Chapter Text
He crashed down the hill through the brush and undergrowth, frantically trying to escape his pursuers and unmindful of the scrapes and bruises that now covered his exposed legs and arms. But they were unshakable, throwing bawdy jokes back and forth to one another as they yelled threats and catcalls of what tortures were to come once he was captured. He chanced a glimpse over his shoulder, measuring the distance between himself and the hunters. They were closer but then they were on horseback while he was afoot. He willed his large feet to move faster, adrenaline his only advantage as the quarry. He had lost his cloak long ago, caught on a greedy branch and pulled from his back, and now his fine linen shirt, velvet weskit and pants were ripped beyond repair, but he cared not. He looked ahead seeking any hint of some small place in which to conceal himself, and seeing none. He hit the crest of a hill, lost his footing, and fell to his knees. He struggled to his feet and escaped, narrowly, from hands that reached out, grasping for him. Shooting another glance over his shoulder he saw that only one of the men remained on his trail. Quickly, he scanned the area for the other but there was no sign of the man. That proved to be a mistake that would seal his fate, for as he whipped his head forward a low branch appeared in front of him and he was unable to avoid it as it clubbed him in the forehead, throwing him onto his back and rendering him near senseless. Two sneering and decidedly sinister faces appeared above him, lasciviously grinning down at him.
"Ya led us on a merry chase, but now your ours and we're gonna show ya a right good time now, ya little rat," the heavy man panted. "Aye, a mighty good time," he continued, a lustful look in his eyes. Frodo heard all of this as if from a fog and briefly wondered how things could have gone so wrong so fast before losing consciousness.
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The day had dawned sunny and bright with only dark clouds far on the horizon as a portent of a possible afternoon storm and Frodo had taken only one glance before he had gathered his things for a hike. He decided, rather impetuously, to make the journey an overnighter, preferring the sounds of nature to that of the smial. Bilbo had departed, to places unknown, a mere month before and the silence of the once beloved home that surrounded him, had become unbearable. He missed the constant chatter and mumbling of his uncle as he had padded about the smial leaving in its place a deep, abiding loneliness. The oppressive silence had taken its toll. Frodo seldom ate any longer, despising the solitary act of venturing into the kitchen to prepare himself a meal. He slept even less, the lack of the comforting ritual of drinking a glass of wine or smoking a pipe before turning in with his beloved Bilbo, having been taken from him. He had come to loath the opulence and vastness of his surroundings as the quiet of the home seemed to take on a life of its own as it engulfed and smothered him, filling him with dread. He had become withdrawn and listless, not wishing to burden Sam or his kin with what, he thought to be, a trivial matter. 'It will just take some getting used to, is all,' he had thought but as the weeks had crawled by the smial had become unendurable. He began to spend less and less time at Bag End in order to avoid the heavy silence of each day and night. At first Sam, Merry or Pippin had joined him on his outings, but as Frodo ventured further and further from his home, they had begged off, unable to make the treks. On this fateful day he had been lost in thought, reflecting on how he could adapt to the noiselessness of his home, not realizing just how far he had walked. He had found himself deep within the woods of the northern borders of the Shire and decided it was as good a place as any to camp for the night. Instead of setting up camp he had plopped himself at the base of a huge tree and taken parchment and ink from his knapsack. He had been writing down his thoughts when the sound of approaching horses had come to his ears. He had secreted himself behind the trunk and peered cautiously at the two riders. They had had a foul look about them and Frodo had quickly gathered his things in order to make a hasty retreat. A sudden gust of wind had snatched a page from his hand and he had, reflexively, grabbed at it; the movement had been his undoing. One of the two riders had pointed at him and they had quickened their pace towards the tree. Panicked, Frodo had sprinted into the tree line and the chase commenced.
