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“You will be stripped of your power and taken from here to Númenor as a hostage.”
Mairon remained on his knees, head bowed. “As you will, so shall it be, my lord King.” He clasped his hands behind his back, stroking his ring with his thumb, feeling its warmth. “I offer obeisance and fealty.”
“Can your word be trusted?” Ar-Pharazôn demanded.
Mairon looked up and allowed a slight smile to curve his lips. “I am humbled before your might, Lord of Númenor. You have prevailed and I understand the folly of my former challenge. My word can indeed be trusted. There is naught left here for me, I submit to your will.” Then he bent his head to the ground at the king’s feet.
The Númenorean’s arrogance would lead him to folly, that Mairon was certain.
This proud king would not prove difficult to ensnare.
****
Two nights later, Mairon was summoned to attend Ar-Pharazôn in the evening.
The Númenorean camp was a hive of activity. Soldiers and servants moved with purpose everywhere. Flanked by a guard of ten men armed with swords and long spears, Mairon’s hands were bound loosely behind his back with a steel chain encased in black silk and he was escorted to the king’s tent. The gold draperies were held aside, and he was led into the king’s presence.
Without waiting to be ordered, he again sank to his knees.
On this occasion, courtesy of the small amount of baggage he had been allowed to retain, he was wearing a loose silk shirt of deepest red that complimented the highlights he had artfully woven into his hair. In this form, long dark eyelashes surrounded eyes flecked with gold and green. He knew the king found him attractive.
His spies had assured him that Ar-Pharazôn’s marriage to Ar-Zimraphel was widely believed to be a sham, and she had not borne him children. The likelihood was that the king’s tastes lay elsewhere, and that was the weakness Mairon was intent on exploiting. He had put on his most pleasing form before leaving Mordor; this body was somewhat less than average height, putting him half a head shorter than his captor, slender, with smooth pale skin and long-fingered hands. Although he still wore the ring that contained much of his power, it lay hidden from the sight of others, its influence unconstrained. There was nothing in this assumed form that spoke of challenge.
“Come closer,” Ar-Pharazôn ordered.
Mairon repressed a smile. The king clearly enjoyed seeing him kneel. He rose to his feet and walked slowly to the foot of the raised dais on which the king reclined in a gilded chair, then, at a wave of Ar-Pharazôn’s hand, he went back to his knees and bent his head to the lowest step on the dais, knowing that his bound hands were clearly on show.
“You may kiss my hand as a sign of your fealty,” Ar-Pharazôn said magnanimously. “If you do so, I shall consider freeing you from your bonds.”
Mairon raised his head and looked up at Ar-Pharazôn through his eyelashes. “I hear and obey, my king.” His voice remained studiously neutral.
Ar-Pharazôn held down his hand and Mairon pressed a kiss to the backs of the man’s fingers, allowing his lips to open slightly, his warm breath sliding like silk over the king’s flesh.
“Free his hands.”
The guards moved quickly to do their lord’s bidding.
“Do not give me cause to mistrust you, Sauron of Mordor. If you do, then you will be bound again and this time there will be no silk between you and the steel.
“As my lord wills it,” he murmured, letting no sign show that he was irritated by the use of an insulting name that he had never taken for his own.
Even, with the chain removed, Mairon kept his hands loosely entwined behind his back and his eyes lowered. He’d received enough pleasure slaves as tribute from his allies to know how to play this particular game.
Commanding him to follow, Ar-Pharazôn stood and walked over to a long reclining couch set amidst richly coloured rugs and furs in an area set around his heavy drapes. The guards remained were they stood. Mairon waited until the king was seated and then made his way to his feet, wondering quite how often he would have to kneel at the wretched man’s feet to have the desired effect.
His answer came with the hand that reached out to toy with the silken strands of his hair. Mairon remained still but allowed a light blush to suffuse his pale skin. Ar-Pharazôn’s fingers trailed over his cheekbone and down his neck to come to rest on his collarbone.
“Are there limits to your obeisance?” the words were spoken quietly and would not have been audible beyond the inner quarters of the richly-appointed tent.
“There are no limits, my lord king.” Mairon injected the words with all his considerable powers of persuasion.
The sword-callused hand went back to toying with his hair, and this time Maron turned his head and let his lips caress the skin on the inside of Ar-Pharazôn’s wrist. Strong fingers gripped his chin and forced his head up to stare into the king’s eyes. As they had done when Mairon had first offered surrender, the grey eyes burned hot with lust. Ar-Pharazôn’s fingers gripped hard enough to bruise. Mairon opened his mouth slightly and delicately moistened dry lips with the tip of his tongue, allowing his breathing to deepen and the flush on his cheeks to intensify.
Ar-Pharazôn’s other hand fisted in his hair, pulling Mairon’s head back while the fingers of the other hand traced the line of his bowed neck.
Mairon swallowed and let his mouth fall open slightly.
“Your neck would look well adorned with a collar.”
“As my lord wills it.”
Thick fingers thrust themselves into Mairon’s mouth. He let his tongue flicker out to touch them and sucked lightly on battle-hardened skin. The king’s nails were closely trimmed and well-manicured, something he might well have cause to be grateful for later.
The hunt was on.
But Ar-Pharazôn did not realise he was the one being played like a fish on a line.
He was hooked, and Mairon would now gather him in.