The Stars of the Wilderness

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. It’s 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, Tashdel,” 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 hair matched the colour of his. She too wore garments of green and like Belegos’ they were weather stained.
Unlike him she was young, though ancient in the years of men. A child of the Second Age of the world and she possessed all of the grace and beauty and wisdom of her kind. She was a hunter. A tracker in the wild. A student of the Woods.

Yet if she was the student, 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 Noldorin fury. For a Noldor he was. One of the few folk of the past that now remained East of the sea.

“It must be,” Tashdel 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. Tashdel 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 Tashdel 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-i-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, “my mother. She was of the city of Gondolin. Were you not one of the Gondolindrim also as she once told me? How is it then that you escaped the sack of that place? I would hear tales from those times, 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. 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.