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An old dwarf gloats and grieves in Nargothrond.
Stale air blew through the Elf-king's halls. It tasted of sulphur and stone and gold. Mīm clung to the shadows, wary, alert - yet each passage was silent, every cavern an empty black yawn. Glee sharp as poison surged through him. Where now was Finrod, the valiant and wise? Where the bright-armoured warriors and sweet-voiced maids? Dead, he thought, and he chuckled.
The echo scuttled around the cave. Dead like your sons. Dead like the beautiful boy you betrayed.
I am the last. I will die, and we will fade from history and song.
Alone in the dark, Mīm knelt and wept.
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