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1: Audience with an Uruk
The townsfolk had caught an Orc.
They were baying for its blood, and even at some distance from the
settlement, their howls and cries, and the noise from the angry lynch
mob that had gathered inside the city gates was clearly audible. The
racket abated somewhat as royal procession made its way closer however,
and by the time their horses were clip-clopping into town, across the
market square, most traces of the earlier hubbub had all but vanished.
News of their impromptu approach, caused by a shattered axel on the
Royal Conveyance, had doubtless preceded them.
Much as he would have preferred to avoid the ceremony of a formal reception,
Faramir, Prince of Ithilien realised that this would now be quite impossible.
A number of local dignitaries, among them the Mayor himself, were standing
in line in the middle of the town square, waiting to welcome him.
An unseasonably mild and damp spring was the indirect cause of Faramir’s
unscheduled visit to the town. The state coach, a conveyance in which
Faramir was now obliged to travel whenever he was in pursuit of his
official duties, was lying broken-down on the rain-rutted roads, at
least ten miles behind them. It was a vehicle bedecked with velvet upholstery,
stucco mouldings and varnished woodwork to a most impractical extent,
and Faramir had not been at all sorry to escape from its ornate excesses.
Breghaus, one of Faramir’s most trusted aides was explaining their
transportational difficulties to the townsmen. He greeted Faramir formally,
as the Prince approached.
One of the members of the welcoming committee started, visibly, on
hearing Faramir addressed by his royal title. The townsman’s first
impression had been of a pleasant featured, if nondescript-looking young
man, too careworn to be a person of note, and as such, he had overlooked
Faramir completely. Surreptitiously, he now eyed the unlikely Prince
of Gondor up and down, noting the simple cut of his clothing, and taking
in dirt of the road that lay on Faramir’s mud-bespattered leggings
and his plain, woollen cloak. Faramir had seized the chance offered
by the faulty state coach as an excuse to travel as he once had done,
riding on horseback, and to dress himself in the garb he had worn as
a Ranger in Ithilien. It was, however, beginning to occur to him that
in his comfortable riding-clothes, the figure he was cutting could be
said to lack certain elements of princely dash and panache. Having a
lifetime’s worth of experience behind him at mostly failing to
make the grade, Faramir stood up straighter and squared his shoulders
a little, reacting quite unconsciously to the disapproval he had detected
in the Burgher-master’s gaze.
“It seems our visit to your town falls alongside a festival,
or some day of celebration,” Faramir said, mainly to break the
awkward silence that had fallen around them. “We heard no small
commotion from some distance away!”
“Stage-managed, your Highness,” one of the dignitaries
told him. “The situation was always well under control. It was
the work of that man there.” He indicated short, red-faced individual,
who was lingering a short distance from the welcoming party.
“He is naught but a travelling showman, my liege,” the
Mayor blustered hurriedly. “A purveyor of freaks and oddities.
He has a brightly coloured bird, that speaks with a man’s voice,
in a heathen language of the Southern Lands. And a monkey, from the
dusky jungles in the East, which dances on a chain. The Barker peddles
simple tricks and amusements, made for simple folk. He is a harmless
visitor.”
Parrots that talk and trained monkeys, thought Faramir, without much
interest. “I believe I heard mention of an Orc,” he said.
Uninvited, the Barker, who had been watching – and apparently
eavesdropping, from across the marketplace, sidled closer to the group.
“Genuine Orc straight out of Mordor,” he said. “I’ve
got one of them big soldier-Uruks from off of the Black Gate. Little
piece of modern history. Could be your last chance to see one, guv’nor,”
he said, obsequiously addressing Faramir himself. “It’s
getting so there ain’t very many of ‘em about, these days.
Floor show’s tomorrow night, in the tavern, if you’re interested,
Sir.” He indicated a large, slightly dilapidated hostelry on the
other side of the town square. It was the building in which the royal
party had planned to spend the night.
Faramir had not seen an Orc close-to since he had been the leader of
an ill-fated sortie out against the Enemy more than 18 months previously,
during the Siege of Minas Tirith. Scouting parties still occasionally
reported distant sightings of Orcs, and Uruk-sign from the farthest
reaches of the Southern Mountains, and by all accounts the great beasts
seemed continually to be on the move, always heading south and east.
And as the Barker had correctly noted, since the end of the War, and
especially after the Great Winter that had come after it, even these
reports were becoming more and more scarce.
Faramir had to admit that his curiosity was piqued. There was, however,
no use in considering it. His party would be moving out the following
morning, and there could be no delay. “I would be most interested
in seeing your exhibit,” he told the Barker, “and I thank
you for your offer. But I must decline it. We will be leaving before
tomorrow night.”
“Seeing as you’re a gentleman of taste and a connoisseur
and what have you,” the Barker said, “if you was to come
back a bit later on, kind Sir, I’m sure we could arrange for you
to step in with my Orc for a minute, just to have a look. I’m
sure we can work something out. Just give me an hour or so, to get him
settled down and such, all right?”
“Orcs. A scourge and a pestilence,” one of the Burgher-masters
spat, as the Barker hurried away to make ready for Faramir’s visit.
“Every last one of those filthy, despoiling creatures ought to
be routed out. For the sake of Gondor!” The speaker was the same
man who had registered doubt and incredulity over the disparity between
Faramir’s travel-stained appearance and his exalted royal status.
Faramir shot him a sharp look. Orcs had indeed been a scourge and a
pestilence for many decades, throughout the border region that lay between
Gondor and the Land of Shadow. The War had however been over for some
time, and a call to control Orcs at this stage was very much akin to
closing a stable door after the resident horse was long gone. But evidently
feelings still ran high; though Faramir knew that this particular remote,
southwestern corner of Gondor had never directly been affected by Orcish
activities. Faramir sighed wearily to himself. He supposed that an upswing
in misplaced nationalistic feeling would always have been an inevitable
consequence of the return of the King.
The Mayor of the Town and his welcoming committee expressed polite
concern that a visit from Faramir to the Barker’s exhibit might
be seen as inappropriate, but as Faramir appeared to be set on the idea,
they were reluctant to try too hard to dissuade him. Moreover, the royal
party’s unexpected visit had thrown the town councillors into
a frenzy of excited disarray; being eager to show their town off to
its best advantage, they had an ad-lib schedule of entertainments for
the rest of the afternoon and evening to plan. Faramir being otherwise
occupied for an hour or two, then, would be something of a godsend to
them.
At the appointed time, Faramir made his way to the Tavern. He was met
by a beetle-browed, heavy-set fellow – evidently one of the Barker’s
employees - who had the look of hired muscle about him. He accompanied
Faramir out through the alehouse kitchens and into the Tavern’s
rear courtyard, to where the Orc was residing in a securely locked,
but otherwise ramshackle lean-to. The Tavern’s back room was obviously
more often used for storage purposes. There was an unhealthy chill in
the air, and it stank of dampness and mildew, the mustiness probably
emanating from the half dozen or so empty, mouldering ale casks that
were piled haphazardly just inside the door. A single, tiny, square
window just under the eaves of the roof let in almost enough light to
see by.
Noting that the wooden floor was rotted through in many places, Faramir
trod carefully as he entered the stock room. The Doorkeeper followed
him closely. As Faramir’s eyesight adjusted to the gloom, something
he’d taken to be a loosely piled heap of rags and rubbish that
was lying against the back wall shifted slightly, revealing itself to
be the Orc – a large Uruk Orc, in fact - that he had come to look
at. The Orc raised itself up to bask briefly, warming itself in a stray
ray of sunlight, that was beaming half-heartedly in through the cobwebbed
windowpanes.
Faramir took one look at the storeroom’s lonely occupant and
experienced a lurching sensation of heart-felt joy, mingled with overtones
of absolute, screaming horror.
“Leave us,” Faramir told the Doorman, abruptly.
The Doorman blustered that it wouldn’t be safe, it wouldn’t
be right, for him to leave a customer alone with a vicious, dangerous,
untrustworthy Orc.
“I’ll pay extra,” Faramir said, staring with fixed
intensity at the Uruk. He handed his coin-pouch to the Doorman. “Take
whatever you think appropriate.”
A quick clinking sound accompanied the partial emptying of Faramir’s
purse. It weighed considerably less when the Doorman returned it, but
Faramir did not notice. He would not have cared even if he had done,
for he was fully absorbed in studying the Orc.
His right eye was missing. On that side, four great, parallel scars
scored down the Uruk’s face and neck perhaps explaining that loss,
and the empty eye-socket had become skimmed over by a flat flap of skin.
A piece of his ear was gone too, and his long nose looked as if it had
been broken again and reset carelessly at some point. But still the
profile was unmistakeable. He was much thinner, and even lankier than
Faramir remembered, and even though he’d always had a haggard,
world-weary sort of a look about him, overall, the years had most definitely
not been kind. Just now he looked ill, he looked tired, he looked gaunt.
“Shagrat,” Faramir said.
2: Old time’s sake
The crouching Uruk uncurled himself further, having to turn his head
to glance up at Faramir. Faramir was satisfied to note that a flash
of shock accompanied the look of recognition he saw in the Uruk’s
expression. He continued to watch Faramir sidelong, warily.
“How are they treating you?” Faramir asked at length, keeping
his tone brisk.
“Mustn’t grumble,” said Shagrat, and with some effort,
he clambered awkwardly to his feet, swaying slightly as he stood upright.
He was favouring his left leg heavily, and seemed unable to rest much
weight on his right foot. Faramir, who was intent on searching Shagrat’s
face, feeling, as he looked at him, a bewildering mix of combined eagerness
and loathing, did not notice any of this.
“He fleeced you,” Shagrat said. “That doorkeeper.
I’m not usually worth half that. Not even a tenth as much - and
that for an entire bleedin’ audience, to be honest. He took you
for a soft touch, you know.”
Faramir nodded, his attention still fixed fully on the Uruk. Shagrat
seemed so very much older, than he had done before. Somehow, more vulnerable.
Easily breakable, and the realisation of that unnerved Faramir more
than he cared to admit. “I’m not concerned about the doorman,”
he said.
“You’re a man of means, now, eh?” said Shagrat.
Faramir nodded again. “In many ways I am. Yes.” His situation
had changed drastically since he’d last seen Shagrat, and then
had been radically altered once again, a rather short time ago - but
this was not a subject he had yet spoken about with anyone, least of
all a Mordor Uruk.
“Did you see it when that blasted mountain went up?” Shagrat
said, suddenly. “Talk about fireworks. Never seen anything like
it. Lit up the whole sky for a day and a night. But later it –
it loused the weather up something rotten, didn’t it?”
“No,” Faramir replied, “I did not see it myself.
I was – indisposed.” While Mount Doom, the volcano that
Shagrat was talking about had been erupting, Faramir had been lying
in a fever-haze of delirium, caused by the injuries he’d sustained
during the siege of Gondor. Recollections of that time were still excruciatingly
painful for him.
“Don’t want to talk about old times?”
“No, I don’t,” said Faramir, with some feeling. Possibly
it had been a mistake for him to think of raking over past, unfortunate
events. “Perhaps it would be better if I go,” he said.
“Wait a bit, won’t you,” Shagrat said, “I’ll
be for it if the Gaffer thinks I’ve been upsetting the paying
guests. They’ll be knocking off for lunch in a minute. Maybe -
maybe we could have a proper talk then,” he added, hopefully.
“Won’t they be coming in to feed you as well?”
Shagrat smiled at him oddly, not replying, and shook his head, jerking
his chin at the doorway behind Faramir. Fully absorbed in revelling
in the compelling – repulsive – presence of Shagrat as he
had been, Faramir hadn’t noticed that the burly Doorkeeper had
stepped up again, and was standing at his back.
“What are you up to this time, Captain fucking No-Mark?”
the Doorman spat at Shagrat. He strode across the room and kicked Shagrat’s
right leg out from under him. The Uruk fell down, clutching at his injured
limb.
“Are you giving this nice gentleman any of your fucking lip?”
the Doorman picked him up, grabbing a handful of the rags at the scruff
of Shagrat’s neck and shook him. Faramir winced to see the once-proud
Uruk Captain hanging limply in the Doorman’s grip. He appeared
to be too weak to resist, and shortly the Doorman threw him down again,
in disgust.
As the Uruk floundered at his feet, the Doorman kicked him once, then
twice. Shagrat tried to protect himself by rolling into a ball. Faramir
stared on, shocked, completely at a loss, and the Doorman struck Shagrat
again.
“That’s enough!” Faramir heard himself blurting out.
The Doorkeeper paused for a moment, looking sharply at him.
“I paid for time alone with this miscreant,” Faramir said,
putting every bit of stately authority he had in him behind the statement.
The Doorkeeper, though he did not seem particularly impressed by this
shrugged his shoulders, and aiming a last, hefty kick at Shagrat as
a parting shot, sauntered out.
Faramir bent down to help Shagrat up, and after a moment’s hesitation,
the Uruk, very surprised, took the hand that Faramir was offering him.
Stumbling slightly, he leant a little of his weight against Faramir,
who recoiled from him at once. Shagrat went down again, gasping in pain.
Faramir knelt beside him. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Not too steady on my pins,” Shagrat muttered, not looking
at him.
Faramir reached over to tug the rags that covered Shagrat’s right
leg aside, and saw that his upper ankle and the lower part of his shin
had been broken and were setting themselves poorly, twisted out of line.
The flesh there was deeply scarred, and was angry red and inflamed-looking.
Irritably, Shagrat twitched his garment back into place. Faramir noted
that the index and middle fingers of Shagrat’s right hand, like
his right eye and ear, were also missing, cut away at the first knuckle
and the quick, respectively.
