What lips my lips have kissed, and why by AdmirableMonster

Heaviness.  Weight.  A giant, dense hand presses Nimruzimir into the soft, silken sheets of the bed.

“Look at me,” murmurs Tar-Mairon.  “It will be easier.”

He is lovely, Nimruzimir supposes.  They are both lovely.  The slaves (the other slaves) have seen to that.  The queen has seen to that.  Is it not an honor, to be tended to by the queen?  To be attended to by the king?

(There is no place for women among the king’s natural philosophers.)

(Throw her out.)

(But she is beautiful.)

(It would be easier if they had said it, instead.  The tone would have been no different.)  

“Don’t look at him,” Tar-Mairon hisses, one hand catching Nimruzimir’s chin; he has automatically tried to turn his face to the side.  “Look at me.”

The king has arrived—that much, Nimruzimir saw in his one quick sideways glance.  He is quick to observe; his mind is quick to catalogue. He would not have made a very good natural philosopher if that were not the case.  Ar-Pharazôn the Golden is a short, broad-shouldered man with a curly, close-cropped beard and a weathered face, resplendent in his purple-and-golden robes.  Not particularly interesting.  Many men look so.  Tar-Mairon is different, with skin as pale as porcelain, eyes as yellow as a salt flame and rimmed with black kohl like ash.  Nimruzimir supposes they have painted his own face with kohl, as well.  The girl who made him up took a long time with his face, as if it were a painting.

Tar-Mairon’s hand caresses his cheek.  He is gentle, and that is surprising.  Nimruzimir has heard—everyone has heard—the stories of the ugliness hidden by the walls of the Black Temple, the screams and blood soaked up by those silent stones.  Of course, those are sacrifices, but is Nimruzimir himself not simply another type of sacrifice?  (A king is a man with mighty appetites, they say, philosophers laughing crudely amongst themselves.  Nimruzimir has laughed with them—it is what you do, after all, a kind of safety.  Or so he thought.)

Lips slide across his cheek; there is hot breath on his ear.  “Whatever you do, don’t flinch,” murmurs Tar-Mairon in a tone of voice that Nimruzimir is almost sure a lover might use.  “He will not like it.  I have no desire to hurt you.”

Don’t flinch.  Nimruzimir is quite good at following unpleasant instructions.  He tells himself this is just the same as sitting through a dull dinner party with his father, playing the part of the dutiful daughter.  Why, then, does the touch of those silken fingers on his flesh alternately burn and ache?  Don’t flinch, he tells himself, and changes the scenario: a dangerous experiment.  Too much motion, even in response to an accidental exposure, and significant injury may result.

That’s easier.  His body is well-accustomed to such restrictions and lies patiently quiescent as Tar-Mairon’s slim fingers trace across him.  “Is she not beautiful, my lord?” Tar-Mairon asks, in a smooth, soft voice.

“Lovely,” agrees the voice of the king, distantly.

They are not discussing Nimruzimir, he tells himself carefully, but Pharazîndil, the name a loving mother gave her loyal daughter.

It’s convenient to think of it that way.  Tar-Mairon’s hands push open Pharazîndil’s thighs; he inserts a finger into her, which she seems to find slightly uncomfortable, though she does not flinch.

“Not very responsive, is she?” asks the king.

“Well, my lord, I am told she is inexperienced.  And you are overawed, are you not, my dear, to be in the presence of Ar-Pharazôn himself?”

Nimruzimir finds the length of time it takes for Pharâzindil to respond with a murmured affirmative rather irritating.

“A virgin?” Not for the first time, Nimruzimir wishes he were better at understanding the vocal mannerisms of other human beings.  There is intensity in the king’s voice; it is low, gravelly, and rapid.  But he cannot parse that apart the way he can sort through the possible different reagents to provoke a particular effect.  He cannot experiment, either—one has control when one is performing an experiment, somewhat out of necessity.  

One of Tar-Mairon’s hands clenches hard against Nimruzimir’s waist.  He does not flinch, but it is a near thing.  “I do not know,” he says, in a light, smooth voice.  He is not what Nimruzimir has imagined of the High Priest of the Black Temple.  None of this is anything he had imagined.

“Are you a virgin, girl?” Pharazôn asks.

He is speaking to Pharâzindil, but it is Nimruzimir who flushes, hot and fierce, an involuntary bodily reaction that has made him the target of too many of the other philosophers’ pranks and barbs.  

“Y-Y-Yes.”

