Faramir Fiction Archive

Death Long Suffered (NC-17)

Written by Alcardilmë

09 December 2009 | 33441 words

Chapter Four – The Witch-king

They walked for hours. The sun shone hot upon his head and his throat constricted from lack of water, but the Orcs did not stop nor offer Faramir any respite, any comfort – any water. He stumbled often; though they gave him a stick to bear his weight upon, loss of blood made him weak. He concentrated on the pain from his broken jaw, hanging loose, to keep his mind from other parts of his body. Parts that now shamed him. Finally, he could walk no longer; his body gave out and he fell, hitting his head in the process. The pain that engulfed him as his jaw hit the ground caused stars to float before his eyes. He blinked a number of times to clear his head, but darkness came, not sought, but gratefully embraced.

When next he woke, he found himself in the dark. He cried out in alarm when he discovered his hands and feet bound. No sound escaped for he found his mouth gagged. He choked on the filthy piece of cloth and the taste of it. He suppressed the need to vomit, knowing it would probably kill him.

“So ya’s finally wakes up, does ya? I thought we’d have ta carry ya all the way to the master, but I see the stuff I gave ya to drink wakes ya up. Good. Now, be real quiet and I’ll only hump ya myself.”

Balshak’s voice, of that Faramir was sure. If he could make some sound, the leader would discover his underling planned harm upon his prisoner.

The Orc took Faramir’s face in its hands. “Ifn’ ya make one sound, I’ll knife ya. I doesn’t care what Gorgrum says. I’lls tell im ya tried ta escape. An’ he’ll believes me, he will. Trusts me, he does.” The Orc snorted. “Fool.”

The pain that seared through the young lieutenant was beyond description. His jaw felt on fire. Faramir almost wished they’d cut it off, but the horror of what was about to happen to him again seared even hotter. He was roughly thrown over onto his stomach. He felt his balls being fondled and then his leggings torn and pulled halfway down his thighs. The creature lay on top of him and pushed in. Faramir silently screamed. Push after push, more furious and faster then any earlier this day, slammed him into the ground. Once in awhile, the Orc’s head pushed against Faramir’s and his jaw slammed into the ground. At last, the boy slumped in darkness.

“Come on!” he felt a kick to his side and then a hand pulled him up. “What ‘cha been about now?” he heard the voice of Gorgrum ask. “Ya been playin’ wit yerself? We ain’t ‘nuff fer ya, boy?”

The other Orcs laughed loudly. “No, I doesn’t think so; I think one o’ me boys has been at ya. Is that it? One o’ ems been playin’ wit ya without my say so?”

Faramir just stood, dazed and sick to his stomach. The gag still in his mouth; he could taste blood, sweat and something else. He shuddered. Did it…? No, it couldn’t have. It wouldn’t have. He would have known! He sobbed and the Orc hit him across the face. He reeled and fell sideways.

“Don’t be givin’ nothin’ ta ‘em unless’n I tell ya to. Now, if’n I find out which one o’ ye lot took him without askin’ I’ll run ya through,” Gorgrum bellowed to the Orcs surrounding him. He motioned and one of the Orcs picked Faramir up.

The camp churned into furious action as the Orcs made to leave, hiding from their leader. Balshak kicked Faramir in the back of his legs and he fell to the ground. “Jest r’member,” it whispered, holding its knife before Faramir’s face.

Then the Orc grabbed Faramir’s torn tunic, hauled him up, and handed him the walking stick. “I’m not carryin’ ya today. Ya hear me. No faintin’ on us like a little girly girl, ya hear me?”

Gorgrum nodded his approval and the troop marched off, Faramir and Balshak bringing up the rear.

When at last they stopped again, Faramir saw they were very near to Minas Morgul. They crossed the river sometime while he was unconscious, he surmised, and now the Witch-king’s stronghold lay before him. Faramir began to shake at the thought. His legs gave way and Balshak kicked him hard. Faramir felt another rib break.

“Come along now. The master’s waitin’ He’ll be happy ta see we found at least one officer. He likes the officers, he does. Gives ‘im more fun. Don’t know why. Yer not as tight as some I’ve ‘ad.” Balshak picked him up and shoved the sharp end of the stick into his stomach. “I’m hopin’ fer more, ya know,” it whispered conspiratorially. “So keep yer door open an’ yer hole too.” It roared in laughter and shoved Faramir onward.

They reached the gate an hour later. It yawned open. Faramir swallowed in fear. He looked to his right, to the river that ran under the bridge they were crossing and wondered if he could make it to the edge and over before they grasped his purpose. Death seemed so sweet now. He wept; he would never make it, not with his foot like this. Balshak pushed him and he passed into the castle.

A huge wingéd beast sat in the main courtyard, seeming to sun itself, its wings spread out. The company of Orcs swerved and walked around it. It sniffed at Faramir and snorted. Then, it snaked a long, thin tongue out and licked Faramir’s face. The Orcs laughed. “He likes ya, he does. The master’ll be given ya ta ‘im, once he’s finished wit ya.”

Faramir looked with horror at the creature and its eyes seemed to gleam, as if it understood and enjoyed Faramir’s fëar. Balshak again pushed him forward, yelling at him to keep up.

They walked into the keep and Faramir found himself in a large hall, even bigger than the one in Minas Tirith. There were statues all about, such as those in the Great Hall, but these stood – decapitated. Lewd writing covered the statues privates, and some had those selfsame privates cut off and stuck into holes drilled into the statues’ mouths. Faramir recognized Earner’s statue and wept.

He was thrown to the floor in front of a throne like unto the one in the City, but much more ornate. He kept his head down; he did not want to see who or what sat upon that throne. At a hiss, an Orc pulled his head back and Faramir looked upon an aberration of a man. The Witch-king!

“So, you brought me a good one this time. Look at his hair and his eyes. He is truly of the high blood. Probably straight from that wretched island. You did well, Gorgrum, though I would have preferred his arriving in better health. Next time you bring me a prisoner this ill-treated, I will send you to my dungeons. And not for your pleasure.”

Gorgrum let Faramir’s head fall and fell to its knees. “Master, he was wounded in the fightin.’ We didn’t do nothin’ to ‘im.”

A whip slashed across the creatures back. The guard with the device raised his arm again, but their Master halted him. “If you lie to me again, you will be fed to my pretty. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Gorgrum shook. “It was Balshak, Master. He did it last night, whilst I wast sleepin.’”

A scream and Faramir turned sideways and watched as Balshak fell to the floor, the Orc’s stomach skewered with a long spear. Faramir sighed in relief. One less that he had to worry about.

The Witch-king looked at him and smiled. “So you think I would let one of them touch you now, now that you are in my hall? No,” the smile grew wicked, “you are mine now. Mine to play with. Take him to my chambers,” he ordered and swiftly left the room.

Balshak’s body was taken from the room as Gorgrum stepped to Faramir’s side. “Ya tell ‘im anythin’ and I’ll skewer ya myself.”

Two Orcs towed Faramir away.

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