The iron door groaned open.
Two broken figures were hurled across the threshold like sacks of meat. They landed hard on the cold, damp stone, arms bound behind their backs, their robes half torn, their faces purpled with bruises and fresh swelling.
Gandalf let out a winded groan as he slid across the floor and crashed into the far wall.
Radagast whimpered as his head bounced gently off a mop bucket.
The guards followed, calm and methodical. Their armor jingled softly as they approached. One carried manacles; the other, a set of long black iron chains wrapped in runes of silence.
They knelt without speaking and affixed the cuffs—tight enough to bruise, not enough to kill.
Gandalf hissed as the metal clamped around his wrist. "You don't have to be rough…"
The lead guard stood.
"You human barbarians ought to be grateful," he muttered coldly. "Grateful that you now have your 'free room'—instead of your heads decorating pikes outside the harbor."
He turned to Radagast, who looked up with teary eyes and a cracked lip.
"Filthy, short-eared, arrogant cretins. You'll learn what civilization sounds like."
They turned as one and marched out, slamming the cell door shut behind them.
The click of the lock echoed like a drumbeat of shame.
The room fell silent.
Chains creaked softly as the two wizards adjusted their positions. The stone was cold beneath them, the only warmth coming from a drafty little barred window high up in the wall, where wind moaned like a ghost through the cracks.
Radagast sniffled.
"I—I m-miss the moss, Gandalf…"
"I miss people doing what I tell them to," Gandalf muttered.
And then—
Footsteps.
Soft. Delicate. Measured.
A figure entered the chamber with the grace of a drifting petal.
She wore no armor. Only flowing lilac robes and a single silver ribbon in her hair. In her hands: a small wooden harp and a stool, which she set down gently before them.
She sat.
Smiled like a summer breeze.
And said in the softest, most terrifying voice:
"Prepare to be civilized, you brutes. By song."
Gandalf blinked. "You can't be serious."
Then she began to sing, and the first note hit.
The harp's first note shimmered through the stone cell like a ripple on still water.
Lúmelirien's fingers moved with grace honed by centuries. Her voice followed—soft, melancholy, haunting.
🎵"Lay down... your sweet and weary head..."🎵
Radagast blinked slowly, his bruised face bathed in the gentle glow of a lightstone outside the cell. He let out a faint sigh.
"T-that's… not awful."
Gandalf, chained beside him, turned his head slightly toward the bard. His expression was wary at first—defensive. But as the verse continued, something in his shoulders began to relax.
"It's... strangely calming."
The melody deepened.
🎵"Night is falling... you have come to journey's end…"🎵
There was a strange peace in her voice—like wind through old trees. It was the kind of music that didn't demand attention; it simply unfolded, slow and patient, like something meant to be remembered rather than heard.
Gandalf lowered his head.
"She sings like someone who has already left the world behind…"
Radagast gave a small nod, his eyes fixed on the flickering torchlight reflected in the bard's harp.
"I-it sounds... like th-things we were t-told about. When w-we were little."
"Yes," Gandalf murmured. "Before Manwë. Before the robes. Before the orders."
The verse carried on.
🎵"Sleep now... and dream... of the ones who came before..."🎵
The air in the cell had shifted. The cold was still there, the chains still tight—but it all seemed further away. Like something happening to someone else. Even the bruises didn't ache quite so much under the weight of the melody.
The bard sat straight, eyes closed, fingers dancing effortlessly across the strings.
🎵"They are calling... from across the distant shore…"🎵
Neither of the two wizards spoke for a long moment.
When the final chord came, soft as a whisper, and the harp went still, Radagast swallowed hard.
"T-that was... really nice."
Gandalf nodded once, solemnly.
"It was."
Then, quietly:
"But if they do that again at four in the morning… I might start crying."
The bard bowed silently, stood, and walked out as another singer passed her in the doorway.
And the two wizards, still chained to the wall, sat in the dim glow of their cell, surrounded by silence they didn't entirely hate—for now.
The door creaked again.
This time, it wasn't a regal bard in silken robes. It was a small elf girl—maybe thirty years old in mortal terms. Barely into adolescence by elven standards. Her gown was simple. Her harp was borrowed. And the parchment pinned to her shoulder clearly read: Community Repayment Placement – 3 of 7 Days Remaining.
She dragged in a stool, plopped herself down, adjusted her grip like she was being graded on posture, and cleared her throat with exaggerated seriousness.
"Okay. Um. I'm Línaleth. This is part of my restorative contribution to civic harmony."(a beat)"I'm sorry for... whatever you did."
Radagast, already slumped against the wall like a bag of potatoes in a robe, gave a weak thumbs-up.
"G-g-good luck."
She began to sing.
Her voice was sweet—rough around the edges, but sincere.
🎵"I saw the light fade from the sky...On the wind I heard a sigh…"🎵
The melody filled the cell with a strange, warm stillness.
Gandalf exhaled, slow and tired. He lay down fully now, arms still bound, head tilted to face the window where moonlight trickled through the bars. His beard fanned across the floor like a collapsed philosopher.
