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keelywolfeTitle: My Place Forsaken
By Keelywolfe
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Aragorn (Thorongil) /Denethor
Important Background Information: In the appendixes we are told that about forty years before the events of ‘Fellowship’, Aragorn was in Gondor, serving the Steward there under a false name. They also tell us that the Steward’s son, Denethor, does not like Aragorn, and is jealous of his closeness to his father. After staying in Gondor for many years, Aragorn, known there as Thorongil, goes to battle in Umbar, and afterward refuses to return to Minas Tirith, saying only that he has other things he needs to do before he can come back.
So...
Summary: The day before leaving for Umbar, Aragorn is readying himself for the coming battle, only to discover that not everyone is eager for his safe return.
EDIT: I forgot to say, that without the help of my slashy soulmate, Cara, this story would have never happened. She prodded me and helped me the entire way, and gave me ideas when I got stuck. I owe it to her for finishing this.
WARNINGS: Non-consensual BDSM, Rape, Violence. Lots of all of these things. If that is not your cup of java, then back to Starbucks you should go!
**
As others might with tenderness
Rule your life and your youngness,
I shall rule you with a fear.
--- Charles Baudelaire
**
The day had only begun, but Aragorn was already tired, having spent hours with Ecthelion, the Steward of Gondor, going over maps and planning for the coming battle. It was a critical task he was to complete, and the weight of it seemed heavy on his shoulders this day.
He and a small fleet would leave the next morning for Umbar, and if all went well, they would arrive in the night. If Sauron were to rise again the rebels there would be deadly foes, and under Gandalf's order, Aragorn had striven for several years to persuade Ecthelion that the time to strike was now, before it came to desperation.
The Steward had finally been convinced, yet now the true battle loomed before him and he had many things yet to accomplish ere he left in the morning. At the moment, however, breaking his fast was foremost in his mind and he made his way quickly down the stairs to the kitchens, intent on charming a late meal from the cook before he began.
"Thorongil! Thorongil!"
Someone called to him by the name he had taken for his time in Gondor, and Aragorn turned to see Finduilas, Denethor's wife, hurrying down the stairs towards him. The child on her hip slowed her steps, crowing in delight as he bounced along, heedless to his mother's breathless state when she finally reached the bottom.
He bowed low in greeting, smiling at both her and the child. "Good day, my lady. How may I assist you?"
A flush rose in her cheeks, and Finduilas seemed flustered, patting her son absently on the back. "I am sorry, I did not mean to..." She composed herself visibly, gracing him with a smile. "What I mean to say is, I hope you will take care on your journey."
"I...thank you, my lady," Aragorn, replied, tentatively, certain that there was more to this meeting, and Finduilas, nodded, almost nervously.
"Yes...I...Denethor spoke of joining you," she said in a rush, tears rising in her eyes. She patted her son again, clinging to him almost too tightly and Boromir protested with an impatient squall, his chubby hand pulling at the bodice of her gown.
Aragorn nodded slowly. "He did, but his father did not agree with that decision. I believe they are discussing it now, but I think Denethor will remain here, with you," he added, and he saw the relief rise in her pretty eyes. He did not add that Ecthelion had expressed his doubts to him over Denethor's ability to lead the battle.
"Thank you," she said in a rush, "I am sure without you he would be going into battle. He is such a brave man, but he does not think of his safety! Gondor needs him here," she finished firmly.
"Of course," Aragorn said, politely, and kept his opinions to himself. The lady saw only the goodness, the warrior in her husband, understandably so, but Aragorn had seen a greediness in the man, rarely given form, and he thought too Ecthelion may have seen a glimpse of it; yet the man did love his son and perhaps would not allow himself to believe. There was nothing Aragorn could do for it, not at this moment, and he kept his own counsel on the matter, choosing to implore instead to Ecthelion's good judgment.
Finduilas excused herself from him happily, and Aragorn bowed again, continuing to the kitchens and putting thoughts of Denethor from his mind. He did not see the man watching from the shadows, cold eyes following him from a growing distance.
**
The ground beneath him was cold, and Aragorn thought dimly of his cloak, moving to grasp it. He only just realized he could not and had hardly the time to frown over it when a flood of foul water drenched him.
He choked and coughed, struggling for breath. Aragorn fought to get his knees beneath him, his hands bound before him, and he blinked through the filthy strands of his hair at his surroundings. Stone walls were on each side of the dimly lit room and Aragorn stared dumbly for a long moment, his head aching and his eyes burning.
A rough shove pushed him back to the ground, and he spat out dirt, coughing as he looked up at his captors. Tall and silent, they looked down at him coldly, somehow oddly familiar, yet before he could consider it further, a voice came to him from the other side of the room.
"I think it is past time we spoke with one another, Thorongil."
That voice he recognized without thought, and with it, the men next to him. Denethor and his personal guards, he realized and his blood chilled. He had sorely misjudged the other man, Aragorn saw; his obedience to his father had not carried as far as Aragorn had thought. There was glittering madness in his eyes, unsheathed and brought to the fore, and it showed vividly, too, in his sudden smile.
The guards came forward, forcing Aragorn to his feet, and he struggled, his head still spinning, but it was a battle quickly lost. They dragged him forward, binding his hands apart to long poles set into the ground. A dagger shone grimly in the dim light and he flinched uselessly away but the expected blow did not fall. Instead, the guard tore away the fastenings on his tunic, the blade glancing lightly off his skin and leaving shallow, stinging cuts behind.
Between them, they stripped him quickly, until he was bare to the waist and shivering, recognizing the room as one of the great tombs hidden deep within the mountain though this one lacked occupants other than those of the living. A room Denethor had used before, perhaps, for some deed or another and the thought was not a reassuring one.
Denethor stepped forward then from the shadows, and raised a gloved hand to Aragorn's chin, forcing it upward. "I spoke with my father today," he began, his eyes so strangely cold. "I have had many discussions of this like with my father as of late," he continued, his voice both distant and thoughtful. "And I have thought on these matters a great deal. Would you like to know what I believe?"
Aragorn said nothing, watching Denethor pace before him warily. He had been mistrustful of Denethor for some time, but never had he suspected this deceit lay within him. It was his own failing then, that he had not, and he regretted briefly that this was the fashion in which he would die, unknown and laid in a dank tomb, with only the cloying scent of rotting flora to accompany him.
