits.”

Ar-Pharazôn smiled and chucked the underside of Sûla’s chin with his finger. For the moment, Sûla had his favor as he’d managed to please the King exceptionally well this morning. “Agreed,” the King said. “Can’t have him starve to death before we get him to Anadûnê. That doesn’t fit into my plans for him at all.” He slid his hand under Sûla’s tunic and squeezed his arse.  “Lovely boy. Sometimes I wish you were still my body servant.”

Sûla noticed that a couple of the sailors glanced at them with scornful expressions. He scowled back at them, then smiled brightly as he shifted his rear in the King’s hand. “You could always reverse your edict, my Lord, and take me back. You are the Great King. You can do anything you desire.” Inside he cringed, remembering the last time he’d made such a request and the horrific outcome. In any event, he prayed that Zizzûn would spare him from reverting exclusively to the King’s service. Likely, his fate was better trusted to Annatar, or perhaps, just perhaps, he might be able to meet up with Tigôn as he’d promised.

But Ar-Pharazôn laughed. “As you well know, a King may not go back on his word. It’s an edict I live by, even though it nearly cost me your delightful company.” He ruffled Sûla’s hair and then pushed him away, gently. “You belong to Lord Annatar now. Besides,” he lowered his voice. “You’re more useful to me as Annatar’s servant. As ever, you’re my eyes and ears. Hmmm? Be sure to report back if he says anything useful.”

“Of course, my Lord. As ever, I am your humble servant.” Sûla lowered his eyes demurely.

“Go to,” Ar-Pharazôn said and slapped Sûla’s rear. “If I’m any judge of weather, we don’t have much time.”

Sûla bowed. He scrambled towards the hatch, raised it with difficulty against the wind, then descended into darkness barely illuminated by hanging lanterns.

An ascending sailor slammed into him with a curse, then surged past. Sûla kept going, down one deck to the galley to get a crock of fish stew from the cook, who was annoyed as he was busy extinguishing the fires in preparation for the storm. Sûla covered the crock with a plate of biscuits and a wedge of blue cheese, Annatar’s favorite. Then he drew some wine into a bronze cup. The dinner was good quality for a sailor since it came from the King’s own cook, but nothing as fine as he would have received up in the King’s cabin. The bowl was hot and Sûla used his cloak to hold it so as not to burn his fingers. Carrying this down the remaining level was a balancing act. He blessed his years as an acrobat. Once in the bilge, he splashed past sailors busy shoring up leaks in the hull, past quantities of barrels and other cargo, until he’d reached a dank cage in the stern where prisoners were kept. It had one occupant.

The cage was elevated on a platform several feet above the perennial sloshing of bilgewater. The whole place stank of offal. It can’t have been healthy. Holding his breath as much as possible, Sûla approached.
 
Annatar sat collapsed on the cage floor, hugging his knees, and rocking gently. His long hair hung unkempt over his shoulders to form a coppery cloak. As Sûla approached, he looked up and his cat eyes shone with an unhealthy gleam.

“I’ve brought supper, my Lord,” Sûla said, then staggered and cursed trying to balance the dishes as the ship rolled. Slamming a hand on top of the plate, he managed to keep the biscuits from taking a dive into the loathsome water sloshing about his feet. There was a distant crack of thunder.
 
The Zigûr used the bars to haul himself upright as far as he could, considering that he was too tall for the top of the cage. His lips moved, forming words. Then he bent and retched but didn’t bring up anything. Sûla had never seen him do that before. His master wiped his mouth off with a jerk. “This is unbearable,” he said. He shook the bars. “Tell the King to set me loose or I’ll curse him and his island kingdom forever. I cannot keep myself in check anymore.”

The whinging sound in his voice frightened Sûla. This was all very unlike his master. “My Lord, there’s a terrible storm brewing aloft. If there’s anything you can do to allay it, now’s the time.”

“What do you expect me to do while locked up in this thing!” Annatar snarled. Abruptly his face slackened, eyes looking into nothingness. He said, “It’s only what you deserve, you fiend. Whose idea was it to take a voyage to Númenor anyway?”

Sûla shrank back. “My Lord? Are you well?”   

“You have no right to question me!” Annatar cried. He whirled about several times, then slammed against the bars. Shocked, Sûla backed up a few steps, ready to flee.

“Slave,” Annatar thundered, turning his flaming gaze on Sûla. “I’m, uh, being attacked by a demon. You must bring me the potion from the trunk. The blue glazed jar, not the earthenware one. Immediately, or I’ll sear your heart into charcoal.” Sparks crackled about his fingers.

Sûla swallowed. He bowed as best he could while holding the meal. “No need for such extremity, my Lord. I am your loyal servant and will do as you bid, but there is a storm coming fast and everything’s set to go topsy-turvy. It might take me a while to get back.” He thought, I’m just warning you.

Annatar said in a guttural voice, “If you value your skin, you will come back within the quarter hour, no matter how the ship is rolling. I’ll take that wine now— the stew too, although it doesn’t smell fit for a starving rat.”  He sank back into a cross-legged seated position.
 
“Careful, it’s hot,” Sûla said. Standing akimbo to steady himself, he set down the crock on the platform and slipped first the plate with the biscuits and cheese, then the cup at an angle through a slot in the bars, followed by the stew. They all fit, just, although he spilled out some of the wine.
 
Annatar took the crock of stew and drank it down, seemingly unbothered by the temperature, then crammed the biscuits in his mouth, followed by the wine. When he was done, he tossed the vessels aside. “The King dare not treat me this way,” he fumed.  

“Perhaps less rudeness at dinner, my Lord,” Sûla suggested. “For example, your observation a sennight past about why Númenóreans were so fond of sheep herding. The captain comes from a family of herders, you know. Or throwing the Green Bough of Return in the brine the other day. Not a good move. The King doesn’t tolerate insolence. Believe me, I know.”
 
Annatar mouthed a spell and immediately a blinding headache overwhelmed Sûla, centering in one eye.

“Saucy slave. Your King’s lash is gentle as spring rain compared to what I can wield” He drew his upper lips back from his teeth, revealing those pointed incisors. “Do not forget that I was Melkor’s mightiest servant, in charge of the dungeons at Angband and armies of fell creatures that would delight in cutting you into tiny, jagged pieces and fucking the remains. Watch your own mouth, mîki and don’t make me regret choosing you as my servant!”

Sûla clasped his hands in supplication. “I am massively obedient to your will, my Lord. Please. No need for, um, charcoaled bits.”

Strangely enough, Annatar’s form appeared to blur slightly as if the edges were turning to mist. Was Sûla’s perception foggy due to the pain in his head? What in Manwë’s name was wrong with him? “Please,” Sûla begged. “I’ll bring your potion back as soon as I’m able. Please stop the pain.”

Annatar cocked his head in that strange lizard-like way he had, then he bent, reached through the bars of his cage, snatched Sûla by his tunic, pulled him close and kissed him—hard. The touch of his mouth had the immediate effect of kindling Sûla’s loins into fire. His headache cleared and Annatar laughed. “You have a sweet mouth, Sûla. And you are right, I goaded Pharazôn past endurance. I’m still learning his boundaries, you see. I don’t blame him. Were I in his place, I’d have done worse to me for such brazen disrespect. But I cannot stay here any longer. This is beyond even my ability to endure. A veritable Angband in a coffin-sized box.”

The ship lurched again and Annatar turned white. “The elixir in the blue jar,” he said between clenched teeth. “Now, lad. Hurry!” He pushed him away.

As if his feet had sprouted wings, Sûla fled. Through storage rooms filled with kegs and barrels, and the remaining pigs and chickens,  up a level and past the men’s sleeping quarters with their rows of swaying hammocks. The ship rolled again and he fell to the floor with his stomach feeling as queasy as when he’d used the powerful spell Annatar had taught him en route to Umbar. But before he could get to his feet, someone landed atop him, pinning him flat against the floorboards. The man grunted, “Aha!”  There was a smell of bad teeth and grog. Well, Sûla thought, fighting down panic, although not surprising, this was certainly bad luck. It had been twenty-one days since they put to sea— about the amount of time that it took for sailors’ libidos to overcome good sense.

He turned his head and recognized his assailant, a large, muscular sailor named Kamin, who sported the symbol of Lord Zizzûn tattooed on one shoulder indicating that he was from Umbar. A few times in the past, he’d suggested to Sûla that because they both came from the same country, that should make them intimates. Sûla raised his head further. No one else to be seen. Only Kamin. Sûla could handle him.

He struggled to rise, but Kamin pushed him down harder, pulling Sûla’s arms behind his back and shoving his face into the floorboards. His cock pressed against the cleft of Sûla’s rear, a hardness felt even through several layers of cloth.

“So,” Kamin spoke into his ear. “It’s the King’s fancy boy; the one who cuckolded him with a page and through some miracle escaped hanging and became the Zigûr’s thrall. The Lord Zizzûn must have made you his personal bitch.”

“I deny none of it,” Sûla said. “Especially the part about being Lord Zizzûn’s bitch. Fool, you’re hurting me. Let me go. I have an errand to his Majesty that will not wait.”

“This won’t take long, not if you’re any good,” Kamin said. “And I hear you’re very good. I pray you, give me a taste, zirâmîki.” He pressed his chest down on Sûla’s arms while he pushed aside his cloak and tugged up his tunic. “I heard you moaning in the King’s quarters this morning. Never heard anyone cry out so sweetly. You know what I thought? That I’d like to hear you squealing just as pretty under me and now here you are.”

“The ship is in danger of capsizing and getting some tail is all you can think of?” Sûla exclaimed.
 
“Ah, I’ve been in worse, more worse spots than this one,” Kamin slurred. “The storm’ll clear. S’a good time. No one about.” He groped Sula’s arse.

“Do I really have to remind you who my master is?” Sûla snarled. “If I tell the Zigûr about this, he’ll conjure a curse that will make your balls twist themselves off slowly over several days of excruciating pain!”

Kamin hesitated, then he rose off Sûla’s back and patted his shoulder. His voice took on a wheedling tone. “Don’t be that way, Sûla. I mean you no harm. Truly. I just want . . . I can make it good for you too.”

“Touch me at your peril,” Sûla warned. “I have an important errand to the King. And you are needed on deck if we all want to survive the night. We’ve neither of us time for foolishness.”

Thunder growled again. Sûla’s exposed rear felt chill in the dank air. “I’m not bluffing,” Sûla said. But the man was clearly drunk and with his objective now exposed, not listening to reason.

“Pretty,” Kamin said. He caressed Sûla’s arse, then shoved a finger into him, which hurt. “I’ll be quick.”

Panic clenched Sûla’s heart. No matter how often it had happened to him, he’d never become used to being forced. Always it reminded him of being a boy at the mercy of his stepfather. He jammed his elbow backwards into Kamin’s nuts. The man howled and curled, clutching himself. Sûla wrenched himself free from his grasp, then spoke the words of the Zigûr’s freezing spell. As if turned to granite, the man abruptly ceased moving, crouched on all fours, eyes open in shock. Sûla crumpled over and retched from the nausea the spell induced.

Thunder shook the entire ship from stem to stern.

Sûla heard distant shouting. He raised his head. Rolling Kamin over, Sûla spat in his face. “You’ve tangled with the wrong zirâmîki, you festering son of a dog. I don’t have time to deal with you now as I’d like. But no doubt you’ll feel this in a few moments . . . ” He kicked Kamin in the groin.

With a hiss, the dragon armlet awakened, and before Sûla could speak the spell of recalling, it dropped off his arm, slithered onto the man’s shoulder and sunk its pin-like teeth into the man’s neck. “Ack, no,” Sûla breathed. “I didn’t mean it. Take it back!”  The beast undulated, then retreated, climbing Sûla’s arm and freezing back in place. Sûla shuddered at its touch. I shouldn’t have done that, he thought. I’ll get caught. Lurching to his feet, he fled, slipping and sliding through the ship, past frantic men to the ladder. He climbed to the deck, turned to the next ladder and climbed again.  

The hatch was closed and Sûla had to buck hard against it to get it to pop open. Once on deck, the wind nearly knocked him off his feet and a crack of lightning split the darkened sky, illuminating the towering mast and sails in stark black and white. The deck of the ship lurched so that he had to grab the mainmast to keep upright. Then it saw it coming— rearing over the ship— an immense green wave. He’d never seen anything so monstrous.  

“Turn into it; turn into it!” Captain Nadroth roared to his helmsman. “Sails to starboard, lads. Clip yourselves to your lines and brace yourselves. Here it comes!”

The wave hit. The ship rode up the slope, pitched and yawed, then dropped hard on the other side. A crewman flew through the air smacking into Sûla, who let go of the mast and fell heavily onto the slippery deck. The man scrambled to his feet and ran slipping and sliding just as the ship bucked again, bouncing him right over the side. Sûla rolled over and over, flailing wildly, grabbing for something, anything to stop his momentum. He came up smack against the taffrail, with both arms thrust through the bars as another wave crashed over him. Soaked and gasping for air, he clutched the railing praying that it would hold. If he was swept overboard . . . nuhhh.

The sailor’s head broke above the white-capped waves. He flailed his arms and then sank again. Above the howling wind, the Captain shouted orders; the crew responded, while the thunder growled and boomed. Still holding on to the railing for dear life, Sûla threw up.

The Zigûr whispered in Sûla’s head. Hurry!

I’m trying, you villain, Sûla thought. There’s a small matter of a Valar-sized storm in the way. He spat, then wiped a hand over his mouth as he eyed the heaving stairs. How in Arda was he going to get into the King’s cabin where his Master’s trunk was kept, and return to him with the potion? All he wanted to do was hide under the King’s bed and pray that the ship did not sink.

The Zimrazra heaved again and Sûla began to crawl. In front of him appeared a pair of hairy, muscular legs cross-hatched with metal-studded leather ties. Sûla raised his eyes to the King, now wearing a billowing oiled canvas cape with a hood.

“You, Sûla, what are you doing out here?” Ar-Pharazon exclaimed. He reached down and hauled him up by his tunic.

“Trying to get to your cabin,” Sûla cried into the wind. A bolt of lightning ripped the fabric of the sky. The tops of the masts began to glow with an eerie purple fire. Sûla had never seen the like.

“Ulmo’s Fire,” he heard one of the sailors cry out. “The Valar are displeased with us!”

“Don’t touch anything metal,” Captain Nadroth roared from the other side of the deck.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Ar-Pharazôn declared. Rain was now pounding down, rolling off his cape. “This is one wicked storm. Seems Lord Ossë is actually pissed. Maybe I should have thrown the Zigûr overboard after all. Now then.”  The King half-dragged Sûla across the deck and flung him at the stairs. “Get in the cabin and stay there. For your own safety!”
 
The crawl up the short flight resembled being tossed about on the back of an angry bull. Sûla reached the door to the royal cabin, entered, slammed it behind him. For a moment, he lay with his back against the door, panting and utterly soaked. Here, the shriek of the wind was less, but as the ship rolled and pitched, the boards moaned alarmingly. The place was in a state: chairs, vessels, toiletries, books, clothes, and pillows had been thrown about. The heavy tapestry curtain separating the dining room from the King’s bedroom was hanging askew. Bits of a broken crock seeping a red liquid rolled about on the floor.

The King’s head of household, Nibanuzîr, a portly middle-aged man with long black hair in multiple braids, was rather comically attempting to set things to rights, picking up furnishings, only to have them slide back into chaos.
 
Dismayed, Sûla surveyed the room. He dearly hoped that the broken crock was wine and not one of Annatar’s precious potions. Rising, he began to toss aside clothing and objects. He shoved back the curtain, entered the bedroom and grabbed the corner of the King’s bunk as the ship rolled. “Nibanuzîr,” he shouted. “Where is the Zigûr’s trunk?”

Nibanuzîr waved vaguely about. “That last wave scrambled everything. What are you looking for?”

“The Zigûr is sick. He said he needs some medicine.”
 
“Unfortunate,” Nibanuzîr said with a shrug as he righted a chair. “Trunk’s over there . . . somewhere.”

