Title: Orc in Ithilien Author: Draylon (draylon@hotmail.com) Pairing(s):Faramir / Shagrat Rating: NC17 Summary - see author's note. Author's Note: Chapters nine to 11 of a continuing sequel to the story 'Captain of Mordor' (also available on LoM), in which Faramir of Gondor finds himself slashed with Shagrat, an Uruk, once again. Chapter 9. After the Night Before It was a bright autumn morning in Ithilien, about three weeks after Shagrat’s impromptu departure from the palace. Eowyn, as she was now wont to do, was pacing out the floor-space in Faramir’s library, berating herself soundly for her role in her husband’s current condition. “But he has been so desperately ill,” the Lady of Rohan insisted. “How can you still assure me that these effects have nothing to with the events of – of that night?” Hrodgar, her advisor, commented that it was not the first time that Faramir had been affected by such similar symptoms. “And what do you mean by that!” Eowyn asked hotly. “I am speaking of his Highness’ – illness, incapacity – call it what you will – the lasting infirmity that afflicted him after the siege of Minas Tirith, and which necessitated such a prolonged stay in the Houses of Healing.” Hearing what she perceived to be a slight on her husband’s courage, Eowyn coloured up and rushed to his defence, saying that her own recuperation following that battle had taken quite as much time. “The point I am making is only that your Ladyship’s injuries were by and large damages to the physical body. Whereas in your husband’s case – well, shall we say that even then, there was evidence for a certain fragility of the mind. That his relapse has occurred so quickly is no great surprise – not for any person already experienced in treating cases of this type.” “I say this with the utmost respect for his Highness,” the advisor added after a moment. He had noticed a familiar, obstinate look arranging itself across Eowyn’s features, a tell-tale sign that indicated she was wavering on the point of withdrawing all co-operation. “But your husband is not at present himself. If he had been allowed to rave unchecked, he might have sunk so far into his derangement that he would have been lost beyond hope of recovery. Consider the plight of your Uncle, Theoden King. Had we only been granted the foresight to act, at those first, earliest signs of his own infirmity –“ At this painful reminder of a subject that would always sadden her, Eowyn stifled a low groan. “Even so, ought not we to send to Minas Tirith? I have thought of little else, these past few weeks. Perhaps as he did the last time, the King might be able to –“ “We have already discussed the possible ramifications, should your husband’s predicament become generally known. Rapid treatment, exactly as you and I have been providing is of paramount importance. And – he continues to accept the regular doses, does he?” Hrodgar added, as if it was an afterthought. Eowyn nodded absently, overly trusting of Hrodgar’s judgement in this. “He has been too distracted of late to know what medicine he has been taking.” Considering its general effects, ‘medicine’ was a rather disingenuous term for the powders Hrodgar had been prescribing, but the old man didn’t bother to correct Eowyn’s mistake. He had entered knowingly into his current course of action even if his naive accomplice had not, and still had few regrets about his conduct, if any. This was not because he was an evil fellow or even a particularly disagreeable one; his motivations were far from being anything akin to that. He loved Eowyn like a daughter – that was the truth of it, and had long nursed secret ambitions on her behalf. Though too inexperienced to see it for herself, Eowyn, as Faramir’s natural successor stood to gain in power immensely as a result of her husband’s incapacity, and Hrodgar was determined to assist her rise in standing in any way he could. As for Faramir, before his separation from Eowyn, Hrodgar had not known him well enough to come to either like or dislike him, and since the royal couple’s parting, his opinion of the Prince had necessarily fallen – had plummeted, in fact. Hrodgar being unaware of the circumstances surrounding their marital break naturally (though wrongly) assumed that Faramir, given his disturbing new partiality for all things Orcish, had been the instigator of it. For that heinous slight to his Lady if nothing else, he would have his revenge. “That is excellent news,” Hrodgar beamed at Eowyn. “Prophylaxis, administered before the malady has properly taken hold always offers the best prognosis - in cases I’ve seen of this sort.” “You are sure that then that you have treated these kinds of symptoms before?” Eowyn asked in a rush, hardly daring to hope. It was not the first time she had asked such a question, but she craved Hrodgar’s reassurance. “Of course,” Hrodgar prevaricated. “And his Highness’ condition now is - ?” “My husband is weakened, still. But – he is sitting up and writing in his study.” What Faramir was writing was something Eowyn did not at that point particularly want to think about, much less discuss. She would have to talk about it with someone eventually, though. The stress of being party to Faramir’s twisted and insane aspirations had taken its toll on her and she needed a sympathetic shoulder to lean on, someone who would be a reliable source of support. “He says that – he says he plans to advertise!” Eowyn blurted out. “Since he has tried and failed so often – finally accepting that he cannot retrieve the foul creature himself, he has resolved to use any other means at his disposal. And all because you and I have rendered him all but impotent in that respect by our actions! Now he wishes to offer a reward for the safe return of the beast. He is composing the notices even as we speak. They are to be sent