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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“You sent for us, my lord?” The chief advisors for the Khandun government stood near the doorway, awaiting their leader’s attention. He seemed quite preoccupied with watching the young female slave struggling as a rope tightened about her neck. Without turning to look at them, he nodded.

“Yes. I do not like this business about some sun rising in the northwest to burn away anything here in Khand.” Lastharos smiled. “You know, the more she struggles, the tighter the rope becomes. She should simply remain still and she would last longer.”

Lastharos had made it impossible for her to avoid movement: her body was smeared with honey and biting ants were covering her. Reddened wheals were rising on her smooth dark honey-colored flesh and pain and panic shown in her eyes.

None of the other men said anything---no response was expected. They were simply forced to watch as their leader tortured and killed yet another slave for his amusement. More than one of them had the urge to just kill her outright and spare her suffering.

Finally, the woman’s ordeal ended and her lifeless body was ordered taken out to feed the dark beasts their leader had at his command. Lastharos turned to the advisors and poured a goblet of wine as if it were simply another afternoon in the palace; which, for Khand, it was.

“What would you have us do, my lord?” one of the advisors asked.

The beautiful, immortal man who had ruled their land for over 7000 years narrowed his eyes. Taking a sip of wine he walked over to the one who had spoken.

“What do you think I wish you to do, Vetoran? Put an end to it, of course!” He shook his head. “You grow slow in your old age. To ask me such a question …” He walked back over to where his large, comfortable chair, not unlike his throne, sat on a dais, and sprawled in it. It was from here he watched his ‘entertainments’.

The man to whom he had spoken did not change expression, but the others felt a chill as their leader had spoken to him. Vetoran was only in his forties, not old at all; and a powerful warrior and wise commander. And Lastharos knew all of this; he simply made a subtle threat to the man. If he were growing ‘slow’, he would be of no use to the government. And no one ‘retired’ from Lastharos’ service except to the halls of their fathers.

“I believe what Lord Vetoran was asking, my lord, is in what manner you wish this threat denied,” one of the younger men spoke up. “Through subtlety, attack, negotiation---your advice is sought.”

Lastharos’ gaze shifted to the man who addressed him and smiled. “Ah yes, Crasthion. Ever the peacemaker.” He nodded. “Very well, I will express my desires in no uncertain terms: Take your armies, go to the northwest and kill every man, woman and child between here and the sea. I want nothing left of Rhun or any of the western lands beyond them. Our borders are to be closed and no one may enter. All is to be destroyed.”

The men were shocked into silence. Lastharos wished them to kill their own people on the way to attacking Rhun. Finally, one of them found his voice.

“My Lord; Rhun will not give in as the territories to the east we have overwhelmed. They have standing armies and their government has treated with us for millennia. And by slaughtering our own people, we lose valuable assets: soldiers, supplies, servants.”

The goblet of wine came whizzing by the man’s head, striking the chains hanging from several beams, causing them to rattle loudly before the vessel hit the stone floor below with a loud clang and clatter.

“Sheep! I am surrounded by sheep who are good only for one thing!” The words had barely left his lips when he had flown down from the dais with unnatural speed and thrust his dagger into the belly of the man who had spoken, twisting the blade as he ripped it up the man’s torso.

“Sheep are for slaughter,” he said calmly, his victim’s blood dripping from his hand and the man lying on the floor, his eyes slowly losing focus as his entrails and blood poured onto the stone.

With a nod to his guards, the man’s body was taken, presumably to join the slave’s in the feeding trough for Lastharos’ ‘pets’. Looking at the three remaining men, the Khandun leader smiled serenely.

“Are there anymore questions or doubts you wish to express?” The three men shook their heads and Lastharos nodded. “Very well. You have your orders. Crasthion, you will take over his legions as well as your own.” Though his expression remained calm, Lastharos voice held a note of almost … tenderness.

Crasthion bowed. “Thank you, my lord.” What else could he say?

Lastharos waved a hand in dismissal and the three bowed, touching their fingers to their foreheads, and started out. Just as they reached the door to the passageway leading from the leader’s ‘pleasure hall’, his voice called to them.

“If the rumors are true and there are indeed Elves in Rhun, I want them; bring them to me if you find any.”

“Yes, my lord,” Vetoran replied, then followed his fellow advisors from the room.

Lastharos smiled as he watched them leave, then turned back to one of the ornate boxes that sat on the dais next to his chair. Unlocking it, he opened the lid and looked down at the shivering, frightened slave, bent into an almost impossible fold in order to fit into the box and bound, hands to feet, in a definitely uncomfortable and painful position.

“Still alive, I see,” the Butcher of Khand commented to his terrified prisoner. “Let us see how long it will last.”