Ah, there it was, on its side in the corner. Sûla staggered over and managed to overturn it, although it was quite heavy. Making sure Nibanuzîr was out of earshot, he mumbled the unlocking spell, then raised the lid. Under some clothes and blankets, he discovered a blue glazed crock and an earthenware one. They appeared intact although the earthenware pot harbored a hairline crack.

Quickly then. Sûla selected the blue crock and cradled it in the crook of an arm as he shut and locked the lid. The ship rolled again, and Sûla lost his footing, landing hard on the bed which was bolted into the wall. Even though Annatar had been gone several days, he could still detect his scent on the sheets, for all the world like fine linen scorched by an iron. Not unpleasant. In fact, the association of that scent with being vigorously fucked by his master aroused him, despite the danger. He inhaled deeply.

There was a scratch, scratch of Nibanuzîr sweeping up the broken bottle amidst rain drumming against the window.

Another thundercrack. Strangely, Sûla heard a wolf howl, then terrible words whose meaning he didn’t understand, but nevertheless made all the hair on his body prick upwards, followed by words he understood! Sûla! By Melkor’s torment beyond the Door of Night, come now or I’ll kill you! The headache returned worse than ever.

“What was that?” Nibanuzîr cried.

“I must go,” Sûla said. He zigzagged across the cabin, dragged open the door and was out in the midst of the gale. Hugging the pot in one arm, he grabbed the rail and descended to the rolling deck. The sky had grown dark. Icy waves crashed over the sides as sailors clung to whatever was at hand. Sûla staggered across the deck to the covered hatch.

Then Ar-Pharazôn was at his side, his cape whipping about. “I told you to stay inside!” He grabbed Sûla’s shoulder and shook him.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” Sûla cried. “Annatar said he might be able to calm the storm, if I could just bring him some medicine.” He jerked his chin at the pot in his arms.

The King hesitated. “Could he? Well, he’d best do it soon or it may be too late for all of us. Down below with you, then.”  

Sûla wrested open the hatch, just as the ship rolled again. The hatch struck the King’s leg. That  blow and the heaving deck conspired to knock him off balance. He pitched forward; his head connected with a tie line on the mast with a sickening crack. He bounced back and fell heavily to the deck, out cold. Blood began to flow from the bridge of his nose and a gash in his forehead where, seemingly, the gold diadem had impressed itself.

“Valar’s wrath!” Sûla cried, shocked. Oh no good, no good, no good. He crouched down next to the King, pressed a fold of his cape to the King’s face to stop the bleeding. There was blood everywhere. Head wounds were the worst. Still clutching his precious pot under one arm, he called to the nearest sailor. “Help! The King is injured. We must get him to his cabin!”  

Several sailors ran. Captain Nadroth appeared, knelt by the King, then cursed. “All of you, help me lift him. Here, what are you doing with that. Get rid of it!” The captain gestured at Sûla’s burden.

Sûla looked about, placed the crock in a coil of rope, then the three of them, half dragged, half-lifted the King, who was no light-weight, and managed to carry him across deck and back up the short flight of stairs to his cabin and land him on the bed. The gash on his forehead bled freely.

“I’ll fetch the surgeon, shall I?” Sûla said. And without waiting for the captain’s reply, he tore out of the cabin, rescued the crock from its hiding place and climbed down the ladder, using one hand. Rain sleeted through the open hatch, but Sûla had no time to close it. He went down the next ladder, descending into the dark hold. All around sailors shouted, objects rolled, and Sûla had to press his lips together to keep down whatever was left in his stomach.

Several sailors rushed past. “We’re taking on water,” one of them shouted.
 
“The King is injured. Where is the ship’s surgeon?” Sûla cried. He clutched the pot in his arms.

“How the hell should I know?” the sailor said.

Sûla heard Annatar’s voice in his ear, clear as if he were standing next to him. Sûla! You wretched wastrel! Attend me. Now!

What to do? Help the King or his current master? As crewmen surged past him, Sûla stumbled forward in the dark.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Nibanuzîr (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name) the King’s head of household
Ulmo’s Fire is, of course, St. Elmo’s fire in our world.  
Zizzûn — (elfscribe-invented Umbarian name) Master of Fate, a god of the peasants around Umbar.

 

3. Wind and Waves

Chapter Summary: In the midst of a hurricane, Sûla tries to rescue Sauron so the sorcerer can cure the wounded King before their ship sinks.

Read 3. Wind and Waves

Below decks the gloom was faintly dispelled by an occasional lantern swinging from the rafters. Clutching the Zigûr’s precious potion in his arms, Sûla paused. Should he search for the surgeon? No, that was likely to take too much time. Best to first release his master, who might be able to use his sorcery to save the King. He’d likely have better results than the surgeon anyway, who was prone to burning caustic herbs and chopping things off. Sûla made his way down to the bottom level, passing the pumps where a dozen men stood in a line laboriously pushing the huge crank that drove the pistons that sucked water from the leaking hull.

“The Zigûr is drowning below,” Sûla cried to the crewmen. “Where’s Captain Hazûn with the keys to the cage?”

“In the bow, last I saw,” one of them called.

The Zimrazra shuddered. Sûla waded through the icy water, which had risen to his knees. He accosted several men as he slogged past, but couldn’t find anyone who knew where the captain of the King’s guard was. He was soon shaking with cold and rising panic. What if he was too late? Could the Zigûr actually drown? Was his body mortal?

He reached the bilge. In the flickering light of the lantern, he pushed through the disgusting water, now waist high and filled with debris: floating barrels, snaky ropes, an occasional drowned rat. The storm was muffled down here but the increasingly distressed ship creaked and groaned something fearful. “My Lord!” Sûla called.

There came a strange, ethereal sound of someone singing. The voice was soft and beautiful, full of lament. The language Sindarin. An elf’s song. What in Arda was Annatar up to? Sûla slogged closer through the swirling water, “My Lord Annatar,” he called again.

Annatar’s voice thundered in the dark, speaking Adûnaic this time. “Hurry, you laggard. The cage is filling up.”

Well, at least that irritated voice was familiar. “Coming, my Lord,” Sûla called. He churned forward and then kicked something hard. Pain shot from his toe up his shin. He cried out and stumbled forward. The jar flew from his hands, landing somewhere with a splash, and he found himself swimming in the icy water with a mouth full of evil-tasting brine.

Where was it? Oh, by the dreadful Lord Zizzûn, where was the jar? Frantically, Sûla surged to his feet, but he could discern nothing amidst the floating detritus. “I lost it,” he wailed. “Lord Annatar, the jar!”

A strange red light emanated from Annatar’s hands, which grew in power and luminescence. Before Sûla’s eyes, Lord Annatar created a floating ball of fire, which became brighter with each passing moment. “There!” he cried and pointed.

Sûla wallowed over to the little blue crock serenely bobbing about. He grabbed it and then swam towards his master, who was now standing shin-deep in water.

“Where in the great fucking chaos of Eä have you been?” Annatar cried.

“Delayed. Through no fault of my own,” Sûla gasped. “The King fell and hit his head. What sorcery is this?” He gestured at the light.

“Never you mind. Give me that potion, immediately!”

The crock was too large to fit through the bars. “My Lord,” Sûla said helplessly. “I have no keys. I looked for the guard, but couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“I’ll manage it, but I must have the potion first,” Annatar rasped.

Sûla prodded at the corked lid, then used his teeth, and felt it budge. The ship lurched again and Sûla slammed against the bars of the cage.

“Easy, easy,” Annatar cried.

“If you think it’s so friggin’ easy, you should try it,” Sûla snapped.

Immediately he was sorry, as Annatar’s eyes turned into wheels of fire and Sûla’s temples throbbed in response. “Sorry, sorry, my Lord. Please forgive. Everything has been a trial.”

Annatar waved a hand dismissively. He bent and pressed his face to the slot in the bars. “Hold it up and tilt it so I can drink. Don’t spill any!”

Sûla held the jar as best he could and tipped it up. Annatar, his eyes back to their golden color, lapped at the liquid, some of which dribbled some down the sides of his sumptuous mouth. Sûla briefly saw a large cat lapping at a stream of water. Annatar paused and spoke again in that soft musical voice, but the words were strange. “Futility, Gorthaur. You may triumph today, but ultimately you won’t contain me.”

With a snarl, the sorcerer went back to drinking the liquid again until he’d emptied the jar. He wiped his dripping lips with the back of his hand, then straightened, his eyes clear and spiteful, his form now sharp-edged. “Shut the fuck up, traitor’s spawn,” he growled.

Sûla took a step back, not knowing what to make of all this, but there was no time for mysteries. “My Lord, the ship is sinking. Ar-Pharazôn has been injured. Altogether, we are in desperate straits. Please, can’t you do something? Could you communicate with Ossë? Is that possible? Tell him to quiet the storm or we’ll all be lost.”

“Hunh.” Annatar looked at the beamed ceiling for a long moment. Then he barked, “Stand back!”

Sûla retreated several feet through the fetid water.

Raising both hands, Annatar pointed at the lock on the cage door. Lightning blasted from his fingertips. Sparks flew and the lock separated with a sharp pop.

“You mean you could’ve done that at any time?” Sûla gasped, dismayed.

Annatar face morphed into that of a dragon, causing Sûla to fall backwards with a splash. Annatar roared, “Quiet! Now earn my favor, boy. Protect my body. Do you hear? Protect it with your life until I return.”

A twisting column of black smoke arose from the sorcerer, gathered, then flew with a sharp hiss past Sûla into the darkened hold. The red light disappeared, and in the intermittent beam of the swinging lantern, now dark, now light, Annatar resumed rocking as he clutched the bars of the cage.

“Well, by the powers,” Sûla said. “What did you just do?”

But Annatar didn’t say anything. He seemed to have lost his wits completely.

“Protect the body,” Sûla repeated. Surely that didn’t mean letting him drown. He dropped the empty pot in the water, flung open the cage door and pulled his gangly master out with a splash. Annatar seemed pliant enough, willing to follow his lead. His body felt cold, which was highly unusual. Normally Annatar’s skin felt hot to the touch. Given how chilled he was, Sûla missed that heat. He slung one arm about Annatar’s waist, and draped the sorcerer’s other arm over his shoulders. Together they struggled out of the stern.

Annatar made a choked, guttural sound as if trying to speak. Seemingly distressed, he clasped a hand to his throat.

“My Lord, I fear I do not understand, but at the moment, I need you to get a grip,” Sûla said. “The King is wounded and your healer’s arts are needed.”

They sloshed awkwardly past the team manning the pumps, who were slowing with exhaustion. At the rate the hold was filling, they’d soon have to abandon the effort and then all hands would have to cram onto the cockle boats. Sûla wondered if they’d all fit and decided not to think about what would happen if they didn’t. The ship was listing, tilting the water to the starboard side. He fought down panic.

His strangely passive master allowed Sûla to guide him to the ladder and push him along to the upper decks. Climbing was hampered by Sûla’s stubbed toe, which was hurting. The Zigûr began humming as they went. The same tune as before.

They emerged onto the deck where immediately the storm enveloped them, howling fiercer than before, flinging rain sideways that bit into Sûla’s face, while the wind whipped the reefed sails into tatters. It was dark, except for the occasional bolt of lightning that irradiated everything in unearthly brightness. Sûla began shivering again.

Reaching the King’s cabin, Sûla popped open the door against the gale. At least it was warm inside, close even; the room was awash in odors of sweat, candle-wax, and some obnoxious incense. The outer room was teaming: three of the Bawîba Manô acolytes knelt amidst the clutter, fervently praying in a low drone, along with a pale-faced Nibanuzîr, the King’s Head of Household. When they entered, Hazûn, the Captain of the King’s guard rushed over and grabbed Sûla, pinning him against the wall with his forearm pressed to Sûla’s throat. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Bringing the Zigûr to heal the King,” Sûla rasped. “Let me go.”

The curtain was drawn closed across the back of the cabin. Voices within. Not ideal. Sûla couldn’t let these men see him use an unlocking spell on Annatar’s trunk. That ability he needed to keep secret.

“The surgeon is with him, along with our chief priest,” Hazûn said. “They said let no one enter. How’d he get out, anyhow?” He gestured at Annatar, who looked strangely withdrawn.

Sûla thrust Hazûn’s arm away. “There’s no time for this foolishness! I had to get him out myself as the water was rising rapidly. If he drowned, I doubt the King would have been pleased about it at all. Do you? And who held the keys and was responsible for him, hmmm?”

Hazûn glared. “If I were you, Sûla, I’d shut your insolent mouth.” He gestured at the Zigûr. “He doesn’t look well.”

“He’s not,” Sûla said. “He’s sick from bilge water, but he can still help the King. Hurry! The ship is sinking.”

The curtain rings skated back revealing the strange hawk-like figure of Ikar-lak glowering at him from the depths of his beaked headdress. “The King needs quiet,” he cried. The acolytes ceased murmuring and regarded the head of their order with alarm. “Not you,” Ikar-lak growled at his followers. He pointed at Annatar. “What is he doing out of his cage! Hazûn, get them out of here.”

“Just doing that, your eminence,” Hazûn said. He grabbed Sûla’s arm and reached for the cabin door, which abruptly flew open. Captain Nadroth charged in, water dripping off his oiled cloak. Behind him came his navigator, Tala, wearing a sagging, wide-brimmed hat and toting a heavy bag over her shoulder.

“Where’s the King?” Nadroth said.

The surgeon, Uzorî, rose from the bedside. He was a wiry man with bushy eyebrows and spectacles perched upon a nose that was perpetually tilted upwards. He wore the headcloth with a red circle indicating his status as a healer. “What’s all this furor? His Majesty has a concussion and is in a delicate state. Not to be disturbed. You all must leave at once.”

“That is precisely why I am here,” Nadroth said. “We all must leave. The ship is sinking. We need to move the King and all here into the cockle boats.”

“Sinking?” Ikar-lak quavered. “How can that be?”

“The natural way of things when a ship is pounded by large waves,” Nadroth said. “The hull develops cracks, letting water in faster than we can pump it out. I’ve pulled the men off the pumps and am sending as many as possible out to the boats.”

Uzorî looked shaken. “Well, then, we need to carry him down there. But he’s in a delicate state and can’t be jostled.”

“We can tie him in a hammock and carry him over our shoulders. Tala, get some hefty lads up here to help,” Nadroth directed.

“I highly object to that method of transport,” Uzorî said. “Not with a concussion.”

“What if we roped him to a board,” Tala said. “That way you could make sure his head was secured. We can use one of the boards from his bed.” She lifted up a corner of the mattress.

“That might work,” Uzorî replied. “But how will he get lowered to the boats? He won’t fit in the hoist.”

“We’ll prop him in the cage and lower him as if he were cargo,” Nadroth said. “There’s nothing else to be done. Hazûn and Sûla, help me pull up that plank from the bed. Tala and I will search out some rope.”

Tala nodded. She pulled the bulging leather satchel off her shoulder and handed it to Hazûn. “Guard this with your life, Captain,” she said. “These are the tables and triangulations that will enable us to find our way home. Without it, we’re as good as dead.”

Hazûn nodded and set the satchel on a shelf.

“We’ll have to be very careful taking him out there,” Tala said. “The deck is very slick.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if he could walk out on his own, rather than be tied to a plank?” Sûla said.

“Of course it would,” Uzorî replied, voice dripping with scorn, “but look at him! Not going to happen anytime soon. As it is, one slip on the deck and he could go over the side. Then it’s the gallows for all of us.”

“The Zigûr can do it,” Sûla said. They all looked at him. Sûla nodded. “He cured the King before. He can do it again. Or didn’t you hear about that, Healer Uzorî?”

“I heard about an elixir to restore youth,” Uzorî said. He eyed them over his spectacles. “Seemed like a myth. I didn’t believe it and, since he’s been aboard, I haven’t seen signs of it.”

Hazûn shook his head. “Nay, it wasn’t a tale. I’ve seen the effect myself on several occasions since we left Umbar.”