“As you see, a few pieces of me have been whittled away since
last we met,” Shagrat said, very dryly. “For my sins.”
“For your sins?” Faramir exclaimed. “It seems a wonder,
then, Shagrat, that there remains anything of you left at all.”
He paused. “What happened?” he asked.
“Fell on a bear trap, late last Autumn,” Shagrat replied.
“It never did heal right. Hurts a bit in winter, now and again.”
“Only in winter?” Faramir said.
Shagrat grinned at him, or at least moved his mouth so he was showing
all his teeth. “No use in complaining, is there?” he said.
Faramir stared at the battle-scarred old Uruk in dismay.
“Changed days, eh?” Shagrat said.
Despite all that had been done, to his land and his countrymen by the
servants of Mordor, Faramir could not help but feel a flicker of pity,
on seeing the plight of his former enemy. Appalled, he stamped down
on the emotion at once, feeling shocked at his own weakness. He knew
he had no excuse for lingering here in conversation with this evil,
unnatural creature. He realised that he had sought to assist Shagrat,
and had even intervened, trying to protect him – slipping easily,
so very naturally, back into old bad habits. Faramir knew only too well
the folly that resulted from thinking of Orcs and Uruks in terms of
anything other than as the Enemy. This could not be allowed to go any
further. He stood up hastily and turned away from Shagrat, preparing
to leave.
“Goldilocks,” Shagrat called after him, breaking off quickly
and biting his tongue. Faramir stopped short, just inside the doorway.
“Faramir,” Shagrat muttered, “I mean, Faramir.”
“What do you want?” Faramir said, over his shoulder.
“Lend me your arms, eh? Faramir? Just for – old time’s
sake.”
Faramir turned back to him. Old time’s sake.
“Lend me your sword,” Shagrat said. “Two minutes,
that’s all I need.”
“If you think I’m going to help you, in some ill-conceived
escape plan –“
“No,” sighed Shagrat, interrupting him, “two minutes
is all I need to fall on your sword, Goldilocks, so’s I can finish
myself off. You can watch me do it if you like,” he added, a little
desperately, when Faramir did not reply. “Look - you can hold
the blade steady for me yourself, if you want.”
Faramir watched him for a moment. The Uruk seemed deadly serious. “Out
of the question,” Faramir told him.
“Pass me that side-dagger you’ve got on your belt, then.
I like the jewel-encrusted hilt, by the way. It’s very shiny.
Nice.”
“It was a wedding present,” Faramir replied, automatically.
“A dagger, as a wedding present?” Shagrat began, incredulously.
“Everyone knows knives are bad luck. Who would want to give anyone
a dagger for a wedding present? Unless – ah. Dwarves. Some short-arsed
king-under-the-mountain would do it. Am I right?”
He was quite correct, but Faramir did not reply. He sat down next to
Shagrat again.
“So you’re married now. You surprise me.” Shagrat
said, easily. He paused. “Tell me, who have they married you off
to, Faramir?” he said. “Which noble maiden of Gondor finally
landed you? Funny that. You always said you never thought Gondorian
girls had enough get-up-and-go about them.”
Thinking about his wife Éowyn, Faramir winced again, inwardly. She’d
had enough get-up-and-go about her, all right. Soon after their woefully
brief honeymoon period had ended, she’d gotten up and gone, straight
back to her peoples’ homeland in the North. An inability to withstand
the rigors of the Gondorian summertime climate was the official explanation
for her absence, although Faramir suspected that the real reason was
something rather different.
“My bride is not from the realm of Gondor,” Faramir said.
“In point of fact, she hails from the principality of Rohan.”
“Rohirrim?” Shagrat spluttered. “You haven’t.
Well you know what they say about the people of Rohan. They do it with
horses, you know. They all do everything with horses, you must have
found that out by now.”
Faramir smiled thinly, not really listening to what Shagrat was saying.
He was concentrating all his attention on keeping an even, open expression
on his face, because Shagrat had always been able to read him, just
like a book.
“And you’re a family man, these days, are you? Pipe and
slippers by the fire of an evening, and all that, eh?”
Tersely, Faramir asked Shagrat what he could possibly know about ‘all
that’.
“Well, I –“ Shagrat began, uncertainly. “Well
I don’t know, really, but I did see this woodcut, once. Patrol
got it off the body of one of those Tark ranger –” he broke
off, looking uncomfortably at Faramir. “Well - never mind about
that.” He cleared his throat uneasily before continuing. “‘Someone
To Come Home To,’ it was called. Lamplight in the window, and
not being on the outside, looking in. It looked sort of – bright.
Warming. And it made you feel - I don’t know.”
If Faramir’s memory served, the sight of lamplight through a
cottage window had in the past made the Uruk-hai of Mordor feel like
doing not much more than breaking the window and looting the premises,
murdering any Gondorian occupants all in their beds, and then using
the lamp oil to set light to the building on their way out. He said
as much to Shagrat.
“You do have a point,” Shagrat admitted, grudgingly. “I’m
not saying you don’t. But that’s not what I meant.”
“So how about your old man,” Shagrat asked after a moment’s
silence. “How’s old Denethor, ex-Steward of Gondor getting
on with his second favourite son’s lovely bride. She is lovely,
is she, Faramir? They did give you that much, I hope -”
Faramir leapt to his feet, propelled by rage and anguish, and grabbing
Shagrat by the throat, thrust him bodily back against the wall. “You
will not speak of my late Father!” Faramir hissed at him. “His
name sits ill on the lips of a creature such as you.”
“I did hear a rumour he’d passed on,” Shagrat replied,
in a strangled voice. “Can’t say I was sorry to see him
go. Never knew him in person of course, but I saw clearly enough the
effect he’d had on you. I’m glad you’ve settled with
someone nice, Faramir. Someone who’ll be willing to put you first,
for once.”
What was the use in pretending? Telling Shagrat could not conceivably
make the slightest difference to Faramir’s situation, one way
or the other. “She’s left me,” he said simply. “It’s
common knowledge that she married me, only because she was unable to
secure the affections of – of someone else.” In a way it
was a relief for him to say it out loud, at last.
“I knew it,” Shagrat muttered, in triumph, seemingly quite
unperturbed by Faramir’s hand, which was still squeezing hold
of him round his neck. “When you didn’t pick me up for that
dig about horses, that was when I knew for sure. You and me both know
that you, Goldilocks my friend, are not exactly the marrying kind.”
“What – kind - of person, then, would you have me be, Shagrat?”
“Your own man, Goldilocks,” Shagrat replied, “but
then, you already know what I think about that.”
His anger deflated, Faramir let go of Shagrat. The Uruk sagged back
against the wall, panting for breath.
“So we can’t talk about the War, your old dad, or that
runaway wife of yours,” Shagrat said. “That doesn’t
leave us much, so how about we talk about your dagger instead. Please,
Faramir, give me a loan of that. ‘Cause I want out. Give me an
ending with a little bit of dignity, at least. I can’t very well
carry on in this state, can I?”
Faramir shook his head.
“You couldn’t – you wouldn’t leave your old
Shagrat, stuck in a fix like this, could you? Come on, Goldilocks. I
always said you were nothing but a soft touch at heart.”
“Our actions, and all the choices we make, have consequences,”
Faramir told him, stiffly. “Over the years, you, Captain Shagrat,
have made an unconscionable number of bad decisions. You are now going
to have to learn to live with all of them.”
“Choices?” Shagrat muttered, “now, how do you work
that one out, exactly? No, Goldilocks. That won’t do. You know
you still owe me from last time.” Shagrat stared hopefully at
Faramir for a while, but at last his face fell as he realised that Faramir
had no intention of helping him. On seeing his dismay, Faramir felt
another odd, unwanted twinge of guilt – which, hurrying out of
the tavern’s back room, he quashed, immediately. Before too long,
however, the Uruk seemed to have recovered his spirits somewhat.
“How about a loan of a bleedin’ penknife, Goldilocks, hey?”
Faramir heard Shagrat shouting, across the Tavern courtyard, as he made
his way back to his rooms.
3: Alone in the dark
“Oh, Goldilocks,” Shagrat breathed into Faramir’s
ear. He groaned with pleasure, and eagerly, Faramir shifted under him,
bucking up to push harder against Shagrat’s stomach. Hot, fervent
kisses rained down on his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, and he twisted
his face round so that Shagrat would be to reach his mouth properly.
Shagrat hadn’t known a lot about kissing, before, but Faramir
had shown him what to do, and now he was getting good at it. Shagrat
was getting really very good at it indeed. He kissed Faramir repeatedly,
reaching round to pull him close.
“Goldilocks – love –“ Shagrat moved his hips
again in the way that made Faramir wriggle ecstatically under him. He
could feel Shagrat’s body quivering against him as the Orc shuddered
on the edge of his climax. Snarling out suddenly, he fastened his mouth
round Faramir’s shoulder in a passionate love-bite, growling and
panting helplessly, deep in the back of his throat. Shagrat’s
hands, one of which was fixed at the back of Faramir’s neck, and
the other at his groin, clutched and stroked him possessively. At once,
Faramir felt his own orgasm beginning to build.
“Shagrat,” Faramir gasped, at his moment of crisis. His
voice seemed to him to ring oddly in his ears, and feeling an uneasy
sense of disorientation, he opened his eyes. He was lying alone in his
rooms at the Tavern. It was quiet outside and it was dark.
Horrified, Faramir leapt up, clearing the bed he’d been sleeping
in and jumping to his feet, in one, great, bound. He leant back against
the door of his bedroom, trembling with revulsion, cold sweat dripping
off him.
That never happened, he reminded himself. Thank all that was holy,
but it had never, quite, come to - that. Shagrat had let him go –
no, Faramir reminded himself, daringly, he had escaped from Shagrat
– before things had ever gone that far. Knowing it was a small
comfort to him however. Through the long years since he’d last
seen the Orc, Faramir, dearly and secretly, had often wished that there
had been some sort of resolution to the dubious, unorthodox –
but mercifully brief - association they’d shared. Perhaps if they
had done – that - he wouldn’t be finding himself in the
situation he was in now, for despite Faramir’s best efforts, he’d
never been able to erase the memory of Shagrat completely from his mind.
Over the years, he’d taken a number of lovers – and he’d
tried, with men and women both – but sooner, more usually than
later, he’d find himself less than contented with these relationships.
Faramir rarely acknowledged it to himself, but he knew that this had
to have something to do with his experiences with the Orc. Shagrat had
turned out to be a very difficult act to follow indeed, and worse than
any of that, to his shame, on nights such as this one, even Faramir’s
own body seemed set to betray him. The front of his nightshirt was damp
with fresh-spilled semen and Faramir realised that his response to his
dream of Shagrat had been real enough.
Wearily, Faramir realised that further sleep would be impossible, now.
If he had been occupying his state rooms in the city, or his summer
residence in Ithilien, Faramir would have retired to his personal library,
where he had collected books enough to distract him, and there he would
have immersed himself in his studies of the history and genealogy of
his country, until his troubled state of mind had quieted itself. Had
even the great library of Minas Tirith failed to engage his attention,
there were always the ever-bustling streets of the lower City, where
hawkers and food sellers and street-merchants plied their trade all
through the night.
In his younger days, Faramir had loved to lose himself in the nighttime
lower City. It had not taken him long to learn to blend with practised
ease into the wakeful throng, for the knack of deliberately avoiding
notice was a skill that Faramir had been cultivating, consciously or
unconsciously, for almost all of his life. In seeking to avoid adverse
comment – on his actions, attitude, behaviour, deportment and
so on - Faramir had taken to effacing himself, in time succeeding so
well at this that ultimately, his presence had tended to be noted by
almost no-one at all. The deaths of the few remaining members of his
family in the Ring War had however changed that. Thrown into the spotlighted
position of Prince and Steward Apparent, it had become quite impossible
for Faramir to escape attention. He was now admired and celebrated,
irrespective of his actions and unconditionally, wherever he went, in
what he found to be an exact, complete reversal of his earlier life-experiences.
That had certainly been the case during his improvised tour of the town
and the surrounding countryside earlier in the day. Faramir, as a soldier
and ranger had survived years of bombardment from countless Orc-hordes.
He had led guerrilla attacks against Haradrim invaders, held City defences
against air-borne assaults from winged Nazgûl, and been a leader of
men in a time of despair. He had even at one stage briefly been tempted
by, and rejected, the lure of the One Ring. Despite all that, the relentlessly
aggressive fawning upon his person to which Faramir had recently been
subjected, by the Town councilmen, their wives and their daughters still
had to count as one of the more daunting experiences he’d ever
had to face, nonetheless.
The thought came to Faramir, quite unbidden, that of all the people
he had been close to in his life, only his beloved older brother Boromir,
and - incongruously - Shagrat, the Uruk Captain of Mordor, had ever
looked at him without some level of prior expectation, making no demands
of him other than that he be himself. The notion that his adored, dead
brother and a filthy, misbegotten Orc could share any sort of common
ground between them made him deeply uncomfortable, however, and Faramir
paced around his room restlessly, and cast his mind here and there,
trying to find something – anything - else to think about.
It was very late, but on pushing aside the drapes at his bedroom window,
Faramir saw that the public bar of the Tavern downstairs was still open
for business. He dressed himself quietly, and stole out past the doors
of his aides, who occupied the rooms on either side of his own. He made
his way quickly to the barroom.
In the dim light provided by soot-blackened chimney lamps that hung
from the rafters and were fixed to the walls of the public bar, Faramir
recognised the gap-toothed, smiling face of Shagrat’s Barker.