Tar-Mairon is near enough that Nimruzimir can hear his breathing speed up, but he detects no other sign of unease.  Heavy footsteps on the soft carpet of this light-filled room.  (It was the queen’s, they say.  It faces the sea.  Nimruzimir thinks of walking beside the sea as an adolescent, collecting and cataloguing seashells.  He thinks of the lines and lines of glowing jellyfish floating in the swaying tide.)

With another soft breath, Tar-Mairon breaks away and stands, loosening his delicate robe.  “Have you never been with a virgin, my king?”

A laugh.  “What are you getting at, priest?”

Tar-Mairon’s voice is low and smooth.  Nimruzimir suspects it would be considered seductive.  Clearly, this is not an area in which he has any experience.  “That I know you enjoy a good performance, sire.”

This seems a curious thing for the high priest to do.  There is an undercurrent here that Nimruzimir does not understand.  A queer tension sparks in the air of the room.  Nimruzimir’s heart skips a beat—but no, he did take his tonic this morning, which will ward off his accustomed fevers.  (Foresight, a voice will whisper far away.)  He has nothing to fear on that front.  He looks up at the ceiling, at the play of sunlight across the arched white ceiling, testing himself with the question of what it is that casts each varied shadow.

“Well, no one shall say I’m not indulgent of my favorites.  Let me see your performance, then, precious.”

“As my king commands.”  Once again, he bends over Nimruzimir, mouth to ear.  “Let me help you, and it won’t hurt.”

A convulsive shudder travels through Nimruzimir’s body.  He does not know how to indicate assent.  His assent will not matter.  It seems his only choice is whether Pharâzindil will lie with Ar-Pharazôn or with Tar-Mairon.  Based on the available evidence, Tar-Mairon seems to be the safer option, so Nimruzimir tells Pharâzindil that she must be quiet and gentle and not complain.  Tar-Mairon waits for a brief second more and then there are hands moving across the naked feminine form on the bed.  Lips press into lips—as Nimruzimir has no experience with this kind of act, he does not know what to tell Pharâzindil to do.

“Move your mouth, lovely one,” purrs Tar-Mairon, and laughs.  This is a comparatively useful instruction, and Nimruzimir does his best to convey it.  The result is very wet, but does not last long: Tar-Mairon’s tongue dips into Pharâzindil’s mouth and then retreats—Tar-Mairon continues to kiss down her form, her throat, then breasts—which is, Nimruzimir notes, quite arousing—her stomach, thighs, and then tips his head back and laughs again.  A performance, Nimruzimir recalls.  What a shame that he has no performative ability at all.

A hand squeezes his reassuringly, and a sudden tight pain gathers beneath his chest.  He can count on one hand the number of people who have ever done that—Sakalkhôr often, Belzâgar perhaps once.  Philosophers do not touch one another, and even when they do, Nimruzimir has held himself apart.  It seems there was no point in this self-denial, but given the information he had at the time, it was the most rational action.  He can find no mistakes that he has made (but he turned his face away from the sacrifices in the Black Temple.  He turned his face away.  Perhaps this is only justice.)

You do not turn down such an offering, though.  Nimruzimir squeezes back.

A mouth between Pharâzindil’s thighs feels—

(heat.  moisture. intrusion.)

—no.  Think.  Don’t feel.  Observe the event.  An experiment.  The high priest holds her legs open, and he is practiced.  Perhaps his work at the temple has made him an expert in restraining a sacrifice, though surely it would be more efficient to tie someone down?  Perhaps it is more a case of knowledge of musculature. 

Perhaps that is also how Tar-Mairon knows how to stimulate a female form.  A knowledge of nerves and muscles.  The subject is displaying signs of arousal as he traces her clitoral mound with the gentle flutter of his tongue—peaked nipples, increased heart-rate and blood flow, rapid breathing.  It is interesting to note that the symptoms are similar to those of fear, but Nimruzimir is more of an alchemist than an anatomist—the Royal Physician, Lilóteo, would presumably be better positioned to explain the connection.

He hopes that Pharâzindil’s response is sufficient.  He has no way to know, and neither does she.  He does not want to imagine what the king’s response may be if it is not.

“You’re lovely like that,” says Pharazôn lazily.  “I could watch you forever.”

