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Journey Of A Butterfly	By : Mel99Moe Category: -Fourth Age to Modern times and beyond > Het - Male/Female Views: 5714 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or places of Lord of the Rings/Tolkien. No money is being made. This is for personal enjoyment only.

Chapter List
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Chapter 49 - The Slave Trader

Feredir slowly came to. His eyelids were too heavy to open yet and his head pounded as if he’d had too much dwarfish ale. He tried to remember what happened to him but his mind was in disarray. He remembered entering the secret tunnel and finding the slaves, talking to them and . . . yes, now he remembered. The Southrons had trapped him. He fought with one of them, but they had overpowered him somehow. He remembered laying a sound punch to one of their faces, but after that everything was a blur.

He moaned and tried in a feeble attempt to bring his hands to his face, but found that they were tied behind his back. As he moved, his ribs ached. He knew no one hit him before the blackout. They must have kicked him after he fell unconscious. Southrons did not trust the elves and for good reason.

The air seemed slightly cool on his skin and he realized that he was wearing naught but a loincloth. They must have stripped him of his clothes, taken his weapons and any other belongings. Southrons believed that the quickest way to make a man vulnerable was to begin with his dignity. They hadn’t taken into account that these things did not bother the First Born. Their strength did not lessen just because they were exposed.

“Make sure you have another dart ready, just in case he breaks his bonds. If he gets free now, he will kill us for sure.” The voice was familiar and Feredir strained his ears to listen to the accent. A dart, he thought to himself. Ah, that would explain it. They must have shot him with a sedative and rendered him unconscious. Cowards, he thought. They were too afraid to fight him hand to hand, knowing they would very likely fail.

Feredir tried to move again, but his body would not cooperate. However, he was still able to move his mouth and mumbled as he tried to speak, though his mouth was as dry as this blasted desert he was in.

“Water should do the trick,” demanded the same man that just spoke and suddenly Feredir was drenched with cold wetness. The elf roused further and was now able to open his eyes and see who his captors were.

He looked up, squinting through blurred vision and recognized one of the men. “You . . . you are the man from the tavern. You plotted my capture didn’t you?”

The man came closer to Feredir. “I will be the only one to ask questions here. So tell me, what is an elf doing in Rhûn?”

Feredir said nothing but glared at the man. He started thinking about all that played out in the tavern, the men who watched him, this man who approached him, the girl in green and the key. “The girl was in on it. It was all a trick.”

The man laughed under his breath. “And they say the elves are just mindless followers of false gods.” He looked up at the other Southrons in the room. “Seems our friend here has found us out, though a little late.” The others in the room mimicked the leaders laugh.

Feredir glanced around with new awareness and recognized the three men as being the ones from the tunnel. One was tall for a Southron and built rather sturdy with a broad chest. The other seemed young, not yet developed his strength, an apprentice probably. The third was the one he remembered. He was older man with scruffy hair and a toothless smile who Feredir had spoken with first at the bar. The elf came to regret his decision to start his search in that place, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

The dark haired elf smiled groggily at the older man and laughed to himself. “I guess you’ll listen to your friends here next time. My fist against your face . . . that is what you will remember.”

“Enough,” demanded the man in authority. “Tell me what you are doing here. Who do you work for? You are not who you say you are. No elf has ever become a servant of a master and those that are captured don’t survive for long. They are desired for other duties.”

“I work for no one. I am here on my own accord,” Feredir answered in a low tone.

“And it just so happens that you search for the one slave that has given me the most trouble. That is not a coincidence. I lost two good men trying to steal him away from his clan. Those lords in the north do not part with their most prized possessions so easily. I tried to purchase him but could not. You must know I will obtain my goods by whatever means I may, in this case infiltration of the clan and theft in the small hours of the night.”

Feredir thought about this. Slaves were traded all the time, even the best and most well trained. The fact that this clan leader would not bargain with this particular slave raised the elf’s suspicions. His master was the one doing business with Bregmund, trading jewels for land. The deal fell through and the slave knew too much. But why keep him? Why not do away with him so there would be no chance of the slave divulging any information?