The Barker greeted him heartily, then asked for Faramir’s opinion
of his Uruk captive.
“Most impressive,” Faramir said, briskly.
“He didn’t say ‘owt to you, did he?”
Faramir assured the Barker that the Uruk had not.
“What, nothing at all?” The Barker’s brows knitted
together in an ominous frown.
“Well of course he – did tell me a number of blood-curdling
tales. Said he’d like to grind my bones to make his bread and
so on,” Faramir fabricated, a little desperately. “Swore
at me lot. All in all I found it was a most worthwhile exhibit. Very
authentic Orcish experience. I’d highly recommend it.”
Placated by this, the Barker nodded approvingly.
“How did you come by such a creature?” Faramir asked, by
way of making conversation.
“Ah, therein lies a tale, waiting for the telling.”
Faramir waited politely. The Barker looked wistfully at his empty ale-pot.
Faramir quickly attracted the attention of the Barman and ordered a
round of drinks for both of them. Drawing down a large pull of foamy
beer, the Barker smacked his lips and belched to himself, sedately.
He leaned comfortably on the bar and began to speak.
Interlude: The Barker’s tale
“They was moving south through the mountains, and he had a falling
out with his own gang, by all accounts” the Barker said. “He’d
no weapons, or armour, or anything left by the time I caught him, them
other Orcs must have had the lot. He was out for an easy meal, I reckon,
but the snows came early again that year, and the livestock was moved
further down the valleys ahead of time. Me, I’d set a spring-trap
up near the tree line. There’s lots of bears, and I was after
a cub for my next dancing bear act. If you get a she-bear, late in autumn,
she’ll still have this year’s little ‘uns with her
before they all go down for their winter sleep. Cubs is easier to manage
but I fetched up snaring that big Orc instead. Spring-trap got him by
the leg and then a he-bear came and had a go at him – well, they
had a go at each other far as I could see. Never heard of a bear being
throttled with its own tongue before – and I still couldn’t
tell you how he managed it. It was dreadful - a dreadful sight. Orc
wrecked the trap breaking free, and left the bear lying dead behind
him – but not before he’d eaten a fair chunk out, fur, skin
and all. Must’ve been pretty desperate. Ruined the pelt while
he was about it, but I couldn’t have that, not losing the trap
and a bear both. I’ve got my overheads to think of. So, I tracked
the Orc to where he was holed up – left trail as clear as anything
he did, black blood was spoutin’ out of him everywheres. He did
try a few tricks – doubling back, wading through water and such,
so he must’ve known I was on his trail, but at last he went to
ground in a summer sheep crib, in the next valley over the other side
of the ridge. Didn’t put up much of a struggle by the time I found
him. All the long bones in his leg was broken in the trap and he was
nigh-on frozen, and half starved to death. Since then, we found it’s
better if he’s on short rations, and between you and me that’s
how we keep him in line these days. Surly so and so gets – you
know, stroppy, otherwise. He tried to cut and run back in the spring
a couple of times. Nearly made it back as far as the mountains, once,
so after I’d fetched him back the second time we took the splints
he’d made off him and I sorted his ankle out, so he won’t
get far again. A lot of the fight went out of him after I fixed him
like that, and he became much easier to manage. Best thing I could have
done, when you think about it.”
Faramir digested all of that, in silence.
“He says he was some big-shot in the Black Army but I don’t
know if I believe it. Hasn’t much about him that I can see, and
to tell the truth, he seems a sorry, broke-down sort of thing to me,
no matter how good he is for business. You know, if that’s the
best they could muster up on their side, well, it’s no wonder
things worked out as they did, is it?”
Faramir felt a strange spark of indignation on Shagrat’s behalf
to hear him dismissed like this. But then, he reflected, the Barker
had never seen the old Uruk Captain in his prime. Faramir’s Shagrat,
a version of him as he had been, more than twenty years previously –
the Shagrat who still lived on, in Faramir’s memory - would have
had a few things to say about that, and Faramir smiled to himself, thinking
about it. Shagrat had proved himself to be, in the end, not much more
than a paper tiger, at least where Faramir was concerned. But he had
always dealt with public slights to his dubious - and frankly, worrying
– notions of personal honour in no uncertain, permanent, and very
violent, terms.
Early next morning Shagrat watched, squinting in the watery sunlight,
until the last of the horses from Faramir’s party had been saddled
up from the stables adjoining the Tavern. Up until the end, he’d
thought there was a good chance he might see Goldilocks again. Shagrat
didn’t hope, exactly, for anything, very much any more, but all
the same some part of him, a part that actually, he’d thought
was long gone and forgotten about, had been looking out for Faramir,
wanting to talk to him, one last time. Shagrat snarled disgustedly under
his breath, cursing himself for being a starry-eyed fool, as he realised
he’d been waiting for the young man, all through the previous
day and night. Now it was obvious they were gone for good, and the Orc
sagged down from the painful, tip-toed hike he’d been holding
while he watched the Tavern courtyard through the stockroom window,
and eased himself stiffly down on to the floor. Bill Chard, the ill-tempered
doorman, had with the money he’d taken from Faramir, embarked
on a drinking session of truly epic proportions, a mammoth bender that
had begun the afternoon before and lasted well into the night. He had
not of course, bothered to check on Shagrat in the meantime, with the
result that the Orc had not been fed or watered for quite some time.
His right leg was throbbing viciously again and he was feeling feverish,
and deathly sick.
So, in the end, Goldilocks had swanned off and left him to it –
just like last time, Shagrat reflected bitterly. After Goldilocks had
first gone away from him, all those years ago, Shagrat had been left
to make his explanations as best he could to the lieutenants of the
Dark Fortress of Barad-Dur. His chief Inquisitor, one of the lesser
Nazgûl, had been vicariously thrilled by Shagrat’s memories of
his time with the young Gondorian, and also vastly amused by the notion
that a hardened Uruk Captain could have lost his head so completely
over nothing more than a mildly good-looking human. In the interests
of not much more than simple titillation, then, the Nazgûl had allowed
Shagrat to survive his punishments - but in running and replaying the
Uruk’s recollections of Faramir over and again, the wraith had
by accident or design stripped away every bit of sweetness from his
memories, till every one of them was used up; completely worn out. Seeing
Goldilocks again had brought all of it back, though, as clear as day,
and now without the slightest effort, Shagrat was able to recall exactly
how things had been; he could summon up every detail of how the young
Faramir had looked and smelled and tasted and felt. He could remember
precisely why he’d reacted to the boy as disastrously as he had
done, and desperately, Shagrat tried to suppress the debilitating rush
of fond affection for Faramir that threatened to overwhelm him. It was
a truly preposterous idea, unnatural and depraved, to think that such
feelings could possibly exist in an Orc.
If only, Shagrat groaned to himself, if only it could just have been
clean and simple, straightforward, lust.
The months of rain in the mountains had caused a mud-slide, that had
blocked the main road south and west, so that the Royal Party were forced
to cut short their visit to the outlying provinces of Gondor. Consequently,
Faramir found himself once again approaching the town where he had happened
upon Shagrat, not much more than a full day after his party had first
left it. They had reached a crossroads, several miles out from the City
Gates when in the distance, coming towards them, Faramir recognised
a collection of brightly painted wagons and beribboned livestock, the
bells on their harnesses jingling faintly in the damp morning air. Such
a rag-tag assemblage could only belong to Shagrat’s Barker.
Faramir’s heart leapt as he rode on to meet them. He very much
wanted, but at the same time didn’t want, to see Shagrat again.
He quickly scanned the makeshift procession that was trailing out along
the road behind the Barker. With a growing feeling of dread, he realised
that Shagrat didn’t seem to be a member of their party.
“Where’s your Orc, this morning,” asked Faramir.
He put a heartiness into his voice that he didn’t particularly
feel as he searched the sad little caravan of cages and animals up and
down. There seemed to be nothing there that could be large enough or
the right size to contain Shagrat. A sensation of cold fear began to
creep into Faramir’s breast.
The Barker snorted in disgust. “He’s back in that last
town we stopped over in, or whatever’s left of him is.”
“You all right, Sir?” the Barker added, with some concern.
“You turned white as a sheet there for a minute.”
Faramir waved his questions off. “What went on?” he asked,
his tone forced.
“A washout, from start to finish, is what,” the Barker
said. “Trapper brought a fresh-caught wolf for me yesterday afternoon,
and I thought I’d put him in with the Orc. Bit of a novelty act.
Orc would’ve beaten him eventually, but it should have been a
right spectacle, and no mistake. Spectacle! Hah! Folk coming to an Orc-baiting
don’t pay good money to see an Orc speaking to a wolf in some
funny language and then lyin’ down quietly with his neck exposed,
like what my Orc did, last night. Bleedin’ washout is what it
was. I had to get the dancing bear out quick.”
“The wolf killed him, then.”
“As good as,” the Barker said. “As good as. There
was still a bit of life left at first light this morning, and when we
were leaving, he begged me to finish him off. Though I was in no mood
to do him any favours, not after what had gone on, I can tell you.”
“But he’s not dead,” Faramir said.
“Oh, he will be by now,” the Barker replied, “don’t
you worry about that. I sold him to one of them council chiefs, and
he had all kinds of plans - trophy-taking of some sort, I shouldn’t
wonder. Even with what I got for the dead weight, I’ve still lost
a packet on this. I’ll be steering clear of Orcs in future. Too
much of a damn nuisance – beggin’ your pardon, Sir.”
He took his leave politely, and Faramir watched dully, as the caravan
moved off on its way.
Faramir stood by the side of the road, holding the reins of his horse
and staring straight ahead, numb with shock. Shagrat was dead. The hood
of Faramir’s cape fell back, and soon the driving rain had begun
to flattened his hair to his scalp, while rainwater trickled unpleasantly
down the back of his neck. Faramir didn’t notice. He kept staring
into space, somehow finding himself unable to focus on anything other
than the horrible thought that Shagrat was - dead. After a short time,
one of the royal aides rode up beside him, and eventually his solicitous
enquiries brought Faramir back to himself a little. Without a word,
the Prince of Ithilien swung up into his saddle and spurred his horse
away. Faramir covered the four or five miles between the crossroads
and the town at a flat-out gallop. He barely slowed as he clattered
into through the Town Gates, and his horse skidded on the rain-wet cobbles,
and almost fell, as Faramir reined it to a stop in the square outside
the Tavern.
Faramir leapt down. There was a group of people sitting at one of the
tables sheltered by the Tavern’s wooden veranda. They were having
a morning drink and watching the rain. Among them was one of the councilmen,
the royal-sceptic, and would-be router of Orcs, from the previous day.
“What have you done with the Orc,” Faramir barked at him.
“We left the carcass round the side,” the Councilman said.
“Our plan was to have him strung up at the crossroads, just outside
the town gates. It should make a good warning for all the rest of those
vermin to stay well away. We’d have done it before now, but the
rain held us off.”
Faramir sprinted the short distance to the midden at the back of the
Tavern. Shagrat’s mortal remains were slumped untidily there,
on one side of the rubbish-pile. He had been stripped to the waist,
but even the few clothes he’d been left were now hanging half-on,
half-off him. He was dreadfully emaciated; there was not much left of
him other than skin and bone. Faramir fell onto his knees in the mud
and pulled Shagrat partway up into his lap. The Orc’s neck was
encircled by ragged, bleeding wounds, and the body felt cold, but was
not yet stiff. Faramir wrenched his cape off over his head, and carefully
enshrouded Shagrat with it.
The Councilman, now protected from the rain by a heavy waxed cloak
and galoshes, arrived shortly afterwards. “With all due respect
to your royal person my Lord,” he said, “I don’t see
what you’re so upset about. It’s only a dead Orc.”
Faramir snarled at the man, startled to hear himself spitting out the
few words of Black Speech – dreadful profanities, all of them
– that he’d acquired years previously, during his stay in
Mordor.
The Councilman fell back, open-jawed with shock.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Faramir told
him, clutching Shagrat close. “But this Orc is my Orc, I tell
you. He’s mine.”
4: In the Tower of Cirith Ungol
It always seemed ironic to Faramir, and also a wretched commentary
on the state of his home life, that looking back on it, his sojourn
as a prisoner in the Tower of Cirith Ungol represented one of the more
restful periods that he would ever remember experiencing during his
youth and early adulthood.
A more restful period – comparatively speaking, that is. The
days were monotonous, and they were all exactly the same. The nights
– well, Shagrat had quickly taken up the habit of keeping company
with Faramir at night, and at those times, Faramir was on a completely
uneven footing, continually off-balance. At night, Faramir hadn’t
much idea where he stood at all.
Except that when Shagrat was with him, Faramir knew without a doubt
that he had every bit of the Uruk’s attention. His gaze followed
Faramir constantly, and sometimes Faramir would surprise Shagrat watching
him, staring at him with open admiration and appreciation. It was deeply
unsettling, but at the same time for Faramir, conditioned as he had
been by years of harsh condemnation and unwarranted reproach, this had
been a heady experience, indeed.
And to Faramir, sometimes the wily old Uruk even had a certain kind
of raffish appeal about him – a sort of white-knuckled, headlong
good-humouredness, even though the idea that a servant of the Enemy
could possess any kind of redeeming feature was not a concept that the
young Gondorian’s training would easily allow him to accept.