Ah, he must be speaking to Tar-Mairon.  There is some comfort in feeling a kind of invisibility, Nimruzimir supposes.  He is finding it more difficult to think, more difficult to observe, as Pharâzindil’s physical sensations squeeze at his own belly, his own—as he—

There is sensation running up and down his spine—Tar-Mairon’s red-gold head moving—this awful, impossible, incongruous sense of embarrassment, the shame he feels when he missteps in public—it catches him in the base of his belly and clenches with an awful raw white heat that he cannot escape no matter how he writhes.  When he cries out, it is with pain—

(it is with pain, it is Pharâzindil, it is an experiment, it is—)

He is here, sweat-soaked sheets at his back, breasts a heavy weight against his chest.  He is flensed open beneath a hungry, eager gaze.

He does not flinch.

* * *

This is not mercy, Mairon notes, even though there is no one listening.  It is pride.  Gently, but firmly, he urges the young philosopher up into his lap.  Better this way—Pharazôn will enjoy the display, but he will have no easy way to decide to involve himself, the way he might if there were a mouth at a height more readily accessible for him to slot himself into.  The philosopher follows his lead—quick-witted and pliant in a way that implies impressive self-control.  He has an iron will.  Mairon admires that.  (He—oh yes, Mairon is no fool, he knows who this boy is, in outline if not in specifics.)  

If this were mercy, Mairon would have taken his knife to the boy’s throat.  Instead, he is gentle but steady, smiling for Pharazôn as his hands guide Nimruzimir into position, spreading the body open for its eager audience.  (Pharazôn never comes to the Black Temple; he trusts his High Priest to do what needs to be done.  If he did, he would recognize the similarity: to thrust inside a sacrifice, to open them up to the eyes of the gods.  There need not be blood in the temple either, not if care is taken.)

No, this is pride.  Mairon is proud of his ability to perform; he is proud of his ability to defeat his enemies; and he is proud of the little philosopher with his wrought-iron, indomitable soul.  He is no performer; that much is clear.  This is sheer stubbornness and the sense to let his body pilot when it needs to.  Pharazôn is the enemy of both of them, of course, and Mairon cannot yet defeat him in full, but he can defeat him here, can stymy his desire to pillage and plunder, can carve out one small choice for the philosopher (who does not deserve this).

Choice is an illusion.  It has always been an illusion.  The universe does not allow a choice: the gods do not allow choices.  Mairon is bound to one, so he would know.  To make even a small space to choose is a hard-won victory, and a victory is a reason for pride. (Mercy is useless and choice is an illusion—the one who tried to teach him about both is long gone, having learned these lessons too late.) 

(What would you think of me now?)

(No, no.  Don’t answer, dearest.  Don’t answer.)

“I hope you’re enjoying your reward, Mairon.”

A hand slips; sharp nails rake across the philosopher’s side.  An error.  Nimruzimir makes a low sound—lost, they are lost, that sound, the blood beneath his nails—but does not flinch.  A stumble, but the rhythm is not lost.  Mairon’s smile is intact.  He caresses the spot his nails scratched, a poor apology.  “You’re doing well,” he murmurs quietly.  “Admirably.”

His hands move across the philosopher’s chest, teasing at his breasts.  Pharazôn’s breathing is rough—he is pleasuring himself, of course—Mairon has the philosopher spread-eagled across his lap, pinned in place and penetrated, and for one stripped thin instant, he thinks he will be sick.  He has learned to be raped—a uniquely mortal ugliness, of course—but he has had no lessons in the perpetration of it.  Uncharted territory, for him as well as for the little philosopher.

The first orgasm was in part an attempt to open the philosopher up, make things a little easier for him by avoiding the potential pain of a first penetration.  Unfortunately, it has left the vaginal muscles not only loose but fluttering, and the sensation against Mairon’s intruding fána is repulsive.  His stomach tightens; bile builds at the base of his throat.  For pride, and not for mercy, he has become a rapist.  Was any of it worth it?

No, he tells himself.  You will not do anything to ruin the philosopher’s performance.  He does not deserve that.  This is only one more challenge.  He is the most admirable of Aulë’s, the mightiest of Melkor’s, and the cleverest of—

(no no STOP STOP STOP)

He can do what he needs to do.  He looks into his fána and removes the connection between nausea and vomiting.  He will reconnect it later. Simple.

He does not throw up.  He smiles and purrs at his kingly lover and fucks the philosopher—he has a name—he smiles and purrs and rapes Nimruzimir.  His fána is fortunately well-constructed and the heat and slick is pleasurable.  It is enough; the fána spills inside the philosopher.  Mairon notes that he will also need to take care of any risk of pregnancy later on.