“It seems you are going to great lengths to possess something that could not be traded,” Feredir said.

The man leaned down close to the elf, bringing his face next to Feredir’s. “Everything has a price, even you.” As the man spoke, his hand traveled up Feredir’s naked thigh. The elf squirmed slightly and spit in the man’s face. This purchased a fist to his jaw by the man who now wiped his face with a cloth, as well as checked his knuckles for blood.

Feredir felt the metallic taste fill his mouth were the inside of his cheek bled. He did not flinch, but sat there glaring at the man. It suddenly dawned on him just who he was dealing with. “You are Abdan. You are the slave trader himself.”

“Ah, you discovered my secret now haven’t you. As you know, there are quite a few people that would have my head. Unfortunately for them, those that discover my true identity rarely live long enough to pose a threat to my enterprise.” Abdan looked to the largest of the three men in the room. “Stand him up,” he commanded.

The large muscular man grabbed Feredir by his upper arm and jerked him up. The elf was still a bit wobbly and when he tried to keep from falling, he noticed that his ankles were tethered together so he could not walk. He stumbled and the man handled him roughly, obviously annoyed by the fact that he had to help the elf.

Abdan walked over to a small table placed in the middle of the empty room. Feredir took the chance to observe his surroundings. There was one door and one small window. The floor was made of dirt and the air smelled of old musty grain. This must have been a storeroom of some kind, but was now Abdan’s torture room. The dark haired elf’s attention came back to the slave trader, who had picked up something from the table. It looked like a stamp used to embed a symbol on a wax seal, with a wooden handle and a silver tip. Feredir could see the symbol of Harad upon it, a serpent. He began to struggle, feeling his ire rise. The large guard behind him grabbed the rope between Feredir’s bound wrists and pulled up. The elf winced at the sharp pain in his arms. Abdan turned slowly to face the elf.

“There is no escape from this room and even if you tried, you would not get far,” he said glancing to his left were the young guard stood, a wooden tube in his hand that housed the dart.

“I told you, I work for no one but myself,” Feredir shouted. “I know nothing about your robbery, but I have my own reasons to want the slave. I will pay you if that is what you seek.”

Abdan laughed evilly. “I’m afraid it is too late to strike any kind of a bargain. Besides, I already have a buyer for the slave, as well as you.” As he spoke, he held the metal tip of the stamp over a candle, heating it. Feredir realized what it was for. It was not only for sealing letters, it was a brand, the mark of a slave. “Actually, you have saved me from losing my head as well as my business. It seems someone has betrayed me and given up my secrecy to the clan leader who owned Mazzin. He sent out his goons to hunt me down and take the slave back. You see, to save my hide, I made an arrangement with the clan lord. He forgets about the slave and what I did to obtain him, and I give him a wood elf in exchange.”

Feredir gave him a confused look as he wondered how Abdan knew what race of elf he was.

Abdan continued as he heated the brand. “You see, I know more about you than you might think. People are my business and I am very observant. You are an elf of Mirkwood. It is very easy to identify if you look in the right place.” Abdan slowly walked over to Feredir carrying the brand. He reached out and almost seductively pushed the elf’s black hair over his shoulder, exposing his collarbone. Feredir stood naked, covered in nothing but the loincloth, and unmoving as he tried to control his temper. He was in no position to fight back at the moment.

The slave trader’s eyes traveled along Feredir’s fair flesh. His finger trailed along the elf’s neck to a black mark just at the front of his shoulder. It was a small tattoo in the shape of a leaf, an insignia given to Mirkwood warriors upon their acceptance into the elvish army. “To anyone else, this mark would be missed, but I know a thing or two about the First Born. Upon the flesh of every woodland soldier is a tattoo of a leaf, small and unnoticeable. It is a rite of passage is it not? I have heard that it serves more than one purpose. It is a mark of pride, but it is also placed there so in the event of an unfortunate beheading and defilement, the body can be identified and sent back home for proper burial.” He said this as his thumb lightly touched the leaf tattoo, not much bigger than the tip of one’s finger.

