The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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Bats and Werewolves

The Great Council starts, and Anardil shows his true colours.

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“Be welcome, Lords of Ondolindë!” the ringing voice of King Turukáno swept through the Great Hall, clear and sharp as a blade. “It is time for our Council to commence.”

“Let the Council begin!” said Princess Idril, who was seated next to her father. Despite its softness, her voice was clearly audible in the whole immensity of the Hall.

King Turukáno rose from his high throne and descended seven marble steps. His long strides were aimed at the pulpit in the middle of the hall, surrounded by wide seats: each of which were reserved to the Twelve Lords, who, until now, had been silently waiting for the King’s leave to enter and sit. Now that the greetings have been voiced, they sat around the table; but it would still take a while before the first speaker could have his word.

Erestor felt Lómion’s hand gripping his shoulder.

“Listen to me,” the Counsellor whispered. “Now is the last moment to change your mind and leave. Do you still feel capable of guiding Lord Anardil through this Council?”

“I would never leave, cundunya,” said Erestor with pride. “The King counts on me!”

“Well said!” Lómion smiled. “In that case, I shall now leave you to him. You will accompany him to that seat, at the far side of the Hall. Facing mine. I will be right there if you need me.”

Erestor nodded.

“And remember, child,” Lómion’s voice made the tip of his ear tingle, “that Lord Anardil is not one of us. He is from outside: and for that reason you shall need to be very careful with him.”

“Is he trying to hurt us?”

“I do not believe so. He is but a mariner, a traveller of distant lands. The King seems to favour him for some reason… and yet, things are often not as simple as they seem. Watch him, Erestor, and learn. And be very courteous.”

“Cousin,” came Princess Idril’s voice from behind, “we need to leave. The King is waiting.”

“We shall,” said Lómion; and looking up, Erestor saw a new kind of light kindling in his eyes.

He greeted Princess Idril with the finest courtesies his mind could suddenly produce. The princess smelled like roses, and Erestor would have been contented with no more than that fragrance: unmoving, oblivious to the passing of time outside his closed eyelids. But Idril only laughed, and ran her fingers through a strand of his hair, and that sensation made Erestor blush.

Lómion was but a ghost in Idril’s light: tall, straight, yet lithe like a willow-tree, his high cheekbones casting a long shadow on his wary face. His eyes were two lightless pools, and his lips were pressed into a thin line, as if he was trying to keep a whole rush of words from a careless escape.

“Let us go,” was all he said at the end. He offered his arm, and Princess Idril took it.

Erestor blinked, trying to chase a stray hair from his eyes. All of a sudden, a terrible sense of foreboding seized his entire fëa, the wild and consuming desire to right some wrong, unseen and unlooked-for, that had been committed just a moment before. Something felt absolutely, terribly wrong with the way prince and princess had looked at each other, with the way they had walked away, with the way their breath mingled in the heavy air of the Great Hall. Something felt wrong with the colourful array of lords rushing indoors, taking their spaces. Something felt wrong with the absence of his Toronar, otherwise so caring and devoted to him.

“You are being impossible,” Erestor mumbled to himself. “Ondolindë is a safe realm – the last one left east of the Sea. There is nothing to worry about. And now your duty is to go and fetch Lord Anardil.”

“I do not quite need fetching, young lord,” said someone behind his back in outrageously accented Quenya. “I appreciate the sentiment, though.”

Erestor turned around, and saw Lord Anardil smiling leniently at him.

“You –,” he choked, “you speak Quenya…?”

“I babble, as Great Master Rog has kindly corrected my assumptions.”

“You let us speak Sindarin all along!”

“I find it strangely endearing,” Anardil confessed. “Especially Lord Salgant. He has a little space between his teeth, and when he says thou and thee, it makes a faint whistling sound. Did you ever notice that? Of course you did not. Thou need to be more perceptive, Erestor of the Foun-teen.”

