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Speaks to the Trees	By : kspence Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Slash - Male/Male Views: 4967 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings book series and movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 9
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As he lay in the grass, a slumbering Faramir cradled in his arms, Shagrat found he had a number of things to think about. He began by tensing his buttocks, cautiously. There was a little tenderness there - and that was not surprising, as Faramir hadn’t exactly been pulling any of his punches towards the finish, but the ache was if anything vaguely pleasurable, putting Shagrat more in mind of the excitement and intimacy they’d just shared, instead of dark recollections of – of anything else.   Because it hadn’t, really, been anything like the times – those many miserable times – he remembered from before. Shaking his shoulders irritably in a bid to rid himself of such dismal thoughts, the Orc did his best to concentrate upon the present, because all in all, it had gone off a lot better than he could ever have hoped.
Trust Goldilocks! Which (barring of course that little – wobble – of his at the start when he’d feared his companion was on the verge of attack) he supposed he – must do, mustn’t he? Especially as there had been little or no pain during their coupling - not even any bleeding from his backside afterwards (for Shagrat had covertly checked the handful of grass with which he’d cleaned himself before he dressed and in that respect at least, it had been absolutely spotless). Now that certainly had to be some kind of first for him, didn’t it? As was the matter of the satisfactory little climax he’d experienced, and though - to be strictly accurate - that might have involved physical sensations somewhat less than the fact of Faramir having gasped out the Orc’s name at his moment of orgasm, a fact that that invariably did all sorts of things to Shagrat. Whatever the cause of it, he had never imagined there would be room for anything like actual enjoyment on his part.
Their mutual explorations, their eager pleasurings of one other – of course those were aspects of his association with Faramir that Shagrat had always relished. But secretly he sometimes wondered – and particularly often at such times - whether it wasn’t the contented moments such as this, when they were together in quiet companionship on which he might place an even greater value. Lying there sated, feeling utterly relaxed, the Orc’s head nodded forwards as he caught himself on the verge of falling asleep. He blinked his good eye rapidly, trying hard to stay awake. Times like this with Goldilocks, he thought distractedly, as unconsciousness finally overtook him, were just too good to miss.
In Mordor, he’d gone more years than he could count with never more than a few snatched moments of sleep. Grinding fear and constant anxiety in the face of the threat of ambush or attack from his own compatriots if not a formal enemy could well have contributory factors and yet Shagrat was oblivious to the real reason for it, which was that he hadn’t slept because he couldn’t, because all through that time the ease from care that came with sleep and basic rest had deliberately been withheld Shagrat and the others like him. It was no more than one other aspect of the mental conditioning to which their dark master had subjected his hapless Orcish foot-soldiers; one of the subtler methods by which the Lord of Mordor had reigned and retained his control.
When Shagrat woke it was with feelings of contentment and deep refreshment, sensations so unfamiliar to him in his usual state that initially, he had some trouble appreciating what any of it meant. It must have been late in the day, for the sun was low on the horizon and the woodland glade before him was lit with a dazzling, green-gold light. The glade was bathed all around by a peculiar, greenish-golden light that seemed, oddly, to shine from no particular direction or source. The grey poplars here – as most types of poplar were wont to do – had thrown up abundant suckers from their roots, which were of an age to have grown into tender young trees in their own right. These saplings formed the understory of the grove and were all so similar in size, and the distance between them so regularly spaced as to give their arrangement a strangely formal, intentionally planted look. The Orc noticed then - with a start that brought his heart hammering into his mouth - that he and Faramir were not alone, for suddenly standing between himself and the backdrop of light, leaves and encircling young trees there was (or had all at once appeared, because the Orc was quite certain he had not been there even a second before) the figure of a man, long-haired and wearing a suit of light armour over the gauzy grey-green fabric of his tabard, or long tunic, or dress.
Shagrat scrambled to his feet.
