Denethor makes an appearance.
Gondor's First Blood[edit]
**Warning: Suggestion of Extreme NC-17. Non-con, crowds, fish, the usual. But although the props are on set, no one has picked them up yet…**
Faramir sat on the edge of his bed, stunned by the words Marek had spoken. He had thought nothing worse could happen to him after he had been forced to renounce Gondor. After all, why was he here but in the service of Gondor? When it was the White City and the gardens of Ithilien to which he had been holding for sanity? Many times in the past weeks had he despaired at the way his King and father had deceived him, twisted and betrayed him to the use of his country. Yet each time this thought came to him in the darkness of night, hunger or pain, Faramir had bit it back, refusing to believe that this wasn’t his ultimate chance to show his strength and loyalty to his beloved country and King. Perhaps to make his father proud. Perhaps to turn Aragorn’s eyes toward him in respect, and in love.
And for all his sacrifices, there he had stood, all but naked, branded and humiliated, forced to become a traitor to his country. He knew he could not refuse; the tiny Gondorian envoy would never escape Umbar safely. He also knew that according to Gondor’s laws, once he spoke the words -- for whatever reason -- there was no reprieve. To denounce the nation was to be forever an outcast and an enemy. A traitor. The word tasted of bile. And yet he had been left no choice.
That had been the end of all that he knew himself to be. With that last request of Marek’s, something inside Faramir broke. He no longer desired to belong to Gondor. Gondor had used him. His father had deserted him. His brother had been lost to him. And, Faramir swallowed a sob, Aragorn had betrayed him. What now was left?
Faramir thought this realization and his pronouncement had marked the final hardening of his heart. Nothing more could still be taken. He was so very wrong.
It seemed he had only rested on the bed for a few minutes’ time before a knock at the door announced Aran’s arrival. He knew it would be Aran, for who else would bother knocking? The look on the man’s face filled Faramir with sick dread. Aran’s face showed clearly that much worse was to come.
‘Faramir,’ he said hesitantly, ‘I’m afraid it’s time.’ Faramir felt a boulder shift in his stomach. There was no escape.
Aran held out a cup to Faramir hesitantly. ‘I’m not supposed to do this, and Marek will have me flogged if he finds out, but I’ve brought you some herbs that will kill the pain and hopefully give you some distance from what is going to happen. I cannot give you any more information, because the ritual requires that the consort be both unwilling and unprepared. Marek will want you to cry out, and the lords will wish to see you suffer, but so long as you take care to make the right noises, this brew should lessen some of the sensation. It will also help hide the memories come tomorrow.’
Faramir looked up at Aran silently. He knew the man was trying to help, and yet this offer somehow felt like yet one more betrayal. Like a friend offering to sing him a lullaby while his throat was slit. Dully Faramir held out his hand for the cup. He no longer cared.
He took a sip but found the lump in his throat had grown so large he could no longer swallow. Gagging, the former ranger struggled to force the warm bitter brew down, but to no avail. Instead he was overtaken by a fit of coughing and spit out the liquid onto the floor. Coughs turned to sobs, and Faramir was briefly wrenched by waves of emotion that shook his body and caused him to heave as if ill. Aran could only stand by, smoothing the young man’s hair ineffectually. He had no words of comfort to offer. There were none for what was about to happen.
As Faramir’s choked sobs diminished to shuddering sighs, Aran took hold of his arm and pulled him to his feet.
‘It’s time,’ he said again, and reluctantly led Faramir back to the Great Hall.
____
The way in which the Great Hall had been prepared for the Rite surprised even Denethor. As he took his seat, he mused that he had been expecting the chairs to be arranged as if for a musical performance, like an audience around the great marble table.
Instead, it seemed as if the room had been arranged intentionally to create the atmosphere of a bawdy house or a rowdy sport arena. The marble table no longer stood upon a raised dais at the front of the room. Instead, it alone stood on the stone floor in the very center of the Hall. The other tables had been arranged on a series of raised platforms around and above it, so that the guests would have a full view of the main table arrayed below them. From his seat, Denethor could easily see deep nicks and stains upon the table's surface, and wondered vaguely whether these Haradim were so uncouth as to overlook its polishing and care.
The platforms had been connected to one another so that guests could range freely around the coupling in search of a different view, a new angle. Those at – or on – the main table would have a sense of being both surrounded and overpowered by the shouting crowd of lords pressing on all sides.
(Lords and ladies, Denethor corrected himself. For indeed, there were many women present. He wondered whether they would join in the harangue, or even the performance? adding to the complete humiliation of the consort-to-be.)
In addition, other props had been provided near at hand to the Main Table, should Marek be requested – or inclined -- to need them. A wooden rack of various weapons and tools was placed at the head of the table, and Denethor saw to his secret satisfaction that it contained an assortment of knives, canes, whips, straps, and gags, as well as other implements whose use he could not immediately guess from this distance. Many seemed to have been fetched from the torture chambers, and Denethor wondered idly if they were there merely for dramatic effect or if they might truly experience a show today. How he so dearly loved to hear his boy scream, whether in terror or in pain made little difference.