"You are friends with Gandolf the Grey, this I know. And no great love has ever been exchanged between he and I," Denethor mused aloud, "I believe he sent you here, to usurp me. I believe he fears the time when I become Stewart of Gondor and seeks to seat instead one that he can control."
"Gandolf and I are but friends," Aragorn said, his mouth dry. "I came to Gondor of my own will, to serve your father."
"No!" Denethor snapped, his voice echoing painfully loud through the great halls of the tomb. "I have watched you," he hissed, again catching Aragorn's face in his hand, his grip tightening until Aragorn flinched. "I have seen you and if you do not serve Gandolf, then it is someone else. And I would know who." He pressed closer, his face but a breath from Aragorn's before he whispered in a voice too low to be heard by the others, "You may steal the of heart my father, you may steal the hearts of my men, but you will not have my wife! Nor will you have Gondor."
Aragorn remained silent, meeting Denethor's gaze steadily. It was Denethor who finally broke their stare, stepping away and gesturing impatiently to his men before leaving Aragorn's line of sight.
The first blow came unexpectedly, pain like a hundred wasps stinging a path across his back and he lurched forward, gasping, his eyes watering. The second blow was less a shock and Aragorn braced himself against it, and though it was significant, the pain was still not quite as he would have expected.
Only a quirt then, not a full whip which possibly meant he was supposed to survive this encounter. Wrapping his hands around the ropes binding his wrists, Aragorn breathed against the pain, expecting each strike as it fell, waiting patiently for the end. After ten blows, counted silently in Elvish, he happened to looked up and saw Denethor watching from the shadows, and saw too that familiar greed, only this time, unchecked, and the hope in his thoughts turned to ash.
Or perhaps he would not survive, after all.
**
The song of a lash was like none other, short-lived and terrible, rising snakelike on a path through the air until it reached its crescendo against flesh. Unbearably quick for the listener, but for the one carrying the tune...
A tremor ran through the muscles of Thorongil's back with every strike, moving outward until it reached his face, tightening and releasing in rhythm, gleaming wet with perspiration even though each breath brought with it a cloud of steam in the cool air. Denethor watched with growing delight as Thorongil accepted each blow in silence.
Such beautiful misery, and such a sin it would be to waste it.
"Wait," Denethor said softly, and his man paused, the lash whispering sullenly against the ground, its song interrupted. Thorongil was panting for breath, quivering with the pain and useless energy that would have built within him, the body's hopeless call to flee torment. The lines of the lash on his back were as dark as old blood in the dim light, but as Denethor came closer, the richness of crimson began to shine through, glistening yet, tacky and moist to the touch and he stroked each one lovingly, watching the quivering response ripple beneath the man's skin.
"Such a man you are, Thorongil," he said, conversationally, pressing the tip of his finger to his tongue and tasting the shallow metal bite of blood.
Thorongil opened his eyes, startlingly green in the darkness and lit with what was perhaps hate. Denethor nodded mutely, accepting it as due. It is the prerogative of the slave to hate his master, but in the end, for all his hate, he is still the slave.
He reached a hand around, running it up over the wet flesh of Thorongil's belly. His skin was as buttery soft as well-tanned leather, moving slickly beneath his fingertips as the man would have flinched away, his back arching like a bow. Threading his other fingers through the mass Thorongil's sweaty hair, Denethor clenched his fist tightly within it, wrenching his head back to rest awkwardly against Denethor's shoulder.
"Why do you not tell me what I wish to know?" he murmured into the shell of Thorongil's ear, letting his lips brush against the silken flesh there. He dipped a single finger into the man's navel, lingering briefly before sinking lower. Shivering silence was his only response, and he bit his tongue against angry words, instead shaping them into gentle coaxing, "Do you but ask me for mercy, and I may grant it."
Thorongil's breeches hung low, the waist soaked in both blood and sweat, and Denethor slipped his hand past that gory barrier, seeking flesh that was as yet untouched by him and finding it eager. A choked gasp rewarded him, and he smiled against Thorongil's shoulder.
There comes a moment in things such as these that a border may be crossed, when agony may shift its alignment and become the most unbearable form of arousal. When the body keened with awful desire and would accept relief from the most bitterly hated of enemies. Thorongil's nipples were drawn tight in the cold air, and as Denethor watched a single droplet of sweat hung suspended from one like a jewel before dropping as a tear to the ground.
He moved his hand within the confines of Thorongil's breeches, wrapping his hand around the firmness of his cock, and even as he grasped that betraying flesh, Thorongil remained defiantly silent, straining forward against his bonds until a fresh trickle of redness slipped from the raw, scraped skin of his wrists. Denethor released him and stepped back, studying the man before him. His own clothes were dampened now with blood and sweat, and the smell of it rose in the air, a perfumery to tantalize his own arousal.
He walked instead to stand in front of Thorongil, regarding his face evenly, his eyes never leaving Thorongil's as he said, "Again."
Once, the sound sharp and brilliant, and the whip licked over Thorongil's shoulder, leaving a line of terrible color to shine wetly. He did not flinch, but met Denethor's eyes evenly, only the quickness of his breath betraying him.
Denethor smiled and stepped forward, laying a hand low against Thorongil's belly, his fingertips barely breeching the waistband of his trousers. He left it there, palm against cooling skin and said, louder, "Again."
The hiss of the lash was echoed in Thorongil's breath, a sharp inhalation through his nose, and this time he could not hide the flinch, yet another betrayal of self as his stomach tightened against Denethor's hand, muscles going rigid for the briefest of moments.
"You cannot hide yourself from me," he crooned, letting his fingertips stroke gently, inching their way lower. "I know how you feel, I can control how you feel." He lowered his head to Thorongil's shoulder and tasted the weeping mark there, the flavor strong with salt. Thorongil trembled beneath his touch, hanging heavily from his bound wrists and unable to move away. "Tell me who you are. Ask me to stop this," Denethor commanded, tenderly, licking a path upward and catching the lobe of Thorongil's ear between his teeth. He bit it sharply, until his mouth flooded with fresh bitterness. "Ask me."
Only the heavy sound of breathing greeted him and Denethor thrilled silently, such lovely defiance, such tolerance! He found that he was regretting this encounter would only be once. What songs might his little captive bird sing for him if he had but the time to teach them?
