The Citadel: Love's Hard Labor, Part 2
Jun. 26th, 2011 11:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603Title: The Citadel: Love's Hard Labor - Part 2
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Frodo/Faramir
Summary: AU of an AU. Yep. You read correctly. Let me explain: This particular story takes place in the same universe as The Citadel. If you’ve not read the original story and don’t want to bother, all you need know is that it's a crazy AU in which Frodo, Halbarad, Aragorn, and Faramir live together in a lodge in a mysterious village in Middle-earth with vague memories of dark paths in another time and place. However, this is sort of an AU of The Citadel. This will be end up being posted in about 3 or 4 parts. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moit
Oh - and of course Stabler has to show up. :D
Warning: a wee bit of violence and angst.
Previous parts:
Part 1
The next day spring arrived. Or so it seemed. The sun came out, bright and glorious, and the snow and ice that had crusted the ground for so many months began to melt. Bliss filled Frodo’s heart as he delivered his messages. All day he anticipated that evening when he and Faramir would be alone. He wanted to be ravaged again, left so sore he could barely walk, proof that Faramir owned him completely. Occasionally he had to dismount from Prim, find privacy behind some bushes, and stroke himself to relief. At lunch, he visited his dear friend Eomer, who cared for the Rangers’ horses who needed training or medical help. Years ago he had been grievously injured in battle, leaving him too lame to face combat.
“You look weary, my friend,” Eomer said, limping out to greet him. “But fear not, spring is coming. I can smell it in the air. The horses are restless as of late.”
“I feel quite well today, actually,” Frodo said. “Would you share my sandwich with me? I've lost my usual hobbit appetite, I'm afraid.”
“No, but thank you,” Eomer said. “Come, sit.” When Frodo joined him on a smooth log outside the stable, Eomer went on to ask, “How goes your attempt to tame the dragons?”
“Pardon me?”
“Halbarad, Strider, Faramir. I know it's been difficult for you living among such humorless men.”
“Oh, no,” Frodo said, laughing. Eomer looked most puzzled. “Oh, Eomer, I am sorry. You are correct in a way, I suppose, since last we spoke. But now? Things have gotten ever so much better.” His cheeks heated.
“Ah,” Eomer said, nodding knowingly. “You've a fondness for one of them.”
Frodo nearly choked on a bite of his sandwich. He recovered and said with utmost dignity, “I am fond of them all.”
“Nay,” Eomer said, wagging his finger. “You cannot fool me. You’ve a special fondness for one of them. I am lame, not blind.”
“Perhaps,” Frodo said, blushing. “All right. You may be right.”
“I am glad,” Eomer said. “You deserve all the happiness and splendor that can be had in this cheerless land. I wish you well.”
At the end of his shift, Frodo stepped into Fomhal’s office to check in, and Fomhal grabbed him by the upper arm. He shoved him hard against the wall, knocking the breath out of him.
“Did you open a piece of mail yesterday, runt?”
Frodo's stomach plunged. So Tili had complained. What foul luck!
“Pardon me?” His voice squeaked a bit, for which he was deeply ashamed. He was in trouble, though, bad trouble. Fomhal offered no quarter for breaking rules and in fact took great glee in doling out punishment if needed.
Fomhal pushed him against the wall again. “Speak!”
“I know the letter of which you speak,” Frodo said breathlessly. “The muddy letter I gave to Tili the dwarf--”
“Muddy and opened. Deliberately opened. Yes, I know about your story to him that you dropped it and the pony stepped on it. Not likely when there is evidence of muddy fingerprints on the letter.”
Frodo looked up at Fomhal, taking deep breaths to calm himself. “I did open it,” he whispered. “But I did not read—”
“I'll have you arrested,” Fomhal said, looking at him in disgust. “I never took you to be a crook of any sort, even for being a runt and all.”
“No, please,” Frodo said. “I did not read the letter. The handwriting on the front resembled that of my cousin, who has been missing for years and I thought—”
But Fomhal was no longer listening. He had turned away to bark an order out to one of the other messengers. That messenger gave Frodo a sympathetic glance before leaving.
“I’ve sent for the law.” Fomhal smiled in a satisfied manner, crossing his arms across his chest. “What say you to that? Even your Ranger friends can’t help you now.”
“No, please,” Frodo said, feeling as if cruel hands squeezed his insides. “I will never do it again. I’ve no reason to. I never even read the letter.”