“Believe me, it worked on my scourged back,” Sûla said bitterly. “Hazûn is right. I too saw the healing effect on the King and various Umbarians with my own eyes. We should at least try it!”

Ikar-lak sniffed. “We can’t allow the Zigûr to practice his sorcery on the King! Who knows what he’d do!”

Sûla clicked his tongue in exasperation. “Your eminence, they’ve been sleeping together. Or didn’t you know? If Lord Annatar was going to do something to him, surely he would have by now.”

“Anathema!” Ikar-lak made the sign against evil. “I want to know nothing of this. Besides, the Zigûr looks fit for naught at the moment.” He walked over to Annatar and waved a hand before his face. “I’ve never seen him so meek. Certainly, I’ve never seen him without an insulting remark on his lips.” He poked the Zigûr’s shoulder, with no discernible reaction. Annatar merely stared at him with a vaguely irritated expression, but it was enough to make the priest step back.

“My Lords,” Sûla pleaded. “The storm isn’t giving us much choice, is it? Are you willing to try?”

“Who put this zirâmîki in charge!” Ikar-lak growled to the Captain.

“Someone should take charge, then,” Sûla cried. He bit his tongue, knowing full-well what happened to presumptuous slaves. They were all scowling at him with various degrees of contempt. The Captain was the ranking officer here at the moment. Sûla stood before him and bowed as best he could on the lolling ship. “Captain Nadroth, if the Lord Annatar has but a few moments of privacy so he can concentrate, I assure you, we can bring the King to his feet. In the meantime, as you said, we have an urgent situation aboard.”

The ship rolled, knocking them off balance, so that some slammed into each other or the walls while others grabbed furniture. Objects rolled about on the floor. Sûla clung to the bedpost. He needed to get them all out of here! Would Annatar be able to function? If he couldn’t, Sûla figured he could administer a dose of the potion to the King himself.

“I have no time to argue,” Nadroth snapped. “We need to evacuate.” He turned angrily toward Sûla. “Try it then. Be quick about it. Captain Hazûn, stay by the door and be ready to help the King to the hoist. Healer Uzorî, you supervise.”

“I can do that,” Uzorî said. “Nothing will happen to the King while I’m present.”

Sûla kept his face expressionless. He could handle one person, if it came to that.

Captain Nadroth nodded curtly. “The rest of you, out! Follow me and Tala. Now! We need to get you all down to the boats.”

Ikar-lak hesitated, then gestured at his acolytes and Nibanuzîr. “Do as the captain says. May Ossë and Uinen grant us protection.” He glared at Annatar. “And if anything happens to the King, I’ll see to it myself that you’re held responsible.”

Annatar shrugged. Sûla chewed his lip. For all their sakes, he hoped this worked.

---

Chapter End Notes

Tala – (Adûnaic. No known meaning) Captain Nadroth’s navigator, the only woman officer on board.
Uzorî – (invented Adûnaic. Combination of masculine U and zori, nurse)
The following fascinating article by Jonathan Crowe called “Navigating Middle-earth Before the Bending of the Seas,” in Tor.com caused me to rethink how I presented navigation aboard ship and is what gave Tala all her charts and tables. https://www.tor.com/2022/08/16/navigating-middle-earth-before-the-bending-of-the-seas/

4. Particle Manipulation

Chapter Summary: Sauron (Mairon) seeks to re-establish old ties in order to cajole Ossë into ceasing his stormy rampage.

Read 4. Particle Manipulation

The ship was listing, buffeted by the storm. Sûla was right. Mairon had best go to the source of the trouble. He could tell that the drug he’d taken had done its work, as the elf’s fëa was no longer manifesting in his thoughts or singing ridiculous tunes in his ear. What a relief! He felt sharp now, his mind blissfully clear. But this wouldn’t last more than a week as he’d just drunk the last of his concoction brewed in Umbar. The ship simply had to make port soon so he could set about finding more ingredients or he may as well abandon the whole enterprise. In addition, he needed the King whole and in good health. It was imperative to get Ossë to quit stomping about.

He prepared to withdraw, then paused. Likely the elf would remain drugged and therefore subdued while he was gone, but he should bind his host’s tongue, else he might reveal uncomfortable secrets. Mairon conjured a spell, planted it within his own larynx. Then he ripped his fëa free.

For a moment he floated above his caged body, while Sûla floundered in the water below. Mairon stretched his senses, feeling the power of the storm outside. By rocks and rooks, what a tantrum, brother! The exigency of the present involved finding his squid-brained kinsman. It might take time he did not have.

Mairon gathered himself into a funnel of particles and shot through the lower level of the ship. All about him, he could feel the sailors’ fear, subsumed in frantic activity. He swirled around one lanky hand wearing silver hoops in his ears, who knelt in the water pounding a rope of oakum between the planks. The man paused and sniffed. “Do you smell something, like a sail burning?” he shouted to another man wearing naught but a loincloth.

“It’s the lightning,” the other shouted. “Keep patching that crack or we’ll all be shark food.”

Mairon laughed.

Both sailors froze. “What in Arda was that?” the first one muttered.

“Spirits of the drowned,” the other one said. “Work! Or we’ll join them!”

Mairon paused. He couldn’t allow the King to drown, as much as that thought was appealing. Time to do some repair work himself. He sank into the water sloshing around the mens’ knees, probed. Where were the cracks? Ah, found them!

He stretched, then abruptly fragmented into a swirling mass of particles, a state he found useful for investigating tiny elements of Eä. Upon minute examination, each particle became its own universe with whirling clouds of energy surrounding denser spherical masses. If he wasn’t careful, he could lose himself in that flux. He’d used this skill of particle manipulation to fix a portion of himself within the Ring. A miracle of cleverness on his part. He wondered whether it had been as astute to leave his treasure hidden deep in the roots of Barad-dûr, as the lack of it felt like an ever-present void in his fëa, and limited his full range of powers. Still, his remaining skills should be more than enough for this task.

He had to swim against the water infiltrating the ship, but finally he was out. From there, he seized nearby components from the ship’s hull and bonded them into the cracks. That should hold—for a while at least.

Mairon flowed away from the Zimrazra in a long stream of particles, then gathered himself together and directed his senses through the murky water as it heaved and flowed. A school of fishes darted right through him and were gone. He sent out tendrils, seeking vibrations that signified Ossë or Uinen. Perhaps they were in the depths below. He made himself heavy and sank, passing jungles of seaweed and schools of fish, silver bellies glinting, which, as the pressure increased, gave way to darker denizens with beads of light flashing along their sides. He contemplated them for a moment, wondering about the mechanics of their self-made light. But now was not the time for such investigation.

He plummeted to the depths where he must bear the tremendous weight of the water. It was dark, even for him. Too deep. He’d best return to the light zone above. He rose, floated above a jagged ridge of a mountain chain. Once he had established himself in Armenelos, it might be a good idea to explore the underwater topography near Númenor. He stretched out his senses, searching. Ossë, you turn-coat. Reveal yourself to me. They had a past, the two of them, although it was so ancient, he barely remembered it. Perhaps Ossë had forgotten also, which might be best, truthfully. But Mairon should be able to sense his unique vibration, even through that magnificent racket on the surface.

Mairon began to sing—a thread of the ancient melody taught them by Eru. Ossë would recognize it and answer—or not, rogue that he was. Mairon’s singing voice was rusty, but it swelled and gathered power.

All around him, unseen creatures responded with whistles, clicks, squeaks. Then, more distantly came the strange moaning songs of whales, some pitched so low that Mairon could feel them reverberating throughout his entire being. Thrilling!

He ceased, listened intently and then he heard it: a song of the elements, full of the crashing surf, a rattle of rain, crack of thunder. It oozed with anger and a dash of madness. Yes, that was him—powerful, not to be trifled with, but always resentful, always in the shadow of his master, Ulmo. That resentment was the key to Ossë’s heart. And now Mairon knew where to find him.

Catching a current, he moved quickly until he spied an opening and shot inside through a twisting corridor of black volcanic rock. He nudged a ragged projection, sensing the slow movement of particles within, which had once been liquid fire. Ah! His element. A vast undertaking such as erecting a whole island appealed to him. Why had it been Ossë instead of him raising this land in the midst of the sea? Although he well knew the answer. He had been branded an enemy of all the ‘pure and virtuous’ Ainur. Mairon resented that. He was not Melkor. How did the others not see his true worth?

As he undulated along, the corridor opened up into an amphitheatre filled with all manner of fish gliding about: hammerhead sharks and manta rays, striped sea bass, cod, mackerel. On the rocks crabs scuttled, octopuses waved their tentacled arms, and eels poked their vicious heads from cracks. Mairon listened again. The song was above him now.

He made himself light and rose like a bubble towards the surface.

A long brown tendril of seaweed drifted past him. Then another, and more, until he found himself in the midst of a waving forest of kelp, intertwined with strands of fine green filaments. Up, down, no matter which way he turned, he was surrounded, caged— and he didn’t like it. A sinuous seaweed filament fingered him. He moved away, but it followed. Another did the same. Rapidly, more kelp entangled him. Trying to reform his network of particles, he found himself buffeted about in the current. The kelp moved and slithered against him, almost sensuously.

He found himself staring into a huge brown eye framed by thick lashes. As he tried to back away, an immense hand curled about his disembodied self. There was a teasing sound of laughter.

“What have we here?” The voice lapped in his thoughts like waves upon the sand.

The eye retreated, and with some distance between them, resolved into two eyes in a face with skin as golden bronze as the kelp. Filaments, green as a copper patina, streamed like hair from her head. Her body was encased in golden scales, the lower half that of a fish and her torso with its shapely breasts and arms resembled one of the female Eruhíni. She smiled, revealing sharp teeth.

“Uinen,” Mairon said. “Pleasure to see you again.”

“What is this non-corporeal energy?” Uinen frowned. “Are you the one singing to my whales?”

“Do you not remember me, O lovely one?” Mairon visualized himself in the Eruhin form he had often taken when he’d been Aulë’s apprentice. He became solid enough to be seen, but he was upside down. He righted himself, scrubbed a hand over his silver hair now sheered short and spiky, and flashed a smile at her. “It’s been a long time.”

“Mairon?” Uinen said, suspiciously. “Is that truly you? Indeed it has been several long ages of Arda since last I saw you in the flesh, or,” she waved vaguely at him. “Whatever this is.”

“I believe it was when we had gathered in Valmar. But I was mostly at the forge back then with Aulë, when perhaps I could have been more social.”

She squinted at him. “I do remember you and that pretty form you fashioned. What are you doing here?” She covered a smile with her hand. “And the water is clearly a bit cold for you.”

“Very amusing,” Mairon huffed, turning away. He recalled the last time he’d seen her up close. She’d been tending creatures in a tidal pool outside Ossë’s watery home in Valmar, which had been rather too dank and cold for his taste, even if Ossë’s attentions had been rather, um, hot. But that history was best not to reveal to his wife. He inclined his head. “It has indeed been many long years, back to when the light of the Trees graced Valinor. But I have missed your wisdom and beauty and am pleased to encounter you once again.”

“As ever, the silky-tongued flatterer,” Uinen said dryly. “To what do we owe the dubious pleasure of your presence? Surely this is far from your dry and rocky abode on Middle-earth?”

“Indeed. Happenstance brings me here. Is Ossë available? I’ve come to pay my respects.”

Uinen crossed her arms. “Since when did you respect anyone but yourself and perhaps your vile Master, who wished to destroy anything that lived.” Her long green hair swirled about her face.

“As I recall,” Mairon countered, “there was a time when your esteemed husband was more charitable towards my former master, wasn’t there?”

Uinen batted aside a swarm of tiny jellyfish. “Melkor was nothing but trouble, which I told Ossë long ago, and in time, he agreed that we were well rid of that spiteful Vala—and his various minions. Fortunately, we had little to do with him before the Valar’s force flooded Beleriand.”

“And that settled the situation. Melkor’s gone from Arda and its waters, now, isn’t he?” Mairon purred. “I’m freed from servitude and have come to make amends with you and your husband. Long overdue, I must say.” He smiled charmingly at her.

“Feh! It’s poor timing on your part. He’s in a mood, as I imagine you’ve noticed if you were in the vicinity.”

“I noticed,” Mairon said. “It’s causing considerable consternation on the surface and trouble for the ship I was on.”

“Ah, so the true reason for your sudden appearance is revealed,” Uinen laughed. “Many things I am recalling now about you, Master Silver-tongue. The first is that you are rather beguiling, in whatever fana you take.” She brushed a finger across his lips, which scattered and reassembled. “The second is that you are not to be trusted—in any form. So. As it happens, my husband and I had a spat and he’s taking it out on the world above, instead of reconciling with me. Typical.”

“I suspected as much. It’s a rare storm up above.”

“Well, it’s time he got over his little tantrum, which has gone on long enough and is distressing my creatures.” She gestured at a school of unhappy tuna sloshing back and forth in the churning waters. Then she laughed. “It’s so male, all that urgent thrashing and roaring about.” She eyed him sidelong. “Something you understand all too well, Mairon, don’t you.”

Ah, this was going better than he’d anticipated. Last time he’d seen her, she wanted nothing to do with him, but he’d always noticed a spark of attraction beneath her enmity.

Mairon smiled. “I do believe we’ve reached an understanding, sweet Uinen. Perhaps together, we can calm him down or at least distract him. Can you take me to him?”

She eyed Mairon over her shoulder. “Perhaps. If you can keep up.” With a great flip of her tail, she shot off through the kelp forest, which parted before her and Mairon had to attach himself to a lock of her long hair so he wouldn’t be left behind. They followed the jagged mountain range to the top, over rocks covered with waving anemones and sponges. Close to the surface now. The waters roiled and flowed around him.

Mairon’s head broke the surface and he released the strand of Uinen’s hair as she disappeared. The rain dimpled the heaving waves that crashed onto the shores of a nearby rocky islet. Black and gray clouds with an eerie yellow underbelly boiled across the sky. Willing his form somewhat more coherent, Mairon allowed the waves to carry him, and was thrown headlong onto a black sandy beach. Rolling, he managed to stop himself. Then, gathering his particles together, he raised his head as the surf surged about him.

Several hundred feet away stood Ossë. He wore a towering finely muscled elvish form, mostly naked but for a short kilt of abalone shells. His long white hair, chopped into varied lengths, rippled about him, like foam upon the waves. His body was covered in brown, geometric tattoos that flowed across his skin as flotsam upon the tide. His face, normally as fair as any elf, contorted with rage as he sang a song of power, stomped and leapt about, flinging his arms in grand gestures at ocean and sky, which responded with chaos. He seized a huge conch shell and blew upon it, sending a blast of lightning into the storm, followed by thunder. Marveling at the sheer energy involved, Mairon licked his lips. Slowly, he flowed upright.

Uinen came up behind him. She had taken an Eruhin form as well, complete with a delightful pair of long legs. Her vividly green hair curled over her shoulders and covered her body, just barely. “Who am I to stop him when he’s having such a good time,” she chuckled. “He hasn’t let loose like this in a year or more. Rather exhilarating, actually. Perhaps we could enjoy ourselves as well; it’s only fair, isn’t it?” She slipped her arms around Mairon’s insubstantial neck, her lips inches from his.

So she knew. Mairon wondered when in the long eons together Ossë had told her. “Much as that would please me,” Mairon said, as he gently extricated himself, “I fear it would only anger him more, which would jeopardize my position on that ship you can see listing heavily in the water—over yonder.”

Her brown eyes were lively. Apparently, she had enjoyed making him uncomfortable. They flicked to the ship. “I see it now.” She paused, stretched out her hands. “That does indeed look unpleasant for the sailors, who somehow lost their talisman, didn’t they. I wonder what would make them so careless? Or perhaps you know why it happened?”

“My dear, that ship carries the high King of Númenor, who I thought had your favor.”

