In Moonlight Reflected
folder
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,725
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,725
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
In Moonlight Reflected
Pairing: Dead!Boromir/orc
Warnings: Orc-slash! Necrophilia! Desecration of the dead! Nastiness!
Disclaimer: I don't own Boromir, nor do I own the world. It all belongs to the Tolkien estate. This never happened in the books nor in the films, my twisted little brain is totally to be blamed for this. I do own the orc though. He's mine, sort of, although the race he belongs to is invented by Tolkien as well...
A/N: This began as a conversation on IRC between my beta and me, so I guess I can blame her a bit for this ficlet. ;-)
~.~.~
In Moonlight Reflected
A body laid out in full battle gear in a small boat floats down the Anduin, quickly closing on the Falls of Rauros. It is watched by grieving companions, still among the living. It has started its dignified journey toward the Sea, accompanied by song and verse.
The boat with its cargo of warrior in armour and weapons of enemies hurtles over the falls, and the boat being is smashed to pieces as it lands on jagged rocks. Some of the weapons gathered sink into the sand at the bottom of the river, some are swept away with the current, and some end up on the riverbanks.
The body floats with the current for a while before being washed up on the bank, lying halfway out of the water. The blond hair is stirring gently with the water that caresses the head and arms, soaking the clothes and the leather. The moon rises and its pale rays are reflected in the metal on the dead warrior's armour and leather jerkin, giving the scene a semblance of peace.
A deer comes down to the river to drink its fill, a bit nervously as there is an unpleasant smell in the air. Stepping closer, it stops at times to listen for threats, but as the forest is silent and it cannot detect any immediate threat, it continues. It shies away as it sees the body and the smell becomes stronger, bolting for the safety of the forest again. This is not the safe place it had thought, and it will not come back until the moon has again both waxed and waned.
The river pulls at the body, trying its best to help it on its journey, but the weight of the armour and the hold of the sand and a tree root on the bank make it difficult. When the sun is next setting, little progress has been made, but neither river nor warrior is in any hurry.
There is movement in the forest. There is grumbling and snarling in the darkness and the shadows. The moon tries to illuminate the crouched figure that moves through the trees, cursing. At times an ugly snout is revealed, at others clawed fingers grabbing at a branch, breaking it off with a loud snap. Yellow eyes gleam in the pale light, having no trouble making out the path through the wood.
"Curse them... leaving me for dead, eh? Not so dead as they think, and that filthy Bagronk will pay if he's taken my part of the cave..." The figure stalks through the forest, limping slightly, but making good time in spite of its injury. It spits and curses in a foul language before speaking again. "The Black Pits take the tark that hit me over the head." The creature makes a throaty sound, sounding faintly like laughter. "They did, it's dead, and I'm soon back again, back to fight and kill the vermin."
Suddenly the crouched and limping creature stops. It sniffs the air, and then sets off at a faster pace toward the riverbank. It follows the scent it has picked up, sometimes being caught in a glimmer of faint light from the moon casting its shadow across the undergrowth. As it approaches the river it moves more slowly, with more caution. The orc steps out from the protection of the trees, moving closer to the source of the beguiling smell, its mouth watering. There is meat to be had.
It walks up to the dead body, and prods it with its foot before leaning down and pulling it completely out of the water. It snarls as it recognizes the emblem on the armour. "A stinking tark!" In a rage, the orc rips off some of the leather armour and the clothes from the warrior. It growls and stares at the unmoving body, then an evil glint lights up its yellow eyes. There is some kind of revenge to be had for the blow on the head and the wound in its leg. Revenge, and food – and it deserves both.
After turning the body over, the orc grabs at the fabric of finely-woven breeches and rips them open, revealing rounded buttocks, flesh pale from both death and time in the water. It kneels between widely-spread legs and paws at its own groin, soon breathing hard. Revealing its hardened flesh, the orc leans forward over the limp form before it, guiding its swollen member into the body.
Sweating and grunting, the orc thrusts into the water-softened corpse. There is no real tightness anymore but the friction is still there, and it slides easily in and out, using the dead warrior for its pleasure and to relieve frustration. The beast is growling, its crude and debased mind enjoying the sensations, and soon it snarls as it bends down over the unmoving body and sinks its sharp teeth into the exposed neck, tasting the over-ripe flesh. It thrusts hard one more time and then stills, panting and growling low, its lust sated.
Hunger now motivates the orc, and it rolls the corpse over again to get to the best bits of flesh. It follows its instincts and cuts open the body and gobbles down the nutritious entrails before cutting away a few bits of tender flesh that it can carry. Swallowing down the feast with water, the orc now looks at the body with narrowed eyes, and as an afterthought drags it back into the river, not wanting to leave too many tracks behind.
The beastly figure soon limps back into the shadow of the forest, continuing its journey back to its lair and the pack that left it behind.
A body, its armour and clothing torn and half ripped off, floats down the Anduin. It moves swiftly toward the ocean and the great beyond. After a few more days of being tossed around in the currents, it finally reaches the area where the river meets the waves of the Sea. The weight of the soaked armour and leather have not stopped its journey.
In the glitter of the reflected moonlight, the once-proud warrior finds peace and rest in the open waters of Ulmo. Here his body will provide sustenance for the creatures of the Sea, and will soon disappear from view, but not from memory. The memories of prowess and bravery, of friendship and character are not bound to the body. They are held in the hearts of those who knew the man, the warrior, the friend and the lover. But these are things that those who know him only in death will never see.
