Elegy for Númenor – Volume 2: The Darkening by elfscribe

---

5. Father of Storms

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

---

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.