Deprived of Hope

by Henrika

Chapter Three

It didn’t take him long to find the clearing which the monster had been referring to. It was a really peaceful little spot in the forest, filled with the sounds of birds singing and crickets chirping; sounds that were calming to a restless mind. He could understand why Gandalf had gone off here to enjoy a few moments of well-earned rest.

Aragorn did not feel calmed by the place, though. His eyes were blazing, searching desperately for his friend. He couldn’t see any trace of Gandalf, just grass, trees, bushes, and other vegetation.

Anger started boiling in him again. The filthy creature had been lying! Gandalf was not here. Probably he was nowhere near here. It had all been in vain.

“Oh, no!” he called out into midair, sinking to his knees with rage, frustration, and grief flaring in his chest. He should have stopped Gandalf. He should at least have asked where the wizard was going. Why didn’t he? Now Gandalf was dead, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Suddenly a weak moan sounded from somewhere to his right. Aragorn didn’t waste a second but darted off in the direction of the sound. What he found almost made him throw up.

Gandalf was lying in the grass, sideways, naked, with his face against the muddy ground. If Aragorn hadn’t heard the sound and seen the slight rise and fall of his chest, he would have sworn that the wizard was dead.

“Gandalf!” he exclaimed, rushing to his friend’s side and falling to his knees beside him. Gandalf managed to turn his head and his eyes fluttered open. At first they glazed with fear and panic, but then they softened and started showing recognition.

“Help me, Aragorn…” the wizard mumbled quietly. Gandalf had trouble speaking due to his swollen mouth, and the words came out unclearly. Still, Aragorn had no trouble understanding his plea.

“Oh, Gandalf…” the Ranger said, suddenly lacking words. He carefully lifted Gandalf’s head and placed it on his lap. He knew that he should be happy to have found his friend alive, but Gandalf’s condition immediately revealed that there was not much to be happy about. A large part of the wizard’s body was covered in blood; mostly dry but fresh in some places. There was a large but fortunately shallow wound on the left side of his belly – next to a large purple bruise – that was still bleeding profusely, and when Aragorn touched the back of his head, he could see fresh blood on his hand as well. For a brief moment he wondered if not he should take his sword and slit the wizard’s throat, simply to take him out of his misery. That would perhaps be the only merciful thing to do. Could anyone ever recover from injuries like this?

No, he then realized. He could not do it, no matter how grave Gandalf’s injuries were. He could not kill his dearest friend and lover. There had to be something else that he could do.

“Gandalf… I am so sorry…” he whispered, cradling his friend’s abused body to his chest. He could feel Gandalf’s heartbeats through his ribcage, and they sounded strong, but no one knew for how long.

“Please, stay with me…” he begged, trying to catch the wizard’s blurry gaze. Gandalf’s right eye was swelling, and soon he would not be able to open it at all. Blood was trickling from his nose, and one side of his face was smeared with blood and something else that could be nothing but semen.

Aragorn groaned inwardly. Of course, they had raped him. When he let his gaze wander over Gandalf’s naked body he could see that a great deal of blood covered the wizard’s inner thighs and clotted around his anal hole.

Gandalf blinked a few times, as if trying to focus his weary, pain-filled eyes. “The Orcs…” he said. “Where are they…? Aragorn, please, watch out…”

“I slew them all,” Aragorn replied calmingly, stroking Gandalf’s tangled hair from his face. “Don’t be afraid. They’re dead. They cannot hurt you anymore.”

Gandalf breathed out. He still didn’t quite trust his own eyes and feared Aragorn to be a mere illusion. He didn’t know what to do. Surely he couldn’t have much time left. It felt like his body was breaking apart. Gandalf wanted to ask Aragorn to bring the others a message from him before he died, but his confused brain could not compose anything coherent.

“I have to take you out of here,” Aragorn finally said. “I have to tend to your wounds.”

