Blood and Silk by Fredbassett  

Mairon leaned on the gunwale of the Númenórean flagship and let his hair stream behind him in the light breeze, paying no heed to the black leather collar that Ar-Pharazôn had fastened around his neck the previous night. No doubt it would be replaced by something a little more durable once they were on dry land. Mairon fancied that mithril would set off the highlights in his hair to perfection …

“Eager to see an end to the voyage, my pet?” Pharazôn twisted his hand in Mairon’s hair and bent him over the rail to admire the collar.

“Eager for a proper bath, my lord. Sea voyages have never been particularly to my taste. The salt air is overly harsh on my skin.”

Pharazôn tightened his grip on Mairon’s hair, pulling painfully at his scalp. Knowing the king’s tastes, Mairon allowed the discomfort to bleed into his eyes but held his body still, even though he could heave the wretched man into the waves without the slightest effort.

“Have I angered thee, my lord?” Mairon purred.

“Not in the slightest. I am simply deciding how best to parade you before my people. I am torn between decking you in sheer silk or having you crawl naked on your knees from the docks to the royal palace.”

Mairon heaved an inward sigh of irritation. The wretched man was getting ideas far beyond his place in Mairon’s designs, but for now he would have to bide his time and play the part of a submissive captive. He had successfully reeled in the king and landed his catch, having spent the dull voyage ensuring Pharazôn was well and truly addicted to the sort of pleasure that only Mairon could draw from his body.

“It will be as my lord pleases.”

With a final, vicious twist, Pharazôn loosened his grip. “It certainly will.”

A shout from the highest point on the rigging heralded the sight of land low on the horizon, a smudge of smoky grey against an apricot sky. The cry was taken up throughout the ship with sailors and soldiers alike greeting the first sight of their homeland.

****

Somewhat to Mairon’s relief, Pharazôn settled on arraying him in a robe of sheer, diaphanous undyed silk, that did nothing to hide the sight of his body, naked underneath the silk. The robe was cut low around the neck and shoulders to ensure the black collar was displayed for all to see. Mairon’s hair was dressed in a high horse-tail, stark against the cream silk.

With kohl rimming his eyes and his feet bare, Mairon, arrayed like the many pleasure slaves he had received in past tribute from his vassals, followed the king down the wide gangplank, led by on a chain attached to the leather collar like a dog while the king’s herald cried aloud the return of Númenór’s victorious ruler.

In Mairon’s opinion, Pharazôn had failed to consider that conquering a rival army led by a man arrayed like a brothel’s prize exhibit did not look overly heroic. The fact that the rival army had turned tail and fled at the sight of the Númenórean forces hadn’t been overly heroic either, but that wasn’t a matter Mairon cared to dwell on. There would, however, be reprisals and he was confident he could rely on his ringbearers for that.

The crowds on the dockside went wild, throwing flowers, releasing white doves into the air, yelling Pharazôn’s name and heaping praises on his name and his achievements.

Mairon’s eyes swept the crowd, easily picking out those who had been paid to whip up the atmosphere, noticing those who shouted the loudest and threw their offerings with practised aim to land at the king’s feet. Some moved through the crowd with overflowing baskets of flowers, others handed out flagons of wine to assist the celebrations.

Pharazôn responded with studied grace, a beloved leader returning to his people, a captain of men whose favour could make – or break – careers.

The quays were also crowded with merchants, eager to spot which of the ships were loaded with goods from the far shores and to stake their claim within the guilds. They would sidle up to the seamen later, slipping coin into eager hands in return for information on which cargoes held the most value.

All were also eager for a glimpse of the king’s prize captive, and Mairon caught the gasps of the crowd as the silk outlined the contrast between the hard muscle of his chest and thighs with the soft, rounded swell of his arse, hips swaying slightly as he walked barefoot on the cobbles, his head held high and his back straight but with eyes demurely lowered like a captive slave arrayed on the block prior to a sale.

With the light behind him, Mairon knew that his body was fully displayed to the crowd, both titivating and scandalising many of the women and more than a few of the men. He could hear the whispers and the lascivious comments aimed at him but gave no hint that he was aware of the stir he was causing. Frankly, he could hardly have been more of a talking point if he had crawled behind the king like a whipped cur, red stripes across his arse and a boot print on his back.

Mairon amused himself by choosing random men and women in the crowd and forcing spikes of pleasure into their bodies, watching as faces suddenly reddened and breath quickened but careful to leave them all unfulfilled, the men with cocks heavy between their legs and the women wet as though to a lover’s touch.

