Faded Light: Book II

(For additional notes and disclaimers, please see top of Chapter 1.)

- Some explicit content to follow... -


Chapter 3

The King’s Desires


The first time that he had laid eyes on the other Elf had been several months before, on one of the rare occasions when he accompanied the King to the slave market...a fair youth, no more than a century and a half older than himself, had stood among the new pleasure slaves being auctioned off that day, wearing only a thin loincloth, his hair cut to a humiliatingly short length.

He never looked up from his shackled hands and feet, and Dafi had thought he could have been looking at himself thirty years ago.

"He looks a little like you," Javad had sounded amused. "Anyone you know?"

"Nay, My King. Merely another northern slave."

"He is quite new by the look of him," said the King, still looking the Elf over, "though not quite as beautiful as you, my pet.

"I don't think Arya will miss his chance to buy that one. He's been sulking and looking for another Elf ever since I persuaded him to sell you. Though he did not mind the generous sum I gave him back then.”

The King's words did not err in their assessment of the brothel keeper. And before the morning was done, Arya led away a new Elven slave, expecting no doubt to make up the substantial sum he paid, with the youth's work. It had taken the whore-master years to find another captive Firstborn, and it grieved Dafi to know that this youth now in Arya’s possession was in essence his replacement.

However, Arya was still the main supplier of whores to the court, which brought a select number of them to the Palace regularly. Though they were seldom able to speak for more than a few minutes at a time, it allowed Dafi to eventually approach and befriend the youth...an Elf of Lorien he learned was called Rumil.

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It was at the King's next banquet that night that he again saw the other Elf, being escorted by one, then another drunken noble to and from the feasting hall.

Fleetingly, sympathetically, both slaves caught each other's gaze but knew there would be no chance for either to approach just then.

However, the courtesan had his own concerns that night; the eyes of two strange Men, emissaries from Gondor, there to discuss a peace treaty as he had heard, and whose eyes he caught more than once upon him.

The Elf was aware of little of what went on outside the great city of the Haradwaith. But he knew that for some time, the land known as Near Harad, to the north of Javad’s more distant kingdom, had occupied the southern part of Gondor, called Horondor, and the Gondorians had been fighting a long war to reclaim the territory.

For years, the King had been sending men and other aid to his allies across the desert.

But while slaves were little versed in Haradrim politics, Dafi did understand the emissaries' looks and had no wish to be loaned to either of these Men, which easily would happen if Javad took another to his bed this night.

Ordinarily, the King was less than willing to share his Elven slave but would, if he thought to gain something from Gondor by using his favored courtesan.

And he had known that Javad's attentions had been wandering for some time.

He did not miss it again that night; in the way the King eyed the charming new maid of his chief wife, the servant's flirtatious eyes doing little to discourage him.

As an Elf, Dafi did not have to think of losing his looks, and he was still called regularly to attend upon the King, but after so long, there was little that was new between them, and he was too worn down and broken from too many years beneath too many Men.

However, though no affection or even desire united him to Javad, only a slave's duty and inescapable gratitude, for his child, and he would have welcomed the privilege of sleeping alone for the rest of his immortal life, he knew he and Mel could ill-afford the loss of the Royal favor.

Each day, he had come to live with the fear of what would happen were Javad ever to decide to sell him or give him away or when the old King died...what would become of Mel then? And what would happen when she inevitably grew up, in slavery, into a beautiful young Elven woman?

Though it took many more years for an Elfling to grow than a Mortal, and Arya would, realistically, be dead by then, there would always be others ready to exploit and debauch an innocent...

These thoughts had become worse than all his other fears combined.

"My King," he said during a lull in the entertainment, "would you like me to dance for you tonight?"

"Are you up to it, my pet? You seemed rather lost in thought just now."

He lifted his lashes slowly and gave him one of his most enticing looks. "If it would please My Lord," he said in a soft voice, "I think I am well enough."

At a nod from Javad, he pulled down his veils, shaking out his golden hair, as he left his place beside the Ruler.

The dance he chose was one of the most sensual he knew. It was the same one he had danced the night the King first saw him.

He put a good deal of feeling into his performance, aware that if he did not get his Lord's attention, he might well be inflaming the passions of the wrong person, but he had to risk it, more worried now about what it would mean to lose the King's regard before he could find a solution to the future.

And he knew he had pleased his Lord well when Javad did not dismiss him that night back to his own quarters.

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This is exactly what a whore would do, isn't it? he thought, appalled and disgusted with himself, even as he straddled the King, who was leaning back on the great headboard of his bed, his hands holding the Elf's hips in place for almost a minute, taking the time to savor his complete possession of the slave.

Trade their body to keep a life of comfort.

He moaned softly, shifting his hips slightly and was rewarded with a lustful sound from the Man beneath him.

Grasping only the ruler's shoulders for support, he slowly lifted himself, and then pushed back down, gasping slightly at the new impalement.

For several long moments he repeated the motion, finding it easier as he worked, though the pain and effort left him panting.

Javad's hands remained on his hips, slowing his movements several times, thus lengthening the experience.

Unhappily, he closed his eyes, and made a sound between a gasp and moan, as the Mortal pulled him closer, running tongue and teeth thoroughly over each of the courtesan's hardened nipples before making his way up the length of his throat...

