The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The Crows Are Screaming

Tyelcano seeks the meaning of his dreams; and prevents another disaster from striking.

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Dream 2/467/82

Wounded. Three holes on chainmail: two on the right, one on the left, close to the heart. Feels like hell. One boot missing from feet. Pounding head. Blood loss.

I cry out. Raspy voice, throat burns. Sword is missing. I grab a knife, the length of which is unfamiliar. Never owned a knife like that.

Crows all around, watching with hungry eyes. Waiting for me to die so they could have their feast.

Steps are coming, closing in. I am being tracked down. I am wanted alive – elsewise, I would be dead already.

Blurred mind. Strange colours, and things that could not possibly be there. Strange emblems: perhaps a tree among them, if Dream 2/476/46 can be trusted. It could just as well be a ladder, though, or a barred gate.

Something gleams. Could be a helmet, lance or longsword.

Falling. Darkness.

Dream 2/467/83

I crawl on blood-steeped soil. Misty plains, snowy mountain-peaks in the distance. And I hear the Voice. “All flowers shall wither,” and so forth.

Wounded again. Three holes on chainmail: two on the right, one on the left. Close to the heart. My head is pounding.

I am being followed, and all I can do is crawl.

(Crows).

My wounds are deadly, and still I go on. Why is it so important to go on in these dreams?

Dream 2/467/84

My hands are bound, and I am being carried through a narrow passageway. Blood. Pain. Voices above me, language indiscernible, although highly familiar.

“Hideous creatures lurk in the walls,” says the Voice, “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; and all flowers shall wither.”

NOTE: Incoherency, as in: there is no passageway without a gate at its end. If I am carried through, that means I have already passed the gates.

NOTE 2: Since Dream 2/467/72, the Light is entirely missing from my dreams.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

Himring, FA 467, the ninth day of Víressë

Counsellor Tyelcano dipped his quill into red ink for once instead of black. There was no sound in the library, other than the soft scratching of his quill over paper.

Many words became bracketed, and many others were underlined with neat, red lines. Later, several brackets duplicated and some lines were highlighted; then, new pages were filled; and then came the brackets again. By the time Tyelcano put the quill down to contemplate his work, the moon had disappeared from the skies outside, and the reddish tinges of dawn tainted the greying darkness in the East.

Of the thick, leather-bound notebook the Counsellor used to keep record on his wandering dreams, only a handful of pages were now empty. The last time he had wasted such a length of his precious book on describing nightmares was during the siege of Himring in the Dagor Bragollach, when Lord Maedhros had disappeared for a month, and he kept dreaming that the Enemy held him again in chains. This particular writing, though, was no mere account, but an extensive analysis.

On the first eight pages, Tyelcano had described possible courses of his recurring nightmare, sewn together from the shards of his dreams; and the three following pages were filled with two major scenarios in accordance with whom the dreams have evolved. Tyelcano named these ‘I. Light Comes’ and ‘II. Darkness Falls’.

The next pages contained a list of elements and the rate of their appearance. The most frequent ones were ‘enemy’ [84], ‘darkness’ [82], ‘fog’ [79], ‘Voice’ [77] and ‘wounded’ [72]. The combination of ‘fog’, ‘enemy’ and ‘wounded’ appeared almost everywhere, and wherever ‘Light’ was featured, one could also find ‘Voice’, ‘enemy’ and ‘darkness’.

As time went by and pages were filled, Tyelcano saw connections, intertwined scenarios, mutually dependent items. He had finally broken down his visions to something he could understand: a complex chart of logical, sortable elements… Yet no matter how many times he calculated the probability of this or that scenario appearing in predictable sequences, the fortress of his dreams still stood impenetrable against his rebelling consciousness.

After more than two hours of fruitless work, Tyelcano dropped his quill in frustration, desperate enough to find the only existing book that could help him.

It truly was a last resort, though; and he still felt reluctant to do so.

This room is spacious, he thought. I would probably not even find it. To ask Lord Nelyo if we still have it would be a shame I cannot allow to bring upon my head.

