The twinkling night was cast in the glow of a soft beaming moon. The resting trees were shaded by a dark gloom. A hill stood under the sky which was spread with silver specks in a sea of dark blue. On a dirt path a fire light flickered. The path was carved upon the slope of the grass-covered hill. The fire beamed upon the path, lighting it brightly. Pattering feet scurried up the slope. Children ran; their laughter was constant. An elf sat behind the flames, a slight smile curved upon his shadowed lips.
“Blellanor! Blellanor!” they cried, casting themselves upon the ground at the side of the dancing flames. Blellanor slowly moved his hooded head out of the dark. His arms were clasped about his knees.
“Tell us a tale,” said a young boy, looking up to Blellanor, who gazed down upon him.
“Yes, tell us one,” the other children echoed. Blellanor drew out a whistle from the green folds of his cloak. The whistle glinted in the pale moon beams. His hood fell back upon his shoulders, revealing golden hair. He blew the whistle; a calm soft song came forth; it was like the crackling fire that burned before them. Smooth as the wind, the song played, full of mystery, gliding through the air, letting out the tales of old. The children locked their gazes upon the fire. The song continued as Blellanor’s voice began to speak: it was deep and lifted with wonder:

The wind was crisp as it swept past plains. The grass was green, and the leaves gold, for autumn hath fallen upon the fields. The mountains were still and silent in the glowing dawn. A castle stood at the brink of a rushing river. Upon the terrace of the castle stood a guard, grasping a spear. From the spear’s tip came forth a banner which fluttered in the swift breeze. Upon that banner was a white jewel that shone with the golden rays of the sun. From afar rode a knight: fair as evening and cold as winter. The steed was white and shining as the dew. His mane and tail like the sea. The fields swept swiftly by as the horse yielded his pace. From the castle rang an echoing call of trumpets, greeting the knight that came from afar.

“Calonor! Calonor!” sounded the cheer in the tongues of old as the knight rode with victory in his steed’s stride. Casting aside the worries that held him, he drew out a sword; it glinted and shined with the golden rays, it was long and engraved as in olden times.

“The sword has been won!” the call sang out of the mighty castle. As the knight came to the tumbling river, the sword did slide unto its sheath. Majestically, the horse leapt over the pounding stream. To welcome the knight was a castle ringing out with cheers and rejoicing calls. From the topmost tower came a horn cry, announcing the return of Sir Calonor. As the castle sang with shouts, Calonor came through the gate: tall and proud, a lord of old, and his golden hair flowed beneath his helm. Down the arched streets another knight came to greet him. Upon the knight’s helmet was a blossoming flower, while Calonor’s helmet bore the same, but for two eagle’s wings upon the side. As the sun rose, so did the light in the castle.

“Hail Bracelot, the lord of the east!” Calonor called. From the two high-headed stallions, the knights dismounted and embraced.

Thus the day began and the legend sword was won from the ever evil knight. The sun had risen to its peak, and the castle had gone back to its doings. On a terrace, stood Calonor, the winner of the sword. No armor did he wear, but a cloak and tunic with the sword he had won upon his belt. At his right was Bracelot, his face careworn as he looked upon the day. The forest beamed as it reached upon the slope of the castle. Leaves rustled in a fresh breeze, and the endless horizon was cast with the shadows of purplish mountains. Then, through the utter calmness of the day, a horn was sounded: the horn of the evil knight who so forth lost the sword. And like the wind gathering up fallen things, so did Calonor come unto his armor: light-plated and shaped as leaves. Then a birdlike call came from him; swift and smooth like an eagle’s cry. The drawbridge fell with its cranking, and the patter of the stallion’s trotting hooves came forth.

“And what dost thou challenge?” Calonor called unto the looming forest. The day was not broken by the answer, nor the shadows of the trees by a mounted man. Then came the crackle of rotted leaves beneath the horse’s hooves, and from the forest came the knight, his helm of black and lance of red.

“To a duel of swords for the legend sword and to the death.” the knight did quoth.

“And I do hear and except thy challenge,” thus they dismounted. Two long swords were drawn from their sheaths, and they clashed with a thunder. The sound of their cries and steel upon steel echoed about. A crack in the black knight’s armor was shone; and so the sharpness of Calonor’s sword pierced him and so came the black one’s death.

Thus, the end, but begins the tale, when Calonor goes forth from his castle, never to return.

The silence fell, and the leaves rustled in the wind.

“What is Calonor’s name in our tongue?” Asked a boy, looking deep into the crackling flames. Then the answer came from the lips of the elf.

“Blellanor. I think you might know him,” and thus he vanished into the trees.