Gandalf shook his head weakly. “No, please… Don’t let the others see me like this… Especially the Hobbits… Please, Aragorn…”

“I have to take you back to the camp. I can’t treat your wounds out here in the wild.”

Gandalf wanted to object, but he was too weak. The idea of Frodo seeing him in this wretched state made him cringe inwardly. He had been humiliated in the most brutal way, and even though there was a chance he might survive, he would have to bear the shame for the rest of his existence.

Aragorn regarded his friend with compassion and sympathy and took Gandalf’s right hand in his own. The wizard gave a pained shriek, and what he saw made the Ranger sigh with dismay. There was a stab-wound right through Gandalf’s hand. The wound itself was not lethal, but he knew how easily wounds caused by Orc-daggers got infected. Gandalf needed to be treated quickly.

Of course he also couldn’t help noticing the pitiful state of the wizard’s lower body. Gandalf’s penis appeared not to be seriously injured, but his testicles were bruised and scraped, and his pubic hair was a matted mess of dried blood, dirt, and spunk. Aragorn would also need to examine his rectum, but now was not the time for that. He needed hot, clean water and possibly a needle and some thread to stitch him.

Suddenly the Man wished he would have done more damage to the foul brutes before killing them. The pack got away far too easily. None of them suffered the way Gandalf would suffer in the near future.

Aragorn took off his cloak and wrapped it around his friend’s nude, trembling body. Gandalf needed to be kept warm, and besides Aragorn wanted to spare him the humiliation of everyone seeing him in this miserable state.

“Try to relax, Gandalf,” Aragorn told him. “I will try not to hurt you.”

He lifted Gandalf into his arms and stood up. The wizard’s face distorted in pain but he didn’t make any sounds that revealed his agony. Closing his eyes, he just rested his aching head against Aragorn’s strong shoulder and wished he could leave his own broken, defiled body.

Carrying Gandalf’s limp frame, Aragorn started making his way back to the camp. Although he had slain the Orcs that had hurt Gandalf, he was worried that there might be more of them lurking around, and carrying the wounded wizard, he would not be able to fight them as efficiently as before.

Gandalf certainly wasn’t heavy, but after a mile of walking he began to weigh down in the Man’s arms, and Aragorn was relieved to arrive back at their camp, although he was concerned about the reaction of his companions. He realized that he had to do what Gandalf had begged of him and not let the Hobbits see the wizard in this state. The Halflings were such innocent beings who had been living a very sheltered life. They had already been subjected to so much horror and violence in the past few months, and this was definitely something they did not need to see. Aragorn could clearly remember the dismay in Gandalf’s eyes when he realized that Frodo would see him like this.

When he reached the cave, Aragorn tried to cover Gandalf with his cloak. Legolas immediately jumped to his feet when he saw his friend approaching the entrance with a bundle in his arms.

“Legolas,” the Ranger said, trying to keep his voice low. “Take the Hobbits out of here, please. I… I don’t want them to see this.”

Legolas’ face went pale. “Oh, no…” he said softly. “Is it…?”

“Yes, I am afraid so. No, he’s not dead, but not very far from it. He needs tending immediately. You will have to help me.”

Legolas nodded mutely. The Hobbits were already up as well, sitting around the fire, roasting sausages. Their cheery voices went quiet, and their brows furrowed when the Elf rather brusquely drove them up on their feet and led them out of the cave, while Aragorn tried to stay out of their way. Frodo’s large, cerulean eyes widened in fear and confusion when his gaze met Aragorn’s, and the Man could see the unspoken question on his face. Frodo cared deeply for Gandalf, and telling him what had happened to his wizard friend would not be an easy task.

Boromir and Gimli had also risen when Aragorn went to set Gandalf down by the fire. The Gondorian’s handsome face first expressed confusion, then concern.

“What did that?” he asked in disbelief when he saw Gandalf’s bloody head resting on Aragorn’s shoulder.

“Orcs,” the Ranger replied curtly. “I slew them all. Come. I might need your help.”

“Is he alive?” Gimli asked.

