The Seven Gates by Laerthel

---

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.

---

THE SEVEN GATES

~ × ~

"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

~ × ~

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).