Misfit

Chapter Nine

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Third Age 2850
February 9th
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The Silvan Elves left Culfin in that prison cell for three days. There was no way for him to tell the time in that dim, windowless cave; the hours crawled by, and he spent a great deal of the time simply laying on the cot, staring up at the rocky ceiling, which flickered in the torchlight. His mind was numb.

A box of food was brought to him twice a day, but he had no will to eat—the boxes simply piled up in the corner. Each time a guard passed him, he asked if he could see his father, but was given no answer; it was likely they were growing tired of hearing the question. Not as tired as he was of asking it, though.

Every now and then, he got the feeling he was being watched, though when he looked out through the door, he saw nothing; the Elves were so talented at camouflage there could be ten of them staring at him from a distance, like he was some sort of animal in a cage. The thought unsettled him.

In the nighttime, when the torches were dimmed, he heard the faint sounds of feasting in the distance: echoes of laughter and singing from the heart of the kingdom. On the second night he dragged himself from the bench and sat at the door of his cell, looking out at the expanse before him. Though the pathways to the prison cells were winding and narrow, the rest of the cavern was long and deep, stretching out as far as his eyes could see, lit by small golden lanterns and bridged by what looked to be great tree-roots stretching across the yawning canyons. It was enchanting. This was a magnificent subterranean city; he yearned to walk the streets as one who belonged here. The thought made his heart ache so deeply that he soon returned to his cot and did not move from it again, choosing instead to lay facing the wall.

On the fourth day, he was woken by a faint rustling noise outside his cell; it disturbed him because the Elves of Mirkwood made no sound when they moved, even the ones clad in armor rather than furs. He thought he had imagined it, but the sound came again—a voice whispering to him. "Peredhel, look here."

Culfin turned over, and there, framed in the doorway, stood the tall Elf, his amber gaze fixed intently upon him—it was the same one from before, who had interrogated him so harshly. This time, however, he wore no hood, revealing long, smooth hair the color of oak bark. He still wore the cowl over his face.

"What do you want?" Culfin asked, sitting up. "Have you finally decided to let me out of this dungeon?"

The Elf's ears twitched slightly, and he shifted his stance, an uncharacteristic hint of hesitance in his movement. "We went to Dol Guldur."

His words sent a chill through Culfin, and he felt his mouth go dry. "And?" he croaked.

"The place was filled with death, strewn with Orc filth that had been rotting for days in the cold. We ... we uncovered a message from Gandalf, carved into the stone, confirming your earlier words to us." The Elf paused, a somber note entering his tone. "Amidst the carnage, we also found the bodies of Men, dressed as you are. We buried them in the forest, beneath a cypress tree."

Though Culfin had anticipated this news, it still sent a fresh chill of grief through him, and he shook his head to ward away the images of his fallen comrades that flashed before his eyes. "How many were there?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The Elf thought for a moment, his brows creasing. "Four—three men, and a woman."

Culfin's eyes widened, and he could not keep back a gasp. "Four? You are certain?"

If there were only four, then Mel and someone else must have survived! The thought sent an unexpected thrill of hope through him.

"Quite certain," the Elf answered. He reached into the satchel he carried and pulled out a leather bag, which he tossed through the bars to Culfin. "I took these from them. Thought perhaps you might want something to remember them by."