No gloom or dread could have erased the surprised grin from Erestor’s face that moment; and when Lord Anardil furrowed his brows and ordered him to take care of his mannerz, he burst out laughing – which drew quite a number of disapproving looks on the pair of them as they were heading to the seats.

“I apologise for my carelessness, Lord Anardil,” Erestor swallowed the rest of his mirth, and bowed. “I did not even greet you appropriately.”

“Thank Ulmo you did not,” Anardil sighed. “I always forget that you are such a cold-veined people.”

“Cold-blooded, my lord?” Erestor tried.

“Yes, yes that. Now – King Turucáno said that you shall indulge me in the mysteries of your customs and heraldry.”

Erestor bit the inside of his mouth, lest he’d smile at the pronunciation.

“Gladly,” he said. “Understanding our tongue will help you a lot… may I inquire where did you learn it?”

“You may,” said Anardil, and he leaned back in his seat.

Several moments passed; chairs were pulled around them, legs were treading the shiny marble, people approached, then disappeared from view.

“And would you tell me?” Erestor said shyly.

“I would.” Anardil crossed his legs comfortably and knuckled a bit of dirt off the sleeve of his cloak.

“And… will you?”

“I may,” said Anardil, obviously very pleased with himself, “if you only ask.”

“All right, my lord,” Erestor sighed, a little bit out of his patience, “so where did you learn Quenya?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” the Teler laughed. “The answer would be Tirion; many years ago, when the Trees were still alive and blossoming. Your tongue – well, in many ways, it resembles Telerin. The older the dialect gets, the less difference you can spot.”

“Indeed?” Erestor was interested. “And would you teach me… I mean, please, do teach me a few phrases sometime!”

“Anytime,” said Anardil, visibly pleased. Erestor saw that he was admiring the Hall – and the banners of the Twelve Houses of the Gondolindrim that were hung below large windows of painted glass: six from one side and six from the other.

“What do they stand for?” Anardil pointed. “Other than People Whose Toes Thou Shalt Not Tread On, of course.”

Erestor grinned.

“The first one is the King’s,” he said. “Moon, Sun and scarlet heart on a blue-white field.”

“And the others?”

“The next banner is that of The House of the Heavenly Arch. Rainbow, opal and a jewelled boss on a turquoise field. Led by the Treasurer, Lord Egalmoth. Next to that, the House of the Tree; white tree in a deep green field with an iron-studded club and slings, led by Chief Advisor Galdor… and next to that, the banner of the House of the Golden Flower: a flower and the Sun itself, clad in gold in a fresh green field, led by our beloved Captain Laurefindil.”

“He doesn’t look quite dashing this eve, does he?” Anardil remarked. And indeed: the Captain’s face was pale, his strides soldierly and collected. And as ever, he was walking side by side with…

“Next to the Golden Flower,” said Erestor with pride, “the banner of the House of the Fountain: its blazon a silver fountain with diamonds and a flute.”

“Not pompous at all...” Anardil smirked.

“...led by the Warden of the Great Gate, Lord Ecthelion.”

“...possibly the only entertaining person in this hall.”

“Do you find my Toronar entertaining?”

“Quite,” said Anardil, refusing any commentary on the matter. “Now, any other piece of heraldry I should get acquainted with?”

“The House of the Swallow, last in the line. An arrowhead and a fan of feathers, led by the Captain of Marches, Duilin. And then, on the other side: the House of the Harp: a harp, laden with tassels of gold and silver, led by the Lord Salgant.”

“Always in Lómion's heels, that one,” said Anardil. “One would think they are lovers.”

“I think not!” said Erestor.

“…and the next one is the House of the Mole, am I right?” Anardil was drumming on his chin.

