Title: "Nights Of Elvan Tears"

Author: Osiris Brackhaus

Pairing: Legolas/Faramir/Boromir

Rating: NC 17

Feedback: Yes please! Any kind of - I'd like to know how to improve my skills!

Setting/Summary: Long ago, Gondor has fallen to the lure of the dark Lord, and now Legolas is captured to serve as beautiful toy for the human masters. And being a present at Prince Faramir's 25th birthday spells for him the beginning of many Nights of elvan tears...

Warnings: AU, Legolas' POV, explicit sex, explicit violence, rape, hurt, no comfort, no happy ending.

Credits: To Beryll and Vagabond, without whose imagination and constant pushing this story would never have been written.

Arc: "Arc of Nights", Part 2

Notes: In this AU Gondor has succumbed to Mordor's evil influence generations ago. Humans and Orcs live together peacefully, while elves and dwarves are considered 'lesser races' and used as slaves. Gondor rules from South-Gondor up to the old forest road, the elves of Lorien have left middle-earth and the elves of Mirkwood hide in the depth of their home. Gondor is at peace with Harad and Umbar.

In this project, different writers will lend their voices to different POV-Characters. Characters taken are: Legolas (Osiris Brackhaus), Boromir (Vagabond), Eomer (Beryll), Aragorn (Vagabond). If you would like to participate, just drop us a line.

"Arc Of Nights 2: Nights Of Elvan Tears"
by Osiris Brackhaus

(Legolas POV)

Have you ever been kissed by an orc?

No?

Lucky you.


I have.

And not by choice, that for sure.

Can you imagine one of these foul creatures close to you? So close that you can feel the heat of its body, that you can smell their breath?

However often they might bath, how ever much they douse themselves with cloying perfumes - they are vile, and their rotten souls reek through every single pore of their mottled green skins.

When I first saw one of the so-called 'civilised orcs', I thought it to be a perverted parody, a vile joke some of the mad humans pulled of to see if we could be fooled into careless action this way. I had never believed these orcs actually chose to live like that.That they clad themselves like humans, lived in houses like humans, raised their children and sold their wares like the 'superior race'.

Such madness.

And then, when the first rumors of orcs living peacefully together with humans, side by side, family by family in Minas Tirith got confirmed, we all knew that a new darkness was descending. But we never even guessed just how pitch-black that darkness would become.

One by one the human realms fell under the onslaught of Gondor's forces, and when the plains of Rohan were systematically cleansed of humans to be given to the orcs as fief, the shock ran deep through my people.

Many had fought on the sides of the riders of Rohan, many of them had fallen.

But with the death of Theoden King and his kin, hope died in many of us. Too many, maybe.
Especially our kin of Lorien abandoned all hope of victory, and within less than a year, the golden woods were deserted. Most of them left these shores and sailed into the west, so many of my own brethren accompanied them. Only in Rivendell and Mirkwood any considerable numbers of us remained.

Men and orcs spread like a disease, and soon the lands from Caradhras to the shores of Umbar choked under the iron grip of Minas Tirith' rule and ruler.

Yet, the war went on, slow, dragging, painfully taxing in both life and will. But never, not even once, my hope faded, never I thought that maybe there truly was no way left to defeat the legions of Gondor, swarming over the lands like locusts in search of food, of places to destroy and to abandon afterwards.

Never my hope faltered, never until now.

I had run across orcs and their nefarious ways more than once, and sometimes only survived by luck, and even then just barely so.Already my brother had paid for one of these lessons with his life, and all the more I tried to remind me of how treacherous these beasts can be.

But, alas, one day they sat a trap even I could not avoid, however obvious it seemed to be.

I was out in the forest of my father, scouting its edges for signs of orcish or human troops, when suddenly I heard a faint wailing from not so far away. Silently, I moved between the branches of the trees, invisible to all but elvan ears, unnoticed but by a few squirrels that looked at me in bewilderment. I came to a road that run along the border of the forest, the tracks of heavy carts deeply driven into the muddy ground, at some places water glistening in the deep furrows. It smelled of orcs, orcs all around. Probably an orcish caravan, I thought.

Following my ears along the road, I approached the source of the wailing, crying sounds, still hiding among the foliage. To my surprise, the sound seemed to originate from a heap of garbage on the side of the road. I sneaked closer, trying to see where that sound came from, already knowing what I was to find and yet hoping to be disappointed.

But I was not.

What had seemed like a bundle of soiled rags from afar turned out to be a small child, not even a toddler, tightly wrapped in cheap cloth so it could not move, wrapped so tightly it resembled more a huge, strange kind of cocooning caterpillar than any kind of sentient life.

I had already seen it too often.

This child, most probably, had belonged to one of the countless slave-caravans that creeped along the forests outer edges on their way down to the big cities. To the huge places of men, constantly in need of cheap workers, constantly denying any right of freedom but their own.
Those who could walk, walked, those who could not, died. Only exception of this rule were the newborn, the children: they were wrapped up like the wailing bundle underneath the tree I was hiding in, piled into carts, and carried along.

They got fed, once or twice a day, cleaned every day, maybe not. Those few who survived such torturous travel did not survive with their minds in one piece, often turning into cruel, crude beings, not so unlike to pale-skinned orcs themselves. What use their orcish masters saw in breeding such labourers was completely hidden from me, and I sincerely contemplated killing that little waif with a merciful, well-aimed arrow.

I knew it was too dangerous to leave cover, especially as the child's owners might come back every moment in search of their precious load that somehow must have been fallen out of one of their carts. And as I was alone, I had no-one to guard my back. I tried to, I honestly tried with all my force not to drop off my tree and walk over onto the open road to that child. I tried as hard as I could, yet I failed.

So I left my cover and went to see if there were any chance left in that little beeing that demanded its right to live so loudly, so unquenchably. I came close enough to see that the mud-crusted, red and tear-swollen tiny face would one day probably gro into a steady and sturdy Dwarf, as I heard a treacherously swishing sound in the air.

I still managed to grab the child and to turn around, but then the net hit me and covered me all over.

From the first moment on, I had had my sword ready, but to my greatest dismay, this net seemed to have been designed to capture armed prey, as its threads were woven with finely spun metal, making it tough and almost too resilient to cut. Still I managed to walk even a few more paces towards the forest, but then they were upon me, four of them, maybe five. All of them orcs, armed with nothing but clubs, they started to hammer blows on me as if their very life depended on their speed and zest. Well, in a way it did, for the net alone would not truly have
hindered me, and five orcs are not a true match for me, especially so close to the woods. But it hindered my movements, and that was all they needed. With my sword-arm pressed down and slowed by the net, all I could do was to push them away from me, and stupidly I did not manage to drop the child, so would have had an other hand free to rid me of that moronic net and get them killed.

And so, within a few moments, I first dropped my sword as my arm turned numb after too many forceful his, then I dropped the child, dropped to my knees and then lost consciousness as one final, flamboyant blow of an especially ugly orc hit me squarely on my forehead.

I regained consciousness only to hear them discuss what to do with 'the bait', as the called the dwarf-child, whether they should eat it our leave it in the forest to die, until one of them finished
the argument with some more club-beating, deciding to try and go 'elf-fishing' a bit longer, as that kind of bait obviously produces such commendable results.

I must have shown that I was regaining my conscience, for mere moments later, the ugly orc stepped into my vision, grinned at me with the grey-green stumps he probably called his teeth and stomped out my consciousness for a very long time with a passionate kick of his iron-shod boot into my face.

*******

The following tormenting days were filled with disgusting, demeaning and defiling moments - and above all, far too many orcs.Perversely, they treated me with greatest care, going a long way to ensure that except my freedom I would not miss a thing. I felt like a dainty, fragile porcelain doll, oh so delicate, oh so precious. I was fed, cleansed and walked, my hair got combed every day. If it hadn't been so sickeningly real, it'd have been beyond hilarious.