The day, which had begun with golden sun and spring flowers, had spun into a world of darkness.
“I am sorry,” Frodo said, appealing to any mercy Fomhal might have inside him. “I made a dreadful mistake. I can make it up to you. I will work extra hours. I will do whatever you want—”
“Shut your mouth and have a seat or I will tie you up.”
Frodo swallowed against the bile in his throat and obeyed Fomhal, settling on the small chair in Fomhal’s study. He trembled uncontrollably. He never, ever should have opened that letter. Not for anything. Far better that he should always wonder that it had been Bilbo’s writing. Or better yet – why had he not just asked Tili about it?
You’re a fool, Frodo Baggins. A fool.
A man dressed as a Ranger entered the office. Frodo had never seen him before.
“Fomhal,” the Ranger said, nodding. He had a mask over most of his face, hiding all but stern, ice-blue eyes shadowed by thick eyebrows. The Ranger paused, stared at Frodo in puzzlement and then turned his attention to Fomhal. “What is it you want?”
Fomhal gestured toward Frodo. “I want this Halfling punished for breaking the law.”
“And what sort of law has he broken?”
Frodo perceived that this Ranger’s world had always been harsh, had always lacked in joy. This Frodo could tell from the harsh lines in his face and the way his jaw was set as if perpetually trying to hold his temper in.
“As you know,” Fomhal said, “It is against the law for anyone to open mail that is not addressed to him. This messenger, who has been entrusted to handle such messages, has opened a letter all because he believed the handwriting looked familiar to him. I've never heard such nonsense in my life, but he is a halfling. They're not like us.”
“Stand up,” the Ranger commanded Frodo.
Frodo glanced at Fomhal.
“I would do as Captain Stabler says,” Fomhal said. “Or you'll likely be hurting.”
Frodo stood, feeling small and vulnerable as he so often did in this village. Stabler (what a queer name) stared down at him, looking him up and down a few times.
Finally Stabler asked, “Did you open the envelope of a piece of mail that wasn't yours?”
Frodo swallowed. He found he could not speak. Outside, the sun had begun to set. Faramir would certainly be waiting for him by now, perhaps with a delicious supper already started, a bottle of wine opened.
“Speak!”
“Yes,” he managed to whisper.
“The consequence for this will be your choice,” Stabler said. “Ten lashes, one week of hard labor under my supervision, or three days in the dungeon.”
The latter two were out of the question. Frodo had to get home to Faramir. But being lashed? He had witnessed it done once months ago while he was delivering messages, and the harshness of it had haunted him for many days after. The man being lashed had been caught stealing, and although he looked big and tough, after it was done, he rolled on the ground in agony, his back a raw mass of welts.
“I'll take the lashing,” Frodo said. “Because I must return home this evening.” He felt mortified down to his core. He, Frodo Baggins, being lashed like a common thief, in front of Fomhal, who already held him in such scorn and who clearly delighted in witnessing the fine, fancy halfling humiliated and hurt.
“You’ve not much flesh for padding,” Stabler said in a gentler manner. “This could cause you grave hurt. I know I gave you a choice, but I would suggest the hard labor. You’ll come to no harm under my supervision. A week is really not so long.”
“If I chose that,” Frodo said, “might I be able to go home first, just for the night? I've a friend who is expecting me.”
Fomhal laughed and shook his head. “Your friends can’t help you.”
Stabler gave him a stern look, but then shook his head. “No, I'm afraid you would have to go home with me until the end of the week.”
“Then I must insist on the lashing,” Frodo said. Fomhal’s beady eyes gleamed with delight. Frodo only hoped he would not end up so badly injured from it that he would be unable to enjoy his evening with Faramir.
You fool, of course you'll be injured. But at least at the end of it, you can be under Faramir’s care.
Just thinking about Faramir’s gentle eyes calmed him.
“If you are adamant about this, I will need you to strip down to your waist,” Stabler said with a reluctant sigh, “and kneel on the ground.”
Frodo obeyed him, taking in deep breaths to keep himself strong. He did not want to give Fomhal the satisfaction of showing fear. He hoped he would not cry out. He thought again about Faramir and how much pain he had endured over the years from battle wounds. Frodo could be just as stoic. He stripped himself of his cloak, his weskit, and his shirt. He knelt on the ground and bent forward, clasping his knees, willing them to stop shaking.
