Title: The Doom of Men  
Author: Symbelmynne (symbelmynne@hotmail.com)  
Pairings: Aragorn/The Lieutenant of Barad-dur/Imrahil Prince of Dol Amroth  
Rating: NC17  
Summary: At the Black Gate, Aragorn is captured by the 
Lieutenant of Barad-dur, where he’s tortured, raped and 
eventually broken.  
 
Warning: This piece was written for the Archivists’ April 
Darkfic Challenge. Consequently it contains rape, graphic 
violence and non-canon murder. Perhaps even more 
horrifying, it’s book-world a la Return of the King and 
includes characters that may never exist in movie-world. 
Read at your own risk!  
 
Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkein’s. I have gained 
nothing from writing and sharing this other than the 
respectful enjoyment of the work.  
 
Authors Note: As always, feedback is welcomed. Special 
thanks to my fabulous beta reader Sandra, a.k.a. 3 of 4.  
 
***  
 
On the field of Cormallen the battle raged. Orcs and 
Easterlings swarmed the ragged force of men and elves. In 
their midst fought Aragorn, called the King Elessar, his 
eyes bright with the killing fever. In his grip he wielded 
Anduril, the Flame of the West. The sword reforged fell 
again and again, beating down upon the shields of the 
enemy, sending showers of splinters as they shattered. The 
screams of their bearers followed as they were swiftly 
dispatched.  
 
From a window high above in the tower of Narchost, the 
Lieutenant of Barad-dur watched and waited. His eyes 
followed the would-be-king of men as he cut a swath through 
the chaos and confusion of the battlefield. But despite his 
efforts, the host of Mordor surged about him. For every orc 
that was cut down, three more sprung up in its place. The 
odds were overwhelmingly against him, and yet he fought on 
valiantly.  
 
The Lieutenant drank in Aragorn’s strength, his stamina and 
his grace, and it roused in him a potent combination of 
respect, jealousy and lust. He had seethed silently when 
his Lord had commanded him to capture the Ranger, so that 
he might be broken and made to serve Sauron’s purpose. The 
Dark Lord meant for him to rule, even under that name which 
he had claimed for himself. As the new Lord of the Nazgul, 
Aragorn would lend his power over men to the glory of 
Mordor. It was an honour that he did not deserve, the 
Lieutenant had thought. Instinctively, he had kept these 
thoughts hidden, for the Lord Sauron had a way of knowing 
the hearts of men.  
 
Now that he had seen for himself, the Lieutenant was forced 
to acknowledge the wisdom of his Lord’s decision. It was 
obvious that Aragorn was a man destined to rule. Every 
fibre of his being proclaimed him king and inspired loyalty 
in his men, even until death. What more had Sauron seen of 
him as they strove against each other through the palantir? 
He was determined to find out for himself.  
 
As the Lieutenant looked on in relative safety, he saw 
Aragorn dispatch a trio of Orcs in a matter of seconds, 
buying himself a moment of respite. He brushed a damp fall 
of hair from his eyes before the next wave fell. Feinting, 
slashing, stabbing then whirling to meet his next victim - 
Aragorn was caught up in the rhythm of the battle.  
 
For the Ranger, time no longer had any meaning. There was 
only the foe in front of him and the singing of Anduril as 
it flew through the air to meet its target and then the 
next. But as minutes passed, and then hours, the sword 
became heavier in his hand and each kill required more 
effort.  
 
The Lieutenant could see that exhaustion was infiltrating 
the beleaguered army and they were being driven back. From 
the tower, he could hear the clear voice of the wizard 
Gandalf above the din, calling for a retreat. A smile 
played upon the Lieutenant’s lips. The moment had come.  
 
With a signal to his officers below Sauron’s trap was set 
into motion. As the main body of the defeated army 
regrouped and began to withdraw, the Lieutenant’s personal 
guard was released from the gate. Their purpose was simple: 
to take Aragorn alive. It would prove no easy task and the 
Lieutenant craned forward for a better view.  
 
