hi everyone! this is my first story on this account (don't look at my old one, everything there is basically shit) but I have done a lot of FFN writing before. this story will be very whumpy and is rated M for torture and potentially non-con later, so don't read if you're sensitive.

please review if you can! hope y'all enjoy

Boromir Son of Gondor

The iron tang of blood hung in the air, infecting Boromir's tongue, mingling with the scent of ash. Atticus his steed felt unsteady under him, though this was to be expected, as he had never before fought on the back of any horse—in fact he had never fought at all. The captain's brooch felt very heavy upon his breast, as if a mail-shirt far too large for his size. Only three days ago had his father presented him with the rank, and it seemed a burden too weighty for his seventeen years to bear.

"Captain!" The bloodied face of a soldier appeared below him, a sword cracked in his hand. "Another troop of Orcs has come in from the East—"

The man's face fell suddenly, his mouth parted. A hooked Orc-blade pierced through his chest from behind. Sweat broke out on Boromir's brow at the sight of the blood, and he urged his horse away with shaking hands, glancing over his shoulder to see the Orc's grinning face.

Another of the creatures jumped at him as he rode; he slashed blindly with his sword and black blood spurted across his face. Sheer panic flooded his mind. He closed his eyes as long as he dared, turning Atticus to better face the battle, and tried to think of something more pleasant than the blood-streaked battlefield. Faramir's poetry books, perhaps, or the lilies his mother Finduilas had so loved—

"Boromir, Captain!"

The voice came from nowhere, it seemed, but it set a terror in Boromir such as he had never known before. He was no captain. He had no experience in battle, save for his training in Minas Tirith, and he was scarcely any sort of leader, only a boy with the captain's brooch thrust into his hands.

How am I to know what to do? he had cried to the Valar.

He resented his father now, for handing him the pin so easily, and felt guilty for thinking so. It had been arrogance and ambition that fueled Denethor's generosity with the promotion. A hundred men should have been made Captain before he, but no, his father had required more honor, more prestige from his sons, and now here was Boromir, drowned in blood and ash and the crashing of steel.

Another cluster of Orcs converged on him, and he on instinct lopped the head off of one, though the blood nearly made him retch. Atticus spooked, and reared back, and Boromir yelped as he fought to keep his hold on the steed, his sword slashing violently at the foes.

Captain, cried the voices around him.

He was no captain.

"Get back!" he shouted at the Orcs, his voice rising half into a shriek when one of the hooked blades connected with his leg, just behind his knee. The area was unprotected by his mail, courtesy of the shortage of smiths in Gondor. He felt the blood trickle down his leg but dared not look down and see it.

He slashed violently at the attacking Orcs, almost retching again as limbs fell to the bloodied ground. With every kill he begged Ilúvatar for forgiveness and himself not to fall victim to their blades.

His arms ached from hefting the blade, though it was not so much the weight of the steel as the lives that balanced on the point of the sword.

Men collapsed on the battlefield around him, some felled by wounds, others unset by the slick finish of blood and muck on the ground. They were his men, now that he wore the pin, and it was on his hands that crimson splattered and smeared…

The boy captain, they called him at the camps, with sneering disdain in their voices, mocking how easily the Lord Denethor had handed him the rank. The princeling playing at war. He had dearly wished to scream at them that he had not asked for the brooch, that he would have rather it been anyone else, that it pained him more than anything to hear the cries of wounded and dying men and know that it was because of him their lives were lost.

He plunged his sword through the chest of an Orc, and blood sprayed across his chest, his hands, catching his cheek and half-blinding him with fluid.

What did it matter if it was red or black?

It was blood, and it was all his fault.

Atticus reared suddenly, and Boromir, unprepared, lost his grip on the horse's reins. The blood-slicked saddle provided no steady seat. He fell and hit the ground hard on his back, the impact stealing all breath from his lungs. His sword hit the ground several feet from him, and a large, rough-skinned Orc-hand seized it before he could even begin to breathe.

Stars danced in his vision, against a backdrop of smoke and sky painted brown with iron and silt, and if there were any sun in that sky he could not see it.

Hoofbeats shook the ground below him; he rolled just in time to see Atticus bounding away in a panic, Boromir's packs going with him. He gave a little cry of despair and fell back, searching for the Orc that had his sword.

A heavy boot came down upon his chest, and he cried out with pain at the sheer force of it. Brutish fingers snapped the captain's brooch from his leather jerkin.

"Captain," muttered a gruff Orc-voice. "Nagrakh, look."

Boromir twisted under the weight of the Orc, but the boot pressed deeper into his chest, and he hissed in pain. The Orc that had spoken leaned down, his face too close for Boromir's liking.

