7. For Sale
Chapter Seven – For Sale
His days lasted forever; his nights were doomed. They fucked him in every way imaginable and in some ways that he thought should kill a man. But he did not die. He clung to life, thoroughly convinced that he was being punished. He accepted it all, as he had accepted his own self-flagellation. Conversely, he knew Faramir was free, clean, safe. That thought sustained him, gave him strength when they shoved their axe heads up him, shoved their cocks, two at a time, into his mouth, shoved their hands… Faramir's honor was intact, that was all that mattered.
Each night, they would bring him to the main chamber. Groggily, he tried to stand when they called for him. His legs would not obey. As was their wont. The guards did not wait for the cavern and their master; they never did. One grabbed his balls and he arched upwards, trying to ease the abused testicles from the beast's hand. The other quaffed his shaft, swallowing, pulling, licking, biting. His cock grew hard. He spilled. He wept.
His eyes were swollen shut but he knew, as they dragged him from his prison, that another night of torture lay before him. The room was full to overflowing with Drúin. He could feel them; smell their stench as he suffered their filthy hands on his naked body.
"Stone Man for sale now. I no more need him. Got me horse woman. She tastes better."
Their gurgles, he had learned it was laughter, echoed through the cave at their leader's announcement.
He heard her screams and, for one moment, his heart opened and he felt sorrow. The poor thing. She will not last long.
He stumbled when they shoved him forward, stumbled and fell. The echo of their mirth abused his senses. Louder than ever. He tried to cover his ears, but his hands were pulled from them. He felt hot breath on his ear and flinched as one of them screamed into it, then cuffed him. All noise muted into one dull roar.
"Stand." The leader kicked his cock and tears sprang. He wondered if a cock ever fell off, from maltreatment. Probably not.
"I give you two ponies."
"Two ponies! One night you get for two ponies!"
"Give you four and my sister."
"She ugly. No want."
"I will give you my sword!"
He tried to see whose voice that was. Familiar. Rohirric. His eyes would not open, but he did not need to see as hope coursed through him. Rescue?
Clashing steel. A body slammed into him, forcing him to his knees. He rolled. A kick caught his head and stars shimmered. An axe grazed through his shirt and across his stomach. His gut clenched.
I will not pass out.
Screams, thuds, the smell of horses. Terror hung in the cavern like some foul-smelling sore. Who? What is happening? A body, naked except for the grass-skirt, fell on him. He tried to kick it off. It would not budge. He could not breathe from the weight of it.
A hand jerked his arm, pulling him out from under it and across the cave's floor. His broken ribs flamed as they were pulled apart and pain seared through him. He screamed.
Stunned to hear Rohirric, he thought he must be befuddled.
"Who are you?" he croaked, his throat so dry and raw he thought it would burst into flame.
"Théodred, my friend. Be still."
Boromir's other hand snaked over the hand that pulled him and held tight to it. He was drowning in his own tears.
A/N – Drúin (plural) Dru (singular) - Sindarin for the native Drughu.