There was a long pause, and Frodo dared a glance over his shoulder.
Stabler had the whip ready in his hand but he looked uncertain.
“I'm ready,” Frodo said. “Let’s get this finished.”
The first lash struck with far more force than Frodo had anticipated, taking Frodo’s breath away, causing such horrific pain to shoot down his back and through his body that he was rocked forward, off balance. He clutched the ground, writhing, breathing hard and deep so that he would not cry out. He could take nine more; he had to. He held the image of Faramir in his mind.
“I will not do this,” Stabler said. “Get up, Frodo. Get dressed. You will come home with me.”
“No, no,” Frodo moaned. “I must make it home tonight.”
“Not an option,” Stabler said. “The one lash I have already delivered will take two days off the hard labor sentence. You shall have five days instead of seven under my supervision. Now go on, get dressed.”
Fomhal looked disappointed.
Frodo got dressed again. He gasped in pain when the back of his shirt touched the wound from the lash. If a single lash had caused this much pain, then he could only imagine what ten lashes would have done.
“At least,” he said, trying to divert himself from the pain. “Can I not send a message home to my friends?”
“That you may do,” Stabler said.
Frodo swallowed a hard lump in his throat. His night alone with Faramir would not happen. Even if Stabler were to let him go home right now, he could not imagine lying on his back and getting any pleasure with his back on fire as it was. Stabler's whip apparently was made of warg teeth.
“Are you all right?” Stabler asked.
Frodo nodded, but his hunched posture spoke otherwise.
“Now, do you see why the lashing was a bad idea? On a large man with muscle and padding, ten lashes cause unimaginable pain. You see?”
“I'm small, but I'm not weak,” Frodo said.
“Perhaps not,” Stabler said doubtfully. He guided Frodo out to his horse. The sun had almost fully set, and a cold wind blew out of the north. Frodo shivered, even bundled in his cloak. “You will need all of that strength for the next five days.” Stabler smiled in such a way that it did not reach his piercing eyes. He swung Frodo up on his horse as if the hobbit weighed nothing, and Frodo was left breathless by his quick and effortless strength.
Go on to next part
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Frodo/Faramir
Summary: AU of an AU. Yep. You read correctly. Let me explain: This particular story takes place in the same universe as The Citadel. If you’ve not read the original story and don’t want to bother, all you need know is that it's a crazy AU in which Frodo, Halbarad, Aragorn, and Faramir live together in a lodge in a mysterious village in Middle-earth with vague memories of dark paths in another time and place. However, this is sort of an AU of The Citadel. This will be end up being posted in about 3 or 4 parts. For
moitOh - and of course Stabler has to show up. :D
Warning: a wee bit of violence and angst.
Previous parts:
Part 1
The next day spring arrived. Or so it seemed. The sun came out, bright and glorious, and the snow and ice that had crusted the ground for so many months began to melt. Bliss filled Frodo’s heart as he delivered his messages. All day he anticipated that evening when he and Faramir would be alone. He wanted to be ravaged again, left so sore he could barely walk, proof that Faramir owned him completely. Occasionally he had to dismount from Prim, find privacy behind some bushes, and stroke himself to relief. At lunch, he visited his dear friend Eomer, who cared for the Rangers’ horses who needed training or medical help. Years ago he had been grievously injured in battle, leaving him too lame to face combat.
“You look weary, my friend,” Eomer said, limping out to greet him. “But fear not, spring is coming. I can smell it in the air. The horses are restless as of late.”
“I feel quite well today, actually,” Frodo said. “Would you share my sandwich with me? I've lost my usual hobbit appetite, I'm afraid.”
“No, but thank you,” Eomer said. “Come, sit.” When Frodo joined him on a smooth log outside the stable, Eomer went on to ask, “How goes your attempt to tame the dragons?”
“Pardon me?”
“Halbarad, Strider, Faramir. I know it's been difficult for you living among such humorless men.”
“Oh, no,” Frodo said, laughing. Eomer looked most puzzled. “Oh, Eomer, I am sorry. You are correct in a way, I suppose, since last we spoke. But now? Things have gotten ever so much better.” His cheeks heated.
“Ah,” Eomer said, nodding knowingly. “You've a fondness for one of them.”