Pharazôn greeted many of the merchants thronging the docks by name, telling any who asked that he would hear their trade petitions at the guild courts, but making it known with the occasional well-chosen remark that Middle-earth was an orchard ripe with fruit ready to be picked.

The city itself was impressive, with tall white towers and spires decked with fluttering pennants in red and gold. The architecture was a little haphazard in places but not unpleasing, however, even the smooth roads had taken their toll on Mairon’s carefully assumed form. The pain was easy to blank out but for the sake of a truthful appearance he allowed it to remain present in his mind, a nagging ache as the cobbles wore blisters which then tore leaving the soles of his feet ragged and bleeding, staining the hem of his silk robe where it swirled around his ankles. The cavalcade was now approaching the steps of the ostentatious palace, which might once have been tasteful, but now it was overly ornate, ruining the orderly symmetry of the earlier structure in a way that grated on Mairon’s nerves even more than the cobbles grated his feet. The mix of columns of widely different styles, some with curled tops, some with too much gilding quite frankly was not a good look, especially when coupled with far, far too many statues, each competing with the other to be the most boring artwork of the century. It was a hard fought contest. The small iridescent bird that alighted on the stylised curls of one astoundingly dull specimen and showed its disdain with by leaving a quite remarkable amount of shit behind definitely had the right idea.

The nobles had gathered in Armenelos to await their kings return, with the lesser ranks crowding the squares and those highest in lineage and favour clustered on the steps of the palace where Númenór’s queen awaited the return of her husband.

And not with any great pleasure, as what Mairon could tell.

Pharazôn strode up the steps, his chest puffed out like a dunghill cock, jerking the chain lead in an attempt to make Mairon stumble. Mairon considered whether to evade the manoeuvre but decided to allow the man his wish. Mairon, walking with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, overbalanced, his right knee connecting harder with the edge of the marble step that he’d intended. Pain, quickly quelled, lanced through his body like fire. He bit back a surprised cry of pain with difficulty, momentarily cursing his decision to play along with the charade of the submissive captive.

The king ostentatiously ignored Mairon in favour of magnanimously accepting the slight obeisance the queen paid to him. Setting his arms on her shoulders, Pharazôn kissed her forehead.

“Zimraphel, my jewel, has all been well in my absence?”

“All has been well,” she confirmed, notably omitting any form of honorific.

Rumours that the daughter of Tar-Palantir has been forcibly wed and her throne usurped suddenly gained a lot of credence. Pharazôn wore an expression of indifference, Zimraphel, formerly known as Miriel, radiated cold disdain and knife-sharp dislike.

Mairon pushed himself to his feet only to be roughly borne down to his knees again by Pharazôn’s heavy hand on his shoulder. His right knee bore the brunt of the pain a second time. Mairon allowed his features to twist into a grimace for the space of a heartbeat. The queen’s sharp dark eyes noted the slight hiss that passed his lips and the blood spreading from a gash on his kneecap, stark red against the unbleached silk of his robe.

Ignoring both his wife and his captive, Pharazôn turned to face the crowd and stepped forward, conspicuously placing himself before his queen, his arms spread in a show of welcome to what he obviously saw as his people before he launched into bombastic speech in which his own greatness featured largely.

Mairon remained on his knees, wondering after a while if it was actually possible for him to expire from sheer boredom. Eventually, Pharazôn reached the part where his army had triumphed over the Lord of Mordor, the same Lord of Mordor who was now prostrate at his feet like a common slave.

The crowd roared their approval to the skies, crying their king’s name over and over in an enthusiastic chant, while Mairon remained at Pharazôn’s feet, the very picture of abject submission. His ring, concealed behind enchantments that no one in Númenór was capable of even detecting, let along dismantling, lay quiescent. He allowed the pain from his damaged knee to wash over him, savouring the unfamiliar sensations, the dull ache making its slow, insidious way up his thigh …

“Up!” Pharazôn demanded, tugging sharply on the lead, no doubt irritated that his captive had missed some sort of non-verbal cue.

Mairon allowed his assumed form to accept its frailty, he came to his feel with a barely disguised grimace and glanced down to see blood on the silk gown from knee to ankle.

Even over the cries from the jubilant crowd, the sharp indrawn breath from Pharazôn’s wife when she saw the blood was clearly audible. The king shot Zimraphel a hard look which she met head on.

“Mistreating a captive is beneath you, my lord,” she snapped.

“This captive has waged war throughout Middle-earth for an age. He does not merit your pity, my lady!”

