Faramir Fiction Archive

The Rangers Of Ithilien (NC-17)

Written by Buttonbright

16 November 2004 | 10804 words

Title: The Rangers Of Ithilien
Author: Buttonbright
Email: pdana@sfopera.com
Pairings: Faramir/Mablung, Anborn/Damrod
Rating: NC17
Summary: Young Faramir presents himself for the first time at Henneth Annûn, where it turns out that changes will be necessary.
Warning: The first half includes an attempted rape, but the second half gets very consensual indeed.
Feedback: I’d love it.

CHAPTER ONE

“Ready for your first Skewering?” leered Captain Echthorn.

Faramir looked around at Damrod and Anborn, his fellow newcomers. They were eyeing each other doubtfully. Both understood by now that the Captain’s questions were addressed to the Steward’s son, not to them.

“I don’t know what a Skewering is,” said Faramir, facing the Captain. “If it’s roasted meat, we will greet it as cheerfully as any ranger among you.”

The Captain laughed. “It’s meat, all right! As for the roasting, you’ll find out soon enough. Welcome to Henneth Annûn, my lord!”

And he beckoned them into the cave.

Faramir’s belly churned as he crossed the threshold. Here at last! For months he had begged his father to send him to Ithilien. For months he had read up on its geography, its history, its ill-kept secrets. But Denethor knew what lay behind his son’s odd obsession, and he had put his foot down time and again.

“Boromir went there!” Faramir had argued. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Your brother was already a proven soldier,” Denethor told him impatiently. “Your mettle remains untested.”

“Then let me test it! Ithilien is one of the most dangerous of our outposts. What better test could there be?”

“Any!” cried Denethor. “Do not try to deceive me, Faramir. You hope to find death in Ithilien, but no son of mine will throw his life away over so slight a thing as a broken heart. Leave me, and do not speak of this again.”

At last, however, Denethor had relented. It had been Boromir’s doing. He seemed only too anxious to put some distance between himself and his younger brother. He pleaded with their father, and in the end he prevailed. That was now a whole month ago. The departure had been delayed because no other recruits could be found. Faramir would have made the journey alone, but again his father balked. Only when Damrod and Anborn surfaced, just last week, did Denethor unwillingly send messengers and order an armed escort. Faramir looked on Minas Tirith for what he hoped might be the last time.

The escort had taken them as far as the appointed rendezvous, unloaded their meager gear and turned them over to Captain Ecthorn. Then, with obvious relief, it had ridden back the way it came.

“Count yourselves lucky, you two,” Ecthorn had barked at Damrod and Anborn, by way of greeting. “First-timers don’t usually get the Captain himself for a guide. You can thank Lord Faramir for that.”

It was the last thing he had said to them. Until they reached Henneth Annûn he spoke only to Faramir, and his conversation took the form of a rambling monologue. Most of his so-called rangers, he said, were no better than these two boys – raw, inexperienced, barely man enough to lift a sword, let alone wield it. Faramir would see. As often as not, they got themselves killed in their first battle – and good riddance! Those who survived were kept humble by a few real soldiers, Ecthorn’s hand-picked guard. Floggings were not uncommon. If he wanted to, Faramir could administer these himself.

Faramir said nothing. He had suspected that life here would be rough, but not as brutal as this. Perhaps the Captain’s bark was worse than his bite. In any case, it was not Faramir’s wish to interfere. His role was unclear – soldier or officer-in-training, no one had quite said – but the purpose he had set himself was not. When it had been achieved, he would accept the first suicide mission that came his way.

He barely noticed the beauty of Ithilien, with its green glades and many waterfalls. Summer was young yet, and the noisy streams all but overflowed their banks. Birdsong filled the air and butterflies could be seen among the leaves, almost as if these hills were not now the haunt of the Dark Lord’s servants. New growth taunted the sad, stale hopelessness of Faramir’s heart.