“Psst!” She snapped her fingers. “As far as I’m concerned, kings come and go. But you are correct, Mairon. Ossë is quite fond of Númenor, since it’s his finest work. But he’s irritated because he found their Green Bough floating in the sea and, of late, he’s been annoyed that they were not conducting the ancient rituals as well as they once did. I told him it was likely an accident after a long voyage and we just needed to send an emissary to the priests in Rómenna to remind them to do the rituals properly. I made the mistake of saying that our Lord Ulmo cared little for these things, so why should he. I should know better.”

“From what I hear, your priests are subordinate to those of Manwë,” Mairon said. “Unfortunate, isn’t it? When, as a great seafaring nation, the Númenóreans obviously owe so much more to both of you.”

“You bring up a good point, Mairon. But the lost talisman isn’t the reason for Ossë’s display. He was angry because I informed him that a slope under the north-eastern arm of Númenor was subsiding and needed an uplift. He replied that it was perfect in conception and bade me tend to my own gardens. Stubborn Maia! He just doesn’t want the work of stoking the underground fires. Something, as I recall, you were quite good at.”

Mairon employed his most charming smile. “I may be able to help him at some point, but right now, you’ll note that my form isn’t as robust as it used to be.” He glanced down at himself.

“Pity,” she said. “Your current form is rather delectable, if somewhat, hum, sparse. But, I’d say both of us will require some wooing if we are to believe you have changed from your behavior of yore. Well then, I suppose I should talk to him. She turned and cried out, “Ossë! That’s enough! You’re disturbing the fish. If you weren’t throwing such a fit, you might notice we have a visitor. Someone you haven’t seen in many an age.”

Her words appeared to have little effect as Ossë continued to thrash and stamp in the surf, causing water to spray up in immense jets. He always was a theatrical git.

“Ossë!” cried Uinen again, her tone now angry. She grew as large as her husband and the air crackled about her. Lightning seared the sky in one ragged web of light, followed by a clap of thunder that Mairon thought would render his spirit form deaf. He fell on his face and threw his hands over his all-too-functional ears.

In a swirl of sodden white hair, Ossë turned. Looking up at him through his fingers, Mairon had to admit that he looked rather scrumptious. His wrath was pleasantly roiling Mairon’s particles.

The land under them trembled as Ossë pointed a finger at Uinen, “Back to harangue me some more, you harpy! I told you not to disturb me for at least a fortnight! Have you come to apologize, then?”

“Of course not,” Uinen laughed. “I’m right and you know it. A harpy am I!” Her eyes flashed dangerously, even though her mouth tugged upwards. “Cursed if you’re not the most obstinate, willful, inflexible old spiny-backed slug in the whole of Arda’s oceans. If you would just open your eyes for a moment, you’d see that Mairon is here. So it’s time to quit acting like a cranky old crab.”

Ossë clenched his fists, but his attention shifted to Mairon, who smiled as best he could in his translucent form, and wiggled his fingers at him. “Greetings, brother. I hate to disturb you when you’re so very busy, but there are reasons.”

“Mairon?” Ossë scowled. Dropping his arms, he squinted, then strode over and lowered his great head to look into Mairon’s insubstantial face. He passed a hand through Mairon’s body, sifted the particles through his fingers. “Why it is you. It’s been a long time, a very long time. Why haven’t you taken solid form?” He scowled and the wind picked up again. “Remarkably audacious of you to show up here, after everything you’ve done! Why are you here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Mairon said. “And curious as to what had inspired such an impressive and forceful display.”

Uinen giggled.

Ossë’s mouth quirked. “Were you indeed?” He shrank himself so that he was Mairon’s height and sat on a flat rock, knees splayed under his kilt which clicked as he moved. He cradled his chin in his hand, frowning deeply, as the tattoos flowed over his body. “It’s a long time since I’ve seen you close by, Mairon. But I’ve heard things. Oh aye. It’s said you were Melkor’s fancy boy, and number one toadie, puffed up with your importance. Needlessly cruel, they said. Then, when the Valar’s forces drowned your country and carried off your preciously insane master, you were summoned to Aman to confess and atone. But I heard you fled, like a darting sardine, built yourself a miniature Angband far in-land and proceeded to make war on all of Middle-earth. Seems you haven’t learned a thing.”

Stung, Mairon closed his eyes a moment to control his anger. “What an . . . inhospitable way to greet an old . . . friend. I can’t help the rumors you’ve heard, but surely you know that truth becomes warped in the telling. Middle-earth was a chaotic mess and still is. It needs taming. Do you so soon forget your own alliance with our former master and how . . . beguiling and empowering he was? What a sense of grand mission he instilled in his followers? I was . . . taken in. Which I now regret.”

“You dare to compare my brief lapse to your sniveling, ages-long groveling!” Ossë leapt up, pointed at the sea, and a rather large wave rose and dashed against the rocks, spraying them all. With a sudden jerk upwards, Mairon pulled his particles into the air to keep from being swept off the beach by the backwash.

Control. Control. He now remembered why his affair with Ossë had been so short-lived. It was all that chaos: exhilarating in short doses, not so much for long-term affairs. They got along about as well as fire and water. He summoned a smile. “I would only ask that you hear me out before making assumptions.”

“Ha!” Ossë folded his arms. “I don’t believe a word from your mouth. In fact, I think you should bugger off again, and let me finish my symphony, which was just coming to its climax. You were naught but trouble.”

“Based on my experience while being vigorously tossed about on board ship, I’d say your symphony has already climaxed . . . multiple times.” Mairon smiled. He projected an image of Ossë, lying back on his seaweed-laced bed, hand working his very erect cock.

Ossë swallowed and hitched his kilt.

In the distance, the tiny silhouette of the Zimrazra listed dangerously. There was little time for banter or recrimination and certainly not seduction. Best to adopt an attitude of contrition. Mairon hung his head and wrung his insubstantial hands. “Believe me, my siblings in the Song, I know I’ve made mistakes, some dreadful ones, which indeed I did confess to that overbearing brother of ours, Eönwë, but then things happened and I could not bring myself . . . I was forced to retreat to the east. But I returned and began rebuilding a fortress and an army, for safety, as the Secondborn are inveterate warmongers. Then it happened that the Númenórean King invaded my kingdom, threatening everything I’d built. But I did not meet his forces with my own. I have evolved, you see. I chose instead to make peace. In fact, until a few hours ago, I was his guest. You see his ship there in the distance.” Mairon pointed—happy to see that distracting Ossë had already diminished the rain and calmed the waves.

“That ship! Are they the ones who defiled my talisman?”

“Through accident, I believe,” Mairon purred. “They did not mean any disrespect, I’m sure. As for my presence here, I’m like to remain on Númenor for some time and thought it would be beneficial to renew our acquaintance.”

“Beneficial! I hardly think so,” Ossë scoffed. “Perhaps I should finish sinking that ship, now that I know you were aboard!”

“Ah. Did you not hear me say that Ar-Pharazôn himself is aboard and has been my host?” Mairon sighed dramatically. “My friends, I find myself longing for the old days before Melkor whispered lies into my ears. I cannot help that I was inexperienced then. Naive. You of all the Ainur should understand, brother. You might well recall how he was the master of persuasion. Once I’m settled on the island, I would welcome the opportunity to return for a longer chat. Truly, I have things to impart that I’m sure would interest you. Uinen says the structure of the island needs some repair work. You might remember that I have a certain skill in working the fires of the earth and considerable experience with moderating the activities of volcanos. Ask Ulmo. It was a gift I absorbed from the Song, all those ages ago.”

Ossë grunted,“Ulmo barely deigns to talk to me and instead lurks in the outer seas. So I’m unlikely to get his advice on these matters.”

“I see,” Mairon said. “Well, you’re the expert on the Land of the Star, not him. We could perhaps collaborate.”

“Collaborate.” Ossë’s face grew thoughtful. He glanced at Uinen, who at first looked surprised and then sly.

She laid a hand on Ossë’s shoulder. “What an interesting notion, my dear. You thought it would be too toilsome to poke up the fires under Andor. Working with Mairon could solve your problem and allow me to go back to my gardens, instead of moving a bunch of rocks for you.”

“Nay. Rather, I thought it would likely trigger earthquakes which would not endear me to the people of Andor,” Ossë said with some pique.

Uinen replied, “I daresay today’s performance will not endear you to Andor’s people either, particularly if you drown their King.”

“I didn’t know,” Ossë said.

“You could’ve checked, instead of going off like some newly unblocked steam vent!” Uinen threw her hands in the air.

“I understand your concern, brother,” Mairon interjected. “Earthquakes can be a problem, hard to control, most inconvenient. But I’ve found that if you move the magma slowly enough, through the right fissures and allow it to cool without coming into contact with water, that danger can be minimized. It just needs to be properly controlled, brother. Nothing sudden. Done with care, a movement of molten rock without an eruption or quakes would take many years. I’d have to study and map the underlying geography first, which would take time.”

Ossë frowned.“Why would you go to such trouble and labor, when as the King’s guest, you could instead be luxuriating in Armenelos?”

“As you should remember, I’ve always relished a challenge,” Mairon said. “Sitting idle has never been something I desire.” He emphasized the last word and smiled.

He could swear Ossë turned red, and averted his gaze. “What do you want in return? You were never one for doing something without, um, proper recompense.”

The wind had died and the clouds were breaking up. Good. Mairon stretched his senses towards the ship, but something wasn’t right. By Melkor’s chains, what were those humans doing!! He’d best conclude this little interview before they ruined everything. He said, “Ah well, we could work together on a portion of it, and then you would decide what my efforts were worth. However, as a bit of down payment, you could do something for me now.”

“What would that be?”

“Allow my ship to continue unharmed to Andor. I’m rather fond of Ar-Pharazôn, you see, and it would be a calamity to his kingdom to lose him. As you may know, there’s no direct heir—as yet. I myself will have a word with your priests and emphasize the importance of their rituals and prayers to your well-being.”

Ossë stood and regarded the distant ship for a long moment.“Seems careless of them to lose their oiolairë branch.” He sniffed.

“These things do happen, particularly on the return voyage when the branches have dried and become brittle,” Mairon said. “What do you say? Do we have a bargain?”

Ossë shrugged. He turned to his wife. “What do you think, my dear?”

“It might not hurt to see if Melkor’s fancy boy could be helpful—for once,” Uinen said.

“Your concerns do you credit.” Mairon bowed. “Give me a chance. You will find I have changed. Matured. One does not experience the horrors I have without it leaving a mark. I don’t wish to repeat the past.”

“That remains to be seen,” Uinen responded. “Ossë, my love, restore the good weather and let the ship go on its way. Mairon, I fear we have been inhospitable, my husband and I, making you stand out here naked on this barren rock, with the winds blowing right through you. Would you care to visit our house below? I’ve made some delicious kelp stew we could enjoy. And Ossë has composed a new ode to anemones. It’s a gentle little tune, in contrast to his recent endeavors.” Her mouth quirked.

“I should be delighted,” Mairon said, inwardly shuddering. “But for the exigency of the moment. You see, when I left, the ship was under duress and the King wounded. I must return quickly to tend to him. If I may make a request, brother, once you’ve calmed your storm, could you send a breath of wind to fill the sails and get us moving again? You needn’t reprise your symphony, just a gentle pursing of the lips and a little hum should do it.”

Ossë’s laugh boomed about the island. “As I recall, that was your specialty.” He glanced at his wife, who looked amused. “Well then. I find that I am rather fatigued, so in deference to the past, I will grant you this favor. But mind you, keep your promise and come back to visit us, so that I may judge if you speak truly or are merely bandying words about, as you always did.”

Mairon bowed deeply. “You may rely on me, brother.”

“We shall see,” Ossë said.

“Indeed. As I think about it, perhaps you could make a brief appearance to the King. Greet him in person to assure him you had no ill will towards him or his people and then help us get moving again while I repair the ship. It may go a long way towards improving relations between you, which I’m afraid to divulge, stand somewhat strained at the moment.”

Ossë looked disgruntled. “Truly?”

Mairon nodded. “I’m afraid so. Let me go ahead and pave the way for you to appear.”

Uinen said, “I think Mairon is right. Help me clean up around here and then follow him so you can make nice with Númenor’s King. I’ll expect you home for dinner. As for you.” Uinen gave Mairon a sideways look. “Once you get settled, do pay us a visit. Life out here has been rather dull of late. As I recall, you always knew how to spice up a party.”

Mairon bowed deeply to her. “Of course, my dear. Now then, brother. Can you give me a push? There is an emergency brewing on board ship and I need to plug some holes before you get there.”

“As ever,” Ossë grinned. He stood, put his hands to his mouth, and blew out a great puff of air. Mairon felt the breeze swirling about him, tickling his parts most agreeably as his body rose and was sucked up into it. “Farewell, Lady Uinen,” he called. “Until we next meet.”

“Make it soon, that stew won’t keep.” Uinen laughed. As Mairon rose higher into a rain-swollen cloud, he heard her say, “He’ll never come. Not unless he wants something else.”

Harpy, Mairon thought. But now, he needed as much speed as he could muster before disaster struck and all his plans would be for naught.

---

Chapter End Notes

Eruhíni (Quenya, plural. Eruhin, singular) Children of Eru, i.e. Elves and Men.
Ossë: I repurposed Ossë’s physical description from my story Ossë’s Gift.

5. Father of Storms

Chapter summary: In the midst of the storm, Sûla strives to keep himself and Annatar from being killed.

Read 5. Father of Storms

Clutching the foot of the rolling bed, Sûla nervously watched his pale and unresponsive king. Outside the cabin, the wind howled and the sea churned. He wondered if truly his master had gone too far this time when he provoked Ossë, father of storms.

The surgeon, Uzorî, had somehow managed to close the gash on Ar-Pharazôn’s forehead with tiny sutures, all the while trying to keep his balance and defaming many of the Ainur. But it still looked red and puffy.

“You stitched the wound well,” Sûla observed. “Remarkable with all this rolling about. Maybe it won’t scar.” Gaining favor through flattery was a good ploy at any time but especially in tenuous situations such as this. His master’s potion had better work or likely someone would decide to take it out on him—on them both.

Uzorî raised his chin. “I won an award at school for my skill in stitching flesh together. Nothing but the best for his majesty. Hadn’t the Zigûr better get on with whatever quackery he’s proposing?”

They both turned to look at Annatar, who leaned against the cabin’s cedar paneling, shivering and uncharacteristically silent.

“What’s wrong with him?” Uzorî jerked his thumb at the sorcerer.

“Queasy, and can you blame him?” Sûla gestured at the rolling cabin. “He’ll soon mend. Now, will you help me or not?” Abruptly, he yanked the curtain back across the bedroom which blocked them from being seen by Hazûn, Captain of the Guard, who stood by the door.

“What does he need?” Uzorî grumbled.

“Some wine,” Sûla replied. “It serves as an accelerant for the potion. There are some bottles in the rack in the outer room. Bring a goblet too.”

“Shouldn’t that be your task, Cupbearer?” Uzorî folded his arms.

“The Zigûr needs to gather his powers before administering the medicine and he needs me to assist,” Sûla said. “And trust me, you don’t want to see that.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t heard the rumors about one of the ingredients?” Sûla replied. Briefly, he gripped his own crotch.

Uzorî cast an uneasy glance at Annatar, who sank down on the floor and closed his eyes. “Most unorthodox,” the surgeon said. Scowling, he brushed past the curtain into the other side of the room. Sûla heard him speak to Hazûn and then a clink of glass bottles.

Ah, quickly now, Sûla thought. At least this batch was brewed already and wouldn’t need his contribution. He knelt at the trunk, mumbled the spell. The locks clicked; he lifted the lid, fished around, and pounced on the remaining earthenware pot, the one with the hairline crack. Best to use it before it developed a leak and they lost the precious ingredients altogether. He relocked the trunk. Perhaps he’d better try it to make sure it worked. In any case, he was exhausted and his stubbed toe throbbed. This should help. He tilted the pot up and took a swig, then gasped. Gah! Terrible. He turned to Annatar. “My Lord, here it is. Can you say the spells?”

