Faramir Fiction Archive

Death Long Suffered (NC-17)

Written by Alcardilmë

09 December 2009 | 33441 words

Chapter Two – Manhandled

The screaming Orcs came through the trees in droves. All were caught by surprise, Faramir the most. Two hundred at least in the first wave and Gondor’s newest lieutenant could see more following behind. He shouted the command to retreat, but knew, in an instant, that retreat would be futile. They were all but surrounded. He pulled up short on his horse’s reins and unsheathed his sword, but the Orcs were so close it made it hard to even swing the thing. He pulled his dirk as he felt two arrows hit his horse. Screaming in pain, the horse lunged.

‘Oh Valar!’ Faramir ran as fast as he was able, but his horse’s fall had caught him by surprise and his leg had been trapped under the dead horse’s body. It had taken all his strength to pull it free. When he stood on it at first, he collapsed, but he heard the cry of the marauding Orcs as they continued to plunge free of the trees, and he knew, whether the foot was broken or no, he had best run. ‘Where had they come from,’ he wondered wildly, ‘where are my scouts?’

He looked about him and saw his men were doing the same – running, though there were at least a half dozen dead, arrows sticking from their bodies. The look cost him. He tripped and fell forward. Mardil died trying to save him. He felt himself scooped up into marble-hard arms and knew he had been captured. A hearty laugh greeted his eyes as he looked upon his captor.

He shoved his dirk into the forearm of his captor, but the beast just laughed louder. Leaving the dirk there, it took Faramir’s face into a rock-hard grip and moved the lieutenant’s head back and forth, then up and down until Faramir thought he saw stars.

“Wee little thing, aren’t ya?” the creature’s bellow near broke Faramir’s eardrum. “But the master won’t care. He likes ‘em small, easier to manhandle. Manhandle,” it chortled. “Did ya hear that, Balshak? Manhandle.” The laughter turned into a coughing fit as the Orc relished its joke.

Faramir lay silent in the great, tomb-like arms. Perhaps it would think him dead? No such luck – fate. The thing poked him in the ribs, the dirk still sticking, incongruously, from the trunk of an arm.

‘Need a little fatnin’, but you’ll not get it where yer goin’. Wish I could see it, but he don’t let the likes o’ us ta watch. Damn shame. Maybe we should play with this un afore we hands him over?”

Balshak slobbered and Faramir swallowed tightly.

“We best be getting’ on wit it then, afore he sends others lookin’ fer us.”

Balshak nodded. “The rest o’ em are dead or will be soon. Lots o’ meat fer supper.” The Orcs nearby all laughed. At that, their leader looked about, saw the great number looking at his captive with lust and yelled for them to go after the last of the survivor’s. Balshak and four others stayed behind, too lust-filled to even think properly.

Faramir found himself thrown to the ground. He tried to crawl off as the Orcs laughed, but Balshak saw him and stomped hard on his foot, the broken one, and Faramir yelped in pain. Which caused the Orcs to laugh even louder.

“We got us a lame ‘un. Not hardly worth the trouble o’ chasin’ it. Takes half the fun out, don’t it? But we’ll have our fun, nonetheless. Help me wit his clothes.” At this, the leader pulled the dirk from its own arm and shoved it into Faramir’s leg, the one with the broken foot. “This’ll keep ya close.” It howled in delight at Faramir’s screams.

In an instant, the Ranger found himself lying naked on the ground. By this time another two Orcs had joined the first two. As they jumped up and down in glee, Faramir realized he might not survive this. He closed his eyes, raised a quick appeal to the Valar, and pulled himself into a tight ball.

The Orcs howled in further glee. “Does ya see what he’s tryin’ ta do? He thinks we can’t get at ‘im. What kind o’ an idiot be ya?” the lead Orc bellowed in Faramir’s ear. At the same time, two Orcs grabbed Faramir’s arms and pulled them away from his body.

The young man began to kick with all his might, but an Orc sat on his legs, crushing the broken foot and knocking the dirk from his leg. Faramir screamed. “Stop yer thrashin’ and maybe we’ll be gentle-like.”

The other Orcs chortled at the jest while divesting themselves of their own clothes. The lead Orc forced Faramir onto his chest, then thrust into him from behind.

Faramir shrieked in agony. The Orc must have been the size of a hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to take in a breath, but the Orc slamming into him pushed his body against the ground and his mouth dug into it. Faramir began to choke on the dirt. He could not breath. Pushed further and further into the ground, his mind began to wander; the pain lessened, and finally, his thoughts stopped and blessed darkness filled him.

He woke to fresh pain. His face slapped repeatedly, he writhed while another Orc yelled at him to wake up. He groaned at the pain that radiated from his behind, but a new rod being shoved into him quickly heightened that pain. He shrieked again and again, but to no avail. The Orc above him shouted its delight at the pain it caused, and Faramir at last could scream no more. The Orc finished with him and roughly pulled out.

Another Orc took this one’s place and pulled Faramir to his feet. “Enough o’ this gentle stuff,” it growled. “I wants him ta watch me. I wants him ta see what I’m doin’ ta him.” It pushed Faramir’s back against a tree and lunged into him. Faramir could only whimper as pain lacerated him from head to toe, radiating from his nether regions up to his stomach and throughout his body. He yelped as another Orc leaned past the first Orc and took his member into its mouth, growling and slobbering over him, tugging on it and scraping its malicious teeth against him. Faramir sobbed until he could stand no more. His mind once again drifted off before his body betrayed him, spared the shame of knowing he had come into the giant creature’s mouth.

Cold water splashed onto his face and he sputtered and yelped as he awakened once more. As soon as the Orcs saw his eyes open, two proceeded to kick him in the ribs, others thrashed about his head with their fists. He felt his jaw break and groaned, too pain-filled to even put up his arms to defend himself.

“We best leave him be,” the lead Orc spat spittle as it spoke. “The master’ll have our heads if we bring ‘im back dead.”

“But I didn’t get ta have none!” One of the left-out Orcs whined. The leader looked about and saw that the main body of their force returned. He best not tarry.

“No one will know we’ve ‘ad ‘im,” Balshak muttered. “Why don’t we just finish ‘im off and leave ‘im?”

“Do ya think the boss’ll not know? Ya fool. He knows evert thin’ that happens in this whole wide world. He’ll know and he’ll beat us, more’n we’ve beat this here one. Now, get his clothes back on him and get ‘im walkin’ – no coddlin’ though.”

They all laughed at the jest.

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