Shortly after he had begun his first military posting as a Ranger in
Ithilien, a scouting party of which Faramir had been a member was attacked
by a patrol of Orcs, evidently hailing from a squadron stationed just
inside the Black Gate. In the confusion of the ambush, Faramir, who
had fallen behind while helping to defend the rearguard of his comrades’
retreat, had become separated from the rest of the party. Finding himself
alone, and unsure of his position in the wild, unknown terrain, the
young Ranger had quickly been surrounded by the eight surviving Orcs
and Uruks, cut off from his companions, and though he had fought them
with maniacal energy, dispatching or mortally wounding a number of his
foes, in very little time he had been subdued, and taken captive.
Faramir had not understood, at first, why they had not killed him outright.
He had been blindfolded and bound by the Orcs, his hands tied behind
him but his legs left free, and in this condition he had been moved
onwards at a sprinting run, for what seemed to him like several hours.
Between Faramir’s increasing exhaustion and the cruel goads his
Orcish captors applied, he’d had little opportunity to develop
a proper sense of fear and apprehension about his situation. All this
changed when the patrol reached its destination, however. After a long,
waiting period, during which the Orcs and Uruks crowded round Faramir
to hide him, pressing so closely that he was nearly suffocated by their
proximity and the reek of their stinking bodies, he was rushed a short
distance then down a long flight of steps, and finally was thrown roughly
into an enclosed space. He lay for a time, resting against cold, damp
stone, with the Orcs all around him quarrelling noisily. They were bickering
over who should have ‘first turn,’ and Faramir knew that
they were debating about when to begin torturing him to death. He lay
quietly, gathering his strength and trying to contain his rising panic.
The Orcs’ decision was soon made. Faramir was kicked over onto
his back and the blindfold was removed. His shirt was stripped open
by a bulky, long-armed Orc, a red-faced creature with yellow, protruding
fangs, and metal staples in its forehead. The Orc bent low over him,
and probed its talons delicately into the whip-marks that had recently
been left on Faramir’s shoulders. Faramir immediately brought
his knees up into the Orc’s belly, momentarily fighting it off,
and was booted viciously in the side of the head for his trouble. In
a daze, he was lifted and turned onto his stomach, his legs held down
in a scissor-grip by another Orc, while the first one mounted him. It
clambered up to lie flat against Faramir’s back, its dreadful
weight crushing him as it pressed itself close, like a lover. It fitted
its hand over Faramir’s nose and mouth, pulling his head backwards
with terrible strength, cutting off his breath.
Faramir shuddered as the Orc ground its groin against his back, and
rubbed itself onto his still-bound hands. Its erection butted insistently
against Faramir’s buttocks, pushing into the fabric of his breeches,
and to his horror he realised that the vile creature planned to use
him to take its own pleasure. His resolve to bear himself as befitted
a soldier of Gondor evaporated utterly – he had steeled himself,
and had prepared to withstand pain, and torment, but not - this. The
Orc whispered foul endearments to Faramir, chuckling softly into his
ear, its claws pricking at him. Faramir nearly choked, from fear and
lack of air. Loud, clattering footsteps, followed by a draught of cold
air as the door to the cellar was briefly opened and shut revived him
somewhat.
“Maggots,” rumbled a new, much deeper, voice. It had none
of the snickering, slavering tones used by the Orcs who had captured
Faramir; the speech was clear and cold, and the accent quite different.
“Let’s have a look at what you’ve got there. Out of
my way, Snaga –“ this was followed by a hefty thump as the
new speaker batted one of the lesser Orcs off Faramir’s back,
and then Faramir was grabbed under his arms and hauled to his feet.
He found himself face-to-face with a large Mordor Uruk, evidently a
creature of some rank, from the way the smaller Orcs were scuttling
around and making way for it.
“Well, well, well,” the Uruk said, gazing intently down
at Faramir. Faramir, dazed, and disoriented, was quite unable to break
eye contact with him. “This is a fine looking prize, and no mistake.
When were you boys planning on telling your Captain about it, hey?”
“We was just on our way,” one of the Snaga said.
“Too late,” the Captain said, “seems to me you’ve
had your chance and lost it. I’m taking charge of the prisoner
myself.”
“Oi, Shagrat,” the red-faced Orc whined at him, “now,
we brung him back off our own bat. It’s only one of them Dunna
– Dunnedeea – one of them Rangers out of Ithilien. They’d
never send nobody there what was worth anything, would they? So what’s
the harm in us having a bit of sport, before we finish him? Share, won’t
you? Fair’s fair.”
“Not a chance,” Shagrat said. “I’m having him
for my own personal use. Captain’s prerogative.”
The other Orcs muttered mutinously under their breaths, but there were
no further protests.
“Follow me, Goldilocks,” Shagrat said. Faramir looked at
him, foolishly. “Yes, I’m talking to you,” the Uruk
told him. “Not simple, are you? No? Well come on, then.”
The Captain moved off quickly, striding ahead in great long-legged
lopes so fast, that as eager as he was to escape, Faramir was hard-pushed
to keep up. He followed the Uruk unthinkingly, running not so much after
him, as simply to get away, from the cellar and the other Orcs. They
climbed the stairway that brought them back up to ground level, and
made their way towards a large, circular barrack-room. Evidently the
building they were in was one of the dark Watchtowers that lined the
inner walls of the Mordor Gate. Faramir baulked where he stood on the
threshold; the room beyond was filled with Uruk-hai and Orcish troops.
Some were eating, seated around rough, wooden tables, while others lounged
here and in groups or rested on the floor, leaning back against the
walls. Without speaking, the Captain pushed his way through the throng,
elbowing his comrades roughly aside. The crowd parted before him and
closed in his wake.
“Here, Shagrat, what have you been picking up this time?”
one of the Orcs cried out, registering Faramir’s presence for
the first time.
“’Av’ you brung us all a present? Or did you fetch
‘im for me, special?” another Orc shouted.
“Go on! I saw him first!” the first Orc retorted. “Such
a sweet, pretty thing. I’d love a bit of that. We all would -
wouldn’t we, boys!” The attention of the entire group was
now focussed on Faramir, and they all began jeering and catcalling,
howling out obscenities, and meaningless, bestial yowls. Three short,
bow-legged Orcs stepped up behind Faramir, blocking his exit. Encouraged
by all this, the first Orc began to push his way towards Faramir, while
the trio at Faramir’s back forced him forwards, further into the
chamber.
From near the back of the room, Shagrat launched himself at the Orc
who was approaching Faramir, tackling and grappling him to the ground
so quickly that Faramir, in his confusion, barely had time to register
what was happening. Shagrat’s claws, feet and teeth tore into
the hapless creature mercilessly, while muffled, wet, tearing noises
snarled out of the Captain’s mouth. The Orc gave a horrible, cut-short
yowl as Shagrat’s teeth crunched, with awful finality, through
the back of his neck. Shagrat threw the body down, disgustedly, and
jumped to his feet to stand in a hunch-backed crouch. Scowling at them,
snarling and slobbering like an animal, he drew his sword, and turned
slowly this way and that, staring down the rest of the troops. All of
them pointedly avoided his gaze.
Shagrat twitched. He straightened up, wiping his mouth.
“This Tark is mine,” he said, with quiet menace. “Everybody.
Understood?” A clamour of hasty assents answered him. The Uruk
and Orc troops fell back, scrambling to get out of the way.
Shagrat began to climb a flight of black stone steps at the opposite
side of the barrack room.
“I won’t tell you again,” Shagrat said over his shoulder,
without turning round. “Goldilocks, you’d do well to follow
me.”
Faramir lurched forwards, finding himself pushed on towards Shagrat.
The staircase the Uruk was ascending followed the inner wall of the
tower, spiralling upwards, and soon Shagrat was one or more turns above
and ahead of Faramir, and had passed out of sight. The stone flags below
his feet as he climbed were damp and slick with grease and with his
hands still tied behind him, Faramir had difficulty in keeping his balance.
He stumbled repeatedly onto his knees, at last falling full-length,
cracking his chin down hard on the steps ahead. A moment later, the
Uruk was beside him, and once again had hauled Faramir roughly up to
his feet. Shagrat shoved him face-forwards into the wall, holding him
firmly in place there by the neck, and Faramir heard the metallic scrape
as he unsheathed his sword. Weak at the knees, he squeezed his eyes
shut, expecting both death and dishonour, that the Captain would soon
begin using him however he saw fit.
The Uruk sliced through the ropes that bound Faramir’s wrists
then let go of him, abruptly.
Faramir turned round. “Thank you,” he said, automatically.
Shagrat recoiled visibly from him, his unlovely face, still a mask
of drying Orc blood, contorting in a wordless snarl. He turned his back
on Faramir and bounded off up the stairs. Slowly, Faramir followed after
him, at a distance. What else was there to do?
5: Odd couple
“I’m a Captain in the mightiest army that’s been
mustered anywhere, for more than a thousand years!” Shagrat yelled,
“And I’ll thank you not to forget it! I’m a commanding
officer and if I don’t start getting a bit of respect from you,
here in my own quarters, you’ll be down the stairs with those
Snaga-Orcs before you know it!”
“But I don’t even have yellow hair,” Faramir protested
again, under his breath. Shagrat had at one point asked for his name,
and Faramir had duly given him a false one, but as the Uruk seemed unwilling
to address him as anything other than ‘Goldilocks,’ he couldn’t
see why the Orc had asked in the first place. And they were most definitely
not, Faramir reminded himself, having a domestic argument. It wasn’t
that they were living together, in any real sense. Circumstances –
circumstances engineered, admittedly, by Shagrat - had thrown them very
much together, but that was all.
The Uruk eyed him balefully. “Look around you, Goldilocks,”
he said. “You’re in the Land of Shadow now. You are aware
of that, am I right? I haven’t seen anything as bright, or as
clean as you in all the time I’ve been here,” the Captain
added, “and I’ve been here an age.”
Whether they were co-habiting or not, the young Gondorian and the Uruk
had fallen easily enough into regular, day-to-day routine – albeit
after a somewhat shaky start.
The first few hours of Faramir’s confinement in Shagrat’s
apartments – for the Uruk had commandeered a set of rooms for
himself, an interconnected suite which occupied the entire uppermost
level of the Tower – had passed without event. The Captain had
pointedly ignored him, as if he was in some way embarrassed by Faramir’s
presence, and the young man had whiled the time away by passing through
agonies of apprehension, uncertainty and dread.
“Captain Shagrat,” Faramir had said, his words ringing
out suddenly, breaking the silence. Shagrat, who had been pacing restlessly,
crossing and re-crossing the tiny floor-space in his rooms, stopped
short, evidently surprised to hear Faramir addressing him in this way.
“Captain Shagrat,” Faramir repeated, having decided that
anything was better than not knowing his own fate, “may I ask
you for your intentions towards me?”
“Well stone me,” the Orc replied at length, “if you
don’t have the prettiest set of manners I ever heard of. You keep
on with your ‘Captain’ me this and ‘Captain’
me that, I’m sure we shall get along just fine.”
Shagrat had gone on to explain his intentions, saying it would be useful
for an officer in his position to have a resident assistant, a batman,
if Faramir liked, to help him with certain personal and domestic duties,
about his quarters. This assistant would, as Shagrat said, act as a
buffer between the Captain and the rank-and-file – Orcs who Shagrat
loathed and despised (“those Snaga! Maggots!”), and with
whom it was clear that he was keen to avoid all unnecessary contact.
Faramir could, amongst other things – and it was becoming quite
clear that Shagrat was making these duties up as he went along –
fetch meals and so on for Shagrat from the communal mess. Shagrat’s
imagination failed him completely at this point and his voice tailed
off.
“And I could – help keep your quarters in order, perhaps,”
Faramir suggested. He cast a doubtful eye about Shagrat’s rooms,
which were basic in the extreme, sparsely furnished to the point of
being almost empty.
“Yes!” Shagrat guffawed, a little too heartily. “We
shall get along famously.”
Shagrat’s next actions however, gave the lie to this statement
entirely. Night was falling, and as it grew darker and darker in the
unlighted apartment, the Orc’s demeanour began to change. Slowly,
he began to relax and the restlessness and anxiety that had been in
his manner disappeared, only to be replaced by a fixed and hungry watchfulness
that seemed to signal a quite different set of emotions – a kind
of motivation that Faramir really couldn’t bring himself to accept.
He felt the intensity of Shagrat’s gaze on him, even through the
dark, and he stirred uncomfortably, pulling his ruined shirt closed
across his chest. In one or two quick strides, Shagrat was up and standing
over him, and had him pinned in place.
“What are you doing? I’m a prisoner of war!” Faramir
cried.
“Hold still a minute,” Shagrat muttered, “just want
to have a look at what I’ve got myself.”
Faramir wriggled in Shagrat’s grasp, in a half-hearted attempt
to break free. He could have wrenched himself away easily enough, but
couldn’t say how Shagrat might have reacted to that. Faramir was
unarmed; severely disadvantaged by the pitch darkness around them, and
moreover the Orc, who could evidently still see him quite clearly, had
already proved himself to be even more hot-tempered and impulsively
violent than the rest of his kind. And as Faramir was all too aware,
there was not really any place that he could run to, in any case. “You’re
holding me hostage!” he protested, weakly.
“No, Goldilocks,” Shagrat growled back at him, “I’m
not. You’re free to go any time you like. You might not get far,
but you’re welcome to take your chances downstairs with those
Snaga maggots, whenever you care to try it.” Still holding Faramir
down with one hand, he moved his face close in against the young man’s
chest and armpits, sniffing deeply, and apparently drinking in the scent
of his sweat and his skin. From time to time Shagrat’s tongue
flickered out to take a taste, and though the concept of being held
in place in the dark and licked by an Orc was dreadful in the extreme
to Faramir, to his horror and confusion the sensation itself was not…wholly
unpleasant.
