The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The Wrath of Caranthir

Curufin's children are introduced; and their favourite uncle tells the story of his latest accidental mass murder.

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The Falls of Sirion, FA 467, the last day of Víressë

Erenis was sitting on the fresh-smelling ground, hands folded in her lap, lest she’d resume her nervous fidgeting. She could feel the tremor of Tyelperinquar’s steps as he paced around their camp: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. She could also hear the merry tune Gwindor was playing on his bowstring, tautening and loosening it in different angles.

The Falls murmured ceaselessly in the distance, and Erenis listened with curiosity. She had never seen the mighty Sirion before; it was said that its waters fell beneath the very earth, then gushed out of their stony grave a whole nine leagues further. Such a sight would be breath-taking, she knew. It was one she longed to see.

She hated to sit around aimlessly instead, and wait.

No – not aimlessly. He said he would come; and come he will.

And once he came, he will talk to me.

The Sons of the Star keep their word.

That thought was enough to help her stand and weave her hair into a lazy braid. She felt a sudden urge to whistle as she adjusted her boots; yet she knew she had to remain subtle and silent. Like a proper princess.

She was no longer a princess, though.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Tyelpe’s voice was sharp as a new blade. It made her sad; there had been a time when her brother was less of steel and more of warm, melted gold.

“It is my begetting day,” she said, hands on her hips, “so you owe me a gift – and there is this wonderful thing called silence, you know? Very pricey these days.”

“How clever of you,” said Tyelperinquar.

“I go wherever I please, and I do not see how you, of all people, can deny me that. You may, of course, try to catch me.”

“These lands are getting more and more dangerous, sister. You have already tried the King’s patience by leaving his Halls and dragging us along with you; do not make things worse, I beg you… And for such a pointless reason! These hills are silent. There is nothing here but deserted roads, gloomy forests and crows prowling over abandoned carcasses.”

“And Toronar.”

“Why linger here, Erenis? He shall not come. He could have changed his mind, or he could have been killed for all we know. We may learn about that later, to our joy or sorrow – for such is the course of life. We can only sit and watch.”

“Patience, Tyelpe! He has not forgotten us.”

“Five days, and the Gate shall be sealed. We are far from home, yet not alone in these lands. Let us go back to the safety of Nargothrond!”

“Let the Gate be sealed,” said Erenis. “He will come, I tell you. He must. He is our uncle!”

“We have many uncles,” said Tyelperinquar, “and this far, none of them has proved helpful. Still – what if you met Carnistir? Would it change anything?”

“Yes. We could make him understand why we did what we did. And we could learn some news…”

“I am not interested in news.” Her brother’s voice was hardening back to merciless steel. “The only thing I am now invested in is escorting you back below the earth where we belong. Your folly has gone too far.”

“You’re not in the brightest of moods today, I must say,” said Erenis lightly. “Come, let me tend to your hair. You look horrible.”

“Sometimes, appearances are not half as deceptive as one would think.”

Though Tyelperinquar’s mood did not seem to lighten, the corners of his mouth did turn slightly upwards; and for Erenis, that was a true achievement. She ran her fingers through her brother’s dark, coal-smelling tresses, and braided them. When she was done, she planted a small kiss on Tyelperinquar’s forehead; and her large, broad-shouldered, fiery-eyed, fierce brother wound his arms around her neck.

She leaned into the rare embrace.

“I made something for you,” said Tyelperinquar, murmuring softly against the neckline of her tunic, and Erenis stirred.

“You should not have.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because it is nothing like the gifts I could make you, and you know that. I thought that our agreement would last, and you would once again write me bad poetry. I was looking forward to it!”

“Oh, but I did. Worse than ever! Yet I could not resist the urge to give you something useful as well, something you shall – unfortunately – be needing... If I tell you that Gwindor’s gift belongs with mine, and mine is less than half of it, shall your wrath pass us by harmlessly?”