Feredir glared at the man, hating his voice and his condescending tone. Abdan continued. “Do you know how much money a woodland elf can bring? They are very rare.” He circled Feredir where he stood, examining his strapping body and seeming to enjoy what he saw. “They are very fine too, very difficult to break, but it can be done.” Now he came back around to face Feredir. “It is very difficult for me to just give you away, but it means my head if I don’t.” Abdan studied the red glow of the stamp. “Now let’s begin by erasing your identity.” Abdan brought the stamp up to the elf’s shoulder as he struggled.

Feredir panicked as he watched the blazing iron stamp move closer to him. “Please, not there. Brand me if you must, but not there,” Feredir begged. The small insignia was very important to him, much more important than anyone could know.

Abdan smiled. “My, I do like when they beg. Still, you won’t be needing this anymore. You belong to the Haradrim now.” He jammed the red-hot stamp into Feredir’s skin, right where the leaf was.

“No!” Feredir screamed twisting wildly, but the large guard held his arms in such a way that he could not fight and seemed to lose some strength. The smell of searing flesh rose to the elf’s nose, making him fight his captors and try to back away but it was no use. The physical pain, though excruciating was nothing when compared with the destruction of this important part of Feredir’s life, something very symbolic and meaningful that he could never get back. Now it was gone forever, erased in a single moment. This alone was enough to weaken Feredir and his captor felt his body give way.

Abdan lifted the stamp and looked at the freshly burned skin. The black leaf insignia was completely gone, replaced by an angry welt in the shape of a serpent. Satisfied that the brand had taken affect, he went back to the table and set the stamp down. Now he picked up a switch, seemingly made from a willow branch. No trees like that grew here in the desert and Feredir wondered where this man had found it. It was only a passing thought and meant nothing but that Abdan possibly traveled outside of Rhûn. The slave trader went back to Feredir.

“Now here is something peculiar,” he started. “You are an elf, no doubt, but your blood is not pure, a half-breed some would call you. I’m guessing . . . Gondorian, by your features and the color and texture of your hair.” Abdan’s hand gathered a fist full of Feredir’s black hair and gently caressed it. Then he wrapped it around his fingers several times and made a fist. He pulled it hard, making Feredir’s head jerk back, exposing his neck. Abdan leaned in close and sniffed the elf’s flesh. “Let me guess, your mother was the elf, unusual. So who did she seduce and spread her legs for?”

Feredir’s body tensed at the mention of his mother and Abdan became rather excited knowing he had guessed the elf’s lineage correctly, angering him. He leaned in and ran his tongue along Feredir’s neck before whispering in his ear. “Dirty, naughty little wood elf women . . . always using their cunts to get what they want.”

At this Feredir turned into a trapped animal as he thrashed around trying to get to Abdan who jumped away quickly. A second guard, the older man that Feredir attacked in the tunnel, had to intervene to keep Feredir from reaching his target. When they had control of the elf, Abdan raised the switch and started whipping him across the chest and stomach. The raw wood dug in deep, slicing his flesh and making blood trickle down his body. Then he rushed up to Feredir, his hand lifting the loincloth, grasping the elf’s limp cock and squeezing, weakening him until he hunched forward. Abdan leaned down and spat as he spoke in his ear. “Try something like that again and I will cut off your balls. Don’t think I won’t. It’s the cock they all want anyways.” Abdan balled up his fist and pulled his arm back. Then he punched Feredir low on his abdomen, keeping the elf impaired. Abdan backed away and shook his head. “Definitely the easiest catch I have ever had.” He turned to the young guard, still standing in a corner away from the others, observing the scene. “You, come with me. We need to prepare the wagon for transport.” He pointed to the older guard. “You too, I don’t trust that you have any sense around the elf. He’s already knocked you out once. Come, there’s work to do and the client is anxious.”