“Aye,” Erestor suppressed the desire to snap at him. “Plain black banner of moleskin, and for blazon, a double-bladed axe. Led by cundu Lómion. Then, the House of the Pillar: white pillar in a blood-red field; the House of the Tower of Snow: white tower in a sky-blue shield; also, the House of the Wing: silvery feathers in a light blue field. All these are led by the brave Lord Penlod.* And finally, the House of the Hammer of Wrath: stricken anvil and black iron in a deep red field and a mace, led by Great Master Rog.”

“Oh!” Anardil smiled. “Another entertaining person in the hall.”

“It is said that Great Master Rog is very fearful in his wrath,” said Erestor tentatively.

“That he is, I assure you. The trick is, do not anger him – so, preferably, do not talk, do not swallow and do not blink in his presence.”

Erestor bit his lip. It would have been most unbecoming to laugh out loud; for at the next moment, Lómion stood, and spoke, and his smile was disarming.

“Well met, lords and friends!” he said. “Thank you for coming; the Great Council has begun and we have grave matters to discuss.”

There was a choir of “well met, cundu Lómion”-s, and Erestor caught the glance his uncle sent towards Captain Laurefindil. He saw sadness in it, and deep concern.

He did not even notice him, Erestor!

Something is wrong, Erestor thought; but Ecthelion’s glance wandered off Laurefindil before he could be sure what he saw, and the Council started.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

Anardil was thoroughly impressed with the scribe. Valar, he was writing fast!

The scribe sat a mere two seats away from him: plume and planchette in hand with a billowing roll of parchment hanging from it, which was becoming entirely covered in his small, elegant tengwar. Anardil cast a glance at his notes every few minutes, realising that instead of writing only ‘mole’ or ‘tree’, he actually had the time to write “First Counsellor Lómion” and “Chief Advisor Galdor” (or F.C.L. and C.A.G. after a few hours, but that seemed impressive as well).

Anardil’s thoughts, however, turned away from the scribe when, after a flow of formal greetings, kundu Lómion introduced the topics of the Council. His speech was clear and elegant, and Anardil had to make a tremendous effort to remember that he was not supposed to let Lómion convince him. The message behind his words was evident: we must remain hidden, undiscovered, closing our gates in front of the world; letting no one in and no one out.

The topic roused interest. Even Ecthelion, who (as far as Anardil could see) held Counsellor Lómion in a particularly low esteem now listened to him most intently; and Lómion told the Council how he had been woken by the Great Eagle Thorondor, who had only granted him two sentences of explanation: I need to speak with King Turukáno. And, The Enemy has been rused.

At this statement, a wave of joyful cheering rose around the table, but it ceased immediately when King Turukáno raised his hand.

“This morning,” he said, “I have been told the whole story, as they recount it beyond our borders. Listen to me closely, Lords of my Court; for never in your lives have you heard such a tale!”

Anardil reclined in his chair and let his shoulders loose, eyes still fixed on the King. His instincts told him to tense, but his fëa knew better. The Council was meant to be long, and he could not let himself waste all of his (quite short) attention span before it came to the interesting part – debate.

And thus Turukáno Nolofinwion, King and Regent of The Hidden City of Ondolindë rose to speech and the white walls of the Great Hall drank eagerly in the deeds of Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel, as they were told amongst the Free People of Beleriand a year after they had been done – a tale the silent scribe carefully captured, word by word, in his small orderly hand.

~ § ~

When the King came to the end of his speech, a long, deep silence followed.

“This is like a lay from a lost Age,” Captain Laurefindil said at length, lost in thought and time. His words echoed relentlessly from one white stone wall to another: lost Age, lost Age, lost Age.

“My thoughts exactly!” said Great Master Rog, his firm voice shattering the air in the silent Hall like a bellow. “An Elf-maiden and a mortal Man in the Enemy’s fortress... werewolves and bats... Forgive me my boldness, sire,” he bowed before the King, “but this could not have happened – this is impossible!”

“Highness,” said Lómion smoothly, “I beg for word.”

“Speak!” said the King.

