The Stars of the Wild Collection

An updated, collated collection of the Stars of the Wilderness Chronicle.

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The night brought with it a slight chill, but the warmth from the small camp-fire kept it from the elves. The two of them had found a small dell when the sun had starting to lower in the sky, and with no urgency, had set up a camp to rest for the night. One of them was tall and confident in his surroundings, his face half hidden in the growing darkness by the green hood that covered his head, hiding his long, brown hair. His clothes were a rich green also which helped to hide him in the surrounding shrubs and undergrowth.
Next to him neatly piled, was a great bow, intricately carved with effigies of leaves and winding vines, now unstrung so the string would not lose its tension. A matching quiver accompanied it with finely crafted arrows made of ash and fletched with dyed goose-feathers. There was a slender, curved knife evidently elvish in its design, but most impressive of all was a magnificent sword, glinting in the half-gloom and reflecting the flame of the fire. The delicate tengwar inscribed into the blade was ancient, as was the sword itself, made in ages past in a forge now lost to the ravages of time. And evil. Its hilt was gold and placed within was a single emerald which looked black in the light.
“What is the hour, Belegos?” Asked the other elf, her voice low but not for secrecy. They were safe in these lands for they were watched by the Elves of Rivendell and the enemy dared not to enter them. The orcs feared the bite of elven-shafts unlooked for and only death awaited them this close to Imladris. The occasional troll or wolf wandered down from the mountains but were either driven out by the guards of the wilderness or found their way back up to the heights once they had had their fill of whatever they sought.
Belegos looked at the emerging stars for a moment and listened to the noises around him. He opened his mouth to answer and then thought better of it.
“Use what I have taught you, Danel,” he said instead. “Everything you need is around you.” He watched her as she struggled to remember his teachings and he smiled inside. Her face was still one of beauty, even after days abroad sleeping under the sky. She was slight and her burnished hair seemed to gleam in the firelight. She wore ruby garments of green and like Belegos’ they were weather stained.
She was a child of the First Age of the world and she possessed all of the grace and beauty and wisdom of her kind. She was one of the Noldorin such as he, a lingering people in an ancient land. Some of the last of the few East of the sea.
Yet if she was the student of the wilderness, then Belegos was certainly the adept. For three ages he had walked the lands. From the frozen North, to the scorching South, the war-torn West when the world was young, to the mysterious east where men talked in strange tongues. No path was unknown to him, save the dead, choking ways of Mordor. A master of the woodland arts, the languages of birds he knew and of beasts also.
He was a deadly shot. His skill with his bow Maegoroth, the Piercing Death, was almost unrivalled yet when foe found themselves unscathed by his archery, his ancient blade Alcarinar, Aglarach in the Sindarin speech, The Glorious Flame would cut them down in a wave of blows borne of elven fury.
“It must be,” Danel started, evidently unconfident in her ability to divine the time from the stars. “It must be three hours before midnight.” She looked at Belegos anxiously.
He nodded. “You should not mistrust your skill,” he said, with an encouraging tone, “You have learned much.”
The darkness was almost complete, and the firelight danced on their faces. The dry brush and leaves crackled and snapped, echoing into the night as the flames consumed them. Danel turned her face back to the stars blazing high above, satisfied that she had passed this small test.
Belegos pulled back his hood and studied her face again. He knew it as well as his own. Every crease, every eyelash, the angle of her brow and the shape of her lips. Of everything he had studied in his long life, this was his most cherished subject.
When she roused herself from her gazing, his eyes turned back to the flames, watching them whilst deep in thought. She retrieved from her traveller’s pack a blanket and careful draped it over her waist and lay her head to the floor, staring to the heavens once more. She clasped her hands on her breast and for a while they fell silent, wandering in their minds or listening at times to the sounds of the wild around them.
At length Danel spoke again. “Belegos,” she said, and paused, finding the words she wanted. “Where are you from?” She asked finally, quite unhappy with her choice.
For a moment he looked puzzled. “From? I am of the House of Vanimar, as are you.” He answered, referring to Bar-en-Vanimar, a group of elves that had been sundered from their homes and loved ones, only to be joined together in kinship at the House of Elrond.
“No,” she replied, struggling to ask the correct question, “Were you not one of the Gondolindrim? How is it then that you escaped the sack of that place? I would hear tales of that fair city, if you would tell them to me?”
Gondolin.
His eyes widened slightly at the mention of it and he stared deeper into the fire. His mind raced to shades of the past. Visions of the glorious and the terrible. Memories of things he had long held onto and some which he had tried all his life to forget.
“Belegos?” she turned and looked at him, fearing she had asked too deep a question.
He drew a long breath and sighed slowly.
“Gondolin,” he whispered. “It is a sad tale indeed, yet there was mingled with grief and sorrow, bravery and great deeds. I have known you for years now Carnifindë, and yet some things I have kept from even you. So be it,” he said with resolve. “I will tell you my tale.”

Now it was he who looked to the stars. There, brilliant in the night sky, undimmed over the long years, the Sickle of the Valar shone.

 

As he looked to the sky, Danel thought she saw a hint of strain in Belegos' face, but it was only fleeting. She had never thought about it too deeply, but the realisation dawned on her that Belegos was as old as she was; old even in the count of the Eldar now. She had heard of glimpses of his past before from himself or others, small parts of the great stories that he had taken a part in, though never in great depth and had gained the impression that recalling some of his memories, even after all these thousands of years was a displeasure to him. She was not entirely mistaken, for indeed the experience was a painful one retelling his past, but he took some small pleasure in walking again the paths that were no longer in the world, if only in his thoughts.

Belegos hung his head, some of his long, brown hair falling over his shoulder, drew his knees up, and began his tale.

 

*****

 

Sat amongst a great throng of folk at a long table garnished with many different fruits and wines and meats, Belegos' heart was singing. It was the Festival of the Gates of Summer, and all the Elves of Gondolin were present and joyful. They sang their songs that they had brought with them from Valinor, though Belegos himself was born in Vinyamar before the King uprooted the elves to the Hidden City, and the Vale rang with the echoes of their voices. Each of the great houses had their own tables and the King and his company were seated in splendour mid-most among them. To his left was Idril, his daughter, and fairest of Gondolin, and to his right was Tuor the man, loved by all, save for Maeglin, the King's sister-son and those of his House.

Belegos was with his friends and fellows of the House of the Swallow. He was beside a golden-haired elf with piercing, blue eyes and Aranto was his name. He was large of body and heart and his laughter was heard often in the City. He was mighty fair, and all the young maidens whispered between themselves and giggled when he passed them, though he took no wife. Vëon there was also next to Belegos. He was unlike Aranto for he was dark of hair and of face. He was quiet and did not jest and so seemed dour to those that knew him not, but loyal he was and loved his friends and his wife, Túrelië, but loved most his daughter, Almië. Aranto was strong in arm whilst Vëon was the surest shot of the Swallows. Belegos could match neither in their skills but was a well-rounded warrior and much respected by his peers.

All the members of the Houses were in their finest raiment, and Belegos, Aranto and Vëon were no exception clad in hues of white and blue as was the want of Thlim Duilin. Their lord, Duilin was sat facing Aranto and bore an elegant, silver circlet on his brow and on his breast was the heraldry of his House; a golden arrowhead. He roared in laughter at some jest of Aranto and clutched in his hand a silver goblet of wine, of which he took care not to spill.

The Swallow's table was positioned next to that of the House of the Heavenly Arch, of whom Egalmoth was their lord, and they had great friendship with the House of Duilin.

 

The time was almost nigh for the sun to sink behind the Encircling Mountains and for the solemn reverie to begin, and so, a trumpet call rang out in the Vale and called all the elves present to the walls of the City. There they stood and watched in silence as slowly, the sun moved lower and lower until finally, it disappeared. But lo! A light was in the distance. A red glow seemed to emanate from the north and all the elves looked upon in wonder. Belegos passed a glance along to Vëon who watched intently as the light grew more intense. He said not a word.

Of a sudden, a cry was heard and along the wall, folk pointed to the plain, for toward the City sped half a dozen riders in haste. They entered through the great gate and rode directly to the King. Belegos and his party were close enough to see that their appearance was dishevelled, and their clothes and skin blackened as if from a great smoke. He could also make out their frantic words.

“Lord! Lord!” They cried, “They are come over the mountains, the Hordes of Morgoth!” Turgon held up his hand to stop them. “Hold a moment and calm yourselves,” he said in a kindly tone.

