Tears of the Valar.

Disclaimer/Author's Notes: 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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Naveradir and Orophin continued to make their way through the mountains surrounding the city, searching for a way in. Kidur seemed curious about their purpose, but followed without complaint. Orophin was in the lead and Naveradir just behind him so when the Lorien Elf came to an abrupt stop after stepping around the corner of a large boulder, the ancient Rhunian Elf almost walked into him.

The curved sword was raised, ready to slash down on whichever Elf made the first move.

“We mean you no harm, my lady,” Naveradir told the female who looked quite put out by their appearance.

“So you say,” she replied suspiciously. “You are not of this land; what do you seek here? None come to the mountains surrounding Fwaban. It is forbidden.”

“If it is forbidden, then why are you here?” Orophin asked calmly. She was certainly not dressed for battle, in leather sandals, a thin skirt that rested on her hips, her breasts covered by a short vest that laced tightly. Her arms were bare except for braces on her wrists and upper arms and she wore her long, wavy black hair pulled up in a braid that fell along her back, almost to her hips.

Her dark eyes flashed and were such an interesting shade of gray, almost blue, with flecks of amber in them. They could see she was both angry and frightened, though she put up a strong show of courage. Her body was strong and looked as if it had been toned by fighting and training. Her smooth, dark honey-colored flesh was free of blemish and gave her a timeless air. She could be anywhere between fifteen and fifty.

“I do not need to answer to you,” she told Orophin disdainfully. “You are the interlopers here.”

“I meant no offense, my lady,” Orophin replied graciously. “I simply seek to understand the ways of your land.”

While they spoke to the unknown woman, Kidur had circled around and sat between the Elves and the female. He looked from one to the other with curious eyes, the very tip of his tail wagging uncertainly.

“Cie! You are a traitor!” the woman scolded the animal and the Elves glanced at the dog who did not seem to care that she was angry.

“Is that his name? Cie?” Naveradir asked with a smile. “He has been a faithful companion since he found us in the hills.”

She looked at the Elf coldly.

“Cie means ‘dog’ in Khandun. He has no other name. Now, who are you and why are you here?”

“We are travelers from the west. We became lost in your realm,” Orophin replied smoothly.

“You are very lost if you are in Fwaban. If Lastharos’ guards or his creatures catch you, your lives will be forfeit.”

“You are a loyal subject of Khand; do you plan to turn us in?” Naveradir raised a brow smiling slightly.

“I should,” she shot back. “You are arrogant and in need of discipline.”

“My lady, may we know who you are? This conversation, while pleasant, is gaining neither of us any information.” Orophin thought of snatching the sword from the woman’s hands, but the dog was in the way. If Kidur was her dog, then he would no doubt protect his mistress.

“I am Dehlina,” she told them. “Now, tell me your names, spies. You are no traveling traders.”

“We are not spies,” Naveradir insisted. “I am Naveradir and this is Orophin. We came here to find our friend. He was taken by Lastharos’ creatures into the city.”

“If he is in the city, then he is doomed. You should leave him and go back to you homes and hope Lastharos never knows of you.”

“We do not abandon our friends,” Orophin told her.

The wind blew gently, ruffling the silky strands of Orophin’s hair. He noticed the woman staring at him intently and raised a quizzical brow.

“Is something wrong, my lady?”

“Your—your ears. They are … “ She lowered the sword slowly. “You are Elves?”

The ellyn exchanged glances.

“Yes,” Naveradir replied. “I did not think the Khandun knew of our existence.”

“It is said Lastharos encountered your kind in the past few years when in the west, but none believe him.” She seemed distracted as she answered.

“Yet you seem to have no difficulty believing in our existence,” Naveradir pointed out.

She shook her head then turned abruptly, leading them deeper into the mountains.

“Come with me.”

The ellyn shrugged and followed her. Perhaps she knew a way into the city. Even if she was leading them to capture, they would at least be inside the walls so they could find Erestor.


***


It was dark and cold and Erestor was vaguely aware of lying on a rough stone surface. His body was in agony—Lastharos had been intermittently torturing him for … he did not know how long. He had completely lost track of time and knew only the Khandun would torment him, then allow him to heal, only to abuse him further. Still, he would not—could not—succumb.

This last ordeal had been particularly unpleasant. Erestor had thought Lastharos could not have done worse than he did when he had used the thin blade to scrape his skin from his body. Only the top layers had been removed at strategic points, and had healed without scars, but with extreme sensitivity and his tormentor had taken advantage of the Elf’s increased pain levels.

The Noldo lay where he had been dropped after the latest round of Lastharos’ ‘amusements’. His mind tried to forget the things he had seen, many of them worse than what he had endured physically. The things the man had done to other prisoners or slaves were unconscionable and the Elf knew that had he not seen them for himself, he would have never believed a Man capable of such atrocities. In fact, he could not recall hearing tales of any such carnage during his long life; not even Morgoth was said to have been so cruel.

