The Seven Gates by Laerthel

PROLOGUE - An Ode to the Fallen

Read PROLOGUE - An Ode to the Fallen

Before you begin...

This fanfiction is a retelling (a novelization, you could say) of The Silmarillion, chapter XX, with a few twists. As such, it is filled with mythological lore, cites quite a few fictive languages, and is generally difficult to read –  but hey, maybe some of you will be hooked.

Professor Tolkien owns everything apart from my OC-s, of course.

Enjoy your reading!

Laerthel

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“In those days Maedhros son of Fëanor lifted up his heart, perceiving that Morgoth was not unassailable; for the deeds of Beren and Lúthien were sung in many songs throughout Beleriand. Yet Morgoth would destroy them all, one by one, if they could not again unite, and make new league and common council; and he began those counsels for the raising of the fortunes of the Eldar that are called the Union of Maedhros.”

/ J. R. R. Tolkien - The Silmarillion; XX. Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad /

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An Ode to the Fallen
(as sung in the Hall of Fire in the Last Homely House by those who still remember)

Torches burnt low and darkness grew
in starlight's gleam hope stirred anew
in weary hearts of iron hewn
on brows clouded by icy gloom.

Proud kings fled and proud realms failed
our lands devoured by fire;
bury the dead and drain the mead
were all my heart's desire;
but lo! New threat comes from the North
along with hope, though be it false!
New hordes of Orcs are stepping forth
let thus a tale of woes be told;

Of he who walks in starlight,
who drapes himself in clouds
He who hides in caves and breaches,
icy peaks that Darkness shrouds;
of he who climbed those Mountains
where all paths find their ends;
of he who found pride, worth and might
where plague, danger and evil dwelt:

Of he who was not without fear
but strong enough he was;
of he whose fate, though hard to bear,
was still the one he chose;
and all those swords and all that light
and all those clear eyes burning bright;
O! Let me sing of silent nights,
of mighty deeds and twinkling stars;

Our Bane with valor in the midst
with life in death's embrace
as proud armies rode in the mist
with the worst of foes to face;
Our Alliance, our deepest sorrow
let our Great Tale begin!
Let the light of day stir by the morrow
while crows feast on our kin.

A Scandalous Nonsense

Counsellor Tyelcano receives a report the contents of which simply cannot be true. He has no choice but to inform his Lord Maedhros immediately, which leads to a shocking realization.

Read A Scandalous Nonsense

THE SEVEN GATES

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"Hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it."

Romans 8:24

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The Fortress of Himring, FA 467, late Súlimë

Under the soft silk nightrobe that swerved at every start of his limbs, Counsellor Tyelcano was fidgeting. There was simply no other word for it.

He was also fingering his chalice, quite nervously.

In front of him lay a stained piece of parchment: a report from the homecoming scouts that had been handed straight to him due to its most urgent nature. His Lord Maedhros, however, had already retired to his chambers for the night, and Counsellor Tyelcano was unwilling to disturb him. It was much easier to pour himself a cup of fine red wine and read the report alone – or so he'd thought.

It had not seemed a daunting task at first, considering that the text was rather sparing of words – laconic, one could say –, confined to three brief sentences.

Lords Tyelkormo and Curufinwë banned from Nargothrond. One of the Silmarili stolen, and in the hands of Thingol. Moringotto sleeps no more.

Tyelcano took a generous sip of wine and read the report again, but the words remained the same, assertive, merciless. His eyes stopped several times above the words banned, Silmarili and stolen, a feeling of great unease surging inside him.

First of all, this was a fake report. Tyelcano did not recognize the handwriting, and any scout of the Himring would have known better than to state things of such gravity without any proof or details. If the Counsellor twisted his mind, the thick, abundant outlines of the tengwar reminded him of something – someone? - but his thoughts lost their track when he tried to match them with a face. No: this was no doing of the scouts, nor of anyone else within the grim walls of the fortress.

Tyelcano pushed the shards of wax back together to examine the seal, but he found nothing suspicious. It was of origin, much like any other seal in the huge pile of documents that lay next to him on the desk.

It must have been replaced, Tyelcano decided. Someone took the original report, exchanged it with this chaotic mess of lies, then sealed it, possibly very pleased with themselves. But how and why? Who could have the courage – the madness – to steal a secret document right from Lord Maedhros's scouts, only to replace it with utter nonsense that no one would ever be likely to believe?

The whole endeavour seemed completely pointless; and even if Counsellor Tyelcano hated unanswered questions with passion, he preferred to retrieve the original report first – or have it rewritten, if necessary.

Whoever stole the original one, good luck to them with deciphering all the codes, he smirked.

(Lord Maedhros had always been quite resourceful when it came to using secret keywords where none were suspected; a sentence could read “Remnants of an Orc camp found two and a half miles north from river Celon, third bend”, and actually mean “Lord Maglor is to pay a visit with a dozen riders in a fortnight”).

Tyelcano suppressed a sigh, and read the message once more. He could not get rid of the sensation of overlooking something evident, something that was about to pass right under his nose. There was something about this message that bothered him.

“Moringotto sleeps no more,” he muttered under his breath.

Not that it was a surprise.

Four winters ago, the Enemy had assailed the Kingdom of Hithlum in the North, sudden, unannounced; so swiftly that the worst of the fight was over by the time Lord Maedhros gathered his army to offer help. Since then, silence and stillness reigned in Beleriand, interrupted only once in a while by Orcs lingering in the woods and moorlands. Some were whispering that the Enemy had gone to sleep, but some others – and Counsellor Tyelcano was one of them - were convinced that he was merely biding his time.

One of the Silmarili stolen, and in the hands of Thingol, Tyelcano read again, frowning. Only once in his waking life had he been granted with the opportunity to meet the King of the Úmanyar; and Thingol did not seem one who would risk a desperate quest to Angamando. And how could he ever dream to claim a Silmaril for himself? Why him?

Why one of the Moriquendi? Tyelcano thought with scorn – then quieted his thoughts immediately. This was not the moment to get carried away. After all, what was he reading? A bunch of nonsense. A Silmaril stolen, in the hands of Thingol? The idea was ridiculous, even for the vapidest kind of jest.

Angamando is impenetrable, Tyelcano reminded himself. The Silmarili cannot be reclaimed, unless – unless Moringotto comes forth to face us. And Manwë help us all if he ever does that.

Manwë has been the lone and constant recipient of Tyelcano's prayers since his lord's rescue, and even now as he uttered his name and unwrinkled the parchment under his hands, his fëa felt a little lighter. Tyelcano read the text for what seemed like the thousandth time, now aloud.

“Of course,” he murmured immediately afterwards.

There actually was a code hidden within the message, although it read no more than a name, swiftly (and overwhelmingly) recognized by Tyelcano as the handwriting's owner.

Which meant – Valar, could it mean that the news were actually true?!

I any case, Lord Maedhros needed to be woken at once.

Tyelcano got to his feet, wrapped a thick black cloak around himself before one could mouth inappropriate attire, and rushed out of the room, clutching the precious report in his fist.

*

It was the third hour of the day, and lights were burning low along the corridor. The march to the lord’s chambers seemed longer than usual, and Tyelcano had to grab a torch to light his way through a particularly nasty, narrow stone bridge that linked two archways below open air. It had probably not been built for sauntering across the castle in one’s nightrobes, but the Counsellor knew all roundabouts and secret corners in the fortress, and maintained the right to use them as he wished.

When he reached his lord's doorstep at last, Tyelcano unfolded the parchment with his free hand and ran through it one last time. He considered setting it on fire and pretend it had never existed – it would have perhaps gained him a peaceful day, or another. One could not, however, change the patterns in Vairë's weaves and shut out the perils of the world. The report was already here, another thing to accept, to do with; and so the feather-light veil that separated peace from war needed to be drawn yet again.

We shall not know peace until Moringotto's realm is overthrown, Tyelcano thought as he entered the room. We shall not know peace until the Oath is fulfilled. I have known this. Why should it strike me every time as a novelty?

Tyelcano slipped his torch into a free holder on the side of the wall and stepped into the room. The light of a forgotten candle flickered faintly in the lord's bedchamber, but it was empty: the cushions at their place, the sheets clean and untouched. Lord Maedhros was lounging in the wide armchair behind his desk instead, quill still in hand as he slept peacefully, his breathing steady and deep. Several piles of notes were lying around him, written in his own messy hand, as if he had been searching for something; and the Counsellor knew better than to look at them.

Tyelcano could not help but watch his lord for a few moments. Seldom had he ever seen Maedhros rest so peacefully since his rescue, and it pained him to disturb him in his sleep.

“Lord Nelyo,” he said gently, his voice no stronger than the rustle of leaves on a windy autumn eve.

Maedhros shifted his weight unconsciously from his left arm to the right, and gave a low grunt. Two centuries ago, such a movement would have made him scream in pain, Tyelcano knew, but the world had changed; and so had he.

“My lord,” the Counsellor called again. “You need to wake! I have news.”

“...all flowers shall wither,” Maedhros mumbled. He lifted his head unconsciously for a moment, shifting weight onto his shoulders.

“Lordship!” Tyelcano called, squeezing Maedhros’s hand. He knew better than to shake him. “Wake up!”

“...in sorrow it has started and in sorrow it must end; behold the banners as they gleam in the light of the rising sun! The night is passing but another night shall come, blacker than ink, black as the Void beyond the Circles of the World.”

Tyelcano froze. Maedhros's eyes were open now, gleaming distantly; it seemed that he had slipped from the state of deep, undisturbed sleep to a more conscious one where he was able to chase dreams, and live them.

The case of the report was urgent, and Tyelcano had to wake his lord immediately. It was his duty to do so… but those words, those words filled him with great wonder and disbelief. Wonder, because they sounded so strange; and disbelief, because they sounded so familiar...

“...many years could one wander and many years could he hope, yet he shan't succeed; the mountains are high and the peaks icy cold, and all flowers shall wither.”

Tyelcano gasped loudly as he realized why did he know these words – and his lord's eyes flew open, fully open, and he was awake.

“Counsellor!” said Maedhros, somewhat grudgingly. “Dawn is still far.”

“As I am aware, lordship.” Tyelcano bowed, collecting himself. “Forgive me, but there is an important matter we should discuss immediately.”

Maedhros stretched his long legs and slid the stump of his maimed right hand from the table, out of sight, as was his habit.

“And what would that be?”

Tyelcano heroically suppressed the need to ask his lord about his latest wandering in Irmo's lands. “The scouts arrived,” he said instead, “and brought a most... strange message.”

Maedhros raised a thin eyebrow. “Tell me more.”

“At first, my lord, I deemed it was some kind of tasteless joke, because – well, read it for yourself.”

Maedhros took the parchment from his Counsellor.

“Carnistir!” he exclaimed at once.

“That was what I read from the codes, too,” Tyelcano nodded. “It may still be some kind of ruse, but that would mean someone deciphered our system of messaging, which is a rather intimidating possibility.”

“No,” Lord Maedhros shook his head. “Never. Besides, this is my brother's hand; his letters betray him.”

Now that the first matter was settled, Maedhros proceeded to read. Tyelcano watched his face eagerly: brows rising to impossible heights, lips straightening and pressing forcefully against each other, jawline suddenly harder and visible. Minutes passed like this – Maedhros sitting like a statue, eyes running up and down the parchment again and again; and Tyelcano standing, waiting, watching. Eventually, Maedhros placed the message on the table and leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable.

“Do you still like wine, Counsellor?” he asked quietly.

“Wine, my lord?”

“You smell of it. I want to smell of it, too, if you don’t mind.”

With that, the lord reached out to the top of the nearest drawer and dropped a flagon on the table. Tyelcano closed his eyes, revelling in the rich, sweet scent of wine.

“Counsellor?” Maedhros said softly. “Would you be so kind and hold our goblets? I am afraid I cannot handle this situation.”

His voice was at the same time amused and acid.

“I – oh – I apologise, lordship.”

Tyelcano sprang to his feet and reached for the wine. Silence stretched between them afterwards; Maedhros drank deep, and he did not grant him as much as a glance for several minutes. When Tyelcano could not bear it longer, he spoke up.

“May I ask what your thoughts were on the report?”

“Oh, that.” Maedhros leaned back comfortably in his chair. “Interesting, eh?”

“Interesting is maybe not the word I would use,” said Tyelcano cautiously.

“Can we settle for amusing, then?”

“Definitely not, my lord.”

Maedhros took another fair sip of the wine, and studied him from above his goblet.

“So my Counsellor is not amused. Nor should be I, in that case. May I ask what your thoughts were, then?”

“Well, I was hoping that the message would prove fake; but if it came from your lord brother, it must be true. Which entails... certain possible complications.”

“Certain possible complications.” Maedhros echoed, with an unmistakeable glint of amusement in his eyes.

“It sounds completely asinine!” Tyelcano crossed his arms. “How Lord Carnistir became acquainted with such news, I cannot imagine, unless...” He frowned, sudden and hard, as a possibility flashed through his mind.

“That unless is why you're here for,” Maedhros said, eyes alight with interest. “Tell me!”

“A few months ago,” Tyelcano said, “a letter came from your brother Tyelkormo. Do you still have it, my lord? I would never intrude your privacy, but I wonder if he mentioned anything about...”

“Manwë!” Maedhros sighed. “What a desperate fool I am! Of course – that letter has the answers; and I even remember...”

After no more than a minute of rummaging, Maedhros found the ominous letter. “Here it is!” He whispered. “Listen… I am tempted to think, brother, that the intelligence of our House has run out with us. Findaráto is not only a great fool, but also quite dangerous, for he spreads that folly. Here he is, seeking to accompany a mortal Man into the hells of Angamando, to steal a Silmaril – a piece of our rightful heritage – from Moringotto, in exchange for the hand of Thingol's daughter! I repeat, Maitimo – a mortal Man!

They sought to hide their treason from me and Curufinwë, knowing that we would strongly protest. But – as he so wisely puts it – let them! We shall let the dullards find their own ends, their own despair. I can only hope that Findaráto or any of those who are willing to follow him (they shan't be numerous, we'll see to that) won't tell the Enemy in their torment, how to best assault Nargothrond, at least.”

This was more than Tyelcano could suddenly bear.

“Venomous words,” he said in a low voice, “but they have truth in them. However, with what we know now, this means... that they succeeded?”

“They obviously did.” Maedhros’s voice was very cold. “I was a fool; I did not heed Tyelko's warning. I thought this could never happen.”

“We need to know how,” Tyelcano whispered. “If a mortal Man could truly enter his fortress, Moringotto's power must dwindle...”

“A mortal Man and the daughter of Melian the Maia, I kindly remind you. We have to find out why exactly my brothers were banned from Nargothrond – though the answer, I take it, would likely be high treason – and what does Carnistir have to do with all this.” Maedhros crossed his arms. “When that is done, we can content ourselves with hopes and dreams if you wish.”

Tyelcano stood. “And your command is…?”

“Letters to my six brothers, biding them to come immediately. Send a letter to Findekáno as well, asking for news. Very formal and evasive, that one. If he knows something, he will understand. And double the watch. If you have news, seek me out and we'll discuss it at once. You will share your thoughts with me, and only me.”

“As you wish.”

“Now find some rest, Counsellor – and do take the rest of the wine with you. Delicious.”

“It is.” Tyelcano said, his curiosity suddenly overwhelming him. He decided to take a small risk, and sat back in the wide armchair; and he said, in the most casual tone he could suddenly produce:

“Grant me one more moment, my lord, for I must mention... You were talking in your sleep.”

Maedhros said nothing, but arched his eyebrows.

“You said something about the withering of flowers and the passing of night, and –”

“It was only a dream,” said Maedhros. “And now, if you have nothing else to discuss with me...”

“Dark is the night and ice crumbles beneath his feet as he crawls,” Tyelcano said, taking a leap of faith. “Hideous creatures lurk in the walls and he flees from them, draping himself into the canvas that is the night. But he who walks in starlight does not flinch; he hides in caves and near breaches and behind rocks, and on he wanders, and on he wanders, but a dead end awaits. The gates are closed.”

Maedhros was staring at him in awe. “But how could you...” he breathed. “I was not there in my dream yet!”

Tyelcano blinked. “Was it not for the first time, then, that you dreamed of such things?”

“It is the same almost every night,” Maedhros shrugged. “Withering flowers, flowing banners, darkness and icy peaks; sometimes a white city draped in moonlight. Why would you ask?”

“Because the same vision has been tormenting me for weeks, my lord,” Tyelcano said gravely. “I thought it would cease in time, but it doesn’t; and if you are seeing it, too…”

“This is very strange indeed,” Maedhros mused. “Have you ever seen the white city? In your dream, that is.”

“Nay. The only thing I remember is crawling in the darkness, shaking all over from the cold. And the gates –”

“The gates are closed.” Maedhros sighed. “I know. I wonder what could it all mean.”

---

Chapter End Notes

 

Pocket Quenya:

Súlimë – March (Gwaeron in Sindarin).

Tyelkormo = Celegorm

Curufinwë = Curufin

Carnistir = Caranthir

'Maitimo' means 'well-shaped one'; it is Maedhros's amilessë (mother's name), used only by family members or close friends.

Findekáno = Fingon

Angamando = Angband

The Úmanyar = "Those of not Aman" ~ the politically correct name referring to "The Moriquendi" = "The dark elves" ~ those who never sailed.

On the use of Quenya

In this story, Quenya language is still actively in use between the Feanoreans’ household as they consider it an important part of their cultural heritage. This sense of importance may vary from convenience (Tyelcano) to habit (Maedhros) to political stance (Curufin). Likewise, Tyelcano’s and Maedhros’s viewpoints only use Quenya when they speak, and Curufin’s expands the use of Quenya to the entire narrative.

Regarding Gondolin, the presence of Quenya is due to more practical reasons, as it was admittedly widespread in Turgon’s household. For this reason, the use of Quenya expands to names and even places in Glorfindel’s and Erestor’s viewpoints.

ON THE MARKING OF DATES: Since the story is being told from different viewpoints, and the characters are often far away from each other, I have decided to date the chapters, according to OUR calendar (365 days, 12 months, etc) and not the Elvish one. I will, however, use the Quenya names of the months (always translated in the Notes).

An Earnest Seeker

Laurefindil receives terrible news, and Lómion is offended.

Read An Earnest Seeker

The palace of King Turukáno, Ondolindë, FA 467, late Súlimë

Lómion’s voice was low and shrill; and from behind his back it came, as it so often would.

“Well met, Captain! I did not dream to find you awake.”

Laurefindil laughed. “And tell me, why would I waste such a pleasant morning on mere sleep?”

Thick fog was sprawling below their feet, past the balustrade and out in the open air, as if they were walking above mist and among clouds. The Tower of the King cut through its dim, heavy layer like a mithril-blade, gleaming sharp and needle-thin.

“…beautiful, do you think not? The last few mornings left me wandering if the city was still down there, though.”

“Have no doubt,” said Counsellor Lómion and he moved smoothly closer to the balustrade. “Look at the tower-tops and your memory shall paint the rest.”

“Is that why I see you out here at this early hour? Painting?”

Lómion blinked. “I come to you at the behest of the King. The Eagles brought news – none of them pleasant, I fear. The Council shall be gathered in a few days and King Turukáno wants you to be informed beforehand.”

“I’m honoured,” said Laurefindil, although this was mere formality. He already knew that King Turukáno valued his opinion as much as Lómion's – mostly because the pair of them would seldom agree.

The Counsellor nodded as he fell into step with him. They descended to a lower level of the walls, where the impenetrable blade of white rock adjoined an open archway, leading to the South Wing of the Palace. Laurefindil halted in the middle there, and leaned against the epaulement.

The dim tumult of fog was still well below him, but a few puffs of mist were so close he felt as though he could reach out and catch them. Dewdrops moistened his fingers when he touched the shimmering wall; then, as he touched his face, the subsiding water was so clear and cool it made him blink.

“It reminds me of the springs near Tirion,” he said absently.

“I happen to enjoy washing my face in clouds as well,” Lómion admitted, “albeit for a simpler reason.”

“And what is that?”

“I have always thought it was impossible.”

Laurefindil smiled. “I understand.”

“Do you, now?”

Laurefindil gave a slow nod. “Now,” he said, “tell me about those grave news. I doubt you are here to discuss the nature of clouds, after all.”

Lómion did not stop smiling, but Laurefindil noticed that the smile did not reach his eyes. He glanced around to see if they were alone: thus strengthened in his resolve, he sat beside Laurefindil, atop the balustrade. Neither spoke for a while; they waited in quiet, swinging their legs above the misty void. The sky was a deep, clear blue above them, the white walls of the Palace shimmering like a mountain forged of diamonds.

“A few hours ago…” Lómion spoke up hesitantly. “Well. A few hours ago, in the middle of the night, Thorondor, the King of Eagles himself came and wished to speak with King Turukáno; then persisted until we woke him up. They met in the courtyard, next to the Fountains; and they spoke until dawn. The Eagle brought many news, among them an incredible story… It seems that Lúthien Tinúviel, the princess of Doriath fell in love with Beren Erchamion, a mortal Man; and together, they broke the black gates of Angamando and stole a Silmaril from the Enemy's crown. This tale, King Thorondor said, is now spreading to every corner of Beleriand, and soon it shall be heard by the Sons of Fëanáro… and King Findekáno… and Men and Dwarves and Sindar and Teleri… and who knows what doom it may yet bring upon us!”

“One of the Silmarili!” Laurefindil exclaimed, deaf to anything else. “You said they stole one of the Silmarili?!”

 “You heard me.”

“And what has become of it?”

“Of that, we cannot be sure; but when it comes to the Gates of Angamando...”

“Lómion, this is extremely important! What has become of the Jewel?”

Abrupt silence fell between them, and Lómion's eyebrows arched higher.

“...I apologize for my crude words,” Laurefindil said hastily, “but the question of the Silmaril is delicate and pressing. Would you please tell me everything you know about it?”

“It is said that the Jewel was brought back to King Thingol, in most unbelievable circumstances,” said Lómion rigidly.

“And he kept it for himself?”

“And so he did.”