The two men exited the room, but the third man, the tall muscular one still held onto Feredir. Abdan had instructions for him too. “Make sure he is well prepared. I’m sure the client will want to sample him before he makes his final decision.”

The large man smiled at the prospect of being the first one to break the elf in, but Abdan gave him a stern look. “And don’t make any more marks on him. When you’re through, clean him up. I don’t want to present him all bloodied and stinking with your stench.

Abdan left the room and closed the door behind him. Now Feredir was alone with this heathen, bound and weakened. The oversized goon looked around. “They didn’t leave me much to use now did they. No matter, I will make do with what I have. First though,” he said and kicked Feredir’s legs out from under him, making him fall to the ground. “That’s better. Can’t have you running up behind me and try to murder me now can we?” The man went to the small table and cleared it of its contents. He looked it over carefully and smiled. “Just the right height.”

Feredir tried to think of a way out of this situation, but his options were limited. If there were just some way he could get his ankles untied, he would at least have the use of his legs to fight. His strong muscled thighs could easily snap the neck of a man if he could get in the right position.

The man searched a shelf on the wall, checking the contents of a jar and a couple bottles. He seemed agitated. “Do they expect me to do this without aid?” He turned to Feredir. “Not that it matters to you,” he said and grinned a sickening smile. He went to the door, looked back to Feredir once more, satisfied that the elf couldn’t get back up being tied as he was, and exited the room.

Feredir rolled onto his back and tried to use the wall to help him stand. With his sore ribs, the drug still in his system stealing his full strength and his hands tied behind his back, he could not get up. He concentrated, trying to think of something, but there was nothing he could do now. He would have to wait until the man came back and helped him up. Once he was on his feet, perhaps he could fight him somehow.

After a few short moments, the man returned. He went straight to Feredir and grabbed him by one arm, lifting him quite easily. The elf was surprised at his strength to lift someone of his own build without much of a problem. The man stood behind him, his hot breath on his neck. “It will be a pleasure to break you in.”

Feredir cocked his head to the side hard, hitting the Southron and giving him a bloody nose. The man jerked back and grabbed his face. When he saw the blood, his eyes turned dark with anger. “Fucking elves,” he yelled and punched Feredir in the gut, making him double over. The elf was getting tired of being treated like a training dummy. When the man came at him again, Feredir threw his body at him with as much force as he could muster. It made them both fall to the floor. Feredir rolled onto his back and waited until the man came at him again. At least on the ground, he had a slight advantage and bent his legs at the knees as the man approached. Though his ankles were tied, he kicked his legs straight out, hitting the man in his crotch with his feet. That should keep him from wanting to do whatever it was he was looking forward to and Feredir wanted no part of this ‘preparation’.

The Southron doubled over into a fetal position on his side. Feredir took this moment to scoot along the floor until he was close enough that he could kick the man. The elf would not go down without a fight, hands and feet tied or not. He kicked the man in his back, lifted his legs and brought them down on the man’s ribs. Anything that would work in this position Feredir did, but he was still at a disadvantage and unless he killed this man, he would soon face his wrath when he recovered. The elf did not expect him to recover so fast though. On his third attempt to kick the Southron, the man caught Feredir’s feet and threw them to the side allowing himself room to roll away. The man got up, leaving Feredir lying on the floor, panting heavily, naked and bloody. He grabbed the elf by his long hair and pulled him up into a sitting position. His other hand grabbed the rope tied around Feredir’s wrists and pulled him painfully to his feet yet again.

“So you like it rough, do you?” the man growled and pushed the wood elf across the room to the table. With another push, Feredir fell forward, the edge of the table cutting across his injured stomach. Without his hands to brace him, it was a harsh way to land. Now he was completely vulnerable. He could not stand or roll off the table. All he could do was lift his head and keep an eye on the Southron.

