I wish I could write half as well as most of you on here. As always, all of the setting and characters except for Thilion belong to J.R.R Tolkin.
PLEASE give me feedback if y'all want more I will be happy to oblige.
The creature's grip was ruthless, dragging Thilion across the cold, jagged stone. His battered form barely resisted—he had learned long ago that struggling only made things worse. He had spent years in these tunnels, navigating by instinct, listening for danger in the echoes of dripping water, shifting rock, the scuttle of unseen beasts. But this time, there was no escape.
Then came the voices.
Deep. Gruff. Unmistakably Dwarven.
The predator hissed, slowing as the sound of hammer on stone filled the narrow cavern. A tremor of frustration rippled through its grip—but it knew, as Thilion did, that dwarves meant trouble.
Then light—bright, golden torchlight.
The creature snarled, releasing Thilion in a sudden movement, retreating into the shadows as the dwarves appeared—short, broad figures clad in dust-covered armor, their mining tools glinting in the flickering flames.
The first dwarf spotted him immediately—a tiny, fragile shape, curled against the rock, his hollow eyes blinking in the unfamiliar brightness. His bandaged gaze, his thin arms, his missing legs, all details that should have marked him as already dead. But there he was—alive, breathing, staring back at them.
Silence fell over the group.
Then, one of them muttered, "By Durin's beard…"
A child. A legless, mute, blind elfling. Alone in a cave.
They didn't know whether to be horrified or astonished. But their hearts—as hardened as dwarven steel—knew one thing immediately.
They couldn't leave him behind.
The bandage over his eyes was wrapped gently, a careful attempt to shield him from the overwhelming brightness above. He felt hands lifting him, rough but surprisingly careful, placing him into a coal cart—a makeshift vessel for his journey to the surface.
And as they moved, bumping along the uneven tunnels, Thilion did something unexpected.
He reached into the dust, dragging a weak finger across the floor of the cart, tracing a word.
In Dwarvish.
The miners leaned in, squinting at the uneven strokes. The letters were imperfect but unmistakable.
"Thank you."
A deep chuckle rumbled through the group.
"Well, he ain't stupid," one dwarf grumbled. "Legs missing, can't talk, blind as a bat—but he's got manners."
Another clapped a hand against the side of the cart. "Aye. That's better than most folk we run into down here."
They didn't speak of his tragedy—they didn't pity him. No, in the way of dwarves, they merely accepted him.
The dwarves of the outpost gathered in the deep halls, their voices a low grumble of debate, echoing off the stone walls. Over tankards of ale and plates of bread, they argued, muttered, and agreed—but not without difficulty.
"We should send the boy to Rivendell," one dwarf grunted, arms crossed over his broad chest. "It's the right thing."
"Aye," another rumbled, stroking his thick beard. "He's an elf. No matter the state we found him in, his own people ought to take him."
"But what if they don't want 'im?" a third interrupted. "What if they see him as somethin' unnatural?"
That brought silence. What Thilion was—what he had endured—was not normal for any elf. His absence from elven society, his youth, his mute tongue, his missing legs—they had never seen an elfling like him. The elves of Rivendell might be grateful, or they might be afraid.
But leaving him among dwarves was worse—it would stir tensions. There had never been a permanent elven resident in a dwarven outpost. What would the elves think if they learned dwarves had kept a lost child hidden away in the depths of the earth?
"Aye," the oldest dwarf finally said. "He goes to Rivendell. No more talk."
And that was the end of it.
Meanwhile, Thilion's fever grew.
At first, it was subtle—a strange warmth creeping through his body, uncomfortable but bearable. He thought little of it. But as the hours passed, his skin burned, his breath grew shallow, and the world blurred around him.
The dwarves noticed quickly.
One pressed a hand to his forehead. "He's boilin'," they muttered.
"Cave fever," another grumbled. "A slow one. Can creep in after years underground."
None of them knew how to heal elves. They didn't have the herbs, the magic, the deep knowledge of elven healing arts. All they knew was that if he wasn't treated soon, he wouldn't make it.
Suddenly, their decision to send him away became an urgent mission. They had to get him to Rivendell—not just to return him to his kin, but to save his life.
The night was unforgiving, the wind howling through the trees as the dwarves pushed forward, urgency in their every movement. Ten warriors, bound by a decision none of them had taken lightly, now found themselves racing against time, their charge tied securely to the back of a sturdy mountain horse.
Thilion's body burned with fever, his skin slick with sweat despite the chilled air. He was barely conscious, barely aware of the world around him. He felt only the jostling rhythm of the ride, the faint scent of iron and leather, and the creeping, unbearable heat clawing up his spine.
Then the wolves came.
Feral and starved, their glowing eyes glinted in the dark, their snarls cutting through the pounding of hooves. The dwarves didn't hesitate.
Five of them turned, axes raised high, shields locking into place. They stood their ground, giving the escort precious time to push forward, knowing they would likely never see Rivendell themselves.
The others kept riding.
Through the winding paths, up the steep hills, past the tangled branches of forgotten woods, they pushed onward, refusing to stop—because stopping meant losing him.
When they arrived at the borders of Rivendell, it was not a welcome sight.
Heavily armed dwarves, battle-worn and tense, rode into the elven territory with what looked like a bound prisoner on horseback. The elves of Rivendell reacted immediately, swords drawn, voices sharp with demand.
But then—realization.
The bound figure was not a prisoner.
He was a child.
An elven child.
The only elven child alive.
And he was dying.
Tensions shattered, urgency replacing hostility. The dwarves were hurriedly thanked, their sacrifices understood, their purpose clear. Thilion was taken—rushed toward Rivendell's healing halls, his fever now threatening to consume everything that he was.
And as they carried him away, his fate was no longer his own.
