As he looked to the sky, Tashdel 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 so much older than 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 of 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 eminate 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 desparate 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.