“I would never make it past the Black Gate,” he gasped.
“That Black Gate, Goldilocks, was built by your lot with the
express purpose of keeping the likes of me safely contained,”
Shagrat said. “Now you’ve wound up on the wrong side of
it, you’re stuck fast, here with a pack of filthy Orcs. I wouldn’t
give two straws, not for your chances of making it out again alive.
So you’d better keep on the right side of me, if you know what’s
good for you.”
Shagrat leaned his shoulder against Faramir, using his weight to pin
him against the wall. He moved his free hand down to Faramir’s
groin and began rubbing him, fingering him through his clothes. To his
disgust, Faramir felt himself beginning to respond to the pressure and
friction of the Orc’s touch, a change that was immediately noted
by Shagrat, who began manipulating him with even greater enthusiasm.
Faramir tried with all his might to stop his body from reacting, and
failing utterly, felt wretched, shameful tears, starting to prick at
the backs of his eyes.
“Don’t,” he muttered in deep distress, speaking to
himself as much as to Shagrat, “don’t.”
To Faramir’s extreme surprise the Orc let go of him immediately,
pushing him aside and snorting in disgust. With a snarl he withdrew,
and Faramir heard his footsteps clattering away from him in the dark.
Exhausted from tension, fear, and lack of food, Faramir sank to the
floor, drawing his knees up to his chest, and he stayed huddled there,
for the rest of the night. The very worst thing of all, he’d been
appalled to find out, was that there had been a part of him that - hadn’t
wanted Shagrat to stop.
After this inauspicious set of first impressions however, the Uruk,
conspicuously, had not laid a hand on Faramir. He would be absent for
much of the day, leaving Faramir alone in his rooms, where there was
very little to occupy the young man’s time. There was little for
him to do but to stare out at the view, and even then there was not
much to see apart from the sick, yellow cloudbanks that hung in a permanent,
low-lying haze all about the borders of the Land of Shadow. The view
of the blighted sky was at least a little better than the hideous sight
of the ground around the Tower, however. In that place noisy Orc battalions
were continually marched and drilled up and down over the ash-black
clinker soil that made up the Mordor plain. Faramir’s brief trips
downstairs to the Orcish barracks, were also, for the most part uneventful,
and marked as Shagrat’s personal property as he had been, he was
on the whole, left severely alone. All in all then, in his solitude,
Faramir quickly came to anticipate – look forward, even, to Shagrat’s
return in the evenings, for the Orc was company of a sort, if nothing
else, and certainly, he was always keen to want to talk. He would keep
Faramir awake long into the night with endless questions about his life
and experiences in the White City. At first, Faramir had suspected that
the Orc was trying to extract information of tactical value from him,
but it soon became clear that Shagrat’s interests in Gondor began
and ended with, were entirely restricted to, the subject of Faramir
himself. The result of all this was that after the first day or so,
Faramir found himself adopting a semi-nocturnal pattern of activity.
The Uruk did not possess a bed and seemed to require very little sleep.
When he dozed - and he never seemed to take more than a light catnap,
he did so from a sitting position, on the floor, his back against a
wall, and with one hand permanently resting on the sword-hilt at his
belt.
And he was in the habit of bringing Faramir – gifts. A supply
of candles and lamp oil at first. Black bread, and, when he noted Faramir’s
reluctance to consume the shreds of nameless dried flesh that were the
Orcs’ usual provender, a haunch of smoked venison, with the hoof
still attached to it. He brought wine from Ithilien; a ranger’s
blanket roll - the rusty blood-stains on it faded and old - for Faramir
to sleep on. It was something like being wooed, in a macabre and grisly
way, and although most of Shagrat’s attempts at good humour at
best misfired, and at worst were downright ghastly, he did at times
behave towards Faramir in a way that, if it had come from almost anybody
else, would seem that he was pathetically eager to please.
Shagrat’s obvious partiality for his new companion did not go
unnoticed in the Orcish barracks.
Early one evening, Faramir made his way downstairs. Shagrat, like the
rest of his kind did not use water to wash, but even Uruk-hai Captains
needed to drink from time to time, and a large stoneware jar full of
water was kept in his quarters for this purpose. The murky contents
of this vessel were stagnant at best and though Shagrat appeared to
able to drink from it without suffering any ill effects, Faramir had
taken it upon himself to refresh their drinking supply every day or
so from the storage tank that served the rest of the Orcish troops.
There were two Snaga-Orcs, shortish, snaggle-toothed creatures, each
standing stood at about a man’s shoulder-height, loitering near
the water cistern when Faramir arrived. The first Orc, the smaller of
the pair, nodded insolently at him, in sneering acknowledgement of his
favoured status, and stepped aside slightly to let the young man past.
The second Orc, however, stayed put, and extended its arm across the
narrow corridor to block Faramir’s path. With surprising strength
for a creature of such a size, it twisted its claws into Faramir’s
shirtfront, and dragged him down, till his face was level with its own.
“Take your hands off me,” Faramir told it evenly, without
resisting. The Orc, looking mightily amused, chuckled noisily and pulled
him closer.
With great agitation, the smaller Orc prised its companion’s
clutching hands away.
“Leave it, mate,” it whined at its companion, “leave
it. S’not worth it.” It sidled in between Faramir and the
other Orc, and began backing away from him, pushing its companion along
behind. “No harm done, eh?” it gulped, nervously. “We’ll
just be off on our way, all right? Like I said, no harm done.”
The pair moved off a safe distance away from Faramir then stood, casting
surreptitious, backward glances at him.
It always took some time for Faramir’s vessel to be filled by
the slow trickle of water from the cistern, and he leaned nonchalantly
against it, to wait. He wasn’t sure if scruples about eavesdropping
on other people’s conversations could possibly apply to a couple
of Orcs, but he couldn’t help that these two had chosen to hold
a conversation well within earshot of him, so he listened, intently.
Faramir’s saviour was explaining the situation to his companion.
They were obviously gossiping about Shagrat.
Interlude 2: Orc talk
“Nar. Def’nitely hands off,” the first Orc told his
companion. “That was the Uruk Captain’s new squeeze. He’ll
have your eyes out if he catches you just looking funny at ‘im.”
“Nother one?” the second Snaga said. “How many’s
that make, now? What’s old Vashnek want another one for, eh? He’s
only got one friggin’ cock.”
“Not,” the first Snaga replied, “Captain Vashnek.”
He paused dramatically, for emphasis. “Captain of our Watchtower.
Captain Shagrat.”
“Shagrat!” his companion exclaimed.
“Yes, Shagrat,” confirmed the first Snaga proudly, “you
heard it from me first.”
The second Orc shook his head in disbelief. “Nah. You’re
‘aving me on. Every sod knows that Shagrat, that big bugger, he
doesn’t like to fuck. What is it now, must be two hundred years
I bin here, and in all that time, nothin’ but him wanking on his
lonesome up in that frigging Tower. He does have the odd wank, d’you
reckon? Brrrr! It don’t bloody well bear thinking about does it?
What’s all that about, d’you think?”
“Ah, well, our dear Captain, he hasn’t always been the
big, vicious bruiser what we’ve come to know and understand and
spend all our time trying to keep on the right side of. Time was, and
this is going back a long, long while, mind, he was more of your classic
underdog. Bottom of the pile, in more ways than one, if you know what
I’m saying. Me, I was a squaddie in one of the garrisons stationed
out at Lugburz about the time he was first conscripted. Captain always
was tall for his age, but he came into his weight a lot later than usual,
so I guess ‘cos of that he’d have landed up with more than
his share of rough-housing, down in the barracks at first. And you wouldn’t
think it to look at him now, but he was quite a pretty boy in those
days. All in the breeding. Beautiful head of hair on him and then some,
and other things too, what he couldn’t do nothing about. Those
sort of sports crop up every few generations or so, like you know. So
of course that’s never helped him neither, ‘cause you know
how Uruks genr’ly like to mess up anything what’s a bit
too nice and fancy looking for its own good. Well, our young Shagrat
come in for a lot of that, and was soon messed up proper. Stuff what
went on would make yer hair curl. Went on for ages, it did, till he’d
filled himself out a bit.”
“And that’s how he came to be such a miserable old devil?”
“Yes. That Shagrat. He’s a grudge-bearing bastard too.
Every one of ‘em, what had ever made things difficult for him
early on, once he’d got some muscle behind him, and started rising
through the ranks, he made a special point of doing ‘em down.
Every last one. Proper vendetta – he’d see to it personally.
It took him longer than you’d believe, but he never forgot - even
though there was some thought he must have done, what never lived to
see their mistake. In the end he got the last of the old crowd of Uruks
on the end of his blade and after that he shut himself away from everyone,
up top in the Tower. Hardly talks –“
“Except for when he’s screamin’ orders at folk,”
the second Orc broke in.
“That’s right,” the first Snaga continued, “never
talks, ‘cept for when he’s screamin’ and bullying,
only comes downstairs when he has to. And so help you if you even brush
up against him, accidental like, when you’re going past. He’ll
kill you, and won’t never think twice about it.”
“No! Just for touching him by mistake? I reckon he’s crazy.”
“Yeah. I do. Even more than most. And that’s saying something.”
“So what’s he want with this new Tark-boy, then?”
“Well, that is the question. That is the question. But who can
say, who can say?” the first Orc replied, shaking his head doubtfully.
“But he is besotted, Shagrat is. That Tark’s thrown a chain
around his heart and then some. Always rushing off early, making any
excuse to bunk off back to his rooms. Betterer mood than I’ve
seen him in ever, but he’s letting things slide. Our old Captain,
some say he’s losing his touch.”
“Shagrat, nar,” his companion scoffed. “You’ll
never tell me he’s got a bleedin’ heart in the first place.”
The two Orcs sat in silence for a moment.
“Now, how’d he come by this new favourite?”
“Patrol brought him. Wanted to have a go at him in peace and
quiet but got well rumbled on the way in. You know what Shagrat’s
like for picking up anything that’s a bit bright, or eye-catchin’.
He’s like one of them birds, what c’her call ‘em,
what hangs around battlefields, getting stuff off the bodies. You know
what I mean, to see one’s terrible bad luck.”
“Vultures,” the second Snaga said, nodding wisely.
“Not vultures you idiot,” the first Snaga replied, “Those
little black-and-white jobs. What are them things called, maggot-pies.
But -” he paused, considering - “you’re right, though,
the dear Captain does look like a bit like a vulture.” He crossed
his arms and drew himself up into a very passable imitation of Shagrat’s
high-shouldered, stoop-backed, hunching stance - a recognisable pose
that certainly was shared by Shagrat and vultures, both.
The two Orcs, cackling raucously, moved out of Faramir’s line
of sight.
7: First date
Faramir made his way slowly back upstairs. The obvious, unsavoury aspects
of their association aside, it was in a way oddly flattering, he supposed,
to think that the misanthropic Uruk Captain had singled him out for
such special notice. On arriving at Shagrat’s quarters, Faramir
found that Shagrat had once again ‘bunked off early’ as
the Orcs downstairs had put it, and had already returned to his rooms.
Faramir watched him sidelong. The Captain evidently planned to share
an evening meal with his unwilling Gondorian guest and was busily laying
out a few choice items out for them – well, given Shagrat’s
general lack of household furnishings - in their wrappings directly
on the floor. He had brought more wine – a bottle each for himself
and Faramir, and he was humming a twilight, discordant melody absently
under his breath, looking incongruously happy about his task - though
the bizarre domesticity of the scene was at one point fractured, as
Shagrat, who had been having difficulty in uncorking the wine, with
a sudden, unprovoked movement, smashed the necks of the dusty old bottles
open against the wall. Sheepishly, he picked the pieces of broken glass
away then handed one of the bottles to Faramir, who thanked him and
took a careful, polite drink. Shagrat beamed at him, evidently much
gratified to see that another one of his offerings had been accepted.
Of course, he didn’t look much better when he smiled. He was still
as fearsome-looking as ever, and if anything, looked even worse.
Faramir, however, was beginning to get used to that. Shagrat had been
a good-looking young Uruk at one point, the Snaga downstairs said, although
what that meant by Orcish standards could be anyone’s guess. He
certainly did have a kind of ruined, raddled elegance about him, and
it would not have taken a very great twist of imagination to see that
Shagrat’s appearance could at one time have tended more towards
being note-worthily striking, rather than – as it was now –
hideously grotesque. Faramir mulled this over while they ate. The meal
was taken largely in silence, Shagrat, with his usual complete lack
of finesse, having more or less killed all conversation outright.
“Do you like girls or boys best?” he’d asked, interestedly.
“What kind of question is that?” Faramir muttered, blushing
red to his ears.
“I’m making small talk,” Shagrat said, airily. “I
heard about that, once. After we’ve hammered you lot, there might
be – you know. Diplomatic opportunities and such. Orc like me,
might even have to come to make polite conversation with any surviving
members of your side. Small talk. You know.”
“This isn’t making small talk,” Faramir insisted.
“It is if you’re an Uruk out of Mordor,” Shagrat
said, stubbornly. “What do they talk about in Gondor?”
“I haven’t had many opportunities to practice the social
graces,” admitted Faramir.
“And you living in the White City? How’s that, then?”
“I’m rarely called into polite society,” Faramir
said, feeling himself beginning to blush with shame. It was a very familiar
feeling, and he spoke quickly, talking about anything at all, to cover
it. “But I understand the weather is always considered to be a
safe enough topic by most people.”