“My king, there is no time!” Said the rider, who was breathing heavily. “Legions of orcs now spill from the mountains and there are Balrogs amongst them and great fire-drakes!” The faces of everyone who heard the words grew grave and fear overwhelmed them. A scream was heard from one of the elf-maids as, far in the distance, great shapes could be seen. The threatening silhouettes of the enemy. Fire followed them and they scorched tree, grass and flower as they advanced to the City.

The King turned to his people.
“Elves of Gondolin, this is the day that has long been feared. Our defence in secrecy has been shattered and Tumladen laid bare to the Enemy, but though they come upon us at unawares in this time of celebration, they shall rue the day they ever crossed the Echoriath, and for every one of us that falls in the battle that now lies ahead, we shall repay them thrice in kind. We will have cause for celebration still at the rising of the sun when we drive our foe shrieking from the field and lay waste to their designs upon our fair Gondolin.” He said, his arms outstretched at the city.
“Has it not been fashioned in the likeness of Tirion in the West? And is it not that no evil has entered that place? Here shall not differ. It's glory and majesty shall be preserved by the sword and the spear and the bow.” His gaze drifted back to the scene unfolding on the plain as elves exchanged anxious glances between themselves, though many found courage in the King's words. He issued his command. “Lords of the Houses, ready thy troops. See to the defence of this City.”
And with that, he turned and hurriedly strode away to his quarter, followed by the members of his household.

 What proceeded was chaos. A jostle of elves going this way and that. Warriors desperate to reach their armouries and ladies trying to return to their houses with their children in panic. Duilin called together the members of his House, though could scarcely be heard over the clamour. Belegos, Aranto and Vëon followed their lord deeper into the City and Belegos, filled with fear, looked at his two friends. Aranto met his gaze and said only, “Worry not. The City shall not fall.”. Belegos could not help but notice that his usual cheery mood had fled from him. Vëon, as ever, remained silent.

 

*****

 

The fire had petered out a while ago, but neither Belegos nor Danel could remember when. The embers glowed deep orange in the pile of ash that was between them and the smell of smoke was strong in their nostrils.

For a while, Belegos was silent, his hood covering most of his face which Danel thought made him look almost sinister, for in the dark he had none of the graceful, learned teacher about him. Instead, for the first time, she saw the warrior and the past battles that had turned him into the looming shadow hunched over in the dark before her.

As was the way with the words of the Elves, when Belegos had been recounting his story, the events as he spoke them had unfolded before the eyes of Danel. She could feel the fear of the folk of Gondolin, hear the cries of despair from the ladies and children alike, and see the terror that swept across the Plain of Tumladen. The more she dwelt on those thoughts, the more they threatened to overwhelm her. She realised that she felt almost claustrophobic, that the trees around them had crept closer now the firelight had died. Still Belegos did not move or make any sound.

The full weight of Belegos’ past fell on Danel like a great, heavy curtain that smothered hope and drowned light. She was about to cry out, eager to stir her companion to some sort of action when he pulled his knife from his belt and began to turn it in his hands. She swallowed her fear, bringing herself back to the present and concentrated on the blade that flickered in the starlight. She dared not speak but breathed a sigh of relief. Had she not been a follower of Caranthir in the Elder Days? She was no stranger to grief. She waited for him to continue.

 

*****

 

Smoke enveloped them. All around the flames licked at their cloaks and feet. The clamour and reek of battle drowned all else and the stench of death was thick in the air. The City was lost. It was all but overrun, yet there were a few that fought on. These few stood in the Market Square. Remnants of the Houses had gathered there for a last, ditch defence in order to stem the flow of the countless orcs and Balrogs and demons that now swept through the streets. News had reached them that Tuor had gathered to him survivors; women, children and the injured, and were escaping the City through a secret way. It had fallen to the Elves in the Square to become the rear-guard, for with Tuor was Idril, his wife and Eärendil half-elven, their son. The faces of the elves in the square were grim and exhausted. The fear in their eyes had come and gone and all was left was a sorrowful finality, a determination to give their lives for the survivors of the sack of the City.

Belegos’ limbs ached. His leather and mail had countless gashes and tears and blood seeped out of cuts both deep and shallow so that he felt even wearier. Still by his side stood his friends Vëon and Aranto, both as tired as Belegos, though perhaps Aranto had fewer wounds than his fellows. They had a brief respite whilst the orcs slowly pushed forward to the square, and the elves scavenged fresh weapons and arrows from the fallen.

 In his mind, he replayed the events that had passed before him in a blur, for it seemed as if this whole nightmare had played out in an instant, yet his body told him he had been fighting for hours. He recalled watching, horror-stricken, as the Order of the Hammer had made their final sally out into the field. He remembered watching as they were cut down to the last. That noble house destroyed suddenly.  Had he wept for them? He did not know. He remembered little.

He looked to his blade to see the edge had been notched countless times and was almost useless. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw it on the ground with a clatter and searched the dead for another sword. There were so many. So many had fallen. It seemed to Belegos as if all the people of the City now lay at his feet, lifeless. “Mandos will weep this night,” he thought to himself. Yet he would not. Not now. Kicking over the body of a large orc whose arm was a few paces further away and whose neck had been severed almost completely, Belegos found that it had been covering the body of a slain elf. One of the Fountain it seemed to him, by the blood-stained colours that he wore. Still clutched in his hand was a long, curved knife, expertly crafted. Belegos reached down, took the knife and slid it into his belt. A pang of guilt washed over him, but this warrior would not need his blade now and he continued to look for a more suitable weapon.

 Whilst he had been searching for a sword, Vëon had been gathering arrows and Aranto had found some water for them. They were all parched, the smoke causing them a raging thirst. As Belegos returned, Aranto handed him the skin with a nod and a smile. Even now he was smiling. Belegos took a long draught from the skin and handed it to Vëon who had made a pile of arrows in front of his feet. He took it without a word. It was eerily quiet. The sound of battle could be heard in a far-off part of the City, but the square for the moment was in false respite.

“This could not have come at a worse time,” said Aranto, the smile still on his lips. The others shot him a look of confusion. “Just as I was to marry! Me! How the Valar are cruel!”

Suddenly, there was a noise that shocked Belegos and made him turn. It was a laugh. Vëon’s laugh. It was as unexpected as it was hearty.

“You? Marry?” He asked. He clapped Aranto of the back. “My friend, now I understand! Morgoth has come himself to stop such a disaster from happening! For surely, the hearts of all the maids would have burst should this thing have come to pass? And even one of the Vala could not abide such a travesty!”

“Who was she?” Asked Belegos, as surprised by Aranto’s words still as by Vëon’s laughter.

“She is…” Started Aranto, but his voice trailed off. “It matters not. It seems I shall not see the next rising of the sun, lest it be through some window of Mandos’ hall.”

He flashed another smile.

 

The remnants of the Houses gathered together in their respective groups. Swallow stood beside Tree, who stood with Flower. The clamour had drawn closer, and all the elves arrayed themselves in ranks. Being the archers of Gondolin, the Swallows stood at the front, ready to fire a volley into the enemy. The smoke grew thicker. They could not see more than fifty paces ahead of them. Injured, fleeing elves appeared in the distance. Their pursuers could not be seen, but all heard the shrieks and howls of goblins. Belegos stared ahead of him, unblinking. The smoke stung his eyes, but he dared not close them. He heard those behind him shift uneasily, nervous chinks of shifting armour. Ever so slowly, shapes emerged through the smoke. First one, then a few, then a throng appeared to Belegos’ front. He saw the gleam of the biting edges of their cruel steel. He could see their yellowed fangs bared wide. A large orc wielding a huge, crude double-handed axe soaked in blood screamed at the elves. He was running right at Belegos, his weapon held high in the air, ready to carry out its fatal crushing blow. The orc never made it to Belegos, for he fell dead thirty paces from the elven ranks, a dirty, swan-feathered shaft piercing its forehead. Belegos did not think. He did not feel. He pulled another arrow from his quiver. It found its target at twenty paces from him. Another orc fell, this time at ten paces. The spearmen who had readied themselves behind the archers stepped through the front rank. Belegos felt himself shoved away so an elf of The Fountain could get by. As Belegos dropped his bow and drew his borrowed sword, the spearmen lowered their long ash shafts. As one, they let out a cry of “Gondolin! Gondolin!” as the wave of orcs crashed into their wall of blades. Belegos was buffeted by the sheer force of the impact, but with all his might, shoved his weight forward into the throng.

