It hurt. Pain clouded
his senses, but not enough to make him ignore what hurt him more, the
shame. He had wished and prayed that the blackness would take over.
But it had not happened. He had been awake, and worse still aware, as
the pain had intensified. And the more it hurt, the more aware he became
of it. And the more aware he became of other things. Such as the alarm
in a pair of blue eyes that stared at him in horror, the feel of a sticky
wetness trickle slowly down his legs, the singing noise the lash made
before it came in contact with his skin, such as the leer on a fell
face before his mouth was forced open, the biting of nails into his
scalp as his throat filled up with a taste so foul he had thought he
would rather be poisoned.
They would not let
him scream.
The blue eyes turned
away filled up with tears, and he was glad. His companion was so pure,
so kind, and so fair in heart. He could not face him after this, he
who was now completely defiled. They were mere acquaintances, having
met but lately in a time of war.
He could do nothing
but whimper softly. They left him with a parting caress to his bruised
cheek. He had not even the strength to flinch from the touch.
The same blue eyes
held his gaze as he lay in the comfort of his arms. He was torn, bleeding
and despoiled, but his friend still held him. He was a coward but his
friend still held him and called him brave. He wanted to scoff; no one
ever called him brave. Bravery was for warriors. He was no warrior now.
He was the toy that had been played with so much in so little time that
he felt broken beyond repair. He was fit for no more than to be thrown
into a corner where he could lie in his miserable state. He tried to
move but the Elf would not let him. He gave into the blackness then.
When awareness returned,
he knew they were outside, no longer in that cave they had been held
in. The arms that held him were not his friend’s comforting arms.
He panicked. These hands had hair on them, and the palms and fingers
were callused. It was going to happen again. He could not survive it
again; he knew that. All he wanted was to bid his friend farewell and
to thank him for holding him. It hurt but he moved. Pain flared up,
overwhelming him, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it until his
friend’s long smooth limbs circled his battered frame. Then he
let the pain take over, a pain so great it rendered him insensible.
He wandered through
the dark recesses of his mind, attempting to shut out terrifying pictures.
From very far away, he could hear voices. They spoke harsh words, in
anguish and anger and he found himself cowering away from them. He struggled
away from the haunting thoughts, opening his eyes to a white wall, and
more faces. He wanted to move, to get away but he could not. Pain rippled
through his very being and he wanted to scream but then he remembered
- he must not scream or they would hurt his friend.
His friend . . .
He blinked and re-focused
his eyes. His gaze fell on serious grey eyes in a face framed by dark
hair. His breathing became more rapid. Where was his friend? What had
they done to him? What had they done to the golden one? The only one
who gave him comfort?
The dark haired
man placed a hand on his head, and he automatically felt tears well
up in his own eyes. Not again! There were others too, but not the golden
one. He felt fear flood his heart and even breathing became a struggle.
He had to get away!
He tried to move
but the man stopped him. He felt a rough hand come in contact with his
bare shoulder. His breath caught once again. The he realised he was
lying between clean white sheets, and his upper body was covered with
strips of white cloth. It only served to confuse him more.
“Is he awake?”
the voice cut though his fear-filled mind.
His friend had come.
He tried to speak, but all that came out was a shrill whimper. The golden
one came closer to him and he moaned again. It took all his effort,
and sent rivets of agony through his entire back but he somehow managed
to push himself up and reach out for him. The dark-haired man exclaimed
uncertainly.
His friend moved
forward as fast as lightning and caught him up. He held him in his arms
as he cried. The dark-haired man tried to pull him away. He felt his
heart turn cold. What was going to happen now?
“No, Aragorn,
you are scaring him!” he heard someone say.
Aragorn? He knew
that name from somewhere . . .
“They will
pay for this!” he heard the wrathful words, and wondered if they
were aimed at him.
He cried on. The
tears would not stop. He hurt everywhere. His back stung, his mouth
hurt when he moved his lips, his lower body seemed on fire. He clutched
at the cloth of a green tunic.
“Ssh, it is
alright,” he heard the voice he longed to hear, and looked through
the veil of water into clear blue eyes, “No one will harm you
now.”
But the men were
still around them. What was his friend saying?
“No,”
he moaned, “They must not touch you. I will not let them touch
you.”
A tear fell from
one blue orb. He was scared now. Had they already hurt him? Had they
forced the elf as they had done with him? No! The Elf would not survive.
He had failed in his duty!
“Why do you
cry?” it hurt to speak, but he must know, “did they –
did they -?” he could not say the words, they only reminded him
of what he has been through.
“No, they
did not,” more tears fell from the blue eyes, “you stopped
them, my friend.”
“Then why
do you cry?” his voice was becoming more and more hoarse, the
words dying out at the end of each sentence.
“Faramir .
. .” someone touched his face and he felt more pain. He wanted
to move from the touch but the golden one will not let him.
The hand moved to
the Elf’s shoulder. It was going to happen again! He cried out
and launched himself at the man, using every ounce of his depleted energy.
Spots danced before his eyes, his ears rang shrilly, and a searing pain
erupted through his entire body. They crashed against the wall.