Still, almost automatically, he noted the path they took. Sometimes he saw landmarks he’d read about in his studies. And when, in the late afternoon, they descended a rough stair hewn from living rock, he knew they’d reached their goal.

They passed behind the waterfall that gave the cave its name: Henneth Annûn. Inside, torches were few. Faramir peered, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Dozens of wary faces peered back at him, their features grim and unknowable. Not for the first time, he wondered how these men would welcome their steward’s younger son. Would they see him as a boy putting on man’s attire before he’d earned it? Would they bow before him only to sneer behind his back?

“Fellow rangers!”

Ecthorn was speaking to the assemblage. All set aside what they were doing and attended their Captain’s words. A line of armed men took their positions behind him. This must be the hand-picked guard, Faramir thought.

“It’s been a few years since we last entertained a son of the Steward. Those of you who lived to tell the tale will remember what a fine first impression we made on young Boromir. He came here fresh from the city, but when he left he was a Ranger of Ithilien. And this was where his education began. Wait, though.” The Captain’s eyes fastened on Faramir’s hands. “Our guest is still holding onto his gear. That’s not how we treat the Steward’s son, is it? Somebody’d better grab that gear and stow it quick.”

Somebody did. An anonymous figure sprang out of the crowd, took the offending items and made off with them. Anborn and Damrod still held their gear, but no one offered to help them with it.

“Now,” continued Ecthorn. “With the assistance of these two new recruits – sorry if I don’t remember your names, lads, but then again, why should I? – we can prove to Lord Faramir that we know how to treat a man. And how do you think we’ll do that?”

No one answered. Ecthorn surveyed his audience.

“I can’t hear you,” he said meaningfully. “What’s the good time we’ve got in store for Lord Faramir?” The silence continued. He turned to his guards.

“You boys know the answer, don’t you?” Ecthorn shouted at them. “Tell Lord Faramir what he’s got to look forward to!”

“A Skewering!” one of them called out. The other guards laughed.

“Well done!” replied Ecthorn. “Yes, it’s time for a Skewering. You two! New boys! Step over here.”

Anborn and Damrod obeyed. They were smiling sheepishly, as if to reassure themselves that this charade was all in fun. Faramir had been too preoccupied to notice them during their two day ride. Now, for the first time, he saw how young they were. Damrod looked about seventeen – two years younger than Faramir himself. Anborn couldn’t have been more than fifteen, far too young for this sort of assignment. Or was it the looming presence of Ecthorn that made him look so small and vulnerable? Faramir shuddered. Did all recruits receive a welcome like this?

“Now, Lord Faramir has been gently reared,” Ecthorn went on with a smirk. “So he may not know the reason why certain young fellows end up here. But you two know, don’t you, boys? You know what got you shipped out to this orc-infested backwater. So let’s have it. You!” He pointed to Anborn, who had taken on a hunted look. “Tell Lord Faramir how it happened.”

Anborn quailed. “I – I don’t know, sir,” he managed to reply.

“Don’t know? What a pity that no one bothered to inform you. Fortunately, they did inform me. I’ll explain the situation. Lord Faramir, the sad fact is that this lad was found in a clinch with another lad.”

Faramir’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. He couldn’t believe his ears.

Anborn hung his head in shame. “What’s more,” Ecthorn went on relentlessly, “I’m told he was playing the woman. Now, this may come as a shock to you, Lord Faramir, but your father knows what to do about incidents like this. He always has. He sends the little buggers here, where I can look after them. And I do, Lord Faramir. I look after them very well indeed.” The Captain turned to Anborn. “Boy!” he barked. “You know how to obey orders, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said the wretched Anborn.

“Of course you do. Well, here’s one for you. Strip!”

Anborn froze. Faramir, too, felt his limbs gripped by a sudden paralysis. It was as if he himself stood where Anborn was standing, helpless and humiliated, his secret exposed for all to see.

Seconds passed.