The Counsellor stood: a dark, slender figure against the marble walls.

“Highness,” he said. “Princess Idril,” he went on, in a much softer tone; and in his eyes a pale spark ignited, then went out immediately. “Captain Laurefindil and all my noble lords, hear me now! Did our King not say that this was the tale that the People of Beleriand told of Beren and Lúthien beyond our borders? Did he not precise that this was the account of others on what happened? We must not take it for granted. There should exist an explication for everything, everything that we have heard: it takes time to learn the truth. Surely, on their way to Angamando, they must have encountered terrible beasts that lurk in the Dark Lands. With no doubt, Sauron had attacked them; and I might also say that the lords Tyelkormo and Curufinwë have probably not welcomed the idea of this Quest. Yet, Captain Laurefindil spoke the truth: this is nothing more than a lay of forgotten Ages, an excellent material for bards to work on. What truly matters in this story are not werewolves and bats, but the fact that this mortal Man woke Moringotto from his sleep in his arrogance and folly and stole a treasure that could foment war in Beleriand. That shall foment war in Beleriand, if you ask me! A storm is coming; but together, in peace, within the walls of our City, within our mines and mountains, we shall endure.”

Here we are, Anardil thought. The topic is off the table.

But then, suddenly, something entirely unexpected happened.

“Highness,” said Laurefindil. “May I also have a word?”

“You may,” said the King.

The Captain stood (which made a much more striking effect than the same movement of Lómion before), and shook out his gold-embroidered cloak with a flourish.

“Highness, and my fairest Princess Idril,” he said (earning a bright smile from the princess her cousin did not), “and all of you, my lords and friends, hear me now! The Counsellor is right. These events may, or may not have happened the way they are told in Beleriand. The Eagles shall bring us news, and we shall know everything in time. The Counsellor is right again: Moringotto is awake, and Beleriand is in grave danger. And the Counsellor is right once more: within these walls, we shall endure, whatever may come: another Kinslaying, another war, death or cruel flames. Yet alas! Hear me, Highness, hear me, my Princess, hear me thee, my lords and allies – Counsellor Lómion errs, terribly errs when he says that what matters above all in this story is that we should keep our position and peace. The true question is – when shall we have enough?”

Captain Laurefindil’s voice was suddenly roaring like thunder, and in his gentle blue eyes stirred a furious light.

“…the Last Battle: the deadly one, the Dagor Bragollach, the raging inferno that killed a great part of our people and put their homes to ruin – was it not enough? The death of the Lords Aikanáro and Angaráto – was it not enough? The death of the High King Nolofinwë himself – was it not enough? When did the grief in my heart turn to fury and anguish, I cannot tell. The Evil of Moringotto has cowed my heart, as it cowed us all. But now that my friend and brother-in-heart Findaráto has been savagely killed, I can stay silent no more! Death, death, and a thousand times death to Moringotto and all his scum! No more grief! No more sorrow! We cannot shut our hearts from our people anymore!”

Then, he turned to the King, who spoke not; who only listened thoughtfully.

 

“Highness,” he said, “please, forgive my harsh words. I do not wish to break the laws of our City, for your will, to me, is solid like stone. Nor do I wish to oppose the eventual decision of the Council; and nor do I ignore Lómion’s counsel. Yet, hear me: for I said – and will I say it again –, that we cannot shut our hearts from our people! We cannot let Moringotto and his evil servants slowly eradicate the Lords of the Noldor! Stronger though he might be, he is still afraid of us: this, we know. He hates us with fervency: this, we also know. My King, there must be a way to do something!”

“I agree, and verily!” Lord Ecthelion exclaimed, and there were other sounds of agreement as well.

 Lómion arched his eyebrows.

“Captain,” he said, when the Hall quiesced. “Do you think our King has no sorrow that plagues his heart? Do you think that the deaths of Nolofinwë, Aikanáro, Angaráto, and now, Findaráto left him untouched? Or any of us? Do you think any of us has ever shut his heart to any of our kin?”

