Night had fallen to find the Company tucked away in a small cave, those of who had not already succumbed to sleep conversed in hushed voices. Kíli had been the first to give in to his body's demands moments after his head had touched his bedroll. After a brief examination Óin had been pleased to announce that Kíli was fever free—a sure sign that the last of the poison had left his body.
Yet Gandalf was unconcerned for he knew that the young Dwarf was out of danger—ever since he had called the youngest member of the Company back that is. The Istar never told Thorin how close he had come to losing his youngest nephew.
Gandalf sat with his back to the Company, gazing out at the tranquil night, puffing idly on his long and well-worn pipe. He was not staring aimlessly, no. He was looking in the direction of the abandoned fortress. Ever since he had met up with the Company and detected the poison within Kíli, it had stirred up a lot of memories—memories the Istar had long ago suppressed and very seldom conjured up. The old Wizard had stumbled upon the Company in that clearing, covered in foul muck from the nearby bog he surmised. Gandalf had been humored at first, seeing the Company in such a state so far off from their allotted meeting point, but the humor did not present itself as soon as Gandalf had laid eyes on Kíli. The Istar almost did not live long enough to tend to the injured Dwarf, for as soon as the old Wizard had burst through the tree line he came face to face with a myriad of weapons—one ax in particular aimed at his neck. If he had been one hour later, Kíli's soul would have been forever separated from his body, for the injured Dwarf was already deep in a reality of his own.
As the Istar had mentioned before, he had not been involved in the incident concerning the poison and the fortress, but the stories and reports had haunted his soul until this very day. It was said that ancient Elves, of whose kind had left Middle-Earth and they themselves should have sailed ages ago, were being held and experimented on in a fortress built by their own kin. If the experiments were successful, then the enemy would have a powerful weapon on their hands—they would have the ability to create an army which would be unstoppable and nearly impossible to destroy. So the order had been given to thwart the experimentations. The plan was, or so Gandalf heard, was to rescue the captive Elves and let them sail to the Undying Lands, for they would most likely be past any healing efforts.
What was discovered, however, was unexpected by all involved.
The Elves found were just the shells of the once fair beings. They were sorry sights to behold, nothing like the prestige beings they ought to have been. There was nothing left, just empty, dilapidated bodies that resisted any efforts to leave.
So the rescuers put an end to their existence.
What became of the souls which inhabited the bodies? No one knew. No one could even begin to guess. It was only said that a great sorrow filled the fortress as if the structure was alive.
Curiosity had cause Istari and High Elves to return to the fortress, but none could detect a solution. It became legend that the creators of the fortress had filled it with a soul of its own, to welcome weary travelers after the Elves had abandoned it for the Sea.
But perhaps, just maybe, the souls of the captive Elves had been left behind albeit unknowingly, to walk the halls of the fortress for all of Time.
The old Wizard smiled to himself. He had felt the gently breeze as the Company left the fortress, had felt the presence in it linger around Kíli. Had the young Dwarf achieved what no one else could? Released the souls to finally be a peace, while suffering the affects of the poison himself?
The Grey Wizard blew one last smoke ring and watched it grow ever larger until it dissolved into the night.
As stubborn as Dwarves could be, they sure could make a simple journey lively and worthy of remembrance on so many levels.
Fini.