far and wide - our shame and degradation will be written plainly for all to see! With this he will forever link himself - inextricably, irrefutably - to that brute!” Hrodgar thought about what she’d told him. In all of his lengthy experience in politics, he’d learned that there was very little in the way of factual information that could not be turned about - or even entirely on its head - given an appropriate amount of spin. The trick was always to find and select the correct angle of approach, the one that would make the bitterest of factual pills seem wonderful and sweet-tasting to the appetites of the general public. In the light of that, this one was almost too easy for him. “The idea is not entirely without merit,” the old man said. “Consider if it was perhaps to be couched in different terms.” Eowyn asked him what he meant. “Your husband wishes to find one particular Orc,” Hrodgar explained. “But what if during the course of all his searching, he was to locate more than one of them, or even many?” “But what would be the use in that?” was Eowyn’s bitter retort. “A single Uruk-hai invading my home is assuredly one more than I would ever care to deal with.” “The last of the Orcs and Uruks were cowed and broken after the fall of Mordor,” Hrodgar explained. “Everyone believed they had beaten down and that we had seen the last of that dreadful race, but it seems they have grown bold since that time. Numerous sources have it that they have congregated in the south of the country, are now to be found flaunting themselves openly, especially in the regions near Harad and Khand, where that kind could ever walk abroad unmolested. It is a burgeoning problem, for even now, those fiends must be wreaking their havoc far and wide. What I am thinking of is a bold campaign seeking to rid Gondor of the last of the Orcish scourge of Mordor – a campaign instigated by his royal highness, Prince Faramir of Ithilien. That is what we should aspire to, do you see? If successful it would bring you - your husband - fame and glory surpassing all that has gone before. Whoever accomplished it would be a hero of the people, make no mistake.” Eowyn regarded him wryly. “Faramir is no fool,” she said. “And as he has so clearly demonstrated by his recent conduct, he cares but little for his reputation - or for the trappings of celebrity. He would never agree to such a scheme.” “If you offered to help,” Hrodgar suggested, “distracting him from our true purpose, I am certain we could do it.” “He knows my feelings on this subject only too well,” Eowyn countered doubtfully, “and is unlikely to ever believe I would willingly be any party to this.” “My Lady, you could easily sway him. You have at your disposal all the means necessary to persuade him.” “But I would be deceiving him! Behaving in a manner entirely bereft of honour. In good conscience, I could never do that.” “It is the only way to avert the catastrophe that you have yourself foreseen,” insisted Hrodgar. “That is, the only solution I can devise myself at this time. Unless of course you have thought of a different course of action - and if so I hope you would share your plans with me. Tell me what it is that should be done?” “I – I cannot yet say.” Eowyn turned away so that Hrodgar would not see her too-evident disappointment. She had been hoping for better from him. The old man was well aware that his protégée had come to him for advice as a last resort and had no better plan of her own to offer. Eowyn, he knew, would spend some time vacillating about the rights and wrongs of the question, but he trusted that eventually she would make a rational choice. ****************** And so she did. The next morning Hrodgar was summoned for counsel in his lady’s chamber. “I have just spoken with him about it,” Eowyn said breathlessly, “and he seemed only too eager to accept my help.” “You have made the right decision, my lady,” Hrodgar commented, nodding gravely. “It takes both bravery and fortitude to embark upon a difficult course such as this, and I must say that by it you will be saving your husband, as surely as you would if you had set out to rescue him from some mortal peril.” Eowyn smiled back excitedly, despite her own misgivings. After weeks of self-recrimination and worry, having a definite course of action to embark upon had settled her mind, allaying much of the mental turmoil that had beset her since her return to Ithilien. “And here is the information that Faramir wishes to be distributed,” she said, handing over a document written in ink in Faramir’s cramped and looping script. Hrodgar read the material carefully through, twice. “A leafleting campaign, perhaps, would be best,” was Hrodgar’s first comment. “We’ll give prominence to the monetary incentive offered for information, of course. That’s all along the right lines. As to the rest of it -” he continued, frowning, “if it proves absolutely necessary, we can put that on the back. As if anyone will ever think of reading as far as that.” Chapter 10. The Series of Flashbacks Continues Far away on a mountainside in the south of Gondor, not long after Eowyn and Hrodgar's conversations had taken place, the smell of the Hobbit’s cooking was making Shagrat’s mouth water. He still had a number of half- dry strips of venison, unappetising remnants of his last kill, secreted in the lining of his cloak, and anaesthetised by the effects of Azof’s grog, he unthinkingly began to get to his feet to collect them. The shooting pain from the injuries in his side doubled him over immediately and he stayed where he was, waiting for it to subside. Ludlow, busy with whatever culinary enterprise was currently engrossing him had noticed nothing and after a moment he bustled over to Shagrat, proffering a large bacon sandwich. The Warg stood up quickly too, its attention fully focussed