Gilded Knife by elennalore

Gilded Knife

Zigûr = the Adûnaic name for Sauron, meaning Wizard.

Read Gilded Knife

The wizard turned around and flashed a smile someone else might have considered unnerving.

“Follow me.”

Ar-Pharazôn was not known to be superstitious the way some other people in the palace were. He saw the usefulness of Zigûr, or Sauron, as he was called in Middle-earth. The value of owning a minor god as a servant and advisor should not be underestimated. Few had dared to form such an alliance, but Ar-Pharazôn was not a petty King of Rhûn. Before his major move to capture the bright being, he had gathered intelligence for a long time, which had been the key to success. He liked to think that he understood the mind of the Maia quite well by now. Zigûr loathed the Elves – that much they had in common. He didn’t trust the Powers in the West – and for a good reason, it sounded like. For there was another one like him, but more powerful, Zigûr had confided to him. Melkor was his name, and he was the mightiest of the Valar until they turned against him and cast him into the Void.

“But it doesn’t need to be so,” Zigûr had whispered one night when they were alone, and then he had again flashed that particular smile. “I know how to get him back – but for this, I need your help.”

And that’s when Ar-Pharazôn had given permission for Zigûr to organize the construction of the Temple. The wizard had explained how sacrifices worked. They were an exchange of power, and with enough offerings in Melkor’s name, even the Door of Night could not prevent him from returning.

“He will be in your debt for what you’ve done.” Zigûr had painted a glorious future for Ar-Pharazôn and his land, and perhaps it was true although Ar-Pharazôn knew that there had to be a catch. There always was. He hadn’t become what he was today by being too trusting.

But to have a Vala in his debt – he found the thought alluring. Zigûr’s plans were entertaining enough, so he gave his permission, and the building of the Temple began.

That had been years ago. A great round building rose in the King’s city now, topped by a silver dome. It was huge and seemed to demand attention, even under construction, and seldom Ar-Pharazôn could walk by without stopping to admire it.

During the years, he had learned to know Zigûr better. He knew now more of the being’s motives, but that didn’t make him regret his decision – rather, he understood now how huge the profit truly was. And all that hard work culminated in this: the day of the first sacrifice.

“Follow me,” Zigûr said at the entrance of the Temple, and the heavy doors opened for them.

They entered a dimly lit corridor going upwards. It would circle the round building sunwise before ending in a huge round chamber at the top. Ar-Pharazôn had walked the passage before, with the master builder, but there was an ominous silence in the place he hadn’t noticed before. Ar-Pharazôn stopped, and Zigûr turned to look at him again. There was a trace of impatience on his face.

“Too dim for your eyes?” Zigûr asked, his lips curved up ever so slightly. “Of course. Lights!”

At this command, the flames of oil lanterns grew instantly bigger, brightening the corridor and casting dark shadows on the walls. In awe, Ar-Pharazôn hurried after Zigûr. Upwards they went, and for a while the corridor felt never-ending. Ar-Pharazôn couldn’t get his eyes off the Maia. His golden skin glowed softly, and thin gold chains decorated his back. His clothing was of fine silk, light and semi-transparent, and the perfect curve of his buttocks was clearly seen. Ar-Pharazôn had seen that body unclothed and couldn’t name a single flaw in it. He wondered if the being was born that way or perfected his immortal body during the years spent in Arda. In any case, the end result was divine.

He was getting a little out of breath by the time they reached a great chamber with a vaulted ceiling. The Camera, they called it, for it was a special chamber and deserved a special name. Everybody was already present, waiting for them to arrive so that the ceremony could begin. The eyes of the priests were turned their way, but as they proceeded towards the centre of the room, Ar-Pharazôn noticed that many of the guests cast nervous glances at the bound and gagged man lying on his back on the offering stone. They stopped a couple of steps behind the stone.

“Ready?” Zigûr whispered next to him, his lips barely moving.