The large man walked around in front of Feredir and stood there a moment, rubbing his back and checking his broken nose. The elf had fought formidably and done significant damage to the man, even though he was bound. He had underestimated the strength and cunning of the fair folk. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“Now I will break you,” he said with malice. He started unbuttoning his pants, but stopped when something distracted him. He gave the elf a ruthless smile and reached into his pocket. “I almost forgot.” He pulled something out of his pants pocket and showed it to Feredir. The elf became angry, struggling to get up, but unable to defend himself. In his hand, the man held the little wooden butterfly. They must have taken it when Feredir was unconscious. No doubt, they searched all of his belonging, checking everything.

Again, the Southron laughed as he turned the trinket many times in his palm. “So it seems this has some sentimental value to you. Perhaps I should set it on fire,” he sneered as he held it over the flame of the candle.

“No!” Feredir shouted, watching the edges of the wings begin to smoke as the wood heated. “Please, leave it alone.” His voiced changed to softer tones as he begged.

“Someone gave you this trinket, a girl perhaps. Yes, I think so. Is she waiting for you to return, spending lonely nights without you? Maybe someone else warms her bed while you are gone, someone much prettier than you. I bet he pounds her senseless every night as she screams his name over and over.” The Southron continued with his snide remarks, trying to get a rise out of Feredir, but the elf knew better than to give in to his foolish words.

The man could see this had no effect on the dark elf. “Hmm, something else happens to the girl.” He held the butterfly dangerously close to the flame again. “Tell me your story and I will spare your little carving.” He lowered the butterfly and its wings began to char.

“She’s been imprisoned,” Feredir shouted to stop the man from further damaging Terrwyn’s treasure. “She gave it to me for safe keeping.”

“And the slave,” the man asked. “What roll does he play in this?” Again, he burned the trinket.

“The slave may know something that will clear her name. Please, I have told you what you wanted to know. Spare the object,” Feredir cried, reduced to begging.

The Southron flipped the butterfly over a few more times. “It matters not anymore, now does it? You are here, the slave has been sold and soon your life will be rendered useless. I’ll tell you what, I will spare your tiny bauble.” He sat it on the shelf next to the jars and bottles, right where Feredir could see it. “There, something to help you remember the girl. You can think about your cock thrusting into her while I prod your pretty elvish ass. Better that you know about it now. Your new master will use you quite often; at least until your elf soul dies and you are no good to him anymore.” The man picked up a bottle from the shelf and resumed unbuttoning his pants as he walked around behind Feredir.

So this was it, Feredir thought. This was how it would end for him. He’d been stripped naked, drugged, beaten, whipped and now--. It seemed his lack of patience finally got the best of him. Wasn’t that what started all of this in the first place? Had he waited for his troops that day at the border, instead of running off alone to kill the enemy, he may not be here now, but he was here. He was here and Terrwyn was facing execution. He had tried to be the hero, but failed her instead. By the time Orthorien and Horphen came to rescue him, it would be too late. He would be a broken shell. Terrwyn would die in the gallows and all of this would be for naught. The butterfly’s journey would end. If he had only waited as he said he would, then none of this would be happening now. Maybe his brother was right all those long years ago. He never was meant to fit in, to prove his worth.

His eyes rolled up and fell upon the wooden butterfly. “I’m sorry Naru,” he whispered in his native tongue.

Meanwhile, the Southron stood behind Feredir, his pants undone and lowered below his hips. He poured a small amount of oil into the palm of his hand and stroked himself until he stood at attention. Then his greasy hand came down on the small of Feredir’s back after lifting the loincloth. “Oh, I am going to enjoy this. Bet you are a tight fit too,” he mumbled as he positioned himself.

Feredir turned his head to the side and closed his eyes, unable to look at the butterfly any longer. He braced himself for what was about to happen.

