Belegos had ceased again, the knife blade still turning in his hands, distracting him from his memories.
Slowly during the course of his tale, the night around them had grown ever lighter. Hours had passed and the tell-tale signs of the coming day were springing up around them. Birds had begun to chatter in the trees and those few animals that came out in the darkness had begun scurrying back to their holes and burrows.
Tashdel still lay under her blanket, propped up by her elbow, listening intently. She was so riveted by the story, so eager to hear the rest and of the fate of those involved that she paid no heed to that which was around her. Weeks could have passed and she would have known no different. She did not feel the sting of hunger, for it was not food that she needed to sate her appetite and water she desired not, for she thirsted for words. She was, however, acutely aware at the transformation that Belegos had undergone through the course of the night. He seemed almost his usual self again, yet tinged with melancholy and sadness.
He lifted his head to look at her. He once again pulled down his hood and ran a hand through his hair. She smiled at him, yet for a while he simply studied her. She was, he thought, at that exquisite point in her life where the naivity and innocence of youth mingled with the unfolding knowledge and confidence of her elders. For by Belegos' standards, she was still young. By his standards, most of the Eldar that yet remained in Middle Earth were young now, and if not, then they were most probably not of the Noldor and it dismayed him to think about how few of his kin still lingered East of the Sea.
He could not blame them for leaving these shores, to seek out Valinor and live in joyous peace. For if indeed Gondolin had been built in the image of fair Tirion, then the West must be a wonder beyond his imagination. He longed to see those far-away lands, it was true, and to see the Valar in all their splendour, but above all else he wished to find his friends, the ghosts of his past. To walk with them again, and to laugh. He wished to find his own peace and to assuage his guilt.
Yet he was torn. For now he had a new life. One of service; to Vanimar, his brothers and sisters-in-arms, to the Lords Anglachelm and Farasilion, the head of his Order, to his friends Estarfin, Danel and Rainith, and to Middle Earth. He felt it was his duty to see whatever darkness threatened this land through to the end, whatever it may be. Only then would he take the ship.
All this passed through his mind in a flash. He returned the smile, half-forcing one of his own, his mind still smarting from the recollection of the past. He could see that she was eager to hear the next part of his tale, but he was reluctant to continue, for he had reached the point that he had dreaded all along. If he told her what remained, there would be no going back from it and he would be laid bare to her, the first for almost six and a half thousand years.
Perhaps she would shun him? Denounce him as a coward? It had always been what he had feared. But how could she know, he thought. How could anyone know unless they were there faced with those horrors? And was he not younger then than she is now? He had not seen much of the world back then, only what was within the Vale and what little he remembered of Vinyamar. Yet of a sudden this wanton destruction had descended on him and his people and the world that he did know had been consumed by flames. Could he be blamed for despairing? For losing himself and his purpose? Perhaps. There were others, he knew, that had committed worse crimes than his. Those that had taken part in the Kinslaying, that dreadful period of Elven history, and he took some measure of hope that if such terrible acts could be forgiven, then he could also find solace from his own guilt.
Yet he did not look for forgiveness from any other.
Only he could right his past wrongs, and that is what he would try and do, until the end of his days.
