Spoiled: 3. Abhorred

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3. Abhorred

Lying together, with my arch-enemy, arms and legs entwined. It could not be a stranger scene, or a more unexpected turn of events. We nuzzle together, as if we are in love, and he tells me many things, some tender, some painful…he tells me not to call him Sauron: he hates that name- it means the Abhorred – the Foul. You are far from foul, I tell him, kissing him, a doting old fool, satisfied in body, and dulled in mind by that very fact. Annatar, he says. Call me Annatar. I took that name because I liked it. What is your true name, Flame of Angband?, I ask him, turning a term for him I had heard from the lips of a dying orc into a love-name. He pouts a little, and murmurs a strange name, something that does not seem right, somehow, and then he smiles, and says: “Very well, the last true name I recall was Nár… Nár.. Flame…as you said to me, but of Utumno, not Angband…I warmed Melkor’s cold body with my fire, as you may have surmised…” I clear my throat, a little shocked, but not utterly surprised. It is not unthinkable they had been lovers. He smirks, at some unknown mirth, and then whispers. “Annatar I like best of all, now.” “Yes. It is so, then. Lord of Gifts.” We lie in silence for a while, and then, he moves in that peculiarly sensual way against me, like a serpent in man-form, coiling around my senses, even as he prepares his fangs. “I long for him, even now.” The beautiful eyes are closed in moonlight’s halo, and I let him talk. “I loved him, I still love him, and I will never see him again.” “You do not know that for certain.” I tell him, wanting to add, that I feel they will find each other again, and yet, I do not say this. For he would understand that I am saying he is destined for the Void, to a dark reunion with his Lord. And I do not know this. No one but Eru knows. And it would terrify him, even with the thought of being with the Dark One again. Suddenly, he is above me, and I remember the situation, and in alarm, I flinch sharply. His mouth descends onto me, sweet beyond all measure, and I respond, gladly, aroused already, despite my weary and spent condition. But though my mind is excited, and eager, my body is not cooperating. “I- do not know if I can- again- so soon- Annatar.” I say, regretfully. “It is alright. Let me show you what I like…something ..he used to do to me.” I force this last comment out of my mind, as he moves around so that he is straddling my face, delicately hovering over me, hesitant, and then he lies down, his face near my thighs, his legs around my head. “Do you..mind? Do you wish ..to?” I answer with my hands pulling him down onto my mouth, spreading him and thrusting my tongue inside. His muscles clench and then relax, and the soft moaning tells me my ministrations are being enjoyed. Neurotically precise and order-driven, he is of course meticulously clean and pure, and the spicy-salt taste is not unpleasant at all. “Oh, I love that, I love it, nothing feels so good as this, not in all of Arda…” My fingers curl into the light golden hairs, framing his tight cavern. Like gold and magma combined, they shine in soft radiance. I am rather enjoying this, myself, and I insert one finger in deep, as my tongue continues its attentions. I drink him in, and thrust my finger in and out, and Annatar’s hips move in rhythm, and his voice is strained and frantic, more of a whimpering than anything else. “You know where to touch… do it, oh, Olórin…please…” I do, indeed, know where to touch, and my finger presses and rubs there, to an accompaniment of soft cries, and thrashing body. He rides onto my deeply probing finger, and his noises are sharper, caught in a rising tide, and I know in a matter of seconds he will erupt above me, sending his molten lava spurting down my neck and chest. But I want more. Now my elderly but powerful body has remembered itself, and I gently pull my finger out, even as he tries to keep it inside. “Annatar…roll onto your back. Haste, haste!” He obeys, with surprising compliance, and I mount him swiftly, knowing he is well-prepared for this. I sink into him all the way, and the look on his face is indescribable, almost rapture- I am pleased to give such pleasure, and equally pleased to receive it. We move in the ancient rhythm, quickly now, both too far along to take any time, and I feel it coming, trying to hold off, for his sake- but I need not, as he looks up at me with wide blue eyes, flashing slightly red now, and gasps out: “The moment is upon me, Olórin!”, tensing in elegant ecstasy, and surging up with a cry. So bidden, I allow it myself, and my heart races in the otherworldly sensations, Maia to Maia, soul to soul, brother to brother. We dissolve in bliss together, and then the world slips away, and I fall into a deep and unwise sleep. Morning comes, as a shock and a blasphemy, as I open my eyes to the fair face above me, with a smug and cold smile. “Olórin. What a splendid lover you are, despite this venerable form. I nearly did not awaken before you, so spent and eased I was!” I move to sit up, perhaps to embrace him or kiss him, and I feel something very sharp and cold press