The fresh riders descended upon the harried army with a 
ferocity that ripped into the retreating force, cutting off 
what remained of the vanguard from their comrades. The 
warriors, skilled though they were, were so battle weary 
that they were dead on their feet. The Lieutenant’s men 
drove that point home again and again as they drove their 
spears through their hearts. Aragorn fought on heedless of 
the danger, struggling in vain to reach the men that were 
being cut down around him.  
 
He lunged forward in an attempt to aid Elrohir who was 
facing two of the Black Numenoreans and struggling to hold 
his ground. In this moment the full might of the force 
turned against Aragorn, raining blows upon him but avoiding 
any lethal strike. With a sharp blow from behind, the 
Ranger fell, to the despair of all who saw.  From high on 
the hill Gandalf cried out, for Aragorn held many of his 
hopes for the survival of Middle Earth.  
 
Claiming Aragorn’s limp body for their own, the elite force 
bellowed their victory and fell back to the gate with their 
catch, leaving those alive to reel at the sudden emptiness 
of the battlefield and in their hearts.  
 
The thrill of anticipation surged through the Lieutenant’s 
veins as he turned from the window and descended to meet 
his prey. He had looked forward to confronting the arrogant 
upstart on his own terms ever since he had first laid eyes 
on Aragorn at the parley before the Black Gate. In another 
time, Aragorn might have been his equal, mused the 
Lieutenant. For they were of the same blood, though the 
paths of their peoples had been diverged by the power of 
Sauron.  
 
***  
 
When they brought him to the great hall, Aragorn was 
wavering on the edge of consciousness. Two huge orcs held 
him up by his arms and his body sagged between them, his 
head lolling forward onto his chest. The Lieutenant strode 
forward and grabbed a fistful of the Ranger’s lank hair, 
yanked his head up, and fixed his gaze upon those clouded 
blue-grey eyes. They seemed to flicker in and out of 
awareness for a moment, until finally they focussed on the 
penetrating black eyes of the Lieutenant. The Ranger jerked 
back, struggling to break free of his captors.  
 
But it was no use. The orcs stood fast and in his weakened 
state Aragorn was not able to break free of their hold. He 
turned his eyes, clear now and defiant, to glare at the 
Lieutenant. His proud features radiated scorn and hatred 
and the Lieutenant drank it in greedily, for it fed his 
desire to make the Ranger submit to his will.  
 
“So this is Elessar, the King of men?” spoke the 
Lieutenant, drawing off his gloves and tucking them into 
the pocket at his waist. “This is the one come to save us 
all from the terror of the Dark Lord?” His cheerless laugh 
echoed in the cavernous hall and was hateful to Aragorn’s 
ears.  
 
For the moment, Aragorn was powerless to silence him. His 
hands clenched instinctively, aching for the comfort of his 
sword. In his mind, he took off the man’s head with a 
single stroke. But the best he could do now was to remain 
silent. He could not risk revealing the true purpose of the 
assault on the Black Gate. Sauron’s eye must remain fixed 
at his border. There was still hope for Middle Earth, even 
if there was no longer any hope for him. He would suffer 
and he would die. The line of Isildur would be at an end.  
 
“Well then, my Lord, welcome to  Narchost.” The Lieutenant 
gave an exaggerated bow towards his prisoner, his voice 
dripping with sarcasm. “You will be my own honoured guest.” 
His eyes raked over the Ranger, and seemed to pry into the 
very depths of his mind and soul. Involuntarily, Aragorn 
shuddered. For although the Lieutenant was a mortal man, he 
had long been a student of Sauron, long enough even to have 
forgotten his own name. Through the Dark Lord’s teachings, 
the Lieutenant had learned a great deal of sorcery, and 
though no wizard, was capable of many things that were 
beyond other men.  
 