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Tilion was bored. He had been sent by his Captain to patrol the northern borders of the Shire after hearing of some unsavory character’s presence. As he road along the tree line he reflected on the reclusive leader of the rangers of the north. Try as he might he had not, as yet, received but the occasional nod or greeting from the man and it was a source of frustration that ate at him. He had shown exemplary service in his short time with the group but it seemed to go largely unnoticed and unrecognized. Tilion wasn't usually a seeker of acceptance or praise but after months of being treated with indifference he had begun to doubt his abilities and the prospect of ever becoming a true ranger in the eyes of the man. He had sought out a fellow ranger and friend, seeking guidance on how he might earn the respect of his Captain. Tulkas, a large, muscular ranger, had become, early on, a protector of the young ranger. He lacked the usual grimness of the band, instead having a gay twinkle and hearty laugh that never failed to cheer those around him. He was a mighty warrior that Tilion, on numerous occasions, had seen the other side of - a steady, fierce and surprisingly agile foe against the evil that threatened the Shire. When Tilion had voiced his doubts and worries concerning his abilities and the lack of response from the Captain, the behemoth had merely slapped him on the back, a gesture that had left Tilion sore for days, laughed heartily and told him to be patient; that he was still but a child, by Numenorean standards, and that he would gain what he sought in time. Tilion realized that being a mere twenty-four years of age, he was considered very young in light of the fact that he was of the Dunedain lineage. He was considered impetuous and bullheaded, though gifted, all qualities attributed to his youth. He sighed and touched his pocket subconsciously. He wondered what his father would have thought of him now and if the man would have been proud. He had been but twelve years of age when his father had perished in a squirmish with a band of Breemen. Captain Thorongil had grieved the most being a close and lifelong friend with his father. Tilion's mother had brought him to the rangers and plead with Thorongil to take him under his wing and train him, knowing that her husband would have desired this. Afterwards she had gone to live with her remaining relatives in Fornost, knowing she would, quite likely, never see her son again. At first Tilion had felt abandoned and had retreated into himself, missing his mother desperately. But, after a time, the group had begun his training in armed combat, the use of the bow and sword and the ability to walk soundlessly within the woods. Soon he had been able to sneak, undetected, up on any member of the group. He had learned quickly and drawn praise from all, all except his Captain who had merely nodded and given a grunt to show his approval. His greatest skill had proven to be the use of the bow and he had, on numerous occasions, been able to hit impossible targets at great distances. He had wanted to wear his father's silver star, like the others, on his cloak but Tulkas had counseled him to wait until the Captain deemed him worthy. Tilion had resigned himself to never achieving the honor of wearing the emblem, that he would forever be thought of as a novice in the eyes of the Captain. His reverie was cut short by a high, shrill scream that caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise. The scream had been full of terror and anguish and sounded like the person was experiencing a great suffering. He turned his horse sharply and raced through the trees and underbrush towards the sound.
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Frodo had been yanked to his feet and thrown, like a bag of grain, over the front of the heavy man's horse. The men then began to search for a campsite. It had begun to rain heavily by the time they found a suitable spot and Frodo was thrown to the muddy ground and tethered to a tree with a rope. They tied his hands but left his feet unbound, not perceiving them to be a threat knowing he could not run while leashed. They left him and began to set up camp.
"I get first go this time. Your tore the other 'un up with your big, hairy dick last time. Poor thing bled ta death 'for I ever got a chance at 'em," Gant said plaintively.
"I can't help it if I'm well hung," laughed Wulf. "I get pretty worked up when I get one 'o the runts. Can't stop meself, they're so nice and tight." He licked at his thick lips, anticipating the entertainment that was to come. He eyed the hobbit's unconscious form hungrily.
"Well, I still gets first go. I ain't takin' no chances on you killin' another 'un," Gant grumped.
"Fine, but make it quick. I'm getting hard jes' thinkin' 'bout it," Wulf said angrily.
Gant left, walking towards the stream, to refill his water bag. After he was out of sight Wulf crossed to the hobbit and began to unbutton the hobbit's clothing. "Ah, bugger it," he said through gritted teeth and began yanking and tearing the cloth, in frantic need, from Frodo's prone body. After the hobbit was naked Wulf began to slowly run his hands over the soft skin. He freed Frodo's hands and rolled him onto his back. He groaned as he looked at the perfect body before him. He was so hard now he thought he would come before ever having touched the hobbit.