The battle had been joined.

 

*****

 

Danel looked to Belegos who had stopped again. He was still fingering his knife. She wondered if it was the same knife of which he had took from the dead elf, but she did not ask. She did not say a word. Her fear that she had felt before vanished upon studying him, for now no longer was he the brooding, menacing warrior in front of her, but instead he seemed to her frail, diminished somehow, and she pitied him. Only now did she understand the weight of these memories that he told her of. It was as if the recounting of his story had taken all of his strength from him and he sat looking into the now long dead embers.

His hood half covered his face, yet on his cheek, for an instant, something glistened and then it was gone.

She did not say a word.

 

*****

 

In the stench and heat of the battle, the throng of bodies that swayed this way and that, Belegos watched as the first orc ran onto the spear of the Fountain Guard in front of him. It impaled itself and checked to find the long shaft protruding from its belly. The guard wrenched it free and thrust again, this time at its breast. The steel tip pierced mail, leather and flesh to bury itself deep within the orc. The cry from its maw stopped abruptly and Belegos saw that it looked almost surprised. Once again, the guard pulled free and the orc dropped down, dead. Immediately another foe ran to take the dead one’s place. It wielded a great scimitar of black iron. Parrying the guard’s spear thrust aside, the orc buffeted his shield with heavy, fearsome blows. Belegos saw the guard buckle under the force and fall to his knee. With all the strength of his arm, Belegos reached over the elf in front of him, and as the orc brought his arms up for his strike, buried his sword deep into the orc’s ribs. It howled in pain as Belegos twisted the blade, and fell, lifeless on the ground. The Fountain Guard, shaken by his experience, turned for a moment, his helmed-head nodding in thanks to Belegos as he reached down for his spear.
The spearmen held their line well and for a while it seemed as if the orcs were but a ceaseless ocean wave that dashed itself on rocks of steel. Bodies piled higher as one by one, the elves, as weary as they were, slashed and chopped and thrust away at their enemies. A spark of hope even lit inside Belegos. He knew too well that the city was lost, but the more time they could buy for Tuor and his followers, all the better it would be. As that thought rushed through his mind, it was quashed. To his right, the spearman next to the Fountain Guard had stumbled on some dead orc, and Belegos watched as a great, heavy war hammer was brought down on top of him, crushing helm and head.
There was no cry, no protest from the spearman, only a mercifully swift death that sent his spirit across the sea. Leaping across the bodies of the slain, Belegos took his place in the front rank and found himself facing a huge, black orc. It wore no armour on its chest lest it was the countless scars and cuts that covered its slick, black skin. It snarled at Belegos and spat as it brought the great hammer swinging round in a long side-swipe. Belegos crouched low, only just in time, and felt a rush of air as the hammer’s head narrowly missed his own. As quick as he could, he found his feet and thrust his sword into the orc and kicked it away to die screaming. Everywhere arms or blades reached for him, it seemed. A barbarous, cruel spear lunged at him. He saw it and dodged out of the way, grabbed the shaft, span and cleaved the head from the orc that wielded it so that it hit the floor with a wet thud. A large, iron, spiked mace flew at him out of the chaos. Belegos parried it but the force of the blow was enough to knock him off balance and he was kicked to the floor by a heavily armoured boot. His sword flew from his hand and was lost under the feet of elves and orcs. The boot came down again, this time on top of his chest. The weight of it was almost too much for Belegos, and it was all he could do not to cry out. When he looked up to see long, pale arms readying to crush him with the same mace that had hit him before, Belegos thought to himself, I never was the best swordsman. That was Aranto. He wondered where Aranto was now, if he was still alive, for he could not see him.
As the orc was about to bring down his mace, one of his own slammed into him and for a moment unsteadied him. His foot remained firmly planted on Belegos, yet that had bought him a second, and with it, Belegos pulled the knife he had taken earlier from his belt and stabbed it up to the hilt into the fleshy calf of the orc. The blade protruded from the other side of the leg, and because of the pain, the orc lifted its foot from atop of Belegos. That was all he needed. In one swift motion, the elf jumped up, ripping the knife free, and as the orc recoiled in pain and shock, Belegos lashed out at its throat. The orc made a gurgling sound as it dropped its weapon and clutched at the wide wound that now poured forth sticky, black blood. In a fit of rage, Belegos grabbed its arms and pulled them down so that the blood could run unhindered. The orc’s eyes widened in fear and desperation as Belegos head-butted him, hard. The slash in its throat only tore open wider as its head snapped back. Belegos dropped its arms and it slumped to the floor.
 

An age passed, or so it seemed to Belegos. He had found another sword and had been hewing away at his foe. The battle-calm had descended upon him and he was acutely aware of what was happening around him. He was parrying blows or striking out, and his blades danced around him. Any that came near him fell to either his sword or his knife. Engrossed in combat, he did not heed the shouts. Further along, a wedge had been driven in by the orcs, the line had broken, and slaughter had ensued. Deeming the battle lost, calls to retreat had been taken up, but the retreat swiftly turned into a rout. Any sense of order melted away, yet Belegos saw none of it and heard nothing. An arm reached out and grabbed his shoulder and he pivoted to meet it, yet it was no orc. "We must go!" Shouted Aranto. A large cut oozed blood down his face, and his usually golden-hair was matted and filthy. Belegos took a moment to look around him, taking in the situation. He nodded and set off at once, following the thinning crowd of elves. As they ran, Belegos thought to himself that there must be no more a hundred elves left and all of them weaved their way through the streets and alleyways to find the secret passage. It had been well known enough during the battle where this passage was. Many folk had marked Tuor and his house make their way to the entrance and rumour had spread amongst the City. Belegos, with Aranto and Vëon, turned out of a narrow street into another, smaller square but quickly Belegos pulled them into the shadows between two buildings. Across the square was a column of folk, mostly women and children who were being shepherded along by a number of orcs bearing whips which lashed out all too often. They had become slaves of Morgoth and were being driven to their thraldom. "Wait for them to pass," whispered Belegos. The others nodded in silence but all of them felt shame, and guilt. There was naught they could have done, for they were only three, and the orcs were too many.
The end of the column was passing and Vëon let out a stifled cry, for at the rear, being forced on by their tormentors were Túrelië and Almië, his wife and daughter. Before Aranto and Belegos had descried what he had seen, Vëon shot toward the column. Belegos heard him shout, but if there were words in the cry, he could not make them out. As if possessed, Vëon ran brandishing his sword, his arms held out wide. Such a fury was on him that the orc holding the whip behind Túrelië quailed and screeched in fear, but not for long. Vëon was upon it, and in a flash of his blade, struck the orc between its shoulder and neck so that it buried itself deep within its chest. Vëon did not remove it, but instead ran toward his family, tears streaming down his face. He was less than 10 paces from them. Both had turned to see him, though instead of relief and happiness, their faces were that of fear and terror. A moment of doubt crossed Vëon as he saw them, then he stumbled and fell. He tried to get back up but found his legs would not move, for around them was coiled a fiery thong and it burned him. Dragging him backwards along the hard ground, the Balrog stood like a great, fiery menace. Sparks issued forth from its nostrils and it was wreathed in smoke. In its other hand blazed a sword of fire, lighting the darkness about it, yet Vëon had no sword, no weapon of any kind. There he lay, prostrate on the ground, a grim look in his eyes, for he had no other wish than to reach his family. But again, they were being herded away like cattle! More orcs had appeared, and panic overtook Vëon and he could hear his name being shouted in the darkness, cries of, "Father! Father!".
He cursed himself for his rashness and readied himself for his death-blow, for it seemed to him hopeless. Yet it was the Balrog who now doubted, if only for a second, for between them stepped Aranto, his golden-hair blazing in the fire-light so that it shone forth, and in his hand, he held his sword and pointed it defiantly at the demon. "Begone thou foul thrall of Melkor! Thou hast lingered on this earth too long, for in the name of Turgon, King of Gondolin, I will send thee forth to the void if it be in my power!" he cried.

Belegos looked on, aghast in horror and routed in indecision. Did he aid Aranto, or attempt to free Túrelië and Almië? Vëon was still on the floor, bound by flames, writhing to get free.

This choice, it seemed, was his.

 

*****

 

Belegos had ceased once more, 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. Danel 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, in part a reflection of his own life. For even by Belegos' standards, she was schooled in war and sorrow. Again, the thought of his kin crept into his mind. 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? He had not seen much of the world, 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.