Laurefindil sighed. “This means war,” he said quietly. “The Seven Sons shall never let him have it. This means another terrible battle, Lómion, where our closest kin shall slay our furthest; and all of their deaths shall be in vain.”

“Let the fools slay each other,” said Lómion. “This is precisely why our wise King chose to settle here, among the Oroquilta... More pressing, however, is the fact that the Enemy has been woken from his sleep and he shall no longer sit idly. The Eagles say that his spies are everywhere. We have to double the watch! King Turukáno, as you are aware, has been troubled for years, seeking to help his brother, inviting him and his people to Ondolindë to live here; and now he is torn between that, and shutting the Gates once and for all. I have not changed my mind ever since: if we are to contact the outside world now, we risk being discovered, and thus destroyed.”

“So you would abandon our kin, helpless against the wrath of both the Kinslayers and the Enemy,” said Laurefindil rigidly.

“I said nothing alike.”

“Your words themselves contain your judgement. How could you be so cold, child? They are our kin, yours even more than mine, even though you never knew them. We should help them, and help them all! Help them now! Who are we to judge who has the right to be safe and who has not? We have been isolated for too long.”

“When it comes to the threat of the Black Foe,” said Lómion gravely, “I am indeed colder than ice – and you should be as well. We are talking about the safety of the King Turukáno, who, I kindly remind you, is my uncle; and twofold he is dear to me: as a leader and as one of my closest kin.”

“King Findekáno is your uncle, too,” said Laurefindil. “I am only asking you to remember that.”

“That I shall. And I shall also clash against you in council if need be.”

“Why, I look forward to that.” Laurefindil smiled wryly. “Shall we learn more there?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Very well,” Laurefindil sighed. “You gave me much to think about. Is there anything else the King wants me to know?”

Lómion closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, they were shimmering with pity and concern – open emotions, which was remarkably unlike him.

“There is one more thing. I hate to be the harbinger of grief, but the King insisted you should hear this before the Council. I am sorry, Laurefindil… but your friend, King Findaráto, has been slain.”

“Findaráto...?”

Laurefindil had not spoken the name for what seemed like Ages, but it has always been there, lingering at the back of his mind.

“...slain...?”

His head reeled wildly, as if he was drunk; and for a moment, he felt like falling into the misty void beneath.

Lómion put a cautious hand on his shoulder, and Laurefindil schooled himself. He was the Head of the House of the Golden Flower, Captain of the King's Guards and Marshal of his Armies – not some whining elfling! No one was allowed to see him perturbed.

“Do we know how…?”

Lómion seemed to ponder that for a moment. “Not precisely.”

Laurefindil drew a sharp breath. “I – King Turukáno was right. I needed to know. Thank you.”

Lómion nodded. “I presume you now wish to be alone.”

*

Fog was lifting over the green valley of Tumladen; the silhouettes of houses and small towers were becoming visible, grey shadows on a lighter canvas, but Laurefindil paid them no heed. He strode back to his chambers instead, locked the door, and collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in his palms.

Findaráto slain...

No tears came, only the gut-wrenching feeling of despair… and remorse.

He was slain – one I cared for, amongst hundreds. Or thousands, for all I know. How many more? How many more deaths have gone unannounced since I’ve been sitting here in idle peace?

A time may still come when the Enemy finds us; and what then? Where shall we run if all our friends are killed? We hide behind barred gates and impenetrable mountains, untouched by the perils of Beleriand and thus taking no part of it. Why did we let this happen?

For the first time since he came in Ondolindë, Laurefindil found himself openly missing the rest of the world. He missed the friends he left when he decided to follow his King; he missed green Vinyamar and the seashores; he missed the sight of wide plains as he rode out to the fields of Nevrast.

We have been isolated for too long, he thought.

---

Chapter End Notes

Pocket Quenya

Laurefindil = Glorfindel [m.: "golden head of hair"]

Lómion [m.: "child of twilight"] is an amilessë (mother's name) for Maeglin [m.: "sharp glance"]

Findaráto = Finrod [m.:"golden-haired champion"]

Turukáno = Turgon

Fëanáro = Fëanor

Findekáno = Fingon

Moringotto = Morgoth

 

‘Oroquilta’ is a Quenya translation for the Echoriath (Encircling Mountains) around Gondolin. Since I found no Quenya equivalent for it, I allowed myself to create one. Basis: oro /mount, mountain/ + qilti- /gird, encircle/ -> quilta- / imitating later verb forms and some vocal harmony.

Ondolindë [m.:"the rock of the music of water"] = Gondolin [m.: "stone of music"]

On the use of Quenya: According to the Unfinished Tales and Tolkien’s Letters, “Turgon after his foundation of the secret city of Gondolin had re-established Quenya as the daily speech of his household” ; “Quenya was in daily use in Turgon's house, and was the childhood speech of Eärendil” ;  and Tuor heard the Guard of Gondolin speak “in the High Speech of the Noldor, which he knew not”. Also, Eöl later called his son by the Sindarin name Maeglin, but Aredhel “taught Maeglin the Quenya tongue, though Eöl had forbidden it”.

A Face from the Past

Laurefindil meets a child who is no longer a child, and Ecthelion feels left out.

Read A Face from the Past

The next morning, Laurefindil was surprised – and less than pleased – to hear the same sleek voice calling after him.

“This morn, Lómion, it is me who did not dream to find you awake,” he said. “Have the Eagles returned?”

“Nay,” said Lómion. “Sleep eluded me tonight, and so I decided to take a walk till the night turned into dawn. I was heading back to my quarters when I saw you crossing the marketplace; the streets are quiet and the peace of my mind returns.”

Laurefindil risked a glance at the Counsellor. Lómion's eyes made him as uneasy as ever: they were too lively and yet too distant; and they spoke of knowledge; an understanding of things well beyond his age.

“...and then you realised that your peace was again perturbed by my presence,” he said with a smile.

Lómion turned away from him. “You jest, Captain; and yet our last conversation left me tense and wondering.”

“In that case, you must forgive me. It was out of grief that I spoke; and it may as well be that my words cut deeper than I thought.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Lómion. “But pray tell me, Laurefindil: do you think I am cold-hearted?”

Laurefindil blinked. Since when did Lómion care what anyone thought of him…?

“I do not remember saying that.”

“No indeed: you would never insult me so. Yet it seemed to me that you thought I was – or would be – unmoved by your pain; that I did not care for those outside Ondolindë. It is no intention of mine, of course, to cross any line of intimacy, but you made me ask myself if there was anything about my behaviour that implied cold-heartedness… callousness... dispassion...”

A minute passed in silence before it dawned on Laurefindil that he could not, by any means, avoid answering.

“I find, Lómion,” he said at length, “that you are courteous and delicate. Clever and observant. You know your limits and your qualities and you use them well. This may indeed make you seem stern, sometimes distant. But callous? Dispassionate? I think not. After all, do we act out of character or choice…? I doubt anyone could tell me that. You may think that I am putting pride and revenge before duty when I want us to stop hiding; and I may think that Eru had wrought your heart from ice. Thinking, however, does not make any of these assumptions true; and I am unfit to make judgements in this matter. Are you not?”

“Am I?” Lómion raised his brows. “Intriguing. What if all my sternness is an act fuelled by mere caution? Or the wish to spare lives? Does that make me a liar? Should I speak the truth, then, and let disaster happen?”

Laurefindil stared at the silvery white gleam on the pavement, as if it was the greatest wonder of Ondolindë.

“Yes and no,” he said at length. “I cannot tell you which choice would be the right one, or which one I would choose.”

“How about betrayal, then? Should I break a promise if it means that I can save my family? Should I defy my king if he belied the bonds of blood and honour? Should I clash against my brother-in-arms in a battle if he is grief-stricken and desperate, and might hurt others or himself? Should I tell a mother that her son is dying, or should I let her hope until he draws his last breath?”

“Yes, yes and yes,” said Laurefindil. “But never crush the hopes of a mother. I refuse to live in a world where there is no hope.”

“Is that a command of head or heart, then?”

“At times, they do mingle,” Laurefindil mused. “May I answer you with a question?”

He expected a dark glare, or some quick snap of the other’s tongue as an answer; something like “you already have,” but there came none.

“…my question is: why does it matter?”

Lómion's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why does it matter? You could then ask – why anything matters?”

“Aye, a fair question in return.” Laurefindil laughed. “Why? And: does it?”

“I fail to understand you.”

“And I you, Lómion. You are of royal blood, both counsellor and craftsman. Yes, you are still half a child; yes, you may still have much to learn. And you eventually will. But why would you care whether Laurefindil of the Golden Flower – or anyone else, at that –, thinks that you are cold-hearted? And what would you do if I did – challenge me with a sword? Send me flowers each morn?”

Lómion was silent.

“You cannot make everyone love you, young lord: not with your sharp tongue, your cunning mind and skilled hands. And if you were to change, you would lose everything you are now loved for.”

“My father always told me…” Lómion drew a shuddering breath. “You... you spoke like him, and yet you did not. Not in the end.”

“Like your father?”

“I said not in the end. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. I may have spoken like your Atar at some point of his life; why would that be impossible?”

“Because I have no Atar,” said Lómion; and now he did sound cold-hearted as he stood with his arms crossed, gripping the fabric of his clothes so hard that his knuckles whitened.

Lo and behold, Laurefindil thought, the lore-master who knows every law and rule is truly no more than a lonely, frightened child.

He had always felt that there was a shadow over Lómion’s heart; but the sheer reality of it suddenly seemed almost as heart-breaking as the passing of Findaráto.

“Prince Tyelkormo was once a good friend of mine, did you know that?” Laurefindil suddenly said. “We would oft hunt together. Oromë himself joined us at times.”

Now, Lómion did glare at him.

“He was a merry youth, always boasting of his skill with bow. And he had every right to do that.”

“Why are you telling me this, Captain?”

“Because things are different now, and it would probably come to the swords if we met. Still, that does not make him less of an old friend for me, and I refuse to hate his memory because of what happened. And you – you cannot change the past, Lómion. Yes, you had a father, and yes, your father betrayed you. That does not poison every word he had ever said to you.”

“No, you misunderstand,” Lómion shook his head. “You spoke like him and you did not, I said. My father always told me that uncertainty was weakness itself. Again and again he would insist that if I was not loved or cared for, it was no more than a sign of envy. He expected me to hate those who scorned me. He told me to hold my head high, and look right through them... yet I never truly had anyone around me to look through.”

“In a way, your father was right,” said Laurefindil, “but his words are bitter. You need not hate anyone. You merely need to accept that you will never be loved by all, for such a thing is not possible.”

“And wanting to be loved,” said Lómion in a low voice, “is that a sin, Captain?”

And he left.

*

The Alley of Roses came to an abrupt end, and the green valley of Tumladen opened in front of Laurefindil. He stopped for a moment, letting his eyes run far and free; as far as the icy peaks of the Oroquilta let them, and as free as his wandering thoughts allowed. Carelessly, he crossed the fresh green sward, drawing nearer to the edge of the encircling mountains, where the ground started to rise abruptly. There winded the first watch-line of the White City, no more than a dozen feet above the rocky ground.

Laurefindil's bliss slowly faltered as he climbed the stairs, mulling over Lómion's last words.

Wanting to be loved? But he is loved well enough – or acknowledged, at least. What could this be all about?

Lómion always cared to wear a mask of confident indifference in front of those he worked with, be they craftsman, lords of might or his own uncle; it was remarkably unlike him to hint at his thoughts, or Valar forbid, feelings.

And why would he come to me? We were never close – not the slightest bit, as I recall. And why would my grief concern him?

This was not the first time Laurefindil felt embarrassed by the sudden trust of others. People were known to open their hearts to him, for they knew he could keep secrets, and he was a great listener. Laurefindil, on the other hand, found himself would not easily return such intimacy; and more often than not, he felt lonely amongst those who relied on him. Lómion was different, though – Lómion was someone Laurefindil did wish to know better, suddenly as the chance might have come.

The narrow wooden stairs were slippery with dew, and fresh morning scents reached Laurefindil's nose as he climbed. A guard rose from his post to greet him, and he greeted back.

“Is the Warden of the Gates on duty today?” he asked.

“Indeed,” came the answer, “and your presence might as well be required by his side, Captain. The Gate of Gold is to be opened this morn.”

And so Voronwë returns, Laurefindil thought, smiling inwardly. The stern, quiet mariner was one of the lucky few Ecthelion held close: distant as he sometimes seemed, he had a good heart, and most of all, he could be trusted.

He also held the rare privilege or leaving Ondolindë every few years, and bringing news.

Laurefindil left the guard-post, following the stairs as they winded up the hillside. The next entrance was crowned with an arch of stone, and more guards surrounded it. After an exchange of greetings, Laurefindil passed below the thin arch, now following a path incrusted with stones of gleaming yellow marble. His thoughts were drifting away again; he did not even notice the approaching figure until it bumped right into his chest.

“I – oh, I apologise, Lord Captain!” the newcomer exclaimed. He was a lanky youth with clever grey eyes, raven hair, and cheeks coloured by his sudden shame.

“Now, Lord Captain is indeed the most glorious title I have ever received,” Laurefindil grinned, watching the boy's face darken into a deep shade of crimson. “I might even say too much! Why the hurry, my bright young friend?”

“My Toronar sent to find you,” the boy said, “for his friend has returned from a long journey; and he sent forth a letter saying he had news for you as well.”

“Your Toronar?” Laurefindil grabbed the boy by the shoulder, and held him closer. “Are you – Valar, are you... but no, you cannot be...!”

“If by Valar, you mean Erestor of the Fountain, then yes I am,” the boy smirked. “I remember you, Captain Laurefindil! You used to carve me little toys and sing me songs, Ages ago.”

“Ages ago!” Laurefindil laughed. “Why, it seems like yesterday to me. Little Erestor, standing tall and proud in front of my eyes – strange indeed! But let us hurry; we do not want to disappoint Ecthelion, do we?”

They were heading to the gate, side by side, and Laurefindil kept his eyes on Erestor. His garments were blue and silver with the crest of his family upon the chest, but his boots were worn and a knife hang from his belt. He seemed to know his way around all too well.

“…what errand you have on this side of the golden Gate, if I may ask?”

“Mother sent me to the City and Toronar agreed to take me in,” said Erestor proudly, rocks crumbling under his feet as he led the way up to the third line of watch. “I have seen the Caragdûr, and the Hill of Watch, and the gardens, and the Fountains and the King's Tower – and Uncle said we would also enter some day!”

“Oh, we can enter even today, if that is your wish.” Laurefindil graced him with his brightest of smiles. “I will show you were I live. I still have my books, you know.”

“That would be wonderful!” The brief flash of a child's innocent bliss disappeared from Erestor's face as he added politely, “If you do not mind, that is.”

“If I did, I would never make the offer. But why did your mother send you here?”

Laurefindil wanted to know if his deductions were correct. Erestor, as many other children of the Gondolindrim, had been born in the Mountains, brought up in bastions and guard-posts, educated between two changes of the watch. His wits have always been quick; it seemed only too right to have him trained and taught the way his parents were.

“I must learn how to fight,” Erestor boasted, “or so Toronar said. I could content myself with following him, though. When I first came here, I marvelled at how everyone answered to him! He is far more powerful than I imagined.”

“Aren't we all?” Laurefindil winked at him. “But behold, young one, here we are!”

This time, there were no guards to greet; stepping onto a narrow, domy terrace, they found themselves face to face with the steadily pacing Lord Ecthelion. He was dressed in blue and silver as always, lustrous black hair flowing about him, and his glorious helmet rested on a chair in the nearest corner.

“You did not waste your time, Erestor nin!” he laughed. “You would not even let our Captain dress appropriately.”

“I am off duty today, you pouting peacock!” Larurefindil stepped forth to embrace his friend. “Not all of us take pleasure in plundering the armoury each morn. I was already on my way, if you must know, and young Erestor ran into me on his way – quite literally so. And what on Arda is the matter with my new tunic?”

“Now at second glance, squinting, it looks almost acceptable,” Ecthelion laughed. “Stressful night, was it?”

Laurefindil did not laugh with him.

“It was,” he admitted, taking a seat next to the balustrade. “I have news.”

Ecthelion sat next to his friend, his gaze suddenly very intent.

“News of what?”

“Outside,” Laurefindil whispered, and Ecthelion understood at once, old as their friendship was. He grabbed Laurefindil’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Something happened? Someone captured... tormented... dead...?”

Laurefindil nodded.

“Which one?”

“The last – and worst. Lómion came to me yesterday...”

As far as Laurefindil could remember, Ecthelion and Lómion had never been on good terms. Indeed, even now a slight frown would cloud his friend’s brows before he asked, “Who?”

“Findaráto.”

“Fin...,” Ecthelion’s face was stricken with grief. “No, that cannot be.”

“The King Findaráto of Nargothrond, you mean?” Young Erestor broke in. “Did you know him, Toronar?”

“I do... I did.” Ecthelion shook his head. “This is mad. This is utterly mad. Killed?! But why? How? And whom…?”

“I do not know,” said Laurefindil. “I did not have the composure to ask, and Lómion would have probably told me if there was anything else to know. No one truly knows anything, as I understand; not even the Eagles. All we hear are tales. Theories... rumours...”

“But that is not the reason why you are here today,” said Ecthelion slowly.

“It is not.”

Ecthelion drew a deep breath, and turned to Erestor.

“Climb downstairs, child and fetch us wine,” he said. “If you tarry enough to find the best, you get to taste it as well.”

“So you can discuss whatever you want in peace.” Erestor nodded.

“Subtle as always, you cheeky brat. Now off you go!”

But there was a smile on Ecthelion’s face as he uttered these words; and young Erestor whistled on his way down the stairs, in the unlordliest manner one could possibly imagine.

“You are fond of him,” said Laurefindil.

“Quite so. He is clever, you know. When I first brought him here, I wanted to have him trained as a guard like his father was; but I think I might rather take him with me to the next Great Council. He might prove useful against Counsellor Lómion when he grows. Counsellor! Lómion is, what, a century older than my little Erestor…? He never earned that title.”

“Do not search for enemies where there are none!” Laurefindil said. “Lómion is more than capable; and he has a caring heart. He proved that by the way he told me the news.”

“If you say so,” said Ecthelion, without the slightest conviction.

“He also mentioned that a Council shall be summoned soon, and the matter of the stolen Silmaril discussed in details.”

“The matter of what?!”

“Oh! I thought you knew.”

Ecthelion could only stare at his friend for a while, wide-eyed, before he found his voice.

“I would have flied to your quarters as soon as I heard such news. A Silmaril, stolen?! And you just sit there and blurt it out as if it happened every other day? A Silmaril?!”

“If this is news to you,” said Laurefindil, “then it will be news for everyone else in the Council as well...”

“…yet Lómion told you in advance. Why?”

“Because he trusts my judgement?”

“It is because he wants something from you, Fin. Beware!”

“And why would I be this suspicious about him?” Laurefindil sighed. “Lómion said it was the King’s personal wish that I should hear the news.”

“Why not me, then?!” Ecthelion pouted. “And what did he say exactly?”

Laurefindil did his best to recall everything Lómion said; and when Findaráto’s name sprang from his lips, sadness crept back to his voice in the way twilight creeps over the fields as the sun sets. “He told me Findaráto was slain. As simple as that. No details, no explanations. Only the fact.”

“Which means more than hearsay," Ecthelion picked up the thought. “It means that his body has been found.”

Laurefindil nodded.

“Ah, Findaráto,” Ecthelion sighed. “He was so bright and fearless. And truly, truly kind. Such a terrible loss.”

“The news of his passing saddened me as well,” Laurefindil said, “but now I also feel some kind of foreboding. As if Findaráto's death was the last step of something: the end of one road and the beginning of another. As if something had to... happen...”

“Happen?” A thin line of worry appeared between Ecthelion’s brows. “What do you mean?”

“I had a strange dream, and that is why I decided to come to you. I must tell someone.”

“And so if it was for the Captain of the Golden Flower, his best friend could die without knowing of the stolen Silmaril!” Ecthelion crossed his arms. “Thank you kindly!”

“I told you, I thought you already knew...”

“Then I would have come to you to discuss it!”

“Do you care about my dream at all?!”

Ecthelion rolled his eyes.

“You know that I do. I only wish to lighten your mood.”

“We have lost one of our closest friends,” Laurefindil reminded him.

“Well, Findaráto has not been quite that close lately, has he?” Ecthelion sighed. “I knew this would happen when we followed King Turukáno: our old companions were left behind, and there is no one now. No one, just you and I. You have me, and I have you; and nothing can change that.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Laurefindil, “or I might truly cry.”

“Then pray tell me about that dream.”

“It was very strange,” said Laurefindil. “I was here, just outside the Gates, and a strange voice spoke to me. All flowers shall wither, it said. There were no flowers to be seen, though, other than the sigil on the shield I was carrying. The crest of my House… All flowers shall wither, the voice said again, and I shivered. Night has fallen. Storm is coming, closing in, but the gates are closed. Will you open them? That is all the voice said; then, a faceless shadow came through the Gates, and disappeared in the night. And then I was awake; screaming, and covered in cold sweat. I don’t know why I was screaming, though, nor can I imagine why was I afraid of this dream. Told in words, it is not at all frightening.”

“Yet meaningful,” said Ecthelion. “The shadow is you, the voice is you, the warrior hiding behind the shield is you – everything is you in this dream. You are struggling with yourself. You want to do something about Findaráto, but you know as well as I that you cannot.”

“Maybe,” Laurefindil agreed. “Is there truly nothing we can do, though?”

“Fin, for Valar's sake!” Ecthelion cursed under his breath. “Must I remind you of the lawful punishment for having even uttered such words as a Captain of Guards? Matters of the outside world should not concern us. It was foolish enough that you spoke your mind to Counsellor Lómion. That treacherous bat!”

“Are you giving up on our friend so easily?”

“Findaráto is dead. We both know what dead means, Laurefindil... he is far away now, in a land no evil can reach. Let him rest in the Halls of Mandos and do not give in to treacherous thoughts. Let us hope that he died an honourable death and let us keep his memory: that is all we can do for him.”

Laurefindil did not answer.