on the Hobbit, and deftly caught the sandwich that Ludlow tossed its way in its jaws. Shagrat noted that it too had been injured, and was limping heavily. He called it over and examined the damage. There was a deep slash down one of its fore limbs and the pad of its foot had been skewered through, no doubt by Azof’s - or possibly even Dokuz’s blade. The wounds had bled clean and the Uruk, knowing of no better antiseptic, sloshed them liberally with a measure of the Orc-draught from his cup. While the Warg bared its teeth and laid its ears flat at him, he bandaged its injury with a strip of leather torn from the hem of his jerkin. Shagrat realised to his dismay that neither he nor the Warg would be able to hunt like this. “You should go back home,” he advised the Hobbit. “Winter’s coming. You don’t want to end up stuck out here with no board and lodgings.” “What about you,” the Hobbit asked. “I’ll find somewhere to lie up till Spring,” said Shagrat, with an easy confidence he by no means felt. “Rustle a couple of cows or sheep or something to tide me over. I’ve done it before.” Circumstances had indeed forced him to try something similar at one point in the past. This had not ended at all well. “How did you hurt your leg?” Ludlow asked suddenly. Barking out a harsh, humourless laugh, Shagrat said - “it was when I was trying to rustle a couple of cows or something to tide me over last winter, wasn’t it? Never said I was any good at it.” He went on to explain what had happened: ****** Shagrat cast about in desperation. It had taken him two long days to make his way down from the high mountain pass where Dokuz and the others had taken his weapons and left him. The pickings had been very slim indeed for Orcs, following the end of the war, and he couldn’t remember when his last proper meal had been before that. Night was falling and he could smell snow on the wind – in fact, a few flakes of it were swirling about already, in the cold evening breeze. If a blizzard started, he would be stranded until the following morning, and farmland was not a safe place for Orcs, nowadays. He’d expected there would be livestock - a risky prospect at best, for even farmers had grown bold enough to hunt down and slaughter Orcs in these difficult, unsettled times, but on the other hand, domestic animals were easy to catch, and even unarmed and in his weakened state, Shagrat knew he would be able to dispatch a farm animal without too much trouble. Although his knowledge of agricultural practices was hazy at best, it wasn’t winter yet, and he’d been certain that there would be livestock grazing up in the high pastures. They had been, not long ago, there was evidence enough of that, but now the hillsides were empty and quite deserted. The Uruk made his way into the shelter of a stand of trees. The wind had risen and without his outer clothing, boots and gauntlets – items of which he had been relieved by Dokuz’s gang - the cold cut through Shagrat like a knife. Out of the wind, he picked up a strong, compelling scent immediately and followed his nose to a clearing in the middle of the clump of trees. The side of goat flesh that had attracted him was greenish with age, air-dried almost all the way through, but even so the sight of it caused Shagrat’s stomach to contract painfully, and he began salivating at once. The meat had been hung high up off the ground and was well out of reach. It was obviously intended as bait, for directly beneath it there was a large steel- jawed spring-trap, loosely covered with twigs and leaf-litter. ******* “I knew it was a trap, of course,” Shagrat told the Hobbit after a moment. “I’d hurt my hand, but I still thought I could get up at it. I wouldn’t have gone after it if I hadn’t been sure I could.” “Then what happened?” Ludlow breathed. “Fell out the bleedin’ tree, didn’t I,” the Orc said simply. ******* Shagrat felt the branch he was clinging to give, sickeningly, under him the instant before it snapped. He twisted frantically in the air, trying to break his fall, and hit the ground heavily, first with his shoulders and then his buttocks. He remembered the bear trap the split second before his legs came down and for a moment thought he’d been lucky enough to clear it, but then there was an awful stomach-churning, metallic and bone-crunching impact. The pain did not come at once. First, there was only a terrifying sensation of intense pressure, as if all of his right leg below the shin was being gripped in an enormous vice. He’d drawn breath to scream before it properly started but when it did hit him, the severity of it drove every bit of air from his lungs. He retched and gasped helplessly, blacking out for a merciful moment in shock, but came to roaring in anguish. *********** “You get the general idea,” said Shagrat. “After that a bear came, and my eye –“ he broke off quickly and shook himself, trying to rid himself of yet another unpleasant memory. “Well that’s no good then,” Ludlow tutted, “that sounds much too dangerous.” He thought for a moment, and then suggested brightly: “why don’t we rent some accommodation instead? At an inn or something. Somewhere that does meals all-in, too. That way you wouldn’t have to rustle anything, not if you didn’t want to. It’ll be off-season, so it shouldn’t cost that much.” The Orc muttered that he hadn’t enough money for that, a relevant point that wasn’t the real reason for his reluctance. After falling into the hands of the travelling showmen, he had been exhibited up and down the country, more often than not at wayside taverns, where his suffering would routinely be exploited as a source of public entertainment. The associations that Shagrat had formed with those types of venues were all unpleasant, and he would have been happy never to set foot in another one of them again. Not wanting to admit