During the trek down towards Minas Tirith, I was repeatedly beaten unconscious, probably to ensure that I did not start to get bored when there was nobody around to take care of me. As if I ever could desire the care of orcs.

During the few moments of my voyage I remember, the orcish traders that had captured me got attacked at least three times, and I am not so sure they haven been victorious all the time.
For my situation changed not at all: I lay or sat in a covered cart, cushioned, blindfolded, both my wrists and ankles cuffed by finely wrought irons. Always there was at least one odorious orc with me in the cart, sometimes even attempting at small talk, as incredible as that may seem.

I took me a while to figure out that it was not due to the dark times we were living in that our group was regularly waylaid, but an effect of the extraordinarily precious cargo it carried: me.

I suppose it is kind of a compliment that almost every third day, we got attacked, some orcs fighting, some trying to protect me with their very lifes, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. It didn't matter for me, though, as my day did not change, still the same stinking cart, only other, stinking orcs.

I hardly ever left that cart, only when my 'guard of honour' almost reverentially took care of my bodily needs. They were sweet, in a very twisted way, and treating me so much like a precious flower that I honestly wondered if the would put my feet into a barrel of water one day to prevent me from wilting.

Wished I could.

All elves are not so bound on their life as mortals are, and when they endure too much pain, to much suffering, they truly just wither, and die. Their souls are free to leave their bodies at will, when life becomes unbearable to them.

But the slave traders knew that, for it is exactly because of that elvan slaves do not 'last long', and are therefore exceedingly high in demand and price.

I knew that for me, there would soon come the moment where I left this world to join those who had gone before me. In a way, I longed for that moment of blissful release.

But it never came.

My new 'owners' truly took care that I never even once felt physically neglected, that the worse thing I had to endure was the constant company of orcs and my loss of freedom.

Which, for me, was pretty much the worst that ever could have happened, but it did not seem to be bad enough to allow me to leave.

So I endured these endless days of travel, endured the constant presence of these ridiculously concerned orcs, endured the endless list of upcoming terrors that my mind seemed to produce out of a perverted kind of curiosity.

I was afraid, I admit.

Afraid of the pain that would wait for me at the destination of our long trip, afraid of the torments I would have to go through until I finally would be allowed to go. Very afraid of my new 'masters' being adept at keeping pretty elf-slaves 'fresh' for a long time.

Often, at night, I silently wept into the soft cloth they had used to blindfold me. Silent tears of fear, silent tears of loss.

I was too young to die already, too proud to die like this, too much in love to die alone.

Apart from my fears, it truly was the loss of my loved ones that hurt most. My father, all my family and friends, all those I had never had the opportunity to say farewell. I had never even thought of dying before. And then, there was Aragorn. The human who had saved my life, the man with a heart strong and valiant as the hearts of all humans should have been. The human man I loved.

Often, when I lay awake at nights, weeping, it was my memory of him that soothed my broken heart. Knowing that there was still hope for us, hope for mankind, alleviated my heart. For he was the heir of the line of Isildur, and thus the promised King whose return was dreamt of in oh so many homes of man, elves and dwarves alike.

We both knew that the chances of him regaining his throne were almost inexistant, but sometimes hopes are worth far more than reason.

And I hoped that when he returned to my father's place and found me missing, he would not be so foolish and come after me, trying to rescue a hopeless slave, endangering the hopes of so many people.

I dearly hoped he would not do anything stupid.

I would not have to endure this for long, but if he died, all world would have to suffer.

And then, after several weeks of travelling bumpy roads with a merry band of stinking orcs, we arrived at the destination of our group: Minas Tirith, capital of Gondor, the White City. I could smell it, blindfolded a I still was, could smell the foul odor of too many men and far too many orcs living together in confined places. It made me want to retch.

Judging by the clamor around us, I guessed we must have stopped somewhere in the outskirts of town, and it took quite a while until finally someone opened the flap of the cart I lay in, probably an orc, by the smell of him.

"Here he is", a coarse orcish voice said full of pride.

"Mmhh...", another orc replied, darker, more commanding. "He doesn't look like much, though."

"Oh, please, Master Grishnagk, wait until you have seen him, he is a beauty! And no-one has ever touched him, so he's still as fresh as morning's dew and will last for many nights!"

"We will see, Orgunk, we will see. Get him out, I will have a look at him."

Then, suddenly, two orcs jumped on my cart, dragging me up by my restrained arms, heaving me outside with surprisingly little care. "Watch out!", the first orc hissed angrily, and the movements of my 'guards' definitely turned far more polite.

"He is rather nicely built, I have to admit", the second orc answered, the one who had been named 'Master Grishnagk' by the first one. A groping hand suddenly fondled my chest, squeezed my arms, obviously trying to assess my worth. I tried to evade this dishonouring
treatment, but my guards held me well, apparently they were well-versed in the art of manhandling elves.

"Ah yes, Master Grishnagk, he's of course not been broken in, yet.", the first orc began anew, and the amused chuckle of the orc in front of me caused icy shivers run down my spine. "Didn't want to spoil your customer's sports, Sir."

"Sure you didn't. You've never been any good as a lier, Orgunk, and this elf's too skinny for my customers."

Too skinny?

Allright, I was about to be sold to an orcish I-don't-wanna-know, but apart from that: it rankled me to a truly surprising degree that I was not immediately judged flawless. It must be some truly sick kind of personal pride that forces a person to insist on making the best impression possible, even if sold on an improvised slave-market in a backyard.

With a certain amused curiosity I studied my reaction on the haggling that started in front of me, listening to my imaginay flaws as well as to my mostly imaginary qualities. Once more I thought to myself that if this weren't real, it would have been hilariously funny.

But it wasn't.

Right that moment, when the reality of all that hit me with the impact of a dwarven hammer, one of the guards that flanked my sides removed the eyeblind that had been my constant companion since I had left the forests of my home.

Blinking, I tried to absorb my surrounding, only to have my looks stop on the two orcs in front of me, staring at me in ... well, in awe.

"By the One!", the smaller one of them exclaimed breathlessly.

The other one, a head taller yet still not reaching my shoulder, broadly build, almost fat, wearing the gaudiest velvet tunic I had ever seen, accompanied by several silver rings on his fingers, his
ears and the ridge of his nose, only stroked his flabby chin pensively.

Looking around me, I noticed to my ever-growing irritation that the two 'guards' holding me actually were men, not orcs as I had first guessed. didn't smell much better, though. But even they stared at me like a new statue finally revealed. I like praise, but that was too much.

I turned my head around, staring at the bigger orc with all the defiance I could muster, saying:

"You have now stared enough at me. Let me go!"

Though I was sure that I had put as much command in my voice as I could muster, my words failed to produce any kind of reaction at all.

Great. I hate being ignored.

Had I just said that I hate being ignored by orcs? Captivity does strange things to your mind, I had to realise....

Finally, after a long while, the big orc nodded reluctantly, saying:

"Well, some of my customers might like his unruly temper. And I still think he is too skinny. I'll give you twenty."

Orgunk, the smaller, weasely orc turned to 'Master' Grishnagk, grinning all over his ugly face, showing me his left ear, hanging from his head like a leaf of wilted lettuce. I knew orcs are prone to deformities, but this particular ugliness was in its comical grotesqueness new even to me.

"Ah, Grishnagk, my old friend, we both know you had to try. But we both also know what he truly is worth. Make it twenty thousand, and you'll have made a pretty bargain."

Turning around to me, he added:

"A very pretty one indeed..."

Grishnagk stared at me for a long moment, that at the small orc, than at me again.

"Allright", he said, "I'll pay. Twenty-thousand silvers.", and stretched out his ugly hand towards Orgunk.

But the trader shook his head, still grinning, saying:

"You know I haven't been talking about silver, Grishnagk..."