"Keep your silence, then," he said, coolly, and then, "Again!" just as he pushed his hand back into Thorongil's breeches, squeezing his cock painfully hard as the lash fell and he felt the harsh jerk within Thorongil's skin as his nerves shrieked in unholy unison, a near scream strangling deep within his throat.
"I know why you are here," Denethor said, his voice low and furious, and he squeezed again, watching Thorongil's bite his own lips to stifle his cries. "You have come to poison my father against me, to poison my -people- against me, so that you might steal your place on the throne."
Thorongil was shaking his head, whether against the words or his touch, Denethor could not say, and his anger flared anew, red as blood behind his eyes. "I am not so easily fooled as that," he hissed, and then shouted, "Again!" He jerked up hard, stripping Thorongil's cock furiously as the blows rained down, quickly now, the tip of the whip stinging against Denethor's own cheek in a hot flare of pain when he leaned too close.
He ignored it, his eyes on Thorongil's face, the freakish beauty of pleasure and pain mingled too closely in the clench of his jaw, the thin line of blood on his chin from his bitten lip. Blood seemed everywhere, the rich, raw scent, the taste thick on his tongue, and Denethor was caught in the thrall of this gruesome sight, the sudden cry that escaped Thorongil a perfect counterpoint to the singing of the lash, silence shattered with the sweetness of despair.
Wet heat flooded over Denethor's hand, hotter than the blood and Thorongil cried out again, shuddering as he sagged against him, held upright only by his bindings. Denethor raised his other hand, halting his man silently before clasping Thorongil against him, petting the wet strands of his hair soothingly.
"You see?" he said gently, "I will get what I want from you, whether or not you allow it."
Thorongil seemed to find strength at those words and jerked away, swaying heavily on his feet but staying upright. The hate in his eyes had kindled and blazed openly, only to dim briefly into shame as Denethor roughly pulled his hand free from his breeches.
He cupped Thorongil's cheek with his wet hand, stroking his face and into his hair, painting him with his own seed before letting one finger rest lightly against his bitten lip. "You are often on bended knee for my father," he mused. "I think I would like to see you as such for me."
Denethor stepped away, gesturing curtly to his men and they came forward, untying Thorongil from the posts. He struggled wildly as they made to bind his hands behind him, managing to kick one full in the face with a booted foot. The guard stumbled backwards, briefly blinded by the pain, and Denethor watched the three of them struggled with indifference. Thorongil was too weak to make a true fight of it and he was quickly subdued. They tied his hands behind him and his ankles were bound this time to the base of the wooden poles.
The guards stepped back, resuming their posts and Denethor leaned against one of the poles, looking down on him. Thorongil tried to raise his head from the ground and Denethor gently placed a foot at the back of his neck, holding him down. "I'll give you one last opportunity to end this," he said, thoughtfully. "Who are you? Who sent you here?" He pressed down slightly, pushing Thorongil's face into the dirt. "What do you hope to accomplish by being here in my city?"
Thorongil lay with his eyes closed, breath hitching slightly and yet he still said nothing. Stepping off him, Denethor stooped low enough to snatch a handful of Thorongil's hair, pulling him up roughly. His own anger was coming to the fore, frustration mingled with delight of this man who would not, it seemed, be broken. "Look at me," he whispered, and when he received no response, he shook him by his hair, shouting, "Look at me!"
Only then did Thorongil open his eyes, that same stunning green cutting through the dimness, and still within them was the hate, that Denethor could see clearly, but also was something else. An inner serenity that had not yet been touched and Denethor smiled unpleasantly to see it. "Yes," he said, and slid his hands down to cup Thorongil's face between his palms, pressing a gentle kiss against both of the man's eyelids. "I had rather hoped for this."
He drew his knife from his belt, Thorongil's eyes upon him, and tapped the blade carelessly against his lips, considering. The light in his eyes had shifted, serenity into acceptance and Denethor laughed lightly to see it. "Have little fear, my unknown enemy. You are not to die that easily."
Stepping around the poles, Denethor knelt by Thorongil's side, sliding the tip of his blade into the waistband of the man's breeches. They were made of good cloth and did not cut easily, but Denethor's knife was sharp and he worked at them unhurriedly, pausing to lap gently at any accidental nick of the blade, worrying away the blood with the tender stroke of his tongue. Patiently, he worked, until Thorongil's breeches lay in shreds about the tops of his boots.
"There we are," Denethor said, softly, and he sat back on his heels, admiring the man before him. Dark lines of dried blood divided his back into a gruesome parody of stained glass, the skin between the lines as smooth and white as that of an Elf. "Lovely creature," he murmured, reaching out and tracing the smooth, unblemished line of his hip downward. Thorongil jerked beneath is touch, his shock like a tangible thing. "Do not let your courage fade now," Denethor mocked, moving so that he knelt behind him.
Unfastening his own breeches, Denethor inhaled in relief as the unrelenting pressure against his own erection eased. The smooth curve of Thorongil's backside begged to be touched, and he did so, sliding his fingers between the taut cheeks to test the entrance there and then came a small sound from Thorongil, hardly touching the air before it was bitten off.
It was something like a victory to hear, and yet, "It hardly matters now," Denethor murmured aloud. "You had your chance to speak." He took himself in hand, positioned to breech the citadel of his enemy and with a last deep breath he caught Thorongil's hips in his hands as he pushed forward.
The cruel friction of resisting flesh was its own form of bliss, as was the trembling of Thorongil beneath him, penetration bringing pain to them both. Denethor closed his eyes, catching his tongue between his teeth as he pressed deeper, pushing past resistance, forcing submission of both body and flesh.
Thorongil was tense and unwilling beneath him, yet unable to defend himself in this battle, and Denethor seated himself deeply within the other's body, sighing as he was surrounded by almost unimagined heat. The urge to simply rut was upon him, to take this pliant form beneath him, thrusting until he spilled himself within, and it would be a victory, regardless.
He leaned forward, feeling the uncomfortable press of Thorongil's hands against his belly, the nails digging into his flesh in a fruitless attempt at causing some small damage, but Denethor ignored the tiny pain, burying his face into the damp mass of Thorongil's hair. "Keep your silence," he said softly, repeating his earlier words, "I think I've found parts of you that I want more than your words."
A gentle roll of his hips drew a ragged moan from the man beneath him, and he repeated the movement, worrying the lobe of Thorongil's ear between his teeth and again tasting blood, everywhere was the taste of blood and salt, and he slowed his movements, whispering obscenities hotly into Thorongil's ear and feeling the low rumble of his moans from within.