Annatar made a strange moaning sound. He clasped his throat with one hand, then pursed his lips in annoyance and shook his head.

“My Lord,” Sûla entreated. “You must try.” Gently, he set his hand on the Zigûr’s shoulder. Swiftly, Annatar grasped Sûla’s forearm and looked frantically at him, seeming to plead with his eyes. Grey! His eyes were grey. Not golden. This was not right!

“I don’t understand,” Sûla said softly. But he was starting to have suspicions.

There came a muffled sound of glass breaking and a curse from the room beyond the curtain.

Annatar turned towards the sound and Sûla shook him off. “My Lord, you must rouse yourself from whatever is besetting you and save the King’s life. His health is key to our safety, my Lord. Our future depends on it.” He held up the elixir. “Drink some of your potion. It may help you feel better.” He pried the cork loose and handed it to Annatar.

Annatar sighed, seemingly in resignation. He lifted the jar to his lips and drank several swallows, then winced.

“It’s your fault it tastes so terrible,” Sûla said. “But no more. We need enough for the King.” Gently, he pulled the pot away. “How fare you now?”

Annatar’s eyes seemed to clear. He stood, pushed away from the wall, went to the King’s body lying heavily on the bed, and examined his forehead. He turned back to Sûla and nodded, holding his hand out for the pot.

Uzorî’s voice came from the other side of the curtain. “Ready for me?”

“Yes,” Sûla responded. Uzorî eased past the curtain, carrying a goblet and wine bottle. “Hard to find any unbroken,” he said. “What’s he doing!”

“Healing the King,” Sûla said. Or at least he hoped so. “Is this what you needed, Lord Annatar?”

“No, I don’t want him near the King,” Uzorî bristled. “Give me that stuff and I’ll administer it! What’s the ratio?”

“Not sure that’s the best idea.” Sûla clutched the pot to his chest.

Uzorî lunged and ripped the pot from Sûla’s grasp, just as the ship gave a great lurch and they were knocked off kilter. Sûla watched in horror as the vessel flew from the healer’s hands and cracked against the wood paneling. As the ship righted itself, the elixir oozed stickily onto the floor.

“Ach, now look what you’ve done!” Sûla cried. “And that was the last of it!” He smacked his hand against the mattress. “You may have just killed the King!”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Uzorî said. “You threw it. I saw you!”

“I did what!!” Sûla yelled in Uzorî’s face.

Hazûn stuck his head around the curtain. “What has happened? I heard a crash!”

“He dropped it,” Sûla and Uzorî said simultaneously, pointing at each other. Then fury overcame Sûla and he went for Uzorî’s throat.

Hazûn stepped between them, holding them apart as they flailed at each other. “No time for stupidity. Is there nothing left of the elixir?”

Sûla angrily gestured at the pot on the floor. “I could stick my fingers in that mess and try to drip it in the King’s mouth, but it’s not enough to do anything.”

“Well, then,” Hazûn declared. “No use crying. We go with the first plan. You two, dress him for the weather. I’ll get the captain.”

“Don’t you dare try to pin that accident on me,” Sûla hissed.

“Who will believe you, zirâmîki?” Uzorî snarled back.

“The King, whose favor I have,” Sûla said. “Shut up now and help me get him up. My Lord Annatar, a little help needed here.”

As the ship rolled and shuddered, the three of them managed to tug trousers over the King’s legs, and add a woolen jacket over top of his tunic, then put on his boots and fasten an oilcloth cape about his shoulders. The King moaned and shifted his head, so at least he was alive.

Annatar’s potions really were a miracle, Sûla reflected, as he slung his own cape back over his shoulders. Just the mouthful he had swallowed had renewed his own feeling of vigor and made him feel less chilled, despite his damp clothing. It was too bad that Uzorî was an idiot.

Hazûn, Captain Nadroth, and Tala returned. Swiftly, they pulled one of the bedboards, slid it under the King and roped him onto it. Tala, her damp, frizzled hair and arched eyebrows giving her the look of a half-drowned cat, tested the knots and then took her satchel from Hazûn. She nodded at Nadroth, who barked, “In position, all of you.”

Sûla stood behind Annatar and Uzorî on one side, while the Captain, Tala, and Hazûn stood on the other.

“Now lift!” Nadroth said.

Heaving the King to their shoulders, they staggered out into the gale, desperately trying to maintain their footing as they went down the slippery stairs, while the elements conspired against them. On Sûla’s side they hung onto the banister with one arm. Uzorî slipped and unbalanced their whole side, causing them to dump the King onto the stairs. The board slid unceremoniously with a loud bumpity bump to the deck. Ar-Pharazôn moaned and twitched. His eyelids fluttered.

“Daft surgeon,” Sûla cried. “You’ll kill him!” Uzorî glared at him.

“Lift him up again!” Nadroth cried, while rain poured off his hat. “Onward.”

With much slipping and cursing, they progressed to amidships where a crowd of sailors, the high priest, his acolytes and a few remaining household staff stood waiting their turn to descend to the boats below. Sûla grasped the railing to look over the side at the boats roped together, jouncing in the waves. His heart misgave him. How would they fit the two dozen or so still on deck into those crowded vessels?

A cargo hoist stood ready. The sailors unroped the King and stuffed him into the cage. Hazûn got in to hold him upright about the chest and then the crew winched them down in increments. Sûla leaned over watching as the cage swung precariously over the tumult.

They halted about a foot above the nearest boat. Sailors opened the cage door and with Hazûn’s help, dragged the King awkwardly down into the crowd. It was good that his lordship was barely conscious, Sûla thought, as that wouldn’t do much for his dignity. But perhaps the King wouldn’t mind waking up on top of a bunch of well-favored sailors. He just hoped the King’s head injury wasn’t permanent. The sailors cranked the cage back up to the deck.

“Send the priests next,” Nadroth decreed.

One of the Bawîba Manô acolytes staggered towards the cage and reached for the door. Just then, the sky cracked with dendritic tongues of lightning and the wind howled even louder. “Stand back!” Nadroth yelled, but he could scarcely be heard. Strangely, the sky seemed to echo with a shrieking voice. “Aaawwwwwseeeee.”

A terrible force slammed against the deck, followed by a loud boom. Sûla was thrown several yards away onto his back; his ears rang and his entire body felt as if he’d stood under a raging waterfall. He shook his head and attempted to sit up. There was a metallic burning smell and the cage seemed to glow briefly. Annatar had been thrown clear as well, landing on top of Ikar-lak.

“Get off me, you monster!” the priest yelled, shoving him aside indignantly. Annatar sat back against the mast, hugging his knees. He chuckled and shook his head as if only he knew the joke. Ikar-lak stood, scowled furiously at him, then cried out and pointed.

The acolyte was slumped against the cage with a face blackened in strange swirling patterns. He slid to the deck with a thump. Ikar-lak rushed to his side. “What happened? Is he hurt?” he cried. Uzorî and several other men ran over. The surgeon felt the acolyte’s neck for a pulse. He shook his head. “I fear it killed him.”

“He’s dead?” Ikar-lak cried. “Barumin’s dead! How could that be?” He pushed the surgeon aside and held Barumin’s hand for a long moment. The other two acolytes began weeping as Ikar-lak bowed his head, and folded the dead man’s hands over his chest while murmuring the last rites. Then he rose and pointed furiously at Annatar. “This horror is your fault!” he howled. “You threw the oiolairë branch in the sea, raising Ossë’s ire. My attendant would not be dead if it hadn’t been for your sacrilege!”

Annatar grimaced, shook his head, and pointed out into the storm.

“No time,” Nadroth yelled. “Your eminence, I beg of you, get in the cage, before we’re struck again!”

“We can’t just leave Barumin here!” cried one of the acolytes, a nervous man called Ibal.

“I am sorry, but we have no time for proper ritual. You must tip him overboard,” Nadroth commanded.

Sûla heard shouting from the boats below. They seemed to be calling up questions that couldn’t be heard clearly. He hauled himself upright, clutching the taffrail, then shook his head to clear it.

As the acolytes lifted the corpse and pitched it overboard, the hatch amidships banged open and a burly sailor crawled onto the deck, moaning. Another man called out, “Kamin! You’re still here? Hurry, get in the hoist!”

Sûla ground his teeth. Kamin—the one who had assaulted him earlier. The man appeared a shade of green, clutching his stomach. No doubt he was feeling the effect of the dragon poison. Adding a roiling ship would make for a volatile combination.

Lightning lit the clouds in the distance. The wind had shifted direction, making the sails flap and the rain now fell in scattered heavy drops. Annatar slowly rose to his feet. He pointed out at the horizon, black with clouds, then shook his fist.

“What in all of Arda is he doing?” Ikar-lak said.

“Maybe he’s warning us the lightning could strike again,” wailed Ibal, wringing his hands. “Ossë is very angry.”

“You are correct, Ibal. We need to show Ossë we won’t tolerate this transgressor,” Ikar-lak said. “We must punish him. Throw the Zigûr overboard!”

Annatar whirled to face him.

“It was the Zigûr’s arrogance that led to Barumin’s death, so this is justice,” Ikar-lak said. “Do it.”

“As you command, your eminence,” Ibal said. He and the other Bawîba Manô acolyte sprinted to Annatar, seized him by the arms, and began to drag him towards the railing.

Roused from his shock, Sûla screamed, “No!” Reaching Ibal, he beat his fists on his back, then tried to wrest the Zigûr from his grasp.

“Toss his servant in too,” Ikar-lak intoned darkly. “Númenor will be well rid of another whore. There’s not enough room in the boats anyhow.”

“My Lord King,” Sûla yelled down to the boats. “Help us, my Lord!” He heard muffled shouts, but nothing clear. The wind howled with an almost human voice while the ship creaked discordantly and the deck tilted further.

Ikar-lak raised his arms to the heavens and gave a ululating cry. “O Manwë, Lord of the Winds, as your devoted priest, I call upon you. Give us a sign. Should we punish the Zigûr and his servant?”

The thunder growled ominously in the distance. Sûla thought that the storm seemed to be receding.

“That’s our answer,” Ikar-lak cried. “Manwë has spoken.”

The sailors hesitated a moment, then Kamin straightened and approached unsteadily. No doubt he was feeling that kick in the groin Sûla had administered earlier. “We must do as the Father tells us,” he cried to the assembled group. “These two are evil. This one,” he pointed at Sûla, “did something to me down in the hold. He poisoned me. Look!” He gestured at an angry red welt on his neck. “He and his master are witches. If we don’t act, they could infect all of you too.”

“What’s this?” Uzorî moved to examine Kamin. “A strange wound. Appears like a viper bite? But how could that be?”

“See what he wears on his arm!” Kamin cried. He flipped Sûla’s cape away from his shoulder. “A veritable serpent.”

“That’s absurd!” Sûla yelled. “This is just a bit of jewelry. He’s a liar. I’ve done nothing.”

More thunder in the distance.

Angrily, the remaining sailors and the acolytes advanced. Sûla pulled the knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh and brandished it. “I tell you, come no nearer!”

“There’s no time for any of this!” Captain Nadroth roared. “Get in the lift!” Ikar-lak leaned over and spoke in the captain’s ear.

Despairing, Sûla held his knife out, watching them all. As usual, it was him against everyone else, without even a functional sorcerer to help him.

Ikar-lak straightened. With great importance, he said,“I will take responsibility.” The ship rode up a wave and abruptly dropped, knocking everyone askew. Sûla lost balance, fell heavily, and then he cried out as Kamin pounced upon him, painfully slamming a knee down on his forearm.

Kamin whispered in his ear. “You little slut. Now you’ll pay for whatever you did to me.” He wrested Sûla’s knife from his grasp and stuck it into his belt.

“The King won’t like this,” Sûla yelled at the captain. “He’s gone to great lengths to bring the Zigûr to Anadûnê.”

Nadroth squinted up at the sky, then he gestured violently. “Izi, Nidrin, Kamin and Zinzar, you take the Zigûr and his servant to the stern and restrain them there.” He lowered his voice. “If a wave should happen to sweep them overboard, that would be unfortunate, wouldn’t it, but beyond our control. Hurry. Return quickly. If you tarry, I can’t promise anyone will be here to winch you down. In the meantime, Surgeon, you and the priests, get in the cage, cram together now, and you,” he gestured at the remaining crew, “let them down.”

“My Lord King, please help us,” Sûla called as loudly as he could while his arms were jerked behind his back and tied with a leather cord. But it seemed the King either wasn’t cognizant enough to hear him or the tumult was too great. Two muscular sailors, Kamin and Izi, frogmarched him up the rollicking stairs, past the King’s cabin and up again to the poop deck. He could hear the other two sailors panting behind him, hauling Annatar, who didn’t seem to be giving them any fight.

A wave of deep bitterness engulfed Sûla. So this was to be it, huh. After all his work, his plotting. And what of the Zigûr? He couldn’t believe that his supremely clever master, after surviving ages of battles and treachery, would come to this. Just maybe he could be roused to do something. The sailors marched them to the stern, which was rather higher above the water line than it had been and pressed them against the railing. Sûla looked down, it seemed a long way down, to the churning grey sea. Tears started into his eyes. He could swim, but not with his hands tied. He struggled to loosen the bonds.

Miraculously, the rain slackened to a light spit and the wind also diminished.

“Look,” Sûla said brightly to Nidrin, a young man who had been friendly to him in the past. “The storm is dying down. That must mean that Ossë is no longer angry, so there’s no need to sacrifice us to appease him.”

Nidrin lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “His eminence orders this.”

“Let’s get this over, or we’ll be in the drink ourselves,” the one called Izi said. He had colorful swirling tattoos on his arms.“Come on now. Lift him up.”

“Kamin,” Sûla cried desperately as he struggled against violent hands. “Want to know how to cure that boil on your neck? The Zigûr can help you.”

Kamin halted his efforts to lift Sûla. “How?”

“He cured the King just now,” Sûla said. “He can cure you.”

“He did?” Kamin replied.

“Ha!” Zinzar said. “The King didn’t look too well when they winched him down just now, so appears it didn’t work.”

Sûla turned to the others. “You’ve heard the rumors about the Zigûr’s healing powers. You just have to give him time to work the incantations.”

Kamin released Sûla and stepped back. “Maybe we should try it. This thing on my neck hurts like being nipped with a pair of hot pincers.”

“Tell me, though,” Sûla continued. “Why should he help you, if you don’t give us something in return.”

“What, like not throw you overboard,” Izi said. The others laughed.

“Yes, exactly,” Sûla replied. He could feel the thongs about his wrists loosen as he worked them. “You could leave us here and say you carried out orders. The ship is sinking anyway and likely we’ll not make it. But I’d like those few hours of life. Please. Nidrin, we’ve played at dice together. What did I do to merit this?” Even now Sûla’s mind was working on other possibilities. If he could just get his hands free, perhaps they could find something to float on, at least long enough for his master to come to his senses.

He assessed the four of them. Kamin was the largest, but sick. Izi was whipcord slender and likely could fight. Zinzar also looked strong and capable. Nidrin looked nervous; he could possibly be intimidated. Sûla glanced at Annatar at his side, who seemed bemused with the whole spectacle and not in the least disturbed by the prospect of being thrown overboard.

“Lord Annatar, you can cure this man, can you not?” Sûla asked, nudging him with his shoulder.

Annatar shook his head. He gestured with his chin out over the waves. Was he going daft?

“That’s it, then,” Izi said. “Let’s do it, lads.”

“No,” Sûla shouted. He kicked out as he felt them lifting his body.

“I should think,” Kamin said in his ear, “that you’d welcome death, zirâmîki, as you’ll be freed from slavery, forever.”

Fury reddened Sûla’s vision. He screamed as he popped his wrists apart and twisted away from their hands. Landing on his feet, he shoved Kamin to the deck and snatched his knife from his belt, slashing Kamin’s hand in the process.

Kamin howled. He grabbed Sûla’s legs, upending him. Then, Izi and Nidrin tackled him to the deck where they proceeded to pummel him.