It occurs to him too late that he did not ask permission of Pharazôn.  He almost finds that he cannot raise his eyes to look up at him, smiling shamefacedly—a little mistake, almost silly, surely Pharazôn will agree?

Pharazôn laughs, harsh and strident.  “Decadent of you, despoiling her like that, my flame.  Now what shall I do?  You have left me in some frustration.”

Mairon bites his lip and lowers his eyelashes.  He takes the space of a single breath to help the philosopher off him; Nimruzimir is dazed but uncomplaining and slips to the side of the bed.  Thank the gods, he does not try to flee.  Mairon looks back up, sultry and inviting.  “Well, my lord, I had hoped that you would see fit to grace me with your seed.  I am a little jealous, you know.”

“I can be generous,” Pharazôn says darkly, a promise in his eyes (a threat, a threat, a threat).  “I think I would like you on your knees.”

* * *

Nimruzimir curls his knees into his chest. His body is itching, sweaty, and leaking fluids.  Some of them may be a cause for concern, but he cannot address that now.  He wishes he could sleep, but there is too much noise from beside him.  Ar-Pharazôn is grunting, and Tar-Mairon is moaning loudly.  In addition, the slaps and squelches of their coupling are loud and unpleasant.

There is a sharp hiss—Tar-Mairon’s voice—and Ar-Pharazôn says, low and threatening, even to Nimruzimir’s poor ability to map tone to emotion, “I thought you wished me inside you?”

“I do, I do,” gasps Tar-Mairon.  “Please, my king—”

The sound of a blow, followed by a cry of pain.

“Was that all to have her for yourself?”

“No, my lord—please—” Another blow, another cry.

Nimruzimir’s body is trembling, and he presses a hand across his mouth to silence his breathing.  He does not want to be observed.

“I should have you whipped.”

“If that is your will, I will bear it, but please—please do not think me false—” 

A slap and an ugly, keening noise of pain.  Nimruzimir wonders if there was more than just the slap—a twisted arm or wrist seems likely.  No snap, though, so presumably no bones broken.  Tar-Mairon sobs, a child-like sound.  

Whatever you do, don’t flinch.

Gods.  Nimruzimir presses even harder across mouth and nose, breathing as quietly as a mouse.

“You do beg prettily.  I suppose I can forgive you this once.”

“No—no—if you desire to have me whipped—”

“And mar that beautiful flesh?  No, I think your obeisance is sufficient.”

“Thank you, my lord,” murmurs Tar-Mairon.  “I do not deserve your magnanimity.”

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When Ar-Pharazôn has left the chamber, Tar-Mairon sits up.  The kohl around his eyes is smeared, and there is bruising along his cheekbone and around his wrist.  His face appears expressionless, at least to Nimruzimir’s untrained eye.

“Come with me,” he instructs Nimruzimir.  There is nothing in his voice that matches the whining tone he used to plead with Ar-Pharazôn.  “I will take you to the baths.”

The baths.  Gods, yes, Nimruzimir wants to be clean.  He swallows.  “Th-thank you,” he says.

“There is no need to thank me.”  Tar-Mairon stands up, unselfconsciously naked.  Nimruzimir finds that he is quite capable of the rather petty emotion of jealousy under these circumstances.  Surprising, but he has no map to navigate such a situation, so perhaps it is normal.

Tar-Mairon conducts him along a back corridor to a private chamber, with a rather immense and luxurious bath sunken into the floor.  “You may use anything you can find in here,” he says.  “There are a number of different soaps, so you can probably find something to please you.  I imagine you would prefer to bathe yourself, but let me know if you would like assistance.”

Ducking his head, Nimruzimir finds he does not have an answer for the implicit question.  Then his breathing stops working properly, and his legs stop working properly, and he is on his knees on the floor.  For a moment, he thinks it is the fever, but no—he is firmly anchored in this world, only for some reason his body is not obeying him anymore.  He shakes as if possessed by an ague.

There is a long pause that seems full to brim with the silence.  Then Tar-Mairon speaks again, voice oddly gentle.  “May I help you?”

This time, Nimruzimir is able to nod briefly. A shoulder is offered, and he takes it.  Tar-Mairon helps him back to his feet and over to the bath. 

“How hot would you like it?”

Dismissing his first impulse—scalding—he says, “H-Hot.  Um.”  