Denethor shifted, slipping a hand beneath them and forcing Thorongil into a half-kneeling position. A different, deeper angle came with it, and both men stifled cries, Denethor thrusting deeply once, and holding, feeling Thorongil's pulse fluttering around him before he again withdrew, keeping his movements slow. If he could only feel this once, then he would enjoy it as long as he could. He slid a hand down between Thorongil's thighs and he found him not completely unaffected.
He felt Thorongil stiffen, tightening delightfully within as his body's treachery was discovered, and Denethor forced himself to stillness, breathing deeply of the thickly scented air between them. Bringing his other hand to his mouth, Denethor licked it, wetting it lavishly before reaching for Thorongil's growing erection, and Thorongil jarred into movement, pushing back against him in a startling, desperate fashion, so that Denethor was forced to cling to him, struggling against his quickly approaching climax.
"I will not be defeated so easily," Denethor grunted, wrapping both arms around Thorongil's waist and fumbling both hands between his legs, the wet skin sliding easily in his fist, and Thorongil gave a cry wrought with true despair, unable to stop himself once he had begun, and they shuddered in completion together, Denethor's shout was one of glorious victory, the battle his.
Thorongil lay gasping and spent beneath him, each breath akin to a sob, trembling as Denethor stroked him tenderly. Another soft cry escaped him as Denethor finally withdrew, and spilled yet more of his blood over his own thighs, crimson splashes mingled with Denethor's seed fouling the purity of his skin.
Fastening his breeches, Denethor stood, and he sighed, deeply satisfied, before gesturing lazily to his guards. They came forward again, unbinding Thorongil's ankles and the moment the last tie fell loose, Thorongil scrabbled to his knees, shuffling useless backwards until his back struck the wall, halting him. His hair fell over his face in greasy hanks, his eyes hardly visible though they gazed at Denethor coldly.
"Do you still have nothing to say to me," Denethor asked, his voice sweet. "Though we have shared much between us, and could yet share more?" he finished, allowing the faintest hint of a threat into his words. "My guards, I think, could yet find some sport with you."
"And this is how you would question one against whom you have no proof?" Thorongil spat, his voice hoarse, and Denethor startled to hear him speak. He frowned, but Thorongil continued, "You claim this to be your city, yours alone, and you would bestow torture on any you barely suspect may disagree! Would you murder your own father then, to make this city your own?"
Color bleached from Denethor's face, and he jerked his dagger from its sheath numbly, stepping forward, yet Thorongil continued relentlessly, his voice a lash that bit deeply, and drew blood as easily as Denethor's man had drawn it on him. "You are no better than those dark kings who listened to Sauron, and if this is how you would rule you would be as a servant of Sauron himself, like the Nazgul, though you would have no defense as to be tricked by a ring. You," he whispered, his eyes burning with some rare fire, "Are no fitting steward of Gondor."
It was Thorongil who lay on the floor, weak and bleeding, but it was Denethor who trembled, his knife a thin, shivering fragment of silver in the darkness. Thorongil watched him calmly as he approached, ignoring the blade, his eyes only on Denethor.
He crouched in front of Thorongil, slowly folding his body down and Thorongil did not flinch, the serenity again in his eyes, and Denethor suddenly doubted it had ever been extinguished. He pushed Thorongil roughly to his side, breaking their gazes and thrust out almost blindly with the knife, severing the ties binding his wrists.
A startled cry of pain came from Thorongil and he thrust his wrists beneath his arms, squeezing tightly as blood started to slow freely again into his hands. Denethor backed slowly away from him, watching him writhe silently in the dirt.
"You are going to Umbar tomorrow, by order of my father," Denethor said, his voice low. "Go, then. Show yourself to be a better man than I. But I do not suggest that you return." He turned and walked out, gesturing curtly to his guards, and they followed, none of them casting a single glance backwards at the man on the ground.
The temptation was there to leave him in the blackness, to let him find his way out on his hands and knees, but Denethor resisted it, leaving the torch that burned in the hall. They made their way up the long stairway, their footsteps echoing deeply.
"Find some clothing and leave it near the doorway," he told the man on his left tersely as they walked. He would not have his father nor his wife see Thorongil in such a state, and doubted that the man himself would say a word of it. What he might do if he did, Denethor did not consider. It would not matter, regardless, what his father might hear or do. It would not.
He would be ruler of Gondor.
**
Aragorn was counting his heartbeats, slow, dull thuds beneath his skin, whispering to himself in Elvish. On twenty he began to believe he was still alive, thirty he managed to sit up and almost collapsed again as the abused skin of his back brushed against rough stone.
No.
Twenty, again, and he was on his feet, staggering towards the doorway. Each step was an exercise in control, count to five and step, slowly, and never had there been a battle so grueling as his one with the stairs. He had no idea how long it took him to climb them, and would never think of it again.
A pile of clothing was stacked neatly in front of the door, his own, he noted dispassionately, and there was an unwelcome comfort in that, in the embrace of familiarity. He covered his wounds with it, hiding them from the view of others, but it was a constant reminder to him, the harsh pull of cloth across raw skin.
He accepted that pain, letting it come to him throughout the day, and he did not speak to anyone as he made ready for the next day's travels.
Once, he saw Denethor from across the Great Hall, watching him through the shambling crowd of people making ready for the evening meal, and Aragorn met his eyes evenly, seeing cold victory there but there was little he could do. He had no army here, no ally he could claim and he thought even Ecthelion would not take his word against that of his only son.
So it would be then. For now. He would go to Umbar tomorrow and afterward he would travel to Lórien and speak to Gandolf about the new, strange fate that would befall Gondor. Let Gondor deal with its own fate; it was no longer his concern.
Yet his eyes strayed again to Denethor, standing far from him but ever watchful. Yes, it would be best to leave. He could do nothing...now.
But one day...
-finis-
By Keelywolfe
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Aragorn (Thorongil) /Denethor
Important Background Information: In the appendixes we are told that about forty years before the events of ‘Fellowship’, Aragorn was in Gondor, serving the Steward there under a false name. They also tell us that the Steward’s son, Denethor, does not like Aragorn, and is jealous of his closeness to his father. After staying in Gondor for many years, Aragorn, known there as Thorongil, goes to battle in Umbar, and afterward refuses to return to Minas Tirith, saying only that he has other things he needs to do before he can come back.