Strewth! It was a tall bugger and no mistake, his height exactly matching Shagrat’s, inch for inch. Seen from behind he had – well, he had a warrior’s build, didn’t he? The same breadth of shoulders and lean length of limb. There was, admittedly, a certain pansification-factor, on account of the clothes he was wearing – because frankly, it was a gown he had on, wasn’t it? – which, all in all, seemed a most peculiar choice of garment to be yomping round wet water-meadows in. The colour was a pale silvery-green – and very familiar, because funnily enough, now that Shagrat came to think about it, it looked to be almost the exact same shade as the unfurling new poplar leaves all around them. But in spite of his ethereal attire, the stranger still had the undeniable air of a person with whom it would be most unwise for anyone to trifle. He was in fact just the sort of sword-wielding, iron-clad and lordly-looking, full-of-himself utter wanker that the Orc might well at one point have expected to look up from the ranks to see charging down on him from horseback, and even now he shivered at the vivid, if distant memory.
“Calm yourself,” the stranger said then, apparently speaking to the world at large, for he had not yet troubled to turn to face Shagrat, “there’s no need for either of us to be alarmed.”
Cocking his head, the Uruk stared at him. He quietly hefted the sturdy tree-branch he’d grabbed for on waking - that he was still clutching - back and forth in a series of swift, exploratory swipes. He was satisfied to note that the balance seemed about right. Taking a deep breath he aimed for a spot just above the stranger’s left ear.
“You can let go of that,” the man announced suddenly, still not turning round, “because it would be a pity, don’t you think, to have to start carrying on in that way, here? It’s such a lovely, wonderful and restful place. I know I’ve always thought so. As for you, my friend. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Lowering his weapon slightly, the Orc stepped forward, clearing his throat. He’d come to have a fairly well-developed sense of self-preservation, and while this situation was admittedly a little – on the odd side, on the other hand nothing as yet seemed seriously amiss.
“I like it here too,” he replied, speaking to the back of the man’s head, as he noted for the first time that despite its nondescript, light-brown colour, the fellow had really rather pretty hair. Well he ruddy well would do, wouldn’t he! The man’s hair was shot with grey but it was fine and straight and looked very soft. Feeling an odd, twisting sensation in the pit of his stomach, the recollection came to Shagrat that, back in the day - before things got shot entirely to buggery - he himself had had hair that looked a lot like that. But that was once upon a time - so long ago he’d until this moment forgotten all about it. It had been that long before.
“I come here sometimes,” the Orc volunteered eventually. “Less often than I’d like, though.”
“I know that,” the man said. “Of course I do. These trees are a comfort to you. But you could make more of an effort, perhaps.”
“I could,” Shagrat nodded. “I suppose I could, at that. But, you know - it’s still a bit of a hike.”
A short silence stretched between them. And while the Uruk would’ve sworn one hundred percent that he’d never seen this particular geezer before in his life, there seemed to be something in his manner; not in his looks per se, because of course only the back of his head and his stupid dress were visible at this point, but still there was something terribly (in the sense that whatever quality it was that was possessed by the Man, or Elf, or shade, or whatever he was, promised to fill Shagrat with abject....terror) familiar about him. In fact he looked as if he might even have been glowing a bit too, shining with the same gorgeous, gold-green colour that was suffusing the stand of trees. The Uruk squinted over at him, trying to decide whether this radiant effect was but a trick of the light.
“So, you,” he said, at last. “You – you come from round here, do you?”
The fellow didn’t reply and so after a moment Shagrat added - “or, you know, maybe like, out of it?”
The other fellow laughed – and predictably enough it was a silvery, melodious and joyful sound. “Oh, Shagrat! Truly, don’t you know? You can’t really be mistaking me for some transcendent spirit of vegetation, can you? Something conjured up out of the ground, or from the trees?”
“Oh, they’re nice trees all right,” Shagrat said cautiously, “but, I did wonder for a minute if perhaps you’d – gotten here - on account of all the good sex.”
“No,” the stranger replied, “it wasn’t that, not really.”
“So, have you,” the Orc began, for some reason already anticipating in some measure the fellow’s answer “- come far?”