He bent his will upon Aragorn now, pleased to feel the 
Ranger’s mind spring back against him when he reached for 
his thoughts. Was it instinctive? Or had he learned to 
shield his mind during his time with the elves? No matter, 
in this respect he was no match for the Lieutenant. Soon 
enough Aragorn would be his better, his master even, and he 
might someday cower before him. But in this moment he could 
savour his weakness and exploit his vulnerability so that 
the ring would be able to work more effectively against 
him.  
 
Stepping forward, he backhanded Aragorn across the face, 
his eyes glinting with pleasure as blood trickled down from 
his cheek. It looked good on him, the Lieutenant thought, 
the sight of it stoking his desire to see this man in 
excruciating pain begging for mercy on his knees.  
 
Turning, the Lieutenant strode to the head of the hall and 
took his place on the dais. With a curt nod, he called 
forth one of his men, dressed in the black livery of the 
fortress guard. In his hand he bore a long jagged knife. 
Aragorn’s eyes widened to see it. For a moment he longed 
for the mercy of a swift death, for he had no hope of 
rescue. But the longer he could keep the Lieutenant 
occupied, the longer Frodo would have to destroy the one 
ring. He must not fail.  
 
With one slice the guard ripped Aragorn’s tunic from his 
body. He removed the chain maille hauberk while the orcs 
held him fast, then tore the knife through the finer 
clothes beneath it. Stripped to the waist, Aragorn shivered 
in the cold dampness of the fortress. He was dragged 
roughly to a whipping post and secured facing the 
Lieutenant so that he might watch the Ranger’s face as he 
endured the first stage of what was to be a long and brutal 
torment. The guard exchanged his knife for a heavy braided 
whip.  
 
At the Lieutenant’s command, the guard began to wield his 
implement. Aragorn’s body, already exhausted and battered 
from the long battle, shuddered with the impact. At first 
he did not cry out, stifling his screams by biting down on 
his lip. But soon his lip was bloody and his anguished 
cries filled the hall.  
 
After a time Aragorn no longer cried out, but merely 
slumped against his restraints, and the Lieutenant raised a 
hand to bring the whipping to an end. He descended 
casually, circling the prone man. The Lieutenant exhaled 
softly in pleasure as he beheld Aragorn’s broad back, 
muscles rippling under the bloody welts. He reached out to 
stroke a particularly nasty slash, smeared the blood across 
his fingertips and brought them to his lips. It was warm 
and tasted of iron and salt. The Lieutenant sucked 
greedily. His temptation to take the Ranger right there was 
very strong. But no, he didn’t want him like this, 
unconscious and delirious. He wanted to Aragorn to know him 
and hate him and to hate himself as well.  
 
The Lieutenant ordered the Ranger cut down and his wounds 
tended to, although none were to trouble themselves with 
gentleness. A dark cell, stale water and the administration 
of a stinging antiseptic would suffice. He was to be 
brought again before the Lieutenant when he was well enough 
to bear further punishment.  
 
***  
 
He did not have to wait long. Thanks to the trace of elvish 
blood in his veins, Aragorn healed quickly. It had been 
only days since the Ranger had first been brought before 
the Lieutenant, but to him it felt like weeks. For in the 
darkness of his cell he had begun to fear and doubt, 
poisoned by the dark thoughts that the Lieutenant had 
insinuated into his mind.  
 
Aragorn stood now before the Lieutenant with his hands 
bound behind his back and his ankles shackled. He still 
wore his own breeches but he had been furnished a tunic 
from the Lieutenant’s own wardrobe as befitted his rank. It 
was black, as were all of the uniforms of the men of Barad-
dur, but finely spun and embellished here and there with 
black jewels that glinted in the torchlight.  
 
The Lieutenant looked him up and down slowly, his eyes 
lingering on his broad chest, narrow hips and the 
suggestive swell at the juncture of his thighs. Although 
Aragorn had the discipline not to squirm beneath his gaze, 
the Lieutenant could feel his panic rising.  
 
