"Nasty elves. Nasty little buggers." The man in the opposite cell muttered, rocking back and forth as the chains around his neck rattled.
"Nasty. Nasty. Nasty."
Tathar's ears twitched.
He was in pain. So much pain he ought to choke on it. It hurts, by Elbereth, had he not worry for the lives of his warriors in his absence, Tathar would've pass for the Halls of Mandos.
It did not help that the man in the cell across them was cursing at his kin.
"Nasty elves, nasty. Nasty being. Vile creatures-"
Tathar fought the urge to smack his head to the stone wall.
"Mellonenin [friend of mine], are you well?" Haulë whispered quietly from his side. He was unable to reach his captain due to the bars that kept them sepparated, yet he still could've reach him, had the latter wanted it.
"I am. Len hannon, do not worry." Tathar hushed.
Haulë looked conflicted. Worry passed his features for a moment before he settled down to sit, pale eyes dim and glossed.
Tathar sighed, shifting his weight as to not injure his back further. It was alright. It was fine. Atleast the other elf did not need to suffer from the fight.
The gladiator.
Tathar inwardly shuddered at the thought of it.
It was so vile. Disgusting. How men find joy in such quaries and deaths were beyond him. It was absolutely deranged.
Pitted against eachother. Killed or be killed. For what? Entertainment? Bets? Golds? It was sickening.
Tathar wished he need not to partake in it. That none of them ever needed to. He was unable to prevent it, and it made him sick. He was the captain, he was supposed to take every thing under control.
Supposed to.
Oh how he hated that word by now.
He was a nobody. In this cell, this prison. Stripped off from his title, his name, even his kin. He was a nobody. He worth lower than a slave.
"Nasty nasty nasty-"
A loud clang reverberated. Tathar winced at the sudden light. He saw the trap door opening.
How long had he been there? Had they all been there? Days? Weeks?
Before Tathar could ask Haulë for answers, the very same man, one that carried whips, appeared from the doorway. Grinning for ear to ear.
He was holding up, much to Tathar's horror, the limp figure of Mailithin. Half-dead, dying most likely. Tathar barely noticed the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
As expected, Lalaith roared. Slamming at his doors, eyes wild as he urged for his brother. Cursing in the silvan tongue whilst Haulë struggled to keep him down.
The man ignored him. Instead, he stared at Tathar. Shaking Mailithin's body lightly, as if he was offering a 'treat'. Taunting, sneering.
The look of his face made Tathar wanted to spit.
The man spoke then, a leering note of disgust and amusement. It didn't take Tathar to know their language to understand.
He was being used.
He was being baited.
He knew. He understood the game. But the consequences would be dire if he did not play along.
So, Tathar stood. Ignoring the pain that flared every where. He glared at the man, then stepped out from the door.
As he stepped out and an uproar greeted him, Tathar knew he was nothing. Knew he was lower than a lecherous leech. Lower than even those vile orcs. He was no longer a living being, but a toy. A pet.
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 battle...