“I cannot estimate the degree of harm,” Erenis sighed, “but it shall pass.”

“How reassuring,” Gwindor chimed in. “I thought you would never get across the dog-fight part of your conversation. Then the dramatically dark part, then the poetically emotional part, and then…”

“That will be quite enough, thank you,” Tyelperinquar snapped, but the shadow of worry seemed to have lifted from his face. “Shall we get to the gift-giving part?”

Erenis knew her fate was sealed.

“Well, here it is,” said Tyelperinquar unceremoniously, pulling a small scabbard from his belt. Erenis had long before noticed the weapon but did not mention it; there could be a handful of chisels stuffed inside the shiny leather case for all she knew. “May it protect you from any harm; may it keep your path clearer than the waters of long-lost Valinórë. Happy begetting day, dearest one!”

Careful and more than a little wary, Erenis took the scabbard from her brother’s hand, her fingers clutching the delicate hilt.

A dagger, she thought, amazed. But why would I need one?

When it came to forging, or any other handicraft, Erenis was well and truly unskilled: a bitter truth she had learned to accept as the centuries dragged on. Still, nothing could erase the experience earned working in her father’s and grandfather’s smithies: lessons, scolding, rare praise and merciless precision. Erenis could tell good work from bad, excellent from good, and perfect from excellent. And this dagger was perfect, from the tiniest adorned branches and leaves on the hilt to the soft, rosily gleaming gemstone at the middle of the pommel; or the barely visible engravings that ran across the silver blade.

“You have outdone yourself,” said Erenis. She tried very hard to conceal her jealousy – to no avail, as it seemed to her. “It is beautiful – and deadly. Why would you gift me a weapon, and what else are you planning to bestow on your poor innocent sister? Am I getting Gwindor’s old armour too…?”

“Now that would be a sight!” Gwindor snorted. “Nay, little one: your brother’s gift was the blade, and mine shall be the training.”

“Training?” Erenis’s eyed widened. “So I am to learn how to kill now?”

“Or how to defend yourself,” said Tyelperinquar. “I admit that the thought of you running around with sharpened bits of steel is not one I particularly enjoy. Yet the world has become dangerous once again. We have to adapt; and so do you.”

Erenis closed her fists, then opened them, then closed them again. The dagger felt heavy, and alien in her hand.

“I have already killed once, Tyelpë. You know that. And I cannot, will not do it again, perhaps not even to an Orc. It makes my stomach turn. You, who has the talent to make things, might not be entirely stranger to my silent wish to try and let things be.”

“That is all well,” said her brother, “but evil does not seem very willing to let us be in return.”

“You might not need to kill ever again, for all we know,” Gwindor added, “though my heart tells me otherwise. Nevertheless, it is our wish that you would not feel the slightest stir of blood if a servant of the Enemy tries to attack or capture you.”

“Depends on the servant,” said Erenis with an effort.

Wind rose in the West; and westward they turned, upon some unspoken agreement. The roar of the Falls now seemed far more fain and distant than the rustle of leaves and birds scratching about in the undergrowth. Across the clearing, there was a narrow opening between the trees and they could see the empty air above the woodlands of Andram.

The air smelled sweet, and Erenis almost forgot how helpless and in danger they were.

“Where are the guards?” Tyelperinquar asked then.

“Scattered around this hill, and further down in the woods,” came Gwindor’s answer. “No foe could take us by surprise.”

“We never know what Moringotto is capable of,” Tyelperinquar gritted his teeth. “Not since the Battle of the Flames.”

Gwindor’s flinch was barely visible; but it was there.

“Can we just call him the Enemy? I despise that name.”

“A banned language to curse a backboneless foe,” Tyelperinquar smiled dangerously. “More than fitting, would you not agree?”

“No more rowan berries today, mellon nín. You’re bitterer than a heartbroken maid!”

“Stop squabbling and listen!” Erenis stood. “Someone is coming.”