“If you leave now,” he whispered softly, as if to convince himself, “you will never ask for it. And then you will never know. It is the fourth hour of the day, and no one is around. No one will ever find out.”

It matters not, Tyelcano decided. The word ‘pride’ did not, could not have any meaning to him.

These dreams pervade my thoughts and I dwell on them, wasting precious time I could spend on the matters of Himlad and our household. I am needed here – sane and whole.

Thus having steeled himself, Tyelcano grabbed his beloved lantern, and disappeared in the far end of the library. The lantern had been a gift from Fëanáro himself, for the occasion of his begetting day – either the three-hundred-and-forty-fifth or the three-thousand-three-hundred-and-seventieth one, depending on how one chose to count.

To the lay mind, it was no more than a large, blue crystal hanging in a delicate chain net; and yet, either by the unmatched skill of its maker or by raw magic, it shone from within its centre, in which a small flame was captured. The lantern’s light was clear and radiant; it enticed, beguiled Tyelcano’s eyes, and at once, the shadows dancing on the walls sprang to living.

Tyelcano saw the gleam of Fëanáro’s eyes and the cup of wine they had raised in the silent depths of a smithy; then a long and ceremonious feast Aran Finwë had insisted to host on his who-knows-which begetting day; Fëanáro standing with his arms crossed, terribly amused as his beloved tutor was made to drink, drink and drink to his own health; the unearthly gleam of Tirion’s towers; the sound of trumpets greeting both a new dawn and a new year in the life of the King’s most trusted advisor; the fresh scent of paper as he worded the Laws of the Noldor; Nelyafinwë, Kanafinwë then all the others being born; little Findekáno leaving fingerprints on a pile of freshly sealed letters and little Turukáno trying to cover them with paint; tears, laughter and strife; Fëanáro and Nolofinwë facing each other from the two separate ends of a sword; Nelyafinwë admitting in a hollow voice that he had not spoken to Findekáno since they had departed from Tirion…

Telperion and Laurelin dying, shadows descending on the Blessed Realm…

Aran Finwë, eyes hollow and glassy, gazing to nothingness…

Fire rising above Losgar, the song of the flames singing in horrid harmony with the wails of the dying and wounded…

Fëanáro dissolving into a pile of ash…

Nelyafinwë lying on what could have been his deathbed, ribs poking out from beneath bruised, paper-thin skin; trapped in the agony of living death…

Tyelcano stopped abruptly in front of the last shelf and steeled his willpower.

Never dwell on the past.  Your memory reaches too far.

He turned his attention on the bookcase before him and clicked its door open, the blue hue of his lantern dancing around threadbare, sour-smelling volumes. Old as these books were, their value was questionable; the only reason Tyelcano would not use them as kindling in his hearth was that he instinctively warranted books a certain amount of respect. Most of them were copies of annals, outdated maps and inaccurate reports; yet there were also a few chunks of bawdy poetry hidden behind them, as a collection of sickeningly sweet love stories and other strange accounts – like the one he now sought.

The book was lying precisely where then-prince, now-High King Findekáno had left it with a laugh: a pile of yellowed paper, held within its cover by the will of the Valar alone, or so it seemed.

Tyelcano braced himself, and took it; then settled back behind his favourite desks.

The Nature o’ Visions, the cover read in archaic Sindarin, and How to Unriddle Them. Penned by Teithion, son of Gwaenor in the Seventy-fifth Year of the Great Shadow.

Tyelcano had no idea what the Moriquendi would call the Years of the Great Shadow; he guessed that the book had been brought as a gift to the Feast of Reuniting, then everyone forgot about it. Not that he was surprised – the Noldor were lore-masters, craftsmen and seekers of truth. By no means would they believe that nightmares held any meaning apart from the manifestation of underlying sorrows plaguing the dreamer. The only such power they recognized was foresight; and while Tyelcano himself was not gifted with it, he knew that it had little to do with actual dreams.

Yet here he was, at the mercy of Woodelven lore, running through pages and pages of dream-readings. Apparently, picking flowers meant that the dreamer was about to wed a fair maiden soon; and looking at growing moss meant slow progress on an important matter. Tyelcano shook his head with an exasperated sigh. Did he truly think that a book of eloquently worded nonsense would help him?

