What Does The Fallow Deer Do When Pursued By Wolf-Pack?

The amber-hued lamp sways, casting swinging shadows on the map. It is moved by the autumn breeze, that breathes across our heated faces. I hold down the map and lean across the table. “We need emissaries, Turukanò. I tell you, it is a betrayal to fence ourselves in.”
He looks at me, his face a mask that even his sister cannot know, but I read the doom of Gondolin in his stone eyes. “Tell me, sister, you know the hunt well. What does the fallow deer do when pursued by wolf-pack?”
I snort incredulously. “Do not insult the hart by comparing him and us. We are the hare, we hide in our burrow, behind our mountain-fence.”
“We rest, we breathe, we gain strength,” he argues. “So we can venture out anew.”
“When are we venturing? Tell me that, when
He gathers her in his arms and carries her to her boudoir.
I follow him out the door, but take a different hallway, to stand at a great window and look upon Gondolin, the city of white carven stone. Marble spires fly high in the twilight, gates, and ramparts give stone its accustomed weight once more.
My long knives pressing firm against my leg. I think of Itarildë. She is not a hunter, nay, she is a dancer. She walks barefoot on Nessa’s path, listens to Nessa’s call in the wind, like Elenwë before her. I love her, the little Wind-Dancer, but she is so young, and all her father tells her is that she is safe, safe forever.
But I am different, I am the daughter of Hunt. I was taught, like my kinsman, by Oromë Lord of Forests, Huntsman of the Valar.
I have a hunter’s patience and a hunter’s strategy. I know the Unnamed stalks us. Perchance we have thrown him off our trail for a little while, but only a little while, while he gathers his armies, we wait and do nothing.
I have had this argument with Turukanò before, and I know what he thinks, for he often says it. By Ulmo’s will were we sent here from Nevrast, we shall have no more who break the Válar’s