He could barely see the closest walls in the dim light of the fire in the dark cave where his companion from Mordor had left him.
He remembered the boat trip across the huge lake to the other side and the long walk from the grassy shore to the cave. The other side. Tarîkbên knew where they were going; he had no idea. He remembered climbing several sets of dilapidated stone stairs and the trees. He had been staring at the trees as if he had never seen trees before. He put his hand in his little satchel and found a water flask he had filled up from a stream. He drank it, grimaced out of habit and then noticed how sweet it was – not at all like the bitter, metallic, acidic taste of water in Mordor. He found a piece of rotten plank on the floor of the cave. He picked up a half-burned stick from the fire and started drawing patterns on the plank with the charcoal end of the stick. He wrote down words in Khuzdûl alphabet:
Thráin.
Erebor.
Ered Luin.
Thráin.
Krarli.
The last name he had not written down in ages. The stick felt stiff in his hand.
He stood up and walked over to the mouth of the cave. The sun was shining outside. He saw trees and rocks and birds and squirrels and smiled at everything he saw.
He walked back to the fire, lied down next to it and closed his eyes, but thousands of images filled his head and he could not fall asleep. He sat up and stroked his beard.
After a while he stood up and walked around in the cave. It was a large cave system, and he did not dare to wander too far from the light of the fire. The darkness beyond the light frightened him. He found a piece of broken mirror on the floor. He picked it up and brought it with him to the fire.
Tarîkbên had left his own satchel to the cave. He opened the satchel and groped inside it. He felt something hard and pulled it out clumsily. It was a clay bottle. He opened it and took a sip. It was ale.
He drank the ale. It warmed him, and suddenly he felt like crying. He wept and let the tears flow down his withered cheeks into his white, scraggly beard.
When he had stopped crying he wiped his eyes clean and picked up the piece of broken mirror. He looked at it and smiled at his own image. Four of his teeth were missing. Those that remained were rotten and black.
And there was nobody to bother him or give him grief there.