A surge of excitement swept through him, but he didn’t let it show, just gave a single solemn nod. Zigûr gestured for the priests, and they started their chant. It was the sign for the audience to bow down. They had practiced all parts of the ritual before except the final act. Ar-Pharazôn knew that he needed to step forward now, side by side with Zigûr. Unlike the wizard, he was heavily dressed in his official robes. A page gave him the Sceptre of Númenor that was brought there for the ceremony. Holding the heavy rod, he took the last couple of steps until he stood in front of the altar and the young man who had been chosen among the slaves to be the first sacrifice.

For a moment, it felt like they were the only two persons in the high-domed chamber. Even Zigûr didn’t exist. The muted chanting of the priests could have been his own thoughts. The young man had light brown skin and shiny black hair which was straight and cut short. He had been bathed and – fortunately – drugged. His eyes were moving behind his eyelids as if he were dreaming. He lay naked on the cold black stone, and Ar-Pharazôn could see that he was of strong build like all the builders of the temple were. He had been told that this man had been one of the best. It was a high honour for him to die in the same temple he had helped to build now that his servitude was no longer needed.

Suddenly, Zigûr stood there beside him, and the illusion of solitude shattered. The chanting became louder in his ears. Even the young man stirred in his chains as Zigûr’s finger brushed his forehead between the eyes. Those eyes opened slightly, but the young man seemed to be still unconscious of his surroundings.

“Don’t wake him up,” Ar-Pharazôn snapped to the wizard, and Zigûr’s finger retreated.

“As you wish.”

Ar-Pharazôn continued the ceremony, following Zigûr’s instructions by heart. He said the right words, gave the Sceptre to the waiting page boy and washed his hands in a golden bowl before taking a dagger from Zigûr. He wondered briefly if the Maia had carried it about his person all the time – officially, he was not allowed to carry any weapons. But the being had proven his benevolence to the King already; it hardly mattered.

The gilded knife was perfectly balanced in his hand, very sharp and masterfully crafted. It had to be the work of his Maia. Still, he hesitated.

Zigûr leaned closer, a sly grin appeared on his face. “Action!”

Ar-Pharazôn felt his pulse quicken as he went through in his mind what he had to do. But Zigûr’s voice had helped him to throw off the strange feeling of inertia. He found his courage again and took the preferred position by the bound man’s chest. He raised the gilded knife high and uttered the words that were meant to be said at that point. The young man began to move; perhaps he sensed that something was wrong even in his drugged state. But the chains kept him still, and there was nothing he could do as the dagger sank into the abdomen with a strange squelching sound.

With force he didn’t know he possessed, Ar-Pharazôn moved his knife upwards, cutting the man open, but suddenly he couldn’t remember the next step. There was blood everywhere, blood and insides and weird noises; knife scraping against bone, a scream and a wail that ended in gurgles. He saw something moving inside the opened body, still living despite all the brutality. That was his target, but he just couldn’t make himself finish the act.

He was not sure if he had stepped aside or if Zigûr had pushed him away, but the next thing he saw was Zigûr holding a human heart in his bloody hands, having ripped it out of the poor victim’s chest just a moment before. Ar-Pharazôn felt a huge sense of relief; it was almost over. No one else needed to know that there had been a change in the script; that Zigûr had come to his rescue to complete the ritual.

“Take it and put it into the fire,” the Maia said in a soft voice. Blood and gore didn’t seem to bother him.

The heart was still warm even though its beating had already stopped. Zigûr laid it carefully on a silver tray. Ar-Pharazôn took it, not looking at the gory wound where the heart had come from. He wondered at which moment the man had died. In his turmoil, he had forgotten to watch.

There was a great fireplace in the middle of the room where the fire was kept burning by the priests. They bowed low as Ar-Pharazôn placed the heart inside. The flames began to eat it eagerly, and the smell of burning flesh filled the room. The chanting had finally stopped. Smoke went into his eyes, and he had to turn away.

The performance was finally over. When they left the building, Zigûr assured him that their first sacrifice had been a great success.