“You are grief-stricken,” Ecthelion touched his chin lightly. “Why? I did not know you were close.”

“We were not,” said Laurefindil. “But Findaráto was kindness itself. Honour itself. And he... he represents something to me. How many others have been killed that we do not even know about? Yet we are sitting here, in the only remaining safe haven of our people, doing nothing: and they call you the Lord Warden and me the Captain!”

“Law is law,” Ecthelion said, “or have you forgotten?”

Laurefindil remembered all too well; but before he could answer, the sound of a horn cut through the fresh morning air.

Voronwë had come.

---

Chapter End Notes

Pocket Quenya

‘Toronar’ is my DIY Quenya reconstruction for “Uncle” (toron-en-atar, brother-of-father).

The Caragdûr (m.: ‘dark-spike’) is a black precipice of rock on the north side of Gondolin, rarely used for executions (Eöl was, for example, shoved down from there). The name itself is in Sindarin, and it appears in this form in all sources I have seen, which is why I kept it. An attempt at Quenya translation could be Morikirya (‘dark-teeth’ – ‘teeth’ here referring to ‘sharp rocks’.)

On Erestor's parentage

In this story, his father and Ecthelion were brothers. The brother in question was called Soronto (amilesse; m.: ‘eagle’). He was one of Gondolin’s Guardians from the first days of the city’s existence; he died outside the borders, during an Orc-ambush, when Erestor was still a small child, around ten or fifteen years old. Now, in the story, Erestor is only months away from his fiftieth begetting day, and thus his majority.

Sea-breeze

Anardil and his eloquently offensive manners are introduced, and Ecthelion makes a wager.

Read Sea-breeze

The Gate of Gold was sixth in line of the Great Gates in Ondolindë, yet first in beauty to Laurefindil's eyes. Stern and robust it stood: a relatively low, broad wall of yellow marble that spanned the lowering crests of the Orfalch Echor. Above its narrow entrance, a pyramid stood high and proud with the image of Laurelin, its flowers wrought of topaz in long clusters upon chains of gold. Paintings of Anor, the Sun inlaid the inner sides of the entrance, though seldom were they seen; and those who did glimpse them never saw them again, for such was the law of the Hidden City. Any well-willing Elf was accepted in the service of King Turukáno on condition that they would never leave the Valley of Tumladen again.

Sunlight danced upon the marble path before Laurefindil as he walked towards the Gate; but it paled next to the aura of magnificence that surrounded Ecthelion as he descended the stairs. Dressed in deep blue and gleaming silver, his shining helm upon his head, the Warden of the Gates came forth; and Laurefindil, who knew him well, could tell that he was more than pleased with himself.

A great lord he is, he thought, brave, valiant, honourable – and vain. He is here to see an old friend coming home from a tiresome journey; yet dressed up as he is, he could march forth to greet mighty Eönwë and the Lords of the West.

Of all the weaknesses one could have, though, Laurefindil believed that vanity was still tolerable. Ecthelion liked to seem terribly important – which he was –, and never denied it. He was also proud and sometimes scornful, even dangerous; yet also kind and fair.

A gust of wind rolled down from the mountains; it made the guards raise their rounded red shields, Ecthelion swallow a curse and Laurefindil tighten his borrowed cloak. The guardians of the Sixth Gate were clad in the colour of his House and so he took a spare from the armoury.

Am I truly less vain than him? Laurefindil mused as Ecthelion clicked the latch of the Gate. If he wanted to be entirely honest with himself, he did not take the cloak to keep himself warm, rather to hide his unusually casual attire. Now which one of them was the pouting peacock...?

Erestor appeared on his right side, peeking through the open Gate: a rare sight in the Orfalch Echor.

“Wine awaits on the table, m’lords,” he announced with mock pompousness. “The best I have found. Shall I have my reward, then?”

“You might.” Ecthelion smiled. “We will share all goods with our guest when he comes. You may not remember him, but he will know who you are; Voronwë is his name, and he is a kinsman of the King. He may seem distant, and sometimes cold, but never let that discourage you.”

“I will not,” said Erestor, but his voice did not sound convincing. Ecthelion drew a sharp breath, but then, the sound of horns echoed forcefully along the lowest range.

One, two, three, four calls flew over the Gate on the wings of wind; and both Captain and Warden stilled.

“Four blasts,” Ecthelion whispered.“Four blasts, Fin. You heard them.”

Laurefindil nodded.

“And that would mean... guests?” Erestor frowned. “I've never heard four blasts before.”

Laurefindil grabbed the hilt of his dagger, keeping his eyes on the road outside.

“Four blasts means newcomers,” he said in a low voice. “Outsiders. Voronwë must have brought strangers with him; though for what reason, I cannot guess.”

“Elves from outside the Orfalch?” Erestor exclaimed in wonder.

“Yes, child,” said Ecthelion, “which is why you will stay by Captain Laurefindil’s side while I ride forth to meet them. Fin, get the archers ready.”

Outside the first watch-line, Ecthelion was his superior; thus, Laurefindil nodded his agreement and climbed the stairs on the side of the wall to reach the parapet, dragging Erestor with him.

“Stay behind the pyramid,” he said. “You may peek through Laurelin's lowest branches if you know your way enough to climb, but stay out of sight.”

“Yes, Laurefindil,” Erestor bowed.

“Promise me that you will do as I bid.”

“I promise.”

“Then look!” Laurefindil pointed.

A small group of soldiers approached the Gate along the yellow marble path. First came two guards with lances, then two others with longbows, then a pair of way-worn travellers and four more archers at the end of the line, their eyes watchful. All soldiers wore the uniforms of the Fifth Entrance, the Gate of Silver.

Laurefindil signalled at the archers; three hundred arrows seated on three hundred bended bows, and they waited.

“Who comes to the Gates of Ondolindë?” Ecthelion spoke up, his voice clear as jingling silver bells in the morning wind.

The newcomers closed in, and the wall of guards opened in front of the two hooded travellers.

“Here comes Voronwë Aranwion from the House of Ñolofinwë, with his friend, Anardil from the Household of Olwë under his protection,” the taller one exclaimed. “We have walked a long, perilous road and brought news for you and for the King.”

“Show your faces,” Ecthelion commanded. The soldiers stepped aside, and the newcomers threw their hoods back, opening their grey cloaks to show their garments underneath.

Voronwë was exactly as Laurefindil remembered him: tall, willowy and stark, and he moved with grace. His companion, Anardil was one of the Teleri, as his title suggested, but his shoulders were wider, his legs longer, his smile broader than what was common amongst the Sea-people; and his hair was an untamed forest, in the colour of gleaming silver.

“Stay,” Laurefindil said to Erestor. He left the parapet and ran down the stairs, almost jumping through the gate. The Teler lord had woken his interest.

“Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo, Voronwë, meldonya! I am most glad that you returned.” Ecthelion clasped Voronwë’s hands in his own. “And hail to thee! Be dearly welcome at the Sixth and Last Gate of Ondolindë, Anardil of the Falmari,” he then said, switching to his accent-dampened Sindarin. “Ecthelion I am, head of the House of the Fountain and Warden of the Gates. When thou follow’st our valiant kinsman, Voronwë, and ent’rest the first Gate, thou wert acquainted with the gravity of thy decision. Any son or daughter of the Eldalië is welcome in our City; the way in is open, but any way out is barred with sharp rock and iron. What brings thee to the Hidden City?”

“I did not enter the First Gate, my lord,” Anardil said. In his voice was a hidden strength that somehow reminded Laurefindil of the Sea itself. “Nor the second, nor the third, nor the fourth. The Eagles flew us to the Gate of Silver, for our journey was long and I am wounded. We were being followed, and the Eagles disappeared with us just in time.”

“Followed?”

Laurefindil could have imagined many smoother ways to join the conversation, but the damage was already done. Anardil raised his eyes to meet his; and Ecthelion was unable to hide his smile.

“Lord Anardil, I present to thee Laurefindil, head of the House of the Golden Flower, Captain of the King’s Guards and Marshal of the Armies – courteous and subtle, as ever. On top of the gate, thou mayst also notice my beloved nephew, Erestor, in the process of ruining King Turukáno’s favourite statue of the mighty Laurelin.”

Two slim hands and a pair of peeking grey eyes disappeared in an instant behind the golden pyramid; and Anardil smiled. He clasped the hand Ecthelion offered him, then bowed slightly in front of Laurefindil.

“Well met, Lord Warden and Captain of Guards,” he said.

“Well met, Lord Anardil,” Laurefindil echoed him. “I am grieved to hear that thou hast been wounded. Would riding be a nuisance to thee?”

“Riding? I believe I could try it,” Anardil raised an eyebrow, “but I cannot see any horses around. Can you even keep them alive in this icy mountain-land of yours?”

“Ai, we can,” Laurefindil laughed. “Lord Ecthelion and I still miss Nevrast at times, and verily. The meadows there were large and wide, and we would race our mighty stallions along them.”

“And even since our races here are much shorter, they have not ceased.” Ecthelion nodded. “We still have the sons of the sons of those stallions.”

Laurefindil sent off three guards for horses, then reached out to clasp Voronwë’s arm.

“My dear friend!” He said fondly, pulling the startled Noldo in an embrace. “How glad I am that thou hast returned!”

“You honour me, Laurefindil,” said Voronwë in his stern voice. “Yet it haunts me to see the shadow of turmoil and sadness in your eyes; and I hate to admit that the news we bring are not at all pleasant, either.”

“Who dareth hope for good tidings in these times of peril?” Laurefindil sighed. “I can only wish that your news are already known to us. I could not stand another pang of grief today.”

“That we shall see,” said Voronwë solemnly.

Anardil’s glance, on the other hand, was openly curious.

“I have been told that this City was an island of peace and prosperity, and that no harm could ever come to it. I have also been told that its beauty and grace matched that of Tirion in Aman, and that is a sight I long to see... How comes, then, that even the Lords of Ondolindë have friends to grieve?”

“That, Lord Anardil, is not a matter to be discussed this far out in the watch-lines,” Ecthelion said. “Follow us, and answers shall come to thee.”

* * *

By the time they settled beyond the Gate of Gold, Erestor was already serving them wine. He greeted the two travellers courteously, and smiled when Voronwë stared at him in wonder, asking if he still remembered him.

Laurefindil never ceased to watch Anardil from the corner of his eye, wondering how in Manwë’s name could he become friends with Voronwë. They could not have been more different: the only thing they shared was a distant gleam in their eyes, a privilege of those who sailed the Sea. Yet Anardil’s eyes themselves were nothing like Voronwë's, either: they were a fresh, bright shade of green, the like of which Laurefindil had never seen before.

“Come, take a seat,” Ecthelion called, and Laurefindil settled beside him. His eyes were still on Anardil, who stretched his long legs under the table. His shoulder was wounded, and badly: Laurefindil could see it now from the way he let his right arm hang loose.

“Good wine,” said the Teler suddenly. “Delicious.”

 “It came from thy people,” said Laurefindil, “with the last trade we could make before the Enemy attacked the North. Do you not recognise it?” He added experimentally. He had not spoken Sindarin in several hundred years, and it seemed that the use of pronouns had considerably simplified since then.

“Not all of us can sit around, sipping wine,” Anardil said. “I have forgotten what it tasted like.”

“Forgive my friend, Lord Laurefindil,” Voronwë broke in, glancing weightily at Anardil. “The pain in his shoulder is sharpening his tongue.”

“I meant no offense, Captain,” Anardil added with a slow nod, “I truly did forget it. The past few years... well, I have seen happier times in my life. Back in the years of peace, I was one of King Olwë’s household – one of importance, you may say. Then Fëanor came and claimed my ships along with the others. Those were all my wealth; and they were stolen and burned, my mother killed, my father drowned and our house put to flames. I lived near the shores...”

Anardil spoke without the smallest hint of anguish or indignation in his voice, as though they were merely talking about the weather. His eyes were hollow at first, but as he mentioned the loss of his family and beloved ships, deep wells of sadness opened within them.

“How comes, then, that thou dwellest not in fair Alqualondë still?” Ecthelion asked.

“I could not linger there singing laments for ever. I built a new ship and came to Beleriand, and here I shall remain. I have travelled far and I have seen much. I watch your proud kingdoms as they rise and fall, and I do not hate you Ñoldor... You are not the true Enemy, and we are kin. That is why I am here with my news. That is what you fail to take in those thick skulls of yours while you rant on and on about your endless grievances and strifes.”

“What have I told you about High Elves and courtesy?!” Voronwë exclaimed, but Ecthelion smiled; and Laurefindil knew that he felt the truth in these rough words as much as he did.

“No one can tell thee, Lord Anardil, that thou art reluctant to speak thy mind,” Ecthelion said. “The King shall like thee.”

“That is good to hear, Lord Warden,” said Anardil. “I never meant to offend you – or you, Captain, or you, young Lord Erestor.”

“Or me,” Voronwë broke in. “If that holds any interest to you, mellonamin.”

“I have already offended you enough times for you to learn not to take it in,” said Anardil. “Yet what I truly meant to say was – well, ever since the pits of hell opened below our lands in the Bragollach, I am afraid, my lords. Sindar, Nandor, Ñoldor, the few Teleri who still wander the shores, the mighty houses of Men... we are all leaderless, adrift, like dry leaves in the wind. And the Shadow is spreading, the Enemy is growing stronger. You have this city; King Fingon has Hithlum and his watchtowers; King Thingol and his Queen watch over the woodlands... you are all separated, and Dark creatures are starting to fill the holes between your lands. I am not skilled in warfare, nor am I familiar with the ways of the Ñoldor, but of one thing I am certain: something has to happen. Someone has to... do something.”

Laurefindil almost gasped as he heard his own words from less than an hour ago, echoed by this strange Elf who seemed to have come from the end of the world.

Here I have the proof that I was right.

“In the past year,” Anardil went on, somewhat reluctantly, “I have been held in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the fortress of Sauron. My luck saved me from being dragged on to Angband, but my imprisonment was still filled with anguish, pain, humiliation and great fear. By the grace and mercy of the Valar, I got away, though I paid a great price for it... Also,” here, Anardil sighed heavily and glanced up to meet the others’ eyes, “I have ill news about one who – so I was told – had been a dear friend to both of you.”

“Findaráto,” the Captain and the Warden said in unison.

“Indeed,” said Voronwë, “but how could you possibly know about this?!”

“Theoretically, we cannot,” Ecthelion said, “and thou better forget that we mentioned it at all. Let us only say that Counsellor Lómion is friends with the Eagles; and apparently, Laurefindil is now friends with Counsellor Lómion.”

 “Now, when did that happen?” Voronwë exclaimed.

Laurefindil did not answer; his gaze remained fixed on Anardil’s face.

“What befell to Findaráto?” He asked softly. “What became his death?”

The Teler swallowed, and looked away.

“What happened, I ask thee!” Laurefindil persisted.

“His death was not... easy, my lord,” said Anardil. “If you do not mind, I shall... I shall provide a detailed description only if and when your King commands me to.”

“Tell us briefly, if you have to,” Laurefindil said, “I beg thee! How did he die?”

“He was bit... or rather: lacerated by a werewolf, my lord,” Anardil managed. “And I, along with other prisoners, was made to watch. Your friend fought fiercely, even though he had no weapon other than his nails and teeth. He killed the beast with his bare hands, and died shortly afterwards.”

Laurefindil swallowed. His imagination was nothing if not vivid...

“He died defending... a friend of his,”Anardil went on, drawing a deep breath. “And that friend was rescued, along with some of us, though he was heading elsewhere. I led south a group of refugees but an Orc band hunted us down a few days later. My companions were massacred to the last Elf… One of those filthy beasts wounded me between my blade-bones, then I got my shoulder cracked. All I remember from that hour is terrible, searing pain; I fell into the Sirion and grabbed hold of a piece of driftwood before fainting. I do not know how my enemies’ arrows avoided me. When I woke again, I was in a boat, and this strange elf, who turned out to be Voronwë, was tending to my wounds.”

“This will make an excellent song, Lord Anardil,” said young Erestor, a little bit too enthusiastically. “But who was King Findaráto’s friend?”

“I believe that is something to discuss solely with our King,” Ecthelion said when Anardil did not answer at once.

“Precisely,” said Voronwë. “That is why Anardil agreed to come with me: he believes that he could provide useful information for King Turukáno.”

“Tidings these days are more precious than gold.” Laurefindil nodded. “I marvel at your wit and valour, Lord Anardil! All prisoners fantasize about their escape, but very few of them accomplish the task.”

Anardil bowed. “If mere luck is a virtue, then I can accept your praise. Elsewise, there is none other than King Findaráto to be held in honour.”

“Still, I wonder how...” Ecthelion shook his head mildly. “But never thou mindest. We shall have our answers soon, and so shalt thou. Now tell me, how did your journey go? And who was following you?”

“The Orcs lost my track at the seashore, the half-wits.” Anardil grinned, and Laurefindil marvelled at the sudden change in his mood. “Voronwë was very subtle and evasive at the beginning, but eventually, I told him about my life and he told me about his, along with a few goblets of wine.”

“Bottles, unfortunately,” Voronwë remarked.

“You might already know him better than we do!” Laurefindil smiled. “And how were the seas?”

“Stormy – for me, at least,” said Voronwë. “I hardly saw the sun; the winds betrayed my crew and our ship swayed amongst the waves like a drunken soldier. We lost most of our provisions near Falas, and we arrived exhausted to the havens of Brithombar – several hundred miles south from our original destination, might I remind you. We are living in perilous times, my friends.”

“You are truly lucky to have this city!” Anardil nodded his agreement. “Peace and safety are blessings I have not known since my ships were stolen and burned.”

“Many of us feel that way, Lord Anardil, and not without reason,” Ecthelion said. “May ye both find rest within the walls of our City!”

“How kind of you, Lord Warden! But I do not intend to harness such gratitude.” Anardil smiled broadly at the silent, and suddenly very intent Ñoldor around him. “I am not a soldier, nor a guardian, nor a hero. I only wish to tell your King a few stories he might find interesting – and then I will be on my way! The Sea is my home, and your City, however fair and glorious, is foreign to me.”

“I have already told you that things were not as simple as that,” Voronwë said alarmingly.

“Law is law.” Ecthelion nodded. “I told thee as well, my lord – if thou comest in, there is no way out.”

“If I am not mistaken,” said the Teler with a smirk, “there is a King in this City. Now, according to the traditions of my humble people, Kings are chosen to rule their faithful Lords; even the Lord Wardens and Lord Voronwë-s – even Captains, mind you. And his decision may differ from yours. Are the ways of the Ñoldor any different when it comes to their Kings?”

“Courtesy, Anardil!” Voronwë snapped; but Ecthelion only laughed, Laurefindil watched the Teler in amazement and young Erestor stared at him wide-eyed. If Manwë himself had suddenly appeared from the empty air to take a seat at their table, their reaction probably would not have been any different.

“Well,” said Ecthelion, “brave Lord Anardil, if thou convincest our King to open his gates to thee, I swear I shall give thee my best chainmail as a parting gift. ‘Tis a bet.”

“Very well,” Anardil shook the hand that was offered to him. “And you, Lord Warden, shall ask any gift from me if I will not succeed. I cannot promise such a mighty one, but I am skilled in wood-carving. And singing, now that I think of it.”

“Well and done,” said Ecthelion. Laurefindil glanced at Voronwë, who shook his head in resignation; then he saw young Erestor grinning, a full goblet of wine in his hand. When he stared at him, the boy mouthed the word “Promised”, and Laurefindil gave in to utter defeat.

* * *

Later, their conversation turned towards lighter topics. Voronwë told them about his long journey North after losing his ship, and the yellow and blue flowers of Nevrast that Laurefindil missed so dearly; then Anardil told some of his own stories about strange lands and foist merchants. Then, the two mariners complained about the weather, the Orc-bands and the outlaws roaming across Beleriand.

Ecthelion and Laurefindil gladly joined this discussion, even though they had not seen Orcs for over a century.

“Things cannot go on as they are if we want to survive!” Voronwë sighed. “If only someone, anyone would gather the strength and courage to unite the wandering troops…! Once brave and honourable soldiers are becoming outlaws, once mighty Men are killing or begging for food... it is horrible to see them stoop so low; and the change is more visible each time I set out on a new journey. Since King Ñolofinwë has been killed...”

“Findekáno is worthy of him,” said Laurefindil. “Give him time, and his rule shall strengthen further than his father’s.”

“Let us hope for that,” Voronwë said gravely, “but I do have my doubts.”

“King Turukáno has an army of twenty thousand,” Ecthelion said. “He is the one thou seekest: the protector of us all.”

“But the Gates are closed,” Voronwë sighed. “And should they be opened any time, that will mean the end of us; because sooner or later, the Enemy shall find us and break our walls.”

Laurefindil sighed. All of them had tried to lighten the mood at some point of their discussion (save for young Erestor who merely stood in the shadows and listened, becoming slowly but steadily drunk), and yet they always came back to the same topic in both their words and their hearts: to the desperate desire of acting, of helping those in need. Somehow. Some way.

Yet the way was hidden.

---

Chapter End Notes

- Anardil is – quite obviously – not Tolkien’s Anardil, but an OC.

- Voronwë is canonically related to Ñolofinwë.

- ‘The Falmari’ is a name for the Teleri of Aman. [m.: wave-folk] It is deliberately left in Quenya, even though Ecthelion is trying to speak Sindarin.

- On archaic English: Ecthelion and Laurefindil speak an approximately 400 years older Sindarin than Anardil And Voronwe. I wanted to make it pompous and clumsy, which I believe it is.

The First Betrayal

A message comes to Himring from Menegroth.

Read The First Betrayal

Himring, FA 467, the first day of Víressë

Tyelcano held his arms tight against his chest as he walked, to keep a messy heap of parchments from falling. Gingerly, he placed his burden on his lord’s desk and unrolled the thickest scroll: it was a map.

Lord Maedhros’s fingers were drumming impatiently on the table.

“Have you sent the letters?” he asked.

“All, my lord, but the one for King Findekáno. That I restrained and rewrote, as was your wish.”

“Good. Read it out, will you...”