any of this to the Hobbit, he said shortly: “They don’t let people like me in inns,” which was also true enough. “That can’t be right,” insisted the Hobbit. “When was the last time you were in one?” After a moment, the Uruk told him. ************ It was evening on the day that Faramir had acquired him. Soaked to the skin, and begrimed from the dirt of the road, the royal party had arrived at a coaching tavern where they intended to spend the night. The Prince and his personal advisors had already gone inside to arrange their accommodation, with Shagrat and the rest of the royal retinue following behind. There was a rough-looking fellow, the tavern’s cellar-man, lingering just inside the entrance to the building. As Shagrat and the others approached, he extended one heavy arm across the door, blocking the Uruk’s way. “No Orcs inside the premises,” he said, and spat at Shagrat’s feet. “We ain’t having none of that filth in here. Stable it round the back if you must, but be sure and keep it away from the other livestock.” Meeting the man’s eye, one of the royal aides gave him a brief nod of approval, commenting that that would be a capital arrangement. From inside the tavern, Faramir turned back to see what was causing the delay. As the two aides who were with him hurried the Prince further into the inn, the travelling companions remaining outside closed ranks smartly around Shagrat, calling out that they would be glad to attend to the Orc themselves. It was a neatly-accomplished manoeuvre. Seeing the familiar expressions of loathing and disgust that were clearly written upon their faces, Shagrat had come close to entreating Goldilocks not to leave him at the mercy of those men. The plea had been on the tip of his tongue, but Shagrat had bitten it back, stifling the words in his throat. There was, in the Orc’s opinion, every likelihood that Faramir would have left him to his own devices no matter what Shagrat himself wanted, or said. On asking for Goldilocks’ help in the past, he had been met with derision, contempt, and worse, and the Orc knew from bitter experience that complete indifference was likely to be best response he could hope for. By Shagrat’s reckoning, his best chances of survival lay in keeping the lowest of possible profiles, and in causing minimum annoyance to Faramir and his men. So he had gone with the royal aides, meekly following them down into the stable yard. Not daring to openly misuse their master’s new favourite, they had nevertheless treated him with all the casual brutality that the Uruk had come to expect from his handlers: they leaned him against a hitching post and had him strip, after which they’d doused him with a bucket or two of water, and then, being unwilling to actually lay hands on him, they ordered him to clean his filthy body, watching with amusement as he inexpertly attemped to wash himself down. After that they’d gone indoors, taking his clothes – which they said were fit for nothing but burning – and leaving him outside. Shagrat, knowing better than to try and accompany them, had made his way across to the stable block. It had been raining for much of the day, but the night sky had cleared of clouds and though it was early summer, to Shagrat it felt bitterly cold in the dark. The horses shied and stamped in their stalls, as horses usually did when they sensed there was an Orc abroad, but eventually quietened. The cape that Faramir had lent him earlier in the day, now muddy and damp and reeking of wet wool, was still clutched in Shagrat’s hands. He had held on to it like a lifeline despite the best attempts of the royal aides to prise it off him, and now he spread it out in one of the empty loose-boxes. Thankfully he noted that the straw that lined it was both relatively fresh and more importantly, dry, considerations that taken together, qualified this accommodation as being some of the best that the Orc had been provided with in months. Shagrat was wrapped in his cloak, resting down in the straw, when Faramir came to find him later that evening. The Uruk, if asleep was only dozing fitfully, for he started up immediately at the Prince’s light step. His face radiated such simple honest pleasure when he saw Faramir that for a moment, his fearsome countenance softened oddly and he looked quite startlingly different. Then apparently, he remembered himself. His head went down and his shoulders hunched up warily. “Shagrat! What are you up to?” called Faramir softly, feeling strangely touched by the Uruk’s obvious happiness to see him. “What on earth are you still doing out here?” The Orc had made the mistake of believing that he and Faramir shared some kind of personal feeling between them once before. Only once; then Faramir had turned on him with such scorn and fury that the shock, coming as it had at a time when the Orc’s natural resilience was running at a particularly low ebb, had nearly broken him, and the first tentative tendrils of trust that Shagrat had so hopefully extended towards his Prince had withered instantly in the ferocity of the young man’s contempt. The Uruk had been taught a lasting lesson by that painful experience, and had no intention of being caught in the same trap twice. “Nothing. I’m not up to anything,” Shagrat replied guardedly. Then quickly reconsidering, because he thought knew the rules of the game they were engaged in of old, he added: “should I – what do you want me to be doing?” ************* “As if I didn’t already know full well,” Shagrat scoffed. “Although he said he only wanted to make sure I was all right. I wasn’t going to fall for that though, thought he must just want me to –“ he broke off and looked sharply at Ludlow, who, he was relieved to note did not appear to be following all the specifics of the tale he was relating. “But he never tried anything on,” Shagrat