The features of the bigger orc took on a distinctive note of small-eyed annoyance, yet he only stared at me, thinking.

"It's no fun bargaining with you, Orgunk, this time."

Not in town for bargain, Master. Twenty thousand. Gondorian coins."

"Haven't got that much. Five hundred and seven bars of mithril?"

"That'll do fine, Master Grishnagk. Always a pleasure to do business with you."

I always knew I'm a precious, but twenty thousand? That's ridiculous. Apart from the simple reality that an elf can't be owned in the first place, that's been an incredible sum.

Very flattering, though.

Am I going mad?

I have just been sold! Shouldn't I try to do anything, like fighting and running away?

Probably.

But neither fighting nor running is of much use when both your hands and legs are chained, and I was somewhere in a city of men and orcs, probably the only elf for miles, and if I'd just run somewhere, I'd probably shot down only a few paces later.

And the guards holding me did not seem to be as lenient in their work as they obviously were in personal hygiene.

And before I could come up with something a little more sophisticated that mere running, the two fellows in front of me had finished their business with much cursing and hand-shaking, and Grishnagk turned his attention towards me again.

"Well, you came in right at need."

I did not like the hoarse, desiring note in his voice, not at all. He went on, addressing the 'guards' this time:

"Go, get him washed, and prepare him for tonight. I'll see to him within an hour!"

And then, without any further notice, one of the guards must have hit me over the head with a really heavy object, for I lost consciousness like a snuffed-out candle.

******

I awoke again of the sensation of someone brushing my hair - and to a throbbing pain on the back of my head.

Blinking, I tried to find out where I was, but I couldn't make out more than hazy golden blotches in damp darkness. Yes, definitely someone was brushing my hair, carefully, thoroughly, but without paying any real attention to that fact that a living elf was attached to its other end.

Well, I was about to die very soon anyway, so why should I bother?

Slowly, as the dreariness of being beaten unconscious too often slowly left me, I was able to make out more of the room I was lying in.

A dark, small chamber, filled with steam and the cloying scent of lavender and orcs and roses and cloves. Lovely. This truly abhorrent combination made me gag, and in the motion the cool breeze I felt brought my attention to the fact that I was without a single thread of clothing, yet still cuffed at wrists and ankles.

And I was wet.

Someone must have washed me. What a lovely thought, being unconscious while being undressed and fondled and washed and probably fondled again when the only 'people' around were orcs.

In a sick way, I wished they would turn violent on me as soon as possible. Or even torture me.
That would shorten my sufferings, would allow me to leave my bodily shell and be free of all of this.

And, guess what, that dream came true! At least the 'violence and cruelty' - part of it.

For as soon as I had gathered up enough of my wits to start making plans, that ridiculous 'Master Grishnagk' arrived, carrying with him a small wooden box.

"So, my beauty", he began, obviously in a splendid mood. "Let me see what we got here."

He lit some more candles, and the small room filled with light. There was nothing but the door, a small cupboard and the rough-hewn table I lay on to be seen, and the person that combed my hair was still hidden behind my head.

"You truly are a beauty like I haven't seen one for many years", the orc went on. Slowly, he moved his wrinkled, dark-grey hand to touch me, and I could not resist the urge to try and avoid being touched by that - orc.

I lurched away from him, using my whole body to gain some momentum, only to find that momentum turned against me as some kind of collar that must have been slipped around my neck while I had been unconscious, probably chained to the table, violently stopped my
upward movement.

With a painful thud I fell back onto the wooden surface of the table, at least finally being freed of that person constantly tugging at my hair.

"Tak, tsk, tsk.", my new 'owner' said.

"That's the kind of passion that will make you precious beyond belief, but sadly also prone to being killed during your first night."

The first good news I heard since I got captured, I thought to myself, as Grishnagk carefully opened the box he had put next to me onto the table and produced a fine, steelen pair of handcuffs out of it.

"Only the best for my precious, my mother always said, and so I keep it still."

Thanks, but I truly am not interested in knowing any more about you and your family. I'm already sick.

"This is finest dwarven craftsmanship, and wrought in fine elfish design, and it will suit you so lovely."

Elvish design? The nervous pattern on that obviously dwarven-designed contraption never even had seen an elf before it came into the same room with me, I bet. To me, it looked more like the very desolate attempt of an orc to explain a dwarf how elvan patterns had to look like. It was gruesome.

But Grishnagk didn't care one bit, and fastened the metal bands around my wrists carefully before opening the pair that had held them together until then.

He produced even one more pair of these cuffs out of the box and fastened them around my ankles, still being utterly pleased with himself. The cackling chuckle behind my head reminded me that there was still another person in that room. And that this person most probably was
another orc.

How lovely.

I was so occupied with the thought of how much I loathed the presence of orcs in any kind, that I almost didn't notice that Grishnagk was about to fasten a collar of 'fine elfish design' around my neck - but this surely was one bit too much. I tried to jerk my head out of his way, tried to make it too quarrelsome to collar me.

But that only seemed to amuse him, seemed to make his small, pig-like eyes glint even more unnervingly than before.

Then that orc behind me grabbed my head by my hair, pulling it down, fixin my quite effectively on the table.

"He's a fierce one, Master, isn't he?", the unknown orc said in a typical snivelling voice.

"Yes, he is, and so passionate."

Grishnagk patted my chest affectionately, smiling at me like a proud father at his child.

Oh Valar, how I would have liked to smash that smile into his ugly face, to strangle the last bit of stinking breath out of him forever. But constrained as I was, all I could do was to glare at him, imagining ever new ways to make this ugly, overdressed orc-pimp die very, very painfully.

Still holding the metal collar in one hand, Master Grishnagk put his other hand on my chest again, his grey, plump fingers tracing down my sternum, trailing lower. His head moves closer to me, down until he is so close I can see the hair sprouting on his nose.

"You are a treasure", he whispered into my ear. "You will bring much fame and fortune to my house."

"I will never do anything in favour of you or your house. Don't even dream of that."

"But you already do, my dearest."

His hand was still lying on my bare chest, his fingers moving slightly, caressing my skin, now obviously leering at me.

"I already have sent to the crown-prince that his brother's birthday present won't stay fresh much longer, and he promised to come over tonight. So you see, my elvan princeling, you already have done great service to my house."

With slightly detached surprise I noticed the sinking feeling in my heart. Being sold for a tremendous sum is one thing, being given away as a present is something entirely different.
And rather - unsatisfying.

Especially when it is the crown-prince of Gondor that at least partially is the one you are being given to. Prince Boromir the Fair, as they officially call him, Boromir the Butcher as he is called in the huts of the less fortunate ones, but always behind closed doors and no louder than a hushed whisper.

For the first time, despair swallowed my heart, and the chilling feel of hopelessness crept into me. I had hoped, in a way, that I would be allowed to leave, that disgrace and captivity alone would be reason enough to free me of my earthly bonds. But the prospect of probably being tortured to death as special treat on a birthday party by Boromir the Butcher was entirely different.

And I could do nothing to prevent this. Chained and collared as I was, I would have to follow, would have to let them do with my body whatever they fancied. And from what I had heard, they could fancy a lot.

Almost paralysed with dreadful anticipation I did not fight as Grishnagk placed the cold metal of the collar around my neck, I only closed my eyes as the fine click of the collar's mechanism closed with fatal finality.

That moment, I understood what would happen to me, what they meant when talking about 'fading'. The very moment the collar snapped shut around my neck, the whole world seemed to grow distant, muted, remote. My mind seemed to change pace, my thoughts slowing to sluggish pace, my feelings muted. I had given up. Admitted my defeat.

I was dead as much as one can be with his body still breathing. But that body would follow, I was sure. When Grishnagk fondled my collarbone this time, I did not react at all, watching him with detached interest, feeling more sorry for a beeing so cursed with both stupidity and ugliness than feeling annoyed by being molested by him.