The water begins to run, a quiet, lyrical sound.  It seems to warm before his eyes, taking on a strange golden sheen, coils of white steam rising from it.  Something about it does not seem quite correct—a trick of the light?  

“Put your foot in it.  Is that all right?”

Nimruzimir obeys.  “Y-Yes.  Th-Thank you.”

“Do not thank me.” The words are clipped.  Nimruzimir goes still (don’t flinch) and waits.  “Come.  Into the water.”

This is easier, letting himself be carefully helped into the welcoming water below.  He ducks his head beneath the surface, surrounding himself with the cleansing touch.  He wonders, briefly, if it would be possible to simply—not come back up.  But Nimruzimir is a child of the coasts; he knows that drowning is particularly unpleasant, and one’s body will generally attempt to forbid one from it, and he is too tired to fight with her anymore.  He rises again as his lungs begin to strain and is suddenly face to face with Tar-Mairon.  Perhaps his sense of orientation was confused by the too-long moment underwater.  Nimruzimir prefers to avoid eye contact, but this time he has no chance to avoid it as his gaze locks with that searing yellow fire—

The white lady stood behind him, oil leaking from her empty eyes.  The whole lower half of her face was black with those blood-like tears.  

“I am sorry, prophet,” she said, solemn.  “An ugly timeline.  You have too much stubbornness to abandon it, I think.”

Tar-Mairon did not seem to hear her, but he still stood before Nimruzimir: he no longer looked human.  He was a great quilt of metal, folded into the shape of a man.  One hand was burned black—only bones remained.  There was something wrong with his chest.

“No,” Nimruzimir said.  “No, no—you cannot be here.”  He had taken his tonic.  He was sure he had taken his tonic.

The lady in white seemed realer than he had ever seen her.  He could see the weight of water that darkened her curly, light-brown hair, the way it sculpted her outfit to her form.  He could hear an omnipresent dripping noise.  Above his head, the sound of stone groaning.  Something large was waiting to fall.

She put one hand on Tar-Mairon’s shoulder and spoke, her voice ordinary, almost conversational, “Heartless lord of flame and ash, your kingdom will fall before you return to him.”

—and there is a hand about his wrist, too strong, bruisingly strong.  The bones strain, and Nimruzimir hears a pained noise in his own voice.

“What did you say?”

“I d-d-don’t know—I d-d-don’t—” 

For an instant, Tar-Mairon’s face changes into something that is not human, as if something else is animating a man’s form with no idea of the proper shape.  Nimruzimir does not understand expressions, but he understands the basic outline of a face, and this is not it; it seems to roil and bubble like melting wax.  

Nimruzimir flinches.

Then the pressure on his wrist is gone as Tar-Mairon’s face settles back into a more normal shape, eyes wide, lips open in a grimace.  After a moment, he smooths this out into a blank expression like a mask.  “I did not realize you were a prophet,” he says quietly.

“I am n-n-not,” Nimruzimir whispers.  Pain claws at the inside of his throat.  “I am a m-man of science.”  The world is old.  The world is cold.  There is no one watching.

“A conversation for later, then.  Please excuse me for a moment.”

He almost seems to flee, his footsteps slapping loudly against the tile floor.  A moment later, Nimruzimir hears the sound of retching.  It goes on for a long time.

* * *

He washes himself.  It is pleasant to remove the sweat and other fluid.  There is little bruising, and although there is soreness in unaccustomed places, it is not intense; the heat of the water soon banishes it.  

Someone knocks on the door.  “C-Come in,” Nimruzimir calls, assuming that Tar-Mairon has returned.

He has not.

Lilóteo, the Royal Physician, is a stocky man with an impressive physical presence and generally sound ideas on the matter of science.  Nimruzimir was a little in awe of him yesterday—he presides over the natural philosophers, so regardless of whether he agrees or disagrees with the man’s stances it is better not to antagonize him too much.  Admittedly, Nimruzimir is fairly certain he has indeed antagonized Lilóteo on several occasions, notably in their ongoing debate centering on the nature of light.  If there is one person Nimruzimir did not want to see him like this, it is the head of his order.  (Former order, he supposes.  He can hardly be a philosopher anymore, can he?)

“Can I come in?” Lilóteo asks brusquely.

“Why are you here?” Nimruzimir demands.  He watches as Lilóteo’s hand clenches against the doorframe.

“I came to examine you, man.”  For some reason, he passes a hand over his face.

His manner appears unaltered, which is surprising and a little encouraging.  However, Nimruzimir has no interest in letting anyone near him in his current state.  “I am f-f-fine,” he says.  “There is some minor bruising.”