Warnings: Orc-slash! Necrophilia! Desecration of the dead! Nastiness!
Disclaimer: I don't own Boromir, nor do I own the world. It all belongs to the Tolkien estate. This never happened in the books nor in the films, my twisted little brain is totally to be blamed for this. I do own the orc though. He's mine, sort of, although the race he belongs to is invented by Tolkien as well...
A/N: This began as a conversation on IRC between my beta and me, so I guess I can blame her a bit for this ficlet. ;-)
In Moonlight Reflected
A body laid out in full battle gear in a small boat floats down the Anduin, quickly closing on the Falls of Rauros. It is watched by grieving companions, still among the living. It has started its dignified journey toward the Sea, accompanied by song and verse.
The boat with its cargo of warrior in armour and weapons of enemies hurtles over the falls, and the boat being is smashed to pieces as it lands on jagged rocks. Some of the weapons gathered sink into the sand at the bottom of the river, some are swept away with the current, and some end up on the riverbanks.
The body floats with the current for a while before being washed up on the bank, lying halfway out of the water. The blond hair is stirring gently with the water that caresses the head and arms, soaking the clothes and the leather. The moon rises and its pale rays are reflected in the metal on the dead warrior's armour and leather jerkin, giving the scene a semblance of peace.
A deer comes down to the river to drink its fill, a bit nervously as there is an unpleasant smell in the air. Stepping closer, it stops at times to listen for threats, but as the forest is silent and it cannot detect any immediate threat, it continues. It shies away as it sees the body and the smell becomes stronger, bolting for the safety of the forest again. This is not the safe place it had thought, and it will not come back until the moon has again both waxed and waned.
The river pulls at the body, trying its best to help it on its journey, but the weight of the armour and the hold of the sand and a tree root on the bank make it difficult. When the sun is next setting, little progress has been made, but neither river nor warrior is in any hurry.
There is movement in the forest. There is grumbling and snarling in the darkness and the shadows. The moon tries to illuminate the crouched figure that moves through the trees, cursing. At times an ugly snout is revealed, at others clawed fingers grabbing at a branch, breaking it off with a loud snap. Yellow eyes gleam in the pale light, having no trouble making out the path through the wood.
"Curse them... leaving me for dead, eh? Not so dead as they think, and that filthy Bagronk will pay if he's taken my part of the cave..." The figure stalks through the forest, limping slightly, but making good time in spite of its injury. It spits and curses in a foul language before speaking again. "The Black Pits take the tark that hit me over the head." The creature makes a throaty sound, sounding faintly like laughter. "They did, it's dead, and I'm soon back again, back to fight and kill the vermin."
Suddenly the crouched and limping creature stops. It sniffs the air, and then sets off at a faster pace toward the riverbank. It follows the scent it has picked up, sometimes being caught in a glimmer of faint light from the moon casting its shadow across the undergrowth. As it approaches the river it moves more slowly, with more caution. The orc steps out from the protection of the trees, moving closer to the source of the beguiling smell, its mouth watering. There is meat to be had.
It walks up to the dead body, and prods it with its foot before leaning down and pulling it completely out of the water. It snarls as it recognizes the emblem on the armour. "A stinking tark!" In a rage, the orc rips off some of the leather armour and the clothes from the warrior. It growls and stares at the unmoving body, then an evil glint lights up its yellow eyes. There is some kind of revenge to be had for the blow on the head and the wound in its leg. Revenge, and food – and it deserves both.
After turning the body over, the orc grabs at the fabric of finely-woven breeches and rips them open, revealing rounded buttocks, flesh pale from both death and time in the water. It kneels between widely-spread legs and paws at its own groin, soon breathing hard. Revealing its hardened flesh, the orc leans forward over the limp form before it, guiding its swollen member into the body.
Sweating and grunting, the orc thrusts into the water-softened corpse. There is no real tightness anymore but the friction is still there, and it slides easily in and out, using the dead warrior for its pleasure and to relieve frustration. The beast is growling, its crude and debased mind enjoying the sensations, and soon it snarls as it bends down over the unmoving body and sinks its sharp teeth into the exposed neck, tasting the over-ripe flesh. It thrusts hard one more time and then stills, panting and growling low, its lust sated.
Hunger now motivates the orc, and it rolls the corpse over again to get to the best bits of flesh. It follows its instincts and cuts open the body and gobbles down the nutritious entrails before cutting away a few bits of tender flesh that it can carry. Swallowing down the feast with water, the orc now looks at the body with narrowed eyes, and as an afterthought drags it back into the river, not wanting to leave too many tracks behind.
The beastly figure soon limps back into the shadow of the forest, continuing its journey back to its lair and the pack that left it behind.
A body, its armour and clothing torn and half ripped off, floats down the Anduin. It moves swiftly toward the ocean and the great beyond. After a few more days of being tossed around in the currents, it finally reaches the area where the river meets the waves of the Sea. The weight of the soaked armour and leather have not stopped its journey.
In the glitter of the reflected moonlight, the once-proud warrior finds peace and rest in the open waters of Ulmo. Here his body will provide sustenance for the creatures of the Sea, and will soon disappear from view, but not from memory. The memories of prowess and bravery, of friendship and character are not bound to the body. They are held in the hearts of those who knew the man, the warrior, the friend and the lover. But these are things that those who know him only in death will never see.