So...
Summary: The day before leaving for Umbar, Aragorn is readying himself for the coming battle, only to discover that not everyone is eager for his safe return.
EDIT: I forgot to say, that without the help of my slashy soulmate, Cara, this story would have never happened. She prodded me and helped me the entire way, and gave me ideas when I got stuck. I owe it to her for finishing this.
WARNINGS: Non-consensual BDSM, Rape, Violence. Lots of all of these things. If that is not your cup of java, then back to Starbucks you should go!
**
As others might with tenderness
Rule your life and your youngness,
I shall rule you with a fear.
--- Charles Baudelaire
**
The day had only begun, but Aragorn was already tired, having spent hours with Ecthelion, the Steward of Gondor, going over maps and planning for the coming battle. It was a critical task he was to complete, and the weight of it seemed heavy on his shoulders this day.
He and a small fleet would leave the next morning for Umbar, and if all went well, they would arrive in the night. If Sauron were to rise again the rebels there would be deadly foes, and under Gandalf's order, Aragorn had striven for several years to persuade Ecthelion that the time to strike was now, before it came to desperation.
The Steward had finally been convinced, yet now the true battle loomed before him and he had many things yet to accomplish ere he left in the morning. At the moment, however, breaking his fast was foremost in his mind and he made his way quickly down the stairs to the kitchens, intent on charming a late meal from the cook before he began.
"Thorongil! Thorongil!"
Someone called to him by the name he had taken for his time in Gondor, and Aragorn turned to see Finduilas, Denethor's wife, hurrying down the stairs towards him. The child on her hip slowed her steps, crowing in delight as he bounced along, heedless to his mother's breathless state when she finally reached the bottom.
He bowed low in greeting, smiling at both her and the child. "Good day, my lady. How may I assist you?"
A flush rose in her cheeks, and Finduilas seemed flustered, patting her son absently on the back. "I am sorry, I did not mean to..." She composed herself visibly, gracing him with a smile. "What I mean to say is, I hope you will take care on your journey."
"I...thank you, my lady," Aragorn, replied, tentatively, certain that there was more to this meeting, and Finduilas, nodded, almost nervously.
"Yes...I...Denethor spoke of joining you," she said in a rush, tears rising in her eyes. She patted her son again, clinging to him almost too tightly and Boromir protested with an impatient squall, his chubby hand pulling at the bodice of her gown.
Aragorn nodded slowly. "He did, but his father did not agree with that decision. I believe they are discussing it now, but I think Denethor will remain here, with you," he added, and he saw the relief rise in her pretty eyes. He did not add that Ecthelion had expressed his doubts to him over Denethor's ability to lead the battle.
"Thank you," she said in a rush, "I am sure without you he would be going into battle. He is such a brave man, but he does not think of his safety! Gondor needs him here," she finished firmly.
"Of course," Aragorn said, politely, and kept his opinions to himself. The lady saw only the goodness, the warrior in her husband, understandably so, but Aragorn had seen a greediness in the man, rarely given form, and he thought too Ecthelion may have seen a glimpse of it; yet the man did love his son and perhaps would not allow himself to believe. There was nothing Aragorn could do for it, not at this moment, and he kept his own counsel on the matter, choosing to implore instead to Ecthelion's good judgment.
Finduilas excused herself from him happily, and Aragorn bowed again, continuing to the kitchens and putting thoughts of Denethor from his mind. He did not see the man watching from the shadows, cold eyes following him from a growing distance.
**
The ground beneath him was cold, and Aragorn thought dimly of his cloak, moving to grasp it. He only just realized he could not and had hardly the time to frown over it when a flood of foul water drenched him.
He choked and coughed, struggling for breath. Aragorn fought to get his knees beneath him, his hands bound before him, and he blinked through the filthy strands of his hair at his surroundings. Stone walls were on each side of the dimly lit room and Aragorn stared dumbly for a long moment, his head aching and his eyes burning.
A rough shove pushed him back to the ground, and he spat out dirt, coughing as he looked up at his captors. Tall and silent, they looked down at him coldly, somehow oddly familiar, yet before he could consider it further, a voice came to him from the other side of the room.
"I think it is past time we spoke with one another, Thorongil."
That voice he recognized without thought, and with it, the men next to him. Denethor and his personal guards, he realized and his blood chilled. He had sorely misjudged the other man, Aragorn saw; his obedience to his father had not carried as far as Aragorn had thought. There was glittering madness in his eyes, unsheathed and brought to the fore, and it showed vividly, too, in his sudden smile.
The guards came forward, forcing Aragorn to his feet, and he struggled, his head still spinning, but it was a battle quickly lost. They dragged him forward, binding his hands apart to long poles set into the ground. A dagger shone grimly in the dim light and he flinched uselessly away but the expected blow did not fall. Instead, the guard tore away the fastenings on his tunic, the blade glancing lightly off his skin and leaving shallow, stinging cuts behind.
Between them, they stripped him quickly, until he was bare to the waist and shivering, recognizing the room as one of the great tombs hidden deep within the mountain though this one lacked occupants other than those of the living. A room Denethor had used before, perhaps, for some deed or another and the thought was not a reassuring one.
Denethor stepped forward then from the shadows, and raised a gloved hand to Aragorn's chin, forcing it upward. "I spoke with my father today," he began, his eyes so strangely cold. "I have had many discussions of this like with my father as of late," he continued, his voice both distant and thoughtful. "And I have thought on these matters a great deal. Would you like to know what I believe?"
Aragorn said nothing, watching Denethor pace before him warily. He had been mistrustful of Denethor for some time, but never had he suspected this deceit lay within him. It was his own failing then, that he had not, and he regretted briefly that this was the fashion in which he would die, unknown and laid in a dank tomb, with only the cloying scent of rotting flora to accompany him.
"You are friends with Gandolf the Grey, this I know. And no great love has ever been exchanged between he and I," Denethor mused aloud, "I believe he sent you here, to usurp me. I believe he fears the time when I become Stewart of Gondor and seeks to seat instead one that he can control."
"Gandolf and I are but friends," Aragorn said, his mouth dry. "I came to Gondor of my own will, to serve your father."