“Ahh,” Sûla yelled, as Kamin landed a painful fist in his gut. He curled into a ball.

Then, to Sûla’s astonishment, Annatar bent over them. Before Sûla could cry out, Annatar lifted Kamin and threw him aside with a loud whump. Kamin gathered himself, charged, and knocked him over. Sûla lost track of him as Izi and Zinzar together hefted Sûla to the top of the railing, and shoved him over. Sûla clung to the taffrail like a limpet, his legs swinging in the air. Izi began pounding Sûla’s fingers. Then Annatar seized both of his assailants by the back of their necks and flung them to the deck like sacks of wheat.

The sorcerer looked up, as if sniffing the air. He released a strange, wailing cry. Sûla managed to hook an arm over the railing and was in the process of hauling himself back over, when his master ran to the taffrail and began to climb over it. Had he lost whatever was left of his senses?

“My Lord, no, what are you doing?” Sûla cried.

Kamin painfully stood. “What is the name of Zizzûn is that?” he cried, pointing at the sky.

An immense funnel of black smoke appeared, spiraling down. It enveloped both Sûla and Annatar, as they perched precariously on the railing, then disappeared into the Zigûr as if it had been sucked into his body.

The Zigûr shivered a moment, then straightened up and climbed off the railing. Tall and menacing, he turned to face their assailants. “Leave at once,” he thundered in tones that raised the hair on Sûla’s neck. By the gods, he had found his voice! They might have a chance! Sûla tried to haul himself back over the side. The Zigûr raised his hands and golden sparks gathered about them, crackling and spitting. With gasps and cries, the sailors backed away. Sûla was slipping, he scrabbled for a foothold.

There came a tremendous boom and a blast of air. And Sûla was falling, falling.

As if smacked by a huge, unseen hand, he hit the icy water, and shot down into darkness, surrounded by burbling bubbles. Dazed, he rolled, flailed. Which way was up? His heart pounded.

A brilliant golden flash appeared, refracted through the water like a mirror cut into shards. He swam up towards it and his head broke the surface. Coughing horribly, he rode up a wave and down the other side. The sky above was filled with massive clouds, their undersides lit gold in the setting sun. To his left, the barnacled hull of the ship loomed. He blinked stinging salt water from his eyes so he could get his bearings.

Where was Annatar? Had he been hit by that lightning? His best chance was to locate the cockleboats which must still lurk nearby. His cape tangled about him, dragging him down, so he jerked the pin through the cloth and kicked it away.

A tremendous splash landed near him. A body. He swam over to it and pushed it over. Kamin, quite dead, with bulging eyes in a blackened face. Ug! Sûla shoved it away, and then there came another splash. Nidrin. Sûla felt momentary remorse, but it was replaced by anger. The nadzûn had conspired against him when Sûla had only treated him kindly! Two more splashes followed. They bobbed for a moment on the surface and then slowly sank. Clearly, Annatar was at work.

“My Lord! Help!” Sûla called up to him, then spluttered as another wave hit him in the face. His strength was failing. He swam to the bow of the ship, but the cockleboats were now a couple hundred yards off, oars pulsing as they pulled away from the main ship. They were much too far off for him to reach, even if he swam as fast as he’d ever done. And even if he reached them, he had no assurance Ikar-lak and Captain Nadroth would take him aboard. After all, they had conspired to kill him.

No one would save him. The Captain and the priest had been all too ready to let him drown. And now, not even his fearsome master was bothering with him. He was going to die. He’d drift down into the everlasting dark to be eaten by eyeless worms. He regretted . . . what did he regret? He found himself remembering Tigôn’s warm body pressed against his backside, while his soft, earnest voice whispered in his ear that they should meet in that shop in Rómenna and run away together. Tigôn had loved him, truly loved him. He realized with the fullness of revelation what he most regretted, his lost chance at happiness. And now, Tigôn might not even know what had become of him.

He struggled to keep his head above water.

***********
Mairon surveyed the smoking ruins of the four sailors slumped in various postures on the deck. He put a hand to his head, feeling dizzy and disoriented after that blast of power. By the Door of Night, he wished he still had his Ring. And even though he’d managed to wrest the body back under control, the wretched elf still clamored in his thoughts. Something about betrayal. No time for it now. But, later, there would be consequences for this mess. Before reclaiming his body, he’d gone below and managed to repair the worst leaks in the hull. Those repairs would hold for now; the sailors would have to finish the job later. Now, Mairon needed to reach the boats before Ossë showed up, in order to prevent him from saying something . . . unfortunate.

Kneeling, he pulled one of the sailors over and examined him, noting the welt on the side of his neck. Oh Sûla, what did you do? Best get rid of the complicating evidence. In fact, all of the men should disappear least there be questions. He picked up the man, hoisted the heavy git to his shoulders, then heaved him over the side. He listened for the splash and then added three more.

Mairon glanced down to make sure they were sinking and noticed Sûla’s flailing hands as he frantically tried to keep his head above water. That little zirâmîki was too useful to lose, so best to rescue him. Mairon found a loose plank of wood, which he tossed down, then watched to make sure Sûla had hold of it. Good. Now, to call upon some help and then attend to the King. He slipped across the deck, down the stairs, thence to the bow, where he could see the cockleboats, all four of them, moving off. Pushdug sha! They must remain here for the next act in his little play. He climbed over the bowsprit, hesitated a moment. This was likely to hurt, now that he was back in the Noldo’s body. No help for it. He jumped off the side and hit the water, which was like being struck by a thousand icy pins! He exhaled and sank, peered about, and emitted a series of deep rumbles and then a high pitched squeal. Ossë’s pet should be close.

*************
Sûla was tiring and kept slipping under the water. Then, miraculously, a plank of wood splashed down near him, riding up and down the waves. Several strokes over and he had hold of it, clinging like the half-drowned rat he was. He craned his neck upwards. Annatar was leaning over the railing, watching him. Sûla’s heart swelled. His master hadn’t forgotten him after all.

“My Lord,” he called. “We must get to the cockleboats! Can you swim?”

For what seemed forever, he heard nothing but sloshing waves and the distant growl of the receding storm. He kicked as he pushed the board ahead of him, despairing that he could ever reach the boats.

Another body plummeted over the side, cleaving the water feet first a few yards away and disappearing. Annatar? Was that his imagination tricking him? Sûla’s limbs and his mind were becoming numb with cold. He tried ducking his head under the water to see, but it was too murky and the light was failing. He heard strange moaning groans and clicks. He had just pulled himself back up onto the board, when he discerned a vast grey shape rising beneath him, growing larger, larger. He cried out in alarm, tried to kick his way clear, but ahhh, too late, he was being lifted up, up into the air. He found himself on top of a massive beast with rubbery, lumpy skin. Sûla scrabbled for a firm purchase, but there was none. He half rolled off and saw a large white-ringed eye looking at him curiously. The beast sank and then came up under him again. A blast of water erupted from a quivering hole just in front of him. A whale, by the gods. He was on the back of a friggin’ whale. One thing he could say for serving Lord Annatar, life was not dull.

“Ah, Sûla. There you are.”

Sûla turned. Annatar was swimming towards him. Sûla didn’t know how he’d done it, but apparently his master had sent a whale to save him. Perhaps he could forgive him for all the other shite he’d pulled over the past few days. The whale swirled in a circle and Sûla was able to grab his master’s arm and pull him aboard. Annatar’s tunic and his long hair clung to his body most deliciously. His hand felt hot again. In fact, the heat practically steamed off of him; Sûla felt a flare of desire and he squirmed closer. And Annatar’s eyes, by the gods, they were the golden cats’ eyes Sûla was used to. Something ticked in the back of his brain.

“My Lord,” Sûla said, choking with emotion. “You’re back. I was so worried. The sailors . . . they were trying to drown us. What happened to them? I saw . . . ” He stopped.

“Never mind that now,” Annatar said soothingly. “We must catch up to the boats. Turns out they are abandoning a perfectly good ship.”

“Truly? They said it was sinking.”

“Not now. You’ll see.”

A warm tear slipped down Sula’s numbed cheek. “My Lord, you don’t know . . . everything that’s happened. I tried . . . but they. . . ” He flapped a hand uselessly in the air.

Annatar bent and kissed the top of his head. “You’ve been admirable. Never fear. Your position is secure. We’re going to make Númenor better, you and I. For now, follow my lead. That means keeping your mouth shut, understand?”

Sûla nodded. Absolutely, he wasn’t going to say anything. It was a relief to turn over control to his master. He felt completely drained, and yet safe for the first time since the storm began, even though he was riding on the back of a whale. “What now?”

Annatar patted the whale and made a strange series of clicks and moans. The whale responded with a great flick of the tail. It began undulating through the water, the motion causing them to slide backwards along the barnacled back. “Here, catch the dorsal fin,” Annatar said, grabbing hold of Sûla’s arm and guiding his hand. “As long as you live, Sûla, I suspect you’ll remember this— the day you became a whale-rider.”

No doubt, Sûla thought, if he lived to tell the tale. The whale cruised towards the boats, the speed as they were pulled through the water like being on the ship in full sail with a tailwind. The vast fiery-golden clouds above were reflected in the moving waters. The wind whipped Sûla’s wet hair. Cold, but exhilarating. This was indeed something he would not forget.

As they bore down on the nearest cockleboat, the sailors turned and pointed, crying out in alarm. Captain Nadroth shouted an order and the rowers pulled harder on their oars.

Annatar spoke in a voice, unnatural in its strength. “Halt, Men of Númenor.” But they kept on. Then he released a bizarre cry. “Ossëeeeeee!”

All about them the ocean seethed and bubbled. A huge naked figure rose to his waist above the waves, sheets of water and seaweed cascading off his body. His face was elfin fair with sea-green eyes, framed by masses of foam-white hair that flowed about him and pooled on the surface. Sûla stared in awe. Ossë. It must be.

The sailors in the boats cried out and ceased rowing.

The whale dived, leaving Sûla and Annatar floating in the swells near the boats. “Ai,” Sûla shouted. “Help us!”

The whale surfaced again, and cavorted in a circle around Ossë, like a playful puppy. The sea god reached down and rubbed his head, whereupon the whale danced up on his tail, rolled about, then dived again. The boats rocked with the motion. Abruptly, the nearest boat which carried the priests, the ship’s captain, and the king, rose into the air as the whale surged up under it, spilling the occupants into the sea. The water boiled with men, thrashing about. Sûla grasped a floating oar. This couldn’t be happening. The other three boats were rowing back towards them, trying to pick up the men.

Ossë frowned like thunder. He made a high-pitched squealing noise and pointed. The whale, seemingly chastised, submerged. The sea god plucked up the overturned cockleboat in one massive hand, poured out the water, set it down, then scooped up the flailing sailors in both hands and gently tipped them back in.

“The King, where is the King?” someone shouted.

Ossë looked about in dismay.

Annatar disappeared under the water. Interminable moments later, he emerged, hauling the King by the back of his cloak. “I’ve got him,” Annatar cried. Ossë scooped them both up and dropped them into the boat, where Sûla heard Ar-Pharazôn coughing and choking, clearly alive. Many hands reached for the King. Uzorî pounded on his back, until Ar-Pharazôn held up a hand. “Stop,” he spluttered.

“You’ve recovered your senses!” Uzorî said. “This is miraculous, my Lord.”

Annatar leaned over the gunnel, reaching a hand towards Sûla, who used the last ounce of strength to grasp it as he was pulled to safely. Sûla huddled shivering next to him, soaking up his heat.

Vast and frightening, Ossë towered over them. “Mairon,” he said in a voice like waves booming on the shore. “I am here as you wished. Forgive my pet. At times he is overly enthusiastic, but he meant no harm. I have sent him home. Is this the Númenórean King?”

“It is,” Annatar said. He stood, balancing in the rocking boat, and bowed to the King. “My Lord, I sought the Lord Ossë to ask him to quiet the storm. He told me it was not his intent to trouble our ship. He was merely expressing himself with characteristic passion, composing a symphony with wind and wave. He did not know you were in the vicinity. Is that not so, brother?”

Ossë nodded. “It is. Forgive me O King, for causing you and your people some . . . inconvenience. I wish to make amends.”

Some of the sailors raised their heads, murmuring.

“We would be most grateful for your aid,” Ar-Pharazôn said. He coughed.

Then Tala spoke up in a tremulous voice. “Blessings upon you, Lord Ossë, ruler of the waves. We are indeed most grateful, but I fear we have a terrible problem. My charts have gone overboard and we cannot navigate without them.”

“Ah,” Ossë’s voice boomed. “Unfortunate. However, you are not far now from Andor. I shall steer you in the right direction and command a wind to push you thence.”

“We would be most grateful, brother,” Annatar said. “I promise once we reach shore, I will urge your priests to sing praises to you and the lovely Uinen and to make a statue in your honor. Will we not, Ikar-lak?”

The priest nodded vigorously.

“That would be pleasing,” Ossë said. “It seems there has been less devotion of late. The green bough of return . . .”

“Is a fine tradition,” Annatar interposed.“Which we will hold dear henceforward.” Sûla rolled his eyes. “Now, my friend,” Annatar continued. “I’ve made some preliminary repairs to the ship to prevent more water from entering until the pumps can be deployed. Could you lift us aboard?”

“With pleasure,” Ossë said.

With the Númenóreans’ eyes aglow, Ossë stirred his immense arm around in the sea, creating a current that conveyed them toward the main ship. Once there, the Maia lifted the boats back on deck, where the grateful crew and household staff hastily disembarked.

“Now then,” Ossë said. “I’ll give you a push and set you on the correct path. Follow the Star of Eärendil tonight. Tomorrow, follow the seagulls and I expect you’ll make port by evening. And now, I must take my leave before my lovely wife gets mad again. Women, you know.” He winked.

“Our supreme gratitude, O Lord, most holy,” Ikar-lak said, raising his hands towards Ossë. “All my life I’ve yearned to meet you, and now my prayers have been answered!” The Númenóreans prostrated themselves on the deck. Sûla threw himself down beside them, while keeping an eye on Ikar-lak and his priests. He and Annatar had better spend the night in the King’s cabin, with guards at the door or they might find themselves swimming again.

Ar-Pharazôn reached a hand to his guard Hazûn, who helped him stand. The king cried out in a shaky voice, “This is a blessed day! The Lord Ossë himself has come to rescue us. The tale will live forever in our songs.”

“O blessed day!” everyone cried.

Ossë inclined his head. “I’ll listen for the songs in the bay at Rómenna. May you have a safe journey. Farewell.” He pursed his lips and blew, filling the remaining sails with wind. Then, as the ship shuddered into motion, he slowly sank back into the depths.

The Númenóreans looked at each other, blinking, as if awaking from a dream.

Ar-Pharazôn leaned heavily against the mast. “Captain Nadroth, are we all accounted for?”

The captain consulted with Tala. “We appear to be missing at least ten, Sire. Likely, they were lost when the whale tipped over the boat.”

Sûla noted that Ikar-lak, the acolytes, and the captain exchanged glances. No doubt they had noted the disappearance of all four sailors charged with tossing him into the sea. They had better be worried as he had tales for both his master and the King.

Annatar cleared his throat. “That was a near thing, my Lord. ‘Twas good I was able to free myself from my cage, so I could call on my brother. Although it took some convincing to get him to stop the storm. It is good to have powerful allies, is it not?” He smiled.

Ar-Pharazôn coughed and Uzorî rushed to attend him, but the king waved him off. “I need no aid, but it was a near thing, indeed and my thanks to you, Lord Annatar for risking yourself to save me from drowning and for summoning Lord Ossë to rescue us all. That was well done.”

Yes, Sûla thought. And his master had done all that even though the king had confined him to a cage at the bottom of the ship when he could have chosen to let them all drown in revenge. It looked good for Annatar, whatever his true motives were.

Ar-Pharazôn raised his voice. “Hear me, Númenóreans. There were many among us who had cause to doubt the Zigûr. See now how he has proven himself worthy of our trust, once again. Let us praise him with great praise!”