"Such a beauty", Grishnagk said, almost to himself, but all I felt was sadness for those I would leave behind. His clumsy hands caressed my chest, my throat, my face. And all I think of was that it would be such a shame to mutilate that body before I would leave, that it had served me well for quite a long time and would have deserved a better treatment.

Yes, I was fading, losing myself.

I hardly noticed the orc eyeing me with a perverse interest, couldn't make myself care about his leering promises.

"When the princes will be finished with you, the two of us will have a nice cuddly evening, will we?", he whispered, his voice unsteady in anticipation, the unseen orc in the background giggling moronically.

Well, I thought to myself, when the Butcher's finished, you can have all the meat that's going to be left. I couldn't even think of my remark as funny. Wasn't funny anyway.

Even as 'Master Grishnagk' started to play with my nipples I couldn't bring myself to react with more than a slightly raised eyebrow. Orcs are disgusting things, and this specimen here was a special treat of his race.

Couldn't my death have been a little more heroic? Being fondled to death by an orc surely is nothing they will sing about when remembering their fallen comrades.

A searing pain unexpectedly brought me out of my detached musings.

Not really agonising, but exquisite in its stinging, searing quality.

My head jerked up, only to look at Grishnagks grinning face licking some drops of blood from my nipple with his pale grey tongue. Grinning with delight, he liked his lips once more for show, watching me as he said:

"You elves are so... delicious. So sweet. I could just eat you."

Still the unpleasant sting in my left nipple demanded attention, and my eyes widened in disbelief as I looked down on me to find a tiny silver ring sticking out of it.

"It suits you gorgeous, my beauty, don't you think?"

The orc's voice dripped of satisfaction with his own good taste in accessories, beaming at me full of pride, hardly able to suppress the shudder of delight that ran through his body when watching me.

He pierced my nipple!

Even if putting pieces of metal into my body weren't so disgusting a concept, it was so... so orcish!

I don't want to look orcish!

I was so enraged about that utterly inappropriate way of treating my body that I only later realised that my anger had stopped my soul from leaving and had brought me back to the present.

Beating me, torturing me, even raping me I had expected, but this? A part of me shook his head in silent bemusement about my completely disproportional reaction, and yet this tiny, in itself utterly unimportant thing focused my anger so much that I started to care again.

My new 'owner' apparently must have noticed my temper, for Grishnagk bend down to my chest again, liking away the last droplets of blood from where the ring had been forced into my flesh.

"You should show a little more gratitude, my pretty."

Grishnagk took a small bundle from the floor, put it on the table next to me, beginning to unwrap it.

"After all, I have decorated you with jewels worth a king's ransom, and I am sure the princes will delight in your appearance."

"You know pretty well that I will stuff your gaudy jewels down their noble throats as soon as I can, orc!"

"Of course you will", he answered in a sweet voice, completely unconcerned. "But we both know pretty well that you will not even get half a chance to do so, 'my pretty'."

I hated him, did I already mention?

Then 'Master' Grishnagk put the nail of his small finger through the ring in my nipple, pulling at the sore flesh just a little bit, making me twitch as a wave of exquisitely unpleasant pain rippled
through my body.

"And all your resistance will make the princes scream in delight, my little tree-lover. Your passion will only fuel theirs, and you will make them very happy."

He let go of the ring then, yet not without a tiny last twist.

"And whatever makes the princes happy, makes Grishnagk happy as well. And very, very wealthy."

I hated him, I hated the princes, I hated that brainless, giggling snot of an orc behind me, still tugging at my hair every now and then.

"So, now, my precious", Grishnagk began with a presenting flair to his voice. "I always knew that this outfit would come in handy one day."

And with this, he pulled an embroidered, pale-brown vest out of the bundle, staring at me as if expecting me to break into astonished admiration, causing the moron behind me to giggle once more.

I slightly raised one brow in irritation.

"What'd you say?", Grishnagk asked, still enthusiastic about his surprise. "That's an original elvan native outfit! I paid a small fortune for it!"

Elvan natives?

Never heard of them.

And I strongly doubt that they would wear stuff designed by men, sewn by men.

But how should an orc know?

His grotesque enthusiasm and the surrealism of this moment made me laugh out loud. This, finally, was just hilarious.

The orc actually tried to make me happy about preparing me for an arranged rape! And failing miserably at the attempt, showing off his mentally underprivileged status at every opportunity.

I was laughing tears.

"You think that's funny, he?", Grishnagk asked mirthlessly as my amusement eroded his pride in his wise acquisition.

I could only nod, but somehow that seemed not to be the desired response of my 'owner'. Grishnagk hit me hard in the stomach, strong enough to make me gasp for breath, yet not strong enough to truly end my amusement. Though he managed to subdue it significantly.

Hiding my mirth inside of me, I watched him struggle to put that vest on me. It apparently had been designed to be used at such opportunities, for it's shoulders were only laced, not sewn, so that he could put it on me without having to open my handcuffs at all.

This all was so absurd.

Next, he produced a girdle form somewhere that he slung around my waist, once more using the opportunity to touch me as much as possible.

To that girdle, Grishnagk attached two long pieces of soft leather, that formed some kind of breeches as he laced each of them around one of my legs. Still somehow bemused, I noticed that though this outfit looked quite advantageous on my legs, it didn't cover anything but my
legs, leaving important parts of me exposed.

Which probably was the intention behind this outfit, a snug voice in my head noted.

Finally, Grishnagk came up with two leather flaps, attaching them to my girdle as well, one in front, one in my back.

He flashed an impatient gesture to the moron behind me, and in response was handed a silver chain that he connected to my collar with well-trained efficiency.

"Stand up!", he ordered, violently pulling on the chain.

I struggled not to fall off the table, following him as good as possible with both my hands and my wrists constrained like this.

When I got myself finally upright, the two flaps the orc had attached last fell down, forming something akin to an elaborate loinskirt, decorated in this hilariously fake elvan fashion.

Very accessible, the snug voice in my head said.

I hated that voice in my head as well.

Then, suddenly, as Grishnagk was still in awe about his own success in decorating me, someone else burst into the room. This time, unexpectedly, it was no orc, but a human girl, her red tresses
flying, who almost jumped through the door, noisily heaving for air.

"Master -", she huffed, putting her hands on her knees to ease her breath. "They're - they're -"

"Who is, stupid human bitch?", 'Master' Grishnagk growled disdainfully.

"The - princes - Master."

Within the blink of an eye, Grishnagk was all fluttering anticipation.

"The princes? They're here?"

The girl only nodded.

"Are they already in the lounge?"

Shaking her head this time, she answered:

"Firandân just saw them - coming down the road, - must be at the door, by now."

The girl straightened again, visibly more composed by now, as her master wildly began to tug at my chain.

"Oh, Elf, hear that? Your customers have arrived! Isn't that lovely!"

And before I could muster any answer that would even remotely express my disgust for him, his dealings and his whole race, he set out into the hallway on the other side of the door, pulling me after him without second thought.

I stumbled, struggling to keep up with him although my ankles were still cuffed and the short piece of chain that connected them didn't allow for anything more than tiny, hobbling steps.
I would have been faster hopping, but I would not give him that satisfaction as well.

On our way out, I caught a glance of the human, girl, still standing close to the door, her back pressed to the wall to be out of the way of her agitated master.

She looked at me with a tiny smile, sympathetically, almost sad, as if trying to alleviate my heart. It took me a while to understand that she had tried to show genuine compassion, as much as her
negligible status allowed, but before I could smile in return, I had already been pulled away from her into the hallway.

I fear that she will keep me in mind as the stereotypically condescending elf, as through her eyes, my reaction to her attempt at sympathy must have seemed like a mildly questioning look underneath slightly raised eyebrows.

But before I could think about the girl and her potentially low opinion of me, 'Master' Grishnagk had pulled me on, into an other hallway crossing the first one, down a steep staircase, into a bigger hallway this time.