A series of ropes and chains also hung from the hall’s ceiling, should they prove useful. A large platter of food sat on a wheeled cart across from the tool rack. But more than simply snacks for the sustenance of the performers, the tray seemed rather to hold fruits, vegetables, condiments, and other foodstuffs that might occur to the gathered lords as useful in the coming encounter.
Another cart held what appeared to be a large bucket of ice, several jars containing various chemicals, insects, snakes and a pair of eels. The corner of the Steward’s mouth twitched. It had been quite a while since he had found himself surprised by others’ ideas. Perhaps only for their shock value, he thought again, though he felt himself becoming unaccountably stiff.
A large brazier complete with various metal implements completed the set up -- although Denethor was aware that his eyesight was not what it once was, and he might have missed some details.
The aging Steward felt his mouth fill with saliva in what was either disgust or anticipation; he wasn’t yet sure. Yes, he was about to watch his own son sexually tortured before a score of spectators. He should be horrified. And yet, in truth, Denethor could not escape the reality that he had long tortured his youngest son, and never to the fullest extent he would have desired. To be forced to watch another do so now, and to be simultaneously both responsible, and powerless to stop it -- ah, the very situation was erotic. And the fun had not even yet begun!
That Aragorn would be here as well, and shared in both the blame of creating the circumstances and allowing it to continue – aye, this was the stuff from which true brotherhood was forged. This would create a bond between them no others could sunder, and from which Aragorn could never walk away. Denethor knew his standing with the King was about to be firmly cemented. And who knew? This might also herald a new chapter in entertainments that the two might share in years to come. Things they saw here they might like to import for the pleasure of their own close advisors behind closed doors. Valar knew the lower levels of the city contained more young women and boys than it could easily keep track of, and nothing created unwavering loyalty like the sharing of guilty secrets.
___
A cheer went up from the assembled company as Faramir was led in, walking stiffly with his chin up, though his eyes appeared blank and glazed. Marek noted with displeasure that his consort no longer held his body in a subservient curve as taught, yet stayed his hand. It did not matter now; the boy would be broken soon enough. Seeing that change occur before their eyes might indeed be more fun for the Lords.
As Faramir was brought to him at the central table, the Prince grabbed him by a handful of wavy golden hair, forcing his head back and claiming him with a savage kiss. His other hand immediately closed on Faramir’s sex, squeezing hard and eliciting a gasp as the raw skin of the brand was twisted with the sensitive organ. The assembled crowd of lords and their ladies cheered again, laughing raucously and shouting encouragement. Marek murmured a filthy endearment in Faramir's ear as he ran his calloused hands down Faramir’s trembling body, roughly twisting his nipples and cupping his buttocks. Then, in a gesture that was becoming too familiar to Faramir, Marek turned his consort around so that his back faced the audience, pulled his upper body down slightly against his own shoulder, and spread his cheeks for the crowd. Faramir bit his lip in silent humiliation.
‘Look at him, my lords, my honorable guests. This is my famous Gondorian consort, none other than the son of the Steward, sold by his father and his king for peace. Mine for the taking…’ Here Marek paused deliberately until he shared a slow wolfish grin with his court. ‘Ours for the taking.’ His councilors bellowed their response.
‘Look well on him,’ he continued. ‘See the tightness of his untried passage. You will never see it thus again. For tonight we deflower Gondor’s child. Tonight we open the defenseless youth of Gondor to the time-hardened pleasures of Harad and Umbar – and such pleasures may they be!’
Aragorn, who had slipped in as Marek began speaking, looked decidedly discomfited by this vengeful speech and the roar of response. This was all wrong. The King's eyes appeared flat and reddened, stunned, yet he strove to keep all emotion from his ashen face. Now was not the time.
‘My Lords and Ladies, as you know, this legendary table has sat in the central halls of our kingdom ever since our forefathers folded their desert tents in favor of a permanent city. It was carved from the same marble slab upon which our ancestors sacrificed the children of vanquished enemies to our vengeful gods. The marks of ancient axes still remind us where willing blades tasted their victims' blood.
'This table is the center of our kingdom, the memory and tradition of our people. On its sacred surface, I now invoke the spirits of these ancestors. I renew the ancient ritual that binds us all as brethren and confirms our patriotism and our power! I declare the Rite of Hazalan begun!'
The Prince raised his goblet in a shouted toast. ‘To Harad and Umbar! To Blood!’ The hall echoed with the answering chorus.
Denethor and Aragorn raised their goblets as well, though their words were mere whispers.
‘Now what would you have us do to one bound in service to your Prince? One who owes us retribution? The child of our...former...enemies? Let your words and our deeds reflect our national character – and our creativity! Let us begin!’
With a roar from the surrounding men, Marek tore Faramir’s remaining garments from his body and forced him back onto the marble table. Holding his head down and kissing him brutally, the Prince shoved three heavily ringed fingers into Faramir without warning. The young man cried out in pain, arching back and writhing. Marek’s hand plunged and twisted without remorse until, just as quickly, he ripped his fingers free. Faramir stifled a sob as Marek held his now shining hand aloft to the crowd.
‘My lords and ladies, I give you Gondor’s First Blood!’
The hall surged with bellows of rapacious joy and the banging of goblets and canes, soon punctuated by wordless screams. It was only just beginning.
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