The leather binding that held the book together was well worn and stained. No name graced it, but on the first page Bregoàn could make out the words Sundry Tales of Elves and Magic. He had cleared a spot in one of his favorite hideouts in the tall grass of the planes. A clear, and somewhat clean, mat of grass formed a perfect nook for taking in a new book. He had used it often.
He tried to curb his enthusiasm for the book. It wasn’t likely to be helpful. Most books that talked about magic were just full of old wives tales and nonsense. The only thing different about this book was that it was a bit older.
He looked quickly about him again, though he didn’t exactly know why. No one ever came out here. Then, he slowly began leafing through the pages quickly losing himself in the stories. He didn’t understand most of it, and the style did not help. The writing varied from a bit sloppy to hurried scribbles. But mostly, it was filled with names and places he had never heard of. Noldor and Balrogs, hidden kingdoms, elves, and magical jewels all mixed together in the jumble. He couldn’t be sure it was anything more than fairytales, and poorly written ones at that. But, as usual, that did not stop him.
Suddenly, he heard a noise. Two of them, actually: a stick cracked and then there was the sound of a muffled squeak. He closed the book and slipped off down one of his paths through the grasses, trying to see the source of the sound. He wound his way through the grass for a few minutes, cutting off the path here and there. But he could find nothing. Well, if it was gone, so much the better, he thought. Besides, there is still light to read. No point wasting time out here. With that he headed back to his clearing. As he rounded the corner and the clearing came in view, he stopped short. A girl bent over the book, reading and flipping pages. He started toward her, “Hey! What are you doing?”
The girl jumped, startled by his cry, but recovered quickly and looked back at the book, “Wooh. Where did you get this? It must be ancient.”
“I- What- Who are you?”
“Talae. Well,” she wagged her head, “Matalae. What is Gondolin?”
“Okay… so, Matalae, what are you doing here??”
“Oh you can just call me Talae. Everyone does. This is amazing.” She looked around as if including the whole setup in her evaluation.
He stepped quickly to gather the book in his arms, “yes, well. What are you doing here?”
She shrugged, “So, is Gondolin a sword?”
He sighed and looked down, feeling he would never actually get an answer, “No, it’s not a sword. It’s a city. Well, at least, it was a city.” She looked at him expectantly as he paused. “What?” he demanded. “Well, what happened to it? You said ‘was’.”
He shrugged and reopened the book. “I don’t know. I haven’t got there yet. And some of these stories don’t even finish. Like this one.” He pointed out a particular paragraph that ended with a blank line. “They are telling a story about a man named ‘Beren’ and then it just stops, suddenly.”
“Beren? I think I saw that name. Let me see.” She leaned over the book as he cautiously allowed her to flip through the pages. “Here! A few pages farther. It picks up the story again!”
Sure enough, another sudden transition lead back into the story of Beren.
“Come on, let’s find out whatever happened to your ‘Beren’ and this ‘Gondolin’”
Bregoàn tried to stifle a grin. Who was this girl anyway?
