Tears of the Valar.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the Original Characters and their adventures. Everything else belongs to JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema/Peter Jackson, et. al. This was done purely for entertainment and as an exercise in creativity.
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The pain in Erestor’s shoulders was almost unbearable. His arms were twisted behind his back, and his elbows and wrists bound together tightly, then raised so he was almost fully suspended above the floor. His toes barely touched the stones and the pressure on his arms and shoulders felt as though his limbs were going to be ripped from their sockets at any moment. His leggings were torn where the dark beasts had fought with him, and his tunic was long gone, having been shredded by claws and then torn away so that Lastharos’ whip could have clear access to his fair Elven flesh.

He was tired and thirsty, but none of his discomfort mattered. His family was safe, at least for now. If he could keep the Khandun occupied, his son and their friends would not be targeted. He hoped the others would be able to get to the Butcher of Khand before his life faded and he could no longer keep the vile man’s attention. He knew Legolas and Rumil had personal reasons to seek Lastharos’ death; both had vowed they would not leave Middle-Earth while the man still lived. With what Lastharos had done to Charika, Rumil’s brothers also had cause to help him in his quest for vengeance.

Glorfindel also had a reason, now to kill the Khandun: Helcarin was his son as well. It occurred to Erestor that they were so worried about shielding their offspring; they did not stop to think that he was a fully grown Elf with all of the abilities and talents of his kind. He did not really need their protection; he was perfectly capable of sending Lastharos to the halls of whatever demon spawned him. Still, he was their precious gift from the Valar; he would always be their child, no matter how old he grew or how distant they might be from each another.

Lastharos would kill him; of that he was certain. He only hoped he could endure the pain which would lead to the moment when he could cross into Mandos’ Halls. He had once asked Glorfindel about death; how the Elf of Gondolin had felt when he had died fighting the Balrog. His friend told him the pain itself had been unbearable and when he had seen the light and heard the sea, it had brought such blessed relief that he had no thought of regret at leaving his life.

Erestor had never actually feared death itself, but he did fear that he would not be able to face the manner of his death with equanimity. From all he had seen and heard and experienced regarding Lastharos, he had no doubt the Butcher of Khand would live up to his title. He got great pleasure out of the suffering of others; his cruelty had no reason other than to satisfy his twisted desires. He could not even be called a servant of Morgoth for he gave no obeisance to any of the Valar, fallen or otherwise. The Elf hoped Mandos would be merciful and call to him before the pain became too awful to endure.

He did not know how long he had been there---surely it could not be more than a week. However, Lastharos’ torments made time pass slowly. When the creatures had brought him from the field of battle, he had been weary and injured, but still able to stand on his own and face whatever assailed him. Since he had come to experience Lastharos’ ‘hospitality’, however, he had been steadily worn down.

The Khandun leader had used his whips on Erestor’s smooth flesh, seeming to delight in making patters with the implements. His hands had been just as cruel, exploring, pinching, twisting and slapping the dark-haired Noldo’s body, stopping just short of violating him in such a way as to lead to his death. Erestor thought how cruel it was that Lastharos seemed to know just how far to go. If he had simply given in to his desires, he would have taken the Elf and Erestor could have been assured of giving up his life and going to Mandos, escaping the pain and torment he now experienced.

Erestor let his thoughts drift to those he would see when he finally crossed into Mandos’ Halls. Some would still be there; most would already be dwelling in Valinor. He did not doubt he would be allowed from the Halls of Waiting; he had strived to do the will of the Valar and protect Middle-Earth against Morgoth and his minions. So, the prospect of Elven death did not hold much terror; only a touch of sadness at those he would leave behind.

He and Durisia had enjoyed only a short time together when compared to the normal span of an Elven marriage. They had been joined barely a year, hardly long enough to begin a life together, especially when they had been apart for most of their married life. Not for the first time he wished he had known her long ago, when he had still dwelt in Imladris. The things they could have shared, the joy she could have brought, the loneliness she could have eased---but such thoughts were not worthy of one of the Firstborn. They did not dwell on regrets. He did, however, mourn the loss of their future for, unlike the others of his kin in the west, Durisia, as one of the vanwe would likely not be able to travel to Valinor; and if she were to go to Mandos, they would not be together and she would never leave the Halls of Waiting. He understood, now, what Legolas and Rumil had endured, loving women who could not sail to the Undying Lands with them, nor join them there after their mortal lives ended. Though his wife was an Elf, Durisia was no closer to the Blessed Realm than either Alexandra or Charika and Erestor felt the pain his young Elven brethren endured knowing they would lose their loves to the Fate of Men.