“In Mordor,” Shagrat growled, “the sun doesn’t
shine, the rain burns if it falls on your naked skin and the wind, when
it does blow through the eternal pall of clouds and smoke that surrounds
us, reeks of nothing so much as corruption and decay.” He broke
off, apparently embarrassed by his own eloquence.
After that, neither Shagrat nor Faramir had said anything more for
some time. Faramir, to cover his discomfort, drank deeply from his bottle,
so perhaps it was the effect of the strong wine, or perhaps it was the
brief moment of pity he’d felt for Shagrat, when he’d heard
the Snaga talking about how he’d lived for so many years in isolation.
Whatever the reason, at length Faramir heard himself asking: “Why
do you choose to avoid all others of your kind, Captain Shagrat?”
Shagrat didn’t say anything for a while, and when he did, he
largely failed to answer the question.
“You know what everyone says about Orcs, don’t you?”
he said.
A great variety of statements had been made by very many different
people about Orcs, and Faramir didn’t quite know how to respond
to that. Eventually, Shagrat replied for him.
“They say that we Orcs are ruled entirely by our base instincts.
They say we can’t even experience the smallest shred of enjoyment
or pleasure, save for in witnessing the torments we inflict upon our
victims.”
“From what I’ve heard, and seen for myself that…does
seems to be true,” Faramir said, uncertainly.
Shagrat gave Faramir a gloomy smile. “Oh, I’d say it was
more of a half-truth. People always exaggerate. There are one or two
things we like doing, other than ripping, rending and killing. The urge
to do violence never does go away though, I will grant you that.”
He gave Faramir a long, assessing look, as if he was considering his
options, and coming to some kind of decision. “But I must admit
I am choosing not to do anything about it, in your case. All right then,
Goldilocks,” he rumbled softly. “What say you we try and
take my mind off it for a minute. Let’s have a go at doing something
else.”
Shagrat knelt down in front of Faramir where he was sitting, and rested
a heavy paw on Faramir’s knee. Shagrat’s black-rimmed, re-curved
talons flexed and kneaded insistently, pricking through the fabric of
Faramir’s breeches, alternating a soothing with a threatening
pressure. The Uruk smoothed his way up the young man’s thigh,
and traced one claw, teasingly, in a delicate stroke from the base to
the tip of Faramir’s growing erection. The slight movement was
for some reason wildly arousing to Faramir. He felt as if all the blood
in his body had immediately drained itself into his groin, and the throb
of his cock as his blood pooled into it made him light-headed with lust.
“What d’you say?” Shagrat repeated, gazing intently
up at Faramir, through his ragged fringe of stringy hair. Faramir had
to remind himself that an Uruk-hai of Mordor represented a staggeringly
ill-chosen object of erotic appeal, to say the very least. Faramir quickly
decided that at this stage, he really didn’t care two hoots about
that, or Shagrat’s appearance, one way or the other.
Hating himself, and at the same time terrified that Shagrat’s
attentions might stop at any moment, Faramir fumbled desperately at
the lacings which held the top of his breeches closed. As he exposed
himself for Shagrat, he gasped at the sensation of cold air washing
over him. This was closely followed a blast of warmth from Shagrat’s
hot, damp, breath as the Uruk leaned in intimately, moving further up
between his legs.
‘That’s what I like to see, Goldilocks, love,” Shagrat
purred. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face sensuously, deliciously,
up against Faramir’s hard, stiffened member. Faramir was deeply
shaken by this, torn between feelings of shock and horror versus absolute
delight at the Orc’s actions. He had never even dreamed of being
touched as wantonly, with such unashamed appreciation, as this.
When Shagrat’s mouth enveloped him, and the Orc began sucking
with an easy, experienced movement up and down over his engorged member,
Faramir for a moment, truly believed that he would faint from pleasure.
He had heard of practices like this, of course, but he had never really
imagined that he would ever be on the receiving end of such a treatment.
Faramir knew – had known for all his life - what was expected
of him; as son of the Steward, he would eventually be betrothed to a
Gondorian lady of moderate rank. A bovine assortment of future brides
– merchant’s daughters, for the most part – had at
one point been invited to the Citadel in Minas Tirith, and discreetly
paraded before Faramir, or more accurately, before Faramir’s Father,
for approval. The prospective brides had been unanimously unenthusiastic
over the prospect of liasing with the Steward’s out-of-favour
second son, and made little attempt to hide it. Denethor had not at
that point chosen from the sturdily-hipped selection of good breeding
stock laid out before him, leading Faramir to suspect that his Father
was deriving a great deal of malicious pleasure from watching his son’s
discomfiture during the arranged meetings. Until Faramir’s official
engagement was announced, he was under strictest orders, however, to
keep himself as his Father said, ‘pure.’
Even though, at a few months shy of his nineteenth birthday, Faramir
was not, technically, a virgin, on account of his Father’s orders,
Faramir’s relations with the fairer sex had been severely limited,
all the same. There had been one or two embarrassing, moonlit fumbles
- encounters instigated mainly for form’s sake during double dates
set up by Faramir’s brother. These had involved Faramir mostly
having his hands slapped away by blushing damsels; young women who evidently
guarded their maidenly status much more jealously than Faramir did.
And one tawdry – and excruciatingly brief - episode with a professional
courtesan, bought and paid for, again, by Boromir, who had been quite
at his wit’s end about his younger brother’s lack of progress.
All in all then, Faramir had never really had a lover, but even without
any reference points for comparison, he had the strangest sensation
that now in some way he was being made love to, with honest, ardent
fervour, by - of all people, the Uruk Captain, Shagrat.
Shagrat brought one of his heavily clawed hands up to massage Faramir’s
sac as he continued mouthing him, and began to play his clever tongue
along the base of Faramir’s member, urging him to thrust fully
into his throat. The sensation of tightness and heat around him were
too much for Faramir, and after one or two desperate, final thrusts,
he came frantically, arching his back and shivering with aftershocks.
Though he knew he should have been repulsed and nauseated, Faramir couldn’t
help feeling – mainly exhilarated – by what had happened.
It must have shown on his face, for Shagrat grinned up at him wickedly,
looking very pleased with himself and licking his lips.
It was a one-off, Faramir told himself, and he continued to tell himself
so each evening after that, following the various intimate and unwholesome
acts that Shagrat would enthusiastically perform for him. The Uruk certainly
didn’t seem to expect much from Faramir in return, during their
nightly trysts. It was difficult for Faramir to be certain, given the
number and weight of the heavy, crusted leather layers that customarily
lay between himself and Shagrat, but he was fairly sure that throughout
their encounters, the Orc was easily as aroused as he was, and very
likely even more so. Immediately after the young man had reached his
orgasm, Shagrat would get to his feet and stalk through to one of the
adjoining rooms where he would, Faramir surmised, take matters - in
hand - for himself (so to speak). Nude or semi-naked as Faramir often
found himself however, Shagrat never removed a single stitch of his
own clothing – and to make matters worse, the Uruk was in the
habit of wearing the entire contents of his own wardrobe, at all times,
simultaneously.
‘That Snaga rabble,’ as Shagrat had at one point explained,
‘would have the whole blinkin’ lot off me the minute my
back was turned, else.’
So, between Faramir and the most cherished and private regions of Captain
Shagrat would usually be the following items of Uruk-ish attire: one
long, thigh-length, armoured surcoat, at least two kilted battle tunics
plus a low-slung sword-belt and a rusty, chain-mail girdle. Topping
all of this off was a studded, leaf-shaped, black metal cod-piece, a
truly fearsome piece, which had discouraged any attempts from Faramir
at initiating more intimate contact with the Orc, although even he would
have had to admit at times, he was becoming more and more tempted.
8: Rumbled
Late one afternoon, Faramir returned from a supply-gathering trip downstairs
in the Uruks’ barrack-room. He found Shagrat already back and
waiting for him, as had become his recent habit. He was sitting on a
low window ledge, where he was silhouetted against the already-darkening
sky while he watched the door, and as Faramir entered, the Orc jumped
energetically to his feet, with weapons drawn in both hands. Shagrat
seemed to sag down, relaxing slightly on seeing Faramir, but kept him
fixed in a cold, predatory gaze which was quite, unnervingly unlike
anything the young man had come to expect from him in the Uruk’s
more usual persona of an amiable, if ham-fisted, love-struck admirer.
“I heard a funny rumour,” Shagrat said, still watching
Faramir closely. “They say that the Steward of Gondor’s
second son went missing, not long ago, somewhere near the Black Gate.
They’re still scouring the countryside, searching for him even
as I speak. Now that’s funny, because not many people know the
Steward of Gondor even has a second son. Everyone’s heard about
Boromir, darling of the people, apple of his daddy’s eye and so
on. Can’t go for long in this neck of the woods not hearing something
about brave Captain Boromir. Now the other one, I forget his name but
you’ll know it, Goldilocks won’t you –“
“Faramir,” Faramir said.
“Yes, this other one, Faramir, now he’d be quite a bargaining
chip, a real feather in the cap for anyone who could lay their hands
on him. So you’d think he’d have turned up before now, wouldn’t
you? But no sign of him anywhere. That means either he’s dead,
on their side of the Wall, which I doubt, since they’ve been looking
everywhere, and if not that then he must already be here in Mordor.
Dead, right enough, maybe, but otherwise he might be playing some poor
mug for a fool, mightn’t he, hiding in full view. What do you
think?”
The game was up and Faramir knew it. “My Father doesn’t
know yet, does he?” Faramir blurted out anxiously. Before the
words were out of his mouth he already knew the answer to his question.
Of course Denethor would know that Faramir had been captured by the
Enemy, and that he had failed to conduct himself with valour, once again.
The anxiety he felt on realising that overshadowed completely any apprehension
he felt, knowing that his true identity had been revealed.
Shagrat looked quite taken aback. “Well, Goldilocks,” he
said, “that is interesting.”
“You knew it already,” Faramir countered, as Shagrat shrugged
his assent. “That doesn’t tell you anything new.”
“No, but it does tell me that you stand more in fear of your
own father than you do of me,” Shagrat told him, “and given
who, and what I am, to you, I think that’s surprising. But perhaps
not so surprising after all. Who was it decided you should be sent for
an Ithilien Ranger, Faramir? Ask for the job yourself, did you?”
Faramir didn’t reply.
“It’s about the most dangerous posting that exists in your
military, isn’t it? Order couldn’t have come from your dear
old Dad, by any chance, could it? Do you ever think he might be trying
to tell you something?”
Faramir nodded curtly, his eyes dark and troubled. That thought had
occurred to him, of course it had, though he’d tried to make a
conscious effort not to admit it to himself.
“Ithilien. Right on the border between your country and Mordor.
If I was some big-shot Tark, I wouldn’t want anyone I wanted to
keep a hold of within a hundred miles of that place,” Shagrat
said flatly. “You know, if you were mine, or anything to do with
me, I’d want to take much better care of you than that.”
This handicapping reminder of Denethor’s public and obvious lack
of regard for him once again eclipsed the more immediate difficulties
Faramir was facing, and he felt the beginnings of a hot flush of shame
colouring his cheeks and rising up the back of his neck. He looked down
at his hands. “What do you plan to do with me?” he said
quietly.
Shagrat ignored the question. “What sort of name’s ‘Faramir,’
anyway?”
“My Mother was of Elvish descent,” Faramir said. Shagrat
growled at him, stiffening aggressively on hearing this and Faramir
continued nervously. “It means, it means ‘sufficient jewel.’”
Shagrat grunted non-committaly. “Sounds like someone didn’t
think too much of you, did they?” he said.
“No,” Faramir replied, looking him in the eye, “they
didn’t. But it fits me well enough. Me being the second son, you
see. What. What does ‘Shagrat,’ ah –“
“What do you bloody well think it means?” roared Shagrat.
“Are you trying to be funny, or what?”
Faramir ducked his head. “What are you going to do with me?”
he repeated.
Shagrat paused, staring at Faramir, where he sat, for a long time.
If he had met his gaze, the young man might have seen something very
like pity in the Orc’s expression. “You and me are going
to carry on just as we have been doing,” Shagrat replied at length.
“What I told you’s come from the top. The Snaga who found
you won’t hear anything for a while, maybe never, if I can keep
a lid on it.”
Shagrat’s reassurances hadn’t sounded particularly convincing,
least of all to the Orc himself. But despite this, in the spirit of
carrying on just as they had been doing, or perhaps because he felt
he had something to prove, Shagrat dropped to his knees in front of
Faramir, coaxed him into a state of abandoned arousal, and then proceeded
to service him orally with every bit of the consummate skill, talent
and expertise that, Faramir would later realise to his shame, he had
already begun to take for granted from the Orc. When it was over Shagrat
rose to his feet – a little more breathlessly and unsteadily than
usual, perhaps, preparing to make his customary exit.
Faramir caught hold of him as he went past, stepping in close and snaking
one arm around the astonished Uruk’s waist. He had already decided
to do his best to try and please Shagrat. It was, as Faramir argued
to himself, the least he could do, to try and repay Shagrat for services
rendered – as it were – and it would probably help keep
him on side. Of course focussing on this also made it easier for Faramir
to overlook the fact that for some time now, he had secretly been longing
to do something like this.
Faramir pulled Shagrat with him down to the floor, persuading him to
rest on his side. He could feel Shagrat’s erection butting through
the leather of his long tunic, and he ran his hand over it, rubbing
appreciatively, as Shagrat had so often done to him. Shagrat drew back
immediately, muttering under his breath that he wasn’t fit to
be handled, much. Undaunted, Faramir persisted, pulling aside the various
layers of clothing and slipping his hands up Shagrat’s naked thighs.