Tyelperinquar gave his friend a sidelong look.

“Better be the guards, or I shall have to question your senses quite deeply.”

“You need not question it, Your Insufferableness. Here comes a familiar face!”

It was a guard that emerged from the woods, bowing before he spoke, his voice tense and hushed.

“A lone rider is coming. He mounts a strong stallion and seems to be in a great hurry. Shall we let him pass?”

“I told you!” Erenis’s fingernails were digging into her brother’s arm. “I told you he would come!”

“We cannot count on that,” said Gwindor. “We have to make sure – “

“Who else could it be?”

“Someone who wants us dead,” Tyelperinquar snapped. “Anyone! You cannot just trust people blindly!”

Erenis crossed her arms.

“We are surrounded by guards, and the rider is alone. Uncle Carnistir is here, Tyelpë; and he could kill our whole entourage in a single fit of rage if he only wanted. The same is true about the Enemy. Now let us go, and not waste our time any further.”

~ § ~

Together, they began their descent to the declivous vale that opened between a pair of the low, forest-covered hills above the Fens of Sirion. The moist, ungrateful smell of the close moorlands made Erenis wrinkle her nose; it was far from pleasant, but she accepted it with her usual quiet dignity. Restraining herself from racing ahead, she kept her hand on the hilt of her new dagger, for she knew it was expected of her. She tried not to ponder how empty that threat would prove to any foe.

Gwindor and his guards had set up a makeshift camp in the middle of a grove of ebony trees at the bottom of the valley. Their horses were grazing about; rays of morning sun danced around on their brown coats. The guards themselves were forming a wide circle around the newcomer, already dismounted. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked more than a little ragged. He also was, without any doubt, Carnistir, son of Fëanáro.

As soon as Erenis met his eyes, she exclaimed ‘Uncle!’ and ran to greet him. Lithe and light as she was, she thought she could slam with full force in his chest and did not even make him flinch; but Carnistir cried out in pain,

“Careful – CAREFUL you little fiend!”

Erenis stared at him, alarmed. The more closely she looked, the unusual her beloved uncle seemed. He was dirty, to begin with – he, who had always paid ridiculous amounts of attention to his clothing and the way it smelled, he who braided his hair every morning, he who kept his teeth whiter than the gems wrought in Grandfather’s goblets… And Uncle Carnistir was also injured. His left arm seemed fastened to his chest with stripes of dirty linen, and his cloak billowed about his form like bat-wings in the rising wind.

If Erenis wanted to be entirely honest, Uncle Carnistir did not look like himself at all – save for his large, lively eyes, his broad smile and the booming great voice that echoed on in the pit of her stomach whenever it spoke.

Silence fell to the grove of trees for a few seconds; then Carnistir spoke again, his voice slightly clearer now:

“I was afraid you might leave before I get here. I was also afraid you’d be insane like me and come alone. I’m glad I was wrong.”

“My sweet sister would not have hesitated to make that mistake,” said Tyelperinquar, who was still standing at the edge of the glade, in the exact same position as three minutes before. “Thankfully, she has me.” He then addressed the Elves around them. “Be at peace, for the one we sought has come to us. We shall sit in council for an hour or two; Lord Gwindor shall see to your tasks.”

At the mention of his name, Gwindor came forth, and bowed slightly. “Greetings, Lord Caranthir,” he said in his schooled Sindarin. “My name is Gwindor, and I am Captain of the King in Nargothrond. I am most glad that you found us.”

“Yes, I imagine that,” crackled Carnistir in the same tongue and dialect, and Erenis wondered what happened to his voice. “Thank you kindly, Captain; you may leave us alone for now. I wish to talk to my niece and nephew without you cave-dwellers pricking your ears about.”

If Gwindor of any of his kinsmen were offended, they did not show it; and Erenis had to admit that the playful insult rather humoured than annoyed her.

