ring it in.
summary:
a meeting between the lord of mordor and the merah of illahm. the beginnings of a tale. a tale of love, and not worship.
warnings: brief nsfw scene in the beginning.
see notes at end for terminology
The Lord of Mordor is, as always… exquisite. Looking. Smelling. Tasting.
They’ve kissed before and he always tastes like the last thing he had in his mouth, be it charred herbs and smoke, the milky rawness of meats, or sweet, sweet wines. Delectable. Delicious.
Mairon’s cock tastes like gold. Precious and rich, smooth even where it wrinkles. He imagines it does, at least. He’s tasted his fair share of them, but none of them as exotic as this. He hopes.
Kharif muses, briefly, why one who could choose their own body would choose one so.. slight. While not the smallest Khalwadîn Kharif has ever seen, Mairon is still…
Mairon.
The sounds he makes as he squirms would set the surliest of folk aflame. Something like a warbling groan, those soft, thick thighs pressing against Kharif’s ears as Mairon’s legs lock around his head. The heat makes him groan, hot and wet around stiff, pulsing flesh.
‘Merah,’ the Lord of Mordor sighs, arching into a curve when Kharif’s tongue dips down to the sac hanging below. ‘Oh, yes…’
For years he has imagined this day. For years he has dreamt of being able to please and attend to the Lord of Mordor, ruler of this kingdom, this alliance. The man who stands at the very heart of it, laying here at Kharif’s mercy.
He coats his fingers with oil and probes, presses, spreads them wide until he feels the walls shuddering, feels Mairon shuddering, quaking, choking on his own breaths. Kharif stretches him out until his lover is loose and limp, flushed all over, touching his face in a way that may as well be begging for more.
And as merah, Kharif has never been known to leave his partners wanting.
He ruts in deep. Mairon is small in his arms, shaking, rocked back and forth with every thrust. His face is beautiful, shining and speckled and flushed. He is hot inside, silky, wet with oil. The singing is loud in his ears, Mairon’s cries wavering as Kharif hilts within him again and again.
‘Kharif,’ his lover moans, head thrown back. Kharif imagines his eyes are rolling back, glazed over and unfocused, that he can feel every clench and spasm. ‘Yes, yes!’
And again. And again, and again, and he turns Mairon onto his knees, plants a hand over the back of his neck, and—
“Merah?”
He jolts upright, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat. A spark of pain knocks him back down. It’s only the brief yelp not his own that confirms he’s not just hearing things.
“Merah!”
“Tiru?” Kharif groans, rubbing the sting from his nose. The imagined taste of Mairon’s flesh is quick to fade from his mind and mouth, prompting another grumbling sigh that is lost among the quiet din of the bathhouse. “Why did you..?”
“You fell asleep, merah.” Tiru sits back on his haunches, still straddling Kharif’s legs, a mark reddening on his forehead. “At least wait until you’re in the middle of a massage. We’ll start worrying you’ve fallen ill already, otherwise.”
“What do you mean, already?” Kharif lets out a gruff spot of laughter.
“Every time Ashanakhan[2 comes around, you always fall ill!”
“I do not. You imagine things, Tiru.”
“Shall I recount them?” He holds up a hand and begins, one finger after another. “Last year you smoked so much you were coughing for weeks. The year before that, it was a splinter that ended up festering. And the year before that, food poisoning!”
“Tiru, three times in a row doesn’t mean I’ve made a habit of it.”
“Stress, then?”
“I’m not that old!”
“Could’ve fooled me, merah.”
Kharif swats at the man’s bottom as he slides off, heaving a sigh. What he wouldn’t give for that to have been Mairon instead. He spins the bracelet around his wrist and wonders what color Mairon would wear, if he wore one.
“Merah, are you.. You are!” With what may as well have been a triumphant crow, Tiru gropes under the towel and grabs hold of the turgid flesh between Kharif’s legs, prompting a pleased groan. “Now is that because of me, or were you dreaming of some other minx, mm?”
“The only minxes I know are you and the ashahikha ,” Kharif coughs, his erection stiffening further. “And…”
Both his and Tiru gaze are drawn to the wicker chair their most recent guest is lounging in.
It’s not the first time Mairon has visited Illahm, nor the first time Kharif has found himself in the company of the Lord of Mordor. He can’t actually recall when the man first arrived, only that he just… arrived. That he has been around for as long as Kharif can remember.
And he won’t deny that this isn’t the first time he has had such thoughts about Mairon, though it is the first time he has had anything this intense… the reason for it likely being that Mairon has never seen in the new year with them in a batihimna[4 before, until today.