*****

 

Stricken dumb by terror and indecision, Belegos had to make his choice. He had three: To rush back to the ever-moving column of prisoners to free Túrelië and Almië, but the orcs there were now many, to untangle Vëon from his fiery bonds, or to stand with Aranto against the demon that bared down upon him. Every second that passed seemed like an age and the weight of his responsibility pressed down upon him. He knew not what to do. His senses were overwhelmed; the smell of blood assaulted his nostrils, the sounds of screams and Almië’s increasingly distant wailing rent his ears, his eyes stung from the smoke that he tasted on his tongue, and his hands were numb from exhaustion and fear. As he stood there, trembling, the felt detached from the world around him as if it were behind some hazy screen, that he was simply an observer of the horrors afflicting his life, his city and his friends. He knew not what to do.
Of a sudden, he was jolted back to the present, for there was a flash of light, and another. He turned to see where it was from and beheld the Balrog raining terrible blows upon Aranto. Every time their swords met the square lit around them as if they fought amongst a great lightning storm and the noise was of a thunder-clap. He watched as his brother-in-arms, dwarfed by his nemesis, fought defiantly and he wept, yet he did not know it. Seeing the battle, Belegos’ mind made its own decision.
As swiftly as he could, he ran to Vëon who was struggling to free himself and he hacked at the thong with his sword. The bonds severed with a snap and Belegos, unaware of the flames that scorched his hands, wrenched at the coils that had wrapped themselves around his friend. When they fell loosely to the floor, their sorcerous-fire slowly darkening, Belegos dragged his friend to his feet, yet he struggled, for the fire had wounded Vëon greatly and he was weak and barely conscious. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but only, “Almië… Family…” came out and he collapsed from the effort into Belegos’ arms.

It was the hardest choice that Belegos ever made. There had been nothing for it. He judged that to save his friend, he must get him out of the city or else they would all die there. Ahead of him was a dark street which looked empty. Dragging Vëon with all the effort he could muster, he made for the square’s exit. The slaves had been taken away. He had not seen them turn the corner and become lost to them, but he sensed that they were beyond his aid.  In despair and shame, he cast a final glance back at Aranto, still battling for mastery with his enemy. It was the last he saw of him, yet to this day, his most vivid memory. Up ahead the street was quiet and glowed a fearsome orange from the lower-floors of some of the houses that were ablaze. As Belegos drew level with one house, its front window shattered sending forth small shards of glass which showered him. He threw his arm up to defend his face too late. He gritted his teeth from the pain as some of the glass cut the left side of his face and neck. He could feel little trickles of blood run from the wounds, but he ignored them. He had to focus on pulling Vëon’s weight through the city, or he feared he would collapse and go no further.
As he resolved himself to go on, he heard a shout close-by but could not see from whom it had come. Again, it rang out, a shout for help. A girl’s voice it was, but from where? He looked about frantically and he saw her, in an upstairs window of a burning house. She was blackened. Smoke billowed from the room she was in and she was scared. “Help me!” She shouted again. “Please help!” Belegos cursed the day and let go of Vëon so that he lay unmoving in the middle of the street.
Running to the house, he kicked the door as hard as he could manage so that it violently burst inwards, yet Belegos was almost knocked from his feet, for the draft of the flames inside was fierce. Without thinking, he plunged into the house and found himself within an inferno. Flames licked the walls around him, and the heat was nigh unbearable. As quickly as he could, but half-blinded and choked from smoke, he found his way up the stairs and into the room he guessed the young elf was seeking refuge. Sure enough she was there, the tell-tale tracks of tears on her sooty face. Without saying a word, he reached out for the girl and set off with her under his arm, as if he were carrying a rolled-up rug. He made it out of the house faster than he had come in and as he stepped back out into the street, he heard something in the house behind him fall and crash as it was consumed by the fire.
He set the girl on her feet next to the form of Vëon and dropped to his knee, looking at her. She was sobbing. He thought that she could not have been more than five years old. With a grubby hand, almost as black as her face, Belegos tried to wipe the tears and soot from her cheeks and smooth back her hair. “She would have been pretty,” he thought. He smiled kindly at her. “What is your name?” He asked softly.
Between her gasps for air, the girl managed a weak reply, “Eli… Eliriael.”
“That is a beautiful name,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “Can I call you Eli?” She nodded, her sobs slowly abating. “Well, Eli. I am Belegos and this poor fellow is my friend, Vëon,” he told her, gesturing to the elf lying on the floor. She said nothing, but stared at him with big, round eyes that glistened with tears in the darkness. “We need to leave, Eli, and I know a way out. My friend here needs help. You must stay with us, for it is not safe in the City.” She nodded again. “Good,” he said, and picked up Vëon underneath the arms. The flight to the Hidden Passage seemed to Belegos to take a lifetime, yet he counted themselves as lucky, for they had seen no orcs, or worse, on their way. Ahead of them now was a great slab that had been removed from the floor. It had covered the steps down into the passage that led underneath the City and out into Tumladen and an irregular stream of refugees, mainly women and the injured, spilled into the dark and down the stairs. Belegos turned to the girl beside him, “There it is Eli, the way out of Gondolin. Go there now and be free of this place, I will follow you.” Yet she did not move. “Go Eli!” He told her again, “There is no time!”
“I lost mother, and father. Please, I don’t want to lose you too.” She pleaded with him and tears began to well in her eyes again. Belegos nodded his head solemnly and drew in a deep breath. He could see up ahead that a company of the Glorfindel’s House of the Golden Flower were hastily assembling at the entrance to the passage. “Come then, let us be quick!” He said. With every ounce of strength he had left within him, he dragged Vëon to the tunnel.
There were perhaps fifty or sixty of The Golden Flower gathered there, all of whom were covered in cuts and bruises, yet still able to fight. Belegos approached one of the captains and asked him, “Please, my friend, he needs aid. I cannot move him any further.” The sweat poured from his brow. Vëon was still dressed in his mail and leathers and the weight had become too much for Belegos. The captain studied the three of them for a moment, his eyes flicking from one to the other from behind his battered helm and he shook his head. “I can spare no-one to help you. You must get him out of the City yourself,” he said and began to turn away. Belegos felt waves of anger and despair pulse through him and he grabbed the captain’s arm, who briskly turned back to face him. “I have fought for long,” Belegos started, “And I do not have the will to drag him any further. He has been wounded by a Balrog, by the very flames of wickedness, and I do not know whether he will live, yet I will not leave him here for it would indeed be his death of a certainty.” Again, the captain was silent. “It is as I said,” He replied, “yet… remain here a while.” And with that he set off away from his company and from Belegos, only to reappear moments later pushing a small wooden cart. He stopped alongside Vëon and told Belegos to grab his arms. Together they laid him in the barrow, his arms and legs spilling over the sides, but it was enough for Belegos to give the captain thanks and provide him with a hope that he would be able to rescue Vëon from the sack. The captain gave Belegos the slightest of nods. “I wish you luck. May the Valar be with you,” he told them, and strode back to his troops to re-join their paltry ranks. Belegos took a quick look about him but did not take too much of the scene in for it was not how he wished to remember his home, ravaged by flames and strewn with the bodies of the slain. He sighed, a great, long sigh that had all the cares of the world in it.

“Come Eli, let us leave this place,” he said to her as he gripped the handles of the cart and began pushing it as carefully as he could down the steps into the passage. It was dark down in the tunnel for most of the lamps had petered out or had been knocked from the walls by one of the many booms that had rocked the city. The ground was uneven in places and by the faint lights that remained; traces of blood could be seen from time to time. It was unearthly quiet in that hole. Occasionally the three of them passed an injured elf who could go no further sitting against a wall, yet Belegos said nothing to them and pulled Eliriael closer to him when they walked by. As they made their way further down the passage, it became evidently less finished, for now they were on a hard-packed dirt floor and the tunnel grew steadily smaller, both in height and width and Belegos began to struggle in some places to push the cart through. He was beginning to fear that he would have to again abandon the barrow and drag Vëon to the exit when it came upon them suddenly out of the darkness. Another set of roughly hewn steps. Belegos ascended them with difficulty, pulling the cart behind him with Eliriael at the rear. He could feel the breeze from above and it gave him more strength to reach the top, for he hated the uncertainty of the passage. It was dark outside, for it was still night. The three elves made stepped out into the Plain of Tumladen and looked about them. They were not alone for all the refugees of the City had gathered to watch Gondolin burn, and all of them wept. For far away, like a candle in the void, the once fair city blazed forth. There were no words to console the elves who witnessed the destruction, no comfort could be given to them. Belegos did not know how long they stood there in sorrow. It could have been hours. Yet after a while the company of The Golden Flower that he had seen at the entrance to the tunnel emerged in the twilight. Their lord Glorfindel himself was amongst them and was asking the gathered folk for the whereabouts of Tuor. An elf strode up to Belegos, and after a moment he realised it was the captain with him he had conversed earlier.