“We must prepare the armies,” Vetoran told the two remaining advisors as they walked toward the building which housed the security forces and army leadership of Khand.

“Do you mean to actually kill our own people?” the one who had remained silent in their leader’s presence asked. “I have no love for Rhun, but to attack it is not the wisest course.”

“You doubt Lastharos’ wisdom, Peferio?” Crasthion asked with a sarcastic note in his voice.

“You know I do not question him; he is our leader. But I simply think of what danger such a course might bring to the realm. I would not see Lastharos’ glory tarnished by the Rhunians.”

They entered the building and went to one of the rooms where no one could hear their words. The stone walls, floor and ceiling were thick and there were no windows. The door was heavy stone and thick wall hangings and carpets muffled all sound to ears outside. Throwing off his cloak Vetoran looked at the other two.

“I do not wish to kill our own people,” he told them. “It is self-destructive.”

“He has become completely unreasonable,” Peferio replied. “I fear he is insane.”

“What would make you think such a thing?” Crasthion asked. “Surely his constant tortures, rapes and murders of slaves and prisoners are not signs of madness. Nor his obsession with finding an Elf.” He sat on one of the cushions and shook his head. “But what choice do we have?”

“He seems quite fond of you,” Peferio commented. “Perhaps you could talk reason into the man.”

Crasthion shook his head. “No one can do such a thing,” he replied. “He only tolerates me because of my father.”

“Well, that is to your advantage,” Vetoran sighed. “At least your father is one of the few he remembers fondly. Both of my parents were his lovers---if they could be called that---yet he does not like me at all. He simply endures my presence. It is only a matter of time until I am retired.”

The others said nothing for their friend spoke the truth. It was one of the bitter realities of serving Lastharos, of living in Khand. Every day survived was just one day closer to death.

“Perhaps we can ‘encourage’ the people to flee before our armies arrive,” Peforio suggested. “If they are not there, we cannot kill them.”

The other two nodded. It was at least an idea to consider.

“Flee to where?” Vetoran asked. “Where will we tell them to go? Rhun? We are supposed to destroy that land as well. Mordor? Nothing can live there now after Sauron’s evil polluted the place. Harad? They would simply sell them back to Lastharos for his pleasure.”

“They could remain in Khand but simply get out of our path,” Crasthion mused. “Or perhaps they could make their way to the lands of the west.”

The others looked shocked.

“The west?” Peforio repeated, aghast. “The men of the west would enslave them as well.”

“But they would be alive,” Crasthion retorted. “And what are they now if not slaves? Slaves with the illusion of autonomy. We have no choice; we are bound to serve Khand; they can leave and hope to find new lives.”

A loud bell sounded outside the door and Peforio walked over and opened it, taking a parchment from the soldier standing there. Closing the door, he read as he walked back over to where his companions waited.

“Well,” he said as he scanned the document, “that choice has been taken from us.” He looked up. “The Dark Force will accompany us. Apparently Lastharos thinks they should be out hunting for their own food. They have grown sated with the slaves and sacrifices these past months.”

Vetoran sighed. “Then there is nothing we can do but try to warn them away as best we can. Which will be impossible if we are under the scrutiny of these creatures.”

Crasthion looked down at his hands for a moment then nodded. “I will ready my legions. I will tell them to make quick work of their kills and leave nothing for the beasts to toy with.” It was the kindest thing he could think of to do.

The others nodded wearily in agreement, then all three departed to see to readying their forces for this unpalatable mission.


That evening as Crasthion sat at his desk writing out instructions for the armies under his command, he could not help but feel a nagging sense of dread as if this entire campaign was a horrible mistake. It would bring disaster upon Khand, he knew. As one of the realm’s leaders, though not the ultimate ruler, he felt an obligation to see to the needs and protection of the populace. Though he had grown up in the land and had been taught the corrupt ways of Lastharos’ rule since childhood, he could not help but feel as though much in his land was wrong.

He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, giving himself a break from the details of the slaughter Lastharos had ordered. It was one thing to kill the enemies of Khand; quite another to kill the citizens. He smiled bitterly; he was an anomaly among those surrounding the Leader. He took no pleasure in the decadent ways of their ruler and was absurdly easy on his own slaves in the eyes of most.

He glanced over at the bed where the slave who had been warming it for the past few weeks knelt awaiting him. She never complained about the odd hours he kept nor did she ask anything of him. Some bed slaves, he knew, used their positions to try and wheedle favors or preferential treatment from their masters. This one did not and he found it refreshing.

Sighing to himself, Crasthion took a sip of wine, then went back to the orders before him. He had not slept well lately, often getting up in the middle of the night to walk the balcony outside his bedchamber. He hoped this crisis would soon pass so he could once more be about the business of routine matters in the realm and also be able to take the time to enjoy the well-trained charms of his slave.