He looked up as the door to the vast room that had been his prison for the endless hours opened and Lastharos entered. Erestor was struck again by the beauty of the man. Surely, there must be Maia or Elven blood somewhere in his history. But if one looked into his eyes, one could see malice and madness combined in something so cold it chilled the Elf’s soul.

“You are very different from the Elves I saw when I journeyed into the west,” Lastharos said in a conversational tone. “Yet you are still fair and beautiful and it pleases me to see you here.”

Erestor did not say anything. He did not wish to engage in conversation with this creature, not until he had a good idea of how to keep his eye from returning to Helcarin.

Lastharos walked around the Elf’s suspended body. “Yes … quite beautiful. Your muscles are smooth and supple, but strong.” His fingers trailed over the taut abdomen and back, his touch intimate and cruel at the same time. He stopped in front of Erestor and lifted the counselor’s chin. Eyes of midnight blue met those of deep amber flecked with gold.

“You would kill me were you not bound. I see it in you. You hide behind Elven calm, but inside you hold a savage bloodlust that you would be happy to indulge.” He leaned close and the Elf could feel the soft warm breath against his ear. “You even enjoy the pain you endure. It gives you perverse pleasure, does it not? The stretching of your muscles; the twisting of your arms; the sting of my lash.” His lips brushed against Erestor’s and the counselor felt the man’s tongue drift lightly over his lips.

Lastharos stood back and laughed softly. “They say your kind can endure much punishment. The other one---the one I toyed with in Mordor---he was strong as well. But you are older and have had much longer to learn to control your body’s response. He has not learned patience as you have. Do you know him? Did he tell you how he watched, helplessly, as I used that worthless slave? It must be terrible for one of your kind to be forced to witness the torment of one for whom you have some sort of feeling. Especially awful for such proud warriors as the Elves are rumored to be.”

The Khandun tilted his head and observed Erestor quizzically. “Is there anyone for whom you have feeling? Do you have a mate somewhere? A child? Someone for whom you care?” He looked into Erestor’s fathomless dark eyes.

“No. I do not think you truly care for anyone. You are different from the others of your kind that I have seen. You are … distant.”

He went over to a table where a metal box sat. Opening the lid, he looked inside for a moment, as if making a decision; then he brought out a thin blade with small sharp grooves and a handle that attached to both ends and met in a half-moon shape above the flat part of the blade. He walked back over to the Elf, his eyes holding a glint of icy fire.

“Does your flesh heal easily?” he asked curiously. Placing the flat part of the blade against Erestor’s side, just under his left armpit, he pressed the metal against the fair Elven flesh, the blade cutting into the first thin layer.

Erestor closed his eyes and braced himself. The man meant to skin him alive. Sweet Eru, he could not endure it. When Lastharos pressed the blade against him, he felt dread. When he slowly began pulling the grooved blade down his side, he gritted his teeth and strained to not cry out, but could not help the groan that escaped.

The Khandun’s eyes glittered with malice. “Such sweet music,” he sighed. “Mortals would be screaming by now; some would have given in to the pain and lost consciousness. But you,” he smiled cruelly, “can take much of my tender attentions.”

Erestor wanted to rail against the man, but he knew such a display would only amuse Lastharos. And, he knew it would be futile. The Khandun was determined to use him for his entertainment and the best he could hope for was to hold out as long as possible. He had to give Lastharos ‘good sport’, so he would not seek out the rest of his kin---especially Helcarin.

Time blurred into one endless age of pain. Erestor held on as long as he could, but in the end, even his Elven self-control broke under Lastharos’ expertly wielded implements, and he screamed his agony until he no longer had the strength to give voice to his suffering. He was not even aware when the Khandun ceased his torment and had him dropped from where he hung, to collapse in a heap on the cold stone floor of his cell.

The sudden release of the pressure on his arms seemed like a blessing, but as the blood began to circulate freely again, searing pain took hold as the strained muscles protested their abuse. It was too much and Erestor’s mind simply closed in on itself as it tried to protect him from what was happening to his body. Lastharos looked at the beautiful Elf, whose flesh was raw and torn, lying unconscious at his feet, and smiled; then turned and walked out of the door, leaving him alone.