“…I never would have thought someone like him would go somewhere like..this,” Tiru says in a rush of breath.
“Indeed.. -No! I didn’t mean-”
“Oh, yes, merah, you did. And I can’t blame you for it, to be honest.”
Kharif looks over and sees Tiru tilting angling his head lower, as though to get himself a better view. After a brief moment’s hesitation Kharif does the same, and realizes what has his friend and masseur so captivated.
Mairon is still dressed, but from the way the light shines through the sliver of a gap from the slit of his tunic, Kharif realizes that the Lord of Mordor is wearing… just that.
A tawny hand breaks the scene, tugging on the hem of Mairon’s tunic with a shift in posture. Kharif’s gaze snaps up to meet Mairon’s, twinkling and smiling from over the rim of the goblet held in his other hand.
“Merah, why do you lay so far away?” Mairon seems to croon, beckoning Kharif over. “Come closer. I have something to ask of you.”
He gets to his feet, towel wrapped around his waist. Mairon shifts his legs to make just enough room for Kharif to sit down, though he still motions to one of the bath attendants to bring another chair over. When he looks back, Mairon has his legs drawn up, making the hem of his tunic peel back even further until he swears he can see the entirety of his Lord’s bare bottom.
“–How are you enjoying the- ah, the facilities, my Lord?” Kharif manages to ask past a suddenly dry throat. Mairon doesn’t seem to notice his brief but intense staring.
“I had a wonderful massage from your friend,” Mairon muses, sounding pleased yet wistful as he stretches out in his chair. Kharif cannot help but follow the movement of fingers, trailing along the length of leg. How Kharif wished that were his own hand, his own leg.
“Anatiru[5] is well-gifted in his craft, as his name may imply.”
“Oh, he is. But you said this was a pleasure bath, merah. I see many people are making the most of the coming of the new year, yet I have been here for hours and none have come to find pleasure with me… ”
He lets his eyes wander from the moisture beading on Mairon’s forehead, the flush of his steamed cheeks, the damp line of his collar.. the freckles dotting the length of his arms all the way down to his bare wrists.
“That is because you wear no signal, Mairon. Was it not explained to you when you entered the batihimna?”
“I thought it would be like the other batihimni that we have entered before.”
“One can drink and smoke in a bathhouse as much as one wants, but for.. physical pleasures, we visit the batihimna. It is a measure to protect us all from unwanted advances. See, here,” he says, holding up his own wrists in example, a band of soft rope wound around each. “The color of those who wear one will signal what they are interested in. Those who do not wear one wish to be left alone, or will participate only in voyeurism, light gestures of the sort. The attendants carry them if you would like one.”
Mairon hums in a way that could be thoughtful, sliding his gaze over to the nearest attendant and tapping a finger upon his bare knee.
“..What do the colors mean?”
“Black means you prefer to give. Those undyed prefer to receive. But many of us have no preference, and so we are given any color but those first two.”
“And that is why yours is a bright and chipper sort of yellow?”
“It is,” Kharif says slowly. “…Although I might prefer one or the other with, ah- certain individuals.”
“Such as myself?”
Kharif’s heart stops for a moment in his chest. Then jumps halfway up his throat until he swallows it back down with great (if well-hidden) difficulty.
“…I might be so inclined,” he says lowly, the very last few words cracking like eggshells, “if you would wear a signal.”
“And if I wore one black?”
There is that flutter again, in the pit of his belly. It stops him from outright asking Mairon to wear one. Please.
“One would expect nothing less from the Lord of Mordor.”
“Really?” Mairon reaches out, the tips of his fingers tickling along the back of Kharif’s hand and over the brightly coloured rope. “Our wearing the undyed signal is considered lesser?”
“I- I didn’t mean-”
“Did you not?”
The Lord of Mordor dips his head, lips brushing over knuckles. It is a servility being shown to someone else. For someone else.
Kharif turns his hand out and pulls Mairon’s face up for a kiss, cupping the swell of his cheeks.
“Perhaps, later, we might purchase a room and touch more,” he offers, as any respectable Gulhasan would. “If that would please you, my Lord.”
For a moment, Kharif thinks a brief disappointment flashes across Mairon’s face. He kisses back, but his gaze is drawn aside to the crowd around them, wistful and wanting. Almost as though he-
No, no! It cannot be. Not Mairon, not the Lord of Mordor. Surely their customs are different, Kharif knows. It can’t possibly be- and yet.
And yet.