“Crow,” he read aloud. “Always a symbol of failure and death. Crows, cawing: foretells the loss of a loved one, or upcoming ill news.”

They would not stay silent.

“If the crow flies close to you, that is a sign of approaching death or deadly danger.”

They were about to feast on me.

“Mist: an obscured landscape foretells tribulations and likely failures in the future. And mountains: they mean tasks and missions. Snowy peaks in the distance: you aim too high; you may have quarrels with a superior...”

Now that is clearly worse than death!

“To descend from a rocky mountain: small success – maybe I shall survive the quarrel, then. And blood: foretells a long and grave illness… Blood flowing from a wound is an announcement of sorrows and afflictions, an unhappy love affair or a dispute with a valued friend.”

So I am now to be involved in love affairs, albeit unhappy ones.

“Blood-soaked clothes: you have enemies envying your titles: you should be wary of new friendships.”

Tyelcano felt a very uncomfortable pang in the pit of his stomach.

“Being chased in a dream means fear of confrontation. If you turn around and confront your pursuer, the torment of dreams may end. If the pursuer is at your heels, the source of frustration is not going to go away by itself.”

Would it be too much to ask to dream of sunny green fields, horses running in the sunset or the lights of Tirion?

“Standing in front of a gate means upcoming debates, or the start of a new period in the dreamer’s life.”

Tyelcano took his quill with a sigh, and copied each one of these meanings in his book, including page numbers, references and footnotes.

By then, soft light filtered into the library; and when he took a break from his work to open a window, the faintest morning breeze brought him a promise of spring – and the song of a lyre. To Tyelcano’s delight, the sound was approaching. Careful not to disturb the musician, he left the window-sill and settled back behind his desk, slightly turning his armchair towards the incoming fresh air.

Tyelcano’s new position proved excellent to observe as Celegorm slid through the open window, instrument in hand. They had not seen each other for three days; and the memory of their last meeting crushed down between them as a wall of iron.

“Good morn to you, lordship,” said Tyelcano coolly. “I am glad to see that your instinctive good manners are returning.”

 “Good morn, Counsellor,” said Celegorm. “You must excuse me. My thoughts are… wandering lately.”

“Then do not let them loose,” Tyelcano nodded, a bit more reservedly than he felt in his heart. Clearly, he was still furious with both Celegorm and Curufin; but that did not erase his love for them.

 “May I ask, why the instrument…?” He quipped, lest he would unleash the thunderstorm of chiding he had in mind. Lord Tyelkormo was no longer a child, after all, and nor were any of his brothers.

“I am no match for Kano,” Celegorm offered with a thin smile, “but I have something in mind. I hope you will hear it soon.”

“As do I,” said Tyelcano.

Celegorm was still holding the lyre, shifting his weight from one leg to the other in discomfort. The last time Tyelcano saw him doing this, the lord did not reach higher than his elbow.

“What is it that you are writing, Counsellor?”

“This…,” Tyelcano shut The Nature o’ Visions with a swift, fluid motion, and clicked the lid of the inkwell, “is an important report, one that I must show Lord Nelyo this evening.”

 “I see,” Celegorm nodded. He pulled a chair to the other side of Tyelcano’s desk so they would face each other, eyes shining so bright that one could drown in them. “Listen, Counsellor. I know that you are angry, and rightfully so. But you must hear me out. It would have been best to speak before our… well, our trial, but I dare hope that it is not entirely too late. We still have about three hours before Curvo leaves.”

“Leaves?” Tyelcano grabbed hold of the desk, lest he would swing right backwards. “Are you telling me that your lord brother would rather choose exile than absolution?”

“We already are in exile,” said Celegorm, “and I assure you, he would rather fight a dragon with his fists alone than be pardoned and pitied.”

“Lord Nelyo did not tell me about this,” said Tyelcano cautiously.

“He pretends that it is not about to happen; but our brother will leave if we do nothing! Which is why I am now asking for your help… well, in fact, I have a question for you.”