continued, and there was a definite note of wonder in his voice. “Not that I could’ve stopped him the state I was in, but - he stayed all night and he didn’t make me do a thing. He just – just sat and watched with me. I couldn’t believe it. Someone like him sleeping rough, out in a stable.” “Who’s ‘him’?” Ludlow asked innocently. “It’s none of your sodding business,” snarled Shagrat, which more or less ended that conversation. Chapter 11. A Failed Resolution The Orc glowered into darkness. Shagrat’s ability to suppress his emotions was impressive – indeed, he would never have lived for as long as he already had without it - and since leaving Ithilien there were a number of subjects that he had very deliberately been putting out of his mind. The recent conversation with the Hobbit had brought these back to him though, and now he felt as if he’d been tricked – if not by Ludlow exactly, then even more depressingly, by himself. He missed Goldilocks dreadfully, that was the root of it, and with that great wave of sorrow and longing for the Prince washed over him. The decision to distance himself from Faramir that he’d made soon after their reunion had, predictably, failed. All that Shagrat could say in his own favour about this (and it wasn’t much) was that he hadn’t succumbed to the Prince’s charms again overnight. Even then, he had begun falling for him again almost immediately and although he’d seen the trap, and recognised the danger posed him by Goldilocks, he had rashly ignored all the warnings he knew he should have heeded from past experience. In no time at all he was as head-over-heels for Faramir as he ever had been, and thinking about his recent conduct, the Orc was dismayed to realise how very easy it had been for him to forget. Years ago in Mordor, Shagrat had allowed his then prisoner Faramir to escape and he had been sorely punished for it, his fond recollections of the young man being instrumental in the torments that were devised for him. At the time Shagrat was no stranger to bodily hurts and had frankly, a high tolerance for physical pain. Mentally robust – admittedly within a rather narrow remit of Orcish experience – the disgraced Captain was also well- equipped to deal with a certain type of psychological challenge: though the horrors he’d seen, been party to and experienced first-hand were of a kind that would have been likely to unbalance the sanest of normal people they were grist to an average Uruk’s mill, and Shagrat accordingly had taken them all in his stride. The Orc’s problem was that the tender feelings of warmth and companionship that Faramir had engendered in him were unlike anything he had previously experienced and he was completely at a loss to know how to deal with these troubling, worrisome new sentiments. His jailers, recognising this weakness exploited it ruthlessly, and used it to hurt him over and again until at last under extreme duress, his emotional responses had simply closed themselves down. Considering the circumstances Shagrat was facing at the time, this was a highly efficient survival mechanism – as it had to be – and it worked so well that for a long while there were certain portions of the Uruk’s recent experiences that were blocked out of his reach, as inaccessible to Shagrat as they were to anybody else, his inquisitors included. Much later, isolated fragments of the missing periods – all of them involving Faramir - eventually came back to him, but each returning memory worked only to fuel the Uruk’s overriding fear: of discovery, and that because of it he would be sent back for further torment. He had suppressed all thoughts of Faramir vigorously as a result. Given the lot in life of an Orc, Shagrat had never had much chance to feel or express caring sentiments, but any potential he might have possessed should have been utterly crushed by these experiences. A few acts of kindness from Faramir had however achieved what even the best efforts of his torturers could not: within three days of their reunion, the carefully- constructed wall of Shagrat’s defences had suffered a major breach. ************ Bed-rest. That was that was the best solution Faramir could come up with for the most pressing of the many problems presented him by his newly- acquired Uruk Shagrat. Simple bed-rest and lots of it, since it had become clear earlier that morning that he couldn’t travel any further. And as to spending any more time riding on horseback, the Orc was obviously not equal to it, so their journey to Faramir’s home in Ithilien would just have to wait. The Prince and the Uruk had spent the previous night together in Shagrat’s stable-stall, secretly keeping watch on one another by turns. Faramir as he fell asleep was vaguely aware that the Uruk, bundled up against the wall in his travelling-cape, was watching him intently, and each time he woke during the night, his first thought was to check on the welfare of the Orc. The early signs had not been good. “I can’t stand up,” Shagrat admitted, a short while after daybreak. His voice and the look on his face were devoid of all expression and Faramir had asked him what he meant. “I mean I can’t get up,” snapped Shagrat, with substantially more emotion. “I can’t stand up, pull myself up, or get over there.” He gestured to the entrance to the stable. “I can’t do any of that ‘cause nothing’s working, and I –“ He broke off and when he continued he was absolutely humiliated - “The thing is I - I really need a slash.” “My goodness, is that all it is!” Faramir said, feigning exasperation to cover Shagrat’s discomfiture, as well as the quick stab of anxiety he felt himself on the Uruk’s behalf. “I would never have thought you’d be bothered about something like that!” Faramir hefted him to his feet, noting as he had the previous day that his weight was a lot less than it