The crowd gathered in solemn remembrance for the city that burned before them. Women wept softly, children cried out for their parents and the men of the City stood in silent despair. Their King was dead and their city was in ruins. They were refugees, the lucky few who had escaped, for the throng numbered a few hundred, no more and for a while they were leaderless until Tuor went about them, shaking them from their sorrows and organising what fighting troops were left. In the darkness his great winged helm shone forth, unsullied from the night's combat, the brilliant swan-feathers still a dazzling white.
Belegos looked up, still kneeling, into the face of Eliriael. She had taken a flower from some spot on the ground, and gently placed it in his hair, and at that moment, it seemed to Belegos that it was the most kindly deed that had ever been done. Tears streaked his face, leaving murky lines in the soot and dirt that covered his skin, yet despite the chaos and the sadness, his mouth broke into a smile; a true, kindly smile, meant only for her. He thought that the Valar had been kind in sending her to him, for he realised that she gave him hope, and courage and he hardened his heart. Now was no time for mourning. They had escaped the City, but they were not out of the Valley, and he had to be strong now, for her sake, and Vëon's too.
The injured elf had stirred once or twice whilst in the cart in which he lay, but had not woken and Belegos feared for his friend. His injuries, he could see, were grievous yet not fatal, but it was for when he woke that he feared for him most, for he would open his eyes to a world that he would no longer recognise; his home destroyed, his family enslaved and his friends dead. How would he break this to him? How could he? Belegos placed a gentle hand on Eli's cheek and kissed her forehead. She was as delicate as the flower that she had given him.
Voices began to grow louder as the order to move spread about the crowd. Soldiers banded together in ragged companies and the lame and the wounded steeled themselves for the next effort. Belegos thought for a moment that he saw one of his friends from the House of the Hammer rush past him, but he was mistaken he knew, for had he not seen them all fall in their desperate, valiant charge? Had he not watched as they were cut down to the last? He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now was no time for mourning.
The light of day had begun to steadily grow and Belegos knew that the survivors must be away, for the Plains of Tumladen offered no hiding in daylight. He stood up, and grasped the handles of the cart once again, making sure Eli was at his side.
He took one last look across the valley. The once fair, lush meadows of rich greens and bright golds were now scorched and blackened beyond recognition. Here and there the detritus of Morgoth's army littered the vale and columns of black smoke could be seen in places, curling high into the morning sky. There was nothing left for him here, only death. Belegos expected a flood of emotion upon seeing the defilement of his home, yet there was nothing. The well of his tears had run dry and his heart was cold lest it was toward Eli. He turned his back, and began walking near to the rear of the column of refugees that was being hastily assembled and they slotted themselves amongst broken families and the wounded.
The column was a pitiful sight. Haggard elves with glum faces, disheveled by war. Their hair was matted, their leather and ring-mail slashed and pierced, their weapons broken. None quite knew where they were being led, albeit that they headed over the Echoriath which now loomed close. They had already started to climb.
Nobody said a word. Step by step and mile after mile they marched in brooding silence, each replaying past horrors in their minds. The silence grew too much for Belegos to bear and looking around him spied a lone elf. He was golden haired, wearing the raiment of the House of the Tree. As he walked, he looked to the ground, seemingly oblivious to those around him, or more likely he cared not. As Belegos was about to rouse him from the stranger's musings, the tired elf turned to him, then looked at Vëon lying haphazardly in the cart, and Eli, in her dirty raiment and then back to Belegos. "A heavy burden." He said, tilting his head toward Vëon. Belegos studied him for a moment. There was no mirth in his deep-blue eyes, no jest of any kind, a trait that was all too common around him. "It is. And it only seems to get heavier." He agreed.
"It is well done. There are perhaps not many who would attempt such a task over the mountains." Said the elf, looking to the high peaks above them.
"He may not think so when he learns of what has befallen him." Belegos told him, looking to the floor as he did so. The stranger had a somber tone, but nevertheless, there was something comforting in the way he spoke. Belegos could feel wisdom greater than his own behind his words. "Do not judge yourself too harshly. This was not your doing." The elf said and Belegos looked sharply back at him. He deemed his choice of words queer. "What did he mean, Do not judge yourself? He could not know the decisions I have made," he thought, yet he said nothing.
Time passed, and ever higher and more difficult their path became. Murmurs had begun to grow among the refugees of the hardship of their road and the soldiers had grown weary from their burdens of arms and armour. Belegos too had begun to struggle with his load, and Eliriael's feet were blistered and raw, yet she did not complain. In fact, she had almost grown cheerful, for at times she sang softly to herself, no doubt tunes that her mother and father had taught her, Belegos thought. It brought a smile to his face. She had the sweet voice of innocence still, even after all she had been through so recently.