With a kick from the guard, Aragorn was forced to his knees 
before the Lieutenant. The guards withdrew a few paces, but 
not far enough to leave Aragorn a hope of escape. From 
above, Orcs trained their crossbows on him, with orders to 
shoot at the first sign of trouble. Aragorn would become a 
servant of the Dark Lord Sauron or he would die.  
 
The Lieutenant rose with an easy grace. He was a tall man, 
with black hair and eyes. Although not as broad in the 
shoulders as Aragorn, he was strong and agile as a cat. He 
extended his black gloved hand and, with surprising 
gentleness, tipped Aragorn’s chin up so that he might look 
deep into his eyes. When Ranger resisted, the Lieutenant’s 
fingers dug into his jaw until he complied.  
 
For long moments they stood motionless, locked in a battle 
of wills. Aragorn’s eyes flashed with anger and defiance as 
the Lieutenant probed his thoughts. He sensed that there 
was something he was desperately attempting to keep hidden 
– no doubt the location of the one ring. But no matter, the 
Lieutenant thought. He would know soon enough.  
 
He also sensed in Aragorn a towering despair, not for 
himself, but for his friends who were now in very grave 
danger. He understood then that Aragorn was resigned to his 
own death; he accepted that it was his fate as Isildur’s 
heir. But it pained him beyond measure to think on the harm 
that might now come to his companions. All to the better, 
the Lieutenant thought, for the Ranger was not the only 
prisoner in Narchost.  
 
Although Aragorn was able to prevent him from delving too 
deeply into his mind, he made no attempt to gain access to 
the Lieutenant’s thoughts, which lead him to suspect that 
the Ranger did not know how. But he wanted to give the man 
a taste of what was in store for him, so he flooded the 
Ranger’s mind with images and sensations.  
 
Aragorn was blinded momentarily by visions of torture and 
carnality. He saw himself bleeding and naked, his face 
contorted with the agony of the pain that was to be 
inflicted upon him. But other images flashed before him in 
which his face was contorted with excruciating pleasure. He 
saw himself being taken from behind by the Lieutenant, saw 
his own organ hard and willing.  
 
He reeled backwards as the Lieutenant released him from his 
grip. His mind was overwhelmed, horrified by what he had 
seen. But his body was already responding to the naked lust 
that had been thrust into his mind.  
 
The Lieutenant saw this as well and smiled. He called 
forward the guards, who hauled Aragorn to his feet. With a 
brisk wave of his hand, he indicated that he wanted the 
Ranger stripped of his garments.  
 
Aragorn struggled as the guards began to remove his tunic, 
thrashing against their attempts. Finally one drew his 
knife and held it to the Ranger’s throat as the other 
fumbled with the clasps.  
 
But the Lieutenant was not a patient man. Stepping forward 
he drew his own knife and slashed through the costly 
fabric, laying bare the Ranger’s muscular torso, then 
handed the knife to the guard who set about cutting away 
the leather breeches.  
 
With a sneer on his lips, the Lieutenant moved to stand 
just inches away from Aragorn, savouring the man’s 
humiliation and his frustration at his own body’s betrayal. 
Although he did not flinch away from the Lieutenant’s 
mocking gaze, he was struggling hard to bring himself under 
control. His breathing was laboured as he tried to banish 
his unbidden desire. His jaw clenched and blood trickled 
down his throat from where the guard’s knife held him 
immobile.  
 
Aragorn coloured noticeably as his breeches were finally 
cut away and his erection sprang free. And when the 
Lieutenant reached out with one gloved hand and took hold 
of the Ranger’s cock, his facade was shattered completely. 
Aragorn shuddered, and his eyes shut tight as if to shut 
out what was happening to him.  
 
With long, deliberate strokes, the Lieutenant worked 
Aragorn to his full erection, the leather of his glove cool 
against the hard flesh. Aragorn’s expression was one of 
torment as pleasure and revulsion warred for dominance 
within him. The Lieutenant fed the fire, offering up images 
taken from the Ranger’s own mind - images of a lovely elven 
maid with soft, full lips, and of a proud elf warrior with 
startling blue eyes and pale blonde hair.  
 
