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“How’s he been?” Durin asked as he walked down the narrow staircase leading to the dungeon. Frár, the dwarf beside him, shrugged slightly, making the light of his torch waver and throw dancing shadows across the walls.
“Hard to say,” he said. “He doesn’t do much. Barely touches the food we bring. He sang, for a while, but it was unnerving a few of the other guards, so I told him to stop. Now he mostly just sits.”
“His singing unnerved them,” Durin repeated skeptically. He’d heard the voice of the prisoner in question before, and it was about as far from frightening as he could imagine. It was certainly nothing that should disturb the stout-hearted dwarves who were assigned to guard the lowest dungeons, where dangerous prisoners and traitors were kept.
“Yes, sir.”
Durin gave his companion a sidelong look. He’d known Frár for many years – had helped him out of a very tight spot a while back, and had called in that favor now to get access to the dungeon – but had never seen him nervous. At least, not until now.
“What could be so frightening about a song?”
Frár shifted uncomfortably. “It’s hard to describe.”
“Try.”
“It was just so- well, it was sad , sir,” Frár said in a rush. “It got under my skin. Must have been some kind of elvish sorcery. Made me think of stars and the sea and far away places that I’ve never seen and shouldn’t ever want to go to, but when I heard that song I did . I wanted it more than anything, but at the same time I knew that if I went I’d never come home again. I don’t have a word of elvish, but somehow when he sang I knew what he meant. It felt like-” he paused, dropping his voice even lower, so Durin had to lean in to hear. “It felt like he was getting into my head. Like he knew what was in my heart better than I did.”
“I doubt that,” Durin said casually, but inside he was uneasy. He was on the verge of pressing him further, but before he could, Frár stopped. They’d reached a small landing holding two chairs and a table with a lantern on it: the guard post where Frár and his companions kept watch. On the other side, the stairs continued a short way further down into the dark.
“You’ll find him down there,” Frár said, pointing. “I’ll wait for you here. You have until the next shift comes in. I’ll fetch you when the time’s up. And-” he hesitated.
“I won’t let him free,” Durin assured him, though the promise twisted like a knife in his gut. “Don’t worry. I’ll not get you in any trouble.” Even if he had been willing to get Frár accused of treason, Durin wasn’t foolish enough to think that an escape was possible, not with all the might of Khazad-dûm standing between here and the nearest exit.
“Thank you, sir,” Frár said, sounding relieved that he hadn’t needed to say it himself. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” Durin said, and accepted the torch that Frár handed him before starting down the stairs into the dark.
It wasn’t until Durin reached the bottom of the steps and found himself standing in front of the bars of the cell that he realized he’d been expecting to find Elrond just the same as he always was. After all, what were a mere few months in a cell to an elf who was more than a thousand years old? Elrond wouldn’t enjoy it, Durin had thought, but there would be no harm done. Not truly.
He’d thought wrong.
Inside, Elrond was lying on his side on a thin cot that was far too short for his long legs. In other circumstances, Durin might have thought it was funny, the way the elf had to curl up to fit on the bed. Now, it only made Durin eye the ceiling above him, estimating the height. It was tall enough by dwarvish standards, but he didn’t think Elrond would be able to stand up inside that cell, at least not without ducking his head. Claustrophobia wasn’t an affliction that troubled dwarves, as a general rule, but elves liked open skies, and Durin was suddenly very aware of the weight of all those uncountable tons of stone hanging above their heads.
Durin’s gaze lowered back down to the elf. He was, by all appearances, asleep. Truly asleep, with his eyes closed and his breath coming in slow and labored, not just resting in that strange half-waking dream that elves wandered into while their mortal companions slept.
“Elrond?” Durin said, more quietly than was his custom, and strangely tentative. The elf stirred, and his eyes slowly opened. They were large and dark in his hollowed-out face, and seemed almost to drink in the light of Durin’s torch like pools of black water. He smiled when he saw Durin, but Durin’s relief at this small sign of normality quickly fled as he watched the slow, careful way Elrond sat up on the cot. It was a far cry from his usual easy grace, almost like the movement pained him, and it made something in Durin’s chest twist. Elves had always looked rather flimsy to him: tall and thin and nearly weightless, liable to blow away in a strong enough wind. He knew the impression of fragility to be ill-founded, though. Elves were strong, and to see that strength so obviously fled from his friend was beyond disturbing: it was terrifying .