He cannot help but imagine it. Having Mairon in front of an audience. The Lord of Mordor has such a lovely face and form for it, but it must be blasphemy to think of such things. It must be.
“Forgive me, Mairon,” Kharif says and excuses himself, leaning back and away from that tempting mouth. He licks his own lips for that taste, to sate the brief desire. “Even for Ashanakhan, I will not trod upon the rules of the batihimna.”
Mairon leaves a lingering touch along the line of Kharif’s jaw, hand outstretched as though to reel him back in. How Kharif would like to be reeled in, like a fish to the fisherman. He takes Mairon’s hand in his and presses a kiss to the back of it, brief but lingering. An apology.
“..Will you wash me, at least?” The question is sudden. Kharif’s eyebrows shoot upwards and he raises his head to look at Mairon more fully. “Can you? Is that unallowed as well, unless I wear one of those… things?”
“What’s wrong with wearing one of our symbols? It has been our custom for many, many years now.”
“Nothing wrong, Kharif, but I…” Mairon looks askance, fiddling with the ring he wears. One of them. “..I am not so sure about displaying such preferences of mine-”
“There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“-nor am I ashamed of anything.”
Kharif takes another look at Mairon’s bare legs, the fullness of his thighs and what is showing of his bottom, and he finds he must agree. Mairon is not ashamed at all. Kharif sees no reason why he should be. Truly, the way he wears that tunic is far more evocative than if he were to be sitting there in the nude.
The sight of him is far too tempting. But Kharif would not have lasted long as merah if he were so easily taken in by temptations.
“Mairon,” he coughs, looking away for just a brief moment. “I may be merah , but I will not stand to see our own customs broken. They are as much the rules of this establishment as they are of our culture. The ashahikha here will not hesitate to toss out anyone who disregards them as well.”
“Even the Lord of Mordor?”
“I have known her for years; she will throw out the merah if she has to,” Kharif says solemnly. He passes a glance to the side, where the ashahikha stands in the doorway. She is not tall, not very imposing, and not dressed in any way that speaks of command. But she stands, stiff and straight, and she carries the cane that all ashahikhani carry, to ward away unwanted guests. It is thick and wooden, polished to a shine.
Mairon follows his gaze for a moment and seems to nod in understanding.
“And besides, you have already washed, Mairon,” Kharif says with a crooked grin. He taps the side of his head, next to his eye. “I know. I saw.”
“Fair enough!” Mairon laughs, sending Kharif’s stomach into a coiling, useless flop. “Do they have ghalyani here, then?”
He finds himself both spurred to attention and struck with a slight sense of.. dismay.
“The finest blend of herbs as well, if I might say. You wish for a smoking room?”
“May we?”
The breathy tone of Mairon’s voice and the glittering in his eyes makes thoughts come unbidden to Kharif’s mind. Breathless and gasping, writhing, begging. How he wants nothing more than to touch this man, this creature. This god. To please him.
Rather than a response, Kharif motions for the nearest attendant and makes the sign with his hand that requests for a room.
“And two ghalyani, yafiwa[8 .”
But the pleasure he thinks of is a mortal’s pleasure. Physical pleasure. Yet isn’t Mairon still mortal, still physical? Still a man? Would this not be the sort of pleasure he seeks, if any at all? He must have. He must.
Kharif stands and extends a hand, marveling in the smoothness that meets his own. Almost as though Mairon has never done a day’s work in his life, silky and buttery as they feel- just like the rest of him. If Kharif had never seen the Lord of Mordor beating a sheet of metal on an anvil with his own two hands, with his own two eyes, he would scarce believe it. If he did not remember clearly grazing the man’s side with his spear years back, he would think Mairon had never fought a single war before, so unblemished is he.
If not for the ragged line across his throat, Kharif would have had more doubts as to this one’s invincibility. His immortality.
“Watch your hand, merah,” Mairon murmurs, as Kharif rests one arm around the small of his back, and his hand slips down to the round swell of Mairon’s buttocks.
“You have an irresistibly lovely ass,” Kharif offers in apology, his voice hushed and lowered.
As if in retort, Mairon delivers a resounding smack to Kharif’s own rear and continues on with a strut when he stops in surprise. Behind him, he hears Tiru and the ashahikha chortling.
The room is set up much like other ghalya rooms; furnished mainly with rugs on the floor, a pit in the center for a hearth and ghalyani surrounding it. There are cactus flowers, dried redfruits, and spices strung up along the walls for the new year. It mingles with the scent of the herbs, leaves a cloying taste on his tongue when he swallows. The colors match the pillows provided, bound in rough-clothed but plush, and massive, for lounging on.
