The Cost of Friendship

Summary: An Elf contemplates the cost of befriending a Mortal. Second place in the ALEC contest "The Cost of Friendship".

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The room was small, perhaps no more than ten paces across. It was also bare of anything save a narrow sleeping couch. The Elf didn’t bother with it, but sat hunched on the floor, his back to one of the walls, his arms wrapped around his legs. His eyes were closed and his forehead rested against his knees.

What happened?, he wondered.

He wasn’t entirely sure. He remembered being in the woods with another Elf. They’d been hunting something... no! Someone. Someone dear to him, he was sure, but the memories kept shifting and it was hard for him to latch unto any one of them, to give a name to the one they’d been seeking. He struggled to claim the memory, but it remained elusive. Whom had they been seeking and why? It was so frustrating. He sighed and raised his head, leaning it against the wall, thinking furiously.

He’d been with another Elf, gaunt and barely alive himself. The other Elf had been... had been a slave. Yes! An escaped slave of the Enemy and it was only chance, or perhaps not, that brought them together, for that Elf knew of the one he’d been seeking, desperately seeking, and together they followed the trail of the orcs who had captured his friend.

Yes! Friend. And that friend was....

He groaned in frustration. It was so close. The name was there. Somewhere in his memory was the name of his friend. Another Elf? No. He didn’t think so. That did not ring true for him. No. This friend was... was.... a Mortal.

He opened his eyes. A Mortal. His friend was one of the Secondborn. How odd. Yet, how right it seemed to him. Yes. A Mortal was his friend, and more than a friend, a beloved comrade. They had fought together against the Enemy, had shared many adventures, overcome many dangers, but in the end....

"I died."

The sound of his voice startled him but he felt a need to speak aloud. Too long had he sat in silence. But no! That could not be true, could it? He didn’t feel dead, but then how was he supposed to feel? Why couldn’t he remember? Why did his memories stop so suddenly? He could remember the chase with the other Elf beside him, he could remember killing the wolf-sentries. He could remember seeing his friend bound to a withered tree and then... nothing.

Is that when he died? Did he fail in his quest to rescue his friend? Was that it? Or was it something more, something else, something too horrific for him to acknowledge?

He died. That he would accept. But how? Apparently in his attempt to rescue the Mortal. Was that it? That he’d died for the sake of a Mortal, and the shame, the ignominy of dying for one he considered beneath him had caused him to forget? But no. That didn’t ring true for him. How could he call a Mortal ‘friend’ and think him a lesser being?

He took a deep breath (and why would he need to breathe if he were dead?), trying to calm himself. Perhaps he was trying too hard. Perhaps if he just relaxed, the memories would come of their own accord. Closing his eyes again, he willed himself to stillness, trying to keep his mind blank. He let his mind drift from one memory to another. He saw himself hunting the orcs who had taken his friend. He saw himself meeting the other Elf and sharing lembas with him, the two of them setting off together in search of the one who was lost. He saw himself shooting the wolf-sentries, releasing the Mortal from the withered tree and carrying him away, but not far. He saw himself slicing his friend’s bonds with his sword and then....

He opened his eyes in shock. No! It’s not possible. Surely it hadn’t happened that way. But as much as he tried to deny it, he knew it for the truth: he had died at his friend’s hand.

Tears streamed down his face and he buried his head, allowing himself to mourn, mourn for himself and for his friend, his still nameless friend.

"Child, what troubles thee? Why dost thou weep?"

He looked up to see a Being standing before him, his mien grave, his eyes full of compassion.

"My... my friend... my friend killed me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he knew not that it was thee, thinking thee one of the orcs come to torment him again."

"I can’t remember his name. Why can I not remember his name? He is my friend and I don’t even know who he is."

"Dost thou hate thy friend for what he did?"

He shook his head. "He is my friend. I love him. He killed me, but I love him still. If only I could remember who he was."

The Being stooped down and gathered him into his arms. He tried to protest, but then he found himself lying on the couch. The Being spoke dulcet words of comfort as he stroked his hair. "Peace, Child. Someday thou shalt remember thy friend’s name, but for now, thou must sleep, for thou’rt weary unto thy very soul."

He struggled to remain awake, fearful suddenly of falling asleep, but it was no use and in minutes he was slumbering. He never knew when Námo placed a blanket over him. He never heard the Lord of Mandos speak once more. "Sleep, Beleg Cúthalion. Sleep and forget Túrin... for a time."