As he had been held in place by various forms of restraint—some conventional, some diabolically inventive—he had been forced to witness the Butcher of Khand demonstrating how he had come by that title. It made no difference to the man if his victims were male, female, young or old, though he seemed to take great delight in despoiling the pure. He tortured, maimed, raped and slaughtered without the slightest hint of remorse, taking pleasure in the screams and pleas for mercy of his victims, most of whom were allegedly prisoners taken as slaves during Khand’s continual conquering of lands further east, north and south of its original territory. Erestor was aware of the man’s arousal when witnessing the suffering of others and was sickened, and not a bit frightened, by the raw madness and malice in the beautiful being.

For all of his physical and mental abuse, Erestor was not damaged so much that he could not continue to be used. He supposed it was because Lastharos did not want to lose his new Elven toy. The desire to keep him around to torment was likely why Lastharos had not taken him by force, an act certain to send an Elf to Mandos, though he had no doubt the madman would take him if he could find a way to avoid the Elf’s death.

The horrors he had just witnessed and the tortures his body had endured, however, were making him sluggish and he had the passing thought that perhaps Lastharos had misjudged and damaged him too much, both physically and mentally. His mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood and he knew it had spilled down his body earlier. The floor beneath his cheek was wet and sticky and his keen senses told him he had continued to bleed as he had lain there retching. His wrists and ankles were painful where they had been bound tightly with a wire which had sharp points in various intervals that dug into his fair flesh as it held him secured to the columns in Lastharos’ grand theater of pain.

The man had beaten him viciously, his whips cutting into his painfully sensitive skin and other hard club-like objects used as well. It hurt to breathe and Erestor thought it likely several of his ribs were broken. He should just give up now. It was too much. He could do no more. He must trust Eru that Helcarin and the others would either be able to remain out of Lastharos’ reach or to kill the man. Perhaps he had bought them enough time, though he did not know how long that might be.

He felt himself beginning to drift into unconsciousness and he welcomed the darkness. Soon, it felt as though he were floating in warmth, like the baths fed by the warm springs he shared with Durisia. The vision of a child, a daughter, came to him and he smiled. They would call her Eiriel after the flowers in the garden. He could almost hear Eiriel’s shrieks of delight as Helcarin carried her on his shoulders, racing through the hallways, surefooted and quick, leaping over furniture and stairs, Pomea and Durisia laughing at the child’s obvious joy, and he smiled to himself.

He let himself sink into memories that never were and felt the pain falling away. Eventually, he became aware of the scent of saltwater and the cries of gulls and a bright light, only a pinpoint in the distance, called to him. His cheeks were wet, though with the waters on which he floated or with tears of relief, he did not know. At last, Mandos was taking him home, freeing him from the bonds of pain which kept him tied to Middle-Earth, the victim of a madman’s whims.

The light seemed brighter and closer and it shone with an iridescence that was breathtakingly beautiful. The Elf reached out to touch it and felt himself enveloped in its warm glow and soft arms which held him tenderly. He could still smell the sea, but that scent was mingled with a familiar one, that of evergreens and snow and when he focused his gaze, he saw silvery blue eyes in a serene face surrounded by hair of spun mithril watching him calmly.

“Siensia,” he murmured and she smiled down at him.

“I told you we would meet again, Erestor of Imladris,” she said, her voice soft and gentle and once again, he was reminded of the silence of a snow-covered forest.

“You …” He could not remember what he wanted to say, but he knew he had so many questions for her. She laughed lightly, the sound like icicles in the trees.

“You have always wondered at my true nature,” she told him. “You have seen it. Glorfindel of Gondolin saw it before I joined with you in Eriador.”

Realization dawned and he managed to smile. “You are the light of Mandos …”

Siensia gave a slight nod. “My true form is the light, though my nature is that of a guide for the Elven souls who seek the Blessed Realm. Not all answer the call, but those who do are guided safely to Mandos.” Her fingers lightly stroked his bruised, broken body and he felt such comfort as he had never known.

“Why?” he asked, feeling safe for the first time since he had left Durisia to accompany his son. “Why were you sent to us? Why Helcarin?”

The being of light sighed. “Because of his purpose,” she replied. “I am a guide for Elves who have died; he will be a guide for the Elves who yet live. The Elves of the east have been lost, and your son will help bring the vanwe, the lost children of Iluvatar, back to the Blessed Realm. It will not be an easy path for them, but it is a part of Eru’s grand design not only for the Firstborn, but for the Secondborn as well.”

He had always known his son had a destiny that would be different from his, but had never imagined it would be one such as what Siensia described. How had he—and Glorfindel—been chosen for such a wondrous gift?