should have been. He helped him outside and propped him up by the side of the stable block, standing by discretely while the Orc relieved himself, ready to catch him if he showed any signs of keeling over. The early sunshine hadn’t yet taken the chill off the morning air, and it was cold outside. As he waited Faramir was suddenly, acutely aware that although Shagrat was holding his borrowed cape close around his shoulders he was stark naked under it, and was standing ankle-deep in the mud in his bare feet, quite inadequately dressed for the season. He also remembered then how Shagrat had pitched forwards off the horse that he and Faramir had been sharing the instant they’d stopped the previous night, and how he’d lain on the ground where he’d fallen for such a long time, apparently unable to move. Faramir looked away abruptly, cursing himself for not having been more attentive. “It’s no wonder you can’t keep to your feet,” he told Shagrat, in a voice harsh with self-recrimination. “You’re injured. You’ve no business being on horseback in that state.” Shagrat immediately began shaking his head. “Just give me a minute,” he protested, saying he was feeling much better already. “I know I’ll be all right in a bit.” He didn’t look it. He was clinging to the side of the building, apparently staying upright by force of will alone. Peremptorily detaching him from it, Faramir steered him back into the stable and deposited him carefully back down in the straw. He set off to find one of his assistants, his mind intent on making alternative arrangements when the Orc called after him. “Goldilocks,” he said. “Will I be seeing you again?” Stopping short Fararmir exclaimed: “Shagrat! Do you think I’m going to leave you here?” “I don’t know,” Shagrat replied cautiously. “Are you?” It hadn’t occurred to Faramir that although his own attitude to Shagrat had so recently experienced an 180 degree about-turn, the Orc’s feelings towards him might not yet have had time to adjust. This was worrying certainly, but there was not a great deal he could do to reassure him just then. He would have to make it up to him later, that was all. “I’ll be returning in due course,” he said. “In the meantime, I’d advise you to try and get some rest. You look like you’re badly in need of it.” Shagrat nodded briefly. He did not look at all convinced. After making a few careful enquiries, Faramir was able to locate a second hostelry far on the outskirts of town, one that was much less discriminating in regard of its clientele than the local tavern. It was clear that the place he’d found was basically a bordello, but as its proprietors seemed to be much more interested in the Prince’s ability to pay for the room he wished to rent than they were about the specifics of who would be occupying it, this looked to him to be an ideal arrangement. That the bed-linen was, for obvious reasons, conspicuously clean, and that the management were incurious about his intentions to a degree surpassing all normal discretion, were only advantages to Faramir at this point. And so he set off to retrieve his Uruk, but as Faramir was finding out, nothing concerning Shagrat was ever simple. There was definitely trouble ahead, and as he approached the stable block where he’d left the Orc, he became aware of a commotion going on just outside it. A number of people were surrounding something that was pulling itself laboriously along the ground. It was Shagrat, and they were jeering and heckling at him cruelly. As he began breaking into a run towards them, Faramir heard Shagrat give out a single high-pitched scream. That spurred him on to run faster. “What d’you think you’re doing!” he shouted, as he snagged the nearest of the onlookers by the collar of his coat. Faramir swung him round and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. “Unhand that Orc this instant!” The fellow he’d accosted was a big man, shaved-head bald, and he caught Faramir unawares, head-butting him viciously on the forehead. Faramir staggered back a step, streaming blood, wondering if his nose had been broken, and the man followed through, hitting him with a good right-hook about the jaw. The force of it almost raised the Prince of Ithilien off his feet and he fell back, stunned. “What’s it to you, eh?” the man demanded, shouting into Faramir’s face. He leaned over the Prince, menacing intent written in every line of his body, picked him up by his shirtfront, and punched him hard in the side of his head. “Running in here, shouting the odds….you some kind of Orc-fancier, is that it?” he demanded. “Think they’ve got rights like normal people, do you?” This was such an outlandish idea that it provoked a round of sniggering from the other townsmen, and encouraged by this, Faramir’s attacker drew his fist back, preparing to hit him again. Suddenly the man yelped out, swearing, and straightened up. Shagrat, having lunged or dragged himself over to him had driven the point of a small clasp-knife he was carrying into the back of the man’s leg. The townsman stood very still for a moment as Shagrat’s voice snarled up from somewhere around knee-level. “Try that again and see what happens,” he said. “It’d be my bloody pleasure to hamstring you.” “Don’t go jumping around too much,” Shagrat advised, grimly hanging on to the man’s trouser-leg despite the fellow’s panicky efforts to shake him off. He twisted the little blade viciously, for emphasis. “The big blood vessel in your leg runs just in here. I don’t think you want to find out what happens if my hand slips.” The man froze immediately, and stayed absolutely stock-still, but his hands were still twisted in the front of Faramir’s shirt, which meant that they all had been brought to something of an impasse. This was finally broken by the arrival of the Prince’s other travelling companions, who, alerted