I know the update took forever (sigh). This chapter is short, but very important. It's quite gruesome, just to forewarn you. Review!
The soldier of the Haradrim prodded the elf with his sword. "Hurry up, scum." He had not been told why his master wanted the pointy-ear, but he did not question his lord's authority, no one did. He could find no use in one of them now that the Eye had been overthrown, but he left the thinking to those with more wit than himself.
The heavy doors groaned as they were pushed forward. One of the captains came forth and snatched the chain from his hands and ordered him to leave. The soldier left without a word. Part of him did not wish to know what happened to those who entered there.
When the elf struggled against his bonds, the cruel eyed captain laid a heavy blow on the side of the pretty face. The iron spiked gauntlet sliced deeply into the elf's flesh, and blood ran freely down his cheek. The elf gasped in pain, but eyed the southron with nothing short of raw contempt.
"Keep it up, elf," he spat, "And you'll be dead by the time they come to get you." He laughed. "If you are important enough to them." He raised a hand and took a strand of midnight hair between his fingers, and then, without warning, struck the elf again.
"Stop, Varg, he will not be worth much mutilated." The voice rattled in laughter. "At least not now."
Varg snatched the elf forward, and he tripped and fell upon the cold throne. "Bow before your superiors." The captain sneered. The blood still flowed down the elf's face, and pattered on the stone floor. His dark hair curtained his face.
"Who is he?" Varg asked with a sick curiosity.
The lord of the Haradrim shrugged. "I know not." He paused. "Elf! What is your name." When the elf did not respond, the dark lord motioned to Varg.
The whip fell with a vicious crack. It opened a long wound across the elf's back. "What is your name?" The lord asked again. There was no response. The southron captain's lash fell again, and again, and again. The elf did not cry out until the twentieth stroke fell. The scream of agony reverberated in the chamber.
"Name?"
Varg raised the whip to strike again, but the dark lord raised his hand. "No, I think he now will speak."
Blood trickled from the corners of the elf's mouth, from where he had bitten through his lip in an attempt to remain silent. He whispered something.
Varg kicked him. "Eh?"
"Elladan."