He tried to focus only on the more carnal endeavor of satisfying the King, knowing it was not the time for thought, letting his body act as it had been conditioned to...as he lost himself instead in the darkness of his own mind, escaping into himself, to some distant corner, where he could remain numb to his body’s debasement...

It was the only way he had learned over many years to protect some small part of himself...all that had saved his sanity in the months after Bardia bought him; while the slaver and his men took their time, using his body in whatever way suited them...

It would usually go on even after he had passed out, and when he woke he would usually be drugged and ravished again...he had lost track of time in this way, of night and day, had lost the will to struggle against the inescapable and learned to comply to avoid some of the torture...

And there were times when he wondered whether lunacy would not have been the better alternative; like the mad whores he had seen in some of the brothels; wanton, vulgar creatures...

But he could never envision himself in that place, in spite of everything; he never allowed himself to forget he was a King’s son, and there was some deep part of his soul that continued to resist what he had been forced to become.

Vividly, he recalled the night after Bardia had finally sold him and had him taken to the first brothel; several masters before he fell into Arya's hands, though none had been much less repulsive or cruel than the rest.

Rebellion had been beaten out of him in many ways, and all he waited for anymore was the release of death, which the Valar mercilessly refused to grant him.

He stood in that room in front of the Man, his first customer, letting his thin tunic slip to the floor, unmoving, his broken heart beating almost painfully faster while the Man's eyes roamed his body and unlaced his own robe, freeing a disgustingly large, already fully aroused organ.

"You're even lovelier than your master said," he groaned.

After several seconds he saw the Man's hand beckoning, but found he could not make himself move to him.

For a moment, renewed fear, or horror of permitting the outrage, overrode fear of punishment and he stepped back, maddeningly coming up against the wall, tears of resentment and shame burning in his eyes...and the Man, angry and impatient, crossing the room in one motion, to backhand the youth before fondling him shamelessly.

It was all the warning he got as he was flung facedown on the bed, the vile Haradrim's weight pinning him, as hands spread his thighs and he screamed with the anguish of the sudden intrusion and every brutal movement, which followed.

"...such a soft, tender whore...I could fuck you for days," he grunted into the sobbing Elf’s ear, before sucking hard on the side of his neck. "You'll like it better when you learn to relax, you'll see, pretty one...”

Strange the things one remembers, he thought...

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After about half and hour, he felt the Man's body tense and his grip tighten, as he could no longer hold back a violent orgasm, convulsing deep inside the slave.

The youth let his head drop forward, blond hair hiding the humiliation in his eyes, as the Mortal fell back again, breathing deeply.

"That was just what I needed," he murmured, hands running over his hips, slowly caressing the back of his thighs and placing a deep, stinging kiss on his throat, the slave still embedded on his spent passion, as he relished the aftermath of their encounter. "You are so good, my pet..."

With deep weariness, he moved of off the King's lap, as he was released, the King's lust slaked for the moment, and allowed himself to collapse, reaching for a blanket, as he rolled onto his stomach.

The bed shifted as Javad moved away for a moment and came back. But he barely took note of it until the King offered him the cup, which he sipped with more thirst than he had been aware of.

"I have been neglecting you of late, haven't I, my pretty one," said the King behind him, his voice sounding so much like another’s for a second that the Elf could barely keep back a shudder.

"Nay, my King," he said, still breathless, "You have much that requires your attention. I've no cause to feel neglected."

"There was a time when I could manage all," laughed the King, kissing the back of his neck, but he sounded suddenly older than his appearance suggested.

"I hope you don't think I could ever forget you, Altan Min," he set aside the wine and eased the Elf back down on the bed. "There is no one else who ever makes me feel this good," he said, his fingers slowly tracing a path down and up his leg before the hand moved up to knead at his backside.

Dafi buried his face in the pillow, clutched at the sheets, as a warm tongue moved over his shoulders and made its way to his lower back, sliding between his cheeks to slip into his overly sensitive entrance and down to his inner thighs. Lips brushed over the brand on his calf, which the breakers had seared deeply into his flesh, and which had forever marked him as a slave whore, before trailing small kisses as it traveled back up his spine, taking a firm hold of his hips, as he let the slave feel his reawakening arousal.

"Turn around," growled the King, tongue and teeth slowly teasing at a delicate Elven ear.

Submissively, he turned and lay back, letting the King settle between his long legs, this time, and lean down to rest his elbows on each side of his head, so that his full weight wasn't on the slave yet.

"I have missed you these weeks, my pale beauty," said the King, one hand at his waist and another beneath his shoulder blade, pulling him closer. "Let's make up for it tonight."

As a true lover might, he lightly touched the King’s face, his back, wound his fingers into his hair, still dark after all these years, as the Ruler kissed a slow path over his chest, before traveling back up to his mouth, to claim the Elf’s lips, gently at first before the kiss became steadily hungrier, insistent fingers slowly caressing his thighs, as they made their way back up to his slick opening.

Once more, he knew that this is what he was, until the day some sort of escape or a miracle would materialize.


TBC...


Translations:

Altan min / A blend of two different languages, since Tolkien never came up with a Haradrim language, and roughly means “my beautiful one.”