by the ruckus going on outside, came streaming out of the tavern with weapons drawn in their hands. At that the local rowdies who were in the vicinity began discreetly falling back. “Your Highness!” cried one of the royal aides, aghast to see his master brawling, bleeding and lying in the mud. “What –“ Faramir shook his head quickly, wanting them to keep his title out of it. “Clear these people away, will you,” he said, getting to his feet. “We should alert the local constabulary,” another of Faramir’s assistants began, officiously. “This counts as scandalous assault against your royal person, Sir –“ “That won’t be necessary,” Faramir told him. “Just move everyone along. I’m quite sure they all have business of their own to attend to.” There began a quick, whispered and one-sided conversation in which Faramir’s advisors tried yet again to convince him that the most prudent move he could make at this point would be to get rid of the troublesome Uruk for once and all. To their combined dismay however, Faramir persisted in not listening to reason and waved them all away, after which they seemed only too glad to keep their distance. Faramir staggered over to where Shagrat was lying, still half-slumped on his side, and helped him to sit up properly. Then he sank down beside him. “Where did you get the knife?” he asked the Orc. “Palmed it out of your britches this morning,” Shagrat replied, cleaning it off and handing it back to him. “You want to take better care of your stuff, you do. Some people’ll nick anything.” “So I see,” remarked Faramir dryly. He looked the Uruk up and down, surveying the fresh damage. “Shagrat, are you all right?” “Never better,” the Orc replied. Faramir asked him if that was true, why he’d cried out like that before. “Oh - well,” Shagrat said cheerfully. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it. That big bugger got me one right in the kidneys when I wasn’t expecting it. It’s nothing to worry about. There’ll be blood in my water for a bit, that’s all. It’ll soon sort itself out.” Appalled, Faramir asked him in that case, what he was finding to be so happy about. Shagrat grinned lopsidedly at him. “Well, Goldilocks. I suppose that’s on account of you coming back for me, isn’t it?” “I said I would, didn’t I?” Faramir replied tetchily. It had been a long time since he’d been engaged in a fist-fight. “Whatever did you think I was going to do?” “I – I thought you must be getting fed up of me again,” muttered Shagrat. Faramir had no answer for that. Given recent events, he supposed from Shagrat’s point of view it might have been a natural enough assumption. He was beginning to question his own motivations, wondering if he could ever regain the Uruk’s confidence, and whether he was wasting his time even trying to do so, when Shagrat broke in on his introspection. “Come on Goldilocks, let’s go and get some breakfast,” the Orc suggested gamely. “I could really do with something to eat.” Of course he could, thought Faramir, realising for the first time that he hadn’t had anything the night before, and wondering why on earth he hadn’t said anything about it at the time. Clearly he would have to watch out for any more self-effacing behaviour on the Uruk’s part; it wasn’t at all like Shagrat he’d known before not to want to make trouble for other people. After they’d eaten Faramir ferried him to their new accommodation. The Orc, once installed in a stale-perfume-smelling feather bed slept for a clear 48 hours, reviving only to drink copious amounts of water, and to clutch Faramir’s hand against his chest as he fell back to sleep. Late in the evening of the third day Shagrat woke up properly. Faramir had been ordering regular meals for him on the off-chance that he might want something, and he watched approvingly while the Orc ate every scrap that was put in front of him. After he’d finished, Faramir kept on gazing at him, as if he was trying to memorise all the details of his face. “Not much to look at, am I?” Shagrat said, challenging him after a minute or two of this. “You never were, if we’re being honest,” Faramir replied, noting the look of hurt annoyance that flickered over Shagrat’s features when he said it. When he’d known him before, many of the Orc’s most basic emotions had been fuelled by feelings of self-righteous indignation on some level and under the circumstances Faramir was delighted, seeing this as an encouraging sign that Shagrat was beginning to return to form. He pushed his luck, saying: “Good looks were never your strong suit.” “Oh. Right. Well I know I - I don’t have a lot to offer, either.” “You’ve more than you think,” Faramir muttered under his breath, but the Uruk continued as if he hadn’t spoken, whether he’d heard him or not. “So what’s it like being a Prince then. I expect you could have your pick of anyone you wanted now, could you?” I have done quite a few times now actually, Faramir boasted. “When I became Steward -before I was married, that is - people were constantly throwing themselves at me.” “What, you got to be a bit of a ladies’ man, then?” Shagrat exclaimed incredulously. “You never. Did you?” “My admirers were not restricted in their ranks to those members of the fairer sex,” Faramir retorted. “They included legions of beautiful women, to be sure. But there were also men, and elves –“ “You’re having me on,” scoffed Shagrat. “What, no Dwarves or Hobbits lining up to cut notches on you bed-post either? I don’t believe it. You’ve never got your nose out of a book” – he gestured at the teetering stack of volumes (a collection that the Prince considered to be no more than a small, portable library) Faramir had been browsing through while he waited for him to wake up – “long enough to have any truck with stuff like that. Go on, when did you ever take time to go on the pull?” “I didn’t