He turned towards Shagrat slightly, and it struck the Orc that there was something oddly familiar about his profile.
“I’ve come no further,” the man said, “than you.”
Shagrat nodded sagely. “Ah!”
“It is a lovely place. But you should also to be aware,” (the stranger went on) “although in truth, the fact that I am telling you shows us both that on some level you must already know, that there are other places for you to go. Many realms-
“Oh, ’realms,’ now, is it?” Shagrat interrupted. “Would these by any chance happen to be enchanted, magical realms? If so I’m sure they’re very fancy. ‘Realms’. Lovely. Gotcha! Right.”
“We can call them ’places’ if you wish,” the man said, with an irritable shrug of the shoulders that put Shagrat in mind of something he knew he really ought to have been able to recognise, “places where someone like – yourself, given time, given effort, might, through contemplation, and long reflection –“
“Reflecting?” Shagrat snorted, thoroughly sick and tired by now of all this inane yet vaguely metaphysical clap-trap. “Now, how am I supposed to go about doing that d’you reckon? Not much of a shiny surface am I? We’re not in some bloody mystical dream mirror, you know.”
“Think so, do you?” the man said, a bit archly. “’Places’” he continued after a pointed pause, “where, through careful introspection, a person in your position might attempt at least in part to reclaim what once was lost to him. Wherein a damaged, tortured –“
Shagrat flat-out feigned deafness then. “What’s that you’re saying?” he asked, speaking very loudly over the other fellow.
“- a tormented soul,” the man shouted, “such as ours -”
“No! Sorry! Didn’t quite catch that.”
“ - might seek healing and eventually become – whole.”
“Nope! Still no idea what you’re on about!”
“Though naturally that would involve leaving - this place,” the man went on, ignoring him, “as well as all those who remain bound to it.”
Shagrat grunted. “Is that right.”
“Yes. Do you understand what I am trying to tell to you?”
Shagrat turned to look back briefly at Goldilocks, his dear, beloved Goldilocks, who was still sleeping fast against the fallen tree. “Yeah, I think I get it,” he replied. “Not a chance.”
“It is always your decision,” the man said lightly. “But you should understand that when I say ‘whole’ I mean not only in body, but also the matter of –“
Shagrat shook himself irritably. “I reckon I know what you meant.”
“Sure about that, are you? For how else could you think of dismissing, so lightly –“
“I know what you meant!”
The Uruk stepped nearer to the radiant fellow. “Do I know you?” he asked warily, stopping just short of him. “Have we – met?”
Speaking of mirrors, Shagrat, despite being an Orc was possessed of a tragically developed yet utterly conventional sense of aesthetics, which meant that he tended to steer clear of mirrors on principle. He also strenuously avoided gazing into still pools of water, reflective surfaces in general - and even did his best not to look too closely at the outline of his shadow, whenever he was forced to venture outdoors in the mid-day sun. But he was familiar- all too painfully familiar - with his own appearance nevertheless, and so when the stranger turned towards him, so close that Shagrat could see the whites of his clear grey eyes (the other fellow, he still had two of them), the unmarked, yet recognizably similar line of his brow, and they were almost touching, nose to delicately shaped (and as yet, undamaged) nose, it was impossible for the Orc not to immediately recognise the shape of his own face in that of the stranger; and just for an instant, from the points of his Elvish ears to the flash of his teeth Shagrat beheld his own unbroken, mirror image -
The man smiled, and there were depths of kindness in his eyes.
“For fucksakes!” Shagrat yelped, jumping back away from him. The green-gold light shone into his eyes and dazzled him, and the man vanished.
Shagrat woke properly, jerking awake with a start where he was lying. He was still on the ground and still next to Faramir. The Prince of Ithilien rolled over and embraced him drowsily.
“You all right, Shagrat?”
“Yeah. Think I must’ve just been – talking to myself,” the Uruk said, weakly.

TBC
- 9
- 10
- 11
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Speaks to the Trees