[littlemanpoet]

"Up with you!"

Abârpânarú blinked his eyes open, rudely interrupted in the middle of a good dream in which he was with dear Inzillomí. It was dark and it stank. He coughed.

"What is the time?"

"The time no longer matters to you, for your life is over. Up!"

Abârpânarú clenched his teeth. He was fully awake now, angered. The insolence coming from this prison guard set him on edge. The quavering in his voice betrayed his words as mere braggadocio in one who had nothing to be proud of: an obsequious fool full of ambition, no doubt.

He placed his fists on the cold stone and pushed himself to his feet, and stood straight, standing a half a racca taller than the gaurd.

"Unlock him!" ordered the querrulous one. "And bring him out."

Once the two guards had unlocked his chains from the wall, the querrulous leader turned and began walking down the corridor, apparently expecting to be followed.

"'Tis a few hours before dawn, lord," murmured the guard holding his left arm. The other one shushed him.

Abârpânarú nodded. "Lead on."

They passed through a maze of dimly lit corridors until Abârpânarú had lost all sense of direction. At last he was brought up a long flight of stairs. When it leveled off, they entered a large drafty hall. Abârpânarú raised his chained hands to his squinting eyes against the brightness.

The querrulous one spoke. "We have brought the traitor, my lord."

"Accused traitor, fool. But never fear, the accusations shall be proven soon enough. Bring him before the seat of the high priest!"

The two guards pushed him not ungently forward, and he walked to the center of the hall, before the high priest's seat; a throne it was, really, though empty. His eyes adjusted to the brightness, which as it turned out, was not so bright; many torches in many sconces, brighter than his cell and the corridors below, but dim compared to how home was lit. Home. He could never return there, even if he somehow escaped, for they must leave the island. Abârpânarú's throat tightened. He raised his chin and looked forward as impassively as he could.

The high priest sat in the throne, regarding him. Abârpânarú blinked. Had he fallen asleep? Or was this some sorcery?

"Bring him forward to me," said the ice cold, coiled voice of the high priest in slow, slow tones. Abârpânarú looked into the high priest's eyes. They were dark and snakelike in their steady malice. The high priest leaned forward, watching him with naked hunger. "One of the Faithful, are you?" the high priest sneared.

Abârpânarú did not turn his eyes away from the high priest. "Are you leveling an accusation against me, Lord Sauron?"

Sauron's eyes narrowed. "Do not bandy with me. You are doomed. Unless you foreswear the star lovers, and those supposed godlings they bleat to in the west, with their needy love. Foreswear them and live! And maybe then I will let you serve me."

Abârpânarú knew the choice. Serve Sauron and become one of his evil henchmen, learning and wielding all the sorceric power he offered ... or die. But to become a servant of Sauron was death, a worse death than to die a sacrifice on his blasphemous altar. Abârpânarú cleared his throat.

"I am thirsty. May I have a drink?"

"I would hear the eloquence of Abârpânarú Karibzir." The high priest made his name sound like an insult; but he waved an arm, gesturing that his request should be fulfilled. A pitcher was brought and lifted to his lips, and poured in the general direction of his mouth, most of it pouring down his neck and shoulders, running down his chest. But his thirst was slaked.

"Speak, oh grandiloquent of the Faithful," the high priest jibed.

"Now that my name has been sullied by the lips of this blasphemer who sits before me, I shall never use it again. From now on I am Mabalar Melethroch, and all my kin and kind shall be known in the same speech. That is my answer."

The querrulous guard rounded on him and landed his fist on his face, knocking him out of the two guards' hands, sprawling on the cold stone floor. He was lifted to his feet by no visible force. He looked up. Sauron's hand was raised toward him, closing around open air. Mabalar felt his throat being squeezed.

"You have condemned yourself, fool. You shall die. Add him to the list!"

The throne went dark and was lost to sight. It was as if all the malevolence in the room had suddenly evaporated. Sauron had left.

Just then, Mabalar noticed a velvet curtain close off to the right. He had not noticed that it was open, but its closing made him realize that it had been.

As he was hustled unceremoniously back to his cell, he wondered who had been standing there.