“If your father heard you speak in such mazy words, he would knock your head with an anvil!” Tyelcano said. “Say what you will, and swiftly, if time is indeed as short as you claim.”

“Well – is it an assault if you were not the first to draw your sword?”

“That,” said Tyelcano slowly, “depends highly on context; but I would rather call it self-defence.”

“My thoughts exactly!” Celegorm crossed his arms tight against his chest. “Well… let us say that there are two allied… people. One of them is attacked and brought to the ground, and seeing this, the other attacks as well, enraged. What is that?”

“Camaraderie…?”

“And if it is one’s brother who falls on the ground, threatened with death – which, in this particular case, would be Curvo…”

The Nature o’ Visions fell from Tyelcano’s lap. Its rootlet hit the ground with a loud knock, and the book opened up at “crow”, “crown” and “cruelty” – but the Counsellor could not care less.

“Turcafinwë, what is it that you still not have told us?!”

“A few weeks after we left Nargothrond,” said Celegorm, “wind rose in the East. We were riding north after everything that befell us. We raced along the wastelands, fast as our horses could get; and it happened thus that we came upon the daughter of Melian and her lover again. I shan’t say their names; for I have cursed them under cloud and skies as a farewell, cursed them to the last days of Arda. I have not felt such hatred since Atar died.”

“Yet we met them nevertheless; and we thought we would try, for the last time, to escort the witch back to the woodlands of Doriath. As little as it might mean, I give you my word that that time, such was my sole intention; though I must admit there was vengeance in it. Thus, my brother rode forward when we saw them, his lance across his chest. Hunters use that trick as a means of defence; and yet the Man sprang forward and kicked him from the saddle. As I rode upon them, all I saw was my brother, my flesh and blood lying in the dust, strangled, on the brink of death. I came upon that Man, wounded him… and I wanted to kill him, Counsellor, for he took everything from me! I could have torn him, shredded him to pieces. Yet I did not; for the witch turned my Huan, my faithful Huan, my terrible Huan against me, his own master; and I had to lie down, soundless, motionless, while that monstrous Man still had his hands around my brother’s neck!”

“Is that why I have not seen Lord Curvo without a high collar since you came here?” Tyelcano blinked.

“Quite so. Back in the Marshes, dirt hid the marks well enough; yet beneath the cloth, his colours put the birds of Valinórë to shame.”

Tyelcano shook his head. “What happened then?”

“The witch decided that she would grant us mercy,” Celegorm shrugged. “And the hideous pair went on their way; but they stripped us of our weapons first. They took my brother’s knife, my sword and lance, a scimitar we had found on the road… the witch let me guard my bow and a few arrows so we would not starve on the road; yet we still did. The Man did not murder my brother, and for that much, I am thankful; yet it angers me that he only let him live out of scornful amusement. The world now treats us as criminals and murderers – yet I tell you, Counsellor, the witch and her thrall are no better. And ‘tis us who are labelled kidnappers and rogues!”

Tyelcano gave Celegorm a long, wary look. “Well, you are no paragons of innocence, either.”

“True. We have lied, and we have wronged you. We have been punished for it… and now it is over. We will not lie again.”

“How do I know that you are not lying right now?” Tyelcano crossed his arms. “That you are not trying to bend the facts your own way? I was not there; all one can rely on are your own words of honour, or Curufinwë’s – if you still know what that means.”

“If you want to hate someone, hate me,” said Celegorm with fervour. “I did kidnap the witch. She wormed her way into my heart, beguiled my thoughts. And afterwards, I wanted to… I tried to kill her, Counsellor. My blood was boiling, I was furious, I was afraid, I have never felt such elemental hatred in my life, and…”

Fury, distrust and bad blood were all forgotten as their eyes met, and all of a sudden, Tyelcano recognized the one incurable illness the other was suffering from. And from that moment on, he understood; and this understanding would become an unspoken secret they shared, from that moment to the last they would share on Arda marred.

Yet Tyelcano said nothing: for words were given meaning and shape, and were acknowledged when they were spoken – and some things are best left unacknowledged.

“What can I do for you, cundunya?” he said instead, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

“Make Curvo stay,” said Celegorm.

