An ethereally beautiful golden-haired creature watched as the moonbeams
played on the sleeping visage of the young man in his arms. While not
an entirely peaceful slumber, it was at least not wracked by the violent
nightmares that had become a usual feature. He held him delicately as
one would hold a child, observing the lines on a face that had once
held innocent wonder on first beholding him. Wondrously fair, the young
one had called him. But true fairness of the heart this one alone possessed,
this sleeping, grave faced Man in his arms, clothed even in the hot
summer night in a sleeping robe that covered every inch of skin, as
though the cover of cloth could hide within it scars etched deep never
to go away completely. He held him hoping to take away at least the
pain beneath them, if only he were allowed to.
He could offer naught but momentary solace, some comfort from the memory
of a horrific ordeal. He had sought to slake his vengeance by joining
the raiding party that had set out to catch the terrible monsters who
had so hurt his beloved friend that he slept not in peace any longer.
But it gave his angered heart no solace. It did not take away his friend’s
hurt, his pain. It did not take away his own pain that the one on his
arms had endured such for his sake. A sacrifice the slumbering man had
gladly made - for him. And that when they had known each other for barely
a few months. Mutual respect and affection had set off their friendship,
but it was the horror and sorrow of their mutual experience that had
taken it into a higher level.
Each night since that fateful night some moons ago, he had held this
man who when compared to him was but a mere child on Arda, held him
as his sleep had been mutilated by foul memories that he could push
away with difficulty even when awake but had no control over when asleep,
figments of memory of what started as a ride through the woods, and
suddenly became an incident that would forever mar their lives. Proof
that not all men were as noble as this one, or as the king he served,
or the brother he had had. Some men were cruel without reason, driven
by no desire but selfish ones, seeking to please none but themselves.
And when such a kind met one of an ancient race marked for its grace
and nobility, and one of their own kind known for his selflessness,
the results were disastrous for both.
And unfairly, sometimes the results were more disastrous for the one
who deserved it least. The selfless, fair-hearted ones lost more than
those dark of heart and mind. Those fell creatures were dead now, killed
by him and by his friends, actions backed by a wrathful king, shocked
at what had been done to a loved and respected subject and friend by
a group of selfish men and Orcs.
They had been beasts. They had outnumbered the two riders, a man and
an Elf, and snickered at the thought of holding prisoner a graceful,
fair and beautiful being from far off realms, and an equally graceful
being of their own kind, one still recovering from hurts inflicted on
him. Taunted and hit, the two had tried fighting back but been forced
to give up, and dragged into a dark cave. He had seen it then, in the
faint light that filtered through the cave. He had seen it in their
eyes. The lust dripped maniacally from the greedy eyes, as their sight
fell upon the two battered bodies. They had lain in pain against each
other, hands and legs tied up, still harbouring some hope of escape.
But, at that moment the hope had begun to die out. He knew the result
of such lust on his kind, and braced himself for untold misery.
And misery did come, but not the sort he had expected. This was a worse
misery for it fell to the lot of another to bear it, and he could do
nothing but watch it unfold.
The men and Orcs were cruel beyond measure and devious as any. They
pushed his companion at him. The young one had refused first, his grey
eyes reflecting nothing but loathing and contempt for these foul men
and their equally foul companions. But when one of the fell men grabbed
him and pushing his long golden hair back, held a knife at his throat,
the young man’s expression of hate turned to one of sorrow and
grief. The eyes had begged forgiveness as their lips met. They were
forced to hold it for long, forced to rub up against each other, still
tied up. Then they had told his companion to take him. He had shut his
eyes, feeling tears prick them as they egged the other on.
The young one had refused. His grey eyes held reassurance as they stared
back at the Elf’s impassive countenance.
The men had kicked his companion. He still refused. The Elf had felt
the knife at his throat again. The man had spat at them. And the Elf
knew then that his friend knew it would kill him to be violated, just
as much as the knife at his throat could kill him, and that the knife
was a more pleasant option. He had seen a strange worried gleam in the
young one’s eyes, but not realised that he had come up with a
solution, a terrible one.
The men had tired of this sport. They had their own urges to satisfy;
he could see how they bulged. One kicked his friend in his side, hard.
He heard himself protesting, and a heavy hand landed on his own face,
sending him toppling to the floor in a daze, hitting his head again.