"She's not half bad," he murmured.
Radagast curled beside him like a squirrel in a storm. "B-better than the harp lady."
"Less smug. More heart."
They listened in silence for a while.
🎵"As the snowflakes cover my fallen brothers…I will say this last goodbye…"🎵
Gandalf frowned.
"Why me, Radagast?"
Radagast blinked. "W-what?"
"Why did I get sent here?" Gandalf asked. "I'm not a fighter. I'm not even trained. I've never thrown a punch until today, and even that was mostly slapping with momentum. I don't know how to cast spells. I was never good at court politics. I spent most of my time in Valinor avoiding the talking trees and lying about my study habits."
He turned his head toward the ceiling.
"And I'm scared. Always have been. Sauron's name makes my stomach knot up. I didn't even know what fear was until my mother told me bedtime stories about him boiling souls in jars."
Radagast shifted uncomfortably. Then, quietly:
"M-Manwë didn't even ask me to come."
Gandalf turned his head slightly. "He didn't?"
"N-no. He just... sneered. Told me to 'g-go join the others and g-get out of his sight.' Said I-I wasn't welcome b-back until the mission was d-done."(he paused)"I think... I think I was a mistake."
Gandalf let out a humorless breath. "At least you got a sentence. I got... a lesson. He said my fear made me perfect. Perfect. Like being terrified makes you qualified."
Radagast nodded faintly. "L-l-like crying makes you brave."
"Exactly."
🎵"And all your tears…Will fade away..."🎵
The little elf girl continued, unaware. Her eyes were closed now, her voice carrying something honest that neither wizard had felt in centuries. It wasn't perfect—but it meant something.
"I was never meant to be anything but background," Gandalf whispered. "A note-taker. A filler. And now I'm in prison in a place I don't understand because I thought fruit was free."
Radagast sniffled.
"At l-least you got fruit."
They lay there, two discarded gods, bruised and chained, the smell of dried blood and dust rising from their robes.
And the little elf girl's song floated above them like a farewell to who they thought they were.
🎵"I wish we had another time…I wish we had another place…But all we have is this last goodbye…"🎵
Then, as the song ended, there was silence for a moment, until the door opened again.
This time, the room was bathed in a soft, amber light—carried in the folds of the singer's long, violet-gold robes as she glided across the stone floor like a memory made flesh. She was older by elven standards, but radiant in that ageless, effortless way. Hair in flowing silver waves, posture like a tree that had never once bowed to storm, and a voice that hadn't even opened yet—but already promised velvet and silk.
Radagast sat up slightly, eyes wide. Gandalf's jaw slackened.
"I… I-I think I might b-be feeling things."
The woman didn't speak. She simply offered a gentle, mature smile, set her harp on her lap with practiced ease, and took a breath that seemed to still the very air in the cell.
And then she sang.
🎵"May it be… an evening star…""Shines down upon you…"🎵
The words were soft. Not sorrowful like the last performance, nor sweet like the child's. This was something deeper. Weightier. Like a blessing from someone who had seen far more than she let on, and loved you anyway.
🎵"May it be… when darkness falls…Your heart will be true…"🎵
Gandalf exhaled, long and slow. His head rolled back against the wall, and for the first time in days, he wasn't angry. Just... tired.
"Radagast?"
"Mhm?"
"What if this is it?"
Radagast blinked. "W-what do you mean?"
"I mean... what if this is the job? The purpose. The... punishment. Maybe we weren't meant to beat Sauron. Maybe we were meant to get tossed here, chained to a wall, and listen."
He looked up at the barred window, moonlight sliding down the stone like a finger tracing an old scar.
"Maybe we're meant to let it be."
Radagast blinked, staring into the dark.
"L-let it… be."
"Maybe we can change," Gandalf said, eyes softening. "Be better. Let go of the fear. Of the running."
The music continued.
🎵"You walk a lonely road…Oh, how far you are from home…"🎵
A long pause.
A dramatic silence.
Radagast slowly turned his head toward Gandalf. Expectant. Almost hopeful.
Gandalf inhaled deeply, eyes distant. Reflective. Thoughtful.
And then he said:
"You know what? No. Screw that."
Radagast blinked.
"Huh?"
Gandalf turned his head, smirking.
"When we get out of here—we just don't get caught next time. That's the mistake we made. Not the behavior, just the execution."
Radagast tilted his head. "S-s-so... n-no change?"
"Oh, no—we refine our methods. I might not be a fighter... but I can talk, lie, and run like a squirrel on fire."
Radagast nodded slowly. "Th-th-that actually makes a lot of sense…"
Gandalf chuckled softly, eyes half-lidded.
"As a wise man once said... it's alright to do whatever you want—as long as nobody sees it."
They both sighed contentedly.
The song came to an end.
The bard opened her eyes and smiled.
Neither of them clapped. They were already half-asleep.
But a new seed had taken root—one not of redemption, but of opportunistic relapse.
The song may have been beautiful.
But the lesson had... missed.