Faramir Fiction Archive

Speaks to the Trees (R)

Written by Draylon

27 July 2011 | 18210 words | Work in Progress

Title: Speaks to the Trees
Author: Draylon
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: Orc-heavy content

This is a tricky one, this being a stand-alone-ish sequel to the (the still unfinished, and not yet posted here) sequel to ‘Captain of Mordor’. Please note that Faramir, though generally sniped about by Orcs in earlier chapters, doesn’t actually play a main part in this story in until Chapter 6 onwards. Contains generally Orc-heavy content and some explicit (mostly consensual) Faramir / Shagrat sex scenes in later chapters.

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Chapter 3. Gone fishing

The quarter moon was long set, which made it well after midnight by Shagrat’s reckoning, as he continued on his way. His progress down from the mountain had been slower than he’d anticipated; he had aimed to arrive at the grove of poplar trees he was heading for a few hours before sunrise, which would give him enough time for a fairly leisurely sojourn – although he’d planned to leave before the sun was up, preferring to travel in these regions under cover of darkness. The lowland his favoured trees were growing in was a decidedly pastoral setting; well populated by livestock farmers, and the floodplain itself was stocked with many domestic animals of various types. The hedges, willow copses and water-meadows they grazed down on the plain offered very little cover, and the Orc had no wish to be caught out in the open by some angry farm-hand or stockman. He’d have to pick up his pace if he was going to avoid this, but thinking he could still make it – there and back for a good run – Uruk jogged heavily on down the path. There was no sound but the rhythmic scuff and thud of his boots on the rocky downhill slope for some time.

One of the trickier parts of his journey in fact, lay not far in front of him near the foot of the hillside. Here, in a place where the woods narrowed and the trees grew more sparsely, was a village spanning both sides of the mountain path. Despite an obvious lack of good building space, the stone houses there were surprisingly numerous, teetering on the edge of fabulous drop-offs on either side of a steep-sided, forest ravine and for some distance down from this point on the hillside, the path Shagrat had been following became the only traversable route. Just uphill of here, the stream running beside the path was joined by a number of tributaries and increased in size to become a white-watered torrent. This abundant source of fresh water was used to wash fleeces sheared from the flocks grazing downstream, and a settlement of wool-workers, spinners and weavers had grown up around it.

At this time of night however, the weavers’ village was quiet. There were still lamps lit in a few of the houses, so perhaps some of their occupants were still awake, and here and there were warm squares of lamp-light shining through the trees. But the cobbled main-street was deserted and even the village tavern dark and with its shutters closed. Shagrat was struck once again by a human peculiarity he’d noted in the past; granted, they might stay up late for the odd night or special occasion, but really, the creatures were very strictly diurnal in their habits. But it worked as an advantage for him this night, and he passed through the middle of village and then down onto the wooded hillside beyond without incident.

He had been stepping along quietly enough, he thought, when there came a flurry of movement and commotion a little way ahead of him, after which Shagrat was passed by one, then two or more people running silently past him through in the trees; hurtling at break-neck speed. Shortly he came to an open space on the riverbank. The place was now deserted, but in their great rush to leave, whoever had just been here had left their fishing net staked out at the water’s edge – together with a few other odds and ends of kit still lying about. It looked as if he had stumbled upon a poachers’ night-time camp – perhaps even set up by the same band of ‘Gypsy travellers’ Rukush said he’d been going to visit.

The Orc approached cautiously. Their abandoned net was a long, narrow affair, lightly weighted at the bottom end and with a line of floats along the top – clearly designed to be pulled through the water by hand rather than cast out from the riverbank. And there seemed to be something with some weight still caught in it. Shagrat hesitated for a moment – but after all, he’d made it past the weavers’ village without any trouble and this shouldn’t take much time. His thoughts on a free meal of fish, the Orc began pulling in the slack of the net.

The weight was surprising: far greater than he’d been expecting, but Shagrat hauled away hand over hand at the line, determinedly gathering the waterlogged mesh in a heap on the river bank – until, as he gave a final mighty pull, the contents of the far end of the net flopped in a streaming mass onto his feet. The Orc exclaimed in surprise and then swore as he saw that there was someone tangled up in there; a young boy, and from the looks of his still, cold and white face, he must have been under the water for quite a time. He wasn’t breathing, and pressing his fingers for a moment against the lad’s neck, Shagrat couldn’t detect a pulse. The Orc cut the body free with a few swift knife-strokes and heaved it further away from the riverbank, stepping over it carelessly as it lay on its back. He was setting off on his way again when a thought occurred to him, and he turned around in his tracks.

One night long ago in Mordor, one of the squaddies from Shagrat’s company – a new recruit fresh down from the mountains, had drunk more wormwood-laced grog than was good for him, and taken it into his head to go arseing about in the gantries high on the walls of the Tower. Halfway to the top the full effects of the brew he’d been quaffing kicked in and the fellow passed out. He keeled down arse over tip till a big water butt broke his fall – but by the time someone had climbed up there to get a rope round and haul him out, they might as well have saved themselves the bother as it seemed they’d gotten to him too late after all. They’d all been standing round the lifeless body – someone had their filleting-knife in hand already and Shagrat was thinking about divvying up the rest of the squaddie’s kit, in point of fact – when one of the young Orc’s mates, serving in one of the neighbouring companies, had come rushing up and flung himself over him, then started sort of blowing air into his mouth – Shagrat could still remember watching as the drowned squaddie’s chest gently rose up and down – and up and down, as each breath from his mate made it rise then fall. Eventually the group of on-looking Uruks’ lewd jeers and jibing had been replaced by a kind of quietly impressed silence as the half-drowned squaddie began to revive – and soon enough he coughed up a load of water and started breathing properly, and that was that. At the time Shagrat had made a mental note to remember the episode in case of someday the novel technique coming in handy, but of course it happened many years ago and he’d never had occasion to use it since that.