"No!" Denethor snapped, his voice echoing painfully loud through the great halls of the tomb. "I have watched you," he hissed, again catching Aragorn's face in his hand, his grip tightening until Aragorn flinched. "I have seen you and if you do not serve Gandolf, then it is someone else. And I would know who." He pressed closer, his face but a breath from Aragorn's before he whispered in a voice too low to be heard by the others, "You may steal the of heart my father, you may steal the hearts of my men, but you will not have my wife! Nor will you have Gondor."
Aragorn remained silent, meeting Denethor's gaze steadily. It was Denethor who finally broke their stare, stepping away and gesturing impatiently to his men before leaving Aragorn's line of sight.
The first blow came unexpectedly, pain like a hundred wasps stinging a path across his back and he lurched forward, gasping, his eyes watering. The second blow was less a shock and Aragorn braced himself against it, and though it was significant, the pain was still not quite as he would have expected.
Only a quirt then, not a full whip which possibly meant he was supposed to survive this encounter. Wrapping his hands around the ropes binding his wrists, Aragorn breathed against the pain, expecting each strike as it fell, waiting patiently for the end. After ten blows, counted silently in Elvish, he happened to looked up and saw Denethor watching from the shadows, and saw too that familiar greed, only this time, unchecked, and the hope in his thoughts turned to ash.
Or perhaps he would not survive, after all.
**
The song of a lash was like none other, short-lived and terrible, rising snakelike on a path through the air until it reached its crescendo against flesh. Unbearably quick for the listener, but for the one carrying the tune...
A tremor ran through the muscles of Thorongil's back with every strike, moving outward until it reached his face, tightening and releasing in rhythm, gleaming wet with perspiration even though each breath brought with it a cloud of steam in the cool air. Denethor watched with growing delight as Thorongil accepted each blow in silence.
Such beautiful misery, and such a sin it would be to waste it.
"Wait," Denethor said softly, and his man paused, the lash whispering sullenly against the ground, its song interrupted. Thorongil was panting for breath, quivering with the pain and useless energy that would have built within him, the body's hopeless call to flee torment. The lines of the lash on his back were as dark as old blood in the dim light, but as Denethor came closer, the richness of crimson began to shine through, glistening yet, tacky and moist to the touch and he stroked each one lovingly, watching the quivering response ripple beneath the man's skin.
"Such a man you are, Thorongil," he said, conversationally, pressing the tip of his finger to his tongue and tasting the shallow metal bite of blood.
Thorongil opened his eyes, startlingly green in the darkness and lit with what was perhaps hate. Denethor nodded mutely, accepting it as due. It is the prerogative of the slave to hate his master, but in the end, for all his hate, he is still the slave.
He reached a hand around, running it up over the wet flesh of Thorongil's belly. His skin was as buttery soft as well-tanned leather, moving slickly beneath his fingertips as the man would have flinched away, his back arching like a bow. Threading his other fingers through the mass Thorongil's sweaty hair, Denethor clenched his fist tightly within it, wrenching his head back to rest awkwardly against Denethor's shoulder.
"Why do you not tell me what I wish to know?" he murmured into the shell of Thorongil's ear, letting his lips brush against the silken flesh there. He dipped a single finger into the man's navel, lingering briefly before sinking lower. Shivering silence was his only response, and he bit his tongue against angry words, instead shaping them into gentle coaxing, "Do you but ask me for mercy, and I may grant it."
Thorongil's breeches hung low, the waist soaked in both blood and sweat, and Denethor slipped his hand past that gory barrier, seeking flesh that was as yet untouched by him and finding it eager. A choked gasp rewarded him, and he smiled against Thorongil's shoulder.
There comes a moment in things such as these that a border may be crossed, when agony may shift its alignment and become the most unbearable form of arousal. When the body keened with awful desire and would accept relief from the most bitterly hated of enemies. Thorongil's nipples were drawn tight in the cold air, and as Denethor watched a single droplet of sweat hung suspended from one like a jewel before dropping as a tear to the ground.
He moved his hand within the confines of Thorongil's breeches, wrapping his hand around the firmness of his cock, and even as he grasped that betraying flesh, Thorongil remained defiantly silent, straining forward against his bonds until a fresh trickle of redness slipped from the raw, scraped skin of his wrists. Denethor released him and stepped back, studying the man before him. His own clothes were dampened now with blood and sweat, and the smell of it rose in the air, a perfumery to tantalize his own arousal.
He walked instead to stand in front of Thorongil, regarding his face evenly, his eyes never leaving Thorongil's as he said, "Again."
Once, the sound sharp and brilliant, and the whip licked over Thorongil's shoulder, leaving a line of terrible color to shine wetly. He did not flinch, but met Denethor's eyes evenly, only the quickness of his breath betraying him.
Denethor smiled and stepped forward, laying a hand low against Thorongil's belly, his fingertips barely breeching the waistband of his trousers. He left it there, palm against cooling skin and said, louder, "Again."
The hiss of the lash was echoed in Thorongil's breath, a sharp inhalation through his nose, and this time he could not hide the flinch, yet another betrayal of self as his stomach tightened against Denethor's hand, muscles going rigid for the briefest of moments.
"You cannot hide yourself from me," he crooned, letting his fingertips stroke gently, inching their way lower. "I know how you feel, I can control how you feel." He lowered his head to Thorongil's shoulder and tasted the weeping mark there, the flavor strong with salt. Thorongil trembled beneath his touch, hanging heavily from his bound wrists and unable to move away. "Tell me who you are. Ask me to stop this," Denethor commanded, tenderly, licking a path upward and catching the lobe of Thorongil's ear between his teeth. He bit it sharply, until his mouth flooded with fresh bitterness. "Ask me."
Only the heavy sound of breathing greeted him and Denethor thrilled silently, such lovely defiance, such tolerance! He found that he was regretting this encounter would only be once. What songs might his little captive bird sing for him if he had but the time to teach them?
"Keep your silence, then," he said, coolly, and then, "Again!" just as he pushed his hand back into Thorongil's breeches, squeezing his cock painfully hard as the lash fell and he felt the harsh jerk within Thorongil's skin as his nerves shrieked in unholy unison, a near scream strangling deep within his throat.
"I know why you are here," Denethor said, his voice low and furious, and he squeezed again, watching Thorongil's bite his own lips to stifle his cries. "You have come to poison my father against me, to poison my -people- against me, so that you might steal your place on the throne."
