3. Alone in the dark
“Goldilocks – love –“ Shagrat moved his hips again in the way that made Faramir wriggle ecstatically under him. He could feel Shagrat’s body quivering against him as the Orc shuddered on the edge of his climax. Snarling out suddenly, he fastened his mouth round Faramir’s shoulder in a passionate love-bite, growling and panting helplessly, deep in the back of his throat. Shagrat’s hands, one of which was fixed at the back of Faramir’s neck, and the other at his groin, clutched and stroked him possessively. At once, Faramir felt his own orgasm beginning to build.
“Shagrat,” Faramir gasped, at his moment of crisis. His voice seemed to him to ring oddly in his ears, and feeling an uneasy sense of disorientation, he opened his eyes. He was lying alone in his rooms at the Tavern. It was quiet outside and it was dark.
Horrified, Faramir leapt up, clearing the bed he’d been sleeping in and jumping to his feet in one, great, bound. He leant back against the door of his bedroom, trembling with revulsion, cold sweat dripping off him.
That never happened, he reminded himself. Thank all that was holy, but it had never, quite, come to - that. Shagrat had let him go – no, Faramir reminded himself, he had daringly escaped from Shagrat – before things had ever gone that far. Knowing it was a small comfort to him however. Through the long years since he’d last seen the Orc, Faramir, dearly and secretly, had often wished that there had been some sort of resolution to the dubious, unorthodox – but mercifully brief - association they’d shared. Perhaps if they had done – that - he wouldn’t be finding himself in the situation he was in now, for despite Faramir’s best efforts, he’d never been able to erase the memory of Shagrat completely from his mind. Over the years, he’d taken a number of lovers – and he’d tried, with men and women both – but sooner, more usually than later, he’d find himself less than contented with these relationships. Faramir rarely acknowledged it to himself, but he knew that this had to have something to do with his experiences with the Orc. Shagrat had turned out to be a very difficult act to follow indeed, and worse than any of that, to his shame, on nights such as this one, even Faramir’s own body seemed set to betray him. The front of his nightshirt was damp with fresh-spilled semen and Faramir realised that his response to his dream of Shagrat had been real enough.
Wearily, Faramir realised that further sleep would be impossible, now. If he had been occupying his state rooms in the city, or his summer residence in Ithilien, Faramir would have retired to his personal library, where he had collected books enough to distract him, and there he would have immersed himself in his studies of the history and genealogy of his country, until his troubled state of mind had quieted itself. Had even the great library of Minas Tirith failed to engage his attention, there were always the ever-bustling streets of the lower City, where hawkers and food sellers and street-merchants plied their trade all through the night.
In his younger days, Faramir had loved to lose himself in the night-time lower City. It had not taken him long to learn to blend easily into the wakeful throng, for the knack of deliberately avoiding notice was a skill that Faramir had been cultivating, consciously or unconsciously, for almost all of his life. In seeking to avoid adverse comment – on his actions, attitude, behaviour, deportment and so on - Faramir had taken to effacing himself, in time succeeding so well that ultimately, his presence had tended to be noted by almost no-one at all. The deaths of the few remaining members of his family in the Ring War had however changed that. Thrown into the spotlighted position of Prince and Steward Apparent, it had become quite impossible for Faramir to escape attention. He was now admired and celebrated, irrespective of his actions and unconditionally, wherever he went, in what he found to be an exact, complete reversal of his earlier life-experiences. That had certainly been the case during his improvised tour of the town and the surrounding countryside earlier in the day. Faramir, as a soldier and ranger had survived years of bombardment from countless Orc-hordes. He had led guerrilla attacks against Haradrim invaders, held City defences against air-borne assaults from winged Nazgul, and been a leader of men through a time of despair. He had even at one stage briefly been tempted by, and rejected, the lure of the One Ring. Despite all that, the relentlessly aggressive fawning upon his person to which Faramir had recently been subjected, by the Town councilmen, their wives and their daughters still had to count as one of the more daunting experiences he’d ever had to face, nonetheless.
The thought came to Faramir, quite unbidden, that of all the people he had been close to in his life, only his beloved older brother Boromir, and - incongruously - Shagrat, the Uruk Captain of Mordor, had ever looked at him without some level of prior expectation, making no demands of him other than that he be himself. The notion that his adored, dead brother and a filthy, misbegotten Orc could share any sort of common ground between them made him deeply uncomfortable however, and Faramir paced around his room restlessly, casting his mind here and there, trying to find something – anything - else to think about.
It was very late, but on pushing aside the drapes at his bedroom window, Faramir saw that the public bar of the Tavern downstairs was still open for business. He dressed himself quietly, and stealing out past the doors of his aides, who occupied the rooms on either side of his own, he made his way down to the bar-room.
In the dim light provided by soot-blackened chimney lamps that hung from the rafters and were fixed to the walls of the public bar, Faramir recognised the gap-toothed, smiling face of Shagrat’s Barker. The Barker greeted him heartily, then asked for Faramir’s opinion of his Uruk captive.
“Most impressive,” Faramir said, briskly.
“He didn’t say ‘owt to you, did he?”
Faramir assured the Barker that the Uruk had not.
“What, nothing at all?” The Barker’s brows knitted together in an ominous frown.
“Well of course he – did tell me a number of blood-curdling tales. Said he’d like to grind my bones to make his bread and so on,” Faramir fabricated, a little desperately. “Swore at me lot. All in all I found it was a most worthwhile exhibit. Very authentic Orcish experience. I’d highly recommend it.”
Placated by this, the Barker nodded approvingly.
“How did you come by such a creature?” Faramir asked, by way of making conversation.
“Ah, therein lies a tale, waiting for the telling.”
Faramir waited politely. The Barker looked wistfully at his empty ale-pot. Faramir quickly attracted the attention of the Barman and ordered a round of drinks. Drawing down a large pull of foamy beer, the Barker smacked his lips and belched to himself sedately. He leaned comfortably on the bar and began to speak.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.