He could make out words, vague words, holding out a threat. Someone
gagged him to prevent him shouting and clutched at his clothes and began
to rip his tunic open. He fought and kicked and thrashed through his
hazy state, coming into contact with bone and hearing with satisfaction
the muffled curses. They retracted with violence, leaving him aching
and sore and semi-conscious. His younger companion, meanwhile, was screaming,
shouting and yelling, over and over again. The normally calm and serene
voice was shrieking madly. It hurt his aching head just hearing the
noise. He finally made out one phrase.
*Leave him. He will not survive it. Take me. I will do as you wish,
as many times as you please. Leave him be, please.*
And he wanted to shout back at the innocent naiveté of the other.
He knew such men. They *would* have him. They would have the young man
first, and then they would break their word and have him. But his head
hurt so badly, and then there was a grey fog in front of his eyes. Sporadic
noises kept interrupting the fog. His friend was sobbing in pain and
agony. His own body hurt terribly from the kicks and blows. But what
hurt him more was less physical and more mental as what would constitute
his most hateful memory developed seed in front of his horrified eyes
before he gave into pain and tiredness, knowing that his friend’s
terrible plan had worked.
Then he felt himself being shaken awake as something wet slapped his
face. He opened his eyes to the leering faces of men and Orcs, a terrible
combination if ever there was one. The unbearable stench of those foul
beings hit his nostrils and his head ached as he tried to register their
promise to return shortly and similar treatment to be vented on him.
He had not understood at first. His memories were blurred. Something
had happened, he knew, but what it had been, his brain out of tiredness
chose to block out. He lay upon a hard floor in a dimly lit enclosure,
his clothes rumpled but intact, lips feeling sore under the cloth covering
his mouth, his body aching, his feet tied. They had loosened his hands
stupidly secure in the thought that he was too hurt from their beating
to move.
And some distance away had laid someone - a naked and bleeding figure.
Lying in an unimaginable position, leg spread out wide as though they
had been pulled till he had screamed, and a pool of blood between them,
that grew larger and larger each pulsing second. Pale and still lay
the figure, completely unmoving, battered and beaten and violated. The
only sign of life was the faint rise and fall of the black and blue
chest, streaked with red lacerations where someone had let leather fly
on it. Furious at the sight, he had torn away his loosened bindings.
Swallowing hard at the sight, he had crawled over to the young man,
and gathered him up in his arms. There was no protest, nary a murmur
of pain or any other emotion. Blood coursed down a lacerated back and
chest and down the inner thighs through the shredded entrance. Blood
mixed with the seed of each rotten creature that had so defiled one
who had but walked on earth a few and thirty years. All over, the bruised
body was covered with the same mixture, while out of a corner of the
battered mouth trickled the gory proof of the further violations he
had undergone.
The eyes had opened briefly, filled with fear, then seen him and fear
had turned to shame. The man had tried to move away, pleading forgiveness
for his cowardice through his swollen lips, but he had not let him go.
He had held him, told him he was no coward, but the bravest creature
he knew of. Held him until he fainted again from weakness and blood
loss and other untold pains.
They had been rescued before the beasts could return, by a chance patrol.
Shock and horror had greeted their presence. The state of the man in
his arms could induce that in anyone. He had covered him gently with
someone’s cloak, and handed him to his friend, the king. But the
sleeping eyes had opened and the distraught mind had come to its sense
briefly, only to scream. To the battered creature, any man was his violator.
He had pushed his king away, fallen to the ground, and half crawled,
half dragged himself to the only one he seemed to trust. So, the Elf
ignored his own aches for they were mere physical hurts of a relatively
mild nature, and had lovingly held the young one and carried him home,
shielding him from prying eyes that could be unknowingly cruel.
He had clenched his teeth through the healing process. The now unconscious
man had made no sound as his hurts were cleansed, and the grimness of
his friends was soon transformed into a burning desire for revenge,
as each ghastly injury was exposed. They had cleaned and stitched late
into the night, and stuffed the man with sleeping draughts for there
would be no comfort from the pain to ensue. A furious king himself led
the patrol against the brigands, and the Elf joined him. Not one was
spared. But the pain in the battered soul and body could not be healed.
As they had sat in the healing room, slowly and steadily, his vague
memories of the ordeal had cleared as his own strength had returned.
He could remember how his friend had *pleased* the beasts. Bent when
they told him to bend. Spread himself when they asked him to. Given
himself when grabbed. Stopped screaming in pain when asked to shut up.