“I will bestow my pity where I will. That at least you cannot take from me!” With that, Zimraphel turned and swept into the palace in a swirl of fine cloth embroidered with gold and silver thread containing thousands of tiny, iridescent gems that shimmered as she walked, glinting like fireflies in the sunlight. She wore her dark hair loose, constrained only by an intricate net of black pearls held in place by a circlet of plain white gold.

Mairon schooled his features into a blank mask, but made no attempt to disguise his limp. His knee barely bore his weight but that did not stop Pharazôn hauling him through the long corridors of the opulent palace like a miscreant hound.

A steward fluttered around the king like an anxious butterfly.

Pharazôn dispensed sharp orders. He intended to attend a feast in his honour that evening to be hosted in the palace and he wanted his pet bathed and suitably attired. Mairon was taken to a small suite of plainly appointed rooms, the walls a pale eggshell blue overlain with a frieze of white flowers. A low couch upholstered in a rich red fabric faced a fireplace and another as set by a window into a small courtyard and a luxurious garden dripping with rich purple flowers hanging from trellis to form shaded arbours where songbirds flitted amidst the flowers and the rich foliage.

Mairon limped to the couch. He stared down in distaste at the blood running sluggishly down his shin and toyed with the idea of ridding himself of the pain but decided to keep his reactions authentic.

“I shall call a healer,” the steward declared and promptly dispatched a servant to do his bidding and another to fetch some food and drink. From the wary look in the man’s eyes, he was clearly unsure how to treat Mairon as a prisoner or a high status guest. The man settled for simple courtesy and waved to a another servant to provide water.

“What is your name?” Mairon enquired.

“Nâluzimir, my …” the man bit back the honorific, uncomfortable in the face of the uncertainty bleeding onto the polished wood floor.

Mairon smiled. “Thank you, Nâluzimir, I appreciate your kindness.”

Moments later, a slight, dark haired man swathed in heavy blue robes bustled into the room carrying a large leather satchel which he set down next to Mairon’s couch with an irritated sigh.

“Since when did we mistreat prisoners?” he demanded of no one in particular, echoing his queen’s comment.

“Since your king decided to make a spectacle of one,” Mairon muttered.

The man rolled his eyes. “He certainly achieved a spectacle. My name is Rûkhân, I am head physician in the king’s household. I shall treat you with respect and I expect the same from you. What shall I call you?”

“By others I have been named Sauron.”

At the name the man snorted inelegantly. His grey eyes gleamed with the fierce intelligence of a bird of prey. “What do you call yourself?”

“I have had many names, but I prefer Mairon.”

“Then Mairon it shall be. I need to see your knee and I need to know whether you have injuries other than to your knees and feet.”

Mairon met the man’s eyes and allowed himself a wry smile. “None that need tending other than those you have mentioned.”

Servants appeared to set out trays of food and drink while others bustled in with basins, cloths, ewers of warm water and a more modest robe than the one Pharazôn had chosen for the humiliation of his captive.

Mairon accepted some thin slivers of roast lamb and a skewer of roast vegetables, accompanied by a light, fragrant white wine while Rûkhân carefully cleaned the blood from Mairon’s knee, muttering faintly treasonous imprecations at his glorious king.

“The kneecap is out of place,” the healer pronounced. “I need to rectify that.” He rested his hands on the swollen knee then pressed hard with both thumbs. Sharp pain flared in Mairon’s leg, lancing up his thigh like a lightning bolt and drawing an unexpected gasp from his lips.

Rûkhân bound the leg lightly then turned his attention to the lacerated feet. By the time he had finished cleaning and applying unguents that stung and then numbed the pain, Mairon had succeeded in taking the pain and locking it away to dissolve quietly in the dark of his mind.

“I will inform the king that leg needs to be rested or there is a risk of permanent damage. Keep it elevated as much as possible. If you wish to bathe, as I imagine you will, ask for me and I will reapply the dressings. But for now, rest, eat and drink.”

Surprised by his own sincerity, Mairon thanked the man.

Much as he wanted to relax in a hot bath, Mairon settled for a strip wash with hot, scented flannels, which at least prevented the need to have his bandages reapplied. To his surprise he was not summoned to the king’s feast, nor was he called to attend the man in his bedchamber, which Mairon had to admit came as a relief.. He had been unprepared for the king’s casual, performative cruelty and had no wish to be treated like an exotic pet for the titillation of the Númenórean nobles who flocked to the king’s side.