Thorongil was shaking his head, whether against the words or his touch, Denethor could not say, and his anger flared anew, red as blood behind his eyes. "I am not so easily fooled as that," he hissed, and then shouted, "Again!" He jerked up hard, stripping Thorongil's cock furiously as the blows rained down, quickly now, the tip of the whip stinging against Denethor's own cheek in a hot flare of pain when he leaned too close.
He ignored it, his eyes on Thorongil's face, the freakish beauty of pleasure and pain mingled too closely in the clench of his jaw, the thin line of blood on his chin from his bitten lip. Blood seemed everywhere, the rich, raw scent, the taste thick on his tongue, and Denethor was caught in the thrall of this gruesome sight, the sudden cry that escaped Thorongil a perfect counterpoint to the singing of the lash, silence shattered with the sweetness of despair.
Wet heat flooded over Denethor's hand, hotter than the blood and Thorongil cried out again, shuddering as he sagged against him, held upright only by his bindings. Denethor raised his other hand, halting his man silently before clasping Thorongil against him, petting the wet strands of his hair soothingly.
"You see?" he said gently, "I will get what I want from you, whether or not you allow it."
Thorongil seemed to find strength at those words and jerked away, swaying heavily on his feet but staying upright. The hate in his eyes had kindled and blazed openly, only to dim briefly into shame as Denethor roughly pulled his hand free from his breeches.
He cupped Thorongil's cheek with his wet hand, stroking his face and into his hair, painting him with his own seed before letting one finger rest lightly against his bitten lip. "You are often on bended knee for my father," he mused. "I think I would like to see you as such for me."
Denethor stepped away, gesturing curtly to his men and they came forward, untying Thorongil from the posts. He struggled wildly as they made to bind his hands behind him, managing to kick one full in the face with a booted foot. The guard stumbled backwards, briefly blinded by the pain, and Denethor watched the three of them struggled with indifference. Thorongil was too weak to make a true fight of it and he was quickly subdued. They tied his hands behind him and his ankles were bound this time to the base of the wooden poles.
The guards stepped back, resuming their posts and Denethor leaned against one of the poles, looking down on him. Thorongil tried to raise his head from the ground and Denethor gently placed a foot at the back of his neck, holding him down. "I'll give you one last opportunity to end this," he said, thoughtfully. "Who are you? Who sent you here?" He pressed down slightly, pushing Thorongil's face into the dirt. "What do you hope to accomplish by being here in my city?"
Thorongil lay with his eyes closed, breath hitching slightly and yet he still said nothing. Stepping off him, Denethor stooped low enough to snatch a handful of Thorongil's hair, pulling him up roughly. His own anger was coming to the fore, frustration mingled with delight of this man who would not, it seemed, be broken. "Look at me," he whispered, and when he received no response, he shook him by his hair, shouting, "Look at me!"
Only then did Thorongil open his eyes, that same stunning green cutting through the dimness, and still within them was the hate, that Denethor could see clearly, but also was something else. An inner serenity that had not yet been touched and Denethor smiled unpleasantly to see it. "Yes," he said, and slid his hands down to cup Thorongil's face between his palms, pressing a gentle kiss against both of the man's eyelids. "I had rather hoped for this."
He drew his knife from his belt, Thorongil's eyes upon him, and tapped the blade carelessly against his lips, considering. The light in his eyes had shifted, serenity into acceptance and Denethor laughed lightly to see it. "Have little fear, my unknown enemy. You are not to die that easily."
Stepping around the poles, Denethor knelt by Thorongil's side, sliding the tip of his blade into the waistband of the man's breeches. They were made of good cloth and did not cut easily, but Denethor's knife was sharp and he worked at them unhurriedly, pausing to lap gently at any accidental nick of the blade, worrying away the blood with the tender stroke of his tongue. Patiently, he worked, until Thorongil's breeches lay in shreds about the tops of his boots.
"There we are," Denethor said, softly, and he sat back on his heels, admiring the man before him. Dark lines of dried blood divided his back into a gruesome parody of stained glass, the skin between the lines as smooth and white as that of an Elf. "Lovely creature," he murmured, reaching out and tracing the smooth, unblemished line of his hip downward. Thorongil jerked beneath is touch, his shock like a tangible thing. "Do not let your courage fade now," Denethor mocked, moving so that he knelt behind him.
Unfastening his own breeches, Denethor inhaled in relief as the unrelenting pressure against his own erection eased. The smooth curve of Thorongil's backside begged to be touched, and he did so, sliding his fingers between the taut cheeks to test the entrance there and then came a small sound from Thorongil, hardly touching the air before it was bitten off.
It was something like a victory to hear, and yet, "It hardly matters now," Denethor murmured aloud. "You had your chance to speak." He took himself in hand, positioned to breech the citadel of his enemy and with a last deep breath he caught Thorongil's hips in his hands as he pushed forward.
The cruel friction of resisting flesh was its own form of bliss, as was the trembling of Thorongil beneath him, penetration bringing pain to them both. Denethor closed his eyes, catching his tongue between his teeth as he pressed deeper, pushing past resistance, forcing submission of both body and flesh.
Thorongil was tense and unwilling beneath him, yet unable to defend himself in this battle, and Denethor seated himself deeply within the other's body, sighing as he was surrounded by almost unimagined heat. The urge to simply rut was upon him, to take this pliant form beneath him, thrusting until he spilled himself within, and it would be a victory, regardless.
He leaned forward, feeling the uncomfortable press of Thorongil's hands against his belly, the nails digging into his flesh in a fruitless attempt at causing some small damage, but Denethor ignored the tiny pain, burying his face into the damp mass of Thorongil's hair. "Keep your silence," he said softly, repeating his earlier words, "I think I've found parts of you that I want more than your words."
A gentle roll of his hips drew a ragged moan from the man beneath him, and he repeated the movement, worrying the lobe of Thorongil's ear between his teeth and again tasting blood, everywhere was the taste of blood and salt, and he slowed his movements, whispering obscenities hotly into Thorongil's ear and feeling the low rumble of his moans from within.
Denethor shifted, slipping a hand beneath them and forcing Thorongil into a half-kneeling position. A different, deeper angle came with it, and both men stifled cries, Denethor thrusting deeply once, and holding, feeling Thorongil's pulse fluttering around him before he again withdrew, keeping his movements slow. If he could only feel this once, then he would enjoy it as long as he could. He slid a hand down between Thorongil's thighs and he found him not completely unaffected.