He recognized this male elf, for had he not been present in 
the group that rode forth to parley with the Mouth of 
Sauron? Clearly Aragorn and he were on intimate terms, for 
he had memories of the elf’s curved organ, of its texture 
and taste. The Lieutenant probed deeper and saw that 
Aragorn had lain with the elf on more than one occasion, 
and yes there it was, he had submitted to the elf’s desire. 
It was a shame that this elf had not been taken as well, 
the Lieutenant reflected. But he hoped that his bait would 
similarly inspire the Ranger.  
 
Suddenly the Lieutenant drew back and slapped Aragorn’s 
cock sharply, causing him to cry out in pain and surprise. 
His eyes flew open and his expression was for a moment 
almost pleading. The Lieutenant smirked at this and at once 
the hatred returned once again flooded the Ranger’s eyes.  
 
He signalled the guard to withdraw the knife from Aragorn’s 
throat as two more brought forward a solid oaken table and 
bent Aragorn roughly over it. His wrists and ankles were 
secured so that he lay flat on his stomach with his legs 
wide apart. His bare ass was extremely vulnerable in this 
position and the Lieutenant noticed several of his men 
looking on with desire.  
 
Aragorn saw this as well and struggled wildly against his 
bonds. Good, thought the Lieutenant, let him think that I 
would turn him over to the guard. They would make good use 
of him to be sure. He paused for a moment, considering the 
possibility. The Ranger continued to writhe on the table, 
not realizing that he was only serving to make himself more 
appealing to those that watched.  
 
Reclaiming his knife from the guard, the Lieutenant 
approached the table and showed it to Aragorn. “My Lord 
Sauron has commanded that you are to bear his mark upon 
your body,” he said cooly, turning the knife in his hand so 
that the light of the torches glinted off of it. “It is an 
honour you don’t deserve, King Elessar, for you are weak 
and undisciplined.”  
 
Placing one gloved hand on the back of Aragorn’s neck to 
steady himself, the Lieutenant pressed his own erection 
hard against Aragorn and drew the blade across his skin. 
The pain raced like fire and Aragorn bucked against him in 
protest, serving only to further inflame the Lieutenant’s 
passion.  
 
With precise strokes the eye of Sauron appeared, carved 
deep into Aragorn’s flesh. Blood streamed freely from the 
incisions, making the eye weep red tears.  
 
Once the cutting was complete, the Lieutenant drew forth a 
vial of fine black powder - ash taken from the slopes of 
Mount Doom - and spread it into the wound. Now the marking 
would not heal cleanly but instead yield a permanent scar, 
a testament to Sauron’s claim over Aragorn.  
 
Aragorn bore the pain far better than he was able to bear 
the outrage of the Lieutenant’s cock rubbing against him 
through his breeches. Maddeningly, his own cock was only 
further inflamed by this and it swelled painfully against 
the rough wood of the table.  
 
The sight and scent of the Ranger’s blood mixed with his 
frantic movements proved too much for the Lieutenant. 
Unable to resist any longer, he drew out his cock and 
pressed it to the opening of Aragorn’s body. He toyed with 
the man, holding himself on the threshold until Aragorn 
lifted his hips up to meet the pressure. Only then did the 
Lieutenant thrust himself fully into Aragorn’s body. The 
man screamed incoherently in pleasure and in rage until the 
Lieutenant gestured to his guards to silence him.  
 
One by one the guards raped Aragorn’s mouth as their 
commander took him from behind. They hurled insults at him 
as they came in his throat, calling him a false king and a 
traitor. By the time the last guard had had his turn, 
Aragorn’s eyes were glazed over with pain and shame. His 
ass was raw and bleeding from the Lieutenant’s brutal 
thrusting, and when at last the Lieutenant himself cried 
out, spilling his seed deep inside the Ranger’s body, he 
had strayed again into unconsciousness.  
 
