Eyes of the Tower for annmarwalk. R. Thorongil/Denethor
Eyes of the Tower
For annmarwalk
Thorongil/Denethor
Thorongil POV
R
By slashfairy
Betas: tiary and princessofg
I’m watched; I know it, though I cannot see who spies on me. I feel heaviness on my back, my hackles raised at though I am stalked by Yrch, but it is only the streets of Gondor through which I pass. Still beautiful, still proud, though threatened on every side by darkness, still the white tower shines when silver trumpets call out to wandering sons Return, for Gondor needs you.
I wonder at him, the Steward, who is daily dressed in black and glowers as he passes through the City. Less and less often, it is rumoured in the pubs, does he come out of the Great Hall, preferring the Tower for his counsels, and to keep to himself. I make no extra steps to see him, indeed prefer to be out of his way. There is that about him which troubles me, and darkens my inner eye; I would not have him know who I am, who I may yet become: I do not trust him.
I travel about the City, listening here, learning there. I leave and return, noting the fine sons who grow despite their father’s distraction, noting the fine city slowly decaying despite its Steward’s presence. I shiver when I ride into the gates, as though I am seen from afar, but I know not what Eye watches me, nor with what fell intent it glares upon my back, only that it darkens my mind, and threatens my heart’s peace, and is woeful.
I see all manner of things in dreams though, and those I must forget or be forever damned. My dreams are darkened by dank whispers and clammy hands clawing at me, by bleared eyes raking my form and by lips tongue-dampened and hard forcing their way onto mine. I wake, cold-sweated and frightened, the sense of another’s hand upon my body in a most intimate and unpleasant way, night after night, as though I am cursed, and cannot free myself of it.
I ride long nights across Middle-earth, in company of Elves, sometimes of men, to places most have never even heard of in stories, never mind read about, nor imagined traveling to or living in. I see how the countryside, now green and alive, is shadowed from the East, how hearts seemingly light with life and desire labor unknowing under dark thoughts unheard. I feel my skin crawl in the midst of suppers in front of warm hearths with warm friends, and wonder at that sense of being watched.
I return to Gondor once, twice, never near the upper courts, always down below with the men I’ve come to know as fine soldiers did they have leadership, did the Steward care for them, but who are men without purpose now, adrift in worries about homes and families daily more shadowed, daily less warm. I hear mutterings about Rohan pulling away, about spies and dangers everywhere, but I cannot put a finger to their source, nor find a pattern to trace their windings from mouth to ear to mouth; I can only see where they’ve been by the downcast eyes and down-turned mouths of the people of the White City.
Time comes for me to aid the Wizard in his works, traveling dark and dreary roads in search of those we’d just as soon never encounter but must find and bring back to this world. I travel alone as much as I can, far from the White City. Strider they call me, and Ranger, but in the night I am Thorongil still, Star of the North: whispered in my ear, it is, that name, and any solitude is lost.
I feel eyes on my back, everywhere I go, and my dreams… even my waking dreams now are haunted by this voice, rasping and slick, taunting me with its word, half heard and fully rejected, yet never gone.
Mine, you will be mine. I will have you, hold you and keep you from harm, from any wizardly dangers, from any future loss. You will be mine, Thorongil, your lips, your hands, your body, mine.
Restless in my furs I toss and turn, no sleep under the stars or on forest bough above the ground for me while these phantom hands caress me, these ghost lips stop my mouth and milk my cock dry while I lie frozen, helpless, in heat unsought and unstoppable. Night after night I am tormented to pleasures I would forego forever, deny always, for the stink of filth they leave behind, a scent of dark, decay, more foul than any swamp or evil glare.
I run hot and cold, and wake soiled within and without, shamed to be myself.
My travels do not take me to The White City, but it is somehow never far from my mind’s eye. The White Tower is all that stands between Mordor and defeat, yet I hear nothing about the defenses being brought to command, nor strengthened, nor any word of treaty between Gondor and Rohan… only silence, dark brooding silence.
Except at night. At night the voice promises me power, power and glory beyond my dreams, and my dreams bring unwanted passion so violent it leaves me sore and aching as though ridden harshly over rough ground.
I wake unrefreshed and unsated, unfit for the day ahead; but unwilling to turn away from my task I travel on, looking always for quiet, for rest, for peace.
At times, I would have the war come, and the fight be taken to the end, to have this time be done and the voice leave tempting me, leave me in peace to myself. But there is no hurrying time; things must unfold as they will, so I am prisoner of this voice as much as Middle-earth is unwillingly in the shadow of Mordor. I will bear it for now, until the time of darkness is ended, and we are all free of evil spirits and ill will, and undesired longing.