This one room was filled with both humans and orcs, all of them in various states of being undressed or drunk or drugged, many of them opting for more than one choice at once.
The place was filled with the noise of chatting people, low music that emanated from somewhere deep into the maze of adjoining rooms, and a fog-like haze that clung to the ceiling like horizontal sheets of finest cobwebs. It reeked of pipe-weed and sweet wine and sweat and, of course, far too many orcs and the few laterns and candles hardly managed to pierce the heavily scented gloom.

Outside the windows, it was pitch-dark, and for a moment I wondered how long I had been without consciousness.

But the my attention was turned towards the milling people in the room around us, for like a soothing rain, the clamour of voices subsided before us, the commotion slowing down until it finally stopped altogether.

Everybody, human and orc, male and female alike, was staring at us. To my grim satisfaction, I noticed more than one slack jaw as we passed along the crowd, all the while trying to preserve at least a tiny rest of my self-esteem by looking as dignified and condescending as possible under these circumstances.

A murmur arose in the depth of the crowd, surprised and awed at first, then growing questioning and more intrigued every moment. I could already see where our excursion was leading me and my 'Master', for somewhere in front of us, a brightly lit foyer condensed out of the misty gloom. Still the crowd whispered curiously around us, closing like a living wall whereever we had passed, following us like a shadow.

Disgusting as Grishnagk was, apparently his 'etablissement' was exceedingly successful, for we passed many rooms, each one of the finely furnished, several of them sporting their own bars, or even stages with dancers. I had heard of places like this, in jokes or stories told to teach our children about the cruelty and degeneration of mankind, but I had never even once expected them to host such dark, intriguing splendour, even as gaudy as it was.

I know that the emotions of man, though not running as deep as the ones of my kind, can flare far higher, burning both brighter and with far more searing a flame, and I did not really expect orcs to be much different in this regard.

Small wonder, then, I mused, that they build such temples to celebrate and indulge in their short-lived desires, as those desires had to be enticed anew every moment and the urge that drove them here was so much stronger.

It made sense, then, that they desired elves for beauty and pleasure, and that they worshipped our bodies while at the same time desecrating our souls. It was sick, and perversely twisted from what admiration and love should be, but in a gut-wrenching way, it made sense.

And now I was about to be sacrificed on the altar of their lust, and all the assembled crowd wondered who would be allowed to lead the ceremony.

Of course, as soon as Grishnagk and I entered the lobby, the crowd that had followed us fell back, blocking the ways that led from the hall into the many rooms behind, staring nosily at us and the two human figures that apparently had just entered the place.

One of the two men, a broad-shouldered, fair-haired fellow with the hands of a smith and the smile of a drunkard came towards us as soon as he noticed.

"Master Grishnagk, old fellow", he bellowed though the whole room, patting the orc jovially onto his shoulder as he reached him.

"What a delight to hear that you have managed to get the present for my little brother! Such a pleasure to have business with you, Master Grishnagk, such a pleasure!"

He was drunk.

He was sweating, his eyes were unsteady, and I noticed the light sway in his movements before he came close enough to smell him when he put his arm around my 'Master''s neck and looked at me for a long moment.

Green eyes, he had, and his look betrayed awe at first, then lust, and then, only for a tiny moment, guilt, before he turned away his gaze from me to turn towards his brother who was still leaning to the polished rose-wood counter in the hall.

"C'mon, brother, have a look at this! Master Grishnagk here's got another present for you!"

The other man, younger obviously, left his place at the counter and came over to the three of us, swaying a little less than his older brother.

So, if the first, broad-shouldered human was supposed to be Prince Boromir the Butcher, this one than would have to be Prince Faramir the Cunning.

Couldn't I just have fallen out of a tree and broken my neck? That at least would have been a more honourable dearth. And less painful, besides.

But I was here now, unable to run, unable to fight, unable to avoid being stared at like a priceless work of art. And Prince Faramir apparently liked what he saw, for all cunning he
might have owned fled his expressions and he stared alternating at me, at his brother at 'Master' Grishnagk and back again.

"For me?", he asked full of genuine surprise. "But that is... He is gorgeous!"

"Yes", Grishnagk answered, "He is something truly special. Fresh out of the trees, and hardly ever been touched."

With a conspiring grin on his ugly face he bent over to Prince Boromir, the heavy rings in his ears clicking audibly.

"But I have to warn you, milord. He is truly fresh, so he might still bite you."

Both glanced at me with a kind of anticipation that made my skin crawl.

"He has yet to be broken in, if you know what I mean..."

"Oh Grishnagk, old friend", Prince Boromir laughed out loud, still holding one of his arms around the orc's neck. "You know what a man needs, don't you? I always knew that it was a brilliant idea of mine to get you to take care of my brother's present. You definitely own the best house in town."

Grishnagk bowed slightly, taking great care not to shake of his liege's hand, grinning moronically. He had been right, I did quite a service to his house already, unimportant what I did, as long as I was there and did not drop dead.

Wish I could have.

This conversation alone with all these people listening would have earned him enough publicity to return my price. And he still might be paid quite a humble sum by the prince for my 'services'.

I hated him. I hated him. I hated him.

Still didn't change a thing.

With a grand gesture and a flourish, he handed over the end of my leash to Prince Faramir, who took it without really understanding why he was to hold that chain.

If I had reacted only the blink of an eye faster, I might even have succeeded in escaping his hold. I would have probably got myself killed on the first steps out of the house, but then I would, at least, have been dead at once.

But Prince Boromir, though more drunk than his brother, proved more alert and grabbed the chain before I could move away any relevant distance.

Wildly jerking me back by my chain, he shouted: "Hey, pretty-ass! You're still needed!"

Distracted by his inappropriate nickname and the failure of my attempt at freedom, I didn't manage to keep my balance in my involuntary backward movement, stumbled and fell over my own feet, crumbling into a pathetic heap at the princes' feet.

The ensuing laughter and applause and the cheers that broke out of the watching crowd hurt far more than the negligible bruises I had sustained from my fall.

Being pulled up onto my feet by bot Prince Boromir and Grishnagk, whose face could not decide between moronic self-satisfaction and stern educational frowning, I silently prayed once more to be spared any more shame.

So many of my kind had died so far less painfully; what had I done to deserve such torment?

"I'll show you a place where the three of you can be undisturbed, you Highness", Grishnagk said in a low voice, still bowing repetitively.

With a single gesture of his hand, Prince Faramir gave leave, and all four of us set out on our way through the maze of rooms and corridors that constituted Grishnagk not-so-little realm.
As expected, the gathered crowd split open ahead of us, reverentially letting us pass.

Once, I noticed a preposterous hand trying to sneak out of the wall of bodies to one side of me and touch my bare arm, but that attempt was thoroughly discouraged by a ferocious snarl of Grishnagk, and the hand quickly disappeared.

After quite a few hallways and two more stairs, we entered a square room, gaudily decorated as everything else in this place. Silken tapestries in pale colours hung from the walls, and gauzy silk of the palest rose was draped everywhere.

"I thought you might like this room, Your Highnesses, as it has already pleased you on other occasions."

"Well, it'll do fine, I'm sure", Prince Boromir said, searching the room for a place to lock his end of my chain into.

"Oh, milord, here", Grishnagk said, scuttling though the room and digging for a ring in the floor underneath a heap of unnervingly orange pillows.

He fastened my chain at the ring, surveying the room with one last glance, then turning towards the princes, asking:

"Would you care for some drinks, milords, maybe some snacks?"

The princes looked at each other, shrugging, then Faramir answered:

"Drinks, Grishnagk, and lots of it! You know best what we like. And if we need some other refreshments, we'll order them later."

"Of course, milords, of course"; Grishnagk said, managing the improbable feat of walking backwards out of the door and bowing fervently.