“One thing is thought or belief, Counsellor,” said Laurefindil, “and another thing is action. We have our beautiful City, a rich and secure place. Do the Noldor of Hithlum deserve less?”

“Such things are not a matter of deserving,” said Lómion, “but that of possibility. We cannot guide them here swiftly enough – for the Enemy, if he strikes, shall strike very soon.”

“Highness,” Lord Penlod said, “May I speak?”

“Do so,” came the quiet word from the King, who (to Anardil’s dismay) seemed reluctant to voice his own thoughts; who just sat in that richly carved chair of his, and listened to the debate.

“Captain, Lord Counsellor,” the Lord of Three Houses said, “you speak of battle and death and ruin to come; yet we have seen nothing that truly implies their coming. The Enemy still has two Jewels. It is not possible that he wants us to think that his power dwindles? Is it not possible that the glory of Beren and Lúthien was a carefully prepared trap for us all?”

“Highness,” Ecthelion spoke, “may I...?”

King Turukáno made a small gesture with his hand, allowing the Warden of the Gate to rise and speak.

“It is a trap, lords,” said Ecthelion proudly, “there is no doubt. But the trap is not aimed at us – not yet. Moringotto takes great pleasure in making our most valiant ones perish, or even killing them himself. It started with the Great King Finwë, continued with Fëanáro, then Nelyafinwë – though there Moringotto failed miserably –, then came Aikanáro, Angaráto, then his Highness King Nolofinwë and now Findaráto. Findekáno is coming next – it shall not stop, unless we open our heart – and gates – towards our kin!”

“You are the Great Warden of the Gates!” said Counsellor Lómion. “Do you forsake our King’s command, then? We cannot open the gates. We must not risk our own safety, not even for the sake of others! What is the use of a wolf’s teeth if he shan’t bite with them?”

“To let them glint in the light of moon,” said Ecthelion, “and plant fear in the heart of any foe. Tell me in return, what is the use of a sharp sword if rust gnaws at its steel? Who would sing a song about such a blade? Who would count the number of necks it has severed?”

“Would that number thus be changed?” Lómion retorted.

“Enough of wolves and blades and champions and rust!” Great Master Rog broke in, without permission to speak. “You are at a stalemate – we can all see that much, there is no need to sing songs about it! Some of us would act, some of us would wait; and all of us would march to battle without hesitation if that was what it took to defend our own truth. Hear me now, Highness, hear me now, Princess, hear me ye, Lords of Ondolindë! I do not know what to believe. I feel hatred towards Moringotto, distrust towards the Seven Sons and pity towards those of Hithlum, surrounded by death and fire. And yet, revealing ourselves may prove a terrible mistake. What if Moringotto finds us? Trapped among these mountains, our death would be sure.”

“We have been dwelling here for centuries,” said Ecthelion gravely. “We cannot hide forever. One day, Moringotto shall indeed discover us: this is inevitable.”

“Ecthelion,” said Rog in his booming voice. “Are you taking me for a coward?”

“I know better.”

“Very well. Then hear me now: I part Orc-heads from their necks with great pleasure, but above all, I am a craftsman; and I shan’t chase battle and death if there is still an honourable way to evade it. Why not delay disaster while we can?”

“Wise words from a wise lord!” said Lómion. “To seek contact with those of Hithlum, without knowing what truly happened in Angamando would be madness. We must make further investigations with the aid of the Eagles.”

“This takes precious time!” said Laurefindil. “Our only true weapon against Moringotto. He is now unprepared, his vigilance evaded – what a great chance we have! We shan’t have it ever again. If we are to seek contact with our kinsmen, we should seek it now, and without delay.”

“What say you, Chief Advisor?” said King Turukáno.

At that, every face turned towards Lord Galdor, who smoothed the folds of his cloak, and looked around before speaking up.