As if reading his thoughts, Siensia laughed lightly and pulled him closer in her embrace, helping him to sit up so his head rested against her shoulder. “The two of you were chosen because you have served the Valar well and for what you could teach him to prepare him for what lies ahead. His path will not be easy either, but because of your tutelage, it will not be as difficult as it could have been.”

He pondered her words. “Does that mean Durisia …?”

“Your wife has her own destiny, but do not mourn. All of the Firstborn are welcome in the Blessed Realm. Some simply get there by a different path than others. The vanwe have dwelt long from the ways of the Valar, and so must atone before seeing the shores of Valinor. Some must answer for more than others, but all may join their kin. Your son will help them to find their way. That is his purpose.”

Erestor felt tears sting his eyes. His beloved Durisia may one day join him in the Undying Lands.

“What of those Elves of the East who died before knowing how they might reach the Blessed Realm?” He was feeling stronger and his mind did not seem as clouded as it had, as if knowing Durisia was not forever lost to him had lifted a veil from his eyes and he could think clearly.

“Those who answered the call of Mandos dwell in their own part of his Halls,” she answered, holding him as he sat up and faced her. “Those who did not … are truly lost. They wander the lonely places of Middle-Earth, afraid to follow the light; or they were imprisoned by Morgoth’s minions, doomed to darkness.” At his look of distress, she reached out and caressed his cheek. “Do not be troubled. There is always hope for even those who dwell away from the light.”

He nodded. He felt so … clean, so free; yet …

“It is not yet time for you, Erestor,” Siensia said. He looked at her, surprised.

“You will see the Blessed Realm, but not today.” She gave him her serene smile. “You still have a task to perform in Middle-Earth, and then you will be free to sail to the west.”

Erestor pondered her words. “Must I go back to Lastharos?” He did not wish to endure any more torment—did not know if he could.

“I am truly sorry,” the Guide told him, and he could see regret in her silvery blue eyes. “But your pain will not be for naught. You have healed here and when you return, you will be stronger than you were. There are those who need you.” She brushed her lips over his. “You have this last service to the Valar and then you may rest.”

He nodded. He would do his duty as he always had. The iridescence around Siensia grew and when it faded she was gone and he was once again naked, cold and alone in the darkness of Lastharos’ prison. He was no longer in pain, however and his skin was smooth and unmarked. He smiled to himself. That fact alone would be enough to enrage the Khandun: he liked seeing the evidence of his prey’s suffering.


Erestor awoke to a soft voice speaking to him. It was very dark, and the voice was not one he recognized … yet it was familiar.

“Who are you?” he managed to ask, his throat sore from his recent abuse and not yet healed completely. “What do you want of me?”

“I have come to help you, Erestor. Remain still while I release your bonds.”

The dark-haired Elf felt movement and then a sharp jerk and suddenly his left hand was free. The process was repeated on the right side and soon both hands were released. His feet soon followed, then warm, gentle hands lifted him to a sitting position and a cup of cool water was held to his lips.

“This will ease your throat,” his unknown rescuer told him, giving him another cup of warm brandy with honey. When he had finished it, more water was given to him and he drank it gratefully.

“I have food for you, but we must get out of here first,” the voice in the dark cautioned and assisted him to stand, supporting him as Erestor felt his legs try to give way.

Firm muscles and a strong frame held him as they walked through the gloom to the door of the cell. A cloak was thrown over him and he could see nothing at all as he was led through a maze of dank passageways, up and down stairs. For all he knew, he was being led to his final slaughter; but Siensia had said he had one more task to perform before he could rest and so he trusted her word.

Suddenly, they emerged into a warm night, a pleasant breeze blowing gently, the sky clear with vivid stars shining down. Erestor gazed at them for a moment before his rescuer lifted him in his arms and carried him across the sands.

“They will follow us,” Erestor murmured and his companion laughed softly.

”Doubtful,” he replied and the Imladris counselor looked over the broad shoulder against which his head rested, raising a brow in surprise. There were no footprints.

“You are an Elf?”

The figure remained silent and soon they were in the hills again and he set Erestor on his feet.

“It is safe to walk here; they cannot track us in these rocks. But be careful and do not injure yourself on the stones.” He held onto the injured Elf as they made their way through the darkness into another labyrinth of caves.

Eventually, they came to a spot where a stream ran through the cavern and Erestor looked around. Books, a stringed instrument as well as several wind instruments and all other signs of habitation were arranged neatly about the space. It appeared his unknown savior had been living here for some time.

“Please, tell me who you are. I would know to whom I owe my rescue.” Erestor was curious. If this person was an Elf, it meant there were Elves in Khand.

The tall figure sighed, after putting a piece of wood on the fire and turned around, dropping the hood of his cloak.

Erestor stared at the dark-haired, grey-eyed ellon who stood before him. It could not be … he was lost to Elf-kind. But his features were unmistakable, and given their surroundings, Erestor knew he was looking at the only surviving son of Feanor.

“Maglor?”