With an audible and very final clank, the door slammed shut.

For a moment, all was silent in the large room, the princes standing, watching each other. When they were sure that Grishnagk was out of hearing range, though, first Faramir broke into fits of laughter, soon followed by his elder brother. Both were shaking with mirth, apparently very satisfied with the show they had put on moments earlier.

"Oh, Boromir, that was hilarious! Poor old Grishnagk was so flattered, he almost fainted!"

Then, in a quite convincing parody of his brother, he added:

"You truly know what a man needs! Boro, I could have choked, seriously!"

"Didn't know that you had such a frail constitution, dear brother!"

"Neither did I, neither did I..."

Exhausted by laughter and a tiny bit too much of wine, Faramir let himself drop clumsily on one of the lush sofas, sprawling his limbs comfortably all over the furniture, eyeing me with sudden interest.

"So, that's my birthday present.", he said, weighing his head thoughtfully.

I didn't like the way he scrutinised me, though he surely liked what he saw, but he managed to watch me in a fashion that until now I had thought only possible when dealing with furniture.

Or slaves, that snug voice in my head added, once more completely unnecessarily.

"And he's all mine?", the prince asked his brother, who now was standing behind Faramir's sofa, watching me with anticipation as well.

"If you insist on having all the fun on your own, of course."

The younger prince glanced at Boromir with a look both curious and amused at the same time.

"Though I surely would not mind if you intend to share, little bro", the prince added.

With a wide grin instead of an answer, Faramir turned his attention back to me, saying in a most condescending manner:

"Dance!"

Completely at a loss what he intended, I raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Dance, I said. Do something decorative! Get undressed. Entertain us!"

I should - what?

Never.

"No."

Both brothers blinked at me in surprise.

"Have you heard that? Your gift is talking back at me!"

With mocked annoyance, Faramir began anew, slightly louder now, as if my former disobedience had sprung from a misunderstanding.

"You will dance, Elf! Heard that? A Prince of Gondor has given you an order!"

"I have heard, and I have chosen not to obey", I replied calmly.

Now fuming silently, Faramir turned to his elder brother, who still grinned widely.

"I told you, they've just shaken him out of a tree. He's still got fire in him. This one's not a pretty doll."

The younger prince turned back to me again, watching me under this new light, obviously looking forward to the upcoming sports.

"He surely is pretty. And yes, he truly talks as if fresh out of the tree. I thought that was one of Grishnagk's normal exaggerations ."

Now finally some kind of subdued anger welled up in me. How could the be so ignorant of the way we lived?

"I have not been shaken out of any tree, human, I have been tricked into captivity by lowest means!"

Yet, my remarks had less impact on the two princes like a spring-rain would have had on a mountain.

Completely ignoring what I said, Faramir went on:

"Will you lend me a helping hand, then, brother?"

"Of course", Boromir answered, and jumped over the sofa with one surprisingly agile movement for a man of his frame.

The younger prince stood up as well, both of them now coming up to me, the calculating looks in their eyes more than unpleasant.

For a moment, I thought of fighting them. I truly tried to turn against them, and though I knew my chances of escape were nil, maybe I could make one of the kill me in rage.

I tried so hard, but my heart felt like parched earth, unable to feel anything but loss, not even anger.

So I stood straight, watching them approach like predatorial cats, desperately trying to feel anything than resignation and cold, creeping dread.

"You so kind and hold him for me, bro?", the younger prince asked.

"Sure."

Boromir sounded rather anticipating, and he moved behind me, holding my arms, fixing me in the place.

Not that I could have run, constricted and chained as I was.

Not that I would have had the power to even if I were not.

So he held me, while his brother came up to me, holding my eyes with a steady, curious gaze. I could see how much the alcohol in his body had already clouded his resolve, how he revelled in the feeling of finally, for once being able to act without moral constraint, without having to stay
reasonable.

I could see in his eyes that he would truly enjoy making me suffer, that he would delight in taking me against my will, even though he knew he shouldn't.

Prince Faramir lifted his right hand, carefully gliding underneath the loathsome vest I was still wearing, softly touching my skin.

A tiny smile crept upon his face as he felt my heart beat underneath his surprisingly cool fingertips, widening as he laid his hand on my chest to savour the sensation.

"So you have chosen not to obey, have you, elf?", he asked, all the while his hand resting above my heart.

"That's not been a very smart move, pretty. For now I will have to undress you myself."

The younger Prince moved his head closer to me, breathing into my ear.

"And that might hurt just a little bit."

With this, he withdrew from me, stepping back a single pace. I was unpleasantly aware of his brother still holding me, his bearish body close to mine, radiating heat and the smell of unwashed, drunken man.

With a flourish, Prince Faramir drew his sword, and for a split moment I hoped he would just run me though. But, as so often already, I was about to be disappointed.

"Take care to hold him securely, Boro! We don't want to damage my present any more than necessary, do we?"

With a deep, rumbling laugh, the elder Prince grabbed my arms even stronger, pulling them back until the pain of my contorted limbs reached even my clouded mind.

'I am no thing!', I wanted to shout out. 'I am a living, sentient beeing, and obviously far more so than you crude barbarians!'

But all I managed was a sigh, and I felt an icy tear of hopelessness running down my cheek.

Grinning fiendishly, Prince Faramir noticed that I was crying without a sound, and he added:

"What's that, elvan babe? Tears? Don't worry, I'll be gentle."

Both brothers broke out into lewd laughter.

"Well, at least I'll try to."

"Is he really crying?", Boromir asked behind me.

"Oh yes", Faramir answered, taking the lower hem of my vest into his left hand. "It is, indeed."

As careful as a slightly drunken man can, Faramir put his sword under the fabric of the vest, slowly increasing pressure while moving it in tiny, sawing motions.

Then, abruptly, the fabric surrendered, and the steel cut through it like a hand through mist, moving upwards to my chin, until the blade got wedged in between the fabric and my skin.

At first, I thought he hadn't harmed me at all, for I felt no pain, not the searing hot touch of metal cutting elvan skin. But then, delayed as if by great distance, I felt the outcry of my body, the urge to squirm away from the blade that cut my skin, away from that source of pain. I stared into the eyes of the Prince in front of me, feeling pain, and sadness. Sadness not for me, but for all those who would mourn my death, sadness for the young human in front of me who's mind was so twisted that he enjoyed giving pain to those he loved.

And Faramir stared back at me, waiting for a reaction of mine that never came. For a mere moment the hint of doubt crossed his face, then cruel intend returned with doubled force.

"Now look at that, first tears, now trying to play the tough guy."

He took back his sword, looking at his brother with mock agitation.

"He didn't even flinch! So maybe there is some truth behind the saying that elves need pain to come. Probably he likes it."

While the Princes once more broke out into mindless laughter, my heart shrivelled to a small, dark lump of slack. Of course those elves you know desire pain, you monster in human hide, I thought to myself. Every time you hurt one of us, you bring him one step closer to death. Every time you hurt us, you remind us that torment will never last forever. Every single time you cut my flesh, you loosen the shackles that bind me to this body.

That is why we smile when you mutilate our bodies. But when the body has died, we laugh.

Grimly I stared into the eyes of my 'customer' as he took his sword once more, cutting away the insulting clothes that covered my body. He stared back at me all the time, taking care not to harm me seriously, yet taking care as well to hurt me as often as possible.

By the time my vest fell down in shreds, my upper body was laced with a pattern of almost parallel cuts, some of them bleeding slightly, none of them more than scrapes.

Faramir looked at me, looked at the bleeding lines he had drawn on my body with steel, his whole body heaving with desire. Then, with a motion so passionate it bordered to violent, he surged forward, his left hand grabbing my neck, holding me by my collar, jerking me backward so he could press his face on my chest, licking at one of the faint lines of blood.

