The moon was setting behind the hollies and the figure of Belegos could be seen stalking the shadows underneath the trees. He was a clever tracker, Parnard admitted, but he would prove his true worth when they reached the black mires and the ravines of the southern Greenwood. As Parnard continued gazing at him, he began to wonder if the scout really was as old as he had been told. “A great captain of Gondolin he once was,” Sogadan said, yet Parnard doubted the vintner. Belegos was not like the other lords of Bar-en-Vanimar.
His handsome face was not grim nor careworn by the passage of centuries, and his merry sea-grey eyes were not aglow with the keen and piercing light of Lord Veryacano’s, nor did he have the grave and noble mien of Lord Anglachelm. This was not a tall gleaming mountain, nor a whirlwind of fire and smoke. Lean, quiet and fleet-footed as a deer was Belegos, who seemed to delight in stealthily creeping up to Parnard when he was unawares, and laughed to see the wood-elf startle and overturn his needle-kit on the grass. Parnard shrugged. Lord Belegos was a perverse but skillful tracker, and as long as he would carefully spy out the way, they would be prepared to meet any dangers. Full of jests and merriment he seemed, but in the depths of his eyes was a long, sad tale of years. The flaming fires might have burned down but were not cold ash yet. No younger elf could have eyes like that, thought Parnard.
As the land mourneth in winter and fadeth away, so do these old, lofty ones who once held great power and rank languish, and the strength and beauty of their realms are only sad memories now. Because they choose to remain within the world and recall how it once was, it makes them suffer. Pining away are these Noldor, they who have sat long at table, and are tired of eating and drinking, even if there is much still left of that which ought to give enjoyment, but the taste of these elves turns it into bitterness. New wine is set before them, but no one who drinks the old wine wants the new wine; they say the old is better, and desire and thirst for it, but the cask hath been utterly drained to its sour dregs. Young wine can be tart, and rough against the palate, and may need ageing, but it does not mean the grapes are poor quality!
Parnard snorted, shaking his head at the fatuousness of certain elves as he resumed crawling around in the grass. He made a little exclamation of triumph as he found the missing needle and returned to his embroidery, blithely stitching a swollen cluster of grapes to the forelock of a five-legged horse.
And so this stalking, smirking, playful scout, this so-called ‘tracker,’ formerly a warden of the Sixth Gate of Gondolin, keeper of Alcarinar, blade of Glorfindel, was acting guide for this tiny company of elves; though Parnard did not know it, Belegos was carrying out his duty as anxiously and conscientiously as if he were leading them down the secret pathways of a besieged and doomed city.