And submitted himself to be broken just so they would not hurt what
he had termed a fair creature whom none should raise even a finger upon.
He offered himself up for what pleasure they wished to derive, so they
could take their lust out on one who could survive the ordeal than attack
one who would simply fade away if subjected to such torture.
The first one had been enough to cause the young one to break. The
Elf had seen untold pain and agony on the man’s face, heard an
unearthly scream such as he had never heard before, and known that the
younger being had lost something irretrievable. He had not wanted to
see but he could not turn away from such anguish. Then the man had seen
him watching, and tried to school reassurance into his features. Instead
what had come had been another defilement, by a larger creature, and
pain and misery were all that covered the once fine features. And shame.
Shame as he glanced upon the Elf he had sought to protect. And the Elf
knew not why, for to his battered mind, if anyone was to feel shame
there, it was he. He who had lain there, with tears streaming from his
eyes, unable to help while a young one he had known for so short a while,
and not even one of his kindred, sacrificed something he could never
regain.
They took leather whips to the battered body to make him more pliant,
and laughed as the strokes fell on the writhing frame, already wracked
by immeasurable agony. They had attacked his mouth, and made him pleasure
them through his agony. They had fallen on him together, defiling his
mouth as well, so that to the weeping elven being forced to watch the
sight, it seemed there were just these monsters around, for his friend
had vanished under them. The others had followed, and the grimaces had
turned to whimpers of pain and pleading, as men and Orcs both had repeatedly
raped one of the noblest men he had known to exist on Arda. Each attacked
him more than once, satisfying weeks of pent-up desire in the slender
body of one who had offered them everything he had in exchange for the
spirit of a friend. The man had lain awake through most of the torture,
the pain too much to let him forego consciousness.
And all the while, he had lain helpless, trussed up from head to toe,
unable to move, unable to speak, his frustration building up slowly
as neither voice nor action was able to manifest itself. And his friend’s
innocence had bled out slowly, repeatedly, as he was mauled over and
over again. Until finally, too horrified to bear the sight any longer,
the Elf had closed his eyes, to the sound of his friend’s pained
whimpers ringing in his ears, waking up only when one of the attackers
had shook him awake. He regretted it. He regretted letting go of himself
and forsaking him.
He knew if his own memories of the event shook him so much, it could
only be worse for he who had actually gone through all that anguish,
and in silence because they would not let him release the pain by screaming.
Because they defiled his mouth when he tried to shout out his sorrow.
So he screamed now, each night, in his nightmares. Releasing the cries
that they had smothered then. The screams he had wished to indulge in
but been prevented under threat of pain to himself and to the one who
held him now. They were all the man released of himself. At all other
times he was silent and withdrawn, at first cowering away from anyone
at all but the golden one who had comforted him when he had first woken
from his ordeal, and then as coherence had slowly returned, he accepted
his friends but would still shy from their touch. None could near him
but the Elf. And the Elf would stay near him at all times, and marvel
at the lack of accusation that the pleading eyes held. He felt guilt
for what the young man had undergone, but saw no blame in the grey eyes.
All he saw was pain and a plea for succour. When he begged a tearful
forgiveness for forsaking the young man through his ordeal by shutting
out the horrific scene unfolding before his eyes, the other’s
face had actually turned relieved and thankful. And he realised that
the sense of shame still remained in the fragile mind.
All wondered if the young one would revert to his normal self ever.
But men are no elves to fade away. Live through horror they must, and
live he had to for none would let him do otherwise. And so he lived,
a breathing shell of his former self, the light having left his eyes,
only to return when the Elf with golden hair held him near. They consoled
each other, one for his sense of failure and the other for the pain
of a lost innocence.
Each night the Elf held the man while he slept. A man he had known
for so short a time, yet felt like he had known for centuries, for in
all the world, he had seen none such. If the need arose to spend each
night in such a way, he would do it with no qualms. For the guilt would
never leave his heart. The young one would never blame him, he was not
of that kind as to blame others for what he took upon himself, but the
Elf could never stop blaming himself. The only succour for him from
the guilt that ate him daily when he saw the steward of the realm fight
his fate was to aid him in any way he could.
But all that was required of him was his mere presence while the young
man tried to sleep. And he gave that willingly, each night without fail.
on to Aftermath