Vëon had stirred several times in his disturbed sleep. He had loosed wordless noises, but one time, Belegos thought he made out the name, Almië, and the sound of it made him wince, as if struck by a sudden blow. He had loved Vëon's family, almost as much as Vëon himself. Countless times had Túrelië played host to Vëon's company, and Belegos and Aranto were always warmly welcomed in that house and never otherwise.
Yet now that had all gone. Just memories of a time lost in fire and ash which already seemed so long ago.
The golden-haired elf beside Belegos had not spoken for hours, yet abruptly he laid his hand on Belegos' shoulder and said to him, "I admire your efforts, but you cannot carry on like this forever. Please, let me help you." He gestured to the cart. Belegos thought for a moment.
"I do not mean to go on forever, only until we reach our place of rest, or he awakes." He replied not unkindly, though he knew that either occurrences were unlikely to be any time soon. "Even so," the elf continued, "I would not have it that you exhaust yourself, for if you find that you are no longer able to carry on, I fear that I would be hard put to it indeed if I were to push both of you in this barrow!" He smiled and shot a wink to Eli as he spoke and in return, she gave him a little chuckle. Belegos thought again for a moment. He was immensely tired and his hands were raw from the wooden handles, his gloves lost long ago in the fighting. He looked up ahead of them to see that they were nearing Cirith Thoronath, The Eagles Cleft. Belegos had not realised that they had climbed so high already, yet the struggle along that treacherous mountainside would be even more dangerous and difficult and he did not relish the prospect. "Who would I be then, to turn down a good deed in these times? You are most kind." He answered the elf. With a smooth enough transition, the cart changed hands so that Belegos walked freely beside it, taking up instead Eli's small palm in his. She did not even look up at him, but gave a little skip.
Even though the cart had been taken from him, if only for a while, Belegos could not help but feel uncomfortable. He could feel the sweat and dirt and grime on his skin that made his countless cuts sting. His bruises were throbbing and he was aware of his leathers rubbing under his arms, made worse by the weight of his mail on top. The more he walked, the wearier he became and it made everything worse. He had too much time to think on this bleak journey. His mind started to wander back to the heat of battle, and which blade had given him which wound, yet all of the faces of his foes were one. One pale, scarred, snarling expression who's eyes were hate and who's teeth were death. He saw those that were about him fall under blows of savagery, their bodies mutilated even as they lay slain, but one vision he could not shake, for in the midst of his mind's battle, high above the rest of the clamour, rose Aranto and the Balrog. The flashes of light from their clashing swords blazing out again. Belegos could see himself, what he must have looked like, struck by terror. He heard the screams of Túrelië. Her desperate plea for help. They grew louder and louder until he feared his head would split.
And then all was darkness.
He looked around him, back now in the present, to find that a great stone wall had loomed up on his right, and that the mountain had blocked out the sun. It was fully daytime, but a great shadow was cast over the column as they began to warily wind their way through Cirith Thoronath. Upon his left was a sheer drop into a cleft that was so steep, it was as if a great axe had cut it into the very mountains and the bottom was as dark as pitch. Everyone walked with care, for the path was no greater than eight feet across in it's widest places and there was no surviving a fall from such a height.
The wind blew sharply through the cleft, and occasionally it wailed mournfully as if mimicking, or mocking, the mood of the travellers. All were silent again. Amongst the howl of the gusts, Belegos thought he could hear other, fainter noises behind him. Rocks falling perhaps into the darkness below. The noises grew and amongst them he heard a sharper, more high-pitched sound, not the sound of stone, but of steel. He turned around, and further down the column, at the rear, to his horror, he could make out the company of Glorfindel's rear-guard, and amongst them, the dark, crooked shapes of orcs. Panic filled him, and now more people had seen the events behind them unfold. Able soldiers tried to squeeze past to join the fray and battle noises grew closer and louder.
"Wait here, Eli. I will return shortly." He had to raise his voice a little over the wind and the clash of blades. "If... If I should not, follow Tuor and his company. They will lead you out of these mountains and to safety." Tears welled in her eyes, but she did not cry, only nodded her head. He kissed her forehead and turned to the elf pushing the cart leaning close to him. "Please, watch her. I must give my aid, if I can, but I would not leave her alone." He asked. The elf looked him up and down, and after a short moment gave an almost imperceptible nod. "I shall, though that will do you no good." He said, and gestured to the knife that hung at Belegos' belt. It took Belegos a while to realise what he meant, but the realisation dawned on him that he had no weapons. His sword he had lost in the square and his bow he had abandoned at the entrance to the hidden tunnel. Before he could say a word, the Elf of the Tree unsheathed a delicate blade from his side and handed it, hilt first, to Belegos. "I will expect it back upon your return." He told him with a grin. Respectfully, Belegos took it from him and found that it was lighter than it looked, which pleased him, for he did not know how long his tired arms would last. With a small, courteous bow, Belegos turned away and made his way hurriedly towards the melee.
Ahead of him he could see but one face. It was pale and scarred and it's eyes were of hate, and it's teeth were death.
