vi : Lost Unfound
Elrohir woke up with a gasp. A hand shot out for his sword, his head whipping around, watching the tall leaf canopies above him as the sky was still dark. The night was still, spare only the sounds of owls and crickets, accompanied with the slightest bit from the fire which had fizzled down to mere alighted coals.
He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair slick with sweat. The cold night breeze kissed his skin drenched with sweat, and the moon was aloft high upon the zenith, reminding Elrohir how late it was.
It had been the same dream. The same nightmare.
By instinct he had reached out for his right. Then he refrained himself for so, as only then he realized; Elladan was no longer with him. Elladan was not there.
Elladan was gone.
Lost. Torn apart from Elrohir just like how a fragment of his soul was. He refused, he could not bring himself to believe that his brother, Elladan, would be so easily taken from him.
It had been his fault. His own as he never should've left his brother's side. Never should've gone to chase for those orcs. Never should've thought it would end easily. Elladan had warned him, yet Elrohir had been reckless and headstrong as always that he insisted to keep going to chase for the party.
And now Elladan paid the price.
Knuckles turned white as Elrohir gripped upon his hilt tightly. He knew he wouldn't be getting much of rest, so instead, he hastened to pack his bags and kicked the dying coals away. He called for his horse and began to prepare to continue of his search.
He knew not where he need to go nor look. Elladan could be anywhere. Dead or alive, Elrohir was not as sure. His father lost hope after the third summer. Whole of Imladris admitted the departure of their lord's eldest son. But not Elrohir, never him.
He stood up, kicking away the coals before calling upon his horse. He saddled up, bow and a quiver full of arrows slung over his back as he swung himself ontop of his stallion.
An owl hooted from the trees above him when Elrohir stirred his horse forward. With a soft kick, Alagos launched into a gallop, and of they went further into the woods. Wind tugging against his dark cloak,-the only thing left of Elladan.
A voice whispered in his heart, his ears. A voice his nanneth would tell them that it came from how strong their bonds were, as brothers, comrades, and friends, as a soul splitted to two; insepparable.
The voice who spoke Elladan was still alive.
And Elrohir believed it.
Even if it meant he was grasping at a blind faith.
X
Tathar felt nothing when he saw a body of an elf, his own kin, bloodied and bruised, dragged by the legs across the stone floor. He felt nothing as he watched the elf's face scraped against the stones, leaving trails of blood and what suspiciously looked like innards all over the cells.
One man screamed. A guard slapped his face. The man fell to the ground, out cold. Tathar continued to watch the lifeless body of an elf dragged by a winning gladiator, a large toothy grin spread on the brute man's equally beaten face.
The gladiator would surely skin the elf. A prize he had won, afterall. Tathar knew that much from the gists of very few westron spoken,-and from the the skins worn as cloaks by the fighters as if they were bear fur-.
It was sickening. Of course. Then eventually, whether he liked it or not, Tathar was used to it.
Tathar didn't know who that elf was. One of the ones who went missing, perhaps from the past five summers ago. He wasn't as sure; Mirkwood was split to plenty of stations all over the woods that he hardly saw other elves other than of his men. They rarely left their posts. Little news reached them, and even so only few words could arrive.
Haulë was sitting at the corner, nursing his bruised ribs from his recent fights that he barely was able to win,-a knife to the gladiator's eye fortunately finished the fight-. Lalaith laid still at the center of his cell, curled up and fast asleep with eyes closed. Sometimes his lips would querie in mutters of his brother's name.
Usually, Tathar would've worry when his men entered such mortal slumber, yet not this time.
They were all too exhausted.
He found himself slipping to mortal dreams more often than he liked. They barely ate, barely slept. They barely healed before they were sent back off into the arena.
During the rare days they were fed, Tathar would close his eyes and pretended the raw flesh he ate was a hare's or a deer's.
Not of his own kin.