“You made it, I see,” the captain said to them.
“What are we to do?” Belegos asked him.
“The way out of the City has been shut lest we are pursued. There will be no more to walk out of the tunnel. I believe that we are to make for the mountains,” the captain told them.

There was more than a hint of sadness in his voice. Behind them, Glorfindel returned, his blade shimmering in the half-light and shouted some commands to his troops. The captain turned without a word and re-joined his brothers. The thought of the mountain path ahead of them filled Belegos with despair. He had found it hard enough to get Vëon out of the city, let alone pull him along the difficult, unforgiving paths of the Echoriath. Yet he would not leave him. His mind wandered to Aranto and suddenly, as if a great flood-gate had been opened in his heart, tears burst forth and he fell to his knees. In the same moment, guilt, shame, sorrow and fear gripped him and he was helpless, like a child lost at sea, drowning. He was sobbing, great tears falling to the ground like they were the very pearls of his soul and his face was in his hands when he felt one of them pulled away and there in front of him with her beautiful, big eyes was Eliriael. She gripped his hand tightly with both of hers and said to him, “Don’t cry, Belegos. We are safe now.” There was something in her voice that gave him comfort. He had to be strong for her now for though she did not know it, they were not out of danger yet. He imagined that it looked a sorry sight, one of the warriors of the Swallow being counselled by a girl so young and he composed himself.
“You are right, Eli,” he told her with all the compassion and reassurance he could muster, “You are right. We are safe now.”

 

*****

 

The twinkling lights danced in the bright eyes of young Eliriael and the night air caressed her cheeks with warmth as she stood on the city wall awaiting the first brush of sunlight in the dark. All around the young elf was merriment and laughter for it was the night before the Gates of Summer in the city of Gondolin. Today, she would be allowed to stay late into the night dancing and celebrating while the elves gathered to watch the rising of the sun at dawn.

Her father held her up in his arms and she wrapped her arms comfortingly around his neck. It was rare to see him out of his uniform and laughing readily in the company of his friends and family. He was relieved from his duty this night while others stood watch, and Eliriael guarded him jealously.

“How do you ever leave your precious jewel at home and come stand watch with the rest of us, Alyatirmo?” Ceurtiron asked, laughing, as he eyed Eliriael. He was her father’s friend of many years and another warden of the Wing. “She seems unable to part from you, and you from her,” he continued to jest. Alyatirmo laughed in return and Eliriael smiled cheerfully.

Ceurtiron leaned towards her.

“Will you dance and sing for us as the sun rises, just as you did the year before?” Eliriael beamed excitedly and nodded. Her mother stood beside her and responded to Ceurtiron.

“I had her wear her best dress tonight, knowing you would ask as always.” Ceurtiron laughed, pleased.

Eliriael glanced around her, feeling the mirth and joy of all the elves gathered along the wall, seeping into her heart and pouring forth in her own expression. She listened carefully, enjoying the music of the bards in the background while everyone continued to talk amongst themselves.

Suddenly, she sensed a slight tremble and falter in the melody of the atmosphere and her ears heard it audibly in the music soon after. The bards had ceased playing in the middle of their song and silence spread along the wall. For a moment, all was still. Then it seemed to Eliriael as if a pebble had been thrown into peaceful waters and the crowd rippled with movement and panicked voices.

Her father had tensed in the silence, but now he was alert and already holding her closer, whispering quickly to her mother. She understood nothing but felt the shift in rhythm as the music of her surroundings changed almost to a fast-paced march. All around her, quick words were exchanged and fell into a current of low voices – a subdued melody restrained from complete discord by everyone’s efforts to remain calm and controlled. The hurried footsteps beat out a rapid tempo in the background, urging her own heartbeat faster. Her father now looked at her with a tense smile and stern eyes.

“Eli, go with your mother.” Turning to her mother, he said, “You must find Lady Idril and go with her to the Hidden Passage out of the city. I will help gather the rest of the Wing.”

Her mother seemed to hesitate, looking at her husband sorrowfully. Eliriael grabbed the front of her father’s tunic.

“You will come with us?” Without understanding the situation, she sensed enough to fear and pleaded with her father. “Please, come with us!” She grasped her father’s arms tightly and tugged. He shook his head slowly and then hugged her tightly. Her father kissed her forehead quickly, whispering words of love, before embracing her mother. As if afraid to linger any longer, he suddenly turned towards the other gathering soldiers and was lost in the crowd of elves rushing in all directions before Eliriael could protest anymore.

“Where is he going? Why will he not come?” she asked desperately.

Her mother smiled comfortingly down at her. No matter the situation, her mother’s face always shined with a bright expression. Elrinarë was well remembered and favoured by all who received her healing for her undying smile.

“We must part ways with your father for now. He will re-join us later,” she said calmly.

Her mother held her hand and led her through the crowd of elves, away from the wall and toward the streets of the city. “Eli, keep your eyes and ears open for there is danger in the city. We must seek Lady Idril so that I may tend to her and secure her way through to the Hidden Passage.”

Eliriael ran behind her mother as fast as she could for a couple minutes when she began to hear explosions and screams erupt in the distance. Her mother listened a moment, then quickened her pace, turning corners rapidly. But soon, the darkness and sounds of battle seemed to be pressing closer to them from all directions. Every path they took seemed to be blocked, for her mother led them through different streets, but continued to stop short and turn away at the sight or sound of something evil before them. Suddenly, as they ran down a narrow path, the sound of heavy approaching footsteps reached them from nearby. Her mother looked about them anxiously. “Eli, in here!” she whispered. They had found themselves before a healing house and entered, shutting the door behind them without a sound. Her mother lifted a finger to her lips in a gesture to be silent and they listened carefully while retreating further into the building. Eliriael’s heart beat loudly in her ears, like a deep drum, as she heard a loud indistinct voice outside in the street, barking orders. The voice was too foul to be that of an elf.

 

They crept upstairs where there were many beds laid out and shelves against the walls stocked with various herbs and medicinal liquids. Eliriael spent much of her time here watching her mother tend to the injured. “Eli,” her mother whispered, giving a sad smile. She kneeled to her daughter’s level and hugged her in a tight embrace, speaking softly. “Hide beneath this bed and do not come out until I say, or all is silent outside. You must make your way to the Hidden Passage at all costs, do you understand?”

Eliriael nodded, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. She had not realized that she had been crying as they ran through the city. Her mother looked at her intently and added, “You must promise to go…even without me.” Eliriael shook her head. Why would she need to go without her mother?

“Eli, you must not disobey me.” Her mother’s voice was stern, in a way that Eliriael had never heard before. There was no request this time in her mother’s words, and so Eliriael did not answer.

As her mother bent down under a bed to pull aside baskets, she looked out the window. The night continued to be marred with screams and loud noises, and the ground beneath the building shook with the force of explosions. “Eli, quickly now.” Her mother gestured under the bed, where she had made room enough to fit her if she lay down with her limbs tucked in around her. As she crawled under the bed, she watched her mother slide the baskets of supplies back in front of her. Elrinarë’s last expression was a smile before the basket slid into place and Eliriael saw no more of her mother.

Unable to see anything, her hearing grew acute, taking in every slight noise. The sound of chaos seemed further in the distance now that she was under the bed, and the noise outside seemed to have passed. She listened to her mother’s measured breathing as she waited silently under the bed. Laboured minutes seem to pass and then she heard her mother stand and move away from the bed. “Stay here until I return Eli,” she whispered.

As her mother’s footsteps faded, Eliriael’s body tensed with every step her mother took towards potential danger. Her fear seemed to grow in her chest and beat painfully against her own heart. She strained to hear any sound, but she could only hear muffled echoes of the distant battles in the city.

A sudden clang pierced her consciousness, the sound of heavy metal hitting the stoned path outside. A scuffle of footsteps followed, unintelligible coarse voices, then a singular note that rang clearly, “Elirië!”