“Did you hear me?” barked the Captain. Anborn bobbed his head silently. “Then do as I say! Or shall I send my guards to help you?”

Anborn shot a quick, terrified look at the guards. Then he put down his gear and started fumbling at the collar of his tunic. Faramir watched, unbelieving, while the leather ties parted and the garment slid back, revealing pale shoulders and arms covered in gooseflesh. A chill traveled up Faramir’s spine. To his horror, he felt himself getting hard.

“That’s better,” said the Captain. “Now the boots. Get on with it!”

Anborn took off the old, scuffed boots he had probably inherited from an older brother. When they had joined his tunic on the rocky floor, he stood for a moment with head bowed and arms folded protectively across his bare chest. But the Captain hadn’t finished yet.

“What are you waiting for? Leggings, too!”

There was to be no mercy, Faramir saw. Within him he felt the familiar sensation of numbness, that same numbness his brother had left behind when he used Faramir’s body for his own pleasure. He knew that someone should help this poor boy who in no way deserved what was happening to him. But scruples fell away, lost in the numbness, while Anborn slowly, inexorably slid his fingers under his waistband and pulled the leggings down past his hips, his thighs, his knees, his ankles. Finally he stepped out of them, balancing first on one leg, then on the other. He hopped a little when he almost toppled over, and his bare buttocks quivered. Naked, he looked more like a child than a man. Faramir’s crotch was tight as a drum. He hated himself for it. The guards laughed.

Ecthorn laughed too. And now Faramir saw, to his shock, that the Captain was rubbing his own crotch, slowly and deliberately. He was sliding his fingers under his waistband. He was pulling the leggings down to his ankles. He was spitting onto his hands and stroking his hard cock. He was grabbing Anborn’s hips and rubbing his cock against the flat, white buttocks. He was –

From between clenched teeth, Anborn gave a small cry of pain and terror.

That cry pierced Faramir’s numbness. White-hot anger blazed in his chest. His arms and legs were suddenly loosed. He sprang forward, sword in hand, and bore Ecthorn to the ground. Ecthorn was a big man and a seasoned warrior; under other circumstances, he might well have crushed Faramir by force, if not by skill. But the Captain had not been expecting this assault, and he was hobbled by the leggings that effectively bound his feet. Before he knew what had happened, he was on his back with Faramir’s sword at his throat.

The guards stepped forward menacingly. But they faltered, their hands poised above their sword hilts. Where did their obedience lie? With their Captain? With the ruling Steward’s younger son? Faramir himself didn’t know who outranked whom, and neither, it seemed, did anyone else.

No one moved. Ecthorn was breathing hard. He eyed his assailant as if trying to gauge how serious the younger man was, or how dangerous. Faramir stared back at him. His sword never budged.

“My lord,” Ecthorn began when he’d recovered from his surprise. “You’ve had a shock. Our ways seem rough to you. I see that. If you’ll just let me explain –“

“Explain?” Faramir’s voice was low and hard. It sounded like someone else’s voice, not his own at all. What was he doing? “Explain? Who in all Gondor could possibly explain the abomination I just witnessed? The orcs of Mordor might understand you, Captain, but I do not.”

“Right,” said Ecthorn. His forehead was damp with sweat. “Clearly there’s been a mistake. You think I’m like that boy there, or the others who bend over for us men. It isn’t so. I assure you, my lord, if we had women here we wouldn’t need such scum. But there are no women in Ithilien, not now. So we take what we can. Your father knows how to keep us loyal.”

“My father is two days ride from here,” said Faramir. “It is my father’s son, Captain, who will judge you now.” Judge? Faramir wondered at himself. He hadn’t meant to interfere, yet here he was seizing authority far beyond his reach. But he couldn’t stop now. With sword held steady in his hand, he raised his voice for all to hear. “If there is a man in this cave who would see these Skewerings come to an end, I ask him to step forward!”

For a moment nothing happened. The silence was complete. A smirk crept across Ecthorn’s face.