More out of curiosity than anything else, he tilted the lad’s head back, pinched his nose shut, and huffed a series of deep breaths into his mouth. Nothing happened for a time and the Orc was thinking of trying a second round – when suddenly the youth began retching and choking, shivering violently as he started to draw in shallow, painful breaths. He rolled onto his side as Shagrat jumped back.

In their haste to get away, the poachers had left a few odds and ends lying on the riverbank. These consisted of a few dry hessian sacks and two or three shuttered oil-lamps, only one of them lit. Being careful not to touch him, Shagrat chucked a couple of the sacks over the lad’s trembling shoulders. Then he opened the cover on the lighted lamp just the tiniest bit, allowing it to it illuminate a few inches all around, and put it on the ground nearby.

He realized then that the youth’s companions had come back. There were three of them, all of about the same age and none of them much more than half-grown, standing in a small, silent group, a short distance away under the trees.

“That’s our friend there,” the boldest one ventured, coming forwards a few steps. “My best mate. What were you doing – when you was leaning down over him like that before? Is he – is he going to be all right?”

It was occurring to Shagrat that while he himself could make their faces out quite clearly, of course – in the dark they couldn’t see him properly as yet. “If you’re such ‘mates’,” he said disgustedly, “how come you all upped and ran for it then?”

“We didn’t know he’d gone under, Mister,” another of the boys gulped, “honest!”

They were village youths, who had apparently been engaged in some strictly illicit night-fishing; poaching, really, for the migratory sea-trout that were often found in the river at this time of year. The half-drowned one – who, ironically, was credited with being the best swimmer of the group – had been holding the far end of their wade-net near the opposite bank of the river, while his friends took care of their side, on land on the nearer side. The lads’ lookout, having mistaken Shagrat for the water-bailiff who patrolled much of this part of the river, had panicked and lost his head completely at the Orc’s approach for this particular official had a reputation for dealing with poachers with quite unnecessary severity: “he shoots them with his crossbow, Mister, no questions asked! And he’s got a big fierce dog, too!” The boys had scattered into the woods, assuming that their friend had managed to get out of the water too, but had returned for him when they realized he’d failed to rejoin the group.

By now the lad who had been caught in the fishing net was trying to sit up, and encouraged by this the others moved in closer and began to cluster round him.

“I can’t see a thing here,” one of them said. “How about a bit more light?”

“Wait a minute – what about that water bailiff?” Shagrat began, knowing full well the effect that the sight of an Orc standing there – large as life – would be likely to have on them. “You’ll totally knacker your – your night vision.”

But the boy was already holding the dark lantern high in his hand and had started sliding open the shutter on the side. Light from the oil-lamp inside flamed full onto Shagrat, casting awful, leaping shadows to go dancing about his rough and weather-beaten face. A moment of terrible silence ensued as the youngsters took in the Orc’s pointed ears – and claws and fangs; his missing eye. Perhaps acting on the vain hope that removing this new horror from view might improve their situation, the lad who had hold of the lantern flung it away from him, casting it violently onto the ground – where it went out. Then they all began shouting incoherently as the mood of the gang of youngsters switched once again from hopeful gratitude to – blind panic.

“One of them Orcs from up the mountain’s got him!”

“Must’ve been chewing on his head!”

“It’ll be after us, too!”

And finally – “Run!” – as in a confusion of flapping garments and flailing limbs, the lads, scattering in all directions, ran off again into the cover of the trees.

The youth who’d been nearly half-drowned remained sitting in the same place on the ground, however, and it became clear that he had not properly been keeping up with recent events. Water in his ears – or on the brain most probably, thought Shagrat, as carefully keeping his distance, he edged his way round him.

“Did Garvey say something about an Orc?” the boy piped up, in a quavering voice.

“I didn’t see one,” Shagrat replied truthfully. “Maybe your friend’s got a vivid imagination, or some such.”

“Then why did they all just run away and leave me!” the boy sobbed. “What sort of friends have they turned out to be?”

“You might find they – will have had their reasons,” Shagrat told him abruptly. “Look. After what’s just – after what your friends think has just happened, I’m sure they’re going to be sending someone back to find – well, what’s left of you, at any rate. Your –“ he broke off, not at all sure how these things were worked in practice.

“My Dad’s going to kill me!” The boy wailed.

“You know, I bet your – father – will be along now any minute,” Shagrat said, looking around doubtfully. An Orc in the night woods standing over some abandoned kid – a cowering, weeping, kid – well, that sounded bad even to Shagrat, and the situation was definitely open to all sorts of unfortunate interpretations, wasn’t it? Already he imagined he could hear the sounds of angry townspeople coming for him, off in the forest. He knew the best thing would be to get far away from this place at once.

“Now where’re you going!”

The Uruk didn’t reply. Then the lad began crying in earnest.

TBC

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