“They will have to stay around,” she heard her brother saying. “Someone may have been following you, lordship, or simply lurking around in the woodlands. We cannot risk anyone finding us.”

“As you wish,” Carnistir said, his voice suddenly formal. “It seems that we have much to talk about, m’lord, m’lady.”

“Can we just skip the part when we act like strangers and move on to the second phase, where we’re actually overjoyed to see each other sane and whole?” Erenis snapped. She crossed the distance between herself and her uncle with two determined steps and stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his forehead. When Carnistir did not protest, she pulled him into another, less tight hug, now paying attention to his scars and injuries.

“I am quite willing to do that,” her uncle said through the curtain of her hair. “What say you, kinsman?”

“I did not mean to be rude,” said Tyelperinquar. “Too much things have happened lately, and I am not sure what should we call each other.”

“I will still call you my little nephew if you grow another head, dye your hair vibrant blue and decide to earn your living as an Orc impersonator,” said Carnistir with a shrug (then winced). “I did not come here to get lost in the intrigues of our unfortunate family… I have news for you if you care to hear them – good and bad.”

“And we have questions, Uncle,” said Erenis, looking him up and down without the slightest sort of subtlety. “So many questions. But will you not sit down?”

“It will not help my shattered state,” Carnistir sighed. “Just send your moles further off.”

“Uncle… you can’t just call the King’s best scouts moles,” Tyelperinquar whispered depreciatingly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him, and turned slightly upwards. Finally, he gave in and walked off to Gwindor. After a brief exchange of murmurings, their guards disappeared among the thicket, and Erenis suddenly felt exposed.

“There we are,” Carnistir said when there was none other around them than his peacefully grazing horse. “Much better. Now, look at you – you both seem slightly troubled, if you don’t mind my mentioning it. Tyelpë, those black circles below your eyes would be enough to silence a room. And Erenis, you’re fidgeting again. I have told you a million times not to do that. Curiously enough, you both look like tiny frightened animals – not a pair of bright young Elves who just shattered the shackles of their maniac, power-monger father.”

“We did not -,” Tyelprinquar shook his head, glimpsing his reflection in a small puddle of rainwater. “…are they really that horrible?”

“I have never seen such magnificent circles,” Carnistir nodded. “I must congratulate you, really.”

“And you, Uncle?” Erenis burst out, folding her hands in her lap lest she’d resume her fidgeting. “What happened to you?”

“A friendly banter with Orcs, nothing more,” Carnistir said casually. “I will tell you later, but we don’t have much time. I would like to know at first what in Manwë’s holy name happened, how, and most importantly, why.”

And so Erenis began to talk. She spoke about the Battle of the Flames, about how they’ve fled; how they lived through their first years in Nargothrond; how their father’s and their Uncle Tyelko’s power grew and how they gradually changed; how did that slow, gradual change cascade in their father’s mind; how he started to treat them as tools who could only be used to serve his purposes or to please him; how they grew closer and closer to the folk of Nargothrond and how they became alienated from their own father. How their father hurt them, and how they both hurt him back. How their fights became recurrent, then common, then unceasing.

She finished her account before their last debate, leaving to Tyelperinquar the unpleasant task of recounting the rest: the betrayal, the riot, the fracture – and the deaf, puzzled vacancy that followed. When Tyelperinquar fell silent, Carnistir sighed boisterously (for a split second, Erenis was reminded of the billows in her father’s smithy), and asked:

“That would be all?”

“That would be all,” Tyelperinquar nodded.

“Are you sure? No mushy letters of explanation coming from your father? No declarations of unconditional love despite everything? Not even tears? No news, no blessings, no curses?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Carnistir shook his head.

“Blast it,” he declared. “I was hoping that rumours were a little bit less true. Could it be all true, then…? You cannot imagine all the unholy things I have heard about your father.”

“I think things have passed a point,” Tyelperinquar said slowly, “where nothing should surprise us anymore.”

