A dark tower rose from a dark clearing,
Surrounded by the shadowing eaves of Mirkwood.
Dol Guldur.
Within those walls,
If you listened you would hear
the hopeless voices of those lost forever
in the dark. Noisome sounds of
unknown creatures
skittering through dark tunnels;
tunnels marked by deep scratches
as of clawing hands
of desperate prisoners,
knowing that once they passed through
there would be no return.
Within his cell
he did not need to open his eyes,
knowing it would make no difference;
he dwelt in blackest night.
Footsteps passed his cell.
He paid them no heed -
they came not for him
and that was enough.
Silence again.
So much time here was spent
waiting.
Feverishly his hands
shaking, sought out
two well-worn objects.
They were important
he knew, though not why.
Part of his past -
forgotten, like himself.
He knew only that they were important.
Triumphant, his fingertips
touched the hiding place
of his well-guarded secrets.
Sighing, he sank back,
drawing them out.
Worn fingers brushed over them
reassuring him
of their presence.
Two secrets. His last,
hidden in that dark place
of dark secrets.
A key, and a map.
"The last of the seven..."
murmuring to himself,
he rubbed his finger;
then stopped, confused -
unable to remember
what, or why, that phrase
came to mind - why it
seemed important.
A moment, and his useless eyes
bewildered searched the void about him.
He frowned, trying to remember,
and failing. Shrugging,
he dragged himself across his cell
slipping the precious objects back into their hidden niche -
chiselled from the wall in the
years he spent there -
a fierce smile twisting his weathered face
eyes glinting madly.
"You'll never best a dwarf!"
he shouted at the darkness
with sudden energy,
and burst into laughter wild.
To himself - "Fools, to hide a dwarf
in stone! Does it not
speak to me through my fingers?
Bidding me 'Dig here!' or 'Not here, friend!'
telling me of weakness
and of strength? I am a dwarf!"
His voice trailed off
as weakness claimed him
yet again. He sank into
incoherent mutterings,
then silence.
Later - he knew not how long,
for time had no meaning there -
he stirred, raising his head,
he shifted restlessly, muttering again.
"My son," he said, and
"Fire on the mountain,"
and yet again, “The last of the seven;"
pausing and touching
his hand, his finger, as at the memory
of some pain.
He shuddered, then turning hastily,
scrabbled on the floor
in search of something -
the last solace he had -
where was it, where?!
Frantically his fingers searched the floor,
clawing, bleeding, seeking it -
his one last comfort.
Sudden smoothness there beneath his hand,
and with a gasping cry, he knew
he had found it. Gripping it tightly
he slid weakly against the cold wall
where he half-sat, half-laid, panting,
with the smooth, polished feel
of bone in his hands.
A flute.
Carefully crafted from bone
found within his cell,
carved in those first terrible days after his capture.
He smiled grimly.
He had been there long -
he knew not how long,
and no longer remembered why he had been captured,
or where. Not even who he was -
but - "My son!" the anguished words
once more fell from his lips.
He sat in silence.
Shaking fingers tracing still the polished length
of the flute. At last
he raised it to his lips
and played. Scattered fragments
of half-remembered songs
spun in his brain
and flowed forth from the flute,
lighting the dark with haunting melody.
A spark of beauty there within the night.
He played softly, knowing that if they heard
they would come,
and silence him -
for evil hated music
almost as it hated light.
And as such he imagined it -
a glowing, silver light,
flowing through the darkness of his cell
as liquid music.
He could remember in his mind
just such a light as the flute would make-
it was moonlight, shining fair
upon a vase
of precious metal, though he
remembered not its name.
Wait - mithril, it was called!
He smiled to think
he could forget it.
Then sighed, and music, faltering,
brought his mind back to the present.
But surely he must yet be dreaming -
for lo, though his eyes were opened, still
he saw that silver light
he'd visioned in his mind.
Starting, he weakly shrank against the wall,
slipping with stealthy hand
the flute within his tattered garments,
fearing someone had heard
and torture was forthcoming.
Squinting up, his terror-stricken eyes
beheld, not the orc-spawned countenance he knew,
but an old and gentle face, though worn
as though by care and toil -
the cell door behind gaping wide -
and in the figure's hand a staff
tipped with that wondrous silver light.
"The last of the seven,"
he whispered, distracted eyes
darting over the man's face and form,
as though expecting him to vanish.
Then stretching out a shaking hand
imploringly asked
"What do you want from me?"
The stranger grey stooped towards the dwarf
with pitying eyes, and asked,
"Who are you, friend, and where art from?"
"Last of the seven," he gasped again. Then
rising feebly, Thrain speaks:
"'Ware friend, if friend indeed you be,
for once beneath this tower you are caught,
forever will you stay - eternity
lies here before you in the dark."
The stranger nodded once, and seemingly
the weight of care upon him settled yet more heavily.
"Well I know it, Master Dwarf, for few have come
forth from Dol Guldur once received.
But who are you? locked up
for many years, if appearances speak true."
The dwarf looked down, as though confused,
then up again, and with uncertainty
regarded the stranger closely. Then nodded once,
his 'wildered mind made up,
with shaking step he passed the stranger by,
and reaching down into his hidden niche
drew forth his treasured past -
the map, the key.
He pushed them towards the man,
with desperate face
said "For my son."
Then sank he down, and leaned against the rock
breathing with difficulty
and said again - "For my son."
Then, clutching his finger -
"The last of the seven."
He breathed his last.
The stranger grey looked down at map and key
held in his hands, and sighed.
Knelt there beside the dwarf with bowed head
murmured, "Ilúvatar be with thee!"
And rising silently,
slipped wraithlike from the cell,
seen by none.
"I remembered a dangerous journey of mine,...when I had entered Dol Guldur in disguise, and had found there an unhappy Dwarf dying in the pits. I had no idea who he was. He had a map that had belonged to Durin's folk in Moria, and a key that seemed to go with it, though he was too far gone to explain it. And he said that he had possesed a great Ring.
"Nearly all his ravings were of that. The last of the Seven he said over and over again...But he gave the map and key to me. 'For my son,' he said; and then he died, and soon after I escaped myself."
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Unfinished Tales