“Yes, but he is severely injured. I need to clean his wounds and give him something sedative.”

Aragorn gently lowered Gandalf onto his bedroll and started peeling off the bloodied cloak. Legolas had returned after giving the Hobbits a stern order to stay outside, and he gasped for breath when he saw Gandalf’s exposed body.

“Oh, it’s worse than I thought… Did you kill those who did this?”

“I did,” Aragorn replied grimly. “But it doesn’t help Gandalf.”

Blood caked under the wizard’s nose and in the corner of his mouth. His face was discoloured by bruises in several places, and his right eye was completely swollen shut. Gandalf had lost consciousness during the walk back to the camp, and in a way Aragorn was relieved. At least he wasn’t in pain while unconscious.

Aragorn ordered hot water to be brought to him. He had to clean Gandalf’s wounds before they got infected. If his perforated hand caught a serious infection, they might need to amputate the entire limb. He couldn’t let that happen.

The water was brought to him by either Legolas or Boromir, and the Ranger started his distressing task. He began with the wizard’s face. Gandalf’s hair and beard were full of dirt, grit and fallen leaves, plus stains of blood and the Orcs’ seed.

Aragorn cleaned him gently with a soft, clean cloth and started feeling a little better when the dirt and dried blood came off Gandalf’s skin. When he moved the wizard’s dirty mass of tangled silver hair aside, he could also see the bite mark on Gandalf’s shoulder. It looked nasty, and Aragorn’s brow furrowed. The wound needed to be cleaned thoroughly and inspected frequently. Legolas sat by him the whole time, ready to jump up and bring whatever Aragorn requested.

“Is he bleeding internally?” the Elf asked worriedly, regarding the angry bruising over Gandalf’s stomach and ribcage.

“I am not sure, but I don’t think he is,” Aragorn replied. “His stomach feels soft and pliant. I am more worried about his head. He may have sustained a concussion.”

Together they bandaged the wizard’s head, hand, and the wound below his ribcage. When everything else was done, only checking his backside remained. Aragorn admitted that he was reluctant, but it had to be done.

Just when Aragorn was about to spread his legs to assess the hurt down there, Gandalf opened his watery left eye and let out a weak moan. He tried to focus his blurry gaze as the pain spread like wildfire through his body. Aragorn was there, and Legolas…

He understood then. He was back at the camp. Aragorn had brought him here, despite his plea not to let the others see him in this state. He felt like crying. He could feel the warmth of the fire nearby and hear the anxious discussion between the Ranger and the Elf.

“Gandalf,” Aragorn said gently, placing his cool hand on the wizard’s forehead. “How are you feeling? Do you wish to go back to sleep?”

Back to sleep? How could Aragorn believe he’d be able to sleep in this condition? His dry throat caused him to cough a couple of times, and a blazing pain exploded in his ribcage. He cried out sharply. It felt like a knife had been thrust in between his ribs.

Aragorn’s heart ached at the sight of his dear friend and lover’s miserable state, and he decided that he had to help the wizard to sleep. Reaching into his pack, he drew out a leaf of a sedative herb. He crushed the dry leaf and put the pieces into a mug filled with hot water. He then watched the liquid turn yellow-brown, lifted Gandalf’s head, and put the mug to his lips.

“Drink this, my friend. It will help you sleep,” he explained, not certain that Gandalf would understand him in his current state. The wizard tried to sip the fluid but choked as another body-racking tremor passed through him. Aragorn waited and then tried again.

Gandalf slowly drank the brew. This time it was easier. The bitter, hot fluid soothed his throat and aching insides, and he felt himself becoming drowsy. Slowly the pain ebbed away, and he fell back into a soft, comforting darkness.

Aragorn waited until he was certain that Gandalf was asleep and then slowly spread his legs. He grimaced at the sight. Fresh blood was still trickling out of the wizard, crimson against the rusty colour of the dried blood around his opening and on his inner thighs.