*****


Helcarin was still uncertain of what he should tell his companions about what he had learned at Cuivienen. Glancing over at Pomea as she hurried through the door with the water along with Legolas’ wife he smiled to himself. She should know; her people should know. Eru and the Valar had not abandoned them.

“The townspeople say Lastharos has launched a campaign against his own people, sending armies to slaughter all between him and Rhun---even going into our realm once they have finished here,” the elleth told the others without preamble.

“What? Why?” Vanurion asked, putting away the comb he was using on his mount and giving them his full attention.

“Some nonsense about a prophecy,” Alexandra replied.

“What prophecy?” Glorfindel asked quietly.

Pomea repeated what they had been told in the square at the well. The others digested her words and then Cunion looked to Helcarin.

“Are you this new sun? You certainly have the look of one,” the quiet healer told the young ellon.

“And one cannot deny the words seem aimed at your specific circumstance,” Saelbeth added.

The others waited for their friend’s response and Alexandra was surprised to see they were taking the prediction seriously. She almost spoke up, but remembered how strange things were in her new home and it was quite possible there were such things as prophecies that were accurate. Still, it went against everything she had always believed.

“I would tell you of what I learned and you may judge for yourselves,” Helcarin finally responded. Looking at Pomea he reached out and took her hand, pulling her to him and kissing her fingertips. “Though your people have dwelt far from the Valar for a very long time, you are not forgotten; nor are you forbidden Valinor.”

She inhaled sharply, eyes wide. “You know this … how?”

The golden-haired Noldo smiled. “I drank from the source and … I simply knew. It is why I was brought here, how I knew about the other path from Cuivienen.” Turning his gaze to the other Rhunian Elves, he continued. “Your people will see the Blessed Realm though you may take a different path from mine.”

“What do you mean?” Sarendir asked. Pomea studied her beloved curiously, tilting her head as she looked into his midnight-blue eyes. Their fingers were entwined and she could feel the excitement in his body.

“The vanwe must atone for their sins, some more than others; and to do this, they must sacrifice themselves selflessly for the good of others. They must protect the defenseless, feed the hungry, care for the ill and abused---things your people are already doing. Your people will be a bridge between the Elves and Men. So many of you have already blended your blood with that of mortals and your offspring will continue to do Eru’s will. Those of you who live now as Elves will see Valinor; those with mortal blood who live as mortals will go to the Fate of Men. They will become the guardians of Men. They and their descendents will be drawn to be soldiers, protectors, healers, teachers. They may not understand why, but that will be their calling. Through the ages, no matter how dilute the Elven blood may become, the descendents of your people will be drawn to serve.”

The Elves were silent---the eastern ones could not speak. Their people were not abandoned. All these many years, they had thought themselves cast out from Eru and the Valar.

Finally, Glorfindel broke the silence.

“Then it seems we are presented with a unique opportunity by being here at just this time.”

Vanurion nodded slowly. “Everything happens for a purpose,” he murmured. “We have been presented with a chance to begin our redemption.” He looked to Sarendir and Cunion who nodded, then to Legolas and the others.

“We cannot ask you to stay and fight with us, but we will remain here and help these people try to defend themselves against Lastharos or at least find some safe refuge for them.”

Haldir sighed. “Of course you need not ask,” he replied in a dismissive tone.

“We must first gain the trust of these people,” Elrohir added. “I do not think they will be anxious to listen to us.”

“We must at least try,” Legolas replied. “Saelbeth---you are the diplomat; could you speak to Perswold and his people? Offer assistance?”

“I will try,” his cousin answered with a slight smile. “Perhaps Vanurion should accompany me, however. As the leader of the Rhunian Elves, Vanurion’s word will carry weight.”

“Indeed, that is a wise proposition,” Glorfindel noted with approval. “Perhaps Alexandra could accompany you. As a mortal dwelling among Elves, she might serve as an example.”

“I know nothing about these people,” Alexandra responded with a frown. “And I am not the most … diplomatic person.” She deliberately ignored a poorly hidden snort from Haldir and an outright laugh from Elladan.

“I would not put the lady in that position,” Saelbeth replied with an understanding smile. Alexandra cast him a grateful glance.

“Then I suggest we find Perswold immediately,” Vanurion pronounced. “We may have very little time before the darkness comes to this city.”