Tyelcano unfolded another scroll, one he had filled with different versions of the same, one-paragraph message, knowing his lord’s desire for perfection. He chose the last one – which he deemed the most evasive – and drew a breath to read it aloud… only to let it out in a flummoxed huff when someone knocked on the door.

Maedhros’s eyes meet his; and Tyelcano shook his head to answer the unspoken question. They had not been expecting anyone from inside (or outside) the fortress; and if something was amiss, the guards would have sounded the horns long ago. The watch on the borders had been doubled lately: every hand that could hold a sword was needed in service. Ever since the Bragollach had reduced the green, fertile plains of Ard-Galen to a desolation of ash, the people of Himlad slept little and less, their vigilance never ceasing.

“Enter,” said Maedhros sternly, and Tyelcano closed the scroll. A letter to the High King was a confidential matter: the less people knew about it, the better the odds. His effort, however, proved vain; it was the Captain of Guards, Tulcestelmo who appeared in the gap of the door.

“My Lord Maedhros,” he said in clumsy Sindarin (which was suspicious enough for the two Elves to rise from their seats). “A messenger came from the Halls of Menegroth; he brings you word from King Thingol.”

Maedhros’s eyes went wide. He rose, and Tyelcano saw the knuckles of his hand whiten as he gripped the edge of his desk. His own mind was racing as well. Thingol had not contacted any Son of Fëanor since the long-gone feast of Mereth Aderthad; he ignored Maedhros just as haughtily as Maedhros disregarded him. There was no friendship between Himring and Menegroth; yet nor was there enmity.

Until now, at least.

Could it be, Tyelcano thought hopefully, that Thingol finally saw reason, and he seeks our friendship? Could it be that he decided to return the Silmaril?

Nay; if he was honest with himself, neither of these options seemed by any means likely.

Lords change little, and Kings change less. There must be some other reason for the Woodelves to send us a messenger. But what could be that reason?

Luckily, however, he had little time to brood on possible misfortunes and disasters, for Lord Maedhros took a deep breath and pulled on the solemn mask he wore as Warden of the East.

“Let him enter,” he said, “and speak.”

The gap between the door-wings widened, and a lone Elf came forth, clad in the grey-green colours of Menegroth. His face was pale and austere, and the shadowy line of a scar ran through the side of his cheek. Tyelcano saw that it must have been long and painful to heal.

“Be welcome in my halls,” said Maedhros. His Sindarin was well-practiced, and despite its lingering taste of Quenya, it also seemed effortless. “I am Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of Himlad and Warden of the East; and this is my counsellor, Tyelcano. Please enter and sit, for we much desire the message of your King to be delivered.”

“I greet you, Lord Warden, Lord Counsellor,” the messenger said. He bowed deeply before settling down in one of Maedhros’s wide armchairs. “Feredir is my name, and my King chose me to deliver grave tidings. First… Lord Warden, I inform you with regret that two dozen scouts bearing the crest of your House have been found dead near our borders, now not entirely six weeks ago.”

“In which colour they were clad in?” Tyelcano asked immediately.

“Unadorned black, Lord Counsellor, with the Star gleaming silver upon their chests.”

Carnistir’s men, then.

This was a piece of information, Tyelcano thought, and a precious one at that. Maedhros obviously followed his trail of thoughts, but he showed neither approval nor dismay; he simply sat, and listened.

“My King had long intended to send you a message,” Feredir went on, “but circumstances made it impossible to cross the borders of the Fenced Lands. It is only now that I am able to inform you that the previously pledged union between your and King Thingol’s Houses has proved a fruitless endeavour. My King offers to the House of Fëanor to lay the matter aside, and leave this attempt out of account if it comes to any further collaboration between our forces…”

“Excuse me?”

Maedhros’s face darkened.

“Would you care to elaborate? I cannot quite remember which one of my secret Sindarin lovers you are talking about.”

Tyelcano glanced at his lord, suddenly alarmed. Maedhros was, without any doubt, the wisest and the most considerate among the Sons of Fëanor, but Valar forbid, that was not saying much.

Feredir of Doriath, however, was a young Elf, and of better taste for jests than most of his kinsmen, as it seemed. He could not suppress a grin, which was quickly overtaken by astonishment.

“Could it be, then...” he managed, “that your lordship has yet to hear about the affair of the Lord Celegorm and our beloved Princess Lúthien?”

“Oh, Valar,” said Tyelcano, before he could restrain himself.

Maedhros leaned forward, the spark of amusement now overwhelming in his grey eyes.

“Please, do enlighten me.”

Feredir shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Forgive me, Lord Maedhros, if my question is by any means too bold,” he said, “but... may I inquire exactly how much do you already know? Are you aware, for one, of the quest Princess Lúthien had pursued with a certain Beren, son of Barahir…?”

“I do know of the stolen Silmaril, if that is your question,” Maedhros said starkly, before Tyelcano could voice his displeasure, “and I know where it is. I also know that my brothers were banned from Nargothrond... and that Morgoth sleeps no more.”

Feredir blinked hard when he heard the Enemy’s name, but then his eyes widened.

“Is that... is that all, my lord?”

To Tyelcano’s overwhelming relief, Maedhros gave a curt nod. “Aye, that is all. Am I missing something?”

The messenger let out a stormy sigh, forgetting about his manners. “I have brought you a letter from my King,” he said wearily, “but if your knowledge of recent events is so scarce, Lord Warden, then I should perhaps tell you a few things before handing over the letter. I am grieved that it is me who should bring you these tidings, and not one of your kinsmen, as you would have deserved…”

“Please tell me you are not bringing me tidings of death,” said Maedhros.

“And yet I am, my lord.” Feredir bowed his head. “Please receive my King’s, my Queen’s and all my people’s deepest condolences. I say with terrible regret that your cousin, King Finrod Felagund of Nargothrond has been brutally murdered.”

Brutally murdered, Tyelcano thought.

Not “fell in battle”, or “perished”, or “missing” or even “killed”.

Brutally murdered.

If the Counsellor had previously suspected that something was amiss, then now he could be entirely sure.

“This is bad news indeed,” Maedhros said, his eyes distant. His shoulders tensed for a moment, as if struggling under some invisible weight. “It saddens me, and deeply, that Findaráto walks these lands no more. My heart weeps for his kindness; his wisdom and valour shall much be missed this side of the Sea… And yet I find solace in the thought that instead of being captured by the Enemy, he is at least with Mandos now, the chains of his hröa cast away. Morgoth cannot do him further harm and we, who are left in Endórë, must go on; for his sake as much as for ours. Tell me, Feredir of the Woods, who rules my cousin’s people now?”

“Orodreth, son of Angrod,” said the messenger, “and his realm is no longer in turmoil; his strength is rising, and his borders are being shut.”

“And why should the realm of Nargothrond be in turmoil?” Maedhros asked curiously, propping his chin up with two fingers. “Not exactly the word I would use for a land that weeps for its late ruler.”

“That, Lord Warden, is one of the things you must learn,” Feredir said. “It shall be a long tale.”

“In that case,” said Maedhros, “I will listen to it comfortably. You have come a long way, Feredir of Doriath, and I ask you for more tidings than you were ordered to give. The least I can do for you is making you forget the perils of the road. You must be hungry and worn out. Counsellor, please,” he said to Tyelcano, “bid a servant to bring us food and wine, and come back here as soon as you can. I want you to hear the tale as well.”

* * *

When Tyelcano returned, Feredir was seated at the same spot, facing Lord Maedhros at the other side of the wide desk. Lunch and wine were soon served; and Tyelcano loaded up his plate with soused meat, fresh leaves of lettuce dressed in saffron and herbs, and several dippers of richly seasoned mushroom-stew to ease the discomfort of their guest. He knew that Lord Maedhros was not very likely to eat properly, not while being this alert and curious. Then he took his place between his lord and the messenger, on the shorter side of the table, and listened.

His predictions came true: Maedhros’s appetite was reduced to a cup of soup, while the messenger – taking courage from Tyelcano’s pretense of voracity – stuffed his plate and drank his fill, unused as he probably was to dine in study-rooms.

Much later, when only a few flagons of wine remained on the table, Feredir leaned back in his chair, and began his tale.

“I do not even know how or where to begin, Lord Warden,” he admitted, taking a small sip from the chalice in his hands. “I believe that I must first dwell into the past, to reach the very roots of the most unfortunate events of times nigh...”

Tyelcano crossed his legs and closed his eyes. Despite the utter contentment of his stomach, his senses told him that he was not at all going to like what he was about to hear.

“When the terrible Flames struck from the North, a dozen years ago, my people were saved from the Enemy's wrath; but that never lessened our fear of his malice. We held our watch thrice as warily and vigilantly as before; and we despaired over every piece of news, peril after peril, death after death. All we could rely on was the vigilance of the Ñoldor in the North, and here in Himlad. Some deny this still, but I know it to be true… My people hoped that the Enemy would never find his way to Menegroth, or Nargothrond; and yet in the end, the shadow of evil reached them both. Our hearts soon grew hot in the face of peril; and many of us wished to take up arms and fight for your people and the Lords of Dorthonion. And yet our King – led by the wisdom of his long years, some say; or led by his distrust of the Ñoldor, say others – remained in his seat and denied our request.”

“And yet he did not remain idle. His mind – so it is said – oft wandered past the borders of his lands, and so did the searching glance of our Queen; that is how the presence of Beren, son of Barahir was overlooked. That is why he could wander our woods unseen, unconsidered; and that is how he laid his eyes upon our beloved Princess Lúthien. This Beren was bold enough to ask King Thingol for his daughter’s hand; and although the King refused him in anger and disbelief, Princess Lúthien herself was willing. And thus King Thingol set an impossible task upon Beren as a bride price: he asked him to steal a Silmaril from the Enemy’s crown to prove his worth.”

Tyelcano and Maedhros both nodded. This much was known to them.

“Beren was valiant enough to attempt the Quest,” Feredir went on. “Remembering the oath King Finrod Felagund had sworn to his father, he rode to Nargothrond and spoke to King Finrod, who remained true to his word, and offered him help.”

“...and that was the hour when the first complications arose with this glorious Quest,” Maedhros said with pride. “For no living creature, be they Eruhín or spawn of Moringotto, can keep a Silmaril for themselves, lest the wrath of the Seven Sons pursue them beyond the Circles of the World. Surely, everyone in Beleriand is aware of this. To take it lightly would be folly; to disregard it completely, as Felagund apparently did, borders insane. Surely, I cannot blame your King for his request, for using the parallel of a stolen Silmaril to describe impossible for this mortal Man; but I most certainly have great trouble understanding why my cousin would have envisaged, or even considered such a quest.”

“He was bound by his own words of honour, Lord Warden,” Feredir said. “Much like you are.”

A spark of some hidden fire flashed in Maedhros’s eyes.

“Aye,” he said, “how thoughtful of you to remind me.”

The messenger, slightly terrified, opened his mouth to form an apology; but the lord waved him off.

“Go on with your tale.”

“As you wish, Lord Warden,” Feredir complied, his voice slightly shaking.

Tyelcano frowned. The messenger seemed quiet, respectful, even shy in his own way; but he was clearly no coward. If he was this reluctant to go on, then something truly terrible must have happened.

“...when Beren’s request and King Finrod’s decision to help him were announced in the halls of Nargothrond, Lord Celegorm rose, and drew his blade; and he gave a stern remainder of the Oath he had sworn, naming the Silmarili as the rightful heritage of your House. And there was movement among his followers, silent glares and hands upon sword-hilts; for his powerful words made Beren’s quest seem not only bereft of reason, but also unwarranted. Then Lord Curufin spoke, and his words were much softer. He voiced his fear of King Finrod and his kinsmen being captured, dragged on to the mines of Angband, and the secrets of the realm drained from them by horrible torment. He spoke of death and ruin, of cruel flames invading the halls of Nargothrond. Thus, he put a great fear in every heart, and no-one wanted to follow King Finrod… Your brothers, Lord Warden, have most cruelly betrayed him; for even after he departed with Beren and the few faithful followers he had left, they searched to undermine the power of Orodreth, wishing to seize it for themselves.”

“Now that is some lunatic phantasm of you Moriquendi!” Maedhros sprang from his seat. “And a grievous insult!”

“My lord, please,” said Tyelcano, “let him speak. You may still have to accept that he has proof of what he is saying.”

“That is impossible,” said Maedhros icily. “They are my brothers – my own blood!”

“To steal a Silmaril from the Iron Crown was also impossible, my lord, until the day it happened. Let him speak!”

Feredir waited several seconds before continuing, probably wondering whether Maedhros was planning to behead him now, or only later.

“...and it happened thus, Lord Warden,” he continued at length, “that the City of Nargothrond was overwhelmed by turmoil and great fear. For the rule of Orodreth was faint and feeble, and your brothers were still supported by their followers. My King sent me to inquire about Beren’s dwelling in King Finrod's halls: that is how I saw the following events with my own eyes. I am aware, Lord Maedhros, that you are a warrior of great renown, and a good leader of your people; and it must grieve you to hear about your – certainly most beloved – brothers’ wrongdoings. But you have longed for the truth; and so the truth has come to you.”

Maedhros’s face was grim, expressionless. He gave a slow nod.

“Ignorance is a weakness. I have to know.”

“As you wish.” Feredir blinked. “One morning, your lord brothers rode out to the Taleth Dirnen to hunt, and took their hounds with them. And lo! When they returned, Lord Celegorm was carrying no game but Princess Lúthien upon his stallion; for she had run away from her father’s halls in despair, and chanced upon him and Lord Curufin, who promised her aid. I thought that your brothers would return Princess Lúthien to her father’s Halls; but I misjudged, for they locked her up instead. I was sent back to my King with word that Lord Celegorm wished to take the Princess as a wife, for he had fallen in love with her; and that he would not return her home until the request would be granted. And since your brothers’ followers were loud and many, Lord Orodreth could do nothing to lessen the harm their devious ways had caused.”

“So it happened that Princess Lúthien was imprisoned in Nargothrond. I was then away for a while, for many leagues lie between that city and my King’s halls. King Thingol was wrathful when he heard of Lord Celegorm’s request; yet still, there were voices, small voices within our realm that said ‘better her groom be a Lord of Ñoldor than Beren, a mortal Man’! But the King did not listen to such counsel; he sent me back with a small troop to reclaim the princess. He would have gone to war to have her back, if he had to; but that would have meant another Kinslaying, and he wanted to avoid that by all means.”

“The rest, Lord Warden, I know only from hearsay. It is said that Beren, King Finrod and their escort had been imprisoned in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the once so proud fortress of your kinsmen in the West; and Sauron, the Enemy’s servant questioned and tormented them. Your cousin, my lord, was thrown in front of a werewolf, its claws and teeth crueller than steel and iron; and yet Felagund killed it with his bare hands, though died as well. It is also said that Princess Lúthien came, riding a mighty Hound; and she broke the doors of the fortress, setting the thralls of Sauron free. Many who once were prisoners had returned to Nargothrond, and its turmoil deepened; for people complained that lo! an Elf-maid had dared to accomplish deeds that the Seven Sons would not.”

“There was no mirth on Lord Celegorm’s face when he heard that the Princess was safe; and thus, the folk of Nargothrond understood that everything he and Lord Curufin did, they did it to seize power and kingship. Thus, they understood that your brothers cared for nothing and no one, but their Oath... Their followers were enraged, roused against the ones they had served for so long; and they wanted to have their blood spilled! Blades were drawn, curses were shouted, the shadow of Evil descended upon the city.”

“And that was when I came back. I saw your brothers, my lord, surrounded by their own kinsmen, who, raging, demanded their deaths. I saw fires lit in the mass, and daggers drawn; and I heard many shouting ‘Death to cravens! Death to traitors!’. Yet Lord Orodreth refused to have your brothers killed; for he knew that such a deed would only bring more evil upon all of us, Quendi. And he banished your brothers from Nargothrond, promising that there would never again be friendship between him and any Son of Fëanor. Thus, your two brothers rode away, followed by no more than Huan, the giant grey hound…”

“Followed by no more?” Tyelcano’s voice was harsh. “How is that possible? Lord Curufin has a son... a daughter...”

“No one followed them, Lord Counsellor.” Feredir shook his head. “And that was for the best. Later, as I have heard, they chanced upon Beren and Lúthien, and it came to the swords; and that affair is said to have had a nasty ending.”

“Do you know anything about Lord Curufin’s children?” Tyelcano pressed.

“I know that Master Celebrimbor is well loved in the City of Nargothrond. But I never met him or his sister; I have no tidings of them to give.”

“Very well,” Maedhros said suddenly. “I am beginning to understand things.”

“Are you, Lord Warden?” Feredir sighed sadly. “As for my humble self, I seem to understand them less and less.”

“Hand me the letter of your King. That may answer a few questions.”

“As you wish,” said the messenger. He placed a thin scroll of parchment into Maedhros’s welcoming hand, who broke the seal with an agile snap of his fingers and weighed an empty candle-holder on the upper edge of the parchment to be able to unwrap it. Tyelcano knew better than to offer him help; and he glimpsed a spark of approval in Feredir’s dark eyes.

The letter was merely a few paragraphs long: Tyelcano could see it from the corner of his eye. The handwriting was neat and the letters small; they spoke of collectedness and unrelenting precision. Only King Thingol’s ceremonious signature stood out from the soldierly order of his message.

The letter is short, Tyelcano decided. And yet his lord sat above it for what seemed like hours, his face frozen, as if Time itself had stopped and all Beleriand’s kingdoms had all turned to dust.

Eventually, however, Maedhros moved. He leaned back in his chair and put the candle-holder aside so the parchment could wrap itself again on the desk.

Then, he smiled; which was only slightly less terrifying than his wrath.

“Feredir of the Woods,” he said, “you have done me a great service, and for that I am thankful. Bear me no ill will if my words have, at times, wandered past the borders of being kind, or even courteous. You may depart immediately if you so desire; but you are very welcome to spend here a few days as my guest, and regain your strength.”

“Thank you, lord Warden.” Feredir bowed. “What response shall I bring home to my King?”

Tyelcano resisted the temptation to take Thingol’s letter from the table, for he already saw the shade of resolution in his lord’s grey eyes. Maedhros’s decision was already made, and without his consent; but that was not by any means a novelty.

Why was he suddenly so uneasy about this…?

“Tell Elwe Singollo that I might consider his offer,” said Lord Maedhros, his voice harder than steel. “I shall send him messengers in a year. Tell him to open his vast treasuries and hand the Silmaril to my envoys. Tell him to give back what is mine and my brothers’ – and then the two of us may converse about friendship, justice and good will. I have spoken.”

“Indeed you have, Lord Warden,” said Feredir. “I shall bring your word to my King. And I – I thank you once more for your hospitality.”

A servant opened the door before him, and he left the room in haste.

* * *

“Come here, Counsellor,” said Maedhros when they were alone. “I need you to have a look at this letter.”

“You seem to have made your decision easily enough without my insight,” said Tyelcano.

“I did what was right. It was most unpleasant, as right things so often are; and I wanted to get it over with.” Maedhros took a deep breath. “Please, take this.”

Thunderstruck upon hearing please, Tyelcano took the letter and read.

 

To Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of the Himring and Warden of the East,

Elu Thingol, Lord of the Sindar, King of Doriath and Protector of the Woodland Realm sends his kind regards

Your lordship,

I turn to thee in an hour of dire need, for my heart is weary. The shadow of the Enemy grows, and of late, it seems to have winded its way through the borders of our realms. It is with great sorrow and concern that I think of the heavy losses your kinsmen have suffered of late.

I inform you with great displeasure that your two brothers, lords Celegorm and Curufin have kidnapped my daughter, and refused to return her home unless I grant Lord Celegorm her hand. I did not expect such irreverence from the proud Ñoldor; and by the laws and customs of my realm, I must thus deny any future union between our Houses.

Should they come to Doriath again, your lord brothers shall have to stand trial. In such a case, they shall be treated with care and granted fair judgement, as would any other who stands by the throne of the Woodland King.

Lord Maedhros, you are a wise leader of your people. In times as perilous as these, you could ill afford to gain yet another enemy; and we in Doriath are also weary of death and peril. Should you do justice against the captors of my daughter, I offer you my friendship, my good will and any help I can give thee in the hour of need.

With regards for you, your brother Maglor and all your vigilant people in the East,

King Elu Thingol

Written on the last day of Nínui, in the Halls of Menegroth

 

The room seemed to suddenly grow cold. Tyelcano clutched the parchment helplessly, almost afraid to meet his lord’s eyes.

“To do justice? Do you have any idea, what that means, my lord...?”

Maedhros closed his eyes. The stern mask of the Warden of the East slipped from his face for a moment, and Tyelcano saw how tired he truly was.

“I know exactly what that means, or I would not have been so swift to wager my own brothers’ lives and freedom upon my choice,” he said. “Yet… by the Valar, my brothers indeed deserve punishment for what they have done to Artaresto and Findaráto! Kind, gentle Findaráto...” Maedhros’s voice faltered.

Tyelcano cautiously removed a tress of auburn hair that winded its way through the lord’s forehead.

“I understand little and less of whatever happened here,” he confessed. “And what of Lord Carnistir’s slaughtered scouts...? What happened to Tyelperinquar and Erenis...? So many riddles... so many unlikely coincidences...”

“All is veiled by the shadow of Moringotto,” said Maedhros. “I know his malice when I see it. Thingol should have never wished for the Silmarili; behold the peril it brought upon his head! And I must have the Jewels back, for so I have sworn. Some may call Findaráto a fool for keeping his Oath; yet Feredir was right to say that his promise had bound him. But that is not what troubles me the most. What evil sorcery of Moringotto’s could have wormed its way into my own brothers’ hearts...? I have to find them, Counsellor. I shall have no rest until I learn what happened!”

“You already know what happened, my lord,” said Tyelcano cautiously.

“I want to hear it from them. There should be some means of explanation. If the Enemy is now corrupting the very hearts of Quendi...” Maedhros shook his head.

“The Black Hand would not reach that far,” said Tyelcano, with conviction. “Not yet.”