For annmarwalk
Thorongil/Denethor
Thorongil POV
R
By slashfairy
Betas: tiary and princessofg
I’m watched; I know it, though I cannot see who spies on me. I feel heaviness on my back, my hackles raised at though I am stalked by Yrch, but it is only the streets of Gondor through which I pass. Still beautiful, still proud, though threatened on every side by darkness, still the white tower shines when silver trumpets call out to wandering sons Return, for Gondor needs you.
I wonder at him, the Steward, who is daily dressed in black and glowers as he passes through the City. Less and less often, it is rumoured in the pubs, does he come out of the Great Hall, preferring the Tower for his counsels, and to keep to himself. I make no extra steps to see him, indeed prefer to be out of his way. There is that about him which troubles me, and darkens my inner eye; I would not have him know who I am, who I may yet become: I do not trust him.
I travel about the City, listening here, learning there. I leave and return, noting the fine sons who grow despite their father’s distraction, noting the fine city slowly decaying despite its Steward’s presence. I shiver when I ride into the gates, as though I am seen from afar, but I know not what Eye watches me, nor with what fell intent it glares upon my back, only that it darkens my mind, and threatens my heart’s peace, and is woeful.
I see all manner of things in dreams though, and those I must forget or be forever damned. My dreams are darkened by dank whispers and clammy hands clawing at me, by bleared eyes raking my form and by lips tongue-dampened and hard forcing their way onto mine. I wake, cold-sweated and frightened, the sense of another’s hand upon my body in a most intimate and unpleasant way, night after night, as though I am cursed, and cannot free myself of it.
I ride long nights across Middle-earth, in company of Elves, sometimes of men, to places most have never even heard of in stories, never mind read about, nor imagined traveling to or living in. I see how the countryside, now green and alive, is shadowed from the East, how hearts seemingly light with life and desire labor unknowing under dark thoughts unheard. I feel my skin crawl in the midst of suppers in front of warm hearths with warm friends, and wonder at that sense of being watched.
I return to Gondor once, twice, never near the upper courts, always down below with the men I’ve come to know as fine soldiers did they have leadership, did the Steward care for them, but who are men without purpose now, adrift in worries about homes and families daily more shadowed, daily less warm. I hear mutterings about Rohan pulling away, about spies and dangers everywhere, but I cannot put a finger to their source, nor find a pattern to trace their windings from mouth to ear to mouth; I can only see where they’ve been by the downcast eyes and down-turned mouths of the people of the White City.
Time comes for me to aid the Wizard in his works, traveling dark and dreary roads in search of those we’d just as soon never encounter but must find and bring back to this world. I travel alone as much as I can, far from the White City. Strider they call me, and Ranger, but in the night I am Thorongil still, Star of the North: whispered in my ear, it is, that name, and any solitude is lost.
I feel eyes on my back, everywhere I go, and my dreams… even my waking dreams now are haunted by this voice, rasping and slick, taunting me with its word, half heard and fully rejected, yet never gone.
Mine, you will be mine. I will have you, hold you and keep you from harm, from any wizardly dangers, from any future loss. You will be mine, Thorongil, your lips, your hands, your body, mine.
Restless in my furs I toss and turn, no sleep under the stars or on forest bough above the ground for me while these phantom hands caress me, these ghost lips stop my mouth and milk my cock dry while I lie frozen, helpless, in heat unsought and unstoppable. Night after night I am tormented to pleasures I would forego forever, deny always, for the stink of filth they leave behind, a scent of dark, decay, more foul than any swamp or evil glare.
I run hot and cold, and wake soiled within and without, shamed to be myself.
My travels do not take me to The White City, but it is somehow never far from my mind’s eye. The White Tower is all that stands between Mordor and defeat, yet I hear nothing about the defenses being brought to command, nor strengthened, nor any word of treaty between Gondor and Rohan… only silence, dark brooding silence.
Except at night. At night the voice promises me power, power and glory beyond my dreams, and my dreams bring unwanted passion so violent it leaves me sore and aching as though ridden harshly over rough ground.
I wake unrefreshed and unsated, unfit for the day ahead; but unwilling to turn away from my task I travel on, looking always for quiet, for rest, for peace.
At times, I would have the war come, and the fight be taken to the end, to have this time be done and the voice leave tempting me, leave me in peace to myself. But there is no hurrying time; things must unfold as they will, so I am prisoner of this voice as much as Middle-earth is unwillingly in the shadow of Mordor. I will bear it for now, until the time of darkness is ended, and we are all free of evil spirits and ill will, and undesired longing.