22 Ivanneth (September), Third Age 2853
There are nights when the stars feel nearer than mountains, as though they bend low to whisper their truths to those who know how to listen. I have spent countless nights beneath Middle-earth’s heavens, but a few remain etched into my soul—moments when the constellations themselves seemed to speak.
It was in the waning warmth of Ivanneth, in the eastern hills near the eaves of Lothlórien, that I laid back upon a bed of moss and cool stone and let the sky unravel its tales. The leaves had begun to bronze, and the air smelled of fading summer. Above me, the heavens opened like a great book.
The first to appear was Menelvagor, the Swordsman of the Sky—the one Men call Orion. In Sindarin, his name means “The Swordsman of Heaven.” His belt shone bright above the treetops, the sword at his side tilted as if ready for battle. I remembered tales that he was placed in the sky by Varda herself, as a sign against the dark. On that night, I saw in his stance not just defiance, but warning. The next day, I found signs of orc movement far earlier than I had expected. His rising had not been random.
To the north rose Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar—known to the Elves as Rîl Valariand. It was said that Varda placed it in the sky as a warning to Melkor, long before the First Age. Its stars are bright and terrible, and when it hangs low in the sky, I often feel unease ripple through the land. That night, it arced directly over the stream by which I camped. The next morning, I discovered tracks I had missed before—those of a warg, and not a small one.
But not all stars bring dread. One of my most cherished guides is Elenar, or Gil-Estel—the Star of High Hope. It is the light of Eärendil, who sails the sky in his ship bearing a Silmaril. It was under that star I once chose to cross the mist-laden paths of the Emyn Muil rather than turn back. That decision led me to the overgrown ruins of an ancient waypost where I uncovered long-lost scrolls bearing the sigils of Thranduil’s early court. A discovery I might never have made, had I not trusted the light.
I do not pretend to understand the deeper purpose of the stars, only that they hold memory and meaning. Whether they guide all who travel or only those who listen, I cannot say. But I have learned to watch them, and more importantly, to listen—when the stars speak.