As the sun sank in the sky in a blaze of warm colour, apricot and fiery red, fading to smoky violet and bleeding slowly to dusty grey, Mairon sprawled out on the large, soft bed, and drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

****

He awoke to birdsong and a young servant moving almost soundlessly around the room, tidying away the remnants of yesterday’s meal and bringing in a light breakfast of thinly sliced meat and cheese accompanied by dainty bread rolls and pats of creamy yellow butter. Ignoring the boy’s faintly scandalised expression at his unashamed nakedness, Mairon pulled on a light dressing robe and asked the boy to set the meal out a table in the arbour outside his window.

Mairon limped into the morning sunshine and settled on a comfortable couch where he could keep his bad knee suitably elevated.

“Is there anything else you desire?” The boy hesitated, uncertainty sliding over his face, settling into fear, before he added, “My lord.”

Mairon smiled. “I’m no one’s lord, child. And you have no need to fear me. There is nothing else I desire, or at least nothing that you can grant me.”

The boy bobbed a low bow and scurried out.

The food was pleasant, as was the birdsong and the sunshine, but the peaceful interlude was shattered by the heavy tread of all too familiar boots in the corridor. The doors were flung open and Pharazôn stomped into the room with no ceremony and even less courtesy.

Mairon made a show of struggling to rise. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t kneel, my king. Your healer was most firm in his instructions.”

Pharazôn waved an impatient hand for Mairon to sit. “There are other ways in which you can offer obeisance.”

“I am yours to command.” Mairon gaze up at him with lying eyes, knowing full well what the man wanted.

Pharazôn seized his hair roughly, twisting it to draw a gasp of pain. “Do what you do best, Sauron, or I will have you on your knees like a dog, whatever my damnable healer might suggest.”

Mairon smile and reached up to unlace the king’s loose silk trousers, giving no sign of his distaste, at the same time as he slid unnoticed into his mind as easily as his tongue slid up and down Pharazôn’s rapidly hardening shaft.

The king, still flying high as Manwe’s wretched eagles on the wings of his triumphant return, had spent the evening regaling his nobles with tales of his heroism in Middle-earth – heroism greatly aided by Mairon’s perfidious so-called allies who turned tail and ran before the Númenórean army without even giving battle. So much for the Golden One’s great victory, but as the tale in his own telling unfolded before Mairon’s probing mind, there was little of that, yet much of Pharazôn riding at the head of his cheering men and slaughtering his enemies – a few loyal veterans of the Eregion wars too stubborn for their own good, despite the order to yield.

Picking through the man’s thoughts and memories to see who might have been less than enamoured of their lord’s stories of his own glory was not an easy task as Pharazôn had been deep in his cups and seeing the gathering through the lens of his own vastly inflated sense of self-worth, but one person had been conspicuous in their lack of enthusiasm – Tar-Miriel, denied even her own name by the man who had usurped the sceptre to place himself on her throne and in her bed. Az-Zimraphel, as he insisted she be known, had reclined on a couch subtly placed out of his reach and had watched the evening unfold with an air of bored distaste. As the wine flowed and the talk became more ribald, she made her excuses and, to Pharazôn’s obvious irritation, left the great hall in a swirl of jewels and an impressive aura of disapprobrium.

A painful twist of his hair returned Mairon’s probing mind to his body. His irritation had clearly made itself felt and Pharazôn’s cock now lay softening on his tongue but without release. Preferring simple pain to the act of abasing himself once again before a braggart, Mairon elected to lean back, letting the king slip from his lips, leaving a slug trail of Mairon’s drool on his fine silk trousers.

A hiss of annoyance escaped the man’s lips, signalling his next move far enough ahead for Mairon to have broken his arm if he had been so minded, but that was not the game he intended to play. Pain exploded in Mairon’s left cheek as a heavy hand struck him full across the face, rings gouging a trail to the bone and knocking him from the bench to the gravel of the path, his injured knee twisting beneath him and sending a spike of agony down his leg.

Mairon absorbed the pain, letting it wash through him then channelling it into the stones beneath his hands, feeling them turn crystalline under his fingers and break apart as he balled his fingers into fists, letting dust dribble out as he counted the grains as only a Maia of Aulë’s could do, connected to the earth as he was. Pharazôn’s petty display of temper meant nothing to one who had brought the news of the loss of Taur-in-Gaurhoth to he who sat on the dark throne. The dark Vala had been creative in his punishments, to say the least, something Mairon did not miss about his former master.

Pharazôn spat, with an accuracy that might have on another occasion been impressive, directly onto the bloody furrow left by his ruby ring and turned on his heel, the effect of his exit somewhat spoiled by the way his cock flopped loosely against his leg as he fumbled to retie his trousers.