“Right.  Well.  I’m not going to force you.”  Lilóteo leans sideways against the wall, folding his arms, and looks away, perhaps deliberately.  “Can I ask a few questions? You don’t have to answer.”

“I suppose.”

“You’re not in pain?”

“L-Little.  My wrist is a little—”  He moves his arm.  “It is sore.  I d-do not think Tar-Mairon knows his own strength.”

“What about…” A helpless gesture.  “Anywhere else?”

“None that was not righted by the application of hot water.”

“Any blood?  Any—” Pause.  “Any burns?”

“Neither.  Why would there be burns?”

“Did you not—” Lilóteo stumbles over his own words.  “The High Priest—”

“Yes, we had interc-course.”  It is hard to say.  It is true.

“He raped you.”

This is, to Nimruzimir’s mind, an interesting question.  “C-Can you accord it that when it is d-done in order to spare someone an—an unpleasant encounter?”

There is a pause.  Then Lilóteo speaks very clearly and very quietly, “What do you mean by that, Nimruzimir?”

“You must know I am not particularly adept at reading people.  But he gave me—instructions—that kept me from the k-king’s attentions.  And I s-s-saw how the k-k-k-king t-t-treated h-h-him wh-wh-when—”  His hands are shaking.

“Fuck,” says Lilóteo crisply.  “Fine.  I don’t know.  But you were—”

“I know.  Is there anything else?”

“I have a draught for you to drink if you want it.  See to it there are no complications.”

“You mean pregnancy.”  The word sticks, raw and ugly, in Nimruzimir’s throat.

“Yeah.  I assume you’re fertile.”

A shudder runs down Nimruzimir’s body; nerves tweak and twinge in that too-raw, too-intense way they seem to have acquired recently.  “I assume so as well.  I will drink it.  Thank you.”

“Nimruzimir?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

The door shuts behind him with a kind of finality.

* * *

When Tar-Mairon returns, Nimruzimir has just gotten out of the bath and dried himself.  As he is realizing he no longer has any clothing, Tar-Mairon mutely holds out a set of folded clothes.  “I have an offer for you,” he says.  “Philosopher.”  He turns his back, affording Nimruzimir privacy as he cautiously unfolds the proffered outfit and pulls it on with an intense sensation of gratitude.  To his surprise, these are men’s clothes—loose trousers and a buttoned shirt, along with a heavy, formless black robe.  This last gives Nimruzimir pause, because he thinks he recognizes it.  But Tar-Mairon addressed him as philosopher.

“What is your offer?” he asks, holding the robe without putting it on.

Tar-Mairon turns back to him.  He is also clothed now; his face is clean and un-made-up.  His eyes are bright, and he wears a slight smile that Nimruzimir has heard the other philosophers describe as mad.  Perhaps he is mad; Nimruzimir thinks he may also be mad, at this point.  But then, madness has always been a close companion of his, no matter how he has tried to run from it.

“Pledge me thy service, and I will shelter thee in the Black Temple.”  His voice is distant, remote, and sweet.  (Such a resonance was, will be familiar—so spake the Lady in White, and so she will speak.)

“What will happen to me if I r-refuse?” Nimruzimir asks.

“You will likely remain here.  The king finds you beautiful.  He has a number of concubines, so you will not be called upon every night, but you will be called upon—perhaps frequently, at first.”

Whatever you do, don’t flinch.

“And if I agree?  I am n-n-not particularly adept at unquestioning obedience.”

The smile widens—ah, perhaps that is why it is called mad.  It is smile that is just a little too wide for a human face.  “I do not require unquestioning anything.  But you will be required to help with the sacrifices.  I would be willing to allow you to examine them, if you so desired, though I understand your specialty is alchemy rather than anatomy.”

The sacrifices.  Nimruzimir has always turned his face away—is it really so different to enact them himself?  (In another world, he could not wield the scalpel.  In another world, he had not seen the face of the king as Pharâzindil was fucked by the High Priest.  In another world, Tar-Mairon was not his savior.) He cannot face the thought of Pharâzindil’s repeated rape.  The violence against the sacrifices will be committed once for each one.

“You are certain you can convince the k-king?”

Tar-Mairon’s face is transcendent; light gleams in his eyes and beneath his tight-stretched cheekbones.  “I can convince the king.  There are many beautiful women in the palace.”

This is true, but is itself a worrying and confusing point.  “Th-There are.  So wh-why me?”