“No, Tyelpë, that is not true…” Erenis sighed. “Well, I hope it isn’t. It’s just… he’s not entirely acting like himself lately. But neither do we – neither does anyone. The whole world is mad with grief, and that’s…”

“That doesn’t excuse anything,” her brother retorted. “I’m tired of hearing the same weak arguments over and over. Ethics and morality are the sort of ground we should walk on: a ground that cannot be cut from under our feet. Some of our father’s deeds are inexcusable: you know that just as well as I. He has taken a path and we have taken another, and the two shall not collide.”

Carnistir finally settled down upon the ground, weighing his injured back slowly, gently against a boulder.

“What is the meaning of inexcusable?” he said, his voice considerably clearer than before. “Something you cannot pardon? Something that shouldn’t be pardoned by the laws of justice or common sense? Something you just don’t want to pardon?”

“All of that at once, I think,” Tyelperinquar answered him. He did not sit like his uncle or sister did; he was pacing around them in slow circles instead, sometimes wide, sometimes narrow, as if moving would help him settle his thoughts. “After all that you’ve heard, what do you think we should do?”

“Thinking would be much appreciated, I think,” Carnistir let out a stormy sigh. “Because we’re in horrid trouble. Did I guess correctly that the words of King Findaráto’s death were the last news you’ve heard?”

“We have heard all sort of nonsense since then,” Erenis sighed. “Envoys are either expected to promptly swallow all relevant information they possess, or there is none. Yet you cannot imagine the number of songs we’ve heard on the heroic Quest of Princess Lúthien and Beren the Mortal Man, how they tore down the gates of Angamando and attacked the Enemy in his sleep, then escaped with the Jewel…”

“The songs are true,” Carnistir said.

Tyelperinquar’s pacing stopped so abruptly Erenis almost gave a jump. Her brother was staring at their uncle as if he’d just grown a second head.

“Excuse me?”

“You have heard me,” Carnistir nodded gravely. “The songs say that Princess Lúthien stroke Moringotto with the lightning of Manwë, and burned his black hands with the Jewel; then she and Beren flew across the lands on Eagle-back, right to the Halls of Mandos where they were greated with applause and sent back to the world of the living at the mercy of the Valar. Most of it is rubbish, I expect, yet we know for certain that the Jewel has been stolen, and it is now in Doriath.”

“But they cannot have…,” Tyelperinquar stared at his open palms. “That’s impossible!”

“It was, until it happened. Now, we know that Moringotto isn’t unassailable, and that there is a way to his halls. Yet we cannot expect him to fall back to sleep without avenging Beren’s and Lúthien’s little Quest. Of course, ‘tis not them who shall suffer – that shall be us, who still have the misfortune to be alive. And if the Enemy attacks again, we shall be in horrid trouble. Our forces are scattered, our watchtowers ruined, our weapons broken. So many of us have perished in the Battle of Flames! And our family, as always, stands closest to the fire; we can almost already feel its heat. In a few weeks, I shall be forced to abandon Amon Ereb and ride north to the ever-safe haven of Himring. Thargelion is lost. The Gap is lost. Arthórien is lost and Ossiriand falling. There is a huge gap between Estolad and Andram where no kin of us walks. Whoever might dwell in Taur-im-Duinath are cut off of us completely. And our new High King is a fellow so responsible that he walked straight up to the Iron Prison with a bow and a blasted harp! Do you even realise how doomed the Ñoldor are?! For Valar’s sake, children, this is just not the time to throw a tantrum against your father! We are so few, so shattered… we should stick together! Did I really need to ride a hundred leagues just to remind you of that?!”

Erenis opened her mouth, but closed it immediately as she realised she had no answer to that. She was surprised to feel shame bubbling up from the depths of her fëa. She stole a shy glance at her brother, but Tyelperinquar’s features were calm as a mountain lake, and sharp as steel.

“Are you saying that the charges we hold against our father are unjust?”

