Disclaimer: I do not or ever will own The Silmarillion, The Unfinished Tales, or The Children of Húrin. Same goes for Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit.
We have been betrayed.
We, the traitors, have been deceived.
"Jewels and riches you will receive from my hands. And all land and people that you conquer shall be yours for ever, and you shall be their lords," said He. "Most esteemed of my captains and allies I shall make you."
What jewels are there here? Or honor? This can hardly be called land. He promised us. But what we have received here, women-folk and weak children, the elderly, and men too cowardly or lame to go to war. The land is burnt and black, the cattle are thin. The clime is cold and windy and wet, the Sun is weak in these lands.
What have we left behind us? Strong Elvenkings and lords. They were cursed by their own kin and people, perhaps, but they were honorable, and held true to their word. Jewels we received from their hands, for deeds of valor and strength. We were glad in their service.
But then He promised us even better payment. Land! Oh, how we treasured land! We are not as the Edain, who were given settlements of their own, unquestioned and unopposed, all love the Edain. What have we, what do we own? Nothing. Years and years we wandered, so many long years. From our forefathers down to our sons, ever wandering, ever searching, simply for a place to call our own.
The Elven lords gave us no borders of our own. We were allowed to abode in their lands, of course; but how we longed to live under our own rule! And He, whom the Elves call Morgoth, swore an oath to give us all that we desired. How eagerly we pledged ourselves to his service.
Not all turned are way, nay; Bór and his people did not follow us. They remained loyal to Maedhros and Maglor, while we betrayed our lord, Caranthir. We wonder if our former rulers ever saw such a thing coming, they who are rumored to have foresight in their bright eyes.
And now the battle is over, and we are trapped. We are locked in this cold and harsh land, where the people whine for their own lords and for freedom. Do they not think that is what we wished for, when we came to their lands?
We regret our decisions, though we dare not admit it. This is not what we agreed upon, Morgoth. You have lied to us, betrayed us. Is it not ironic that we vowed upon our lives, and the lives of our wives and sons, that we would aid you, so far as treason. And yet, we now bitterly rue the day when we first turned our ears to your spies. How treacherous is Fate, she is always cunning. Truly you are the Lord of Slaves and Thralls, lord and master.
We are an unhappy people, cursed to seek ever for joy and contentment, only to have it slip from our bloody fingers. How we wish to be of Bór's folk, honorable in death, faithful in life. At least they are happy and at peace, in the Great Mound, nothing troubles them any longer. But we must live with our sorrows, which we inflicted upon ourselves; we must live with the pains of being a wretched folk, whom are deserters and betrayers.
A/N: I admit I just sort of wondered through this story, not really knowing how to follow the next sentence. I tried to put a new perspective on simple villains, the Easterlings, but I feel like I interpreted them as annoying brats.
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