Like a starving man he kissed the blood off my skin, dropping his sword on the ground, pressing his hot, human body against mine, pressing me in turn against his equally steaming brother.

Wedged like a butterfly between two mating bears I felt, hoping that I might either die or turn into mist, only wishing to be somewhere else, someone else.

Like obeying a silent command, both brothers now started groping at my body, kissing me, biting me, scraping my skin with their rough nails. I felt tears running down my face again, tears of ultimate defeat and hopelessness.

Even in my own mind, there was no place left for me to hide. Too little of me already was left, no happy thought to cling to, no single hope I could hold on to.

At least Aragorn would not see me like this. My lovers heart would have broken had he seen me violated, destroyed by humans he still hoped could with his help turn into decent beings at last. He had never been so cruel, never been so cold. Passionate, yes, and more than once he had hurt me, but never without my consent, and I almost always only noticed afterwards the bite-marks or scrapes he had given me during our lovemaking.

A humans passion is overwhelming for an elf, so uncontrolled, so uncontrollable, so enticingly dangerous. So mindblowingly satisfying when shared as lovers. So guttingly cruel when forced upon you against your will.

Aragorn, the man who had saved my life. Aragorn, the man with whom I shared my bed, my love, my life.

He was the kind of human I could admire, the kind of human who has not yet fallen to the lure of darkness that has corrupted the hearts of so many of his brethren.

My love, I hope you are well, I hope you do not suffer too much from my foolish demise. Carry my love in your heart, and remind me as one who has loved you as you are, not for what you might become one day. Estel, let my death not lead you into thoughtless danger, take it as a warning and try to end this madness wisely. I will not suffer for long, but all humanity needs you to end their torment. They do need you so much more than I do, so much more.

Obviously.

Suddenly, I was slammed onto the ground, and the impact broke my chain of thoughts. Shackled as I was, I was unable to soften my fall, and my face slammed hard onto the floor. Pain blossomed in my lips, and to my surprise, anger welled up inside of me.

I had felt so close to my love, so close to mental peace that the unexpected return to reality only hurt all the worse.

Why did I have to witness all this shameful mutilation of my body? Why couldn't I just die? Why not? Maybe I just hadn't suffered enough yet.

Both Princes grabbed me then, hauling me up onto one of the numerous sofas, all the while commenting on the likeness of my exposed back to a full moon.

I hadn't realised until then that I was now fully naked, and that I unexpectedly missed my gaudy, fake elvan outfit. Judging by the pain on my hips, they had continued their little 'undress-the-elf-with-my-sword' play, and I could almost smell both men were now hungry to use the present they had so carefully unwrapped.

With a mental snarl, I listened to Boromir saying:

"Here now, brother, you first. Your Birthday, your sports!"

"Thanks so much, dear", Faramir answered, almost simultaneously gulping down some beer that had appeared out of somewhere while I had been absent, seeking solace in the memory of my lover.

Then my head was jerked into the opposite direction by someone pulling forcefully on the chain that still was connected to my collar. It was the elder Prince who, with more force than finesse, sought to fix my leash underneath the furniture I was crouching on in an attempt to keep me in my position.

Unfortunately, he managed, forcing me to lie across one of the armrests with my face down, one of my legs dangling onto the floor.

"So", I heard Boromir say, "that should help. enjoy yourself, brother."

"I surely will", Faramir answered, squeezing my buttocks apart, groping at me pretty much as clumsily as any orc. I heard him shed his shirt and open his breeches, and I flinched inwardly in
anticipation of pain. And the pain came.

In complete disregard of my body, he climbed onto me, stepping on my legs, kneeling on my hip. His weight made me groan, praying silently that he might begin soon to be over with all the faster.

"See? He already likes it!"

I couldn't even bring myself to hate him, all I could muster was disgust.

Lying on the couch, my shackled hands underneath me, my back exposed, the prince kneeling on my constrained legs, I was forced to be a mere witness when he began rubbing his hot body over mine, pressing his hardening manhood against my skin, growling, groaning, definitely enjoying himself.

Then he tried to spread my legs apart to get into a better position to enter me, but the chains that connected my ankles thoroughly hindered his efforts.

"Hey, that's shit. He's no good wrapped up like that!"

"So what. You want me to unchain him?"

For a short moment, the brothers looked at each other, then Faramir snorted with a grim amusement:

"Nay - I want a good fuck, not a good fight."

I did not really find any mirth in their laughter.

"Your going to fuck him tonight or you just wanna talk, he?", the elder Prince asked.

"Slow, man, slow. He's a present, and I'm not going to rush."

Really? Shame. That'd been so nice.

Thanks for stating your intent to make my torment last as long as possible, I thought. This was so cruel. Why was I so helpless? I should have fought, should have tried to escape, should have at least died trying. But nothing of this, as the only route to escape I could conceive of was death. And, as Faramir had just stated so proudly, that would still take some time.

Once more, anger tried to flare within me, anger about my helplessness, anger about these two human monsters, anger about my fate. But just when I had managed to fletch my teeth in a first gesture of defiance, Faramir had decided that now he had been patient long enough.

Trying to suck in air and scream at the same time, I only managed a piteous yelp, as I felt him force himself into my body, tearing me, clawing his hands into my already mistreated shoulders.
White hot, like a sheet of flame from a dragon's breath, the pain shot upward through my body, searing away any kind of resistance I might have had left, burning everything but suffering and shame.

And the prince on top of me groaned in delight.

"Whoa", he commented after three or four testing moves, "that's what I call 'tight as an elf'. Great gift, Boro!"

"The two of you make a sweet couple, you know?"

"Yeah, and a sexy one, don't we?"

And he began moving again, with more force this time, more passion, more violence. He thrust into me as if he tried to impale me, still kneeing on one of my legs, scratching his fingernails across my shoulders, tearing at my hair.

It was when Prince Boromir pulled one of the huge armchairs around to have a better look at me and his brother that I noticed that the pain, unexpectedly, had renewed the bonds to my body.

I felt more than disgust when he sat down a mere pace in front of me, a huge pint of ale in his hand, watching his brother work on top of me with almost fatherly pride. I felt hate. Hate as searing, as hot as the pain that had brought me back, hate as cold and cruel as the shame that had held me captive mere moments ago.

But still I was shackled and chained, still Prince Faramir was labouring on top of me, and all I could think of was staring at the brother of the man who was busy raping me, hoping that my hate alone would be enough to set his head aflame.

But nothing like that happened. Boromir the Butcher merely sat there, watching his brother rape me, drinking his ale, stroking his crotch absently.

"Oh man", Faramir said panting, stopping his work for a moment, "this boy's soo hot."

"Is he?", Boromir asked with amusement, making the mistake to glance at me. He caught my baleful look and for a moment, a single moment, I saw fear creeping into his eyes. Fear, and maybe even remorse.But his resolve returned quickly, and with another gulp of ale he said:

"My turn, now."

"I haven't finished, yet", his brother complained weakly, already leaving his place between my legs.

"You surely will have enough opportunity for that when you get him next time."

"But I want to be the first to come in him. He's mine."

"Sure you will", Boromir grunted, not even making the effort to undress even as much as his brother had done. He simply opened his breeches and dropped on top of me, all his massive weight pressing me into the upholstery, almost breaking my back. Wish he had.

This way, I had to witness all of it again. Boromir, who was stronger than his younger brother by far, seized the moment when my whole body cramped up in pain of the impact to shove my legs underneath me, so that I now was basically lying on my knees, offering my back in a
position far more accessible than before.

Prince Boromir crouched over me, pressing down my shoulders with his huge hands, whispering:

"So, my pretty, we'll see how long you manage to stay so impertinent when you're with someone who's not so kind as my brother."

And without use of his hands, his manhood found its way into my body. Slowly, deliberately, he made me feel every single inch of it, and though I have thought that Prince Faramir had been painful, I was now being taught the true meaning of pain.