Frodo nearly choked on a bite of his sandwich. He recovered and said with utmost dignity, “I am fond of them all.”
“Nay,” Eomer said, wagging his finger. “You cannot fool me. You’ve a special fondness for one of them. I am lame, not blind.”
“Perhaps,” Frodo said, blushing. “All right. You may be right.”
“I am glad,” Eomer said. “You deserve all the happiness and splendor that can be had in this cheerless land. I wish you well.”
At the end of his shift, Frodo stepped into Fomhal’s office to check in, and Fomhal grabbed him by the upper arm. He shoved him hard against the wall, knocking the breath out of him.
“Did you open a piece of mail yesterday, runt?”
Frodo's stomach plunged. So Tili had complained. What foul luck!
“Pardon me?” His voice squeaked a bit, for which he was deeply ashamed. He was in trouble, though, bad trouble. Fomhal offered no quarter for breaking rules and in fact took great glee in doling out punishment if needed.
Fomhal pushed him against the wall again. “Speak!”
“I know the letter of which you speak,” Frodo said breathlessly. “The muddy letter I gave to Tili the dwarf--”
“Muddy and opened. Deliberately opened. Yes, I know about your story to him that you dropped it and the pony stepped on it. Not likely when there is evidence of muddy fingerprints on the letter.”
Frodo looked up at Fomhal, taking deep breaths to calm himself. “I did open it,” he whispered. “But I did not read—”
“I'll have you arrested,” Fomhal said, looking at him in disgust. “I never took you to be a crook of any sort, even for being a runt and all.”
“No, please,” Frodo said. “I did not read the letter. The handwriting on the front resembled that of my cousin, who has been missing for years and I thought—”
But Fomhal was no longer listening. He had turned away to bark an order out to one of the other messengers. That messenger gave Frodo a sympathetic glance before leaving.
“I’ve sent for the law.” Fomhal smiled in a satisfied manner, crossing his arms across his chest. “What say you to that? Even your Ranger friends can’t help you now.”
“No, please,” Frodo said, feeling as if cruel hands squeezed his insides. “I will never do it again. I’ve no reason to. I never even read the letter.”
The day, which had begun with golden sun and spring flowers, had spun into a world of darkness.
“I am sorry,” Frodo said, appealing to any mercy Fomhal might have inside him. “I made a dreadful mistake. I can make it up to you. I will work extra hours. I will do whatever you want—”
“Shut your mouth and have a seat or I will tie you up.”
Frodo swallowed against the bile in his throat and obeyed Fomhal, settling on the small chair in Fomhal’s study. He trembled uncontrollably. He never, ever should have opened that letter. Not for anything. Far better that he should always wonder that it had been Bilbo’s writing. Or better yet – why had he not just asked Tili about it?
You’re a fool, Frodo Baggins. A fool.
A man dressed as a Ranger entered the office. Frodo had never seen him before.
“Fomhal,” the Ranger said, nodding. He had a mask over most of his face, hiding all but stern, ice-blue eyes shadowed by thick eyebrows. The Ranger paused, stared at Frodo in puzzlement and then turned his attention to Fomhal. “What is it you want?”
Fomhal gestured toward Frodo. “I want this Halfling punished for breaking the law.”
“And what sort of law has he broken?”
Frodo perceived that this Ranger’s world had always been harsh, had always lacked in joy. This Frodo could tell from the harsh lines in his face and the way his jaw was set as if perpetually trying to hold his temper in.
“As you know,” Fomhal said, “It is against the law for anyone to open mail that is not addressed to him. This messenger, who has been entrusted to handle such messages, has opened a letter all because he believed the handwriting looked familiar to him. I've never heard such nonsense in my life, but he is a halfling. They're not like us.”
“Stand up,” the Ranger commanded Frodo.
Frodo glanced at Fomhal.
“I would do as Captain Stabler says,” Fomhal said. “Or you'll likely be hurting.”
Frodo stood, feeling small and vulnerable as he so often did in this village. Stabler (what a queer name) stared down at him, looking him up and down a few times.
Finally Stabler asked, “Did you open the envelope of a piece of mail that wasn't yours?”
Frodo swallowed. He found he could not speak. Outside, the sun had begun to set. Faramir would certainly be waiting for him by now, perhaps with a delicious supper already started, a bottle of wine opened.
“Speak!”
“Yes,” he managed to whisper.