The Orcs had really used much force, and Gandalf had fought them, of course. Aragorn couldn’t picture Gandalf giving in without a fight. But they were five against one, and the wizard had not stood a fair chance.

He must have been ambushed, the Man thought. They must have sneaked up on him and caught him by surprise. Still, it was strange that they had let the wizard live. Orcs usually didn’t leave their victims alive.

The severity of the situation drew Aragorn out of his thoughts, and he started carefully cleaning Gandalf’s backside. Once he got the blood away, he realized that this would require stitches. The only needle he had was an old darning needle, but it would have to do. A piece of thread from a seam in his coat would have to be used as well.

Aragorn held the needle in the fire a few seconds to disinfect it. He had to make sure that it got properly sterilized, or Gandalf might have to suffer for it later.

“Listen,” he told Legolas. “I need you to help restraining him if he wakes up during the procedure. Use force, if you must. He mustn’t start thrashing, or it will worsen his injuries. Do you understand?”

The Elf nodded, hoping it would not be necessary.

Aragorn began the distressing task of stitching Gandalf’s torn flesh. He had stitched comrades injured in battle before, but never someone as close to him as Gandalf and never a victim of rape. His hands threatened to shake, but he clenched his teeth and willed them to be steady.

Gandalf didn’t awaken during the procedure, and for that Aragorn was immensely happy. He crushed some leaves of kingsfoil into a cup of hot water and used it to dab his friend’s swollen, abused hole. Hopefully this would prevent an infection. Gandalf’s body temperature would tell.

By the time he was done treating the wizard, it was past noon, and Aragorn felt more tired than he would have after a long day’s hard walk. Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he sat down on the cave floor, breathing heavily. He felt Legolas’ slight hand on his shoulder for a brief moment, and the Elf said, “Aragorn, can I let the Hobbits back in now? I can imagine that they are dreadfully worried.”

The Hobbits. Aragorn had almost forgotten about them. They were still waiting outside the cave, surely worried and frightened. And they would demand an explanation. Of course someone had to tell them the truth, and Gandalf should not have to do it himself. Aragorn realized that he had to be the one, although he thought it might be wise to hold back some details.

Covering Gandalf with a blanket, he decided to do it immediately. The wizard still looked bad but better than before. With a serious countenance he rose to his feet and went outside the cave. The four Halflings were sitting in a circle, but they all immediately bounced up when they heard his approach. Frodo’s large, blue eyes shone with anxiety and concern.

“I am sorry for driving you out, gentlemen, but Gandalf himself did not want you to see him. I couldn’t go against his wishes.”

“How is he?” Frodo asked in a high-pitched voice. “What’s happened, Strider?”

“I won’t lie to you,” Aragorn continued. “Something very bad has happened. Gandalf has been… He was ambushed by Orcs, and they assaulted him in a brutal, heinous way. He is gravely injured and very shocked.”

Frodo’s face went even paler than before, and Pippin gasped for breath. “Is he going to be alright?” Pippin asked in a small voice, containing none of its usual cheerfulness.

Aragorn carefully contemplated his answer. He didn’t want to give the Hobbits any false promises, as it was still far from certain that Gandalf would recover. Still, he could not inflict more grief upon them by saying that Gandalf might die.

“Yes, in time, he will,” he said slowly. “But we must take very good care of him.”

“Can I see him?” Frodo asked with burning cheeks and a fervent look in his eyes. It seemed as if he was ready to run back inside the cave.

Aragorn firmly shook his head. “I am sorry Frodo, but Gandalf is asleep now, and I will not have you disturb him. He needs to be alone. I will let you back inside, but please, stay away from him. In case he wakes up, I will talk with him and ask him if he wants to see you.”

Frodo’s courage sank. He looked to be on the verge of tears. “But…” he began miserably, “…why would Gandalf *not* want to see me?”

Aragorn smiled softly to calm the agitated Hobbit. “I am sure he will, Frodo, when he is feeling better.”

TBC

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