“Hello, Durin,” Elrond greeted him. His voice was unusually rough – from sleep or disuse, Durin thought. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that an elf could be ailed by something as human as a sore throat or a cough. “I was told that your father had forbidden you to see me.”
“He did.”
“Has he changed his mind?”
“No,” Durin admitted reluctantly. “He hasn’t.” He waited for Elrond to ask, half looking forward to explaining how he’d finally managed to bribe, bully, and cajole his way down into the dungeons after a solid two months of calling in every favor ever owed to him. But the elf just nodded, with none of his characteristic curiosity.
“I see,” was all he said. “I am glad you came anyway. It is good to see you.”
“You look terrible,” Durin said, blunt but seeing no reason to be other than completely honest. The time for lies, even kind ones, had passed, and this was the truth. It wasn’t just that Elrond looked pale and thin and sickly, though he did. It was more than that. He seemed somehow insubstantial, not quite there in a way that was difficult to define, like the flickering light of Durin’s torch could almost pass right through him.
“You are as gracious as ever, Durin,” Elrond said, with the tiniest spark of his usual humor in his eyes, though it was small and weak and faded quickly as Elrond’s eyelids began to drift almost closed again, like they were too heavy to be worth the effort of holding up.
“Were you sleeping?” Durin asked, disturbed.
“Yes, I suppose I was.”
“Elves don’t sleep,” Durin accused. This was one thing he was rather certain of. He and Elrond had spoken about it before at great length. That particular conversation was vivid in Durin’s memory: it had been the first night that the two of them shared a campfire, and Durin had woken in the darkness to find his new friend lying motionless, open and glazed-over eyes turned blankly toward the stars, apparently dead. Elrond had laughed when he was roused from his waking dreams by a panicking dwarf, but he’d sat patiently and spoke for a long time about the curious nature of elven rest while they both waited for the panicked racing of Durin’s heart to slowly return to its usual steady pace. Elrond hadn’t stopped talking until the rush of fear had faded from Durin’s blood and the dwarf’s eyes had grown heavy again with sleep.
“We do sometimes,” Elrond said now.
“When you’re ill,” Durin surmised. Elrond said nothing, but didn’t meet his eyes, and that was confirmation enough. “I’ll send for a healer,” he said, but Elrond was already shaking his head.
“There would be no point to it.”
“Of course there’s a point to it,” Durin argued. “Do you think my father won’t allow it? Because he’s a hard-headed fool, but he’s not cruel, and we don’t mistreat our prisoners. If you’re ill he won’t deny you medicine.”
“I know,” Elrond said. “But I do not believe that there is any medicine under this mountain – anything on this Middle Earth – that can cure what ails me.”
“It’s nearly spring,” Durin realized slowly. “Is this the… fading? That you spoke of?”
Elrond nodded. “I… believe that it is.”
For a moment Durin was silent, unable to find words other than the horrified litany echoing in his head that it’s too late, it’s already too late, there’s no saving them now…
“Have you had any word from Lindon?” Elrond asked, breaking through the spiral of Durin’s thoughts. “Or Eregion?”
“A messenger from the High King came looking for you a few weeks ago,” Durin said, desperately shutting away the horror. “My father turned him away at the gates, and no others have come since.” Durin paused, waiting for a reaction, but Elrond only nodded. He didn’t look disappointed by the news, or frustrated, or angry, or anything at all, really. His expression barely changed, and somehow this resignation was worse than even his rage would have been.
“Our scouts are reporting many elves traveling west over the mountains,” Durin went on, just to fill that awful silence. “I went up to the watchtower myself a few days back to take a look. I’ve never seen so many elves on the road before. They’re going to the sea, aren’t they?”
“Yes. The High King must have called them all to the Havens.”
“You need to go with them.”
