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Chapter 7 - Foul Deeds
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The little beech sagged under her burden, confused as to why the Late Comers had suspended the Forest Child within her branches. Tipping her arms, she attempted to lower the distraught elf to a more comfortable position onto the soft, moss-covered ground at her base, tried desperately to shake him free, but lashed so tightly, she could do naught but try to soothe the child in her care.
"Wake up you lazy creature!"
A blow to his already bruised ribs jolted Rúmil out of a fitful sleep and forcefully back to the grim reality of the situation. He gasped loudly, and his body reflexively tried to curl into itself to protect his exposed chest and belly only to be hindered by its cruel position.
The heavy fur removed, the sudden temperature change from suffocating heat to the damp chill of the black autumn night caused Rúmil to shiver. Arms and legs still bound, he could no longer feel his hands or feet. His head had slipped from its tucked position, causing his neck to arch painfully back and toward the ground, and he moaned quietly as he attempted to pull his head back up to his chest.
"We're home -- for now. So make yourself comfortable."
The fading sound of callous laughter chilled Rúmil more deeply than the cool night air, and he shivered again outwardly in response. His time was running out, his hope of rescue becoming but a flight of fancy.
The men offered no relief from the gag or blindfold and left him to endure his burning thirst and the utter darkness. For how long he hung there, he could not tell for the measure of time had become elusive, and denied the stars, he grew disoriented and lost.
Rúmil was trying to bring his mind into focus, to push away his thoughts of pain and thirst, when he became aware of a crude touch upon his body, a hand moving blindly as if its owner's attention was divided.
It pushed its way beneath his tunic, and he tried to twist away as callused fingers moved slowly up his body, caressing and pinching sensitive skin. After giving his flesh a cruel twist, the hand began to rake leisurely downward, pressing into his bruised ribs and over his abdomen to fumble with the laces of his leggings.
Shifting deeper into the shadows, Callin kept an eye in the direction of the camp, trying to shield his actions from the others. He did not care if they knew what he was doing; he just did not want them to ask to join in. Sharing was not one of his strengths.
Since that first night, Callin's interest in the elf had grown from rancorous curiosity to bitter obsession. He absent-mindedly gnawed on his bottom lip, relishing the feel of the soft skin beneath his fingers. He pinched and fondled his way over the supple body, and it thrilled him greatly to see and feel the elf try to evade his explorations. Pausing to twist a reticent nub between his fingers, he began to wonder if he should again rethink his plans for the elf.
'Why sell it? I should keep it, enjoy it. I caught it; it's mine to do with as I will.'
His thoughts fragmented when a tremor radiated through his fingertips and up his arm, and he again focused on exploring the shuddering body struggling beneath his touch. He dragged his fingers downward, pushing his nails into the soft skin, lingering briefly on bruised flesh. He stopped when his fingers rested on the ties holding the elf's leggings tightly in place. He turned to give his full attention to the task, grinning unabashedly at his success when the obstinate laces finally came free.
He loved the way the lithe body moved as he casually slid his hand beneath the heavy fabric to glide over softly curving hips and smooth outer thighs. He let his fingers dance lightly as they shifted slowly between the legs of his captive, and he gasped in approval when his palm made contact with the warm, silken flesh tucked within. His hand rested there, his fingers exploring every ridge and dip, before moving downward to fondle the firm but soft pouch beneath.
Callin could not stop a moan from escaping his lips; the feel of the elf's skin was exhilarating. His fingers drifted lower into the tantalizing valley, using a feather-light touch to tease the tight, little bud hidden within. Pupils dilated with lust, his breathing quickened as his other hand traveled down to firmly stroke the growing heat of his own body.
Rúmil bucked frantically against the intrusion and squeezed his legs together tightly as the fumbling hand began to grope him roughly. He cursed and screamed unheard through the gag at his unseen attacker to stop, to leave him be, but the hand continued to force its way further between his legs.
As the elf's movement grew more frantic, so did Callin's. Touch was not enough anymore; he had to see the elf. Pulling his hands free of confining fabric, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of the elf's leggings and jerked them roughly over his hips and thighs. He could not remove them completely unless he freed the elf, but his current view was enough for now. He sat back on his heels, his mouth falling open slightly, as his lurid gaze roamed over the fair, ivory skin now displayed before him.
The ruthless slap of cold air against his bared skin shattered Rúmil's soul into tiny, miniscule pieces. This was to be end.
From the beginning, as the nature of the Faradrim made itself known, he had feared this greatly, prayed that rescue would come in time but now it seemed all hope was lost.
He would never again see the Golden Wood, bask in the light of the Lady, or seek out his Lord for advice; he would never again see his brothers. His body began to shake violently. His beloved brothers, he wanted them, needed them, now, so desperately. He did not want to die in this unknown place, in this way. Would they ever know what happened to him? Did he want them to know?
No, he did not.
He would fade willingly, alone, for he loved them too dearly to suffer them this knowledge. In his desolation, Rúmil went limp and let his thoughts stay with his brothers, committing their faces to memory, having them with him if only in his heart and mind, and caring little when the cold hands of the feredir returned to his body.
Callin felt a bit of disappointment when the elf's body went limp. Its resistance excited him so, but no matter, he was sure he could get a rise out of it.
He forced Rúmil's thighs apart roughly, pinching brutally whenever they threatened to close. His hands traveled over the gentle swell of the elf's bottom to grasp the soft, smooth mounds displayed so alluringly before him, squeezing hard enough to leave dark bruises. He parted the flesh, blowing warm, moist air into the exposed cleft -- nothing.
Determined to get a reaction, he leaned in and with his tongue, began to dart over and around sensitive skin, smiling at the involuntary tightening of muscle against invasion. Leaning in closer, he pressed his lips against the silky skin, sucking, nipping and biting, marking the elf as his –- it still hung as if dead.
Disappointment quickly turning to anger, Callin released the elf and jumped up to his feet, growling in frustration. Loosening the ties to his breeches, he reached in and pulled himself free and then stepped up to stand behind the bound elf, letting his pulsing, heated length brush up against his captive's thighs.
"Let's see if this gets your attention, elf."
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~* To Be Continued *~
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