Then a slight rustle was heard. A man stood up and advanced toward Faramir. He was tall and dark-bearded, a warrior in the prime of his life – Faramir could see him now as he moved into the torchlight – not handsome, perhaps, but keen-eyed and strong. His sword was in his hand. At five paces away, he stopped. Then he sank to one knee.

“My lord,” he said. “Command me.”

Faramir realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out in a long sigh. Whatever he thought he was doing, it all could have ended at this moment.

“What is your name?” he asked the man.

“I am Mablung, my lord.”

“Mablung, please rise. It is not my place to command you, for I am not your captain. Indeed, it seems you have no captain worthy of the name. Yet I entreat you, for pity’s sake, to gather this boy’s clothing and help him dress.”

“Gladly, my lord.”

“And Mablung.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“The boy is called Anborn.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Mablung went to Anborn, who had been thrown down during the assault. Faramir noted the gentleness with which he helped the boy to his feet. Perhaps, he thought, there were those in Ithilien who chafed under this tyranny. How many? No matter. They deserved a better captain than Ecthorn.

Ecthorn. Faramir had business with him, business he had expected to conduct less dramatically as well as less publicly. Discretion would not be possible now. All the grief of the last few months, all the despair that had driven him here, came down to this.

“Sir,” he said to Ecthorn. “If I’m right, this Skewering you take such pride in is common practice. Yes?”

“Not so common as all that,” Ecthorn replied hastily. “My lord, if I may beg you to move your sword – “

“You may beg nothing! Answer my questions truly, for if you lie I assure you I will know it. My father sees deeply, and in that I am his true son.” Faramir hoped that this was true. Mithrandir had told him it was, but he himself was not so sure. “I ask you again: is this Skewering common practice?”

Ecthorn nodded. He seemed all but hypnotized by Faramir’s apparent calm.

“I believe you,” said Faramir. “Now, you pretend to know nothing of the boys who are sent here, but I think you know a great deal: their names, to start with. You might even know their ages, their parentage and the nature of their supposed transgressions. Yes?”

“I am not . . . uninformed, my lord.”

“No.” The time had come. Faramir swallowed. “Then perhaps you remember a boy who came here some months ago. He was eighteen years old, pale, slender, a poor fighter.” And Anborn, standing naked and vulnerable, exposed to all these dozens of men, looked so much like him that Faramir’s cock had grown hard. How could he feel such things? He bit his lip. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he could barely think over the roar of blood in his ears. Yet outwardly his stillness remained complete. In a moment, for better or worse, the mystery that had obsessed him so relentlessly would be solved.

“The boy’s name,” he said, “was Edrahil.”

“I may have seen the boy,” Ecthorn admitted with obvious reluctance.

“You saw him. And you raped him, didn’t you – as you so nearly raped young Anborn just now?”

“Raped?” Ecthorn tried to laugh. “You can’t rape such boys as these. You don’t understand, my lord. They’ve been had already. Long before they come here, they’ve whored themselves with their friends. They’re trash, my lord. We use them and we throw them away. If you’ll just let me up – “

“I think not!” Faramir’s voice cut the air like a whiplash. He heard it echoing round the walls of the cave. Then, quietly again, he went on. “So Edrahil was a victim of one of your . . . Skewerings. What happened after that? How did he die?”

“I couldn’t say exactly,” Ecthorn told him evasively. “We like to send them out on small missions, just to get their feet wet. Down to the crossroads, for instance, so they can see what the orc troops are up to.”

“A dangerous mission.” Faramir had read of the crossroads. One road led to Minas Morgul and was much used by its servants. “Your own guards go with them?”

“Well, no. That is, someone may see them on their way, just to make sure they’re going in the right direction. Then they’re on their own. It’s not as bad as it sounds, my lord. Most of the lads come back safe enough. Three quarters of them at least! And those that don’t are the ones we’d just as soon not keep anyway. So it works out well for everyone.”