“Turmoil I see, Highness,” he said. “The tale of Beren and Lúthien is unexemplary, and there might be much more truth in it than we deem. Nevertheless, we must indeed know what really happened! Captain Laurefindil does not err when he says acting could prove successful; yet action is a double-edged sword. Haste breeds fear and most of all, error; and Moringotto knows this. To chase desperate risk would bring evil upon us faster than Vairë weaves! I would not risk letting King Findaráto’s family and friends to the battlefield quite so soon. There is nothing deadlier in this world than love turned to hatred by anguish and pain.”

Anardil saw the glance that Galdor sent towards Lómion when he uttered the last sentence, and he wondered why the Counsellor flinched; but his attention was quickly averted by King Turukáno.

“It seems that the Council has decided to make further investigations about the events in Beleriand,” he said, “and to that, I give my consent. In a month we shall discuss the matter of aiding our kinsmen. Now, if none has more to say on this matter, we shall move on.”

Anardil felt his body moving on its own accord: he stood.

“Your Grace,” he said, in what seemed a very un-Quenya-like phrasing, “I find that I have quite a few comments on this matter. They might not be pleasant, but perhaps useful.”

“We would be all delighted to hear them, Lord Anardil,” said King Turukáno.

Anardil looked around in the immense Hall: the pale and silent sea of faces, the gleaming eyes that were fixed upon him. He did his best not to smile when he saw the look Ecthelion and Laurefindil exchanged when they heard him speak their tongue. Voronwë’s betrayed gaze, however, seemed to burn holes in his back.

Such a sensitive fellow, Anardil thought.

“Counsellor Lómion,” he spoke, “you said that you needed more information. I can give you that.”

The intensity of the attention he received suddenly seemed to increase.

“Sitting in a soft armchair, sipping wine, one might think about the murder of King Fin…rod as some nursery tale,” Anardil said, the sharp sonants of reverential Quenya breaking upon his tongue. “Yet I can tell you that the tales are true: he was lacerated by a werewolf, slowly, piece by piece. This I know, for I was there, and I heard him scream.”

With that, he folded back the sleeves of his tunic, showing raw, purplish black shackle-marks on his wrists.

“I have been imprisoned for only a few months; yet that was enough for a lifetime. There were many thralls, both First-and Secondborn in that fortress. Sauron liked to play his wicked games with us; and I can also confirm most stories about bats and werewolves. You are very welcome to laugh, lords; or you may say that I am still blinded by fear. That is not true; and Sauron’s hand reaches far enough to turn the life of the average traveller into a living hell. Since the Flames, all kinds of order and authority have disappeared from Beleriand! All that remain are some islanded forts, the last ones to stand: Eithel Sirion, Nargothrond, Menegroth, Himring and your Ondo-lindë; and the Isle of Balar in the far South. And you know what is in between? Died out, dried out plains; burned and sacked villages; vile troops of Orcs that grab you by the wrist, strip you of weapons, coin and even smallclothes, then chase you along the wastelands, naked as you were born! One can no longer ride from Nargothrond to the Falas without having to fear for their life. Beleriand has become a vile land, a dangerous land to live. At first, it was Fëanáro who stole my ships, now it is the thralls of Sauron; and by the looks of ‘em, I swear if Fëanáro came back from Mandos and demanded a few other ships, I’d give them full-heartedly and apologise for the delay!”

Anardil saw more than one hidden smirk aimed at him.

“If you ask me, King Turu-káno, my lords,” he said, finally getting the cruel sonants right, “it is now that you should seek contact with your kinsmen. Moringotto is probably still lying upside-down in his chair, trying to figure out what on Arda just happened. Perhaps not even the Seven Sons are in motion. You have a silent and eventless moment – now. You shan’t be having it again. Remember that Orcs these days are used to lonely, helpless wanderers who would rather flee than fight. I am no lord (even though you call me one) and I have little knowledge of politics or diplomacy or warfare; yet even I feel that things cannot go on as they are now.”