"Oi, what's this? I tolds ya I gets first go," shouted Gant as he ran towards the campsite.
"I was jes' gettin' him ready is all. Look, ain't he a pretty one?" Wulf said as he stared at the hobbit, his eyes filled with unbridled lust.
"Oh, this is gonna be sweet," Gant murmured, drinking in the sight.
The noise of the confrontation caused Frodo to stir and he slowly opened his eyes and looked up into the hungry faces above him. He cringed away from the beefy men leering down at him.
"Ah look, he's awake. What say we have some fun now, eh Mr. Rat?" Wulf said licking his lips in anticipation. Frodo struggled to free himself but found he was held tight. He soon discovered, however, that his feet were free and delivered a well-placed kick into Wulf's face.
"Agggh! The maggot broke me nose," the man bellowed as he fell back onto his rear, blood dribbling down through his fingers as he clutched at his face. He turned on Frodo and hit him hard across the face causing Frodo's head to snap violently backwards-leaving stars in the hobbit's vision, his mouth bleeding and head reeling as his surroundings swam in and out of focus. Two more slaps followed in quick succession and Frodo's head pounded, as he was rendered nearly insensible. Wulf jumped to his feet and began shouting down at him but Frodo could only make out about half of what was said for the ringing in his ears. He languidly looked up at the raging man just as a shod foot came towards him and delivered a powerful kick.
"Ooof," he gasped as the foot connected brutally with his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. Wulf continued kicking and striking at the small body until Gant stepped in and stopped him. Frodo rolled to his side and vomited, blood and bile dribbling down his chin and puddling under his face. He fought to fill his lungs with air, as his face went purple. After Gant had interceded he looked over at the hobbit, holding his furious companion at bay.
"If'n ya kill it den we don't get ta 'ave our fun, now, do we?" He said loudly.
Understanding and a look of pure malevolence filled Wulf's eyes. "Oh we wouldn't want that would we, maggot? You picked on da wrong guy, ya did. I'm gonna bang you so hard you're eyes 'll pop out and I'm gonna make you *want* every secon' of it." He laughed evilly as he crossed to the hobbit and roughly rolled him onto his back.
"Heh, I is goin' first, remember?" Gant whined.
"Dat was 'afore this 'en decided he was gonna have his fun. Now I'm goin’ first and you better not get in me way," he growled.
Gant raised his palms and slowly backed away towards a nearby tree, giving him an excellent view from which he could watch the activities.
"First I think we should do somethin' about those big ugly feet of yours," Wulf said pulling out a very large hunting knife.
"Wulf, you ain't gonna cut 'em off, are ya?" Gant asked worriedly.
"No, you idiot, but I am gonna show this little mongrel what is done to animals who won't stay put." He waved the knife in front of the huge, blue eyes and grinned maliciously, showing rotten teeth and dispensing a gust of foul breath into Frodo's frightened face.
He grabbed Frodo's foot "Hold 'em down," he shouted at Gant as Frodo desperately kicked at him. Gant ran to Wulf's side and grabbed the thrashing legs, pinning them down in the mud. Frodo struggled with all his strength but could not free himself from the man. Wulf took the knife and slashed the back of both ankles, cutting the tendons and effectively hobbling their captive. A high-pitched scream escaped Frodo's lips at the sudden fiery agony.
"Dat outta do the trick. That'll teach ya, you little maggot," Wulf spat vindictively. Tears flowed down Frodo's face as he whimpered to himself. Wulf rolled him back onto his back and looked down at him. "Too bad you're such a troublemaker," he said as he caressed the pale skin reverently, we could’a enjoyed you for a long time." He leaned over the hobbit and ran his tongue from Frodo's navel to his groin, arriving at the flaccid penis, and took it into his mouth. "Umm, you are a sweet 'un. I'm gonna *make* you enjoy this for me."
Frodo shot him an icy look. "That is not possible," he spat.
