Chapter Text
Gods is what the Atani name the Powers which decide their fate. The word is old. It derives from a time when their ancestors lived in the foreign lands far to the east, before the Eldar told them of the Valar. In their imagination, those Powers had many dwellings: in the tree hollows of ancient oaks, behind the waterfalls of mountain streams, in the moss at the bottom of deep gorges.
Maybe, they realized later (and later means here a short time for the Eldar, but a very long one for Mortals) that they were not fully mistaken.
For it was Oromë the Hunter who left signs and markings at those places when he led the Eldar on their long journey from the star-lit shores of Cuiviénen. They pointed the path for those who had strayed from it and marked shelters from the Dark.
Later (a long time later, even by the Eldar's reckoning) those markings had been clearly visible to him. He had taken them for granted when he navigated by them as he did by the stars, the migration of birds or the trails left by game in the undergrowth.
He reins his horse and looks around.
The night sky is clouded. Wolves have driven away all beasts. He cannot see Oromë's markings on either tree or rock.
It has been half a millennium since he abandoned his God. Now, finally his God has abandoned him, too.
"Have we lost our way, brother?"
The voice sounds close to his right ear.
"Mock me again," snarls Celegorm and jabs him in the ribs with his elbow, "and you will walk. May I remind you that you do not own shoes anymore?"
Wind rises and he turns the horse along its direction. It is as right or as wrong as any other.