There were so many things he pretended. The water he drank. The food he ate. None were meant for consumate. Spoiled water with sands and a taste that suspiciously was like horse dung. The 'red meat' and the sour cheeses with growing mosses on them.
He didn't eat for the first few times. Yet eventually, he could go only so far without eating. Perhaps it was by the eight month,-time came and went unknowingly to either of them-, that he relented, and took a bite of the 'red meat'. He shoved away the tears threatening to spill from his eyes during it. He didn't sleep that night.
There were times he'd want to give up. Giving in, let death claimed him and passed to the Halls of Mandos and be done with his sufferings.
Yet then he would remember his men, his young elves, all were his responsibilities. And he would stop.
He would get them out. He'd suffer, he'd kill, he'd die for them. He'd do anything to get them out, all of them. Perhaps not in one peace, but he would get them out.
One day.
The door of his cell squeaked open, snapping him away from his thoughts. Tathar rose up, from the corner of his eyes he saw Haulë looking up and Lalaith still fast asleep on the floor. He worried for the latter's condition when he caught the shallow rise of Lalaith's chest.
Tathar turned his head towards the door. The Butcher, as what a man called him from across the cell corridors, stood by the frame. A hand on the large blade against his hip, lips curled in distaste with a jagged scar running across his bald head.
With a heavy sigh Tathar walked towards the door. Hands clasped behind from the continuous routine. The Butcher grasped his wrists roughly before tying them with rusty chains. They tinkled lightly, metal clashing against metal. Tathar took a step forward.
No soon he was brought back to the arena. Shouts and screams dull in his ears as he stepped into the sandy area. The chains dug to his skin. Few people in thin white chitons with collars hanging by their necks scurried around him, cleaning his face from grime and blood.
One tried to pry his shirt away. Tathar hissed, acting feral as he whipped his head around and bared his teeth. The man leapt back. The Butcher shoved his shoulder in warning, but it was an enough warning for the other to stay back.
They shall not condemn him further more.
A man clasped an amethyst on his left ear, the gem hanging by a thin gold wire. His warrior braids were undone, exchanged for decoration ones that were also meant to keep the strands away from his face.
A small decorated dagger was pressed to his hand as the slaves scittered away. The Butcher growled low in warning before releasing the chains and stepping back. Tathar moved forward, one hand fingering the carvings on the poor fancy knife given to him.
It was all for charades and entertainment afterall.
The Master stood on his podium as always. He waved his hands, the golden bangles around his wrists jingled in the same excitement as the audience surrounding him. Deafening cheers filled the air.
The Master twirled around, then with a flourish, flicked his hand towards Tathar. A large smile on his face.
"I present to you, my champion; Asura!"
X
"Have you seen my father?"
"Nay, I have not since the day he left with Captain Tathar for the far north."
"But twas near two years ago! Surely you must've seen him?"
"Forgive me, but nay, I have not."
"Has any reports came from the north?"
"Nay."
"Then, may I plead for a transfer to the north?"
"Filit, have you not heard?"
"Hear what of?"
"The north is closed. The Witchking had taken over and spiders are getting brave, King Thranduil had sent that none shall go there lest he spoke so."
"But my father is there!"
"I can do nothing, Filit. Forgive me, but your father is gone."
X
I accept any slaps you want to give me for the very very very long update delay.
We have a new boi, Elladan is gone, and Tathar is still in trouble. Welp. What else is new? I just love to make them cry.
I'm a horrible person.
And the uhh.. sorry about the.. mild mention of.. *cough*cannibalism*cough* I swear by any means I am NOT going to make this like Game of Thrones. This is supposed to be PG I swear. It just... kind of.. happened.
My hands slipped.
And the music above is what I listened to whenever I'm typing about Tathar or Rhûn. It just really fits the whole gladiator scene. I have too much fun imagining fighting scenes with that song and another one called 'Merchant Prince' by Two Steps From Hell.
So well uh, enjoy and bye!
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