Wulf laughed. "Oh, it's possible, I done it before, ya see. Once you're hard and ready then I'm gonna bring you to the edge, only you ain't goin’ over it, not at least, without me." He blew on the moistened penis and smiled when he saw it quiver. "Den I'm gonna bang you good, little rat."
Frodo gulped. The large man opened his mouth wide and took the penis and sac into his mouth. He moaned as if he were devouring a fine meal and to Frodo's horror, he felt himself growing hard. Try as he might he was unable to control the sensations that surged suddenly through his body. He groaned. "Please...please, don't do this, I beg you," he whispered as tears slid down his face.
"I love it whens they beg," Wulf moaned. "Jes' makes it so much sweeter." Frodo looked over at Gant, and was horrified to see the man slowly remove his pants revealing a huge, weeping erection. The man's hand dropped to his organ and he began to stroke himself but suddenly stopped remembering that his turn was to come and wanting to be ready. He grasped the tree next to him, his knuckles turning white as he watched the seduction before him. Wulf was peeling his own pants down as he concentrated on Frodo's penis. He lapped and suckled it until his cheeks dented inwards with the effort. Frodo moaned, not wanting to feel the pleasure as it built within him, but helpless to stop himself. Wulf was now bobbing up and down while sucking hard and Frodo's hips began to buck at the impending crescendo. Perspiration lay across his lip as he panted harshly, feeling himself drawing closer to his climax. Suddenly he was flipped to his knees, his face pushed down into the mud, as Wulf parted his cheeks and plunged into him, Frodo's penis still being held within the powerful grip of the man's fist. Frodo screamed as sudden agony ripped through his backside and into his abdomen, the shock and suddenness of the penetration leaving him in stunned surprise. Never had he felt pain like this but instead of continuing to scream he found his breath knocked from him and he could only pant. Each thrust by the man moved his face forward in the mud three or four inches as Frodo was stroked in rhythm to each pounding stab. He was horrified to find that his penis was still fully erect. He was in such agony but also so close to the forced climax that the pain was, momentarily, dulled as his organ sought its own release.
"Augg...he's so tight. So tight, I could grind into him all night," Wulf panted, his eyes glazing over even as the speed and depth of his penetrations increased. Frodo cried out but both men were oblivious and heedless of his pain, intent only on their carnal desires. Gant stared in rapt fascination as a low moan escaped his lips, his organ weeping uncontrollably as Wulf stroked the hobbit to completion, knowing that when he did the pleasure would only intensify. Frodo convulsed as he came on the ground below him, causing his rectum to contract, squeezing Wulf's engorged member.
"Ahh...I'm comin' and I never had such a lay," he shouted. He increased his penetration, now pumping faster as he used both hands to pull the hobbit against him and slamming his huge body forward. He came in a blur of frenzied pumping, screaming out a satisfied shout. He slumped over Frodo's back, and pulled himself from his cheeks as blood and semen gushed outward and down the quivering thighs. A lone whimper escaped Frodo's lips as his eyes stared off, unseeing.
"I swear dats da the best lay I ever had," gasped Wulf as he moved aside.
Gant nearly ran to the exposed hobbit. "Ah look what ya done. He's bleedin' somethin' fierce, jes' like the last one," Gant whined. "Still looks ripe for the pickin' though and I'm so hard I could do yer horse right now," he said. He slammed his penis into the awaiting hobbit as he continued speaking haltingly, "Course...I ....was ...hopin' ...we ...could ...aggghh...play ...wid ...em f...for ..a ....God's he's still so tight...couple o' days," he said, breathing harshly as the hobbit beneath him wept uncontrollably, the pain washing over his hindquarters and through his abdomen. Frodo began to pray for death as his tenuous hold on sanity proceeded to unravel. This man was not as large as the other but it was too close a time between violations and he could feel tissue tearing as the man plunged inwardly in a rapidly increasing cadence. Within Frodo's line of sight stood Wulf, an evil grin on his ugly face. He had not re-dressed and as Frodo watched in horror, he saw the man's organ begin to rise as he salivated over the hobbit's defilement. At last Gant came and collapsed, spent. Wulf shoved him aside and placed himself astride Frodo's hindquarters. He lunged forward with such force that Frodo was lifted from the ground and Frodo wavered on the edge of consciousness at the intensity of the thrust that was beyond any pain he had ever experienced.