Elrond smiled faintly. “It seems unlikely that your father will allow that.”
“Damn my father,” he said vehemently.
“Durin.”
“What?”
Elrond just looked at him for a moment, little flecks of white light catching in the dark pools of his eyes like stars in the mirrormere. He seemed suddenly very old and very sad, like the image of a long-dead king carved into crumbling stone. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “Would you do something for me, Durin?”
“Anything,” he said immediately.
“You said you’ve been to the watchtower. Above ground?”
“Yes,” Durin said, wondering why he asked. “It’s set low on the peak, near the western gate.”
“Can you see the forest from there?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s nearly spring.”
“It is. What are you asking of me?”
Elrond took a breath, slow and deep. “Would you describe it to me?”
Durin blinked. “Surely you’ve seen that forest yourself often enough.”
“Of late I have found it… difficult to recall,” Elrond admitted, brow deeply furrowed as though struggling to call the image to mind. “Everything seems shadowed, and all the world is turning to gray.” He met Durin’s eyes. “I would like to see it one more time, through your eyes at least, if not my own. Before my time has passed.”
Durin opened his mouth but found it suddenly impossible to speak as tears blurred in his eyes. “Elrond,” he managed, voice breaking.
“Please, my friend,” Elrond said quietly.
Durin swallowed hard and drew in a ragged breath, forcing back the tears. Inside he was a tempest of pain and fear and impotent rage, but what did his own grief matter when Elrond knew his death was coming and could do nothing but sit and wait for it to arrive? Durin might be just as helpless, but this, at least, he could do for his friend. “Alright,” he agreed. “Alright.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating with all his attention on every little detail he could remember from those few hours he’d spent above ground.
“It was near dawn when I arrived,” he began, eyes still squeezed shut. “The sky was pink and orange in the east, but to the west I could still see a few stars. I’ve never been one for astronomy, but I think one of them was your father’s. It was very bright still, even with the sun starting to rise. There was some wind from down the mountain, and it was clearing away the last of the mist from the night. A few wisps of cloud were still hanging onto the tops of the trees. They’re all bare still, not many leaves yet. It’s still too early for it, I think. The ice on the Sirannon is melting, though. Soon the last of the snow will be gone and everything will be turning green. There will be flowers then, I expect. Yellow and white ones. I never learned their names, but they’ll grow all summer long.”
Duin stopped there, something catching in his throat and choking off the flow of words. He glanced over at Elrond. He was leaning back against the wall, head tilted back slightly and eyes closed as he listened. He was smiling very slightly.
“Thank you, Durin,” he sighed. “I can see it now.”
“You can?”
“Yes.” He opened his eyes and turned to Durin, smiling still. “I am going to miss it.”
“I’m going to miss you,” Durin said, his voice choked and tears falling freely now, despite all his efforts to stop them.
“Only for a while,” Elrond said, soft and kind.
Durin shook his head roughly. “For as long as I live. I don’t know what I’m going to do when you’re gone.”
“You are going to raise your children,” Elrond said gently. “Love your wife. Water your tree. Become king, one day, and rule over this mountain with wisdom and with grace. Look at the stars and think of the elves, sometimes, but not with grief, for all things fade in time, and yours has not yet come.”
From behind Durin, there was a sound of heavy iron-clad boots on the stairs.
“Sir,” Frár said, lingering a few steps above and eyeing Elrond warily. “The guard will change soon. They shouldn’t find you here.”
“Alright,” Durin said, though he wanted to deny it, to insist that it wasn’t yet time for him to go. He turned back to Elrond, and his friend must have read something of those thoughts in his eyes, because he said softly:
“You must go, Durin.”
“It’s too soon,” he said desperately. “It wasn’t enough time.”
“I know. But still you must go.” Elrond offered him a small, sad smile. “Namárië, málo nin.”
There was so much more he wanted to say, so many things left unspoken, but their time was up and in the end all Durin could do was hope that Elrond understood all that he meant by two simple words: “Namárië, Elrond.” From the way Elrond smiled, Durin thought that he did.
Then Durin turned and, weeping, climbed back up into the light.