Sorry it took so long for me to update, but I've been having computer problems. :P Another dark chapter . . .Read and review!

Chapter 21: Eyes of the Beholder

Aragorn dropped the parchment onto his lap and buried his head in his hands. What a fool he had been to trust the Southrons. Not all men have honor. The lash will be brought down upon him many times for each day that you fail to meet our request. Aragorn shuddered. Elladan had been sent as an emissary to Harad. The note had arrived on the day that he had been expected to return. Aragorn pulled an old map from a stack of papers. All of the lands between the river Poros and the river Harnen, many of his people lived there. Many, thousands perhaps, had returned to the homes of their forefathers in that fertile crescent after Sauron had been defeated. So many had fled to the cities when the Eye had risen again, and now it was demanded from him. There was no doubt in his mind what would happen to those who lived there if he were to give it up to the Southrons. There also was no doubt what would happen to his brother if he did not. Perhaps it would be the same even if he met the request, or demand.

Could he sacrifice so many of his people to save his brother, and be able to sleep at night without a heavy conscience? Could he sacrifice his brother to save them?

Elrohir was confused, very confused. His heart told him one thing, his body another, and his mind the opposite of the other two. Should common sense overrule emotion? It had been common sense that had restrained him from throttling the impudent warden. He despised common sense. He washed his hands in the river Nimrodel, as if to cleanse away all hurt and pain and guilt. It did very little to settle his mind. As he turned to leave, he saw a figure hovering on the edge of his sight. He faced it, and sighed heavily upon realizing it was Galadriel.

"Grandmother."

She smiled at him, but it was a smile full of pity. "You are troubled."

"By many things."

"And I fear I have yet another to add to your mind."

"What is that?"

She closed her eyes as if to ward off some unpleasant image. "Your brother has been taken captive in Harad."

Elrohir felt her put an arm around his shoulder. There was an underlying message beneath those simple words. Your brother has been tortured and will continue to be until some arrangement is met. Even then it may not be enough to save him.

"What do they ask for in exchange?" It broke his heart to hear himself speak of his brother as if he were some kind of material item that could be pawned for menial worth. He choked on the words.

"The land between Poros and Harnen." The names hit Elrohir with enough force to make his stomach twist violently. "The Southrons claim it was stolen from the by Gondor during the end of the Second Age."

Elrohir licked his dry lips. He knew that region. He knew it well enough to also know that it would, by this time, be well populated. Thousands could be killed, slaughtered, if the Southrons gained control. Could he let them die? Could he let his brother be beaten and tortured until he, too, was dead? He knew he could not. It was his own blood and flesh that was captive there, his mirror and his friend. He did not resist when Galadriel embraced him and let his tears fall upon her shoulder.

Elladan winced as the orc smothered the wound on his face with a foul-smelling paste. The slice made by Varg's gauntlet had become as swelled, infected mass. The skin around it was a sickly purple color. His mouth always had a vile taste in it. The orc that was applying the unguent swatted at a fly that hovered over the wound. The creature was wrinkled and twisted with age. Beneath the grime its hair was silver. Scars were crisscrossed all over its face and arms. Elladan was repulsed.

"Can't have it marrin' your pretty face, can we now? You ain't worth a thing all messed up." It laughed.

Elladan glanced over at the orc, he wondered how such a heartless creature had been derived from his own race. The muddy brown depths of the creature's eyes met his for a second. The orc shuddered but did not turn away. What Elladan saw there terrified him. There was hatred, but Elladan felt that it was not towards him. There was also so much fear and pain.

"What are you?" Elladan asked quietly, despite himself.

The bowl of paste fell to the ground. "You must not ask questions, elf." It growled.

"What are you?" the Halfelf repeated.

"One of the first."

"Eru have mercy . . . ." Elladan felt he would be sick. One of the first? One of the unlucky elves of Cuivienen that wandered off and never returned? From Doriath or Nargothrond perhaps?

"W-who are you?" The idea that he might get an answer horrified him.

The orc grabbed the ointment and left his cell, but not before Elladan heard the answer.

"Elured."

Elladan vomited. That was the name of the eldest son of Dior. He had been left to die in the forest after the fall of Doriath. Of his fate no tale tells. Would his fate be the same? Death suddenly seemed pale in comparison.