Her mother’s voice awakened her into motion, melting the muscles and limbs that had been strained and tense with fear. She pushed the baskets aside and crawled from beneath the bed, rushing towards the staircase. But before she reached the steps, she stumbled as the building shook beneath her and the floor gave away beneath her feet. She smelled the smoke before she saw the flames running up the staircase, devouring the wooden railing and steps. It travelled fast, fuelled by the medicinal liquids from the jars that had fallen onto the ground with the explosion. She retreated again into the room, not knowing what to do except to shout for help. The moment she opened her mouth and took a breath to cry for help, the smoke arising from the fire assaulted her. Her eyes watered and she coughed, choking out a few pleas for help, until she could shout no longer. The flames approached her and forced her to crawl onto the bed against the furthest wall. She had nowhere else to go and the heat grew unbearable against her skin. Eliriael curled herself into the bed, pressing her face down on the sheets to block out the smoke, which was stifling her senses.

Her vision faded as the bright red glow of the fire seemed to disappear behind an encroaching shadow on the edge of her periphery. The world closed in darkness before it lurched away as the bed seemed to fall away beneath her. The heat of fire reached its height, just about to melt her skin, before it tapered away into a gust of streaming hot air. For many minutes, she stayed crouching as if on air, flying through the current of the fire’s warm breath. Perhaps this was how it felt to be carried off to the Halls of Mandos…though she wished the fire and heat could have been left behind.

As soon as she wished it, crisp air surrounded her and enveloped her skin as if she had been plunged into cold water on a summer’s day. Moments later, the ground emerged beneath her feet and she stood upright.

She had arrived.

She opened her eyes slowly, her eyelids heavy with a stupor left behind the onslaught of anxiety and panic. The shadow passed away into the edges of her vision until they withdrew completely, leaving a tall figure standing before her. She found her image of Mandos as valiant and beautiful as she could have imagined a Valar to be, but she did not understand why he dressed himself in battle-worn clothes and bleeding wounds upon his face. Perhaps Mandos robed himself in death.

“What is your name?” he asked gently.

His expression and voice were comforting to Eliriael and her tears seemed to slow, and her body relaxed. “Eli…Elirië,” she answered when she was able to calm herself enough to speak.

The figure before her introduced himself as Belegos and as he did, Eliriael could hear destructive rumbles in the distance. Her illusion seemed to fade and dissipate into her surroundings, which she suddenly took notice of as her senses restored themselves in the outside air. The heat of fire and black smoke no longer invaded her eyes, ears, and nose. She could see clearly now, and she recognized that she was still in Gondolin, though it had changed much since she stood upon the high walls of the city with her mother and father earlier that night. And the figure she took to be Mandos, was an elf – subject to wounds and death, just as much as she was. She looked behind the elf, Belegos, to see that the healing house had burned to the ground, and she understood all at once what fate this elf had saved her from. She felt the rise of awe and gratitude in her heart, yet the guilt that she had been protected when her mother was not. Where was she now?

Belegos spoke again and her respect for him commanded her attention. He introduced his friend Vëon, who lay beside her, unconscious. She had never seen such an injured elf in the healing houses before, but she knew enough to tell that he might have been close to death. It was clear from Belegos’ words that he intended to get them all out of the city. She nodded, agreeing to do as he said, and promising to herself to do all she could to make sure her rescuer and his friend would reach safety. But her heart squeezed inside her chest painfully; she wanted to know where her parents were. Why were they not here to take her to the Hidden Passage? She took a quick wishful glance around before dashing after Belegos, who had shouldered Vëon’s weight and already began to move down the street.

Belegos moved swiftly, even with another body to carry. His stride was long and graceful, and it took many of her small quick steps for Eliriael to keep up. Her lungs felt tired and constricted from breathing in so much smoke in the fire, but she could not slow them down. She followed Belegos unthinkingly, her legs taking one step after another, as she swivelled her head and kept her eyes wide open for a glimpse of her parents. Every muscle in her body wanted to rebel against the path she was on and run further into the city to search for her mother and father.

“Eli, you must not disobey me.” The memory of her mother’s voice rang clear in her mind. She had to make it to the Hidden Passage. Her mother had ordered her. Her heart gave a sob in her chest and her body continued running after Belegos as if in a trance. Suddenly, Eliriael paused and steadied her breathing, noticing that Belegos had stopped and turned towards her. He pointed to a passage, towards which many women and children were running.

“There it is Eli, the way out of Gondolin. Go there now and be free of this place, I will follow you.” When she remained motionless, Belegos said again to her, “Go Eli! There is no time!”

Eliriael shook her head defiantly. She could not leave them there. And though she did not say so, she was also too scared to go alone. Thus, she insisted that Belegos come with Vëon and he gave in. He continued forward and Eliriael fell behind him. In a few moments, Belegos came before a soldier and began speaking urgently with him. Eliriael watched them speak quickly until the soldier walked away, then returned bringing a cart. Belegos carefully laid his friend inside and began to head into the passage, pushing the cart ahead of him. Eliriael put her hands on the cart to help, though she had little strength to contribute. The passage was dark, and the air seemed thick. She stepped toward Belegos and stayed close, unable to see much in front of her. With one hand on the cart in front of her, she grabbed onto Belegos with the other. Her eyes adjusted slowly, and she noticed injured elves leaning against the sides of the passage. Belegos drew her to him and she was thankful for the comfort and protection he provided. Though the passage seemed endless, after many minutes, Eliriael discerned a growing light ahead. The possibility of an end to the dark tunnel seemed to encourage Belegos and Eliriael felt him pick up his pace beside her. She continued to look around her, hoping that her mother and father would be waiting in the passage for her, but she recognized none of the elves. She dreaded that she would not find them before the end of the tunnel. Her heart weighed heavy in her chest and seemed to weigh down her legs, unwilling to reach the exit. But she could not hinder Belegos, and so her body moved, burdened, yet quickly – two opposing forces running like a current in her small body.

Finally, they reached the end and they emerged into the open valley of Tumladen, leaving the blackness of the passage behind them. The smell of smoke still drifted upon the air and she looked up at Belegos as he gazed at something in the distance behind her, a great sorrow written in his eyes. She turned and saw the fair city of Gondolin, clouded in smoke and burning. Her heart beat loudly, realizing that her parents may still be in the city. She shook her head. They had to have escaped.

She felt a soft thud behind her, and she turned in surprise to see the stalwart and strong figure of Belegos kneeling on the ground, covering his face with both hands. Her heart trembled with sympathy, seeing such a mighty elf crushed under the weight of some heavy grief that she could not know, for his burden was his own. Young Eliriael had learned much following her mother, Elrinarë, as she healed. There were some hurts that could not be mended with bandages and salves. Belegos, she decided, would need flowers – perhaps more than she had ever collected and given in her entire life.

She looked down at the ground under her feet, trampled by many footsteps, but undisturbed in some patches. In one of the islands of grass, she found a lone star-petal flower, which she picked. Walking softly up to Belegos, she took one of his hands in her hers and looked gently at his face, which was dampened by the fall of his tears. She tucked the small white flower behind his ear, a solitary star against the sky that was his hair, and said to him, “Do not cry, Belegos. We are safe now.”

He nodded, repeating her words, though he seemed to echo them without full reassurance. Eliriael thought his eyes wavered, as if caught in some storm between loss and determined resolve. In his eyes, she saw the emotions that had no words. And no words could console his raging anguish.

She threw her arms around his neck without a thought and hugged him.

 

*****

 

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 kindliest 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, dishevelled 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 sombre 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 the faces of his foes were one. One pale, scarred, snarling expression whose 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 amid 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 its 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 its eyes were of hate, and it's teeth were death.

 

*****

 

Eliriael looked into Belegos’ eyes, and in their depths, she saw a spark of warmth kindled and she knew there was much hope left there. Perhaps her rescuer did not believe in himself or in any bright future, but she knew otherwise. There were no evident signs to assure her, but at times children have been known to see much more of the world and its people than is perceivable by the grown and wise.

