In a wide room arrayed with all manner of decorations, Belegos busied himself with countless maps, haphazardly strewn across a long, worn, oak table. A fire burned on the hearth behind him, and he had lit torches on the wall. He had decided to come into the Vanimar House itself, for though the number of those in Vanimar were not few, the House was always unusually deserted, he thought. Plus, the House had a wealth of maps and materials suitable for his task.
He had pouring over the maps for hours now, but had got almost no further than his vague outline of a plan in his head. He knew which way to take, which was likely to be the safest route, and the quickest. He had trodden all of the shifting paths underneath the Mirkwood before, yet here he was, standing in Bar-en-Vanimar, becoming more and more frustrated. He had realised a short time ago that it was an exercise in futility. His mind was not fixed to the job at hand. At that moment, as hard as he might, even with the journey looming but days away, his thoughts wandered further than his feet ever could. He grabbed an ornate goblet that was on the table, raised it to his lips and took a long, deep breath. Looking into his cup, he watched as the reflections danced off the surface of the wine. It looked almost black in the light. He took a long draught from the goblet, draining what was left of the wine and placed it back on the table. He steeled himself for the maps once more and returned to his work.
An hour had passed, maybe two, and Belegos had again got no further. He sat in a fine, high-backed, oaken chair, his elbow resting on the table. His one hand supported his head whilst the fingers on the other drummed repeatedly on the table.
As quick as a flash, and with an indistinguishable cry, he leaped up, the chair falling backwards with the force. He swept his arm over the table, flinging all of the maps, the goblet and the empty bottle of wine on the floor. A smash echoed around the room as the bottle broke into pieces and the goblet clattered on the stone, but the elf did not listen. Instead, he pulled out the knife he always carried with him, and in rage, he drove the blade deep into the table. It quivered for a while after he took his hand from the hilt. His eyes remained fixed on it until it was stuck there, motionless.
He turned to face the hearth, and placed his face in his hands. What is the matter with me? He asked himself in his head. It had not been the first time that night.
Earlier, he had seen the Lady Danel and had been shocked by her news. Though she had tried to hide her face, her attempts had been in vain, for Belegos saw that she was covered in bruises, cuts, and she bore a limp when she walked. He was horrified. Usually she was so... Graceful. Delicate almost. He had not shown his alarm, as they had not been alone, though the thought of her injuries had burned in him for the rest of the night.
When he had asked her what had occurred, she said simply, "I... I asked for some training.". Only the other day Belegos had said to her how he had underestimated her when they had first met in Elrond's Halls. For then he had believed she was another pleasant elf-lady, nothing more. But now, he thought, she had grown in his eyes. He saw her for who she was, and what she had been all those years ago. The ages had taken their toll, as they did on all of the elves, though she did not show it. Inside burned all of the fervour of her Fëanorian kin though it was her wisdom, patience and understanding that shone through all the brighter.
Belegos was no fool, no matter what anyone thought of him. He had never been the most learned of elves, though he had some measure of wisdom in his own way. He had guessed what had happened. He knew who Danel would have gone to for instruction, and it overwhelmed him with grief and anger. He realised he was torn between his friends. That, he thought, was the reason he was in a black-mood tonight. He had been telling himself that for hours in the hope that he would believe it himself.
He shook himself free of his temper and ever so slowly, pulled up his hood, his eyes shadowed in the fire-light. He turned and violently wrenched the knife free of the table, sliding it back into his belt. He looked about him for a moment, then, finding what he wanted, walked over to a shelf and pulled off a scroll. He knew not what was written on the parchment and neither did he care. He untied the red ribbon that kept the paper rolled up tightly and threw the scroll onto the table carelessly. Taking up the large map of Eriador, and overlaying it with another of Rhovanion, he rolled them together and fastened them with the ribbon. The time was now nigh to present his plans, such as they were, to Danel, her face still etched on his mind.
He clenched his jaw and walked toward the door to leave. Just before he opened it, he stopped, his hand outstretched to the iron latch.
"It was just the wine," he told himself.
Perhaps he was more of a fool than he thought.