It seemed pandemonium
erupted. There were running steps and shouting voices.
“I will kill
them all,” his golden one’s voice, but something had happened
to it. He heard anger in it.
He was on the floor,
curled up in pain. The man neared him, and he felt fear ripple across
him as grey eyes stared at him – with concern? Concern?
Then he was back
in the comforting arms again.
The man was speaking
to someone else now, “The troop is ready. I am leading them.”
More voices sounded.
Something cool was held to his bruised mouth. He felt something enter
his mouth and stiffened. But this was not the foul release that had
filled his mouth earlier. This was cool and tasted nice. The liquid
flowed down his parched throat, and he felt his mind turning foggy.
“I will lead
them. I am king, and that is my steward. He swore me his allegiance
from the day we met. I will lead the party and we will hunt down each
and everyone of those filthy brutes who have reduced him to this state!”
The words reached
his ears but meant little too him then, as he burrowed his head against
a slim but firm chest and breathed deeply.
“And I will
come too,” his friend spoke.
He felt almost dizzy
with fright. Where was he going?
“Don’t
go,” he tried to say but the words would not come out. Oblivion
came instead and he wearily accepted it.
They had thrown
him at his friend. Their mouths met under duress, under threat from
a knifepoint poised over the Elf’s throat. He took comfort from
the tenderness he felt from his friend and tried to give back reassurance
for he had already known, deep inside, what he would have to do. He
took strength from the warmth of those beautifully sculpted lips, and
from the touch of the other’s body. They tried to force him upon
his friend. He refused. He knew they would not accept refusal and that
merely served to strengthen the plan that was taking seed in his mind.
It was inevitable, and nothing could prevent what was to happen.
He reacted by spitting
at them, hoping to divert their attention on him. It didn’t work.
They made for his friend. He knew enough about the Elf’s kind
that what they intended to do to him would destroy him. So, he put into
action what he had planned.
He was thrown to
the ground as soon as he offered himself up. Lust dripped from maniacal
eyes. He felt his clothes being ripped off. His legs were pushed apart.
They were stronger than he was, and many in number. His legs ached and
he cried out in pain so they hit him. When the first, man or Orc he
could not tell, entered him, the nightmare started. He screamed, and
found his mouth had become another source of pleasure for them. He felt
them rip through him, and shred him, not once or twice or thrice but
many, many times. Pain was replaced by shame and degradation.
He screamed.
He was in a white
room, and no one was around him. He sat up panting heavily, fear filling
his mind with terrible thoughts. He was alone, all alone. It scared
him even more.
He screamed again.
Someone ran into
the room, he kept screaming.
Hands held him down,
and he screamed louder. Something was slipped into his mouth and he
gagged, but swallowed it. The next time he awoke the golden one was
there, talking to somebody.
“We found
them and finished them off.”
He whimpered in
pain and the Elf immediately looked towards him with relief in his eyes.
He tried to sit up, but the Elf stopped him and instead came and sat
by him and held him gently in his arms. He closed his eyes.
Memories flitted
through his wandering mind.
A stern fatherly
face, a loving brotherly face; he knew somehow he would not see those
in his waking hours anymore.
Water, fire, war…
and an assault.
Every now and then,
they would clear and peace would come upon him. He heard voices he recognised
and loved.
When he awoke next,
some semblance of awareness returned. He was back in his city in a healing
room. They had dressed him in a soft, thin tunic. He looked into a dark-haired
man’s face and recognised his king, “Sire?” he asked,
his voice raw and soft and full of self-loathing.
“Rest, my
friend,” his king said, relief evident in his voice.
Others flitted in
and out, healers, his uncle, a neighbouring king, a beautiful elven
woman, he knew them all, but he had no wish to speak to them. All he
wished for was his friend.
When the king returned
later, he opened his mouth, “L-“
“I am here.”
And he was. The
only one he wanted near him.
It was a very warm
night. He felt a cool, soft hand on his brow.
“Legolas,”
he whispered softly. He hated how his voice sounded but he could not
raise it any louder without being assaulted by a fresh wave of memories.
“Go back to
sleep,” his friend said soothingly, running a hand through his
hair.
“Why do you
sit here?”
He realised he was
being held, carefully and tenderly, in the Elf’s arms.
“I wished
to see how you fare,” the Elf replied.
“I am well,”
he said softly, knowing as well as his friend that it was a lie. He
could move around now, and the physical pain had subsided greatly, but
there were aches that went deeper. Aches he could see mirrored in those
blue eyes.
He had asked about
it some days earlier. And the Elf’s answer had startled him. His
friend felt guilt for not being able to watch what happened to him.
He begged his forgiveness for turning his eyes away.
He could not hide
his relief. His shame had no witness now. His attackers he knew were
dead.
He looked into the
Elf’s eyes now, and saw the sadness had still not left them. All
was still around them. Outside in the warm summer night, nothing moved,
not even a leaf. His thick robe felt too warm but it was the only one
he felt comfortable in.
“I am well,”
he repeated softly.
The Elf nodded sadly
and brushed his lips with his brow.
He closed his eyes
and let sleep overtake his benumbed mind.
The End