"Lay quiet, there, or I'll cut off your hand," the Orc told him, before straightening and addressing his superior once more. "The Dark Lord will want to see him."

"Aye," grumbled the second Orc. "Bind him, and be sure he is no longer armed, but do not hurt him—that is to be saved for the Lord Sauron."

"Blast the Lord Sauron. Hogging all the fun, he is." The Orc grabbed the neck of Boromir's jerkin and pulled him to his feet, yanking his arms roughly behind his back. Boromir thrashed against his grip, but his struggles earned him only a sharp smack across the back of the head. "Stay still."

The Orc bound his hands behind him in coarse rope that chafed at his wrists, and tied them tightly enough that it strained the muscles in Boromir's shoulders. He bit his lip to keep down a whimper of pain, unwilling to risk the wrath of his captor once more. Orcs were unpredictable creatures—for speaking they might slap you once or cut off your arm.

As his hands were bound and a filthy cloth wadded up and shoved into his mouth, held there with a strap of leather, he thought of Faramir, of his young brother left all alone in Minas Tirith with their father. How Denethor would shout at the younger prince, how he would beat him without Boromir there to step in…

"Move, boy," hissed the Orc, and when Boromir did not oblige, his captor picked him up and slung him over one shoulder, as if he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. He struggled as they walked with him off the field, leaving his people in abandonment, with bodies littering the moor and blood staining the grass beyond any recognition, and carried him towards the land of fire and smoke and poisoned air, to the land of Mordor where the shadows lie.

The road to Mordor was long and weary, though Boromir supposed he should not have complained, as he had far less to do than any of his captors. His bloodied, aching leg had proved a suitable excuse. He had so far got away with being carried rather than walking on his own, being passed between the Orcs every so often. Three days had passed since they left the battlefield, and he was beginning to hunger, but he dared not ask for any food.

They passed into a dry clearing among the trees, and the Orc with Boromir slung across his back cast him down. He hit the ground hard, his cry of pain muffled by the cloth they had shoved in his mouth—it seemed every movement hurt lately. He wondered if his ribs were beginning to bruise from all the tossing about he had been subjected to.

"We'll rest here 'til sundown," said the Orc that seemed to be in charge. Nagrakh, Boromir had heard the others call him. "Rogan, you're to carry the boy next."

"I just did it yesterday," growled one of the Orcs. "Why can't we just eat him and be rid of the burden?"

"I told you, the Lord Sauron wants 'im. If he ends up shredded, we won't be too well paid, I wager."

Boromir's stomach grumbled, resentful at having been left empty so long, and he could not help but whimper a little at the pangs that filled his hollow insides. His training among the soldiers of Minas Tirith had prepared him for many things, but hunger had never been one of them; he had been raised almost a prince, after all, and he worried he might faint if he went much longer without any food.

"What do ye want, boy?" said one of the Orcs, slapping Boromir sharply on the side of his head. "Quit yer whining. You too, Rogan," he added to the Orc that had complained about carrying the boy.

"Easy for ye to say," grumbled Rogan. "Ye've not had a turn since we picked up the brat."

Boromir curled his legs up to his chest and leaned back against the base of a tree. His bound hands were worn raw, and his throat was parched with thirst; he had not had much water since before the battle, save for a bit of rainwater that had made it past his gag. He was not sure if the Orcs knew Men needed food and drink.

On the bright side, his bindings had loosened a little over the days, if simply from the wear of his movement on the rope. There was now enough slack that he could pull the length taut and cut it easily—if only he had a knife. Perhaps if he could get them to feed him, they would come close enough that he could steal one…

This time, when the pangs of hunger stabbed at him, he did not hold back his whine of discomfort. It drew the attention of the Orcs, he knew, but he did not look at them, not wanting to seem too deliberate.

They ignored him for the better part of an hour, until he became desperate and intentionally amplified the whimper of pain he made. Finally the one called Nagrakh stood, and grumbling took a crust of bread from the pack at his side. He stepped behind his captive to undo the leather strap bound about Boromir's mouth, and Boromir seized the opportunity—when Nagrakh bent to reach the strap, Boromir's nimble fingers closed on the hilt of a short, jagged black knife. He spat out the gag in his mouth, still filthy but dry enough, seeing as he had little water, and slipped the cold knife up the sleeve of his mail.

"Eat," Nagrakh ordered gruffly, and shoved the bread into Boromir's mouth. It was hard and bland and tasted rather like sawdust, but Boromir choked it down. It was all the same to his stomach, after all. Though it served to dry out his tongue even more, he was glad it was at least food he was used to, and not some horrible Orc-dish.