The high priest takes a step forward and gently takes Nimruzimir’s hand.  “I recognize a like soul,” he says lightly.

Nimruzimir is not certain he understands, but he is very weary and perhaps further questions can wait. “I am not sure of the correct procedure,” he says.

Tar-Mairon tilts his head to one side.

“To pledge myself to someone’s service.  It is n-not something I have had occasion to do before.”

He does not expect the peal of cracked laughter that erupts from Tar-Mairon, quickly peaking, quickly silenced.  “You are a delight, little philosopher.  You maintain yourself as you are so beautifully.”

This is confusing.  “I d-do not know how to be anyone else.”

“And yet.”  Tar-Mairon takes Nimruzimir’s hand and spreads out the fingers.  “Then thou art committed, philosopher?  Thou wilt pledge thyself to me?”

“Yes,” Nimruzimir says.  He has been given a choice, and he will take it: an unexpected gift, not one to be denied.

“And I will protect thee, as any lord to his subject,” Tar-Mairon says, and lo! there is a small ring glittering in the palm of his hand, a band of obsidian with a single inlaid crimson stone.  The sharp black pieces holding it in place look like teeth around an open mouth.  Tar-Mairon slides it onto Nimruzimir’s fourth finger, where it seems to vanish, though if he tilts his hand about, he can just see the way its queer red glitter catches the light.

* * *

It is dark, and the air is soaked with moisture.  Nimruzimir huddles with his back up against a heavy stone block.  He thinks he may have a head injury, and he is almost certain his wrist is broken.  This would be of more concern if it were not for the steady sound of trickling water everywhere, the way the stone groans overhead, and the way the water covering the floor has risen several inches in the past quarter of an hour.  The Temple has collapsed; Nimruzimir was unfortunate enough not to be killed in the initial incident.  Now he faces the prospect of waiting to drown in a hollow cavity, barely several feet wide.

So he will drown after all.  He heaves a sigh.  How foolish, then, to have turned his back on that death those years ago and given himself over to the service of the Temple.  It has not been overall an unpleasant existence, but he has certainly committed atrocities.  He is still not sure if that is better or worse than simply ignoring that those atrocities are ongoing while doing nothing.  Well, perhaps it does not matter—if he had drowned back then, those same ugly acts would have happened, with or without his intervention.  

He is not ready to drown.  He is not ready to die.  If he had known, he might not have taken his tonic for the day—it might be more pleasant not to suffer out these final hours quite alone, rather than haunted by the ghosts of his affliction.

A rending, groaning noise above him makes him tense.  The stone is giving out.  This, then, will be his last moment of breath.  But where is that eerie glow coming from?

The rocks erupt with a terrible sound like the shattering of glass, and a brilliant red light sears across Nimruzimir’s eyes; he squeezes them shut in response.  He waits, but the wave does not come.  Someone laughs, a raw, wet sound.  “Come, prophet, I promised thee my protection, did I not?  Open thy eyes.”  The words are high and buzzing, not like the words formed by a mouth and tongue, but like words crackling across a staticky gramophone.

Nimruzimir obeys and finds that he is staring at a dead man.  Unlike Nimruzimir himself, Tar-Mairon clearly did not escape serious physical trauma in the first explosions.  His skull has caved in along the side, and one eyeball swings loosely in the socket.  His lower jaw has been torn away, and there is a bloody hole from which the voice issues anyway.  The head wobbles on the neck, which is probably broken, and within his brutalized form, there flickers a man-shaped flame, as if his soul is made of fire and he drags what remains of his corpse along with sheer will.

“Hurry,” says the remains of Tar-Mairon in his voice.  “I cannot hold the ocean off forever.”

“Yes,” croaks Nimruzimir, rising shakily to his feet.  His legs cramp and spasm, but he ignores them.

They wend their way upward through a strange black tunnel that cracks and crunches beneath Nimruzimir’s feet.  Even after months of atrocities, months of painting his hands red with innocent blood, all he wants is to pause and study it.  To pause and study the corpse that shambles at his side in defiance of all laws of science and reason.

“Do you like it?” laughs Tar-Mairon in that mad crackling voice, like flame, like bees—

(“Am I lost?” Nimruzimir will ask the Lady in White.  She wept, will weep.)

“I think Pharazôn would be a little less willing to touch this, do you not think so?”