“Sometimes,” said Maedhros at length, “thralls are released from Angamando and sent back home, to bear testimony of Moringotto’s power. They believe that by their escape, they had also triumphed over the willpower of the Enemy; and yet all their words, all their thoughts are still driven by the Shadow. They are the greatest danger one could ever face; and if my brothers are by any means exposed to such danger, it is my duty to drive the Darkness out of their hearts.”

“Is such a thing possible?” Tyelcano asked quietly.

“Everything is possible,” said Maedhros, his eyes two distant, silver stars. “I am here, after all, am I not?”

Tyelcano smiled despite himself. “You are.”

“Now go. I need to clean my head; and you do not have my permission to brood over things we cannot change.”

“What of your letter for the High King?”

“Later,” said Maedhros grimly. “I have had quite enough of letters for today.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Feredir is an OC, his name means ‘Hunter’ in Sindarin.

Nínui is Sindarin for ‘February’.

Víressë is Quenya for ‘April’.

Artaresto is Quenya for Orodreth.

The Silmarillion, Chapter XIX, ‘Of Beren and Lúthien’: “But Thingol learned that Lúthien had journeyed far from Doriath, for messages came secretly from Celegorm (…) that Lúthien was in Nargothrond, and that Celegorm would wed her. Then Thingol was wrathful, and he sent forth spies, thinking to make war upon Nargothrond; and thus he learned that Lúthien was again fled, and that Celegorm and Curufin were driven from Nargothrond. Then his counsel was in doubt, for he had not the strength to assail the seven sons of Fëanor; but he sent messengers to Himring to summon their aid in seeking for Lúthien (...). But in the north of his realm his messengers met with a peril sudden and unlooked for: the onslaught of Carcharoth, the Wolf of Angband. (...)Alone of the messengers Mablung, chief captain of the King, escaped, and he brought the dread tidings to Thingol.” – I assume that in the end, no messenger came to the Himring, and Maedhros knows nothing.

Crossroads

It is quite uncommandable to attack a son of Feanor, especially if other sons of Feanor happen to be nearby.

An Orc band learns that the hard way.

Read Crossroads

“We shall not lay hands upon them!” Artaresto said. His voice rang far above the raging mass, above lances and swords and daggers. “We shall not! For despite their malice and treachery, they are still our kin. Have your forgotten the Curse of Mandos? Such a deed would bind it more closely upon us all. I will not have the blood of my kin spilled! Let them go. But bread and shelter I shall grant them no more, and there will be little love between Nargothrond and the Sons of Fëanor thereafter: this I swear. You have seen me and heard my words.”

“Let it be so!” Tyelkormo said, and laughed; and he, Curufinwë...

He said nothing.

He stood there, thunder in his eyes, hatred in his guts, and smiled.

Let it be so!

When he went to gather his belongings, he saw Tyelperinquar and Erenis. They were standing in the shadows, holding hands, watching him.

Curufinwë paid no heed to his children, and tightened the straps on his bundle.

Everything was in order.

(No, in fact, nothing was in order, but the façade of precision and collectedness would be much needed on his journey north, he knew).

“What are you staring at?” He said. “Move! We need to leave before the sun goes down – the mercy of my good cousin might not prove as extensive as he claims.”

“I am not going with you, Atar,” said Tyelperinquar.

“You were saying...?”

“I am not going with you,” Tyelperinquar repeated patiently. “I came to love Nargothrond and its people.”

“And so did I,” said Erenis, her voice like iron.

And Curufinwë laughed.

“Look at you, my dears! Putting our feet down, are we…? Now pray tell: why would Artaresto let you stay here, offsprings of traitors and kinslayers?”

“Because we are loved for who we are, and not for who you should have been,” Tyelperinquar said, without fear or remorse. “And because we do not wish to stoop so low as you did, Father. We did not swear your Oath, and we are not your servants. It is pity enough that our paths should fall asunder in such a bitter way.”

“It is,” said Curufinwë. “So Master Tyelperinquar is allowed to stay, I imagine; for his talent is much needed here. Master Tyelperinquar now feels powerful enough to discard his father. That much is clear… But what of Lady Erenis?” He tilted his head. “Lady Erenis who cannot even lift a hammer or shoe a horse, ungifted as she is…? Surely, my sweet daughter, you have nothing to offer Lord Artaresto – or am I wrong?”

He swallowed the bitter taste of guilt when he saw the confusion, the hurt and the unshed tears in her daughter’s eyes; but then Erenis rose and she eyed him, brave, unbroken.

“If you think so little of me, Father,” she said icily, “then why would you mind if I stayed here? Useless Lady Erenis could not even light you a fire on your journey to the Hells of Moringotto, could she…? If you think you stand above the laws of the Eldar and the mercy of the Valar, then take another wife and sire children who match your needs! Fare well!”

She slammed the door behind herself; and unconsciously, Curufinwë raised his hand as if he could have hoped to stop her.

“Fell and fey are you become, Atar,” Tyelperinquar said, and Curufinwë’s eyes widened at such boldness. “Fare well, and look for us no more! Forget the children you treated like tools and livestock for all your years in Nargothrond. I still hope against hope that one day, the Father we have lost shall return. Then we may speak again.”

* * *

The March of Maedhros, FA 467, the first day of Víressë

The roots were pale, less in width than his thumb and grungy with sour-smelling dirt. It took Curufinwë a good hour’s walk to collect them; and by the time he found anything edible, the mud of yestereve’s rain reached up his sleeves.

A year ago, he would have been disgusted by his worn-out state: weather tattered his cloak, filth scuffed his boots and the better part of his garments were either torn, shredded rags or serving as bandages to cover the wounds he’d had on the road. Life out in the wilderness was hard; and he, Curufinwë, son of Fëanáro was as much at the mercy of good fortune and nature as anyone else.

Indeed, nature itself was perhaps the only thing that would still show any means of favour towards him.

Curufinwë sighed, and turned his long strides downhill again. Roots were all he could hope for until they would come upon an abandoned settlement, a hastily left camp, a corpse, or any other possible source of arrows. Devoid of steel and too wary to light even the smallest of fires, he could not hope to make any arrowheads himself.

He counted two hundred and fifty steps as he made his descent amongst dogwood and burberry bushes. At the bottom of the valley, he picked some berries off a slim buckthorn. He knew that their taste would soon turn sour, and their effect was less than pleasant; but should he or his brother need to wash some kind of poison or disease out of their bodies, the wicked berries could prove more than useful. The dark, grim woodlands of what had once been Dorthonion – where they would soon be heading to – were not likely to grow such treasures.

Fifteen pair of roots, a pocket full of rose-hips, another pocket full of mushrooms and a handful of berries, Curufinwë counted. It was little enough, but more than nothing.

Then he reached a wide meadow, crowned with a carpet of tiny white flowers. The hills of Himlad were paled by morning fog, the stillness of the landscape interrupted only once in a while by the glide of thrushes and a lone magpie, buzzing back and forth about their business above the clearing. Far above and further ahead, Curufinwë could see Anor in a halo of pinkish-yellow clouds, rising above the blackened wastelands of Anfauglith.

And further still... no, he would not think of that. He would not give in to despair.

I am a hunter of the woods, an outlaw, a wanderer. All I have is the present: the Now. For me, there is no ‘when’; there is only ‘if’.

That was what Curufinwë kept telling himself since Nargothrond. No smiles or tears disturbed his mind; not even a flicker of pride. He had to go on, to survive: to live another day, and yet another.

He did not know why, for there was no such thing as why. He ate, he drank, he slept, he breathed, he placed one leg in front of the other as he strode, following his brother. This state of silence and denial could not go on for ever, he knew; but while he walked the woods, meadows, hills, and rivers, while his mind was set on hunting down a hart or finding new ways to catch fish, even the endless torment of his Oath seemed bearable.

He could, in fact, link one engagement to the other. It was only natural that he needed to eat, so one day, he could fulfil his Oath. He needed to walk “another mile”, then “just another”, for eventually, that would bring him closer to his final destination. Each day, he wowed that he would head to Himring at last, admit his deeds, and seek help; yet he never did. There was still something in the depths of his fëa that restrained him.

And then, of course, there was Tyelkormo – a shell, a shadow of his former self. Hopeless, loveless, horseless, Huan-less Tyelkormo.

Another thing that made Curufinwë go on was that he had to drag Tyelkormo with him, further and further on the road. Since Nargothrond, their communication was reduced to the expression of hunger, thirst, cold and fatigue; or now and then a sign of game in the woods. Perhaps that was the worst of it all: the lack of communication. Lack of companionship. The maddening silence of the woodlands. The Orc-bands hunting for them.

It was not getting any better – it was getting worse, and swiftly.

Curufinwë followed the narrowing edge of the meadow, now uphill again. He and his brother had made camp on a wide plain in a sea of grass, deepened and thickened by rainfalls of late. In the middle of the verdure, a small cluster of trees stood proud against the pale blue sky: it was under these trees that Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had settled for a day, and perhaps another. Their beds of moss and fallen leaves were more welcoming than most of the resting places they had encountered on their journey. Now that they had no horses or companions, a couple of unburdened trees were the best shelter they could hope for. In fact, if news in Beleriand travelled as fast as fair Lúthien upon Huan the Hound, it might as well prove the best they would find for all their days left in Endórë...

On the edge of the forest belt that separated the blossoming meadow and the great green plain, Curufinwë halted, uneasiness taking over him. The earth whispered news, ones he had been dreading ever since they came to Himlad.

Curufinwë knelt, and listened. The steps echoed uncertainly beyond the never-ending lament of a soil once drenched with blood; their song was faint and distant, but he, who had spent long years hunting and travelling, could not mistake it for anything else.

Riders were coming, and with great haste. Not that Curufinwë was surprised; the lands were leached with rain, and reeking with mud. All it took was a lone footprint, forgotten and left behind.

They had been discovered; and the hunters became the hunted.

* * *

When he reached the shelter, Tyelkormo was already gathering his affairs, preparing to hit the road; and Curufinwë found it relieving to see the sparkle of life lit in his eyes again.

“Have you heard what the earth sings?” Tyelkormo asked; and despite everything, Curufinwë had to smile at the poetic expression, probably picked up from Oromë himself.

This was also the longest sentence his brother had spoken to him in the last three days.

“We must make haste, or we shall be found soon. A troop of riders, if I am not mistaken...”

“Aye. But there is no glory in the sound of their hoofs, nor the surety of the hunter who caught the smell of game. They are fleeing, Curvo, just like you and I, and terror is in their heels. Orcs are growing bold in these mountains; my heart tells me they were outnumbered, and forced to retire.”

“Nelyo’s scouts fleeing from Orcs?” Curufinwë shook his head. “Never!”

“The days of the Siege are gone.” Tyelkormo stood with grace. “Moringotto won the last battle, and our forces are scattered. Orcs might roam these lands for all we know, and if they do, then we are in even greater peril than the riders. What weaponry do we have?”

“You have your bow and three arrows,” Curufinwë counted, “a knife, and a broken lance.”

“And you, Curvo?”

“Nothing.”

“Which means?”

“Which means that we have to run for our lives, and now!” Curufinwë snapped. “I hate the thought of it; but every minute of waiting and pondering is a waste of precious time!”

Even as he spoke, he knew it was in vain; for where could they have run? North, into the open arms of the Enemy? East, where the Shadow still lingered? South, where their current peril was coming from? Or West, through open plains and grey-green wastelands, revealed to all eyes within leagues?

There was nowhere to run, and this circle of trees was no place to hide. All they could do was stay, and face whatever may come.

“Here,” said Tyelkormo, “have my knife. It is sharper than roots or stones.”

* * *

To Curufinwë’s chagrin, Anor was veiled by clouds within the hour. Cumbrous silence fell on the hills around them; the birds and beasts were now silent, and the promise of rain hung heavily in the air. Unwilling to delay the inevitable, the brothers gathered their poor belongings and even poorer provisions together, and climbed the nearest hillside.

Mud, dew and filthy gravel filtered into Curufinwë’s left boot across some new hole as he climbed the last few rocks, following his brother. Now it was Tyelkormo who persisted, who dragged him along. When they reached the top, Curufinwë saw that his brother’s instincts were trustworthy: the scranky juniper bushes that covered the southern slope were shelter enough to hide them. Luckily, the wind had also turned North, which meant that their foes were less likely to catch their scent; and even if by some mischance, they were noticed, the hill-top was an easy place to shoot from.

If one had more arrows than just three, that is.

The faint but steady thud of feet was growing closer; and Curufinwë stopped listening. Whatever was coming, he was no longer in charge: he had to endure whatever the Powers had arranged for the day.

Soon, the brothers could hear the noise of approaching battle. Horses were trotting, neighing, snorting. Swift, agile feet were hitting the ground, again and again, as the scouts were losing terrain. Blades sang, people screamed, fire roared. The grunts of Orcs and the bubbling of their black blood were heard much less often than they would have liked; their kinsmen out there were losing the battle, and swiftly.

Tyelkormo lay under the bushes upon his stomach, letting his head fall on the ground. Curufinwë could not decide if he was cold, weeping, or his shoulders were simply shaking with rage. His own blood was boiling as well; but what could they do? If they wasted their last three arrows, what would they eat next day? They could not live on turnips for ever. And if they were to join the fight... what weapon would they use? Tyelkormo’s lone knife? The splinters of his broken lance? Their nails and teeth?

“Angrist, my friend, I miss you most grievously,” Curufinwë lamented, damning the day their paths crossed with Lúthien; and the day King Thingol had voiced his want of their heritage.

So many evil could have been avoided that day. Does he not know that the Silmarili are ours, only ours, and we shall have to kill anyone who is after it? What right has he, the King of the Moriquendi, to keep any of our treasures?!

But King Thingol is cunning and wary: far more attentive than your Father was, and your Grandfather before him, Curufinwë thought as the battle cries were creeping closer. Did he not see the light of Aman as Finwë did? Did he not walk among the Valar, did he not stand before Manwë as well? Yet he was clever enough to say no and stay where he belonged, stay in the ancient lands of the Quendi. The Valar showed the Quendi their crafts and lore, yes, but they also chained their minds. Your Father broke those chains, but he could not bring freedom to the Ñoldor. Even he, even your Father failed. Yet how could one bring freedom if he was a thrall in all his life?

Curufinwë stood, his tall figure clearly visible among the bushes, barely aware of how his shoulders were shaking. Where were these thoughts coming from? To say that the Valar held the Quendi in chains was saying that Moringotto’s deeds were righteous, and he would have deserved to rule Aman instead of Manwë and Varda.

He could not say that. No, he simply could not say that.

But what was wrong with keeping an Oath? Was there no redemption after Alqualondë, that terrible night on the shores that still made his skin crawl? Would he ever find rest, or would any of his brothers?

“Curvo!” Tyelkormo’s voice slipped unpleasantly into his consciousness. “Back down! They are going to see you!”

His hands tightened into fists.

“Curvo! They’re coming!”

Curufinwë was dragged down amongst the thicket, his eyes wet.

“I am not evil, Tyelko,” he said wretchedly. “Tell me I am not.”

“Is that the last thing you want to hear before we die?” His brother squinted. “I pray you ask Námo instead. I know you enough to tell what a wicked little gnome you are.”

Curufinwe’s laughter tasted as bitter as his tears; but it was still laughter, and laughter meant hope. He grabbed Tyelkormo’s knife in his belt, and listened.

The uproar of Orcs was almost unbearable, and Curufinwë could hear the thud of a body thrown on the ground, along with the clatter of armour and the cling of a sword, knocked out of the hand that had wielded it. Then, he heard the sound of fists and boots, kicking and banging into soft flesh. It seemed that the Orcs had triumphed, and now they were about to enjoy the company of their prisoners.

Tyelkormo crawled forward. “Ten...,” he breathed, “fifteen... twenty... thirty...”

Curufinwë swallowed. He had hoped for twenty or less.

“...forty-five, Curvo. They must have been a hundred or more. I see plenty of corpses, and more black blood than red.”

“Any chance to flee?” Curufinwë whispered.

“Perhaps. Whatever we do, we have to do it quickly. I say we take the nearest path south, and run straight to Himring. Unarmed as we are, the only help we can offer is to warn Nelyo as fast as we can.”

Curufinwë pondered that for a second. He hated the thought of abandoning any of their kinsmen to the Orcs’ mercy, but another crack on the shield of his pride was definitely worth some lives. Not even his Atar, or his uncle Ñolofinwë would have been able to face forty Orcs at the same time, armed with no more than a small hunting knife.

His reluctance to enter Himring, his self-pity, his dark broodings on the Valar and the lack of their mercy – everything was forgotten at once as Curufinwë began his slow, wary descent from the hill, followed closely by Tyelkormo.

At the other side of the tumult of earth and rock, the Orcs were revelling loudly in their prisoners. Curufinwë could hear the hiss of a whip every other second, and there were cries of pain and dismay.

And one of the voices seemed – familiar?

A handful of gravel and small rocks crackled under Curufinwë’s feet, and for a moment, he was on the verge of sliding downhill. He grabbed a ledge on the cliff, his entire weight placed on his fingers. His arms were going numb, and he muttered a few colourful curses as Tyelkormo pulled him onto more secure terrain.

“Watch out!” He said. “We cannot fight with one hand if they see us.”

“Don’t say that if we make it to Nelyo,” Curufinwë muttered. Tyelkormo said nothing, but there was a sparkle of mirth in his eyes as his feet searched for the next cove.

They reached the critical point of their descent; they had to cross a spot where the veil of verdure would not hide them. Tyelkormo climbed forward, for his feet were steadier; and Curufinwë thought that he was a fearsome sight, even covered in old rags, even with his longbow hanging uselessly from his shoulder. While his brother was searching for the safest route, Curufinwë kept his attention on their enemies below.

Even if his previous mistake had been noticed, the Orcs gave no sign of it, so enraptured they were in the pleasure of having captured four Elves at once. Three of them were bound and made to stand by a fire the Orcs had lit; and the fourth one was most viciously played with.

His armour cast away, the prisoner lay on the blood-soaked ground in no more than a thin undershirt and a pair of tattered trousers. A strong Orc was standing above him, flinging his whip again and again, terrible blows thundering upon the prisoner’s back. The others were shouting at him in their hideous, guttural language; and Curufinwë did not have to understand their speech to recognise the insults.

One of the prisoners was tugging violently on his ropes, red wounds and bruises opening on his shoulders, arms and wrists. One of the smaller Orcs shouted something, and spat at him. The rest laughed, then the tortured Elf was turned on his back, and the whip lashed straight upon his face and chest. The prisoners shrieked, but the tall, lean creature on the ground endured the blow in silence.

Another cruel snap, another dreadful blow. Another kick on the purplish shoulders and hips. The Elf’s head waned aside as he passed out, and a trail of bright blood sprang from his nose. It was about to drown him soon if he remained unconscious, Curufinwë knew.

Both he and Tyelkormo stared at the pale, lifeless face in silence. Suddenly, their duty was forgotten. Their errand was forgotten. Reality was forgotten.

Curufinwë felt sick. Terribly sick.

Then some terrified part of his awareness reminded him that he was staring into the haggard, barely recognisable face of Makalaurë.

“GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY BROTHER, YOU WITLESS SPAWN OF MORINGOTTO!” Tyelkormo bellowed. As he emerged from the verdure, entirely and wondrously enraged, Curufinwë thought he must have been as terrible to an Orc’s eyes as a furious Vala in the fullness of his strength would be to some unlucky Elf.

His next thought was that they were about to make a terrible mistake. Tyelkormo was storming relentlessly downhill, his feet barely even touching the ground. One of their three precious arrows was already in his hand, ready to touch the string. The Orc who had tormented their brother was truly and entirely doomed – but so were they.

Unless...

Curufinwë pulled his brother’s hunting knife from its sheathe and went on his own way. Thick roots and a slick carpet of fallen leaves protested soundlessly as he raced downhill, supporting himself here and there by grabbing hold of the dew-dampened rocks.

He heard the hiss of an arrow flying through the air, and there was a cry of dismay as it hit target. As Curufinwë broke forth from amongst the trees, he saw that his brother was about to crash furiously in a line of fully armed Orcs. The whip of the torturer was in his hands now, lashing frightfully from one side to the other, reaching faces, arms, chests and legs alike.

Curufinwë marvelled at the impossible chance they have had: most of the archers were killed and their arrows scattered. Still, he had to break a handful of bows on his way towards the captives; and overcoming their initial shock, a dozen Orcs were now heading at him, grabbing their blades and gritting their teeth. One against a dozen seemed considerably better than two against forty-five; but Curufinwë still felt the wave of wariness taking over him. He pulled a scimitar from the chest of a dead Elven scout, and slammed into the wall of enemies.

The first head fell without protest, the mouth vomiting black blood. Curufinwë slammed the still twitching body into his next enemy’s face, and cut deep into a leg, reaching one of the thick arteries on the inner side of the thigh. Skin and flash opened with a loathsome smack, and Curufinwë was momentarily blinded by blood.

Someone grabbed him from behind, probably trying to crack his spine; and Curufinwë remembered the tattered remnants of once fine armour underneath his rags. They still held, but not perfectly... he was not safe, here as he was, surrounded by Orc-filth. He had to get help.

He jerked forward and slammed his fist into a swarthy face. His bones ached from the impact, but the Orc was knocked unconscious, and at the same time his left foot reached something soft and breakable; another one of his enemies must have fallen on the ground. And ahead...

Curufinwë gave a sharp cry as the first throat was sliced right in front of his eyes. The guardians of the camp had clearly intended to kill the captives before he could reach them. Luckily, he got there first.

Or did he?

Curufinwë tugged frantically on the rope around the second Elf – the scimitar’s edge was too thick to slide underneath. He needed Tyelko’s knife – where in Manwë’s name was Tyelko’s knife?! Did he just drop their last piece of Elven weaponry...?

He kicked an Orc furiously in the stomach, and watched over the gagged Elf with all the strength and vigilance of his shattered body. He could not allow him to be killed... he could not stand alone...

He was grabbed and pulled to the ground, cruel steel biting into his side. Curufinwë spat a colourful curse and rolled over, dragging a pair of unsuspecting feet with him. He rolled the Orc around, his fingers tugging at the soft flesh in the middle of his throat, unprotected by nerves and collarbones. There was a horrible, sickening crack, then the moist, tepid vacillation of inner bleeding under his hands, and the Orc started to twitch and shake violently. Curufinwë threw him on a dying archer, letting him drown in his own vomit.