“Gently,” Shagrat hissed, “careful! I’ve got
– “
Faramir breathed out in surprise. His hands on the Uruk’s groin
had encountered the evidence which told him that someone, or more likely,
some people – given the extent of the damage - had in the past
been neither particularly careful, nor gentle with Shagrat.
“- quite a bit of scar tissue in places,” Shagrat finished,
lamely. He didn’t pull away from Faramir again, but didn’t
draw any closer either.
Even so, the Orc was still terribly aroused - his member was absolutely
rigid, standing out right-angled from his body, leaking streams of clear
fluid, and he gasped frantically as Faramir closed his hands around
him. In that state he couldn’t possibly have lasted long, and
he didn’t. Faramir slicked his fingers with his own spittle and
used it to give Shagrat some of the additional lubrication he obviously
needed, as carefully, mindful of hurting him, Faramir pulled the Uruk’s
too-tight, tattered foreskin back and forth over the head of his stiff,
throbbing cock. Accomplished as Shagrat’s sexual technique was,
the Orc was clearly unused to receiving this kind of attention, and
he came, shuddering, not making a sound, after only three or four quick,
firm strokes.
Shagrat had closed his eyes when Faramir began manipulating him, and
he kept them closed for some time after he’d ejaculated. When
he opened them again, he stared at Faramir speechlessly, looking shocked,
bewildered and not a little panicked. All traces of his usual morose
defensiveness and cynicism were gone, and the young man felt sorry to
see how easily, and over such a little thing he had been so completely
undone. On an impulse, he brought his face close to Shagrat’s,
and planted a quick, chaste kiss on the Uruk’s mouth.
He didn’t taste of sunshine. His lips were neither full nor soft,
and they were not flavoured with strawberries. He’d bitten them
through when he’d climaxed, his fangs ripping ragged tears into
the thin flesh, and his mouth, as Faramir kissed him, had the dark iron
taste of blood. He smelled of it too – and more strongly of rusty
metal, leather and sweat, a suite of rangy odours that blended themselves
together with the forceful scents of his skin and scalp into something
that was just, purely, essence of Shagrat. That had become oddly familiar,
even appealing, and beyond anything else at that point, Faramir found
to his surprise that wanted to keep the Orc near him – as close
as he possibly could be, in fact. Daringly, he reached up and tangled
his hand into Shagrat’s snarl of long, unkempt locks, and held
his head in place as he used his tongue very tentatively, to explore
the inside of the Uruk’s mouth. Shagrat had not been kissed much
before either, and at first as Faramir deepened his kisses, he kept
himself rigid and tense, his fists clenched tightly in front of him,
obviously having little idea what he should do. He was a quick learner
however and was soon kissing back, with ever-increasing confidence.
They spent some time spooning together, the Uruk responding so enthusiastically
to whatever the young man did to him that it was soon clear to Faramir
that from Shagrat’s point of view, he really couldn’t do
a thing wrong.
It was an intensely appealing thought to Faramir and he worked his
way downwards, kissing and biting at Shagrat’s throat and neck.
Below his collarbone, in contrast with the weather-beaten, roughened
hide that covered his hands and face and the other exposed portions
of his body, his skin was soft, supple, and was in places every bit
as smooth, warm and yielding as Faramir’s own. Faramir was struck
by an immediate and undeniable urge to find out what the rest of Shagrat
was like. He unlaced the ties at the front of Shagrat’s tunic,
and then encouraged Shagrat to remove it, together with his breastplate,
his other armour, and then all the rest of his various layered garments
until at last the Orc was before him, quite unclothed.
Faramir gaped at him. The dim lighting in the Tower, which hid many
of the superficial imperfections that marred Shagrat’s body and
face might well have played its part, but Faramir found to his astonishment
that Shagrat, naked, was a surprisingly enticing sight. His long, clean
limbs were attractively-proportioned and though he lacked much of the
hulking brawn that characterised most other Uruks, Faramir realised
that Shagrat’s muscles were in their way just as well-developed,
his height and his much leaner frame largely belying his very obvious
physical strength. The Orc’s chest and lower body were quite devoid
of hair - like his face, which was beardless as an Elf’s, and
he held himself with, if not Elf-like grace, exactly - for fierce apprehension
and wary mistrustfulness were all too apparent in his posture –
certainly with some innate sense of self-possession, if nothing else.
Without taking his eyes off the Orc for a moment, Faramir quickly unpacked
his blanket roll, and spread it out on the floor between them. He lay
down and pulled Shagrat after. The Uruk still was obviously in two minds
about joining Faramir on his makeshift couch, and looked ready to bolt.
With newfound confidence, the kind of feeling he had never before experienced,
Faramir insisted, and drew Shagrat down beside him.
They lay, face-to-face, Faramir’s body pressed full-length, tight
against Shagrat’s, and he gasped deliciously into the Orc’s
open mouth while he held him close, kissing him. The warmth of their
bodies coalesced into those two key points of contact between them,
the place where their lips were fixed, panting breath to breath in scalding
hot kisses, then lower, where they ground their hips together, moving
themselves languorously, one against the other.
Faramir – without caring what would happen later on that day,
or even tomorrow – had urged Shagrat to take things further. But
the Orc, in some respects, retained a terrible air of raw inexperience,
amounting almost to virginity, even, about him, and admitted that he
hadn’t much idea how to go about that, without severely hurting
himself, or Faramir, both. So Faramir contented himself with encouraging
Shagrat to thrust himself into the channel presented by Faramir’s
pressed-together thighs, and though the intensity of his own climax,
when at last it came, did not perhaps quite compare with the heights
it had reached when the Orc had taken him and manipulated him in his
mouth, the happiness and satisfaction he felt more than compensated
for that, for he knew that when they had come together, at last Shagrat
had felt his own pleasure and gratification in some measure too.
The Captain stared at him, his whole heart and soul in his eyes, still
dumbstruck, too frightened to speak. He flinched away only a very little
from Faramir when the young man reached out to caress him, but seeing
it, Faramir sighed out, affectionately, exasperatedly. Shagrat was clearly
more used to the rough-and-tumble aspects of physical contact and to
cover the Uruk’s confusion, Faramir, obligingly, began to manhandle
him over onto his back. When Shagrat was in position, he drew himself
closer, and rested his head on the Orc’s chest.
“That’s better…..Shagrat…love,” he muttered
unthinkingly, as he drifted into sleep.
9: Daring getaway
Shagrat wasn’t a creature who often troubled to do anything carefully
or quietly. And yet as he dressed himself in the dark before dawn, he
winced at every clink of his mail shirt against his sword-belt, and
at each scuff of his iron boots against the floor. Goldilocks was still
sleeping, and that would give Shagrat the time he needed to complete
a most unwelcome errand, before the young man woke. The Orc himself
had woken some time earlier, to find Faramir’s head pillowed against
his shoulder, with the young man’s arm draped comfortably across
his chest, and a bitter, white-hot rage had hit him, as he realised
what his duty would have him do.
He told himself he’d always planned to hand Goldilocks over to
the big Bosses eventually, but still, deep in his black heart, he wondered
what might have been, if circumstances hadn’t conspired to force
his hand. It didn’t bear thinking about, however, and stealing
a last glance at Faramir, lying warm and tousled in his sleep, Shagrat
made his way across his room to the stairway, and began the downward
climb in silence. It was still early enough, he thought. It ought to
be all right.
Faramir stirred fitfully, registering in his sleep that the warm, solid
– if malodorous – bulk of Shagrat, against which he’d
been resting quite contentedly, had moved itself out of their shared
bed roll. He came awake a short while later, to find the Uruk crouched
down, a short distance away, watching him intently, in the grey, pre-dawn
light.
“Get dressed. Take everything you might need,” Shagrat
told him. “Then follow me. Keep quiet.”
“Where are we going?” Faramir whispered, as he pulled on
his outer clothes and leggings.
“Downstairs,” Shagrat said, shortly.
Faramir felt as if his heart had stopped. “You’re taking
me down to the barracks? To the other Orcs?”
“No,” Shagrat interrupted him impatiently, “I’ve
sent - I mean, the main garrison’s already out. I’m taking
you downstairs to the side door. There’s a secret entrance that
I – I may have forgotten to tell you about. The coast is clear.
I’ve just been down to check.”
In silence they made their way down the spiralling staircase, and through
the familiar Uruks’ barrack room, which was, as Shagrat had said,
presently unoccupied. Shagrat exited the barracks by a side door, which
Faramir had noticed before but which had always been locked. Behind
the door another narrow flight of steps descended into a small, brightly
lit chamber – evidently the other entrance to the Tower that Shagrat
had been speaking about.
Shagrat hurried down the steps then stopped short in the doorway, thrusting
Faramir back on to the stairs behind him. In the anteroom ahead of them
were waiting a number of Orcs and Uruks, plus a massive creature, that
stood twice as tall as an Uruk, and was brawnier than any four of them
combined. The beast was drooling copiously. It had tiny, idiot eyes
and wore a leading-chain draped around its neck. It was a cave troll,
a fearsome kind of creature that Faramir had heard about, but never
before seen in the flesh.
“What’s this? Deputation?” Shagrat barked out to
the Orcish Company.
‘That’s that Tark, what the big bosses is all looking for,
innit?” one of the smaller Orcs squealed.
“Shut it, you,” the largest Uruk told the Orc, clouting
it heavily on the shoulder. “Keep your mouth shut unless you’re
spoken to, maggot.” He looked eagerly at Shagrat. “It is
though, isn’t it, Shagrat? This one,” – he shoved
the small Orc forwards - “says he was part of the patrol that
picked the Tark up in Ithilien, not twelve days past.”
Shagrat shrugged, nonchalantly.
“It must be him,” the lead Uruk insisted.
“Must it?”
“Is it him or isn’t it?” the lead Uruk demanded,
his limited store of patience evidently having become exhausted.
“I don’t know,” Shagrat growled. His head dropped
aggressively and he narrowed his eyes. “Is there a prize?”
“Come on now, Shagrat,” the lead Uruk said. “Orders
are orders. You’ve had your fun, but you’ll hand that Tark
over right now, if you know what’s good for you. Or we’ll
be taking him, fair and square!”
“Take him, would you, Vashnek? I’d like to see you try.
This Tark is my Tark, I tell you!” Shagrat howled murderously.
“He’s mine!”
“You can shout about it all you like, but you know it’ll
come to nothing in the end.”
With one practised movement, Shagrat unsheathed both his side-weapons,
then tossed the blade he held in his left hand to Faramir. He caught
the heavy, notch-bladed, scimitar, at the same time as Shagrat was jumping
feet-first off the stairs, into the waiting company. The Captain used
the sword in his right hand to hack through the neck of the patrol Orc
who’d spoken up earlier, then swung it haphazardly back and forth,
clearing a rough semicircle ahead of him, as the smaller Orcs skittered
backwards to get out of his way. Stunned by his sudden attack, they
seemed incapable of mounting much of a defence, and he fought his way
through their ranks, stabbing and gouging indiscriminately.
“I’ll take the door,” Shagrat shouted to Faramir,
“we mustn’t let any of them past.”
“Traitorous scum!” Captain Vashnek bellowed out, enraged.
“You’ll be drawn and quartered for this, Shagrat! Guards!
Get him!”
The guards, collecting themselves at last, began to advance towards
Shagrat, who had turned to meet them, his back against the exit door.
He was outnumbered at least five to one, and though two or three of
his adversaries were small snaga-Orcs, who had already been wounded
in his earlier assault, there was also a pair of full-size, hefty Mordor
Uruks facing him. But Shagrat was not an Uruk Captain for nothing, and
what his fighting technique lacked in sophistication and refinement
was more than compensated for by the savage brutality of his style;
as he cut and stabbed, every thrust was a move that aimed to disable
or to kill, and in very little time he was circled about by a ring of
fallen opponents.
Faramir had begun to rush to Shagrat’s side at the beginning
of the fight, but had been brought up short by Captain Vashnek, who
halted him with his sword, its blade turned flat against him. Steadfastly,
the Uruk Captain blocked Faramir’s advance, using his weapon,
his fists and his brawny bulk to halt the Gondorian’s progress.
Though Faramir attacked him desperately, it was clear that he was reluctant
in the extreme to seriously injure the young man, for all Vashnek’s
feints and parries were defensive manoeuvres. Evidently his plan was
that Faramir would be taken alive.
As if bemused by the skirmishes going on all around it, the Uruk-patrol’s
cave troll had been standing stock still in the centre of the room,
since the start of the conflict. It blinked foolishly, watching, as
another Uruk despatched by Shagrat, the last of his adversaries, went
crashing to the floor.
“Cave troll!” Vashnek cried over his shoulder, “You!
Finish the traitor! Spit him! Do it now!”
Slowly and deliberately the troll turned to face Shagrat head on, paused,
then began plodding towards him. Seizing the moment of distraction provided
as Vashnek glanced back to check on the troll’s progress, Faramir
was finally able to deliver a mortal wound to the Captain, and sliced
through the side of the Uruk’s throat. Vashnek, however, did not
stop fighting at once, and resolutely holding his neck-injury shut with
his fingers, he continued blocking and parrying, at last aiming a vicious
series of sword-cuts at Faramir, in spite of his declining strength,
even as he began to stumble and fall.
The cave troll, still lumbering towards Shagrat, had drawn back its
weapon, a short-staved but heavy spear-pike. It launched the weapon
at him at the same time as Faramir’s scimitar, hurled with all
his strength, hit the troll in the back of the head, neatly splitting
its scalp, cleaving partway into the skull beneath.