have to,” Faramir said blandly. “For a while there I was being propositioned both day and night. Often - it simply seemed impolite to refuse.” “That explains a lot,” said Shagrat. “Since I’ve been wondering all evening how long it’s going to take you to make your move.” Faramir sat very still. “Such a – move, then, would not be unwelcome to you?” “Not seeing as I’ve been waiting all this time for you to finally get round to it,” the Orc replied. “Those others,” Faramir said suddenly, in a rush, “it pains and shames me to say it, but in all of my – my carnal experience – which is probably much more limited than I was just exaggerating about - there’s only been one person who’s ever meant the slightest thing to me. That person has meant a very great deal - much more than I usually care to think about, in fact.” “It’s your wife, the horse-fancier from Rohan,” nodded Shagrat, “you told me about her before.” He added that Faramir didn’t have to worry, as he fully understood what was being said to him. “No, you don’t,” Faramir insisted, urgently. “There’s only been one person in all of my – not spectacularly extensive – experience that I’ve ever cared about. Only one. And as I said there have been women, and men, and even Elves, but – only ever one Orc.” The Orc in question stared back at him, and there was a long silence. Of course Shagrat couldn’t for a moment believe what Faramir appeared to be teling him, but he still appreciated the effort made on his behalf, and thought that would definitely do for starters. He ran the tip of his claw up Faramir’s neck, until he was tilting his head back by the point of the chin. “So. Better than Elves, you say?” he growled. Faramir, caught off-guard by this felt as foolish and giddy as he’d done when he was a lad of nineteen, back in the days when he first met Shagrat. “That is assuredly not the point I was trying to make,” he stammered. “It would be akin to – well, it would be something like comparing apples and oranges, wouldn’t it? But yes, damn you, I think so. From my point of view, definitely yes.” Needing no further encouragement, Shagrat enthusiastically began stripping Faramir’s breeches and underwear off him. He was good with his hands and certainly knew how to please, but it was not his technique or even his skill – although it was considerable - that made the difference to Faramir. The Prince had shared his bed with a variety of partners over the years, quite a few of whom had been just as able lovers as Shagrat, and there were undoubtedly one or two of them who should, given a level playing-field, have easily surpassed him. But Faramir was biased: he hadn’t lied about his feelings for Shagrat, and believing as he had for so long that he’d lost the Uruk – and under rather tragic circumstances to boot - it was almost inevitable that anyone who’d come after him would seem like a feeble replacement. Given the high level of expectation that the Orc unknowingly had to live up to it wouldn’t have been surprising for Faramir to have found himself sorely disappointed - and yet he wasn’t, because Shagrat was everything he’d remembered, and more. Faramir’s last rational thought before the pleasure Shagrat had brought him to reached its peak was a fervent wish that he would never have to do without him again. The Uruk had been watching him during the throes of his orgasm with rapt attention. The pupil of his good eye was fully dilated and he was breathing heavily, unevenly and through his nose, all the while wearing a hungry look of helpless arousal that Faramir recognised very well. Seeing it, he felt his own cock, well-serviced and spent though it had been through Shagrat’s efforts twitch painfully with renewed desire. He’d not really taken the time to find out what the Uruk liked, all those years before, but was now intent on finding out. Having a fairly good idea where to start he leaned in, and pressed his mouth close against the Orc’s. As he kissed him, Shagrat’s eye fluttered shut and for an instant he pushed his erection against Faramir’s thigh, nudging tentatively, but the movement was so brief and fleeting there was every chance he hadn’t meant to do it. Faramir recalled then that the Uruk Captain had always behaved in a way that had been quite unfathomable to him when they were together in the past: he had been so overwhelmingly cagy and unapproachable that the young Faramir hadn’t often had a chance to reciprocate during their sexual unions, most of which had been distressingly one-sided affairs because of this. It was clear that Shagrat was not expecting him to do anything now either, but Faramir was no longer the inexperienced youth of those far-off days. Determined that they would not be starting any more nonsense of that sort, he reached down and began a slow caressing of the Orc’s cock, adding his free hand after a moment because Shagrat, erect, was quite a bit bigger than he’d recollected. After a while longer, he rubbed some of his ejaculate between his palms, and massaged some of it into the Uruk’s bollocks, at the same time smoothing the rest over the head of his swollen member. That was enough to finish Shagrat, who had apparently been forgetting to breathe until this point, and all at once he gasped into Faramir’s mouth, caught his breath again, and climaxed. To say that Shagrat was shaken by this wouldn’t have been overstating the point because afterwards he was trembling from head to foot, much too agitated to speak. He seemed miserable, thoroughly ashamed of himself until with a well-chosen word or two Faramir supplied him with a little careful reassurance. Then he only looked pathetically grateful, and feeling exceedingly sorry for him Faramir wondered, as he had before, what on earth the poor creature’s previous experiences must have been like to cause him to react like this. TBC