In the moment that he caressed her cheek and smiled kindly, rising to stand, she saw her saviour emerge stronger and transcend above the sorrowful fate that had been dealt to him. Eliriael leaned into his hand affectionately as he pressed his lips to her forehead softly. These small gestures made her cheerfully content, for she delighted in the simple things of the present. But unknown to both elves, the bond of attachment that grew between them now, quickened by the nearness of danger and chaos, kept at bay the anxieties that threatened to consume the young elleth. Being under the dutiful care of Belegos, she was happy and well, and there was less need to consider the implications of the destruction that invaded the senses and hearts of all the elves around her. She alone projected an aura of contentment, an illusory front put up against the alternative of contemplating her loss and falling into despair. Thus, when the silence of mourning was broken by sudden voices, stirring bodies up into movement, Eliriael was the only one to bound forward with a light spirit to join the slow, dragging march of dejected footsteps. Staying close to Belegos and the cart he pushed, Eliriael sometimes skipped ahead or tarried a bit behind, vigilantly looking about. As they began the ascent toward the tall peaks ahead, the dawn rose above the Encircling Mountains and pierced the night, its light flooding the valley and beaming upon the faces of the refugees. Occasionally, the elves walked through shadow when the mountain heights stood against the Sun. But Eliriael took in as much of the warmth as she could and continued to look upon the illuminated faces around her for signs of her parents. Despite the number of elves that passed her without recognition, she did not lose hope.

The journey upward was rather silent; the only sounds that carried amidst the survivors were light elven footsteps upon the rocky path and the tears of those who could not be consoled. But around the elves, Eliriael still heard the music of sorrow – unshed tears falling into the depths of grief-wrung hearts, dripping as if into an empty well, echoing with unspeakable sadness. This melody intertwined with a noise that Eliriael was less familiar with: the inner cries of bitterness and anger, a hollow wind that shook spirits and left them distraught. She looked at Belegos often and observing his pensive and worn expression, she knew he was not apart from knowing this unplayed song. Eliriael looked for more flowers to cheer him up, but there were none to be found on the mountain path. The flowers she gave away in the healing house had always come from her garden at home or the Vale of Tumladen. She had not imagined that they did not grow everywhere else in the outside world, which was expanding every moment now for Eliriael.

Here on this road, where necessities were sparse and everyone had barely escaped with their lives, where bodies were injured and clothes were torn, no flowers were to be had. Eliriael looked about herself for something to lighten the spirits of Belegos and the other elves around her, and it was the first time since she stood on the wall with her parents that she properly observed herself. Her delicately embroidered slippers were tearing apart upon the harsh rocks on the ground and her dress, which had been shimmering and white, was tattered and tainted with a hue closer to dirt. Only around her neck, the light and translucent layers of flowing fabric had not been charred by the fire’s smoke. Despite the state of her appearance, Eliriael smiled, reassured by the presence of her mother’s pendant safely under her dress.

Possessing nothing on herself to console others, her thoughts turned to her other usual activities in the healing house. She would have been dancing or singing for the amusement of the injured while her mother would have been preparing medicinal draughts. She had not seen her mother yet on the journey, but Eliriael was sure that she would quickly prepare healing salves for the hurt refugees as soon as they reached a safe haven. As for herself, dancing on the uneven path strewn with sharp stones seemed unwise. Thus, she began to softly sing a calm and serene melody that she found was rather cheerful to elves visiting the healing house. Her mother had taught it to her first when she began showing knowledge of words and art with language.

“How does it sound? Do you like it?” her mother asked her sweetly. She was smiling brightly and looking down into her daughter’s eyes.

Eliriael sat in her mother’s lap, stroking her golden hair softly. She nodded, asking, “Where did you learn it, naneth? It is very lovely.”

Elrineth’s eyes twinkled. “The Eldar sang it in Valinor…perhaps they still do.”

The young elleth’s eyes grew wide at the mentioning of her mother’s beloved Valinor, a land that Eliriael only knew in her imagination. The Blessed Realm, for Eliriael, was painted vividly for her by her mother as an image of wonder and beauty. Ever did she yearn to hear more about her mother’s home. Elrineth tapped her daughter’s small nose playfully.

“Will you help me by singing it when I am tending to elves who come for healing?”

Eliriael nodded happily, eager to be helpful. “Will it heal their hurts?”

Her mother beamed at her. “It will. Especially if you sing it, my love.” Then she sat Eliriael down in the grass before her and began combing and braiding her hair. “Songs are very powerful and there is much strength in them, Eliriael. Much good and beauty can be born of music.”

Eliriael was obedient and sat still before her mother as to not disrupt the braiding.

“Is that why the flowers in our garden bloom so beautifully, because you sing to them? And is it why I feel so glad when you sing to me?”

Elrineth laughed with amusement at the innocence of her daughter’s questions. She began weaving small lavender flowers into Eliriael’s hair. “Yes, my dearest. You may sing this song as well if you are feeling unhappy.” Then, she added quietly, “It has always lifted my spirits.”

And thus, sitting together in the Vale of Tumladen, amidst the lush grass and blossoming flowers of spring, Eliriael learned her first song from her mother.

So it was that Eliriael picked this melody to sing for the disheartened elves on the road up into the mountains.

 

The song was one of some length and it filled the time for much of their ascent towards the mountain’s peaks. She soon noticed that Belegos was still physically worn by the injuries he had and the heavy cart he pushed ahead of him. So Eliriael walked beside Belegos and Vëon’s body, pulling the cart beside her as much as she could, though her strength was too little to lessen Belegos’ burden at all.

At some point during the beginning parts of her song, Eliriael noticed a tall elf with golden hair and the stature of a veteran warrior walk up to Belegos with a powerful but controlled gait. Though his movements seemed calm and reserved, she sensed from him a great strength that was both vigorous and steadily firm. She saw the image of a tree emblazoned on the front of his clothes as he exchanged words with Belegos. Then she noticed the stranger give a pointed look at Vëon in the cart and then at her before he turned back to speak with Belegos. She continued singing but drew closer to her rescuer protectively, unsure of what to think of their new company.

As they drew higher into the mountain, the road grew steeper and Eliriael’s feet tired. She knew they were all moving much slower than before and the rocks in their path were larger and more imposing now. She had to be more mindful of where she placed her feet, but still she continued the song, which was nearing its end. The tune kept her mind off the harshness of the climb at least and let her mind drift to pleasant memories and her dreams of Valinor.

Walking beside the cart, she looked down at Vëon’s still body and hoped her song was helping him in some way as he slept. His clothes were torn in many places and Eliriael’s eyes were drawn quickly to the markings on his armour that indicated injuries underneath. Her mother would heal him when they reached safety. Vëon lay unmoving with his limbs bent uncomfortably in the cart. Eliriael wished there was a better place for him, but she knew that even the cart had been a blessing to receive in their circumstances. She would have thought him lifeless except for the slow rise and fall of his chest and the occasional wince that emerged upon his face during their journey. Thus, she sang the song until its end, watching Vëon closely. At the close of her song, Vëon’s lips opened and Eliriael distinguished his voice. Though he was unconscious, the sounds that poured from his lips were caressed by affection to form the word Almië. Eliriael tilted her head, wondering what meaning it had. For as she looked at Vëon, she knew instinctively that it was something precious to him.

Suddenly, she felt movement beside her and noticed that the elf from before, who wore a tree upon his chest, had come up beside Belegos and laid a hand upon his shoulder. He spoke in a subdued but strong voice, as if he was used to commanding attention and respect, “I admire your efforts, but you cannot carry on like this forever. Please, let me help you.”

Eliriael looked up at Belegos who looked weary, but he was reluctant to impose his burden onto another. “I do not mean to go on forever, only until we reach our place of rest, or he awakes.”

The golden-haired elf nodded, looking grave before a small flicker of amusement lit his eyes and brought a change upon his countenance. “Even so, 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!” The smile that followed made the transformation upon his face complete and Eliriael saw the stranger in a different light. He winked at her and a chuckle bubbled from her lips. Belegos nodded and gave a small smile in return. “Who would I be then, to turn down a good deed in these times? You are most kind.” Thus, he carefully handed the cart over to their new travel companion, but Eliriael saw that Belegos watched his friend, Vëon, still for some time after.

Belegos placed his hand in hers and she was glad that he had allowed someone else to ease his responsibilities, if only for a short time. In her soft palm she could feel how the fighting and the wooden cart handles had treated his hands harshly. She wrapped her fingers delicately around his hand and gave a light squeeze – she would protect them now.

