The leaves were shearing off, red and gold flames falling away, and Thaliell had come south and west in her wanderings, following the deer. There were others following them too this day. Thaliell always felt mirth and strange pity for the heavy-footed hunters; so much harder it was for them to catch buck or coney and bring it back home to their hungry cubs, since they blundered around like bears in the woods drunk on honey. She trailed after them as evening came on, listening to their talk. At first it was strange, but eventually their manner of speech came back to her enough to make out most of what they said.
"There was a great burning," an old graybeard was saying, who was kindling fire for the evening's camp. "You see the stumps of the giant trees, here and there in the wood: almost gone now, you have to look closely. Fire raged from Long Mountain all up the southern half of the wood, and the smoke covered the West in darkness for days. That was the last battle between Elves and the Dark Lord."
"I heard that was from the fiery mountan far away down south," said another, giving him a quizzical look. "And anyway, that war was a Man's war. Elessar and all, you know, the first King, he beat the Enemies. There were no Elves in the stories with 'im, none but his lady, and she was the last one that stayed behind."
"Well, there were still Elves up north here," the old one said obstinately, "whatever they say in Stone-land. They never pay any attention to Mirkwood; all too high and mighty down in their cities to know what happens in the northlands. There were Elves here, I tell you, and the King got the credit for it, but the Elves always fought the Black Hand, in all the stories; Men just helped. We like to think we're greater than we are."
A third man laughed. "Poor ol' Boric, still sore over that lame buck that got away from him."
A younger man spoke up softly. "You know, I've heard some of the old tales of Mirkwood, back before the Fire, he said carefully. They do say there were Elves, on the north side. But they kept to themselves, mostly, and a strange folk they were. They guarded their forest realm with something they called the Girdle of Melian, and it was woven of silk so fine you couldn't see it, but it would cut a man's face if he tried to pass through. It was their big spiders, Shelob and all, that guarded the edge of the Woodland Realm. And Melian, the White Lady, the Queen of the Elves, she was the one who controlled 'em with her magic ring. A dangerous witch. Few escaped her nets, and fewer still returned to live and tell of it."
Thaliell hopped down from the branches overhead, and her feet made no sound, and men reached for their hunting knives, then stopped, frozen. She was clad almost like them in well-tanned leathers, and her bow and quiver were plain, but her face was fair and glowing in the light of the young fire, the braids in her golden hair glinting like chains of finest copper, and her grey eyes were mirthful, scornful, and filled with countless years like a deep mountain lake left behind by glaciers three Ages past. You mustn't believe all you hear, she said very gently, as if speaking to children.
And none stirred as she sat down beside the fire, drawing her green cloak about herself, and none spoke, and she began to sing.
She sang of the autumn feast and the king's hall on the greensward, platters passing hand to hand, the torches flickering under the trees. She sang of harps of gold and flutes of silver, Elvish lords and ladies with wreaths of leaves crowning their hair. She sang of the dances before dawn, all the stars of heaven, and echoes of the ancient stories about the time before the sun and moon were born, when Elves walked the broad forests alone, and nothing yet had been fashioned of wood, metal, or stone. She sang of the running of deer and the flowing of streams, the clang of the gates of the Elvenking's hall, Lake-town, the Elven villages along the shore, and the rich red wine of Dorwinion. She sang of the little hunting dog her brother had given her with her first bow.
They were spellbound. So perhaps was the fire: it did not burn low, during her singing, although surely she had been there for hours when at last she fell silent. The silence lasted for some time.
"And were there battles?" one asked finally, voice quavering.
Thaliell shook her head. "There were, but not in the Woodland Realm. Other Elves made war. We were forest people, and lived the forest way. That was none of our doing."
"But the Fire," pressed the greybeard, edging away from her now that he had use of his limbs again. "'A great battle and fire under the trees,' they say there was. And I've seen the stumps."
"Yes," she said slowly. "That was true. There was another Elven kingdom to the south, across the River. They made war in the forest. They were afraid of shadows, and called this place Mirkwood, even as you. They had begun to forget that the Firstborn arose before the Sun and Moon, and their eyes could no longer pierce the darkness. Yes, the Golden Wood brought fire."
Something nagged the back of her mind. She could no longer remember those days; she had done her best to forget them. But her words did not seem right. Still, she knew it was trouble with the Lady of the Golden Wood, and her friends the Dwarves, which had sent Thaliell's father and grandfather to move north, away from her webs. Something had happened back then. It didn't matter now. They were gone.
The men were wary and nervous, now, moving restlessly like the leaves of trees before the oncoming storm. Several were gathering up their scant possessions, making ready to depart. Their hands stayed neared knife-hilts or bow-strings, but they were obviously afraid to threaten their strange guest, and the spell of her music was still in their faces, leaving them dazed and muttering. A few, like the young man who had spoken of spiders, still had not stirred. They simply stared at her, the hungry lost yearning of hearts who did not even know what it was beyond their grasp.
Thaliell caught that look on her own face, sometimes, when she stood by the River and looked down into its waters, the last place she had seen her people before they took leave of her. She understood, and pitied them. Therefore she rose and slipped back amidst the trees. She had troubled the strange creatures as much as they could bear.
"Few escape her nets," the greybeard muttered, after she had passed from mortal sight.
Yet she she did not go far. She waited with arms folded, shoulders against the bark of an old beech, knowing at least one had been netted by her speech.
He came with the moon. Tall, for a man, and he did not seem to fear spiders any longer. His bow was at his shoulder, but forgotten. His fur vest, she noticed with amusement, had been brushed and combed, and he seemed to have made some effort with his hair as well, although still he wore only the simple leather tunic, breeches, boots of the Wood-men. He strode eagerly into the forest, and would have been lost; for he did not see the Elf until she spoke his name. That she had learned from his thoughts while he sat listening with the others.
He stopped in his tracks and came back to her. "I knew you were no dream," he said, quick and eagerly. "Not this time. Thank you."
"For what?" the Elf asked, amused. Yes, the fish-hook had caught fast. Almost she regretted it.
His face was clear; he must be young for a human male. His blue eyes were bright and burning. "For being true." Bold he was, planting himself before her, a suppliant.
"You had many stories about me that weren't," she reminded him. "Are you not afraid I will feed you to the spiders?"
He laughed. "There are no spiders, Lady," he returned. "I was listening! But I heard more." Bold indeed. He studied her face as one might search the ground for footprints. "You are so lonely," he whispered. "And so far from home. How could they have left you here?"
There was a silence: the trees paid no mind. The kindness in his eyes was matched by need. Thaliell leaned close, until the boy trembled. "I am home," she laughed, breath puffing against his cheek.
She turned and vanished into the shadows, as swiftly as a deer. He must find his own way home.