This is a point that Nimruzimir has not considered.  Conventional beauty has certainly done him no favors.  “I do not like it, because it does not make sense,” he says, eventually, irritated.  “But I d-do agree that it would function as a deterrent.”

The ground beneath their feet buckles and cracks ominously again.  “Run,” Tar-Mairon says sharply, and the conversation is swallowed up in the thundering of the ocean at their heels.

* * *

They walk by the shore.  Nimruzimir collects seashells and looks out at the line of shimmering jellyfish dancing happily in the surf.

“I will release you if you wish it,” says the corpse at his side.  “I will not hold you to a promise made as yours was.”

This is kind, but as Tar-Mairon has repeatedly impressed upon Nimruzimir that he is not kind it must be a sort of pride or justice.  He supposes it would be more just, but he also—does not want to leave Tar-Mairon’s side.

“Th-Thank you, but I will stay,” he says politely.  “You have no other allies.”

“I have one,” Tar-Mairon says obscurely.  “Once she deigns to rise from her death-bed.  I do not have many, it is true.  But I can gain them easily.”

“Nonetheless.”

The corpse takes his arm and turns him sternly to look at it.  The flesh is soft and cold, but heat plays across his face.  “Why?” what is left of Tar-Mairon demands.

“You f-fought to let me choose.  So I take my ch-choice,” says Nimruzimir.  This, he thinks, sounds rather fine, like something one of the crew of the Vérië might say—although, he thinks sadly, he would only find himself among their opponents now.

Tar-Mairon makes a noise that Nimruzimir does not understand, and then he laughs.  “Thou art a fool, prophet.  But I will not spurn thy service.  And I will reward thee well.  What wouldst thou?  Shall I make thee as unlovely as I now am?  I think thou wouldst enjoy the freedom of this form.”

“I would prefer to r-remain alive,” Nimruzimir says primly.  “And functional, in a way that is conversant with the rules of the world as I understand them.”

Tar-Mairon snorts, as well as a corpse can with its ruin of a nose.  “I can make thee unlovely in a mortal way.  Although I cannot give thee the body thou wouldst prefer in full, for I cannot shape thy flesh as easily as mine own.”

“It is enough,” says Nimruzimir.  “Thank you.”  To never again be looked upon the way Ar-Pharazôn looked upon him.  To never again wonder if a friend would accept him if they knew, only to find himself the vehicle of their death.  To never again be coaxed through his own violation to save him a worse one.  “Thank you,” he says again.  The waves crash softly against the shore.

“So,” says Tar-Mairon.  “Thou wilt be my servant and speak thy prophecies at my behest.”  He laughs again, and this time the laugh is almost normal, the cadence of the voice evening out into something that could almost be Sakalkhôr teasing Nimruzimir in a time that now seems centuries past.  “Wilt thou be my mouth, philosopher?”  He gestures at the grinning ruin of his countenance.  “It seems that I have need of one.”

Before all that has come to pass, Nimruzimir might have objected that he was a man of science and that he did not wish to speak any prophecies and that, in any case, they were not prophecies at all.  But he has seen much since then, and much of it ugly.  He is not the same man any longer that he was before.  Everything he loved before now sleeps beneath tonnes upon tonnes of solid water.  At least the jellyfish have returned to mark their graves.

The jellyfish…did Nimruzimir not once read that those jellyfish were immortal?  That they obtained such immortality through repeated death and rebirth?  Perhaps that is the way of such things.  The old dies and what is left grows as the world directs it.

“Yes, lord,” he says, and he does not stutter at all.  “I will be your mouth and remain at your side, if I can.”

Chapter End Notes

As described in the Lord of the Rings:

"At its head there rode a tall and evil shape, mounted upon a black horse, if horse it was; for it was huge and hideous, and its face was a frightful mask, more like a skull than a living head, and in the sockets of its eyes and in its nostrils there burned a flame. The rider was robed all in black, and black was his lofty helm; yet this was no Ringwraith but a living man. The Lieutenant of the Tower of Barad-dûr he was, and his name is remembered in no tale; for he himself had forgotten it, and he said: 'I am the Mouth of Sauron.' But it is told that he was a renegade, who came of the race of those that are named the Black Númenóreans; for they established their dwellings in Middle-earth during the years of Sauron's domination, and they worshipped him, being enamoured of evil knowledge. And he entered the service of the Dark Tower when it first rose again..."

"Verië" is my in-universe name for a ship in a novel series in Númenor intended to refer to Stark Trek (it means "boldness" as a reference to "Enterprise")

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