The sailors and the rest of the king’s household began to cheer and stamp their feet. Captain Nadroth and the sailors joined in. Ikar-lak and his acolytes stood, clapping somewhat less enthusiastically. Annatar’s smile directed at Ikar-lak was distinctly shark-like.

Captain Nadroth bowed to the King. “With permission, Sire.”

Ar-Pharazôn nodded.

“Unfurl the sails and get to the pumps, boys,” Captain Nadroth shouted. “ We’re not home yet.”

The deck burst into activity while Sûla sat miserably at Annatar’s feet, shivering until his teeth rattled. By the gods, he was done with all of this! He was exhausted, sore, and longed for dry clothes, and a hot drink. Even more, he longed for Tigôn’s warm arms about him. But after Annatar’s latest performance, he knew that Tigôn’s plot to flee to Andúnië was an impossible dream. There was no place on Númenor to escape. Annatar owned him, just as he controlled the king, and eventually would rule them all. Sûla raised his eyes to his master, feeling power radiating from him and knew that his feelings were complicated. He was grateful to Annatar for saving his life several times over; he was terrified of him; he was enthralled by him. With a leaden heart, he knew the truth; he was not free to choose his own path. Except perhaps . . . when they reached shore, he could procure a case of wine, escape to his room, and get so piss-drunk that he could no longer feel anything at all.

---

Chapter End Notes

Barumin— Invented Adûnaic name for the Bawîba Manô acolyte hit by lightning.
The sailors Izi, Nidrin, Zinzar, and Kamin are all invented Adûnaic names. Thank you Malinornë for language consultation!
Îbal – (canon Adûnaic) Male name.
nadzûn (Adûnaic, elfscribe-invented term) a worthless buddy
pushdug sha! (Black Speech) Pushdug means dungfilth in Black Speech (but probably a debased form).Sha! (Black Speech) an expression of contempt.

6. Rómenna

Chapter summary: During the stormy voyage from Middle-earth, Tigôn worries about what has happened to his lover Sûla, his feelings complicated by Elendil, his captain, sternly warning him not to continue the relationship. He longs for some answers once they make landfall at Rómenna, which, Valar willing, should be any day now. 

Read 6. Rómenna

Squinting through the spyglass, Tigôn thought he saw something— a flash of tan against the endless blue— but he couldn’t be sure. Ach! Not land, merely the sparkle of light on the water. He lowered the glass in disgust.

Up here near the top of the foremast, the wind whipped his linen shirt into a frenzy and blew his shaggy blond curls into his eyes. He heard the creaking of the taut sails and the crash and spray as the bow cut through the waves. There was a scent of tar and salt in the air. The platform that Tigôn clung to swayed with the rollicking sea and roiled his stomach, even after weeks of taking his turn climbing up the tricky rope ladder to sit watch, with a line wrapped around one arm in case he slipped. The view straight down to the deck through a web of rigging didn’t help his stomach either. So, best not to look.

Even without the spyglass, Lord Amandil’s ship was now visible ahead of them in the distance as a splotch of white sails with an even smaller splotch of blue— the Andúnië banner. They’d first spied it this morning, much to his captain, Elendil’s relief. But it had been several weeks since anyone aboard the Izrê had seen the King’s ship, the Zimrazra. And then over five days ago that terrific storm blew them miles off course. It had been a near thing and required Elendil’s considerable expertise as a veteran sailor, first to keep them upright and then to navigate back on course. As a result, they were days behind schedule.

Tigôn worried. He’d had been plenty of time for that, even while working hard with the crew. Had Ar-Pharazôn’s ship escaped Ossë’s wrath, and if so, had it gone ahead of them? Or was it still behind? Most importantly, was Sûla still aboard? Or had something horrible happened to him? It had been near five weeks since they parted in Umbar and in that time, Tigôn’s imagination had conjured horrific scenes: Sûla, fell-eyed, ensorcelled by Annatar’s dark spells so that he no longer knew who Tigôn was; Sûla assaulted and knifed by amorous sailors in the cargo hold; Sûla falling overboard during the storm, quietly so that no one saw, except the ever-watchful sharks.
                                
If it was said that absence made the heart grow fonder, it was also said, out of sight, out of mind. Tigôn wondered which of those sayings would apply to Sûla. Would he forget his promise to meet him at the merchant’s shop in Rómenna? These past weeks on the churning sea, Tigôn had gone over every aspect of their relationship during the campaign, culminating in Umbar with their ecstatic encounter in Tigôn’s little room at the Regent’s palace and later in the solarium. How often had he recalled the feeling of being intimately pressed against Sûla’s smooth backside as they hid in the tool shed. He grew aroused even thinking about it. His desire for Sûla felt like a compulsion, an ache. But it was more, so much more, than just carnal desire. He missed Sûla’s friendship, their banter, especially the zirâmîki’s sly jests, that had so annoyed him at first. When he wasn’t dreaming of holding Sûla close, he was fretting over their plan. He imagined meeting at the shop, throwing their arms about each other with cries of happiness, and then Sûla would pawn his golden dragon armband to get the fare, so they could escape in a ship bound for Andúnië. There, they would seek refuge with Tigôn’s aunt—the one the whole family had ostracized for running off with her lady lover on her wedding day to a man the family had deemed a perfect match. He’d told Sûla that his aunt could give them jobs in her tavern. He was sure she would help him. Or at least, he was mostly sure.

But what if the Zimrazra was too far ahead . . . or behind? A grand possibility with that storm. How would they meet up if Ar-Pharazôn reached Rómenna first and marched back to Armenelos, taking Annatar and Sûla with him? Would Sûla be able to slip away? Highly unlikely. And their plan assumed that Sûla still had his wits about him, that Annatar’s magic hadn’t completely enthralled him. Tigôn recalled his friend’s blank gaze as they stood in the crowd upon the Umbarian docks shortly before they set sail. Even if all else went well and they both could keep their assignation, perhaps his aunt in Andúnië would throw them out once they arrived—or worse, tell his father. And another matter needled him. His captain, Lord Elendil, was his father’s good friend. He had recommended Tigôn for his job as one of the King’s pages; trusted Tigôn to spy on the Lord Annatar; and then, when everyone else was appalled by the revelation of his tryst with Sûla, had forgiven him, and had taken him into his service, giving him an opportunity to redeem himself. To fulfill the plan he had concocted with Sûla, Tigôn would have to betray both Elendil, and his own family—in short, everyone he loved and respected. He didn’t think he could bear that. He lowered the spyglass and chewed his lip, coming to the same conclusion that he’d come to countless times during the voyage home. His affair with Sûla was doomed.
      
Being delayed by the vagaries of wind and waves was agony, and yet at the same time, the weather had put off those dreadful decisions. Soon that would change for good or ill. Quite simply, he longed for a sight of the high cliffs enclosing the Rómenna bay and to smell wet earth and green plants again.
 
Far below, he saw Lord Elendil prowling about as he trained his own spy glass on the horizon. He too seemed anxious to make port. Elendil was a family man, and hated leaving behind his lovely wife, Lady Lórellin, and his sons, Isildur and Anárion. Their families had been friends forever and, as a boy, he and his brother had often traveled from their home in Eldalondë to stay with Elendil’s family in Andúnië, so he knew Elendil’s sons well. He wondered what they might they think of him if they learned about his affair with a zirâmîki? If they learned? No, more likely when.  He winced.  

Just two days ago, after they’d recovered from the storm, Tigôn had been hanging over the railing staring out to the horizon when Elendil came up, patted him on the shoulder and invited him into his cabin for a cup of rum. For several hours they sat companionably reminiscing about the old days in Andúnië. Then his captain explained to him, logically, carefully, and lovingly, just why he must never see Sûla again. Remembering his acute embarrassment and despair during that conversation, a lump surfaced in Tigôn’s throat. His head told him that Elendil was right; but his heart, well, his heart throbbed to a different beat. He knew he was lucky to still be alive after such a rough sea voyage. Perhaps, he shouldn’t tempt fate by asking for more, for something that would most likely get both him and his lover killed. Back and forth, as always. Maybe it would have been better had he and Sûla never met.

Down on deck, Elendil turned and trained the glass upwards, directly at Tigôn, who smiled sheepishly and shrugged. No sighting as yet.

With an overhand sweep of his arm, Elendil beckoned him down. His watch was over. Taking a deep breath, Tigôn began the terrifying descent. He put one bare foot on the shaky rope ladder, when he saw high above him a lone bird— a sea gull. Then another one. Could it be? He pulled himself back onto the small platform, scanned the hazy line between sea and sky once more and then he saw it—that tiny flash of parched tan in an ocean of lapis blue. His heart swelled so hard and quick that he thought it might burst. He blinked to make sure. No, there was no doubt. “Land nigh! Land nigh!” he cried, wildly waving one arm.

His cry was taken up and bandied about the ship, turning into a hubbub as sailors surged up from below decks and joined the others now pressed against the railing, peering ahead. Tigôn watched as the tiny outcropping of one of the bare islands located within a half day’s journey of the harbor in Rómenna grew larger.

Time to be down on deck to share the joyful slap of shoulders. He tucked the spyglass in his belt. Then, clasping a line in his right hand, he began to back down the rope ladder. As he felt for the next rung with his foot, the ship bounced over a rogue wave, shuddered and lurched.

Abruptly, Tigôn found himself swinging from the rope by one hand, feet kicking in the air. The spyglass slipped free from his belt, and several agonizing seconds later, he heard the splash. Below him, the ocean heaved in crashing white caps. Then he was over the deck, then back over the water. Commotion. Men shouting! He lunged upward, caught the line with his other hand, but his weight dragged him down the angled rope, burning his callused palms. He screamed.

“To port, to port!” Elendil bellowed, his voice carrying over the others. “Turn her, now!”  

There was an interminable moment as Tigôn hung in space, clutching the rope desperately, hands afire.   

The ship was turning, shifting upright. Another lurch knocked Tigôn into the mast. Stunned, he managed to thrust one leg through the rope ladder and lock his knee around it. Then he let go of his line with his right hand, thrust his arm through the next rung up and grasped his wrist with his other hand. There, he clung like a squirrel, heart walloping as he thanked all the Valar, and Sûla’s god of luck, Zizzûn, for his deliverance.  

The rope ladder began to pull and jerk with the tread of someone coming up. Even that motion was alarming.

“No, please,” he yelled. “I’m fine. Just. Give me a moment.”

Slowly, carefully, Tigôn began his descent, gasping as he gripped the ladder with his torn hands. He crept down until he was close enough to see the anxious faces of the sailors looking up. Arms reached for him. Breathing hard, he stopped. He couldn’t hold on anymore, would have to drop the dozen feet or so to the deck. A surge of motion up the ladder. Hands grabbed him. He heard a command, “Let go.” An arm wrapped about his waist and more hands seized his legs as several of the men lowered him to the deck. There he lay, like a fish on a sand bar, gasping for air.  

“Tigôn, lad, are you well?” Elendil stood over him, brows knit. A crowd of concerned faces crowded behind him.  

“Y-yes,” Tigôn stammered.   

“You forgot the first rule of the mast monkeys: pay attention to where you are and what you are doing,” Elendil said gruffly. “Show me your hands.”

Slowly, Tigôn unclenched his fists, revealing bloody weals on the palms. They stung like fire in the salt spray.  

Elendil examined them, then looked directly into Tigôn’s eyes, assessing. Tigôn stared back at his handsome face, tanned dark by the sun, tiny white squint lines etched around those clear grey-green eyes. He looked feral: his hair needed cutting and he’d let his beard grow. It showed a bit of silver here and there. His brow was creased with concern, lips pressed tight, and Tigôn realized that his fearless captain had been afraid. Well, no joke! It had been a near thing. Tigôn was just glad he hadn’t wet himself; he would never have lived that down. He took a deep breath and tried to smile at his lord and captain.

“Eh, you’ll live.” Elendil pulled him to his feet, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Go below and have the surgeon bind up your hands.”

“Yes, híren,” Tigôn said. “I’m sorry about the glass. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Better to lose that than an able-bodied sailor,” Elendil said. “A glass can be replaced and by this evening we should be in port where I could buy a dozen if I liked. Go to now, and no more trouble out of you. We’ll be busy enough with the landing without any more foolery.”

“Of course, híren,” Tigôn said. “I’ll be back shortly. I don’t want to miss a moment.”   

Elendil smiled. “Temper your eagerness my young friend. Keep alert. We’re still at sea and need our wits about us.” As Tigôn started to move past him towards the hatch, the captain laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Remember,” he said quietly in his ear. “I’m holding you to your promise, boy.”  Then he patted his back. “I, too, will be heartily glad to see the cliffs of Rómenna.”

Tigôn nodded, without meeting his eyes.

A flock of gulls assaulted the masts, diving in and out of the waves. At last, the terrible sea voyage was drawing to a close, and soon he would discover whatever fate had planned for him—and Sûla.

*****************
Not long after Tigôn had sighted the spit of land, all of the sailors could discern the distant rocky shores of Hyarrostar looming up to the south. Entering the wide jaws of Bay of Rómenna, with a good tailwind and calm seas, they made good time. So it was that in the late afternoon, tall Calmindon, the lighthouse on the island of Tol Uinen came into sight and just beyond it appeared the high cliffs teaming with shrieking birds that enclosed the bustling port city of Rómenna, with its hilly slopes and tier upon tier of white-plastered buildings and warehouses. Tigôn leaned over the taffrail scanning hundreds of ships crowded into the wide bay and picked out Lord Amandil’s ship already moored at one of the many long stone quays. And there! On the far side of the quay, he could see the King’s ship, the Zimrazra, raised into dry dock. Workman swarmed the hull, making repairs. She looked beaten, with shredded sails and a battered hull. Tigôn stared anxiously. At least the ship had made it. That had to bode well, didn’t it?

The landing was a flurry of men unloading horses, equipment, and barrels, either by winch into the cockle boats or trundled down the gang planks. Captain Elendil and officers stood nearby shouting instructions. The air was filled with the raucous cries of gulls and saturated with that distinctly fishy smell that made Tigôn’s heart swell with nostalgia. He was home.

Hoisting his pack on one shoulder, Tigôn flexed his bandaged hands.

“Hey, Tigôn lad,” Elendil beckoned. “I have a task for you. Perfect for a former King’s messenger.”

Tigôn came over. “Yes, híren.”

Elendil handed him a leather satchel. “Take the papers to the merchant hall, you know where that is, aye? Have them sign us in and send over an inspector to assess the damage. We’ll need repairs before we can sail it around to our harbor. I figure you’re the man for the task seeing as how,” he gestured at Tigôn’s hands, “not much use crewing the cockleboats around the point, eh? I’m afraid it’ll mean a bit of a walk home.”

Tigôn grinned. “That’ll be no hardship, híren. My legs are aching for land. P’raps I can pick up some news on my way.”

“Good lad. On your way, then. No dawdling,” Elendil said. Then he turned to cuss out several sailors trying to shift a pile of crates.  

Tigôn headed down the plank onto the quay. Upon setting foot ashore, he swayed dizzily. It was the first time in five weeks that the ground did not shift and rock underneath him. But eventually gaining his land legs, he looked about for some likely folks with news. Ah, three lads loading sacks of grain onto a wagon.  

“Hey there,” he called. “Just made port aboard the Izrê. When did the Zimrazra come in?”

A lanky chap with bandana tied over his head looked up. With a grunt,  he hefted a bag onto the wagon. “Near three days ago. Beat up worse than a hen at a cock fight. All the fleet were in a monster of a storm, they say.”

“I know, I was in it too,” Tigôn said. “It was a near thing.”

“Did you see him then?  I’ve heard that the Lord Ossë himself appeared to save the King.”

“Truly? No, I didn’t see that,” Tigôn said. It sounded unlikely.

“It’s all over town,” the lanky chap said. “There’s the Zimrazra, over there under repairs.”  He gestured. “I mean look at her. Must have been a miracle to bring her home like that.”

“Three days, you say? Did the King depart for Armenelos yet?”