Aragorn was freed from his bonds and dumped unceremoniously 
onto the cold stone floor. He lay there unmoving for some 
time, a sort of numbness stealing over him. When the 
Lieutenant nudged him with the toe of his boot he roused 
himself weakly but did not try to flee. Through his stupor 
he could see that the Lieutenant was offering him something 
in his outstretched hand – a glint of gold, bright and 
beautiful.  
 
He looked up, his eyes widening in recognition. It was not 
the one ring, no, but one of the nine given to the kings of 
men long ago. It had been the ring born by the witch-King 
Angmar, the Lord of the Nazgul. And now it could be his.  
 
He could not deny that he wanted it for his own. He would 
have been a fool not to. The ring would lend him the 
strength to end his torment, to punish his captors and save 
his people. And perhaps this ring would prove more 
malleable than the one ring; perhaps he had the strength to 
bend it to his will. Unlike the kings of old, he would not 
come to it blindly, for he knew full well what dark powers 
the ring possessed. If he were wary he might be able to 
elude the trap. After all, Elrond still bore Vilya without 
ill effect, although he used it only sparingly and never 
directly against Sauron.  
 
No, the risk was too great. He was no elf, and, as it had 
been so clearly demonstrated to him of late, he lacked 
Elrond’s purity of mind. Moreover, it was doubtful that 
this hateful minion of the dark lord would be offering him 
the ring if he wasn’t certain that he would fall prey to 
it’s powers of corruption. The ring would buy him freedom 
from these immediate torments, yes, but it would induct him 
into never-ending slavery in the service of Sauron.  
 
With great difficulty, Aragorn turned away from the ring, 
from the offer of power and immortality. I have committed 
myself to death, he thought. I have only now to wait for it 
to find me.  
 
The Lieutenant drew back in surprise, for he had not 
considered the possibility that this weakling king would 
have the strength to resist the ring. He himself had to 
struggle against its seductive call. Simply holding it in 
his hand he could hear it whispering to him of glory and 
power beyond reckoning. But his fear of Sauron was greater 
than his lust for power and the dark lord had not intended 
for him to wield this ring. He had to be rid of it.  
 
With a nod the guards sprung upon Aragorn, dragging him 
again to his feet. The Lieutenant regarded Aragorn now with 
a mixture of disdain and admiration, and all the while the 
ring whispered urgently.  
 
“You cannot resist the will of Sauron, my lord. He has 
deemed you worthy to serve him, and serve him you shall.” 
The Lieutenant circled to stand behind Aragorn. For a 
moment he stood there, silently contemplating the blazing 
eye that glared out from the man’s back. Then he forced the 
ring onto Aragorn’s finger and tied his hand so that he 
could not dislodge it.  
 
Immediately the urging was gone from his mind, and the 
Lieutenant let out a sigh of relief. Aragorn’s body had 
tensed when the ring slipped onto hand, and now he stood 
alert, waiting for the ring to take effect. The Lieutenant 
appeared again in Aragorn’s line of vision, and he smiled 
graciously.  
 
“And now I believe that Sauron has another gift for you, my 
lord,”  said the Lieutenant. The doors of the chamber 
opened, and a bound and hooded figure was dragged in by a 
pair of orcs and shoved to the ground at Aragorn’s feet. 
The Lieutenant reached out and pulled off the hood to 
reveal a handsome young man with dark blue eyes and brown 
hair.  
 
Imrahil, the fair prince of Dol Amroth, blinked hard in the 
sudden light, for he had been kept in darkness for days 
following his capture on the fields of Cormallen. When his 
eyes fell on Aragorn he cried out in joy and in sorrow. He 
had not dared hope to look upon those dear to him again, 
let alone his beloved King. But his King stood before him 
naked, bound and bloodied and so he despaired.  
 
Aragorn shook his head in anguish, and for him there was no 
joy in this meeting. He knew that Imrahil would find here a 
bitter end. Already Aragorn could feel the ring’s power 
building inside of him. The eye of Sauron burned in his 
mind and his control over his own thoughts was 
deteriorating. Despite his efforts to resist, little by 
little he was being seduced to the dark lord’s purpose.  
 