And Mairon lounges on them, in a vision of luxurious splendor. His tunic rides up the side of his hip, far higher than even the most provocative Gulhasan would wear it.
It is good, then, that Mairon is not Gulhasan.
“You are distant again, merah.”
Kharif looks through the rising cloud of smoke and feels as though he is in a dream. The mulled, spicy scent of burning herbs muddles his thoughts, slows his hands. But he makes a pleasant sound, sitting up a little straighter across from Mairon- or so he thought.
His head lolls to the side and there Mairon is, lounging again , this time more angled towards Kharif. He’s within arms reach. So close, and yet…
“Only because I seek your desires, and not my own.”
“Liar.”
“That is untrue,” Kharif says pointedly, gesturing with his hand in Mairon’s direction. “It is our way, and I am merah, so I must put forth the example, even in private.”
“Is that so?”
And he wishes. He wishes Mairon were just that much closer, wishes Mairon would roll over, put himself between Kharif arms, between his legs. Wishes he could roll himself over and do the same to Mairon. With Mairon.
Wishes Mairon would kneel between his legs. Wishes he was brazen enough to kneel between Mairon’s legs.
When he reaches out, it’s only to draw the Lord of Mordor in for a kiss. Smokey and sharp. He tastes of honeyed fruits and sweet, sour ash. When Kharif inhales, he smells a trace of sulfur, fire and cinders, the scent of the Mountain of Fire.. the scent of a god, he thinks. Of one who does not die.
Kharif’s other hand touches, fleeting. Rounds the curve of his thighs, stroking, callouses rasping over fine skin. Smooths down the wrinkles of Mairon’s tunic and tugs it lower into a more.. presentable fashion. As presentable as one can be when wearing nothing else underneath. His hand brushes briefly over Mairon’s groin, and he hears a quiet, gasping sound. A little whisper of surprise.
Mairon swats at his hand again, with a little smile and a little laugh, and leans back to ask him how the trade has been lately, if the weather has been any kinder this winter, or the drought any lighter. As Kharif replies, that it has been cooler, wetter, but no less drier for a desert, he finds that it is his heart that leaps to attention, and not the flesh between his legs.
When their chatter dies down, he hears a bell tolling down the street, ringing in midnight and the beginning of a new year. A chorus of cheers and ash shana akhan[ murmur through the building, seeping into the corners of their room. Mairon lifts his ghalya and Kharif does the same.
“Ash shana akhan, merah Kharif,” the Lord of Mordor hums, leaning his head on Kharif’s shoulder.
One more year.
“Ash shana akhan, Lord Mairon.” Kharif says quietly, with more enthusiasm than he had intended. “May this one be as grand as all the others.”
Maybe it is that Mairon finds pleasure in something as simple as this, this kissing and touching, holding. Speaking. And maybe, just maybe, Kharif is satisfied to have this much of his time. For now.
Perhaps next year will be different.
notes
- Khalwadîn: people of the plains, in their native language. otherwise known collectively as the easterlings. mairon’s current form is that of an easterling. bonus: prior to mairon’s involvement, the easterlings and southrons did not get along very well! there were many insults traded between the two. there still are. sometimes.
- Ashanakhan: a southron festival for celebrating the coming (heh heh) of a new year.
- ashahikha: the sole owner of an establishment. the initial ‘ash’ is derived from black speech ‘ash’, meaning ‘one’, here meaning ‘sole’ or ‘only’. ‘shahikha’ is to mean ‘owner’.
- batihim: a bathhouse, privately owned but open to the public. illahm is well known for medicinal baths due geothermal heated springs. batihimni is the plural form. batihimnA indicates a public bathhouse that is often used for reasons other than cleanliness… each bathhouse has its own set of rules, but some are common among them all, such as the wearing of coded bracelets. consent is important, after all!
- Anatiru: a name, with roots in the elvish name ‘Annatar’. it means strength and gifted.
- Gulhasan: people of the desert, in their native language. otherwise known collectively as southrons.
- ghalyan: a waterpipe, or hookah
- yafiwa: a term used to address male youths, particularly with the meaning of ‘young boy’
- ash shana akhan: a phrase spoken at the ringing of the ashanakhan festival. a literal translation is ‘one year more’, while the proper one is ‘one more year’. as a cry to the heavens, to melkor; a challenge thrown at life itself. kind of like shouting ‘NEXT’ when you finish a shot. ‘ash’ comes from the similar black speech word.
