2. Chapter 2
Her stomach rumbled, and she reached for the loaf, almost half gone now, and nibbled the edge. It was rough and heavy, but wholesome enough and at least it was something to do.
A sound! Her ears pricked, her mind fastening on the distant noise. Footsteps. Closer. Fear began to seep into her veins. Was he coming back? Or would it be some new horror?
A yellow light oozed under the door, shining over the dirty flags. Her eyes fastened on it greedily, soaking it up. The rough groaning of the door spilled the light over her, and she shaded her eyes from the surfeit of it. The lamp flickered and leapt, jostled in a dark hand. She pushed herself upright against the wall, pressing her back to it.
It was the same Orc.
“Ah, my pretty.” His voice scraped her ears. “Did you sleep well? Comfortable enough for you?”
She lifted her head and met his eyes in silence.
“We are a haughty one, aren’t we?” he laughed harshly, then lowered his voice to a menace, “That’ll change, my beauty, oh yes.”
She swallowed her fear, and clenched her fists to stop them shaking.
He lifted her buckets, depositing them outside the door and returning with fresh ones.
“See how I wait on you with my own hands?” he sneered, “Captain Marlûk carrying a bucket of night soil. And not one word of gratitude.”
He fetched in a straw filled palliasse and flung it at her feet, followed by a rough blanket. “There.” He mocked, “Am I not concerned for your comfort, lady elf?”
“Thank you.” The words forced themselves past her dry lips, compelled involuntarily by years of courteous ritual.
“That’s better.” He smirked.
He turned from her, but did not leave, instead he kicked the door shut.
Fear leapt in her now, firing her veins, trembling her limbs, and she pushed herself back into the farthest corner of the cell.
“Yes, my pretty.” He advanced on her slowly, his face leering, his voice low. “Now Marlûk wants a little something in return.”
Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her dry mouth, and dread melted her gut.
Marlûk savoured each step as he approached her slowly. The soft grey eyes were dark with fear, the pulse fluttering at the marble throat. He cornered her, and she pressed back into the wall, lifting her chin in useless defiance. He raised a hand to stroke that exquisite face and she struck at him, flailing her hands at his head.
“No!” she cried, “Do not touch me!”
He laughed and gripped her arms in his cruel hands. She was strong, her body twisting and bending as he leaned closer. She kicked out, but her bare foot was no match for his thick muscle. Her struggles excited him, and for a moment he thought of going down that road. But no, the other was ultimately more satisfying.
“Listen to me.” He hissed, pressing back hard to force both her arms against the wall. “I’m going to give you a choice.”
She stilled for a moment, her eyes a mixture of fear and anger.
“You can choose to fight, and I’ll bring in four of my boys to hold you down.” He snarled, “They can watch, and when I’ve finished, it’ll only be fair to give them a turn too.”
Her face was ashen, her mouth white and twisted.
“Or it can be just the two of us, and I won’t be any rougher than you make necessary.”
She looked directly at him, her eyes pleading. He watched carefully, savouring each delicious moment as she made the choice. She was indeed a beauty, lips carved and full, bones delicate, skin fine. Her hair a molten river and her ears exquisite. And she was his, for a time at least, to do with as he pleased. Pleasure stirred in him at the thought.
Her eyes dulled, lowered and she slumped against the wall. Good girl.
He released her arms and they dropped lifeless to her sides. He lifted a hand to stroke the softness of her silver hair. The fair silk against his dark skin. He shivered in anticipation.
“Lie down.” He kicked the mattress up against the wall.
She complied, turning her face towards the stone and closing her eyes.
Celebrían squeezed her eyes closed and tried to imagine herself far, far away. She could not bring herself to think of home, or of Lórien. She did not want to sully any of them with the taint of this place. She thought instead of the Sea. Of sailing on a ship over the grey ocean.
Marlûk spent a long time just looking down at her, feeling the heat build in him. Her robes spread softly, clinging to her lithe limbs, and moulding over her tight bosom. Her hair fanned over the rough ticking and onto the dank floor. He knelt and gathered it up, smoothing it down beside her. He touched a dark hand to her cheek, how soft it was. Stroked it down over her head, running a gnarled finger, its cruel nail long and twisted, over her fragile ear.
He turned his attention to her neck and throat, the alabaster skin cold and shrinking from his touch as he brushed it. A groan escaped him, and she tightened her eyelids, a tear seeping out. His mouth watered to see it.
He fumbled with the closure of her bodice, the delicate fastenings defeating his clumsy fingers. Impatiently he tugged at it, and moved to get his dagger.
No, wait, there was a better way.
He lifted her hands into position. “Undo them,” he growled, “Save me tearing your gown.”
Her movement was unhurried, habitual and when she was finished she returned her hands to their dormant place.
Slowly, slowly he pushed back the soft fabric, gradually bringing his prize into view. Her breasts were everything he had imagined. Tight and high. Nipples taut with cold and fear, the skin ivory and flawless. His greed pressed urgently now. Bursting and impatient. He hastened to loosen his clothing, groaning with pleasure as he freed himself into the cold air. He raised a hand to her bosom, the skin smooth and soft beneath his touch as he ran his palm over her. The ripe, tight feel of the breast as he closed his fingers around it, caused him to groan in pleasure. With his other hand he began to stroke himself, steady, rhythmic movements. He moved his hand to her other breast now, rubbing and pressing. His thick, swart fingers pressing into her delicate white flesh, his talons pinching the pale pink nipples till they glared red. His pleasure built, heat rising in him as he worked faster. He lifted a strand of her hair, draping it over the beautiful breasts, stroking the softness over her pert curves. He was near now, his breath rough, strokes fast and urgent. Just as he approached the peak, he lifted a single finger and brushed her lips. She flinched, and he spilled himself with a harsh cry. His emission splashed onto the silk of her hair, the dark of his member against the silver sheet. He moaned with release, wiping himself with the shining tresses.
Celebrían lifted her head to feel the wind in her hair, the ocean spray cold in her face. She did not feel him draw the blanket over her, nor the door close as he left.
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.