He felt Thorongil stiffen, tightening delightfully within as his body's treachery was discovered, and Denethor forced himself to stillness, breathing deeply of the thickly scented air between them. Bringing his other hand to his mouth, Denethor licked it, wetting it lavishly before reaching for Thorongil's growing erection, and Thorongil jarred into movement, pushing back against him in a startling, desperate fashion, so that Denethor was forced to cling to him, struggling against his quickly approaching climax.
"I will not be defeated so easily," Denethor grunted, wrapping both arms around Thorongil's waist and fumbling both hands between his legs, the wet skin sliding easily in his fist, and Thorongil gave a cry wrought with true despair, unable to stop himself once he had begun, and they shuddered in completion together, Denethor's shout was one of glorious victory, the battle his.
Thorongil lay gasping and spent beneath him, each breath akin to a sob, trembling as Denethor stroked him tenderly. Another soft cry escaped him as Denethor finally withdrew, and spilled yet more of his blood over his own thighs, crimson splashes mingled with Denethor's seed fouling the purity of his skin.
Fastening his breeches, Denethor stood, and he sighed, deeply satisfied, before gesturing lazily to his guards. They came forward again, unbinding Thorongil's ankles and the moment the last tie fell loose, Thorongil scrabbled to his knees, shuffling useless backwards until his back struck the wall, halting him. His hair fell over his face in greasy hanks, his eyes hardly visible though they gazed at Denethor coldly.
"Do you still have nothing to say to me," Denethor asked, his voice sweet. "Though we have shared much between us, and could yet share more?" he finished, allowing the faintest hint of a threat into his words. "My guards, I think, could yet find some sport with you."
"And this is how you would question one against whom you have no proof?" Thorongil spat, his voice hoarse, and Denethor startled to hear him speak. He frowned, but Thorongil continued, "You claim this to be your city, yours alone, and you would bestow torture on any you barely suspect may disagree! Would you murder your own father then, to make this city your own?"
Color bleached from Denethor's face, and he jerked his dagger from its sheath numbly, stepping forward, yet Thorongil continued relentlessly, his voice a lash that bit deeply, and drew blood as easily as Denethor's man had drawn it on him. "You are no better than those dark kings who listened to Sauron, and if this is how you would rule you would be as a servant of Sauron himself, like the Nazgul, though you would have no defense as to be tricked by a ring. You," he whispered, his eyes burning with some rare fire, "Are no fitting steward of Gondor."
It was Thorongil who lay on the floor, weak and bleeding, but it was Denethor who trembled, his knife a thin, shivering fragment of silver in the darkness. Thorongil watched him calmly as he approached, ignoring the blade, his eyes only on Denethor.
He crouched in front of Thorongil, slowly folding his body down and Thorongil did not flinch, the serenity again in his eyes, and Denethor suddenly doubted it had ever been extinguished. He pushed Thorongil roughly to his side, breaking their gazes and thrust out almost blindly with the knife, severing the ties binding his wrists.
A startled cry of pain came from Thorongil and he thrust his wrists beneath his arms, squeezing tightly as blood started to slow freely again into his hands. Denethor backed slowly away from him, watching him writhe silently in the dirt.
"You are going to Umbar tomorrow, by order of my father," Denethor said, his voice low. "Go, then. Show yourself to be a better man than I. But I do not suggest that you return." He turned and walked out, gesturing curtly to his guards, and they followed, none of them casting a single glance backwards at the man on the ground.
The temptation was there to leave him in the blackness, to let him find his way out on his hands and knees, but Denethor resisted it, leaving the torch that burned in the hall. They made their way up the long stairway, their footsteps echoing deeply.
"Find some clothing and leave it near the doorway," he told the man on his left tersely as they walked. He would not have his father nor his wife see Thorongil in such a state, and doubted that the man himself would say a word of it. What he might do if he did, Denethor did not consider. It would not matter, regardless, what his father might hear or do. It would not.
He would be ruler of Gondor.
**
Aragorn was counting his heartbeats, slow, dull thuds beneath his skin, whispering to himself in Elvish. On twenty he began to believe he was still alive, thirty he managed to sit up and almost collapsed again as the abused skin of his back brushed against rough stone.
No.
Twenty, again, and he was on his feet, staggering towards the doorway. Each step was an exercise in control, count to five and step, slowly, and never had there been a battle so grueling as his one with the stairs. He had no idea how long it took him to climb them, and would never think of it again.
A pile of clothing was stacked neatly in front of the door, his own, he noted dispassionately, and there was an unwelcome comfort in that, in the embrace of familiarity. He covered his wounds with it, hiding them from the view of others, but it was a constant reminder to him, the harsh pull of cloth across raw skin.
He accepted that pain, letting it come to him throughout the day, and he did not speak to anyone as he made ready for the next day's travels.
Once, he saw Denethor from across the Great Hall, watching him through the shambling crowd of people making ready for the evening meal, and Aragorn met his eyes evenly, seeing cold victory there but there was little he could do. He had no army here, no ally he could claim and he thought even Ecthelion would not take his word against that of his only son.
So it would be then. For now. He would go to Umbar tomorrow and afterward he would travel to Lórien and speak to Gandolf about the new, strange fate that would befall Gondor. Let Gondor deal with its own fate; it was no longer his concern.
Yet his eyes strayed again to Denethor, standing far from him but ever watchful. Yes, it would be best to leave. He could do nothing...now.
But one day...
-finis-
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Whoa.
Date: 2003-01-03 09:24 am (UTC)And most excellent. :o)
Re: Whoa.
Date: 2003-01-04 01:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-01-03 09:25 am (UTC)Yet his eyes strayed again to Denethor, standing far from him but ever watchful. Yes, it would be best to leave. He could do nothing...now.
But one day...
I look forward to Aragorn's revenge.
Very good story. :)
no subject
Date: 2003-01-04 01:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-01-03 09:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-01-04 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-01-03 11:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-01-04 01:52 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked it. ^_^
no subject
Date: 2003-01-04 12:46 am (UTC)Brava!
no subject
Date: 2003-01-04 01:52 pm (UTC)Something about Aragorn just makes want to have someone take him down a notch. So very noble....he needs a little abuse from time to time. *G*