Indeed, Tyelcano thought. Because I am not already determined to do so. You have to get on your knees and beg me.

“And why would I want him here?” he said aloud. “All he brought to this castle so far was strife and scandal. Other than the hot water tubes, of course – for that much, the household is forever thankful.”

Tyelcano felt a sudden urge to laugh as Celegorm opened his mouth to voice his dismay, then closed it; then reopened it, only to close it again in shock.

“You – you were jesting, right?” he finally managed. “You… Counsellor, you are able to jest?”

“Who knows?” Tyelcano stood, and slid his precious notebook into his pocket, along with The Nature o’ Visions. “Now, lordship – you might have the whole day to dance around and write mediocre poetry, but some people have work to do in this castle. A pleasure to have seen ye!”

And with grace, he walked out of the room.

§ ~ § ~ §

Lord Curufinwë Fëanárion was housed in one of the most airy and comfortable suits in the castle, and Tyelcano shook his head in displeasure when he saw that most of the windows had not been opened in a week, or more. Dust was gathering near their hinges, and the shutters were closed.

All the lord’s earthly possessions – two half-packed bundles – were gathered on the bed, and Curufin himself was nowhere to be seen; so Tyelcano settled down, and waited. Not much later, he heard the soft creak of the opening door.

If Tyelcano thought that Curufin would show shame or remorse, he was mistaken. His face was fair and smooth as ever; and as their gazes met, a sparkle of sardonic mischief kindled in the lord’s eyes, then went out immediately.

“Good morn, Counsellor,” came the most casual greeting Tyelcano had ever heard in his long life. “How fare ye?”

Pleading will not help me here, Tyelcano realized. Nor will kindness, understanding or reprimands.

I will have to be cruel.

“How fare I, you ask? Now that you are on your way, lordship – remarkably well, thank you.”

“And still you sit here like a faithful old dog,” Curufin quipped.

“Old dogs give the worst bites. Careful you be, or they might fester.”

Their words lingered long in the dusty air, and Tyelcano knew he had hit his mark.

“It is against your nature to feast upon the sorrow of others,” said Curufin slowly. “Why are you here? What may I do for you?”

Tyelcano steeled himself.

“You may promise me to die quickly out in the wilderness,” he said, ignoring the gut-wrenching feeling that seized him, “and without a trace.”

Silence.

Curufin opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again – much like his brother before, yet this time, Tyelcano did not feel the slightest stir of humour in his heart.

“Counsellor,” said Curufin, “I… I am wounded.”

The knife was in his chest, and it took all Tyelcano’s willpower to twist it.

 “Your things are packed and I see no one begging you to unpack them. Go!”

“Tyelcano!” Curufin’s eyes were wide, his face suddenly pale.

“You know exactly what you are doing, you cruel, selfish fiend,” said Tyelcano, as disparagingly as he could. “Begone, and swiftly! I do not wish to see you ever again.”

The lie kept floating in the empty air between them, and silence made it grow; then the understanding of it finally settled in Curufin’s eyes, still uncharacteristically open, and impossibly wounded.

“You are standing in the doorway, Counsellor,” he said. His fists were clenched.

“You are many things,” Tyelcano seethed, “but until today, you were not an idiot. If you go, Moringotto’s servants will hunt you down and drag you to Angamando, and you shall never see the Sun again. And your brothers will not come after you, Curufinwë. I will not let them.”

“I understand,” said Curufin rigidly.

Tyelcano’s eyes were suddenly filled with a strange kind of hot mist, one he would certainly not acknowledge as the gathering of tears.

“Do you not see how selfish you are? Do you not see how Moringotto controls you, how he puts strife between you and your family, how he makes you deceive and betray others? He has won, Curufinwë: you and your deeds are the living proofs of his victory. I cannot, will not bend your will, and nor will anyone else. Yet I tell you now: the only place the Enemy shall never find you are the Halls of Mandos. You have let on evil happen, and your brothers are now divided. Stop right here, and hurt them no more.”

“You gave up on me,” Curufin whispered.

“Was that not what you wished for?”

“You gave up on me!”