Another youth, a handsome, dark-skinned Umbarian, shirtless and wearing a copper amulet said, “Left just yesterday. The horses on board the other ships were fair sickly, so it took them several days to get them in shape so the host could depart.”

“Aye, yesterday,” a third youth with a gap in his front teeth affirmed. “With all the King’s retinue and baggage. It was quite a spectacle. Why? You got friends aboard?”

“No, just curious,” Tigôn said. “Did you hear that the King captured the Zigûr without a fight and brought him here from Middle-earth?”

“Oh aye,” the lanky lad replied enthusiastically. “I was there too and got fair close. Quite a crowd came down to take a look at him. Everyone wanted to see. They say he summoned Ossë, so maybe that explains it. I mean, you’d have thought he was royalty instead of a prisoner. He was shackled, but he was dressed in black finery, and he climbed up in the carriage next to the High King himself, free as you please. And whew, the look of him! I expected something hideous, you know, but he was stunning, wasn’t he!” He nodded at the others. “Long red hair. Like one of the King’s zirâmîkin.”

“P’raps the King made him his own personal slave,” The gap-toothed lad laughed. He elbowed the Umbarian.

“I saw him too. An elf. He looked like an elf,” the Umbarian said. “Never would have expected that.”

“And how would you know what elves look like?” the lanky lad joked. “They haven’t ventured to Anadûnê in many years.”

“I’ve seen the murals in Armenelos,” the Umbarian retorted. “So I would think I’d know if I saw one. They don’t look like us; they’re more slender, beautiful and sort of remote, as if our lives flicker past them unnoticed.”

“Arrogant they say,” the gap-toothed lad added. “Think they’re above us, being immortal and all.”

They all nodded.

“I’ve seen the Zigûr too,” Tigôn interrupted. “Close up. I was with the army when they captured him. He has indeed assumed the guise of an elf. So, you’re right there. Were there . . . any of the King’s household with them? Any of his zirâmîkin?”

The boys guffawed and shrugged.

“Why, you want a ride, sailor?” said the gap-toothed lad, with a grin. “Sure enough, it’s a long voyage from Middle-earth.”

Tigôn’s face heated.  “No, of course not. I just have a cousin that . . .”

“Hey there, young idlers,” shouted an older man striding over to them. “There’s work to be done. No time for scratching your nuts. Get to it.”

“Yes, overseer,” they chorused, and resumed loading up the wagon.

A sack slipped from the lanky lad’s hands and hit the wooden dock, where it split and dumped grain with a soft hiss. The boys all groaned, echoing the feeling in Tigôn’s heart. For a moment, the hubbub around him dimmed, along with the overseer’s angry shouts. The King was gone and likely Sûla with him. So much for his grand plan to escape with his lover. Now what? Well, this horrid turn of events made his next choice easy, at least in the short run. Follow orders and hike over to the Rómenna house, which was a couple miles north. He found himself looking forward to seeing Elendil’s sons and eating a good meal.

***********
The afternoon was warm and humid, with just enough of a sea breeze to make it bearable. After standing in line at a very busy royal exchequer’s office to turn in the records, Tigôn pushed through the bustling crowd on the docks, past the canopied stalls, then onto the streets lined with shops—their owners out crying their wares— past jugglers and street performers, and open air pubs with raucous sailors drinking wine and celebrating while târik players faced each other down over their game boards.

Elendil’s villa was situated north of town near a smaller bay with its own dock.  Tigôn toiled up the road that climbed back and forth up the slope until he reached the top of the cliffs. There, the terrain leveled and opened up into a grand town square, lined with monuments. This was where the road to Armenelos began. Well-paved with white stone, and wide enough for four wagons to travel abreast, it headed straight west, through a gap in the hills. Tigôn gazed off towards the conical peak of Meneltarma, hazy blue in the distance. If he squinted, he could almost see a residual cloud of dust from many marching feet still hanging in the air. For a moment, he thought of heading that way, but that wouldn’t do at all. He was expected at Elendil’s house.

Continuing on the smaller north road, he came to a street that branched off the main avenue heading towards the metalworkers’ quarter. The Eagle Eye shop, the place where he told Sûla to meet him, was over that way. He stopped dead. There were only a few customers in the streets.  Perhaps, he should go to see if, beyond all hope or logic, his lover was there, or at least if he’d left word of some kind. It wasn’t too far off his path. He could stop in briefly and still likely beat Elendil back to the house.

He came to a prosperous looking street lined with shops, their specialties painted on shingles outside the door, and found the sign of an eagle’s head with its predatory eye. He looked about and not seeing anyone heeding him, walked in.  It was the same shop he remembered from years past, crammed with cases displaying fine jewelry. A short man wearing a stained leather smock over a large stomach and sporting a closely cropped beard, emerged from the back, a jeweled necklace dangling from one hand. He looked curiously at Tigôn, then broke out in a wide smile.  “Well, bless the Valar, is that truly you, Tigôn, son of Eärdur of Eldalondë? How you’ve grown! I’d hardly have recognized you.”

It was Akhâsadûn, the shop’s owner and one of his father’s many friends. Feeling suddenly shy, Tigôn smiled tentatively at him. “It’s good to see you again, híren. I, well, just returned from the expedition to the continent where I served as a messenger for the King.”

“So I had heard,” Akhâsadûn said. “An honorable calling.” He pulled out a tray in the case where he settled the necklace on some black cloth and pulled it into shape. “Glad we are to see you all returned so soon, with so few lost in battle. I imagine you’d have some interesting tales to tell.” He gestured at Tigôn. “What happened to your hands?”

“Oh, a foolish accident while sailing home,” Tigôn said. “Rope burns. Nothing much to tell.”  He nervously pulled at frayed threads on his bandage.  

Akhâsadûn eyed him speculatively. “May I say, your arrival here seems rather . . . a coincidence.”

“How so, híren?”

“Well, to speak truth, I had a visitor two days ago. A young Umbarian who works for the King, so he said. He had also just disembarked.”

“Yes?” Tigôn’s heart beat faster. “Did he, um, leave any word?”

“Ah, I see you know him?”

Tigôn nodded slightly, trying not to appear eager. “He’s one of the King’s servants. Said he might stop to look at your wares since the King likes fine jewelry and he sometimes handles purchases for him. I had told him about your shop while we chatted in Umbar. He didn’t, um, ask if you’d like to buy any of his jewelry, did he?”

Akhâsadûn pulled at his neatly-trimmed beard thoughtfully. “No. I wish he had, as he was wearing some stunning pieces, including a unique armband in the shape of a dragon, which I recognized as the work of Abrazimir, a master craftsman in Armenelos. I’ve never seen its like. I asked him about it, but he seemed reluctant to say much. No doubt a royal gift. I must say, his looks were quite striking. If you’ve met him, I expect you know what I mean.” He eyed Tigôn.

Tigôn shrugged nonchalantly. “Is that all?”

“Well, he looked at jewelry, had me pull a couple pieces. Then he did something unexpected; he asked if he could purchase some paper and borrow pen and ink to write a note. I got him some and he went out the door for a while, then finally returned with a folded letter and asked for some sealing wax. Used a ring seal, he did, that by the look of it, indicated the King’s household. Then he asked if I could keep the letter for him, in case someone asked for it.”

Tigôn’s cheeks heated. “He did?”

“Yes, he didn’t say who, just said I’d know when he arrived. Gave me some coin for it.  Made me rather curious, I must say. And now here you are. I imagine there is a story to be told.”

Tigôn’s heart began thumping such that he feared his father’s friend might hear it. “Ah, well,  no story,” he shrugged. “Not an interesting one, anyway. But I’m glad he left a note. We became friends during the expedition inland, you know, came home in separate ships. We rode through terrible seas near a week ago, so I was . . . a bit worried. He must have known I’d wonder what became of him.”

“Hmm, yes,” Akhâsadûn said. “So, then, I’ll fetch it, shall I.” He disappeared through curtains into the backroom, while Tigôn chewed a fingernail.

The merchant reappeared holding a square of folded parchment with a red seal. Tigôn reached out, but Akhâsadûn hesitated a moment. “I did wonder why one of the King’s servants would want to entrust a message to me, when surely he could see you back at the palace.”

Tigôn had the impression of being gently probed. He kept his voice casual. “I’ve changed jobs, so not going back any time soon. Most likely he came here because I said you were an honest merchant and a family friend who could be trusted. I’m glad to hear he is well.”

“Hunh,” Akhâsadûn said. He offered the letter to Tigôn, who took it gently.“I have to say, this is somewhat unorthodox. . . passing notes, especially from someone who looked like that boy.” He chuckled. “I wonder what your father might have to say about it.” The merchant was letting him know that he understood more than Tigôn would like.

“My father always encouraged me to make friends, no matter their station in life or employment. Something I’m sure you know, híren,” Tigôn said, as he tucked the letter into the pouch at his waist. He was realizing a weak link in his plan, that his father’s friend might not have cooperated in purchasing Sûla’s armband so they could finance passage to Andúnië—although he seemed to have coveted the piece— and that he might have even sent word to his father. No doubt it was one weak point among many. Sûla was right. He’d been naive.

Akhâsadûn smiled and patted his hand. “You needn’t look so alarmed. I’m happy to facilitate such . . . a friendship. I have many friends from Umbar myself. So, then, are you interested in some fine jewelry?  Perhaps for your mother, or a girl you left behind when you sailed over four months ago?”

Tigôn’s palms grew sweaty under the bandages. “I’m afraid I haven’t been paid yet, híren,” he said, “but you can be sure I’ll return when I have. For now, I’ve got errands to run, especially since our ship came in late. But I want to thank you,” he tapped his pouch, “for this.”

Akhâsadûn drew a circle with a forefinger over his heart, identifying himself as a member of the Faithful and inclined his head. “Please convey my regards to your parents, Tigôn. Tell your father I would be most pleased to see him when next he comes to Rómenna. Blessings on your life’s journey.”

Tigôn bowed. He left the shop heading back to the main thoroughfare. At least Sûla was alive and still had his wits about him! But what had he written? All sorts of imaginings and hopes leapt up, which he suppressed immediately so as not to be disappointed. He was desperate to open it, but worried what it might say . . . or not say. They’d put so much faith in this plan working out and then it hadn’t. He needed a private place to be able to settle down to read it, undisturbed. But Anor was westering and he was due back at Elendil’s house. He had already taken much too long. He strode forward several steps and, well, maybe he could just take a quick look, before he burst of curiosity.  Leaning against a wall, he opened the pouch.  

“Hail Tigôn! At last, I found you!” A light male voice called to him from down the street.

Startled, Tigôn looked up. A figure was jogging towards him, waving madly. The setting sun lit him from behind, creating a halo of light about his head, and gilding his long, honey blond hair. As he moved out of the sunlight into the shadow cast by the shops, the halo disappeared, and his face came into focus. It was his old friend, Anárion. Quite handsome, as were all of his family, with those strong features and sharp Andúnië cheekbones. In his belted tunic and sandals, he looked older, taller and leaner, more capable somehow than when Tigôn had last seen him, which was about a year ago, before he’d entered the King’s service. It seemed like an age had passed since then. Tigôn’s brief annoyance at being interrupted melted away. He closed the flap on his pouch and called out, “Anárion, well met, my friend!”  

Anárion reached Tigôn, huffing a bit, his cheeks ruddy. He enveloped Tigôn in a hearty embrace, smelling like fresh bread and sunshine. “I am so glad to see you, Tigôn! Welcome home! Ada just arrived and sent me out to look for you. We’re all desperate for the news! There are so many rumors!  I want to hear everything about the expedition.” Stepping back, he scanned Tigôn up and down and laughed.“You look a bit rough, my friend, which is to be expected no doubt, after cavorting about on a military campaign and then a long tempestuous sea voyage, from what Ada said. Whatever did you do to your hands? Wounded in battle?”

Tigôn laughed and turned up his bandaged palms. “Hardly. I nearly fell off the crows’ nest this morning, caught myself in time, but well, rope burns.”

“Ack, looks like it hurt. Nana can tend them at the house before supper, then you can clean up, as much as possible. Seems like you’ll need a barber before you can appear anywhere in public. Fortunately old Halfaran is good with a razor and a pair of scissors, although his hands are getting rather shaky, which might be rather unfortunate.”  He laughed, then his face grew serious. “I understand you’re staying with us for a while. Is it true, you’re no longer working for the King?”

“It’s true.” Tigôn shrugged.

“Why, what happened?”

“A bit long to get into just now.”

“Ah mysteries! I must hear all about it—about everything. Anadar arrived a few hours ago and Ada just got home. Neither has said much yet. We’re getting supper ready. A feast really. I imagine that’ll be welcome after weeks of rations.”

Tigôn’s stomach growled. “Fairer words were never spoken,” he said and smiled. Anárion grinned back.

“Come along then!” Anárion clapped him on the arm, then set off briskly down the road. Tigôn jogged to keep up. “We’re having crab and sea bass in honor of your return. I baked the bread myself,” Anárion called over his shoulder. “Shake your legs! Time for resting later.”

Tigôn followed, with a sense of nervous anticipation. Although he feared the inevitable and uncomfortable explanations about all that had happened in Umbar, he actually looked forward to being reunited with his second family. The letter in his pouch must wait.

***********

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Chapter End Notes

*Abrazimir (Adûnaic) Steadfast-jewel. – the name of the master craftsman in Armenelos who made Sûla’s dragon armband.

*Ada (Sindarin) Dad

Akhâsadûn (Adûnaic ) elfscribe invented name composed of canon Adûnaic akhâs - chasm and adûn - the west. Name of the shop-owner of the Eagle Eye in Rómenna.

*Amandil (Quenya) means ‘lover of Aman.’ Father of Elendil, lord of Andúnië, ship captain and counselor to Ar-Pharazôn. Amandil means ‘lover or friend of Aman.’ His Adûnaic name is Aphanuzîr, also meaning ‘friend of Aman.’ Amandil’s house banner is an elfscribe invention, blue with the white ship following Eärendil’s blazing star. Aphanuzîr and Nimruzîr are canon Adûnaic for Amandil and Elendil respectively.

*Anadar (Sindarin) grandfather. Literal meaning ‘long-father.’  In this case, of course, Anárion means Amandil.  Thanks for the info, Saelind!

*Anárion (Quenya) likely means ‘Son of the Sun,’ a compound of anar (‘sun’) and ion (‘son of’) born in 3219, making him 43. I’ve characterized him as around 17 or 18. Dark blond hair (my headcanon). Grey eyes.

*Elendil (Quenya) meaning, ‘elf-lover’ or ‘elf-friend,’ son of Amandil and also a lord of Andúnië, and counselor to Ar-Pharazôn. His Adûnaic name is Nimruzîr which translates to the same thing.

Halfaran (Sindarin) ‘seashell king.’ A servant in Elendil’s household. Courtesy of Chestnut_pod 's wondrous Elvish Name list. Here’s a link.

*híren (Sindarin) ‘my lord.’ Tigôn uses this term with Elendil and other members of the Faithful, from the western coast of Númenor, as Sindarin is their first language.

*Izrê - (Adûnaic meaning ‘beloved or ‘desired’).  A term of endearment and also the name of Elendil’s ship.

*Lórellin (Quenya) meaning ‘Dream Pool,’ from lórë (‘dream’) + lin (‘pool, mere’). Elendil’s wife, an elfscribe-invented character. She is named after the lake in Lórien,Valinor where Estë rests. Rich brunette hair, blue eyes.

târik - canon Adûnaic meaning pillar. The game is an elfscribe invention resembling chess

Tigôn (elfscribe-invented Adûnaic name).  His father is Lord Eärdur (an OC) who is the younger brother of Lord Vëandur of Eldalondë. Tigôn often visited Amandil and Elendil in Andúnië near the havens and was a playmate of Anárion and Isildur when young.

Zimrazra - (Adûnaic, meaning ‘sea jewel’) Non-canon name of Ar-Pharazôn’s ship before he built Alcarondas (the Castle of the Sea). Courtesy Malinornë.

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