Swift as a shadow, he slipped back to the two remaining prisoners. It seemed that the raid had not been previously planned, and the Orcs had captured them merely for sport. That, at least, gave Curufinwë some hope.

“Can you stand?” He asked the first Elf, but no answer came.

When he turned the body over and saw ragged entrails gushing forth from a wide scarring, he turned his head and vomited. The wound on his side was now throbbing steadily, and his legs were shaking with the sort of weakness that comes with the heavy loss of blood.

“I can stand, my lord,” said the last Elf, the one he had protected with his own body. “Please, unbound me, and let me fight for you.”

Curufinwë’s inquiring hand found the knife at last, and he slid the blade under the Elf’s ties. When the rope gave way, the scout fell to his knees for a moment, wriggling his wrists to make the blood circulate. Curufinwë handed him the scimitar and he pulled another, longer sword from the bowelled Elf’s belt.

Their enemies were already upon them; but Tyelkormo was still on his feet, and unscathed. With a fierce cry he sprang forward, and slammed into the chest of yet another Orc.

“HOW MANY MORE?” Curufinwë yelled, and sliced yet another belly, broke yet another arm, stepped on yet another face. His tattered clothes were becoming damp with sweat, and heavy with the smell of blood and earth.

“TWENTY-SOME SMELLY FILTH,” Tyelkormo bellowed. Whip still in hand, he was standing above Makalaurë, defending him with every move and breath. His arms and legs were dark and slippery with Orc-blood, and a fresh spring of his own blood ran down from his scalp.

Twenty-three was the exact number of their enemies; and for one silent, dreadful moment they seemed to turn against the three worn-out Elves as one and attack in one fierce onset.

If they do, one of us dies, Curufinwë thought. Perhaps all of us.

The silence stretched for four or five seconds; every body was motionless, every face grim, every muscle tense.

And then, all of a sudden, a little Orc pulled himself free from another’s grip, and broke into a run. He disappeared amongst the thicket with a cry of fear and dismay. Another pursued, and yet another; and when more than half of the party was gone, the rest followed as one.

The prey was costly; and none of them seemed willing to pay the price.

* * *

The three fighters stood frozen for several minutes; then Curufinwë fell on his knees next to his brother.

“Kano,” he whispered faintly. “Kano, do you hear me?”

His vision was darkening. It had to be the wound...

“My Lord!” The scout held him steady. “You have lost too much blood. Please let me take care of you as well as I can.”

“He comes first,” Curufinwë insisted, still holding the sides of Makalaurë’s face. “He is hurt…”

Tyelkormo knelt down as well, and checked Makalaurë’s pulse and breathing. Both were slow and faint, but still within the borders of normal.

“He will soon be awake, and in great pain,” said Tyelkormo. “He shan’t walk, but we have to move; and yet we cannot risk to move him. A true riddle. I wonder where the Orc-filth went.”

“They are most likely hiding in some secure, dark hole until nightfall,” said the scout. “We must make haste. If you will watch over him, I shall run and warn the Lord Warden; I may reach the Himring within two hours if I am swift. I will send you soldiers, provisions, healers and anything else you may need.”

“A sharp mind,” said Curufinwë. As little as he appreciated the prospect of staying out in the wilderness with Orcs about, he still found it in himself to celebrate cleverness. “What is your name? I do not seem to know you.”

“Antalossë, my lord. I joined the watch only three weeks ago. This was my first scouting...”

“Poor boy,” Tyelkormo sighed, his eyes still on Makalaurë’s face.

“Listen to me, Antalossë of Himring,” said Curufinwë, “I cannot promise that scouting will get any better; but I presume that my brother will much appreciate your bravery. You might never need to leave Himring ever again.”

The scout blinked. “You said – my lord, forgive me, but did you just say that your brother…?”

Tyelkormo and Curufinwë exchanged a glance, then laughed.

“Oh, aye,” said Curufinwë, “introductions might be in order.”

“Where is the fun in that?” Said Tyelkormo. “He shall have to guess. Which of the Seven are we?”

“As if that was a riddle,” Curufinwë snapped. “We have no time for your antics!”

“Yet you are the one playing Carnistir.”

“Ignore him, lad,” Curufinwë sighed. “And get back to your feet. We can get formally acquainted later.”

“Lord Tyelkormo, Lord Curufinwë, it is….”

“…a great honour, oh, tell me about it. It will be just as great when you return. You have to go. Now.”

“Yes, lord,” said Antalossë, and he ran. Soon, he disappeared among the hills, and the earth drank in the sound of his slender feet.

“A bright young thing,” said Curufinwë. “Centered on solutions. I like that. If I ever took a squire, it would be him.”

For a moment, Tyelkormo looked as though he was about to answer; but then Makalaurë stirred, hiding his face. He seemed to think that he was about to get beaten again.

“Shhh, Kano,” Tyelkormo whispered. He caressed their wounded brother’s face with a tenderness Curufinwë had almost forgotten he had in his large hands. “It is over. Our enemies are lying around in black puddles of blood and entrails. They all died in terrible agony, I promise you. We will soon burn them to the last Orc. It is alright, brother.”

Something akin with disgust flashed across Makalaurë’s face, and Curufinwë laughed.

“What a smooth way to cheer him up. I do not even remember the last time I had to say you were a rouge.”

“Cur...vo,” Makalaurë coughed, the haze of pain gone from his eyes. “Tyelko... what... how... when...”

“Too many questions.” Tyelkormo managed a smile.

“Where are...” Makalaurë trembled. “My head hurts.”

“That is no surprise,” said Curufinwë. “Be at ease, brother. Young Antalossë is on his way to the Himring. He shall bring help... and Nelyo will come and hunt the Orc-filth himself. It will all be frightfully amusing.”

He tried to sound cheerful, although he trembled at the thought of facing Nelyafinwë, Lord of the Himring and Warden of the East, and his eldest brother.

“Maitimo,” Makalaurë whispered. “I don’t want... I have failed...”

“Failed?” Curufinwë put his arms around his brother. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone... died... I... I was too slow…”

“Too slow for what?”

“Enough, Curvo!” said Tyelkormo solemnly. “You upset him. Let him rest.”

“We will talk later,” Makalaurë promised, his voice a little bit stronger. “It is... it is good to have you back. Even if it was very... very stupid of you... to run down a whole armed... troop of Orcs.”

“That is what brothers are for, Kano.” Tyelkormo smiled ruefully, and bent down to kiss the elder’s cheek.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

“Erenis” is an OC you’ll meet later. I have always imagined that Curufin had a daughter, too… so please forgive me for this small canon divergence.

A Day in the March

Wounds - seen and unseen - are tended, and a cloak stirs controversy.

Read A Day in the March

It was a beautiful morning. Cold for the season, yet bright and clear: perfect for a round or two of friendly sparring.

Or – in case you found yourself on the wrong end of Lord Maedhros’s blade – friendly torture.

The fourth impact against rain-steeped soil resulted in a very nasty crack somewhere in Counsellor Tyelcano’s leg. Instinctively, he rolled onto his side and checked his calves; they still hurt, but the only visible injury he found was a new tearing in his favourite trousers.

Lord Maedhros seemed tall as a Vala as he towered above him, longsword still in his hand.

“Did I wound you?”

“I did not take care when I fell.”

The lord frowned. “You always do.”

Tyelcano stretched his legs experimentally, and swallowed a curse when the pain came back. He should have secured his ankles. His old riding boots were starting to get loose.

“You are terrible to fight when upset, lord. Lose focus for one second, and you will send me flying through the meadow!”

Maedhros’s frown deepened.

“Upset?”

Tyelcano closed his eyes for a moment, searching for escape routes, but he found none. Maedhros – much like his father and grandfather before him – was hard to fool.

“Ever since that messenger came this morn, you are not yourself. First you send me off with the letter for the High King, saying that it can wait; then you lock yourself up in your study for hours. Then you ask me to spar with you, you beat me four times, and still you continue pacing like a hungry wolf. My dearest Lord, what ails you so?”

Maedhros sheathed his sword, and settled on the grass next to his counsellor.

“How strange,” he said. “I almost feel tired.”

“Do not burden your mind,” said Tyelcano gently. “It shall have to bear new weights soon enough. It would be wise to make those a little space.”

A smile ghosted through Maedhros’s face, and Tyelcano wished it would stay there for ever.

“Tell me about the letter you wrote,” his lord said at length. “It asked Findekáno for tidings about Princess Lúthien, the Silmaril and Findaráto’s fate, did it not? Evasively.”

“Evasively.”

“Good.” Maedhros was staring at his own gloved palm. “I say that we now know enough. It would be unwise to send that letter before my brothers are found…and questioned.”

Tyelcano stole a glance at his lord. “Do you still intend to make them stand trial?”

“I have been thinking about it,” Maedhros admitted. “Yet… they have lost so much, and pride is a fragile shield. There is no place for strife within my walls; and in Himring, my word is law. Whatever the decision, it is I and I alone who must take it.”

“There will be talk,” Tyelcano said. “And wondering.”

“Such things cannot be helped. Surely, if my own people start doubting me, I might as well hand my lordship over to Kano.”

“Where reason is mute, authority must speak, my lord says,” Tyelcano said smoothly, “and he may as well be right.”

Maedhros was silent.

“Your years and battles have earned you wisdom. Whatever doom you lay upon your brothers, they must bow before it, and so shall we all. You have made grave decisions before: why flinch now?”

“Let us walk,” said Maedhros, extending his hand to help him up.

Tyelcano swallowed his pride, and took it.

* * *

Halfway back to the castle, they crossed a thin forest belt, lord and counsellor stopped to look at the plains of Himlad as they opened below them, caressed by the enormous arms of low-running hills.

“I wanted to talk about a private matter,” Maedhros confessed. “That is why I have tormented you with sparring.”

“I know,” said Tyelcano.

“And yet you still let me do it.”

“It does not hurt to train every now and then…”

 “You are a far better swordsman than I, Counsellor. Or at least, you were. I have no idea why I keep winning.”

Tyelcano considered that for a moment. “Wrath,” he said.

“I could take offense, you know.”

“You certainly could, if you wanted – but as things are now, I doubt you would have time for it.” Tyelcano frowned. “Is this about your dreams?”

“I prefer to call them visions,” said Maedhros, a spark of excitement stirring in his eyes. “I wanted to ask... have you seen one since? And if you did, has anything changed…?”

“I see the same dream most every night; and I now remember every second of it, every corner and every shadow. I think you are right, lordship: it is a vision.”

Maedhros looked at him intently. “Tell me.”

Tyelcano did not answer at once; instead, he rolled back his sleeves and examined a scrape on the hilt of his sword.

“In my dreams,” he said at length, “I lay helpless on blood-steeped soil. It is my own blood – I am gravely wounded, and every breath is painful. Then I hear a crow cawing nearby, and more crows answer its call. I know that I am in danger, for my enemies are not far; though I have no memory of what they have done to me. There is a heavy pounding in my head, as if a blacksmith was working in it with hammer and anvil… The crows caw on, it makes my head hurt. I feel like they are laughing at me… I know that I have to go, to flee, but I feel too weak to stand. I use my hands and knees instead.”

“And what then?”

“I see corpses everywhere, but they are all Orcs. I am alone, and left for dead, but I know that I am still being followed. I hide in caves and breaches as the land rises around me. I walk when I can and crawl when I must, following the course of a dried river without any idea where it would take me. It is getting cold, and high mountain-peaks tower above me. I lose my sense of time and I despair; and that is when I hear the voice. All flowers shall wither, it says. In sorrow it has started and in sorrow it must end; behold the banners as they gleam in the light of the rising sun! The night is passing but another night shall come, blacker than ink, black as the Void beyond the Circles of the World. Many years could one wonder and many years could he hope, yet he shan’t succeed; the mountains are high and the peaks icy cold, and all flowers shall wither.”

“And then my enemies find me; my hands are bound, I am captured… And then the voice speaks again. Hideous creatures lurk in the walls, it says, but he who walks in starlight does not flinch; he hides in caves and near breaches and behind rocks, and on he wanders, and on he wanders, but a dead end awaits. The gates are closed. Hearing such words of doom, I despair.”

“Yet after a long time, a time that seems like a thousand years, a faint light comes to me. I am in a large room; a room at home, in Tirion, and... and I believe I see Aran Finwë looking down at me, his hand resting on my forehead. He is saying something, but I do not know what. I see gates, guarded by armies and barred with iron. They are closed. That is all I remember. Is this by any means similar to your dreams, lord?”

Maedhros shook his head. “I hear the same words – and probably the same voice –, yet all I see are fleeting impressions of battlefields, flowing banners and corpses. Countless corpses. Some other times I fly above the world and I see fair Tirion as well, draped in the light of moon: that is not a picture from my memory, and not only because I cannot fly. The Tirion we knew was shining with the light of Trees; we cannot possibly know what would it look like in moonlight! True or not, I wish these dreams would go away, for I cannot grasp their meaning. All flowers shall wither might mean that all my plans shall gone awry, no matter what I would do; and I strongly believe that these visions are a warning that concern our people’s fate. The last time you asked me about these dreams, I was still trying to convince myself that they were meaningless; but since then, my patience has thinned. They make me feel helpless... I haven’t felt helpless since the cliff.”

“Lordship – ” said Tyelcano, with great grief.

“It is unbearable. I could stop the flood of war and tragedy that strains the hurdles – I should stop it, in fact – but I lack the knowledge, the understanding, the information to do so. And that... that frightens me!”

Only once before in his waking life had Tyelcano heard his lord – then, his king – saying I am frightened; and that was not a moment he now wished to remember… However, if Maedhros had sought him out with such a personal problem, it must have been gnawing at him for a long time; and he, Tyelcano had to try his best and help.

“It is possible, my lord,” he said as a sudden thought occurred to him, “that our dreams are two parts of a whole, and they only have significance if we put them together.”

“Two dreams as a whole?” Maedhros seemed to stir a little bit. “That sounds sensible enough.”

“Yes, lord. I am surprised, though, that it is me of all people you were destined to share this dream with. Your brothers would seem a much more natural choice.”

“I would not say so,” said Maedhros. They sprang to a walk along the narrow path, stray branches of burberry and dogwood grazing their waist and shoulders. “You are as much behind everything that happens in Himlad as I am; for I decide, and you make my decisions work. You certainly have to be warned of the same danger as I.”

“You told me that the dreams made you feel helpless,” said Tyelcano. “Is that what you feel each night when the dream wakes you up?”

“Sort of. The aftermath of this dream is a shadow of impending doom. Suffocating.”

Tyelcano frowned. “I see this vision as a riddle or task; some means of guidance to forego a disaster that would be inevitable if we would not have been warned beforehand.”

“I see no warning here,” said Maedhros. “This is a doom. All flower shall wither, it says, not all flowers might wither if we are not swift and smart enough. And it says that the gates are closed. No matter what we do, our doom is already weaved by Vairë; and there is nothing we can do to change it.”

“The gates are closed,” Tyelcano echoed. “Closed, my lord. Not locked. Not barred with iron. And our task is probably to open them. There is still a way for us to fair Tirion, and we shall find it! We will probably still suffer a lot from Moringotto’s malice; yet light is stronger than darkness, for it sees right through it, comprehending its ways and its purpose. Darkness cannot comprehend light and flees even from its sight.”

“That is what my father once told me,” said Maedhros.

“And do you think that he lied?”

“Nay. Yet since then, I saw veils of darkness that swallowed even the brightest of lights.”

* * *

The afternoon shadows were deepening around Tyelcano and his lord as they walked back along the path. Soon, the forest began to thin around them, and they reached the grass-overgrown crest of the hill they had climbed, letting the imposing sight of the Fortress of Himring reach their eyes.

The castle was built upon the highest hill of Himlad, wide and treeless, its summit slightly flattened. Lesser hills dappled the horizon; some of them were covered in scant forest, others were crowned by grey-green grass, and yet others remained bald and rocky. Several watchtowers stood upon these hills, facing all directions of the compass: shadows in the dewy daylight. The gates of the Himring were open, and a long line of riders was leaving the fortress. Along the high walls, beacons were lit.

Tyelcano and his lord exchanged a glance, then broke into a run. Soon, they were seen from the castle, and the riders rode to meet them, as if chased the Valaraukar themselves. It was a lanky youth who first came to them; his clothes and armour were ragged, his left arm hung wounded, and his eyes were wide and frightened.

“Lord Warden, Lord Counsellor,” he said. “We were about to search the woodlands for you.”

“And who gave you leave to do that?” said Maedhros coolly.

“C-captain Tulcestelmo, my lord,” the youth stammered. “I – it is about Lord Maglor; he has a bad wound.”

“When and how did that happen?”

“This morn, my lord, when the Orcs...”

“Orcs? Within my borders?!” Maedhros frowned. “What in Manwë’s name are you doing out there in the Marches?!”

“Lord Maglor was heading home, my lord,” the scout explained apologetically. “I was with him... and several others... when Orcs ambushed us. Our numbers were less than two dozen and theirs more than a hundred. We tried to flee.”

“A hundred against two dozen?” Tyelcano raised his brows. “How did you survive? And where is Lord Makalaurë?”

“Out there, not moving, with only two to guard him,” said the scout. “You will have to come with me, lords. I will tell you everything on the road.”

“Let us go then.” Maedhros straightened his back. “Senge,” he called at one of the guards, “bring my dear old friend, Silmatal.”

“And Alasto with him,” Tyelcano said.

“Here they stand, saddled, my lords,” Senge smiled faintly. “Three led horses as well.”

“Three?” Maedhros caressed the nose of his faithful stallion, and pulled himself up to the saddle. “Is that how many survivors we have?”

“It is,” said the scout. Their troop began the descent from the wide hill, horses snorting happily in the faint sunlight.

“Tell us your name, young one,” said Tyelcano, “and what happened. You must have fought heroically to save Lord Makalaurë.”

“I am called Antalossë,” said the scout. “Sadly, my lord, I did not fight as heroically as I would have liked. We would have all fallen to the last Elf, if lords Celegorm and Curufin did not come to our rescue!”

“My brothers?” Maedhros turned his head abruptly. “Here? They never announced their coming!”

“I do not know whence they came, my lord. By the time they chanced upon us, only four of us were alive, and one was Lord Maglor himself. Two of my kinsmen were bound at my two sides, and the Orcs... they started whipping Lord Maglor. Our blood was boiling, but there was nothing we could do: and that was when the help came. Lord Celegorm took the whip Lord Maglor had been tormented with, and turned it against the Orcs; and Lord Curufin freed me. We managed to fight off the remaining Orcs, but Lord Maglor was cruelly wounded. Lord Curufin as well – I begged him to come with me and see his wounds tended, but he would not leave his brothers behind. I can only hope that our enemies avoided them; Lord Maglor could not be moved, and I was the only one who had the strength to run for help.”

“You have done well,” said Maedhros. “Truly, I should thank you for the rescue of my brothers. A great evil has been avoided today.”

“I thank you, Lord Warden,” Antalossë bowed deeply in the saddle. “It was my pleasure to meet them. They are truly fierce and noble fighters.”

Laiquenis, the healer who was riding next to Tyelcano and behind the lord, shifted in her saddle. “Is it true, Lord Warden? The frightful rumour we hear about Nargothrond?”

“I do not know what you have heard,” said Maedhros gracefully. “We all know the nature of tales; the hero leaves home with a noble purpose, and the further he goes, the more unrealistic his quest gets; the more boasting and exaggeration lies within. My brothers are lords from the House of Finwë and I shan’t have their deeds taken on hearsay.”

“Yes, Lord Warden.” Laiquenis bowed. “Forgive my hasty words.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Maedhros, “the question was just. Yet it is wrong enough that the lords of the Quendi should chase rumours coming from their own kin. This is a fire we must not feed.”

Everyone agreed upon this point; yet Tyelcano sat in the saddle with an uneasy heart, watching the wind as it danced in his horse’s mane. They rode for another hour if not more, staying in the open fields all the way long. There was no reason to hide.

“If these Orcs found a way through my borders,” said Maedhros suddenly, “then something must be done. They have already taken the Gap and several lands on the edge, and they have roamed through the Pass of Aglon and the northernmost part of Thargelion. That is quite enough. Moringotto might have won the last battle, but this time, his black hand reached too far. He will burn his fingers.”

Maedhros’s eyes shone with unearthly light, and his voice was clear and sharp; Tyelcano had not seen him in such a mood since the Dagor Bragollach, when his lands were sacked and his castle besieged.

“Hurry and lead me, Antalossë of the March! Are we far yet?”

“I left them just there, my lord, at the foot of the next hill.”

Their escort circled the area; most of them vanished from sight, either into the forest or behind the closest hills. Only Tyelcano, Antalossë, the guard Senge and the healer Laiquenis remained with Maedhros. Together, they rode on; and soon enough, they encountered the first corpses. When they came upon the large meadow where the worst of the fight had happened in the morning, an army of flies and crows took wing, dreading Senge’s longbow and the hooves of their horses alike.

“Kano!” Maedhros cried, unable to contain himself any longer. “Tyelko! Curvo! Brothers! Can you hear me?”

After a short, dreadful silence, there was a faint “Nelyo!” coming from the back of the meadow. Maedhros jumped off his horse, followed by Tyelcano and Laiquenis; Antalossë and Senge stayed behind to keep the horses in check.

Counsellor Tyelcano had seen much since he had been born under the stars in fair Cuiviénen, and though he did not know this, he was still going to see much more; yet even among those countless highs and lows, he never forgot the sight that greeted him when they came upon that meadow.

Maglor was lying against a pinny oak, his head propped up with a pair of tattered cloaks. His face and neck were covered in bruises and his breath came ragged. Curufin was kneeling above him, holding his hand, whispering soothing words in his ears; and Celegorm was sitting next to them, his elbows on his knees, his face gaunt and expressionless.

