Elegy for Númenor – Volume 2: The Darkening by elfscribe

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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

 

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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.

 

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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.