Here I am again! Sorry I haven't uploaded in ages, was very busy in school,
Ok Tolkien didn't write much about Erestor, so I will take the liberty of happily inventing some of my own. Character torture and angst in this chapter.
Chapter 3:
"Get up, rat." snarled Lasrahir, kicking the prone figure in the ribs.
A strangled yelp followed by whimpering was all it took for the burly human's overly-quick temper. Large, frightened orbs widened in horror at the heavy metal chain that flew towards his shivering frame. No not again…thought Erestor, as he braced himself for the bone crushing force exerted by the chain, wielded by the only man he knew and the only man he hated, his father.
Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours. Erestor had long since lost track of the pain. Everything was a haze of excruciating aching through his whole body, the steady burn of the chain, tears and blood. Pain. How much the word meant to him. Pain in his heart, Why would my father do this to me. Pain of his physical body, tortured and abused each day. No square inch of his body was spared. He closed his eyes as an overwhelming mixture of physical and emotional pain coursed through his writhing body. He knew what was next. It had been like this for years. 4 years, 11months and 31 days. He winced internally, today was his 50th begetting day and his coming of age. Groaning slightly, he realized he had forgotten his own begetting day in his pain shrouded stupor. Suddenly the flogging stopped. Erestor curled up into a ball and squeezed his eyes shut. Though grateful for the stop of pain, he knew that what came next, he would gladly exchange for 200 lashes.
Cold hands snaked up his tunic. He stiffened whimpered. Fingernails scraped down his chest, catching his dusky nipples. Tears of utter shame ran in rivulets down porcelain cheeks as Lasrahir relieved Erestor of his tunic and leggings, leaving him a naked mass of quivering elfling on the cold stone floor. Hands were all over his body, bruised and marked from years of abuse. New scars covered old ones, marring Erestor's white skin. He felt a tongue on this ear. Erestor shuddered. A cold voice, dripping with sarcasm, spoke into his ear, sending chills down his back.
"Happy begetting day, Erestor. You'll get your begetting gift soon…just wait."
Wait. The word struck Erestor like lightning. This spelt doom.
Expert hands reached for his flaccid member, gripping it tightly. Erestor whimpered.
"Today you will get your gift…50 years old…how old…" the cheap wine-laced breath whispered in his ear. Strong hands lifted his small mass and positioned him on all fours. Erestor trembled, not knowing what was next. Lasrahir usually bid Erestor to pleasure him or ordered Erestor to stroke himself. Lasrahir tore off his tunic and started at the bindings of his leggings, his straining member pushing against the fabric. He positioned his engorged member at Erestor's virgin entrance.
"Brace yourself, cunt." grunted Lasrahir.
A terrorized scream rung high into the cold autumn air.
Erestor woke to pain. Pain. Her felt like the fires of Mordor burned where the sun did not usually shine. Propping himself up on his elbows he glanced around. Lasrahir was no where to be found. Erestor let himself flop to the cold floor – it was safe. Safe to release the torrents tears he'd been keeping inside since last night. Hot angry tears welled up in his dark eyes and violent sobs wracked his violated and ravaged body. He'd been raped, raped by his own father. He knew the consequences of Elven rape. In most cases the victim faded away, succumbing to the grief that would ensnare their broken hearts. He knew of the slow wasting away of the body, the dimming of the light of the Eldar, the tears, the emotional turmoil and most of all, the tragic loss of life of a creature that should have walked Arda tall and proud for many ages to come. He knew. Of course he knew. He had lost his only sister that way. Cuiledhwen had lingered for fifty-seven days before breathing her last. It was a slow torturous death, even more torturous for Erestor, who found that after a week, she had become an emotion burden. Guilt ate at his soul as Cuiledhwen passed slowly into twilight.
But Erestor was not intending for any of that to happen. He would not let himself become a burden for anyone. He was, after all, useless and inferior. His father had never once failed to remind him of that. It was driven into him with every bite of the whip, with every wound, every scar, and every drop of blood.
He was inferior. Useless.
Erestor wept bitterly, pouring out his anguish, hate, fury and grief into the salty tears that streamed down gaunt cheeks and into the pained cries that tore from his throat. He clenched his fists, his fingernails forming bloody crescents in the soft flesh of his palm. Erestor shakily heaved himself to his feet. Opening his closet, he haphazardly pulled on a black tunic and fumbled for his only possession – a silver pocket knife his late mother had given him before she left for Mandos' Halls of waiting.
Erestor staggered out of his house - merely a dilapidated shack in the forest. Erestor ran blindly, his tears lost to the wind. When he could run no more he sank to his knees and gave an almighty wail. Completely winded, he lay on the soft grass in the dell he'd landed up in. Breathing heavily, he listened for any signs of life. The sound of trees swaying and the wind teasing the grass met his ears. He closed his eyes in resignation and clutched his knife tightly, bringing it to his wrist.
Warm silver tinted blood flowed in rivulets, staining the grass a deep red. The birds sang nonchalantly as liquid life seeped into Arda.