Both Celegorm and Curufin seemed famished and dirty, their hair unkept and matted, their hands almost skeletal, clad in rags, a faint smell of blood lingering around them. Maedhros, who less than a second ago had still been running mindlessly to aid his brothers, suddenly halted and stared at the scene unfolding before his eyes. Tyelcano slowed his steps as well, and cast a wary glance upon Curufin, then Celegorm, then the seemingly unconscious Maglor, and then his lord.

Celegorm still seemed to be unaware of his surroundings; his shoulders were slamped and his face pale and blank. Curufin, on the other hand, raised his eyes straight to meet those of Maedhros; and for a moment, his face went cold and barred, something akin with enmity flashing through his eyes. It was an expression of humiliation, blind pain and mistrust: a trait of those who have been sent to exile, or who have been discarded by their own people or brothers-in-arms. For the shortest of moments, Curufin was painfully similar to Fëanor himself, the fallen star of a late Age.

Maedhros beheld his brothers in silence, his gaze softening for a moment. Then, his sigh was like a tempest: a breeze of distant fury.

“Nelyo,” Curufin said. His voice was throaty and low, deep wells of sadness opening within his eyes.

And that moment, Tyelcano knew that everything Feredir told them was impartial and true.

* * *

“Are you going to let him suffer, now that we have come this far to his rescue?” Laiquenis ran across the meadow, and fell to her knees next to Maglor. “Make yourselves useful, lords, and bring me clean water! There is a spring at the other side of the hill.”

“A task for me,” said Celegorm, suddenly awake from his reverie.

“Not before I broke your bones, little brother,” Maedhros said, his face unreadable. Celegorm stiffened, but his elder stepped to him with open arms, and embraced him, and kissed his brows. “Take my cloak, Tyelko, it will serve you well. And be swift! Kano shall need to drink fresh water once he is awake.”

Celegorm’s arms tightened around his brother’s waist for a moment, but he accepted the offer and draped himself in the soft crimson fabric.

“Counsellor, Lady Laiquenis,” he said, his voice calm and collected but his eyes still dreadfully empty, “I am glad that we meet again.”

“So am I, lord,” Tyelcano said. “So am I.”

Laiquenis was already checking Maglor’s pulse, but she raised her head as well, and graced the brothers with a smile.

“Well met, lords, and welcome back,” she said. “Lord Curufinwë,” she continued in an authoritative voice, “I have been told you were suffering from an injury.”

“That can wait, Lady Goldenhands,” said Curufin. “It is no more than a scratch, while my brother is in true danger.”

“I have been told no more than a scratch more times than I can count,” Laiquenis retorted. “Back then, I was young and naive, and I thought warriors must be able to measure the graveness of their own injuries. Yet that is the cruellest of lies.”

“I have heard crueller ones,” said Curufin, but he helped her straighten Maglor’s arms and legs nonetheless.

“What happened to you?” said Maedhros. “And what madness made you and Tyelko attack a troop of forty-some Orcs? You could have died!”

“At first, we planned to run and warn you about their presence,” Curufin sighed. “But then... then we saw them beating Kano, and we could not contain ourselves. It was probably a witless deed to do, but we had to do it, Nelyo. We could not leave him at the mercy of Orcs. I do not think that Tyelko had anything specific in mind other than blind rage and indignation, but I was afraid that the whole ambush had been previously planned and they wanted to capture Kano, then hide their precious prize from our eyes.”

“An Orc-ambush within my borders,” Maedhros sighed. “Two hours’ run from my own castle! Curse Moringotto and his rats! What have they done to Kano? Do you think he might suffer from inner bleeding?”

“Likely,” Curufin nodded. “His nose has been bleeding as well, but at least we managed to stop that. For a little while, he was conscious, and he told us how stupid we were for rescuing him. And he also mentioned you, Nelyo... he spoke of some message that someone took and that he came too late.”

“A message that someone took?” Maedhros frowned

“We did not understand that, either,” Curufin shrugged. “He might have felt distraught, wanting to say too many things at the same time.”

“He does have an ugly swelling at the back of his head,” Laiquenis commented, her skilled fingers drawing patterns in Maglor’s hair. “And he was thoroughly beaten; the muscles in his chest are all stiff. He shall need at least three days to fully recover – if he does not suffer from internal bleeding, that is. Curse those cruel beasts who have done this to gentle, kind Lord Makalaurë!”

“Can you do anything now to lessen his pain?” Maedhros pleaded.

“I shall need a fire to heat water,” said the healer. “Celandine for the wounds that bleed, milfoil for the ones that are hidden. I cannot risk anything else before examining the lord more thoroughly; yet I can almost certainly say that these shall lessen his pain for a short while.”

Tyelcano had to smile at Curufin’s and Maedhros’s eagerness as they carried out the healer’s commands. Laiquenis never had a problem with ordering lords and kings around when the need arose; she was a skilled healer and a strong, stern woman, but not one without a sense of humour. The Counsellor suspected that the latter was the very reason why Maedhros let her and only her tend to his wounds; and perhaps also that Laiquenis had taken part of the group of healers who had helped him recover after his rescue from Morgoth’s captivity.

Merely a few minutes later, fire was crackling happily next to them, and Laiquenis began to heat the contents of the small bottle she carried with herself. Soon, Celegorm arrived with fresh water, and Tyelcano held Maglor’s shoulders while Laiquenis washed his face gently, and smiled with satisfaction when a wave of wild shiver ran down his spine.

Two stormy grey eyes opened, then blinked.

“Cold water,” Maglor mumbled disapprovingly.

“A perceptive lord!” Laiquenis caressed his forehead lightly. “Can you sit up?”

“Lady Goldenhands!” His eyes opened again, and with an effort, Maglor smiled. “I am saved! Am I – am I at home already?”

“Nay,” said Laiquenis lightly. “I give you a draught to regain your strength, and then we shall all go home. Does it hurt your lordship when I do this…?”

The examination went on for a while; here and there, Maglor hissed and his eyes welled with tears of pain, but he seemed to get better every minute; and soon enough, he was sipping milfoil tea in the shadow of a great oak. Maedhros sat beside him, kissed his cheek, asked him how he fared; and Maglor leaned against his brother and accepted his comfort, not caring that the others saw him. He seemed reluctant to speak about the Orcs, yet provided a colourfully detailed description of Celegorm beating them up with a whip, explaining that back then, he thought he was only dreaming.

Tyelcano listened to the conversation with a wry smile on his face, his fingers playing with a strand of celandine. Such a small flower it was, yet its healing power estimated beyond measure...

“Tyelko, Curvo,” said Maglor suddenly, “it is only now that it occurs to me: have you come alone?”

“Never alone,” said Curufin. “I have Tyelko, and Tyelko has me.”

“No, I mean... where is Tyelpë? Where is Erenis? Where is Huan? Where is... anyone...? Has something happened? Valar, don’t tell me that they all... that they have all... and your clothes...”

“Nothing happened,” said Celegorm. “They are safe.”

“Everything is in order,” Curufin nodded.

“I have no doubt about that,” said Maedhros, and there was an edge to his voice that made them both wince. “But let us discuss those matters later, shall we?”

“Something has happened,” said Maglor tentatively. “Something I do not know of. That is why you sent for me to come at once.”

Maedhros closed his eyes, and he suddenly seemed very tired.

“Do not burden yourself, Kano,” he said. “Drink whatever is that you are drinking, come home with us, and recover. You will know everything in time.”

“Tell me” Maglor insisted. “I can handle it.”

“I do not know most of the story myself,” said Maedhros.

“Please, Maitimo, tell me...”

“Later, I said.” Maedhros caressed his brother’s hair, but his eyes were cold and commanding. “And now I, Nelyafinwë, Lord of the Himring, Warden of the East and all that, command you to stop brooding. Do you think you shall be able to ride?”

“I may give him a mouthful of spirit that gives him strength for a few hours to help him home,” Laiquenis said, “but after that, he shall feel weaker than before, and he shall need to stay in bed.”

“I am willing to take that risk,” said Maglor. “I shan’t slow you down!”

“Then let us hit the road within the hour,” said Maedhros. “Counsellor, bid Antalossë and Senge to bring us horses, and another spare cloak as well. I will not have my brothers parading around in rags.”

“I want no spare cloak,” said Curufin, his voice suddenly icy. “And I shan’t be lectured, humiliated and judged. If you are ashamed of me as I look now, Nelyo, then our ways must part here.”

“And you will go – where exactly?” Celegorm snapped. “Do not be such a fool!”

“I am no fool but I have my dignity!” Curufin hissed back at him.

“You know where you can shove your dignity! We no longer deserve such luxuries. Seize the opportunity while you can, and be glad that we are not rejected!”

“Be glad that I am allowed to breathe now, is it that? I will have none of it, thank you! What happened to you, Tyelko? Why are you so willing to crawl in the dust?”

“Valarssake, you were only asked to accept a cloak!” Celegorm cried. “I am tired of this, Curvo! I am weak and famished, and I long for a good night’s sleep without having to dread enemies in the darkness who want to slice my throat!”

“Rejected...? Famished...? Darkness...? Throats...?” Maglor shook his head in distress. “What in Varda’s holy name is going on here?!”

“Easy, Lord Makalaurë,” said Laiquenis softly, “you are tearing the bandages.”

Tyelcano’s eyes met the healer’s for the smallest fraction of a second; and the Counsellor knew she felt as uneasy as him, witnessing an unpleasant, and quite private family moment.

“Tyelko, Curvo,” said Maedhros, “you are my brothers. I have heard many things of late, but that is a truth that will never change, nor will I ever discard or deny it. As long as I draw breath, all my brothers and their servants, followers, friends or companions of any kind shall be fed, housed and garmented. If you prefer your rags, ride in them. I wished to spare you the narrow glances and humiliation, but if that is what you would rather have, I shan’t deny it to you. If either of you would rather offend me by not eating food from my table, you are free to do that as well. But if you are asking me to leave you alone in the wilderness, I cannot do that. Will not do that. Come with me, and I shall ask you questions, then we shall come to a compromise. And if your trust in your eldest brother is so weak that you think I would ever gag, humiliate or judge you, you may have witnesses on your own. You must, however, accept that you owe me explanation on certain matters; and I will have my answers relatively soon, whether you are willing to provide them or not.”

For a few seconds, utter stillness reigned on the meadow, only Maglor moved, his lips forming the phrase “what in Moringotto’s seven hells” over and over again.

Finally, Curufin bowed in front of his brother.

“Forgive me!” He said reluctantly. “You have never deserved such an insult. I grew rather... weary since last year, not that it blunts the edge of my words, of course. Please grant me another moment of your patience if you can.”

“Granted,” said Maedhros gracefully. “Now follow me. We have to scout the surroundings over before we leave; and the burial of our dead should be organised as well. We cannot leave them rot here in disgrace, under the open air.”

“What of the Orcs, my lord?” Tyelcano asked.

Maedhros did not even turn his head as he said,

“Burn them.”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

OC name meanings: 1. Senge [Q] (adj. keen of sight, observant, sagacious); 2. Laiquenis: laique+nisse (Herb-woman)

Wells of Pain

Celegorm and Curufin recount their side of the events, and Counsellor Tyelcano saves the day.

Read Wells of Pain

The Fortress of Himring, FA 467, the fifth day of Víressë

Maedhros could hardly remember any occasion when he was trying to extend a council meeting. Today was a remarkable exception: he found that he had ran out of words, having to face the inevitable much sooner than intended.

“Captain!” His voice was sharp.

“At your command,” said Tulcestelmo.

Maedhros lowered his gaze. People seldom dared look into his eyes; what could they see in their depths, he did not know.

“The matter of the insolent Orc-filth, I believe, is settled,” he said. “Anything else I should know about?”

“Nay, Lord Warden,” said Tulcestelmo. “The Orcs will come back and our strength needs to be gathered; now, however, we can only wait. If none of you lords have anything else to comment, I believe we are done for today.”

Maedhros looked questioningly at his brother Maglor, then at his counsellor Tyelcano, who were seated at his two sides. When neither of them raised any objections, he nodded his approvement.

“Well and done. Summon lords Tyelkormo and Curufinwë so we might have a word with them. In the Great Hall, if you please.”

The shadow of doubt ran through Tulcestelmo’s face, but he went to do as he was asked without comment.

“The Great Hall!” said Maglor, as soon as the Captain left. “Why? Nelyo, I waited half a week, but alas: my patience is over! I have questions.”

“So do your brother and I, lord,” said Tyelcano, sadness in his eyes. “Yet I doubt that the truth shall bring us peace.”

Maedhros studied them both carefully. Maglor’s health had considerably improved in the last three days, but an air of frailness and exhaustion lingered around him still. Tyelcano, on the other hand, seemed collected as ever; yet his face was grave and his shoulders bent, as if carrying some invisible weight.

He knew his Counsellor loathed what was to come just as much as he did, but he never expected to be able to see it.

“Let us not dwell on happenings yet unfolded,” he said. “Great things have happened while you were away in the marches: terrible, but great things. We are gathering in the Great Hall in order to demonstrate the gravity of certain happenings. Brothers or not, we need to talk to Tyelko and Curvo seriously – and here is why.”

He picked up the thread of happenings with that fateful night when Tyelcano had brought him Caranthir’s message; and Maglor listened warily. Maedhros also told him about Feredir, and Thingol’s letter, yet he did not mention his recurring nightmares.

And alas, Maedhros had to realise that Celegorm’s and Curufin’s actions told the story of a conspiracy.

Intrigue.

Crime.

Crimes require punishment, Maedhros heard his father’s voice emerging from the depths of time, be it even a Vala who commits them! Injustice stands against the laws of life and nature, and thus it shall not be condoned. If the Valar decide to close their eyes, plug their ears and hum, hoping that evil shall vanish like smoke, then let them! A true king brings justice to his people, even if it means his death. A true king is not cowed by fake wisdom; he fights!

Would you fight your own sons over injustice, Atar? Maedhros wondered, no need though there was to ask that question.

He knew that Fëanáro would – if the want of the law was the same as the want of his will, that is.

I am not as firm as you were, Atar, he thought. Yet I know that a judgement has to be made, so make one I shall. Give me strength, if you can hear me now: help me do what is right!

It was only then that it occurred to him that his Atar may not have always done what was right; but who else could he ask for guidance?

“How do you feel about the things you have heard, Kano?” Maedhros said to break the silence.

“I am at a loss of words,” said Maglor slowly. “What happened to Findaráto is unspeakable, horrible, unforgivable! And alas, evidence speaks against our brothers. They might have deserved their punishment indeed; and yet my heart still weeps when I imagine the hardships they must have lived through, left alone in the wilderness for a whole year. I owe them my life, my freedom and my sanity, but...” Maglor shook his head. “If we question them on this matter, I dread what might come out of it. And Thingol's letter...”

“We must see how they explain their own deeds if given the chance,” said Maedhros. “It should help us decide.”

Maglor stared at him in dismay. “Are you implying that we shall lay a trap for them? Pretending to know nothing?”

Maedhros had to smile.

Chivalrous as ever, my sweet, sad brother, he thought. You do not deserve to see times such as these; your heart lives in fair Valinórë still.

“We shall suggest that all we heard were obscure rumors. I will show them Carnistir’s letter, but nothing else. If they are honest, this should mean no trap. And if they are not…”

“Do you honestly expect them to lie?”

“I have no idea what to expect, which is why I decided to listen to my counsellor for once.”

“This is exactly the fourteenth time since the Flames, my lord,” said Tyelcano. “You are improving.”

Maglor shook his head. “This... I cannot participate in this. They saved my life!”

“And by their cruel machinations, they took that of Findaráto.”

“They are our brothers!”

“Do you honestly think I have forgotten that?!”

Maedhros’s voice had an edge to it; and Maglor flinched.

“Kano,” said Maedhros, “I offer you a deal. Should they both prove honest, I will tell them the truth at the end. I will apologize, and I will promise that my trust in them will never waver again. I will also tell that you were adamantly against the idea, and it was me who forced it upon you.”

“Never,” said Maglor. “We shall take the blame together. By participating in such a conspiracy, I inevitably become an accomplice.”

“Nay, Lord Makalaurë,” said Tyelcano. “I must take the blame for such an action. You brothers must not let strife separate you. If happenings and circumstances prove I was wrong, the wavering of your brothers’ good will and trust in me shall prove a fair punishment. Neither of you can risk that.”

“This shan’t be the fifteenth time I listen to you, my friend,” said Maedhros. “If there is a blame, I will share it.”

Maglor shook his head. “They are our brothers, Nelyo! Our blood!”

“Atar was our blood as well – as we are his.” Maedhros swallowed hard, and stopped the trail of his thoughts. “These are dark and cruel times. Fair faces and bright eyes do not speak to me, Kanafinwë; nor does blood; nor do wise words. Faces wither, eyes darken, blood can be spilled and words are wind. It is the deeds that talk.”

Maglor had no answer to that.

“Wisely did your brother speak,” said Tyelcano. “You were unconscious then, Lord Makalaurë; but when we came to your rescue, and Lord Curufinwë saw us, there was a strange look in his eyes. I know that look; and I have learned to fear it.”

* * *

By the time Celegorm and Curufin entered, a long table had been set in front of Maedhros’s favourite chair in the Great Hall, and four other seats have been settled around it as well. The one on his right was occupied by Tyelcano, and the other by Maglor. The seats were arranged in a fashion that the two wayward brothers would have to face their judges, not being able to escape their gaze. The table itself was loaded with roasted meat, garnishings, rich soup and several flagons of the finest wine the servants could find in the cellars.

“You have sent for us, Nelyo,” Celegorm spoke.

In the days past, the two brothers were all but ordered to stay in the comfort of their beds and heal; and indeed Celegorm regained some of his previous grace. His eyes were still empty, though, and his voice flatter than Maedhros remembered it to be.

“Strange choice of place,” said Curufin. His stark eyes were scanning the walls, and the banners of the House of Fëanáro that were hanging tensely from each side. These were made of red velvet, the Star woven upon with threads of gold: Maedhros’s colours.

For a moment, Maedhros wavered; but then, he remembered Curufin’s haughty words. His brother had been even reluctant to accept a cloak from him: if such a small flicker of his pride was this hard for him to sacrifice, then is there still any trust between them at all?

We are becoming strangers to each other, he lamented; then, he silenced his mind at once, wary of the dark places his thoughts might take him. Curufin was looking him in the eye, after all; and although he was still so thin that his cheekbones showed, his eyes were honest and a smile played on his lips.

Maedhros found himself smiling back at him.

“Your arrival was so sudden that I did not have the chance to prepare a welcoming feast,” he said casually. He gestured towards the two empty seats. “Come, sit with us and be at ease; for we have much to talk about.”

Celegorm did as he was told: he took the left seat, the one facing Counsellor Tyelcano. Curufin, however, remained standing – he was still smiling, however sadly. The tension in his shoulders seemed to loosen, and he let out a soft, ethereal sigh. Yet no emotion reached his eyes; they remained deep and lifeless like pools of silver.

“Nelyo,” he said, “I see no reason to organise a feast for our arrival. It is not a joyful event, but rather a day of great grief to us all. As you are probably aware, it was not the pull of brotherly love that pursued us here this time…”

“That much I know,” said Maedhros. “When I saw you in those stinking rags, part of me wanted to strangle you! Tyelko, Curvo, you are my brothers; and I feared for you, I searched for you, I was furious with you! You cannot imagine how I felt when the Lord Counsellor sought me out in the middle of the night some weeks ago, and gave me this letter!”

He handed Caranthir’s message to Celegorm, and waited for the effect. Curufin looked at the short note as well, his features unreadable.

“There it is,” said Counsellor Tyelcano. “A stolen Silmaril, and the pair of you banned from Nargothrond. And then – not even a word for your worrying brothers to read. Not even the vaguest kind of news!”

“A most grievous matter indeed,” Maglor nodded. “Would you explain what in Manwë’s and Varda’s name happened?! Who stole that Silmaril, where is it now and why were you banned...? Are those events linked by any means? We have received your letter about a certain Man and the folly of Findaráto – could this mean that the impossible came true? That they succeeded?”

The words echoed in the Great Hall for a long time, fading into silence. Then Curufin leaned back in his chair; and a wave of something Maedhros could have identified as turmoil just as well as wild amusement rushed through his face.

“You -,” he said slowly, almost experimentally. “You...”

“You know nothing?!” Celegorm whispered. “Nothing! You have yet to hear...”

Another minute passed in silence. Then Curufin shifted in his chair, crossed his legs comfortably, and emptied his goblet.

Counsellor Tyelcano leaned across the table and filled it again, and Curufin nodded his thanks.

“They have yet to hear, Tyelko,” he said. “Drink deep and well, my lord brothers, Lord Counsellor, for this may be the very last time we feast together. For great wrongs we have done, and I shall not deny them. I only pray, Nelyo, that you hear our poor explanation. Please never mistake it for any means of excuse.”

Curufin’s voice was soft and melodious, his eyes sadder than the skies on a winter morning.

“I shall hear whatever explanation you deem fit,” said Maedhros measuredly, though all he suddenly wanted to do was pull his brother in a tight embrace, so great his grief seemed to be. “Be at peace! For no sin, no fault and no misunderstanding shall ever erase my love for you. Still, whatever was it that you did, we need to hear it: otherwise, we cannot get ourselves ready for toils to come.”

“Save your generosity for later, Nelyo,” said Celegorm. “You will need it.”

He exchanged a swift glance with Curufin, and for the fraction of an instant, Maedhros caught – or thought he did – that particular glance in the latter’s eyes that Counsellor Tyelcano feared.

And then –

And then nothing happened.

Their meal went on, slow and delightful; and the two brothers told their tale.

* * *

It was Celegorm who first picked up the thread of events, starting with the fateful day when a haggard Man came to the halls of Nargothrond with a ring on his finger, and sought a private audience with the King. Celegorm precised a detail – the importance of which had not registered in Maedhros’s mind before –, that King Finrod meant to keep the aim of the Quest in secret, not wishing for anyone from the House of Feanor to know about the errand of pursuing a Silmaril, until the day his departure was announced in Nargothrond.