I have never minded sharing my bed with a male partner who was well-equipped, but this truly was unbearable.

I cried out loud as he thrust into me the first time, all my mind swimming with pain, with shame, with loathing.

What sick beeings could enjoy their partner writhing in pain? I had, until then, only thought orcs capable of such perverted pleasure. But that night, I was taught that the immeasurable adaptability of humans does, indeed, include the abysmal as well.

I screamed in pain, I screamed in despair, in shame.

And nothing changed.

Prince Boromir still knelt behind me, forcefully holding down my neck with one hand, thrusting into me as if there was some price to be gained for exceedingly hard romping. And his brother had now occupied the abandoned seat in front of me, watching me suffer, watching his brother enjoy himself big time.

Nothing changed for minutes that seemed to stretch into hours, nothing except my throat turning sore. Why did I have to endure this all; I thought in despair; why of all elves me? I had always tried to stay one of the good guys, and I surely never ever in my long life had done anything that would even remotely have deserved this.

The pain in my back dimmed to a dull ache, as my tormented body decided to just ignore the violation of its substance. Hardly anything was left in my mind, only a mere memory of pain, the dreaded anticipation of Boromir's next thrust, the apathetic, nihilistic wish to just dissolve into nothingness, to die.

Yes, I would fade away and die, when the suffering would have gone too much to bear, but I had never even imagined of how much suffering that actually would have to be.

Remotely, somewhere around the body I so desperately tried to leave I heard one of the Princes groaning, laughing. They were having a good time, why not?

Nothing to do with me, I thought.

Absolutely nothing.

I am hardly there anymore.

Only my body is left.

And then, unexpectedly, most dreadfully, some sense of reality snapped back into my almost discontinued mind.

Pain.

Not as massive, not as humiliating as before, but stinging, burning, alerting, somewhere else than at my back where everything seemed to be just a throbbing nothingness of suppressed agony.

The side of my head hurt, screamed in pain of the most unfamiliar kind.

My eyes focused, or maybe they merely opened, but suddenly, I was aware that Prince Faramir had leaned himself forward, supporting himself with one hand on the armrest I was crouched onto, absently holdin something to the side of my head.

A candle.

That bloody bastard was frying my ear!

I bucked up in shock and anger, violent with rage, screaming in wrath far more than in pain.
I hardly could believe the feral sound I heard came from my own mouth, but that very moment, all within me was aflame with the searing, mindless wish to annihilate this son of an orcish whore, and everything around as well.

I snarled and tried to get rid of the load that still rested on my neck, pinning me down to my helpless position.

"Stop that!", I heard the slightly angered command of Prince Boromir, "that's cruel."

Cruel?

And what are you doing, your Highness? Blessing me with your love?

Joining our bodies in the tender dance of love?

You cannot seriously try to be kind to someone you are busy raping!

You just cannot!

The mere fact of his words boggled my mind.

"Put it out", he ordered next, and suddenly I felt my head doused with luke-warm ale. The stinging pain in my ear subsided to an angry throb, an my mind cleared enough to stare at the Prince who was still holding the candle, looking at his brother like a child that has been caught with his hands in the honeypot.

"You're getting bored, but that's no reason to harm him."

So raping doesn't do any harm? Wouldn't have noticed.

"Just one more round, then it's gonna be your turn again."

Faramir smirked at his brother with a nod, and the elder Prince began moving again, this time slower, deeper, more intense. Less painful, as well, but that only made me sickeningly aware that he was deep inside of me, moving inside me, revelling in forcing his desire upon me.

The younger Prince still leaned to the armrest, still wearing nothing but his boots, his breeches dangling between his ankles. And he watched me.

His eyes almost caressed my face, sucking in every single detail, holding my eyes as if trying to swallow them in the dark blue seas of his twisted mind.

And he smiled, kindly and genuinely fond of what he saw.

And just to top it off, he began to sing.

With a low voice, humming at first, then forming whispered words, he began to sing to me. He sang of beauty, of love, and how I was the most heavenly wonderful thing in all his life. I blinked in completed incapability to confront this incredible act of bigotry.

My whole body was jerking with the passionate thrusts of his brother, who raped me right now as Faramir had done minutes (or hours ?) ago himself, and he, in all seriousness, sang poetry to my face.

And he had quite a good voice, for a human at least.

I was about to throw up. This was just too absurd.

With a final groan and a rude slap to my back, Prince Boromir ended his ride for now, and said:

"Alright, bro, yours again."

And without ever letting go of my neck, he left his position behind me, waiting for his little brother to take over. And Faramir winked at me, smiling, stood up and replaced his brother's hand in my neck with his own.

While he scrambled onto the couch to find a better position than last time, I heard Boromir stroll through the room, somewhere pouring a new drink for himself, gulping it down noisily.

Then my attention was pulled back to my own body I had long thought not to be any part of me anymore, as Faramir pressed his manhood between my legs once more.Not as hard as before, it was not as easy for him as the first time, but still he was able to force his way into me again.

"Man, bro, that's what I hate when sharing with you", he exclaimed when he tried to make himself comfortable within me. "He's so wide now. That's boring."

With a perverse curiosity, I waited for Boromir's response on that, but then the pain hit me.
Not like before, violent and burning, but delayed, with far more force than I had ever thought any physical pain could be. White and searing, overwhelming the agony washed every single thought out of my mind, and like blinding light blots out every other colour, the pain took away every sensation but agony. I felt my body sway, felt my stomach churn and my heart stop and race at the same time, and all I wished for was the end.

My body had accustomed itself to the repeating pain of the elder brother's violations, but now it was different, and the realisation of how wounded I actually was shocked me to the core.

Truly, the name of Boromir the Butcher had not been given undeserved, for where he had been working, nothing but raw flesh must have remained.

The overwhelming agony of Faramirs first moves slightly subsided, and I felt a small trickle of blood run out of my mouth as I unclenched my jaws that I had cramped against each other when agony had hit me. I had bit a small piece out of the tip of my tongue, and I could still feel it dangling in my mouth, warm blood freely flowing out of the wound.

I couched, spraying the upholstery of the couch with a fine red mist. Oh Valar, I had not deserved this. I had not deserved this. Let me die. Please, let me die.

Prince Boromir entered my field of sight then, shirtless now, his breeches still girdled, his manhood sticking out of his open crotch like a pole. The Prince dropped himself into the armchair, grinning widely at the groaning and huffing his brother made. Taking up a piece of my shredded outfit from somewhere, he began to wipe off the blood that covered the base of his manhood.

My blood.

Then, Faramir behind me changed his weight once more, and I gritted my teeth in anticipation of the new wave of pain that would come as sure as death. And it came, and once more agony was all that was left of me, crying bitter tears of dread.

When I came back to my senses, I realised that I was lying with my face against the armrest, the inside of my lips scraping painfully against the velvety material of the couch. And that someone was holding my head by my hair, repeatedly lifting it up, banging it down onto the couch again.

I had not deserved this. Valar, let me die. Please.

Then the banging stopped, and I felt my head carefully lifted by broad hands.

Prince Boromir looked into my face, his eyes clouded with ale, yet his expression full of care.

"Don't worry", he said, "all will be well."

Yes, I thought. When I am dead, all will be just fine.

Boromir put another pillow underneath my head, and the shoving of his brother began anew. Again and again, he thrust into me, jerking my helpless body back and forth.

Sometimes, I caught glimpses of Prince Boromir, sitting in front of me, dinking ale, laughing, stroking his own manhood fervently.

Let me die. Please, let me die.

Relentlessly, Prince Faramir went on, groaning, shouting gleefully.

Let me die. Just let me die.

His last thrusts, more violently, fare deeper than ever before, I noticed with dreadful anticipation of agony.

Please let me die. Just let me die. All Valar, please.

Please.



DO NOT MISS THE UPCOMING SEQUEL: 'Nights of comfort'