The crescent moon was hanging low above Nen Hithoel. The ancient dwarf had set up his tent so that he could see the starry sky above the lake through the tent flap when he raised his head. The moon and the stars had an oddly calming effect on him, as if he was still a mere dwarfling, scared of the monsters lurking in the dark.
The night was never silent at the hills of Emyn Muil or upon the shores of Nen Hithoel. Cold winds howled incessantly, carrying the calls of wildfowl and the hooting of the owls in the air. Strange little creatures rustled and squeaked in the bushes. The Falls of Rauros rushed furiously in the distance. Sometimes, when the moon was full, a traveler could even hear the howling of the wolves upon the hills of Emyn Muil. The rustling in the undergrowth scared the ancient dwarf. What kinds of beasts were lurking there, awaiting for the opportunity to rip his throat open? Without the comforting light of the moon and the stars the ancient dwarf might have lost his mind. They were so different from the familiar sounds of Mordor.
The ancient dwarf could ignore the sounds because of the light. The nurturing, comforting starlight would help him catch his dreams once again.
Again he wondered if he had lost his mind already.
Perhaps. One of the overseers in the mines of Gorgoroth had been insane. The overseer had forced the prisoners to toil naked in the mines. The overseer, a fat orc, had believed that nakedness humbled the prisoners and that clothes only hampered their effectiveness in the fuming, searing air down in the mine shafts.
The overseer had surely been insane, the ancient dwarf mused as he lied in his tent, staring at the starry sky and the crescent moon.
The ancient dwarf had met prisoners of many races in the dungeons and prison camps of Mordor during his countless years of captivity. He had not encountered many elves, but there had been a few of them as well. Elves did not usually last long in Mordor. The bleak, joyless existence and the inescapable ugliness broke their minds pretty fast.
The ancient dwarf remembered a prisoner called Methendor. Methendor had been a man from Eastern Gondor, but for some reason he had come to believe that he was actually an elf. The ancient dwarf had tried to point out to Methendor that he was not an elf but a man, but Methendor had wept inconsolably for days until the ancient dwarf had relented and admitted that yes, Methendor was clearly an elf, and how could he ever have thought otherwise? The ancient dwarf understood how precious dreams and delusions could be to the prisoners in Mordor.
The ancient dwarf smiled to himself in the dark. He was bony, emaciated and malnourished. All prisoners of Mordor turned that way if they survived long enough. It was wise to be skinny in Mordor if one wanted to survive. His face was like a mask. The bones of his skull pushed at the folds of the mask. Most of his hair on top of his head was gone, but his skin was still able to support an enormous white beard.
The elves went insane because they realized that they were elves, the ancient dwarf pondered. For who would want to be an elf in Mordor except a madman?
The ancient dwarf remembered a conversation he had once had with Methendor.
”What if I told you I was an elf?” he had asked.
”But you’re not. You’re a dwarf.”
”All right then. What if I told you I’m not a dwarf?”
”But you are”, Methendor had replied. ”Anyone can clearly see that.”
”What if I told you I was a hobbit?”
”Impossible! If you were a hobbit, you could easily escape this place. And besides, you wouldn’t have come here to begin with.” Methendor had smiled in his infuriatingly arrogant manner.
”What if I told you I was a Gondorian?”
Methendor had frowned and stroked at the dry remains of his hair like a peasant dropping dry hay on the barren soil, a veil of confusion clouding his eyes. ”If you were from Gondor, why would you have told me otherwise in the first place? Who wouldn’t want to be a Gondorian?”
”An elf”, the ancient dwarf had replied, and they had both laughed, even though poor Methendor had not understood the joke.
Obviously Methendor had been insane as well. Not a bad sort of fellow, but insane. He was good at simple things, like carrying stuff.
Elves did not usually admit that they had lost their minds.
The ancient dwarf turned in his tent so that he could see the stars better. At least the elves retained their instinct for survival, even after they had lost their sanity. The ancient dwarf had never been able to understand why some prisoners gave up so easily. Like the one from Rohan. What had been his name? Never mind, the ancient dwarf could never have been able to pronounce it anyway. When they brought him to the prison camp in Gorgoroth he had raged so furiously that the guards had almost killed him on the spot. And that’s exactly how he would have preferred it. When they had not killed him, he had lost interest in everything, including food. Other prisoners stole his food and his clothes. He had not lived long. The ancient dwarf had understood then that the men of Rohan lacked the instinct for survival. Not so with elves. Once you had submitted yourself to the idea that you will die in Mordor, you can start to consider yourself already dead.
The instinct for survival was not such a common thing to have. And it was not a simple thing. The ancient dwarf could give lectures on the sublect and sometimes he did, just to make his dreary days go faster. Resistance, for example, was futile and therefore destructive. Do not resist; stay alive. It was really all that simple.
Light!
The ancient dwarf blinked. The stars had disappeared and the sky was growing pale. New day was dawning.
He listened to the sounds coming from the tent next to his. His companion from Mordor had woken up and was now stirring in his tent. Soon he came out and stood in front of the flap of the tent of the ancient dwarf.
He closed his eyes. The dreams had not come this night. Morning had come too soon. The ancient dwarf did not want to face another day yet. Not without his dreams.
”Thráin.” The voice was low and harsh. ”Come out. It is time.”
”Time for what?”
”The last stretch of the journey”, said the man in black. ”We are crossing the lake today.”
Somehow Thráin managed to scramble up on his scrawny feet. In a moment he was out of his tent and in the light, standing at the shore of Nen Hithoel. He blinked because of the light and because of the fear that was wrapping itself around him. He could now see that there was a rowing boat waiting for them near the shoreline.
”What will I have to do when we get to the other side?” Thráin asked.
”I’m not sure”, Tarîkbên said. His black eyes glittered in the harsh morning light. ”Do you remember your story?”
”My story?”
”Your past. Your life before Mordor, everything that happened to you. You have told it to your captors countless of times, including me.”
”Yes”, Thráin said. ”I remember.”
Tarîkbên gave him a hard look, as if doubting his words.
”Good”, he finally said. ”It is important that you will tell your story to the people on the other side. Exactly the way you have told it before.”
Tarîkbên smiled and patted Thráin’s bony shoulder like a child pets a bird with broken wings. ”Do not look so sad, Thráin. You are about to regain your freedom at long last!”
