He could not see.
He was an elf, with his keen eyes and the help of the light emanated from his skin, he could have see even in the dark.
But no.
He couldn't.
For he was blindfolded.
Tathar shifted against his restraints. Feeling the rusty chains digging into his skin, as he smelled the scent of blood. Letting him aware of the fact he was still bleeding.
He shifted again, trying to somehow, put pressure upon his wounds to stop bleeding. Only to earn a resounding fist slamming against the wooden crate he was stuffed inside. Followed by a harsh muffled words spat out by his captor, before they all joined in laughter.
Tathar stilled, then sighed, then moved again, this time more quietly. Untill he found a rather compromising position. Then, he closed his eyes.
He heard of them, few times. They were the people of Rhûn. Easterlings they were, brutal and unforgiving. They carried hatred for elves more than anything.
The truth was, the easterlings never got along with the rest of the secondborns in Arda. Yet they all had the same thing in common for once, the clear dislike against his kin, so most of the easterlings were to freely roam around. Claiming themselves as 'elf-hunters' to protect people from harm caused by the elves.
Tathar could only imagine what they had done to his kin.
Tortures were surely to done. Killing? Most likely. If there were ellith, they probably were to try and touch them,-which made Tathar's blood boil-. And, if there were penneth..
Tathar paled as he came upon realization.
He wanted to kick himself, so badly. Eru, forgive him for all of this.
He had pick the greenest recruits to join his patrol. It was supposed to be a field training, also to help fend off the spiders from the eastern area,-for they were getting bolder and rather stronger-.
He was supposed to protect them.
Instead, he led them into their inevitable doom.
Tathar fell. Into a trap.
He was too caught up in his arrogance, too sure they could finish the spiders off. They were excited and high, up for a fight and Tathar did not dare to bring them down when they could still move forward.
They did, won against the spiders. But then the victory was short lived, they were too injured to notice the men hiding in the trees.
Too exhausted to fight against heavy chains and paralyzing darts.
Too weak to fight back.
And here they ended up. Inside small crates, bounded and blindfolded, treated like an animal.
Guilt gnawed in his chest, filling him with dread as he remembered the young elves that went with him.
Still young, with youthful spirits. They had never been in battlefields, so Tathar could only imagine how they felt as they went through this.
He could only hope they could make through the pain, that had yet but surely to come.
Their captors let out another laughter. Which resounded in Tathar's ears, echoing in his mind. Haunting him. Reminding him they were to laugh as they break his warriors apart. One by one.
Tathar tasted foul in his mouth. He could not imagine the faces of their families, as they were told that their sons had all gone, disappeared, captured.
It was all his fault.
It felt hazy yet all too familiar. Tathar shook his head violently as he bit his tongue. Reminding himself that it was not the time to grief, nor feel guilty.
There was no time for those, for he had to find a way, somehow, to escape with his warriors.
Hopefully, alive.
X
King Thranduil was at lost.
He was no blind fool. He knew of the so called 'elf-hunters' that love to roam in his forest. Yet he never thought they would stoop so low, so close to Greenwood.
The eastern patrol had gone for five days, no news. No tracks. Nothing but a single elvish dagger on the dirt, to which his scouts had given to him.
Thranduil slammed his fist on the table.
It was the sixteenth group. They had taken all sixteen patrol groups from all ranges, including two penneth, and four ellith. All within a month.
He would be a fool if he did not consider this very carefully.
It was clear the hatred the easterlings harbored for the elves was the highest amongst the secondbornes. Yet they never were brave enough to oppose against them this boldly.
Not since the allegiance was broken.
Clearly, exploiting the facts that elves were driven to isolation, and that men no longer cared for them, these easterlings acted just like that. Capturing elves as they like, for what purpose Thranduil had yet to find out. And he was not excited for it.
He was scared. He feared he could no longer protect his people. And he feared his son, Legolas,-at where ever that wanderlust was by now-, would meet the same fate. Captured, gone, never to be seen again.
For the first time in for ever, King Thranduil felt hopeless.
There was, simply, nothing he can do. This was darkness that hung upon his people, one that he did not know how to fight. For, all his life he only knew of the darkness that he could fight off, physically, with his swords.
He could not relocate his kin to other places, as Lothlórien or Imladris. For each Lady and Lords' had enough in their plates. Lothlórien was handling a rather tight situation against the rohirrim, and Imladris was still recovering from the short,-but still dreadful-, war against the gondorian.
Then lastly, there was the offer of sailing.
Yet Thranduil did not feel the call. Yes, perhaps if some of his people wished to sail, he would surely allow them too. But what of the people that had yet wished to sail? Such as him? Or his son?
Thranduil need to ensure all of his kin's safety.
He sighed and propped his head up with his hand. The elvenking took a sip out of his goblet as he stared at the parchments sprawled all over his table. Some were old, some were new, brought in three days ago whence he was out with the northern patrols.
He blinked, whence his eyes landed upon a particular scroll.
With Imladris' insignia on it.
Thranduil reached out for it before started unscrolling. Reading it. Twice. Thrice, over and over that he lost count of times he was reading it. For he could not believe his eyes.
He quickly fetched a blank parchment and a quill. Then he started writing, almost frantically.
When the sun came low in the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of purple and orange, a messenger was sent off from Thranduil's Halls.
In his cloak, safely tucked in, was an urgent message to Lady Galadriel.
X
And here we have the first chapter up! Datdaradat! I actually wrote this hours ago but wattpad glitched deleted it (somehow) and out of fit of rage, I rewrite the ENTIRE chapter (which previously took me five hours) in one and a half hours.
......Live your life in a fit of rage I guess..
Hopefully this was sufficient enough to replace the previous one.
YOU ARE READING
THE SILENT LAMENT
Fanfiction" Can you hear me running, Can you hear me calling you? " His eyes were wide, as he watched Isildur hesitated. The One Ring glowed in his hand, that was not brave enough to let go and let it be destroyed. All these years, all these battles, all for...