“Shagrat!” Faramir cried, as Vashnek’s bulk finally
toppled down, crushing him. Breathlessly he heaved the Uruk away as
he rolled onto his side. His entire field of view was taken up with
the cave troll, which had fallen in front of him, and he struggled to
get past, to find out what had happened to his Captain.
Feeling awash with relief, Faramir saw that Shagrat was still upright,
although he seemed to be holding an odd, unnaturally lop-sided stance.
Faramir blinked across at him, still in a daze. The Uruk was standing
on tiptoes, his left shoulder hiked up so painfully high that his whole
body appeared to be dangling down from it. To his horror, Faramir realised
that the blow from the cave-troll’s spear had lifted Shagrat part
way off his feet, running him through with such force that despite his
armour, it had penetrated his body and driven the spearhead deep into
the wooden door behind him. Shagrat had been left pinned against it,
the pikestaff sticking into his shoulder just below the collarbone.
“Goldilocks!” Shagrat gasped, “help me!”
Faramir thanked whatever higher powers there might be for the fact
that Uruks seemed quite resilient to being killed. Shaking his head
vigorously to clear it, Faramir got up and stumbled over to where Shagrat
was impaled against the door. He closed both hands around the pike-shaft
prior to removing it, and braced his feet. He glanced up briefly at
Shagrat, confirming that he had steadied himself.
The Uruk met his gaze, beseechingly, desperately.
Faramir hesitated. Shagrat was pinned against the doorway that was
the concealed side entrance, and now the unguarded exit, from the Tower
of Cirith Ungol. Faramir stepped back from Shagrat and released his
hold of the pike. It was his duty to escape.
“Goldilocks?” Shagrat croaked at him in disbelief. “What
are you doing? Goldilocks?” his tone became more urgent as Faramir,
stooping down to arm himself with a selection of fallen weapons dropped
by the Tower guard, moved out of his line of sight. “Goldilocks!
Faramir! Help me - I’m hurt!”
It took all Faramir’s strength to heave the prostrate cave-troll
far enough aside for him to be able to force the door ajar. He tried
to swing the door open, and with it Shagrat, as smoothly as possible,
but without much success.
“Faramir!” Shagrat cried, an edge of panic in his voice.
“What are you doing? Don’t do that – don’t!”
His feet scrabbled against the floor for a moment as he felt the door
swinging him forwards and he tried to keep standing. “Stop, won’t
you! Please, stop it! Stop! Faramir, I thought that you and me, we –“
off-balance, he lost his footing, and let out a horrible, agonised scream,
as the weight of his body descended on the wound in his shoulder.
Anger at his own betrayal of Shagrat made Faramir cruel, and he rounded
on him, thumping his fist down with full force just shy of the Uruk’s
head. Shagrat swiped at him ineffectually with his free right claw,
shuddering, as Faramir’s blow reverberated through the wooden
panelling of the door and the shaft of the pike. Faramir unsheathed
one of the daggers he had taken from the guards and held it pressed
against Shagrat’s throat.
“I should kill you for that,” Faramir spat at him. “Anything
you imagined to exist between us - I forsook my own honour, to survive,
and no more than that. Remember it.”
The single, stricken look of disbelief the Uruk shot him made Faramir
pause. “You thought we – what, exactly?” he said.
“Nothing, Goldilocks,” Shagrat panted in anguish, hiding
his face. “I didn’t think anything,” he muttered weakly.
“Nothing. It was - nothing.” His head dropped further, then
lolled onto his chest as he sagged downwards, in a dead faint.
Faramir stared him in consternation, torn between the necessity of
making his getaway and his desire to help. Yes, it was his duty to escape,
but not to torment Shagrat, whether he was an enemy or not. With some
care, Faramir set about trying to release him. The pike-head proved
to be too heavily embedded behind Shagrat for Faramir to be able to
move it, and at length in desperation, he resorted to sliding the Uruk
bodily forwards, inch by painful inch, off the handle end of the pike.
At last he was free from the thick wooden pole, but Faramir had no idea
how much additional damage he might have done to the awful, ragged wound
in Shagrat’s chest. It was bleeding copiously, and Faramir hurriedly
applied a rough field dressing, made from filthy strips of fabric torn
from the clothing of one of the fallen guards. He leaned his weight
on it, having to use a great deal of pressure to staunch the flow. At
this unwelcome treatment, Shagrat groaned softly, his sparse eyelashes
fluttering as he regained consciousness. Seeing Faramir leaning over
him, he started back violently, his right hand clawing for a weapon
with which to defend himself.
Feeling an inexplicable degree of resentment on witnessing Shagrat’s
new-found fear of him, Faramir straightened up, kicking the few knives
and spearheads that had fallen near to where Shagrat was lying out of
his reach. Faramir knelt down. The Orc, who was panting and trembling
uncontrollably, as if suffering from the effects of an emotional shock,
still would not look at him, and Faramir was a little disappointed,
as he had truly believed the Uruk to be made of sterner stuff. He reached
for Shagrat, and to the Uruk’s great surprise, began to secure
the makeshift bandage in place. When it was done he turned his back
on Shagrat abruptly, making ready to leave.
He was almost at the door when Shagrat called after him.
“Goldilocks, wait,” Shagrat said. “When you go. You
have to look out for a narrow stair. Torech Ungol. The way is high.
Very steep. It’ll take you out if you stick to it, and follow
it up and over, but that path is guarded. At the height of the pass,
you must take care.”
Faramir eyed him sceptically. “You’re telling me the way
out? How can you expect me to believe that?”
“Listen to me, you fool!” Shagrat interrupted him, desperately,
“I wouldn’t lie, I tell you, not to you. Blades and side
arms won’t help. Take a torch –“ he gestured at a
number of unlit fire-brands that were set in wall-brackets around the
room – “no. Take more than one. Don’t light them till
you reach the top-most point. Not before. Then get through, as fast
as you can. There’s –“ he broke off.
There’s what? Faramir asked him.
Something it was better that Faramir didn’t know about, Shagrat
told him, which was not much of a help. Further than that, however,
he refused point blank to elaborate.
“Get going,” Shagrat urged him, “the call’s
gone up. They’ll all be down here, in a minute.”
“Shagrat, I – “Faramir began, but thought better
of it. The things he wanted to say were perhaps better left unsaid.
“Goodbye, Shagrat.”
“Right,” the Orc muttered faintly, as unconsciousness overtook
him, once again. “I’ll – I’ll see you.”
But of course he hadn’t seen him again. That Shagrat was an Orc
effectively cancelled out the fact that he had saved Faramir’s
life twice, as no good deed, no matter how selfishly, or selflessly
motivated, could possibly compensate for the plain fact of his unspeakable
origins. The young Gondorian had been wise enough, on his return to
Ithilien, a journey that had been arduous, and had taken two, otherwise
uneventful days, not to speak about his experiences in the Land of Shadow
to anyone. And for years he had tried to put all thoughts of Shagrat
from him - with varying degrees of success.
10: Soft touch
Cradling Shagrat’s corpse by the side of the alehouse midden,
there in the pouring rain, at last Faramir wept openly, unashamedly,
for his lost, unacknowledged first love. Tenderly, Faramir smoothed
Shagrat’s lank, grey hair away from his face and kissed his scabrous
forehead, his tears running down Shagrat’s ravaged cheeks and
into the bleeding wounds on the Uruk’s neck.
Faramir saw that his tears were falling into the bleeding wounds, the
still-bleeding wounds, on Shagrat’s neck. The Uruk servants of
Mordor, as he should well have remembered, could prove quite difficult
to kill.
“Shagrat?” Faramir said tentatively, his heart in his mouth.
He thought he saw the slightest flicker of a response.
“Shagrat, stop it,” Faramir said, and shook him, gently,
insistently. “Shagrat. Stop it. Stop it now. Stop playing dead,
Shagrat.”
After a long, long pause, Shagrat opened his one remaining, primrose-yellow,
eye. “I said you never were the marrying type,” he muttered
faintly, and closed it again.
Beside himself with immoderate joy, Faramir gazed down at the prize
he supported in his arms. Shagrat, still wrapped in Faramir’s
cape, was balanced precariously on the saddle ahead of him, leaning
back against his shoulder, dozing as they rode. All that was visible
of the object of Faramir’s affection was a chewed-off pointed
ear and a mottled expanse of flaking scalp. He leaned his face against
it, happily breathing in the familiar smell of Shagrat – although,
at the same time he was aware that there was also a clear, quiet part
of his mind, set apart, and weirdly detached from the turmoil of passionate
emotions that were surging through his breast. That part of him was
wondering, serenely, if on some level whether he hadn’t - as more
than one of his royal aides had insolently suggested - run quite barking
mad.
Oh, there had been a certain amount of kerfuffle, back in the town,
all right. Faramir’s horse, for example, had not wanted Shagrat
anywhere near it, and had shied and pranced frantically, behaving almost
as outrageously as the rest of Faramir’s retinue had, when they’d
realised that their royal lord and master was deadly serious in his
plan to acquire a stray, ailing Orc. Shagrat, showing a flash of his
old, uncompromising military spirit, had subdued the horse by grabbing
it by the ears and snarling into its face until it had quietened somewhat
– but as he had fainted clean away again immediately afterwards,
this strenuous effort had cost him dearly, and done nothing to substantiate
his reputation for ferociousness. And the Shagrat’s prospective
owner, the town Councillor, had also begun to complain vociferously
about his ‘rights to the Orc’s carcass,’ which he
said he’d paid good money for, until Shagrat, reviving in Faramir’s
arms, challenged him to -
“Blinkin’ well come and take it off me, then!” At
which the Councilman (instead of ‘routing the Orc,’ as might
have been expected, given his earlier opinions on the subject) had scurried
back a full twenty feet and hidden himself behind a stack of ale-casks.
Faramir eventually negotiated - by flinging it at the man’s feet
- a fair trade with the Councillor; his bejewelled dagger for the Uruk,
an arrangement which seemed to please all parties, with the possible
exception of Shagrat, who had stared open-mouthed at Faramir, for some
reason rendered temporarily speechless by this turn of events. That
had given Faramir the opportunity to heft the Orc up onto his saddle,
and make a hasty exit.
Then they had ridden back to the main road, and had been following
it for some time. Shagrat was not by any means a natural horseman but
eventually, weakened as he was, and exhausted as he had been by his
earlier exertions, he had settled down. After falling into a fitful
sleep, he had come to rest back, quite unconsciously, against Faramir,
though the first occasion of his waking had been notable for the violence
with which he had started up and pulled himself away, as if he was expecting
cruelty and punishment. He woke again, jerking forwards reflexively,
and it was only Faramir’s left arm, which rested in a protective
hold across the Uruk’s chest that prevented him from falling off
the horse entirely. After a moment he sat back again, uneasily.
“This horse of yours,” muttered Shagrat. “I don’t
know a lot about horse flesh, but it’s a battle-charger, isn’t
it?”
“That’s right.”
Shagrat made a mournful noise in his throat. “I was afraid of
that.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Well it’s symbolic, isn’t it? First you throw away
your wedding knife, and then – then there’s the horse.”
Faramir asked him, what about the horse.
“You – you do realise you rescued me off of it.”
Faramir had some small idea what Shagrat was implying, but he did not
reply.
“Some might say you revived me with a kiss and then –“
Shagrat broke off. Faramir wasn’t certain, but there seemed to
be a slight flush of heightened, ruddy colour showing across Shagrat’s
sallow, ravaged cheeks. He wondered if it was even possible for Orcs
to blush.
“Some might say that after you kissed me, you swept me up and
carried me off on a white horse,” Shagrat blurted out. He clearly
was extremely embarrassed. “I’m not saying that’s
how it was, but that’s how it might have seemed. To some people.”
“Your point being…?”
“And, on top of all that, I heard what those lackeys called you.
‘Your Highness this, your Highness that.’ You’re a
Prince,” Shagrat choked out faintly. “Think about what you’ve
done. It just doesn’t look right. Not for a man in your position.”
“You must realise, Shagrat, that you are in no position to complain
about any of that. You yourself used to be shut up in a Tower, held
by dark enchantments, and I think you’ll find that under the circumstances,
a Prince is about the only kind of person who’s ever be likely
to be a suitable companion for you. This state of affairs, you know,
isn’t entirely without precedent.”
Shagrat did not appear to have a ready answer for that, and contented
himself with scowling down at the ground for a while as they rode. “What
happens now?” he asked at length.
“Shagrat, this is the point at which we ride away together, off
into the sunset,” Faramir told him. “It’s what you
have to do, in tales where love surmounts every obstacle, conquering
all and so forth. It’s terribly traditional, you know.”
“Love?” Shagrat muttered under his breath, incredulously.
“Tradition? Sunset?” He paused for a long moment. “But,
Goldilocks, I’m an Orc. It’s not gone noon yet. And it’s
raining.”
Faramir glanced back over his shoulder to where the rest of his party
were deliberately hanging back, riding at some distance behind them.
He gazed down at Shagrat, studying the numerous scars and blemishes
on the Orc’s blind side, wondering how such a fell creature could
possibly be expected to join the Royal household in Ithilien. And what
of Éowyn? Faramir’s wife had not yet formalised their permanent
separation – what if she experienced a change of heart, and decided
to return to him, after all? But then, Faramir thought of how he’d
felt when he thought he’d lost Shagrat, yet again, and he tightened
his hold round the Uruk’s waist quite unconsciously, pulling him
closer in against his chest, squeezing him, until at last the old Captain
was forced to wheeze out in protest.
“Trivial details,” Faramir told him, decisively. They rode
on into the brightening morning.
THE END
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