The hot mist cascaded into tears, and ran down Tyelcano’s cheek.

“I have no choice. I cannot, and will not force you.”

“What would you have me do?” Curufin shouted. “I am declared a traitor and a murderer, exiled from Nargothrond, exiled from Doriath, exiled from fair Valinórë across the Sea… maybe not even Námo would let me dwell in his Halls! My own kin turned against me. My own children forsook me… and you, Counsellor, you made me sit on your knees when I was little, yet even you have turned your back on me. I ask again: what would you have me do? Crawl? Fall on my knees? Beg for mercy with fake tears? I have no tears left to cry, Counsellor.”

“I want you to stop running,” said Tyelcano. “Wherever you go, you shall never be free of yourself. If you want to help us, swallow your pride, stay, and work for the well-being of our people, as we all do.”

“The well-being of our people!” Curufin’s laughter was coarse. “Was that what Father told you at Losgar? No, Counsellor: we have sworn our Oath, and we did not swear lightly. Our words of honour bind us, burn us, kill us all. And we need to fulfil that promise. Nothing else matters.”

“That cannot be true. You are a noble lord from a house of Kings! All you need to do is start acting like one.”

“And renounce my titles right away?” Curufin’s eyes narrowed. “I have nothing else left.”

“For now!” Tyelcano sighed in exasperation. “Would you not try and get your family, your friends and your honour back first? Would you not find work for your hands in this castle, instead of getting caught and brought to Angamando as Moringotto’s plaything?”

“I shall not be patronized and humiliated,” said Curufin, “and I could not face Nelyo and Makalaurë again after… after what happened in that room.”

“The choice is yours,” said Tyelcano. “Yet I must say it is very painful to watch you fall into a pit whilst standing at the brink of a new path. I wish I had taught you better.”

“You taught me well,” Curufin said, hesitating. “Yet… I have little love for lost causes. No matter what I do, my brothers shall never trust me again. You shall never trust me again.”

Tyelcano closed his eyes.

“It is said that the blades of trust are hard to forge and easy to blunt,” he said, “yet once they are sharpened anew, they slice the very stones from the earth. And you, lordship, are the best smith on both sides of the Sea.”

Curufin tilted his head. “Next time you seek to blackmail me, do hide your tears. They betray your lies.”

“I will do my best,” said Tyelcano.

Curufinwë stared at him for a long minute.

Then, he undid the straps on his two bundles.

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Chapter End Notes

Excerpts from The Lay of Leithian, Canto X.:

 „But as they came the horses swerved

with nostrils wide and proud necks curved;

Curufin, stooping, to saddlebow

with mighty arm did Luthien throw,

and laughed.”

“[...]and with a roar

leaped on Curufin; round his neck

his arms entwined, and all to wreck

both horse and rider fell to ground;

and there they fought without a sound.”

„[…]the Gnome felt Beren’s fingers grim

close on his throat and strangle him,

and out his eyes did start, and tongue

gasping from his mouth there hung.

Up rode Celegorm with his spear,

and bitter death was Beren near.”

About my reinterpretation of events:

- This story seeks balance between mythopoeia and modern novelisation – which means that while certain magical, unexplainable elements do exist, many events described in ’The Silmarillion’ are handled as legends.

- In the Lay of Leithian, Celegorm and Curufin are villains. In ‘The Seven Gates’, they are not.

- In my interpretation, Celegorm did not know that Curufin had intended to kill Lúthien; and I chose to read the passage that says „They saw the wanderers. With a shout / straight on them swung their hurrying rout / as if neath maddened hooves to rend / the lovers and their love to end” as the malice of the scribe who had worded the tale ;)

Tyelcano’s age:

- He was born near Cuiviénen in YT1099 (the year when Melkor was chained and brought to Valinor, to be sentenced to the Halls of Mandos).

- His age can be determined in both Tree and Sun-years, thus the difference between calculations. One Tree-year equals around 9,75 Sun-years.

- At the beginning of this story, our Counsellor is 4310 sun-years old.

The dream-meanings were found either all around the Internet, or – in some cases – in an old Hungarian dream-book I found in my childhood home’s basement.