“Seldom do we hear such deep wisdom draped in such raw wording,” said Princess Idril suddenly. “I, for one, tend to agree with you, Lord Anardil.”

“We cannot rely immediately on someone not skilled in warfare, however wise their suggestion might seem,” said Lómion.

“He might be a slightly annoying fellow,” said Great Master Rog, “but Lord Anardil does know more about the current state of Beleriand than we do.”

“I believe,” said Ecthelion, “that there is another person in the Hall who knows much about recent happenings. Lord Voronwë has been particularly silent for the last hour; I would much like to hear what he thinks.”

There were sounds of agreement; and Anardil’s heart sank with foreboding.

“First of all, I have questions to Lord Anardil himself,” said Voronwë with fury unhidden, “who told me he was one of King Olwë’s household, yet now he claims to be no lord!”

“Well,” said Anardil, “I might have lied.”

“I might have already noticed that!”

“I feared for my life!” Anardil snapped. “Of course I told you I was someone important! I had to get somewhere safe so I could see my wounds tended and my soul eased a bit after months of cruel torment.”

“And where did you learn Quenya?” Voronwë demanded.

“I have spent some time in Tirion as a painter’s apprentice. I picked it up on the streets, that is all.”

“And the story about the ships?!” Ecthelion and Laurefindil exclaimed in unison with Voronwë.

“That was true: I mourn them to this day. And my parents truly died; and I travelled many lands and saw many things. I have never lied about who I was – only about where I come from. For who would care about a painter’s apprentice who lost some sorry ships and loved ones in the raging conflicts of the past? Who would notice that it was all he had? Who would understand his only need, his sole desire, that of safety and home? Who would care to see such a small Elf safe?”

“From this moment on,” said King Turukáno, “I do.”

“Then, Highness, you could ask yourself another question: are the people of this City by any means better, more important, more valuable than those left behind in Beleriand? Are they your kinsmen or not? For if you consider them as such, it is your duty to aid them!”

Silence stretched in the Great Hall; so long and so deep that it made Anardil’s heart sink. Then finally, when he was already utterly convinced that he had messed everything up with some grievous insult, the King laughed. The sound of his mirth was soft, yet it rang free and clear between the high walls.

“You have been complaining about your lowly state, my friend,” he said, “yet there is no lord who could remind a king about his duty; only a painter’s apprentice.”

---

Chapter End Notes

*The House of Wing was canonically led by Tuor, and possibly also founded by him. There is no information to be found of it preceding the events in The Fall of Gondolin. But instead of reducing the Houses to eleven, I preferred to give the Eleventh House to Penlod as well – as you might have noticed, I preferably stick to symbolic numbers, just like the 12 Houses, the 7 marble stairs or the 24-24 great windows (not mentioned here).:)

I gave Galdor, Egalmoth, Duilin, Rog and Laurefindil important positions that are not described in ‘The Fall’, ‘The Silm’ or Tolkien’s other works. Ecthelion’s title, however, is full canon, and Lómion is also known to have participated in Turgon’s Council. One thing I believe I haven’t cleared up yet: Laurefindil being Marshal practically means that everyone in the city who belongs to the army in any way responds to him.
Each of these made-up titles is a huge responsibility, and has its own privileges and limits, you will see that in time.

All descriptions of Gondolin heraldry were written with the aid of Tolkien Gateway, and ‘The Fall of Gondolin’.

Anardil’s bad pronunciation is marked by commas, dashes and sometimes Italic.

Telerin is canonically similar to Quenya: “From the viewpoint of the speakers of Quenya (who considered their language the main direct descendant of Common Eldarin), they considered Telerin (a direct descendant of Common Telerin) a “dialect of Quenya”. Telerin was therefore considered a closely related language still largely intelligible.” [as in ‘The War of the Jewels’]