Eliriael regained her sense of vigour with Belegos beside her and the knowledge that there was a kind elf, who would help him. As they pressed onward, the landscape of the mountain changed around them. To their right, the rocks rose higher until they threatened to form a wall to shut out the Sun. And to their other side, the mountain fell away into a dark chasm that swallowed any presence of light. The path grew narrower, herding the elves into a closer and tighter formation, spreading them into a long winding line. This slowed the movements of the survivors and a general hush fell upon them all as the mountain closed in on them with its oppressive darkness. As they walked between the mountain’s rock wall and deep pit, a shrill wind began to fill the void left by the refugees’ silence. The thin fabric of Eliriael’s wispy dress whipped around her and she lowered her head away from the current. The sharp cry of the air rushed past her ears, with a roaring deafness trailing behind. It was pushing against her small form for a while before she suddenly felt actual bodies pressing towards her. Eliriael lifted her head to see why others had turned around and were rushing past her. Then, Belegos too, preparing to go with them, dropped her hand and turned towards her.

“Wait here Eli, I will return shortly.” The next sentences he seemed to say with some difficulty. “If…If I should not, follow Tuor and his company. They will lead you out of these mountains and to safety.”

She looked up at him disbelievingly, her eyes beginning to dampen, wondering why he was trying to leave. It echoed of her father’s promise to come and find her later, which he had assured her of the previous night. Yet Belegos was resolute and his eyes both pleaded with and commanded her, so she nodded. Belegos then turned to their new friend, who still pushed Vëon’s cart, and spoke with him. Over the wind and elves hastening past, she overheard nothing. Then the golden-haired elf grinned and passed Belegos the sword at his side with one fluid motion. Accepting the blade, her rescuer bowed his head quickly and dashed off in the same direction with other soldiers. She watched his back until his figure dissolved into the throng of warriors just as her father had vanished among the wardens of Gondolin.

 

*****

 

The press was so close that Belegos could barely move his sword-arm and he was buffeted this way and that by the sheer weight of numbers around him. There were not many warriors in truth, but the cleft path was narrow and concentrated their force. He was perhaps four ranks behind the fighting troops, and he noticed that the majority of those about him were of Glorfindel's House, and all of a sudden, whilst stuck in the heat and sway of the throng, he felt an immense loneliness. His thoughts turned to Eliriael, Vëon and the stranger who's care he had left them in. They were his family now, he thought, for his blood he had not seen for many years, since he was a youth. 

His parents had laboured over the Helcaraxë with the Host of Fingon and had settled in Vinyamar under Turgon, yet when the order had come for the people to uproot themselves from their homes and enter the Hidden City, not ever to leave, his mother had spoken out against their Lord, her desire of freedom more than to gaze upon what she had named, "Only a memory of Great Tirion in the West." Though Belegos' father had tried to persuade her otherwise, she would not see reason, yet she accepted that for their son at least, it would be safer in Gondolin, and so it was he was left in the care of his father's sister. Belegos never saw nor heard from his parents from that day, he had not even been sure of where they had travelled to. His mother had suggested Doriath and to live under the protection of King Thingol and his Queen, Melian, but his father had expressed his concern for Thingol's dislike of the Noldor, for it was known well throughout their people. Gradually rumour had reached Turgon's folk behind the Echoriath, and Belegos, despite protestations from his father's sister, from whom he had grown more distant as he and the years had matured, ever increasingly seeking the company of his friends, had begun to believe that his family had been slain in the fall of the many Elf-strongholds of Beleriand overthrown by Morgoth Bauglir. He had loved his parents, truly, but he told himself that they were far from his reach and he could have been no aid to them. When he thought of them at times, he comforted himself in the knowledge of finding them again across the Sea.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, Belegos found himself closer and closer to the front of the fight. He did not need to look about him for those whose place in the battle he took, he could feel them underfoot, stumbling over the bodies of those brave few. He could see now the numbers of the enemy too, and he was dismayed, for they were far greater than the Elven company. Once again, he was forced into the fray as a Fountain Guard was brutally smashed down by an orc wielding a large iron mace. Belegos heard the elf cry out in pain as the ugly head of the weapon connected with his helm, but it was only for an instant. The blade he had been given was light and strong, and it flicked from his hand, darting across him in wide, looping arcs. His battle-instincts took hold of him and his movements were fluid as he hewed at arms and necks and wrists. He had never been the most gifted of swordsmen, but the blade gave him confidence and seemed a cure for his weariness. He wiped dark blood from his face as he pressed forward. Step by bloody step the elves pushed the orcs back, their superior skill, armour and weapons overpowering their foe. Belegos almost dared to smile, pleased with his work, but all around him grew dark and in an instant, dread gripped his heart. About him a new call was being taken up, "A Balrog! Ai! A Balrog has come!" they said.
Its monstrous form appeared tall and terrible as Belegos remembered. It waded through the ranks of the orcs toward the despairing host of Elves, and with every step, all was wreathed in darker shadow. It was then the orcs renewed their attack with greater vigour and all were hard pressed to withstand them for their ferocity had been kindled by the demon and the heat grew nigh on unbearable. 
The Balrog's sword flashed here and there, felling all who stood before it. Belegos could see the burning light of its fiery mane reflecting in the eyes of the orcs and for an instant he grew afraid. As his heart began to quail and all hope was to be utterly drained from him, one drew himself up before the demon. Golden was his hair and his sword was held up in defiance of the darkness. A faint light seemed to glimmer around him, at least that was how it seemed to Belegos. His attention focused elsewhere, he never heard the words that Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, shouted over the din of battle. Whether they were words of encouragement for the troops or of insult to the enemy, it was no matter. Doubt briefly flickered in the Balrog's eyes, if only for a moment.

The fight between them was relentless. Here and there they dashed, the Balrog always attempting to gain ground, yet Glorfindel would not yield, cutting him off at every step. They duelled for what seemed like an age whilst all around them the waves of combat ebbed and flowed in one direction, and then the next. Each gave the other many wounds, some more dreadful than others but it happened that Glorfindel received a great buffet from the fist of the Balrog, knocking his sword from his hand to go spinning out of reach, and he to the ground. Unaware, their only intent being the destruction of the other, they stood near to edge of the chasm, yet now the Balrog loomed above the Elf, as if to finish him in one great blow. But it never came. Blindly, Glorfindel groped around him until his hand found the familiar comfort of cold steel, some sword of a fallen comrade. It was not his own, nevertheless it was Gondolin-forged steel, the likes of which is now most rare. Up went the blade as Glorfindel stood and it buried itself deep in the belly of the Balrog. A great howl of pain and anguish was heard by elf and orc alike and all ceased to watch anxiously the unfolding of the duel. It seemed that the Balrog, mortally wounded, staggered backward towards the precipice, though it was larger than any elf and its reach longer. In one last desperate action, it grabbed at Glorfindel, finding the elf's long, straight hair. 
Down they fell as Glorfindel was dragged into the abyss and all looked on in despair and disbelief. The flame of one loved by all so cruelly extinguished.
Enraged, the remaining elves renewed their fight with the orcs, now filled with fear at the faces of their opponents. All fought as if possessed, Belegos included. In a short time, unable to withstand such strength, the orcs fled, their howls echoing in the cleft. None spoke between them, they only surveyed the dead strewn across the path, and not for the first time, grief took them all.

 

*****

 

“That is all the heart I have to tell even you. The rest is a tale of lonely wandering, for I left Eliriael in the care of Vëon, for when he awoke a madness borne of despair took him. He blamed me for the loss of his family, as I knew he would, for I blame me too.” Said Belegos. His voice sank almost to a whisper. “I do not know if he is alive or dead.”

“Belegos, I… Why is it that you have never told me this all these years?” Danel asked.

“It is my burden to bear. I do not place the grief of it on others.”

They were silent for a while as Danel thought to herself.

“And Eliriael? Do you know what happened to her?” She asked.

“Ah. Now there is a tale of happiness. She sought me, Carnifindë, through all the long years. Or chance brought us together, for she too now dwells in the Valley.” A smile crept over his lips. “There is nothing more precious to me in this world, or the next.”

Danel nodded slowly. Did he still see the same small elf-girl after all this time?

“Belegos, it has been a long time. A very long time, even for ones such as us. Can you not let it go? You did what you thought right.”

“And yet, even after all that, I still abandoned Eli when she needed me. And in truth, when I needed her. But come,” he stood and began retrieving his belongings. “I have talked almost until daylight. I think I have had quite enough of the wild for now. Let us retire to the Hall to hear some happier tales.”

The conversation was over, it seemed to Danel. She would leave it for a time, then perhaps ask again, for there was still so much she would like to know.
Belegos offered her his hand and she took it with a smile, pulling herself to her feet. To Rivendell, then.