His water came in the form of a bucket splashed in his face, a mouthful of which he managed to swallow and tasted like heaven on his parched tongue. The sky had begun to darken, but the Orcs did not seem keen on holding to their declaration that they would move again at nightfall. Boromir did not complain—his escape would be far easier and safer under cover of darkness, particularly once his captors had fallen asleep at last.

Careful not to be overheard—though he doubted he could have over the sound of the Orcs' snoring—he used the tree to get to his feet. The knife was the tricky part; it was much harder to get it from his sleeve and into his hand than to do the reverse, and he dropped it twice and had to repeat the process before he got a good grip on it. Had it not been for his mail-shirt he would also have stabbed himself in his attempt to cut the ropes, but the armor served its purpose. Soon the ropes were cut and fraying, and he rubbed at his reddened wrists, relieved at the lack of blood. It would not do to faint now, after he had already had food and drink and a bit of rest. Surely the Orcs would wonder what had caused his unconsciousness, and if they should learn of his fear, he had no doubt they would use it to torment him.

Boromir stepped over the Orcs' sleeping bodies to where they had cast their packs, searching through the mound for his sword. The scabbard had been stripped from his body when the first Orc had bound him, and now it was reunited with the blade. He picked it up and slung it about his waist, wincing at the clinking sound of the belt buckle, but thankfully it roused no Orc.

He stepped back over the Orcs, his footfalls soft and padded by his boots, and though he nearly lost his balance several times, he reached the edge of the clearing with no mishap.

Just as he stepped over the roots of the tree where he had lain, he heard an Orc stir behind him, and froze, naïvely hoping that perhaps if he did not move they would go back to sleep.

"Hey, where d'you think yer going?" slurred a voice, and Boromir spared a single glance over his shoulder to see Nagrakh with eyes open and fixed on him. "Get back here!"

Boromir bolted into the trees, grateful for the path the Orcs had worn on their way through the wood, for otherwise he would not have made it three feet in the dark. He would have to diverge from the path, still, he was smaller and more nimble than the Orcs, and would have the advantage in the thick wood.

"He's not gone far!" he heard the shout behind him, and knowing it would rouse several more of the Orcs sped up as best he could. He was not sure how his gashed leg held up on such intense activity; perhaps it was simply the heat of the moment that kept him moving—

He pulled away from the path and leaped into the trees. He could hear the Orcs' footsteps pounding some yards behind him, though he dared not look back to see how far back they were. Roots cropped up in his path every so often, causing him to stumble, and twice he nearly lost his footing. The Orcs were closing the gap between them now, their steps so heavy that it seemed as if Boromir could feel them in the ground. Three or four were on his trail. He had estimated his advantage of speed well, but neglected to think of how well Orcs saw in the dark—they could anticipate the roots blocking the path where Boromir could not.

His oversight proved critical, and as he ran, his foot caught on the jutting root of a pine, and it sent him sprawling to the ground. He hit the packed dirt and rolled, panting, but scarcely had he got again to his feet that the pounding footsteps became deafening, and the now-familiar, brutish Orc-hand seized him by the hair and threw him back to the ground.

A heavy boot landed in his ribs, and he cried out, curling up into a ball. A second kick hit him in the jaw with such force Boromir worried it might break and raised his arms to shield his face.

"This'll teach ye a lesson," growled one of the Orcs, kicking Boromir hard in the stomach, and he cried out again. "Teach ye to try an' run away."

He curled up in a futile attempt to block the blows they threw at his aching body, fists and boots alike battering his frame. He heard the snap of a whip, and a moment later pain slashed a line across the back of his neck, fierce and hot enough that he screamed, the sound choked off abruptly by a kick to his throat.

A brief flash of memory darkened his mind, a vague sense of pain and horror as he hung against a stone pillar with his wrists chained high above his head. Lashes burned on his face and back, and when the belt struck across the back of his thighs he sobbed with pain—

The beating from the Orcs ceased, though Boromir remained there on the ground, his eyes burning with tears, though he did not know at what point he had begun to hurt so badly.

Nagrakh yanked back his arms and pinned them high behind his back, binding them again with the coarse Orc-rope. The material stung his abraded wrists, and he gasped in pain, but the creatures paid him no attention.

The cloth was shoved back into his mouth, possibly even filthier now than before, and the leather strap was bound tightly about his head. He could feel hot liquid trickling from his temple and taste iron in his mouth, but he did not think about it too long lest he faint now. Had Faramir been there he would have said something to calm his brother, but he was not, and the absence of the young and eternally hopeful face made Boromir feel more alone than anything else since he had been taken from the battleground.

"Bleedin' fool," muttered Nagrakh, and shoved Boromir forward. "Walk, boy. We'd best be movin' again, and you can bet none of us is carrying you after that stunt."