Suddenly, the door flew open and the Southron made a strange noise followed by a gurgling sound. Feredir lifted his head to the left and looked to the door. There stood Orthorien, tall and stern, dressed as a Haradrim. His eyes burned fiercely until they came upon Feredir. The dark elf released the breath he had been holding and sighed. “Brother,” he cried relieved.

Orthorien hurried into the room, closing the door behind him. He walked over to where the Southron lay on the floor, shoving him with his boot. A silver throwing knife protruded from his neck. “He’s dead,” Orthorien announced. Then he walked over to Feredir, seeing him naked and bound, draped across a table in a peculiar position. Instantly, he helped the dark elf to stand, looking him over at a quick glance. Feredir’s chest was covered in slashes, welts and blood. “Are you alright? Did he . . .”

“You arrived just in time,” Feredir answered. “He was just about to . . . when you came in, and not a moment too soon.”

Orthorien pulled another knife from his belt and cut the ropes from Feredir’s wrists and ankles. Then he chuckled to himself. “This almost reminds me of my first time,” he jested trying to lighten the mood. Feredir shot him a disapproving look. Any other time, Feredir would have become upset with his brother, not wanting to know about such things. This time he welcomed the brash elf’s comments. Orthorien pulled his younger brother into his arms, embracing him tightly. Feredir winced as his ribs hurt from the hug, but was glad for the familiar feel of family. “Are you sure you are alright?” Orthorien asked again, when he heard his brother moan.

“A little sore and bruised, but otherwise, I’m in good condition. My pride is still intact as well as other parts of my anatomy,” Feredir stated.

Orthorien looked around the room. “We have to get out of here before someone notices that a few of the guards are missing. I had to knock them out and hide the bodies.” He looked Feredir up and down. “Well, you will certainly draw attention if you go out there like that.” Orthorien looked at the dead Southron again. “You are close in size. Let’s strip him down and you can wear his clothes.

They worked fast, considering that more guards might arrive at any moment. “How did you find me?” Feredir asked as he unwrapped the scarf from the man’s head.

“As soon as I arrived I was approached by a young girl. She was in the market and saw me. I guess I did not blend very well and I seemed suspicious to her. She whispered for me to follow her and I did. She said she recently met someone who looked very much the same as I. When she described you, I knew it was you. She insisted on helping me, said she knew where you were being held captive. She also told me how she was an unwilling part of your capture and it weighed heavy on her soul. She seemed very distraught and wanted to amend her mistake.”

“The girl in green from the tavern,” Feredir remembered. “I believe they forced her to help them. I do not fault her. She was only trying to protect her own life.”

“There is something else,” Orthorien went on. “She knows where to find Mazzin. He is on a wagon ready to leave the city. I hope that it has not left yet. The girl said she would try to stall them for time, but we must hurry. If we can just take over that wagon, we can ride straight away from this forsaken land unnoticed. They travel light, though the guards are well armed. Just a single wagon was scheduled to leave Rhûn for Far Harad in the south. Supposedly that is where the buyer is located.”

As they talked, they finished undressing the dead man and Feredir dressed quickly. Orthorien was helping him wrap the last scarf around his neck when he noticed the fresh brand on Feredir’s shoulder. “What’s this?” he asked as his hand came up to touch it.

Feredir grabbed Orthorien’s wrist and pulled it away abruptly. The older elf looked his brother in the eyes, seeing them glass over as tears began to form. “Oh Feredir,” he said sadly. The black leaf insignia was important to all warriors, but none more than Feredir for it was put there by Callo, his human father.

“That was the one thing I had left to remember him by, but what’s done is done. There is nothing for it. My father lives only in memory now. Come, let’s get out of here.” Feredir finished wrapping the scarf around his neck, once again looking like a Southron. They started for the door, but Feredir stopped. “Wait,” he yelled to Orthorien. Feredir went to the shelf and grabbed the wooden butterfly. Then he walked over to the dead man and kicked him, the lifeless body flipping onto his front. Feredir spit on the dead Southron, went back to the door and followed Orthorien out of the room.
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Journey Of A Butterfly