“The consequence for this will be your choice,” Stabler said. “Ten lashes, one week of hard labor under my supervision, or three days in the dungeon.”
The latter two were out of the question. Frodo had to get home to Faramir. But being lashed? He had witnessed it done once months ago while he was delivering messages, and the harshness of it had haunted him for many days after. The man being lashed had been caught stealing, and although he looked big and tough, after it was done, he rolled on the ground in agony, his back a raw mass of welts.
“I'll take the lashing,” Frodo said. “Because I must return home this evening.” He felt mortified down to his core. He, Frodo Baggins, being lashed like a common thief, in front of Fomhal, who already held him in such scorn and who clearly delighted in witnessing the fine, fancy halfling humiliated and hurt.
“You’ve not much flesh for padding,” Stabler said in a gentler manner. “This could cause you grave hurt. I know I gave you a choice, but I would suggest the hard labor. You’ll come to no harm under my supervision. A week is really not so long.”
“If I chose that,” Frodo said, “might I be able to go home first, just for the night? I've a friend who is expecting me.”
Fomhal laughed and shook his head. “Your friends can’t help you.”
Stabler gave him a stern look, but then shook his head. “No, I'm afraid you would have to go home with me until the end of the week.”
“Then I must insist on the lashing,” Frodo said. Fomhal’s beady eyes gleamed with delight. Frodo only hoped he would not end up so badly injured from it that he would be unable to enjoy his evening with Faramir.
You fool, of course you'll be injured. But at least at the end of it, you can be under Faramir’s care.
Just thinking about Faramir’s gentle eyes calmed him.
“If you are adamant about this, I will need you to strip down to your waist,” Stabler said with a reluctant sigh, “and kneel on the ground.”
Frodo obeyed him, taking in deep breaths to keep himself strong. He did not want to give Fomhal the satisfaction of showing fear. He hoped he would not cry out. He thought again about Faramir and how much pain he had endured over the years from battle wounds. Frodo could be just as stoic. He stripped himself of his cloak, his weskit, and his shirt. He knelt on the ground and bent forward, clasping his knees, willing them to stop shaking.
There was a long pause, and Frodo dared a glance over his shoulder.
Stabler had the whip ready in his hand but he looked uncertain.
“I'm ready,” Frodo said. “Let’s get this finished.”
The first lash struck with far more force than Frodo had anticipated, taking Frodo’s breath away, causing such horrific pain to shoot down his back and through his body that he was rocked forward, off balance. He clutched the ground, writhing, breathing hard and deep so that he would not cry out. He could take nine more; he had to. He held the image of Faramir in his mind.
“I will not do this,” Stabler said. “Get up, Frodo. Get dressed. You will come home with me.”
“No, no,” Frodo moaned. “I must make it home tonight.”
“Not an option,” Stabler said. “The one lash I have already delivered will take two days off the hard labor sentence. You shall have five days instead of seven under my supervision. Now go on, get dressed.”
Fomhal looked disappointed.
Frodo got dressed again. He gasped in pain when the back of his shirt touched the wound from the lash. If a single lash had caused this much pain, then he could only imagine what ten lashes would have done.
“At least,” he said, trying to divert himself from the pain. “Can I not send a message home to my friends?”
“That you may do,” Stabler said.
Frodo swallowed a hard lump in his throat. His night alone with Faramir would not happen. Even if Stabler were to let him go home right now, he could not imagine lying on his back and getting any pleasure with his back on fire as it was. Stabler's whip apparently was made of warg teeth.
“Are you all right?” Stabler asked.
Frodo nodded, but his hunched posture spoke otherwise.
“Now, do you see why the lashing was a bad idea? On a large man with muscle and padding, ten lashes cause unimaginable pain. You see?”
“I'm small, but I'm not weak,” Frodo said.
“Perhaps not,” Stabler said doubtfully. He guided Frodo out to his horse. The sun had almost fully set, and a cold wind blew out of the north. Frodo shivered, even bundled in his cloak. “You will need all of that strength for the next five days.” Stabler smiled in such a way that it did not reach his piercing eyes. He swung Frodo up on his horse as if the hobbit weighed nothing, and Frodo was left breathless by his quick and effortless strength.
Go on to next part
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Date: 2011-07-08 12:52 am (UTC)Thank you for stopping by again! *grin*