“Did it work out well for Edrahil?”

Ecthorn blanched.

“My lord – I see you knew this boy. Maybe you made a friend of him back in the city. But I’m telling you, he wasn’t what you thought. He got what he had coming to him! They all do, and no one mourns for them when they’re gone.”

Faramir gave a strangled cry. Never in his life had he felt such rage. It was all he could do to keep his sword out of Ecthorn’s throat.

“No one mourns?” he shouted, his self-control spent. “I mourn, Captain Ecthorn! I’ve done nothing but mourn since the day a messenger brought news of Edrahil’s death. He was my lover. And you killed him! You may think I came here for vengeance. You are wrong. I came here first for truth and then for death. But I’ve found more truth and more death than I ever intended or wanted. I’ve found the graves of a hundred Edrahils, a long line of Edrahils, who went to their deaths in a place where the love of men should be honored and cherished as it once was. I mourn them all, Captain! They are the fallen brothers I never knew, and I mourn every one of them!”

Ecthorn was speechless. Faramir looked out over the shadowed crowd. “Men of Ithilien! Am I alone? Do I mourn alone for my brothers? Mablung, you tell me – is there anyone here who mourns for the boys who died?”

Mablung stood a few feet away with the wide-eyed Anborn and Damrod. He laid his hands on their shoulders.

“My lord,” he said. “You are not alone. I mourn the ones who died. They were my brothers too. I nearly shared their grave with them. Twelve years ago I came here, when I was just eighteen, and on my first day I found out what a Skewering was. Many more have found out since then. Many have died, and many that have not died have wished they had. You are not alone, my lord. I mourn with you, both for the dead and for the living.”

Another man stepped out of the crowd and stood beside Mablung.

“I mourn too, my lord,” he said, “for your Edrahil and for more that might have lived to become our friends.”

“And so do I,” said another, who joined those that had gone before. “And I,” said another. Yet another followed, then two more, then five. They gathered behind Mablung and Anborn and Damrod, their numbers swelling by the minute. On and on they came, till their band grew more numerous than those they had left behind.

Ecthorn watched the procession with a mixture of fear and unconcealed loathing. Faramir, however, watched with incredulity. So many men! He shook his head in wonder. Who were they? Ecthorn’s victims, clearly – but what else? Had every one been sent here for the same transgression – the love of men, as Mithrandir called it? Months ago, in Minas Tirith, on a night when Faramir had contemplated taking his own life, Mithrandir had said, “The love of men can find honor again, Faramir, but only if it first finds a new champion.” Was that champion here among them even now? Was it Mablung? Or Damrod? Or even young Anborn, who, from his expression, seemed to feel the power of the men behind him like a living force? He was standing straighter, taller, his eyes aglow, his head high. Faramir knew that he himself would follow any one of them, now, this minute, to whatever end. He wished he could.

Yet it was to him, to Faramir that they looked for guidance in this hour. And that may have been the greatest wonder of all. Was it also the cruelest irony?

Faramir felt in his heart that he was no champion. He was too damaged, too used, to lead others. For five years he had prostituted himself to his own brother. Then he had let his beautiful Edrahil ride off, as he now knew, to degradation and death. He had thought of nothing else ever since, and now he had come here to find his own end. What could he give these men that was worthy of their sudden, blazing hope?

“Perhaps you have already given it.”

Unbidden, the thought sprang into his mind. The men believed in him. He could see it in their eyes. Rightly or wrongly, they believed that their champion had arisen. Perhaps his own salvation lay in this. For if he had given them belief, however unwittingly, then their belief might carry the day when he himself could not. And this day must surely be theirs. Henneth Annûn must be theirs. He, Faramir, must give it to them.

He looked at Ecthorn. “You will leave this place,” he said, loudly enough for all to hear. “Take your guards and go. Any who wish may go with you. There will be a new captain here, and I don’t think you’ll like the way he runs things.”

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