“Is this your King?” The Lieutenant’s demanded of Imrahil. 
“Is this the man that you have come to die for?” Imrahil’s 
looked up at Aragorn searchingly, hoping for some glimpse 
of the fire that had once burned brightly in his eyes. But 
it was gone, replaced by a cold detachment that frightened 
the young prince.  
 
Still, he answered as confidently as he could. “Yes, he is 
my King,” he said, in his proud strong voice. “And I will 
gladly die for him.” Even then Aragorn could not look at 
him, for he was all that remained of what was good and had 
now been lost.  
 
“And so you shall,” spoke the Lieutenant darkly. “But first 
you shall serve your King in another way.”  
 
Imrahil’s eyes grew wide as the Lieutenant pushed him 
towards Aragorn’s cock, which stirred in response to his 
nearness. He looked up beseechingly, asking his King what 
he should do. Of all of his thoughts of what might befall 
him in the dungeons of Mordor, this certainly was not one 
of them. For this was something he had long desired, but 
had never dared to imagine possible. He had stood no chance 
of attracting Aragorn’s favour when there were always the 
elves to contend with. It seemed cruel to him that his 
heart’s desire was to be granted only in the hour of his 
death.  
 
Then Aragorn did turn and look on Imrahil, his noble 
features a testament of kings past, of Aragorn’s own 
bloodline. He had loved this man, as a brother and as a 
friend. But now all of that was over. The world of men 
would fall.  
 
Aragorn nodded, and the prince swallowed hard. Tentatively 
he pressed his lips to the tip of Aragorn’s cock. It leapt 
at his touch and Imrahil was encouraged. Gently, 
reverently, he took his King’s cock into his mouth and 
began to suck in earnest. He rocked back and forth on his 
heels, small moans escaping his lips as he worked his way 
up and down the shaft.  
 
Aragorn looked on, loving this man for his devotion and 
despising him for his innocence. With his rising pleasure 
came a rising hatred and the two were intertwined until he 
knew not where one ended and the other began. He only knew 
that he wanted this man, this beautiful echo of the glory 
of Numenor, to suffer as he had suffered and to perish as 
he could not.  
 
When he felt his hands freed, Aragorn immediately wrapped 
them around the prince’s head, burying his fingers in his 
hair and forcing himself deeper and deeper into his throat. 
Behind him he felt the Lieutenant’s cock, seeking his 
entrance and then finding it. Aragorn moaned and thrust 
harder, his hips now moving in rhythm with his captor’s.  
 
He watched impassively as the prince began to struggle 
against him, fighting for his breath. But Aragorn did not 
yield, driving his cock ever more violently into his mouth 
until, finally, the prince no longer fought back. Aragorn 
continued to pound against the warm wetness of the prince’s 
throat, mindlessly seeking his release. When the Lieutenant 
shuddered and a stream of hot liquid flooded his body, 
Aragorn climaxed as well, shouting his victory over the 
beautiful wretched creature before him as he let his seed 
surge into the passive mouth.  
 
When Aragorn released the prince from his grip he fell 
unmoving to the floor, he eyes open and unseeing. Somewhere 
inside a part of Aragorn wept at what he had done. But the 
stronger part only laughed. Then he turned to the 
Lieutenant, whose wet cock was still hanging out of his 
breeches, and drew him into a passionate kiss. As Aragorn 
pulled away he swiped the knife from the Lieutenant’s belt 
and with one swift stroke he slit open his throat.  
 
The Lieutenant’s face was a picture of shock and disbelief 
as the blood poured from the wound like a fountain. He 
fell, and his blood formed a crimson pool around his body.  
 
With that, the King Elessar turned and strode from the hall 
to where a dragon was awaiting him in the courtyard. He had 
two small hobbits to find, somewhere on the slopes of Mount 
Doom.