“He must have hoped that the veil of secrecy would well conceal him and his party, either until they die or until the stolen Jewel is safely hid,” Celegorm explained, “and I do not blame him for that. Curvo and I, however, have had word of these plans; and we strongly opposed them. We spoke with the King three times, begging him not to go: out of mere friendship at first, for even if we held a grudge against Findaráto for not trusting us, we wished him well. When we saw that rational arguments were not likely to convince him, we tried relying on his close ones, suggesting that his passing would prove too great of a loss. Yet alas! All our efforts were in vain. Lastly, I knocked on his door in the middle of the night, before he went on that foolish errand, and I furiously reminded him of a king’s duty towards his people. I said he had neither the right to send them all to a hopeless battle, nor the allowance to leave them and seek death. I told him he was being greedy and irresponsible.”

“And how did he answer?” Maglor asked softly.

“He coldly reminded me of Alqualondë, saying that I was not to lecture him about honour and duty. People really need to stop to use that argument against us – dreadfully tiring, do you think not?”

“Yet not invalid,” said Maedhros under his breath. In any debate, Alqualondë was a cruel weapon indeed, a knot on the tongue; he wondered if they could ever untangle it.

“It happened thus that we gave up convincing Findaráto: a most grievous mistake,” Curufin spoke. His voice was gentler than Maedhros had expected.

Too gentle, he thought; but some deep fibre of his being suppressed that suspicion.

“Our time was growing short, and Findaráto seemed determined to go. We dreaded the day, Nelyo, when he and his army would flee for Angamando, and leave the city of Nargothrond unguarded; and it came far too soon indeed. And thus… at the last moment, out of desperation, we used the power of our voices to make the people stay: to save their lives. It was a grave deed, for we have spoken and acted against a King of the Eldar; but I am asking you, my brothers, I am asking you Lord Counsellor: were scorn, life threat and exile a fair punishment for such a debatable decision? Is it not enacted in the Laws of the Ñoldor that no one can be compelled to follow their lord into folly or cruelty?”

“Aye, Lordship, that is,” Counsellor Tyelcano said softly, “at least, in theory.”

“That theory should become practice, Lord Counsellor,” said Curufin proudly.

The Counsellor suddenly seemed to be listening far more intently than before.

“If the cause of authority is wrong,” Curufin went on, “otherwise treacherous deeds may prove valiant to impartial eyes. No one stands above law, and law is the command of reason and sanity. We did not let those people fall into darkness, we did not let them march to Angamando unguarded. We saved them from falling victim to Moringotto’s wrath, we saved them from dying in his dungeons. Findaráto took the best of his knights with him, all armed with the finest steel, a ray of light against the blackness of the Enemy’s malice; but his people did not follow him into madness. They were left to wait, devoid of hope; and who did their King leave behind to sit on his throne, to take his stead and rule...? His incompetent nephew! I would rather see a Dwarf dwell in fair Nargothrond’s halls than thin-voiced, stone-tongued Artaresto! That slow dullard! That...”

“Curvo,” said Celegorm. There was a soft motion under the table-cloth, and Maedhros suspected that he took the other by the hand.

“Right you are,” Curufin sighed, his face suddenly tired, his voice soft. “Ire has poisoned my tongue. Artaresto must have taken our deeds for cruel treason, and he might as well have acted out of grief and desperation…! Still, he ignored his duties and continued to pace back and forth along his halls like a ghost; and so it fell to us to govern the city. Our servants helped us greatly, and for that we could be thankful: the tasks were so numerous that we paid little heed to mourning King Findaráto. That time, we could not yet know what his fate would be; but deep in our hearts, we all sensed he would die. Yet alas, we all know the ways of the people: they tend to exclude unpleasant matters from their everyday thoughts and wonderings, forgetting them as weeks pass by; yet when the time comes and their darkest forebodings are fulfilled, who is then to blame...?”

“Their King,” Celegorm answered the poetic question. “Or their leaders. Their lords – which meant us, in this unlucky case. Even under Findaráto’s rule, we had a place of honour in his council, and people loved us, people followed us. Until that fateful day…”

“...when news came of Findaráto’s death,” Curufin nodded. “Did it come as a surprise to any soul within the city’s walls? I sincerely doubt it. Yet people were outraged, and they mourned their king with great sorrow. Everything we had done to maintain order in Nargothrond seemed to be forgotten at once; and we were exposed, pillorized and pointed at. It was said that we had sent the King to exile by our evil machinations. I ask you, my brothers, I ask you, Lord Counsellor: was it not the pair of us who had most fervently opposed this Quest of folly at the first place? Was it not me, Curufinwë Fëanárion, who stood up against King Findaráto when he was already at the gates, amount his white stallion, and told him he was abandoning his duties as a ruler…? Half the city saw me standing there, uttering these words... yet alas, it would seem that some sort of dark magic, some sort of doom had fallen across Nargothrond. We were no longer loved; and Artaresto exiled us.”

“At least he did not let the guards shoot us,” said Celegorm. “For that much, we can be thankful.”

Silence followed these words; and Maedhros pondered everything that he had heard. Much had changed indeed: Curufin’s subtle voice had ravelled out the painful bogs in his thoughts. As if new perspectives of truth and reality had just opened before him...! He now understood rapports and coherencies he had never before taken in; and all at once, everything seemed so simple and evident.

Indeed, people were less wise than his brothers; they were Fëanor’s blood for a reason. Indeed they would wrongfully blame them! And indeed his brothers had to cruelly suffer in order to save the people – someone had to take the blame, and they were willing. They stood brave and tall, as Atar would have stood.

A vague impression floated through Maedhros’s mind; the mild suspicion of having forgotten something.

Something about woodelves, mayhaps?

His gaze wandered back and forth between his brothers’ faces, enticed by the expression he saw on them. Celegorm sat straight like a king robbed of his throne, discarded by his knights, alone with his selfless generosity; and Curufin was like a great scholar next to him, a master of crafts, a misunderstood soul: too proud to ask for understanding, yet too wary to demand respect.

“O, my brothers, my dear Lord Tyelco,” he said mournfully, “you cannot imagine how pained I was, how guilty I felt when I heard of Findaráto’s death! I should have convinced him somehow... some way... but he was a good king, and one of strong will. A worthy kinsman of ours: once he was determined to do a deed, nothing and no one could stand in his way. Unfortunately, not even Tyelkormo and Curufinwë from the House of the Star.”

Curufin bowed his head and Celegorm wrapped an arm around him, comforting him.

Counsellor Tyelcano was listening all the more intently.

“And that is not the end of the story,” Celegorm said. “When we were banished from Nargothrond, the folly of fear was so great in the hearts of the people that even our own servants betrayed us! They took us for traitors, for murderers. Not even Tyelpërinquar and Erenis were willing to follow us; in Nargothrond they remained, under the rule of Artaresto. It was with great pain that we parted from them, but we had no choice.”

“I paid a bitter price for my mistakes indeed,” Curufin agreed. “Forever I shall grieve for that day.”

When Curufin glanced up, Maedhros saw something in his eyes – a flicker that was definitely not one of grace, wisdom or sadness. It was cold, it was bright, and it was frightening; and he felt as though a veil of fog had lifted from his mind and his thoughts ran free, no longer anchored on empathy towards his brothers.

This moment was enough for him to perceive that something was fairly and truly missing from his brothers’ account – yet he could not guess what it was. The pieces adamantly refused to come together; did he not pay enough attention? Or could it be... maybe...

Suddenly, another disturbing feeling seized him: the nagging sensation of not seeing something that was right in front of his eyes. The aftermath of a forgotten impression, an important memory still lingered in his fëa, but he could not ease it back into his mind. Perhaps it was something about Thingol – but how on Arda would Thingol fit into this story...?

Maglor leaned towards Celegorm and Curufin and took their hands, unshed tears glistening in his eyes.

“Oh, Tyelko, Curvo,” he whispered, “I am dreadfully sorry for what you had to endure. Where did you go afterwards? What did you do? O, dearest brothers, when did your fine garments become stinking rags?”

“That is not a story worth telling,” said Celegorm with a humble smile. “Snow, frozen rivers, lack of firewood and wolves – that is what one can expect from winter. Yet life got better in spring; and this last summer was a remarkably rich and beautiful one. Circumstances slowed us, and we lost our way as well, once or twice.”

“But we are here now,” Curufin added reassuringly, “here, under your care; and we have fine cloaks and leather boots to warm us up. We dine at your table and we sleep in your beds. It is good to have a warm home in such treacherous times!”

Maedhros felt another pang of disturbance in the back of his mind. He could remember perfectly well that Curufin had even refused at first to have a new cloak. He did not want to be helped, he did not want to be lectured and humiliated, as he put it.

What happened, then? Did the long desperate months take their toll? Did he merely speak out of wariness? Or perhaps out of relief that no matter what does he do, no matter what does he say, we, his brothers would still be there for him...?

That sounded far too emotional to be true.

Something is not right, Maedhros thought. I have forgotten something...

“There is a detail I have yet to understand,” said Counsellor Tyelcano.

“And what would that be, my good Counsellor?” Curufin inquired.

“Something must have caused such an indignation among the citizens of Nargothrond”, Tyelcano explained. “My heart wavers at the thought that you were so cruelly misjudged.”

There was an edge to his voice, Maedhros noticed. Could it be mockery? But where would his counsellor find the courage to mock the lords whose fathers he had been serving his whole life…?

“Such things, however unpleasant, have happened before,” Curufin lamented. “I cannot explain it any more than you, Counsellor; but surely, one who is so well-versed in the ways of intrigue and diplomacy as yourself, shall eventually find some sort of explanation.”

“Are you perfectly sure that nothing, nothing happened in Nargothrond that would make you traitors?” Tyelcano asked.

“We failed to protect Findaráto,” Celegorm offered.

“Anything else, I mean.”

“Nothing else we are aware of, Counsellor,” said Curufin softly. “I should have probably fought more to make my children see reason; but alas, I let them choose.”

“My interests,” said Tyelcano slowly, “lie still elsewhere.”

“I truly cannot think of anything else,” said Curufin.

“So if we leave the exile of Aran Findaráto out of consideration, nothing of your deeds in Nargothrond would make you traitors?”

“Nothing, Counsellor,” said the brothers in unison.

“And how about being liars?!”

“Liars!” Maglor exclaimed with indignation. “Be careful with your words, Lord Counsellor!”

Liars.

Maedhros shook his head. Why would Tyelko and Curvo be liars? He knew them since their birth, the very spring of their childhood. Surely he would perceive if they lied...? And why would they lie in the first place?

Still, I have forgotten something... something about Thingol...or was it Carnistir, perhaps?

Surely, that was Carnistir. I am being ridiculous.

“Counsellor,” said Maedhros sternly, “you will excuse yourself in front of my brothers. You have no right to accuse them so, especially not after the wrongs they have recently suffered. I am most displeased with your behaviour!”

“Is their power so great over you, my lord beloved?” Tyelcano all but shouted at him. “Do you not see how viciously are you, both of you, being misled?!”

Maedhros sprang to his feet, eyes alight with fury, towering above his Counsellor like a giant.

“This was the very first time you allowed yourself to speak to me in such a tone, servant of my House,” he said, “and the very last as well. Am I understood?”

“Not if I see your lordship in grave danger,” said Tyelcano. He withstood his lord’s gaze, though his voice trembled with emotion.

“In that case, you must leave us. Now.”

“My lord...”

“Leave!”

“Please, Nelyo, spare your wrath from our good old Counsellor,” said Curufin. “He wishes the best for you.”

“Sadly I hear that we have lost your trust and good will, Lord Tyelco,” Celegorm added with a sigh, “but such wounds cannot be healed in the heat of the present. With time, I am sure we shall be as good friends as before, and you shall learn to believe us anew.”

“Do you not see how cruel you are?” Maedhros snapped. “Thrice I command you: leave, Counsellor, and avoid my company for the next few days!”

Slowly, Tyelcano emerged from his chair, proud and unwavering.

And then, knelt before his lord.

“Never shall my faith or trust waver in you,” he said. “If you deem my words or deeds wrongful, I respect your judgement and I shall indeed leave; but for the sake of the countless years I have spent serving your family, Lord Nelyo, I beg you to take this letter, and read it again: read it, as you have read it to Lord Makalaurë an hour ago! Read it over and over, lest you forget what is truth and what is illusion!”

With that, he pulled out a thin scroll of parchment from under his cloak, and held it out to Maedhros, not flinching before his gaze.

I have forgotten something.

Maedhros took the parchment, and his eyes widened when he saw the flaking shards of wax around its seal.

It was Thingol’s seal, and it was broken.

The message had been read indeed.

“Nelyo, may I...?” Curufin shifted in his seat, a pang of uneasiness in his voice.

“No, lordship,” said Tyelcano starkly, “You may not.”

“You are being impossible, Counsellor!” Celegorm’s eyes flashed with anger. “Curvo only wants to help him!”

Maedhros almost winced in shame. Much like many, many other times since his rescue, he felt naked. Spoiled.

Exposed.

“I may be a cripple,” he said icily, “but I believe my condition is stable enough to be able to read a letter by myself!”

With that, he wedged the top of the parchment under his goblet, and unrolled it; and then, it all came back to him.

“Nelyo?” Maglor shifted closer to him, risking a feather touch on his shoulder. “Is aught amiss?”

“…now this is a most interesting take on the previously discussed events,” said Maedhros, his voice shaking with rage. “I cannot wait to hear what you will say to this.”

His brothers’ faces were pale, expressionless masks around him.

Maedhros rose, and started pacing behind the table: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He shook out the parchment, and held it out far before himself. His pacing became slower, more controlled.

In the depths of his being, something trembled.

“To Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of the Himring and Warden of the East,” he read in slightly accented Sindarin, “Elu Thingol, Lord of the Sindar, King of Doriath and Protector of the Woodland Realm sends his kind regards.”

He paused for a few moments, watchful for the others’ reactions. Maglor’s breath was caught in his thoat, Celegorm bit his lip, and Curufin crossed his arms.

Counsellor Tyelcano was still kneeling before him, his sword on the floor, his head slouched.

“…I turn to thee in an hour of dire need, for my heart is weary. The shadow of the Enemy grows, and so forth. I inform you with great displeasure that your two brothers, lords Celegorm and Curufin have kidnapped my daughter, and refused to return her home unless I grant Lord Celegorm her hand,” Maedhros read, theatrically outlining the words “displeasure”, “kidnapped” and “hand”.

“How could you...!” Maglor whispered, horrified. “You lied to us! You deceived and enchanted us!”

“I did not expect such irreverence from the proud Ñoldor; and by the laws and customs of my realm, I must thus deny any future union between our Houses,” Maedhros went on reading mercilessly. Later, at the mention of justice, Curufin shifted a little in his seat, and Celegorm buried his face in his hands.

Silence followed the lecture: deaf, icy, painful silence. Maedhros was struggled to keep his breathing even; hot claws of fury were gnawing at his stomach, and his fist clenched around the parchment.

“So?” He asked. “Will you say something, or should I rather acquaint you with the written testimony of Feredir, messenger of Doriath?”

“Why, Nelyo?” Celegorm shook his head. “Why play us for fools if you already knew everything?”

“To corner us!” said Curufin. “I should have guessed – and you know what is coming now. Our own brothers shall name us liars and murderers. They will never understand why we did what we did, and why we wanted to keep it in secret. That was a risk we took; and we did not succeed.” He looked Maedhros in the eye, and somehow, he still managed to look dignified. “Lay a trap for others, and ‘tis you who shall fall in it, or so the wise say; yet if I ever expected a trap, Nelyo, it was not laid by you.”

“How are you still capable of palliating yourself?!” Maglor exclaimed. “You shan’t fool us again! The power of your voice may be as great as Atar’s; but Atar was wronged, and blinded by pain when he used it. You, Atarinke, are simply being vicious.”

“Enough!” said Maedhros. “Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, do you have anything else to tell us? Anything true?”

“Naught,” said Celegorm.

Curufin shook his head as well.

“Then judge you I shall, by the laws of the Ñoldor and in the name of our House. Tyelkormo and Curufinwë from the House of Fëanáro, I gave you a chance to explain yourselves and acquaint us with your deeds. You have most cruelly misused that chance. The faith that began to waver in my heart when I heard of your deeds has now disappeared entirely! Brothers we may still be, but I trust you not.”

Maglor grabbed his hand under the table, and squeezed it so hard that Maedhros feared his fingers would break.

This must be done, Kano, and you know it, he thought. Please do not spoil it with your good-heartedness.

“I give you two options and three days to make a choice. The first one is the following: You shall no longer hold a place in my council. You will live under my roof and use the smithy, the garden, the stables, or whatever else you need; you will be fed, housed and garmented; but no one shall be put under your command, lest they choose so themselves. And the second one: your titles you may keep, your blazons you may still use; but you leave Himring in a week, and take no one with you. Once you have left, you cannot return; and come strife or danger, I shan’t protect you. I, Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro, have spoken, and you have heard me. Three days from now, you will decide, and this matter will be over; and now, I bid all of you to leave the Hall. We may still meet at the dinner table.”

Maglor was the first to move. He sprang from his chair and all but ran out the door, slamming it shut. Next in line was Celegorm; he bowed and followed his elder brother with long, measured steps, his face blank.

When Counsellor Tyelcano rose as well and took his sword, Maedhros caught his wrist, and looked him deep in the eye. After a few moments of fruitless struggle with words, he bowed to kiss his forehead.

“Thank you, wise one,” he whispered.

“That, Lord Nelyo,” Tyelcano said bitterly, “was not a counsel willingly given.”

“It served us well nonetheless. Go, my dear friend, find yourself some rest.”

It was more of a command than a simple request; and Counsellor Tyelcano knew him enough to feel the difference. He bowed and went on his way, swiftly and silently.

Only Curufin remained now. He sat in his chair still, his face buried in his palms.

Could he be…?

Maedhros had never seen Curufin cry; not when the Trees were destroyed. Not when their Grandfather was lying on a bier in the empty treasure-hold of Formenos. Not when the ships were burned.

Not even when their Atar evanished in a pile of ash.

“Curvo -,” Maedhros choked, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say.

His brother lowered his hands, and Maedhros saw that his eyes were dry.

“I told Erenis that she was useless,” said Curufin, his voice frighteningly casual. “That she was good for nothing. And I told Tyelpë that he was only used in Nargothrond for his talent. That no one really loved him. I thought I was lying to protect them – that was what I tried to tell myself afterwards, either way. But now I am not so sure. I do not always notice when I am lying anymore.”

“Today, you did notice.”

“I saw the look on your face when we met, and I thought you knew. So did Tyelko. But when you offered us cloaks… when you were kind with us, cared for us, fed us and took us home with you, we were starting to have our doubts! I can see now that it was planned as well, and I hold no grudge for it. It had to be done. It worked; for indeed, we never believed that you would take us back in, if you… if you truly knew.”

“If you were only honest with me,” said Maedhros, “I would have let you word my answer to Thingol, and as rudely as you might have wished. Though he may have been wronged himself, a thief is still a thief.”

“What is done is done already,” Curufin shrugged. “And yet, I must tell you this: Tyelko was against my plans. He wanted to tell the truth… I insisted to lie. I was wrong, Nelyo; it never even crossed my mind that you would let us stay here if you knew.”

“You thought – what? That I would banish you? Disown you? Let you wander the wilderness on your own? You think I could live with that?”

“I no longer trust hearts or forgiveness, Nelyo. Not even yours.”

“I see,” said Maedhros.

When his brother spoke again, his voice was soft, almost pleading.

“I… the judgement is up to you, brother, but Tyelko does not deserve it. He was against me!”

“He let you convince him.”

“I have certain powers to convince people, Nelyo, and I am not afraid to use them, as you have just witnessed,” said Curufin said. “I am also splendidly capable of harnessing Tyelko’s passion and anger when it rises. He is everything I have, Nelyo, and his fate is in your hands: better than mine, in any case. Please, if there is any warmth left in your heart towards us, let him stay, and stay in honour! He does not deserve to lose your trust. I know he will choose to dwell in your halls; please, let him be useful! That is all I ask for.”

“What about yourself?” said Maedhros.

The dull ache in his chest was almost unbearable; and all he wanted was to embrace the brother he could not trust.

Just ask for my forgiveness, he pleaded in his thoughts. Admit your regret, Curufinwë! Just let yourself cry properly, and I shall gladly fall in your trap again. Stay with me!

And bitterly, his brother laughed.

“You know me, Nelyo! You know that I would occasionally cast honour aside for comfort or convenience; and that I would trade comfort for an empty title without a second thought.”

“Is that your last word?” said Maedhros.

“More might come; and they will please you not. Now go, big brother, fetch yourself some wine before you faint! It must be horrible to live with titles like Warden of the East, Enemy of the Enemy and Head of the House of Hopeless Morons.”

 

---

Chapter End Notes

- This is the opening scene of Maedhros's POV, but due to the course of events - as you may have noticed -, his usually very sharp and lively consciousness was now considerably dulled; so you could say that Maedhros, for the first time we encountered him as a central character, did not really feel like Maedhros (at least, not my version of him).

- The concept of Curufin's enchantment was strongly inspired by the following passage from 'The Two Towers' (don’t try to tell me there’s no connection between him and Saruman…):

"Suddenly another voice spoke, low and melodious, its very sound an enchantment. Those who listened unwearily to that voice could seldom report the words that they had heard; and if they did, they wondered, for little power remained in them. Mostly they remembered only that it was a delight to hear the voice speaking, all that it said seemed wise and reasonable, and desire awoke in them by swift agreement to see wise themselves. When others spoke, they seemed harsh and uncouth by contrast; and if they gainsaid the voice, anger was kindled in the hearts of those under the spell."

/ The Lord of the Rings, Book III, Chapter X.: The Voice of Saruman /

- About Curufin calling Orodreth a “slow dullard”, which sounds a tad too rude: excerpt from the Lay of Leithian, Canto IX [one of my favourite passages detected]:

Curufin spake: 'Good brother mine,  

I like it not. What dark design            (80)

doth this portend? These evil things,

we swift must end their wanderings!

And more, 'twould please my heart full well

to hunt a while and wolves to fell.'    

And then he leaned and whispered low          (85)

that Orodreth was a dullard slow;      

long time it was since the king had gone,      

and rumour or tidings came there none.