Mairon smiled, despite the irritation of a loose tooth. He was content to leave the obvious marks of the king’s displeasure apparent, but he had no desire to go further than that. A small tendril of power was enough to heal his jaw. The other hurts were barely worth the effort and he left the damage to his face as it was, especially as he had sensed Miriel’s eyes on the scene from an upper window almost from the moment her husband had stalked into the garden expecting a compliant captive and a willing mouth.

Ah well, the man would simply have to live with his disappointment and without the extremes of pleasure that only Mairon could give.

“Let me help you rise, my lord.” The use of the honorific displayed Nâluzimir’s distaste for his actual lord’s actions. “I have called for the healer.”

Mairon shot him a grateful glance and allowed the man to assist him back to the bench. He cradled the uninjured side of his face in one hand and made a show of ragged breathing as blood dripped from his cheek onto the path.

The steward hovered like a damsel fly, all iridescent colour and nervous energy, still unsure of how to treat his master’s prize captive.

The healer, when he arrived, suffered no such uncertainties. “What happened?” Rûkhân demanded.

“I failed to suck your king’s cock to his satisfaction,” Mairon said bluntly, with all the weariness of a long voyage spent pandering to Pharazôn’s proclivities.

The healer muttered the sort of curse Mairon had often heard from one his ringbearers, a former corsair captain who had plagued the coastal shipping routes until he had received a more lucrative – and lasting – offer of employment.

Rûkhân called for hot water and clean cloths and set about gently wiping the blood and spittle from Mairon’s face. “This will need needlework. I can see your cheekbone.”

“Delightful,” Mairon murmured. “Will it scar?”

“Not if I can prevent it.” Rûkhân pulled a small leather flask from his bag. “Take two mouthfuls of this, it will help with the pain and will reduce the swelling.”

Mairon sniffed the contents. He detected a mix of honey, ginger, turmeric, willowbark, yarrow and some other herbs and spices he did not recognise, all infused in alcohol strong enough to strip the lining from an orc’s throat. He swallowed twice and handed the flask back, grimacing.

Rûkhân took his time cleaning the gash then began to draw the ragged edges of Mairon’s flesh together with the aid of a thin, curved needle and a fine, silken thread, As he worked, the man hummed under his breath, a variant of a healing song often heard in the slave pits of Angband from those with the strength left for such things. The Noldor had brought it with them over the sea.

“You have had dealings with elves?”

“Such things are no longer spoken of and our harbours have not received ships from the West for many years.”

Mairon smiled. “Noted. Do you know the words, or only the melody?”

Before Rûkhân could answer, an imperious voice declared, “I am not going to faint at the sight of blood, now stop fussing!”

Tar-Miriel stalked down the path, waving aside an attendant trying valiantly but vainly to divert her from her quarry.

“Remain still,” Rûkhân ordered, as he continued the slow, steady progress of his needle across Mairon’s cheek, pressing together flesh that was no doubt already blooming like the skin of an overripe plum.

With his face tilted to a cloudless sapphire blue sky, Mairon found himself staring into the queen’s stormy grey eyes. He slipped into her mind with the same ease he had achieved with her husband and caught a glimpse of Pharazôn staggering in her bedchamber in the middle of the night and demanding the welcome that he felt was his as of right. It seemed Miriel had long since learned the futility of resistance. Pharazôn wanted an heir and was determined to take whatever opportunity he could to beget one. Miriel had lain wholly unresponsive as the king rutted to a mercifully quick completion and rolled off her to spend the rest of the night snoring like a pig while Miriel retired to bathe and attempt to sleep in an adjacent room.

When the healer tied off the last stitch and dabbed a clear, astringent liquid on the wound, Mairon leaned back and allowed his eyes to fall closed, shutting out the queen’s piercing regard while he took a moment to let his abused body process the pain. When he opened them again, blinking against the sunlight, Miriel’s eyes had softened.

“I am more sorry than I can possibly say,” Miriel said softly. “This is not how any hostage should be treated. The king has demeaned himself.”

Mairon smiled sadly. “Do not draw his ire onto you, my lady. The king will use me as he pleases. Such is the fate of a captive.”

“This is a royal palace, not an Umbarian brothel. No captive should be used thus.”

“Peace, my lady. I will heal, and when my pain has lessened, I will be better able to serve his desire.”

Miriel reached out and laid a cool hand on his. “I will do what I can to keep him from you.”

“Not at risk to yourself, I pray.”

As Miriel stood, he heard her murmur, “But to whom do you pray?”

To that, Mairon had no answer he was prepared to divulge.

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