into my neck. “Nay, you had better stay there. We will be going in a moment though, do not be so impatient.” He has a blade pressed to my throat, and the realization of this turns my blood to ice. He draws me up to my feet, and I struggle to awaken fully, to comprehend what has happened- and how! I never put the irons back on him, I realize dismally, and then I slowly reach down to my leg, just above the boot. “It is gone, dearest fool, that silver shaft now has a new master. One who will not hesitate to use it, I might say!” He sizes me up, smirking again, as last night when he thought of Morgoth- “A fine hostage you are, my love. Yes, valuable, and worthy! Your captivity shall see us into Mordor very nicely!” That smile again, so cold and yet so heated, all at once. “I may let you live, Olórin. You are a wonderful lover. I have not felt such pleasure since- since a very long time ago.” He presses up behind me, and I hear the metallic sound of chains. Of course. The warden is about to become the prisoner. And of a sudden, from out of nowhere, there is a loud thud, and Sauron falls heavily against me from behind, staggering. I move away from him to try to see what is happening, and then I understand. Curumo. Sauron was struck on the back by the Staff, but he still has the blade, and though he is out of breath from the blow, he moves away as well, and we all stand in a circle, facing each other. “Have you remembered that this is Sauron the Deceiver, now, Gandalf?” Curumo says softly, maliciously, and then he lunges at Sauron, and brings the Staff down on the slender wrist, and I hear the crack of broken bones. Sauron cries out, and the blade falls to the ground. I move towards him, as this is the obvious moment to restrain him, he is long and strong, but he is no match for the two of us, especially with a broken wrist. But then Curumo seems to go mad- again. “Stand back, Mithrandir!” I look at him in confusion, thinking perhaps Sauron has another weapon I do not see- and then Saruman raises the Staff again and brings it down across the pale, frightened face, and Sauron reels, falling to his knees, dazed. “Curumo- let us restrain him now- he is no threat--” But he is only beginning, and as Sauron tries to crawl away, fairly cringing, all desire for bold action utterly gone from him, Curumo brings the Staff down a third time, and this time it brings blood. As I see this, I am so stunned I am locked in place, but Curumo is not ceasing, and the blows come down mercilessly, raining down, and Curumo puts a boot on the broken wrist, pinning him for the assault. The screams are piercing. Mindless of any allegiance to Saruman at that moment, I hurl myself at him, and knock him away, and stand between him and the huddled form under him. More insubordination. But I do not care. “Enough! Have you gone insane? What are you doing? This is not called for!” I am so angry I can scarcely speak, and Sauron crawls behind me, our unpleasant encounter this morning temporarily forgotten by both of us. “He must be – broken! Broken!!” Curumo hisses at me, his dark eyes wild, mad. His hand clutches the Staff convulsively, and I see blood on the sharp spikes. “Leave him. It is enough. Indeed, far too much.” I defy my superior, not caring. Saruman glowers at me for a very long time, but finally moves away, and sits down on a boulder, silent. I turn my attention to Sauron- Annatar- and he has curled up on his side, hands over his face. Very gently, and under Curumo’s spiteful gaze from the boulder, I try to turn him over, but he pushes me away, moaning. I must see, however, and so I insist, and my heart recoils at the sight. The once-beautiful face is marred and wounded, there is so much blood I cannot even see the injuries. I take the hem of my robe and carefully wipe away the majority of it, and now there is more clarity. One eye has already swollen shut, and both are blackening. I do not think he is permanently maimed, but the healing will be slow and painful. What if I had not stopped Saruman? I look over at him, in wonder and horror. He returns my look, and finally says quietly: “Gandalf, I know you are thinking I am a monster, but if Sauron is not utterly laid low- so broken and beaten that he will never threaten us again- we will not be able to get him to Valinor. I take no joy in hurting another, but in this case- sadly- his spirit must be broken! Would you prefer we eventually have to kill him? Again, I take no joy in it. My heart wept with every blow.” I do not believe him. At all. I shake my head, not wishing to answer. Sauron covers his face again, and I remember the broken wrist. With a sigh, I gently feel for which one it is, and the soft groan tells me. I must set it. Dreading this, I lean back, suddenly beaten and broken myself, and then I rise, to look for a splinter of wood to splint the wrist. By the Valar, this has gone very bad.

This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: Annatar the Fair

Status: General

Completion: Work in Progress

Era: 3rd Age - The Stewards

Genre: Drama

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 04/23/05

Original Post: 04/23/05

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