He cried out in surprised anguish as the penetration was repeated, his mouth opened in a silent scream, his breathing hitched as he tried to ready himself for each subsequent intrusion. Wulf seemed to purposely be trying to inflict as much agony as he could on the small body, forcing his organ in deeper, the thrusting coming at a fevered pitch. As he came he was suddenly thrown backwards, a still quivering arrow protruding from his chest. He looked down in surprise then up at his assailant before falling forward onto the limp body beneath him. Tilion looked at the other man and saw that he was leaning, spent, against a tree watching the proceedings. Before he had time to register his companion's demise an arrow pinned him through the throat and against the trunk.
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Tilion had moved silently through the underbrush towards where he had heard the desperate scream. As he got closer to the small glade he could hear grunts and groans but then his ears began to keenly detect weeping. He parted the limbs of a nearby tree and his gorge rose at what he saw. One man was standing off to the side watching as another, using all his strength, was brutally raping what appeared to be, a small boy of about ten summers. The child was covered in mud and vomit and badly bruised, evidence of a severe beating. Gore, mixed with semen, was flowing down his legs. His feet were large for a child and they were twisted at unnatural angles and coated in bright red blood.
The boy was sobbing uncontrollably, his large blue eyes vacant and hopeless, his body lifting violently with the magnitude of each thrust. Tilion drew an arrow, notched it and let it fly. It was an easy shot and found its mark, catching the rapist in the center of his chest. The second man was slumped against a nearby tree, watching as the assault grew increasingly violent and Tilion's second arrow pinned him to the trunk of the tree through the throat. Tilion quickly retrieved his horse and moved across the glade. The rain was coming in great sheets now and the boy, still with his face in the mud, his knees tucked up under him and his rear end presenting, was shivering violently although Tilion was uncertain if it was due to shock or the cold. The blood from his ravaged hindquarters continued to stream down his legs adding to the rainwater and leaving a crimson puddle at the left knee. Tilion glanced at the feet, again surprised at their size, and flinched recognizing that the youth had been hobbled. He had seen this before, long ago, and he ground his teeth angrily. The barbaric practice of hobbling was seldom used any longer as a tether or kind touch had been found to be more effective at keeping animals from fleeing. His horse nickered and he started, coming out of his reverie. The shock and the act of violence against this innocent child had so overwhelmed and sickened him that he had been momentarily stopped in his tracks, staring at its aftermath.
He removed his bedroll from the horse and started to cross to the child when he remembered the healers pouch that his Captain had always insisted they each carry. He turned, retrieved it, and ran to the boy’s side. He held his hands out, uncertain of what to do first, then grabbed the pouch and withdrew a roll of gauze and a small bag of medicinal herbs. He took the gauze and, unrolling it, sprinkled some of the dried herbs on it. He re-rolled it and swallowed hard. He closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. With shaking hands he placed the small roll of gauze at the childs hole and slowly pushed it inside of him, trying to stem the flow of blood. But the bandage quickly became saturated and he had to remove it. He looked about him for something that might keep the boy from bleeding to death. He reached under his jerkin and tore a long strip from the tail of his shirt. Again he rolled the herbs inside of the cloth and slowly pushed it into the boy. The child whimpered weakly but gave no other sign of awareness. Tilion studied the still face and, satisfied that the bandage seemed to be working, gathered the crumpled body to him, wrapping it over and over again,safely ensconsing the boy deeply within the folds of his blanket. He looked down at the filthy face with the empty eyes, whispering words of comfort and reassurance and walked briskly to his horse. He mounted one handed, turned the steed sharply, forcing the animal into a run. Throughout the journey he prayed to Eru that he had not arrived too late.
TBC