“I shan’t deny that your father can be an unholy bastard at times, if that is what you want to hear,” their uncle sighed. “Yet what I am truly saying is that this is no time for justice, Tyelpë, but for survival. Moringotto will hunt us down and serve our heads with pastries upon his table if we don’t act quickly enough. We should help each other while we can. For family’s sake. For honour’s sake.”

“These two just don’t seem to fit together anymore in my eyes,” said Tyelperinquar gravely. “My father’s late deeds disgust me. I do not regard myself as part of the family anymore: this I have told him. I care for you and love you for old times’ sake but I have no wish for participating in further kinslayings.”

“What do you think of us, Tyelpë?!” Carnistir’s voice was barely more than a whisper, yet the red heat of indignation creeped up his neck and coloured his cheeks. “What do you think of us?! That we kill Moriquendi out of sport?! That it would bring us joy or any sort of satiety to start another war?! Who do you think we are? Criminals? Robbers? Rogues…?”

“He’s not…,” Erenis tried to say, but Tyelperinquar raised his hand.

“Yes, I am! I am saying this, and I am meaning it! You swore an Oath we did not swear, therefore you may be forced to do things we cannot, we should not, we will not relate to. If that is so hard for you to accept, why won’t you try and fight your Oath?”

“For the same reason why I will not reach out to pluck the moon from the skies!” Carnistir bellowed. “Because it’s bloody impossible! Do you think I have never tried?! That I have never…”

He suddenly fell silent, hiding his face in his palms for a moment that seemed like Ages. Erenis tried to think of something, anything to say, but her tongue went dry and words eluded her.

“Did you come here to try and lure us back to the father we’ve denied?” Tyelperinquar asked sharply. “Because we’re only wasting our precious time, then.”

“Tyelpë!” Erenis sprang to her feet, dismayed. “Can’t you hear your own speech?! You’re being outrageously rude!”

“I’m being honest!” Her brother’s hands were tightened into fists. “Is that something to resent?”

“Yes, if you’re using your honesty to deliberately hurt others!”

“I’m not trying to hurt him, I’m just trying to save time…”

“Save time for what? So you can go back to your toys in the smithy? So you can continue bathing in the King’s praise?”

“Stop this childish banter!” Carnistir snapped. “Now we’re wasting time!”

With an effort, the siblings turned their eyes off each other, and looked reluctantly at their uncle, whose attitude, despite being dirty and ragged, still held some uncertain, but surely distinguishable means of authority.

“I came here because I care for you two,” Carnistir went on, his tone still harsher than usual. “Because we’re family. I don’t want to bend your will, nor do I think I ever could. I don’t believe it was a good choice to turn your back on your father, but I can understand why you did it. Perhaps you made the right decision – that is for you to find out. Knowledge shall come with time. I merely want you to know that you don’t need to throw all our family away just because you’re at bad terms with your Atar. And if something, anything goes awry, you shall always have a place in my… well, I could say castle but I can’t see how I could get my hands on one in the foreseeable future. So, let’s say you’ll always have a place with me, or any of my brothers, wherever we might dwell. Did you hear me?”

“We did,” Erenis said, “and thank you kindly.”

“You have always been good to us, Uncle,” said Tyelperinquar with the ghost of a sad smile on his face. “And overly generous. Forgive me if I have offended you.”

“It’s worse, Tyelpë,” Carnistir said. “At times, you’re scaring me.”

But he grinned right afterwards, and took the hand Tyelperinquar offered to him; and they all fell to the pretence of piece and accordance.

We should call it a truce, Erenis thought.

~ § ~

The three Feanoreans took their luncheon with Gwindor and the guards; their conversation rambled on to lighter topics then, and – from time to time – even to those of interest. Carnistir told them about all the strange news and rumours he’d heard in Ossiriand, Belegost and what remained of Thargelion; then he sang them a song he’d written about a dwarf merchant who challenged everyone to played the dice with him, and repeatedly drank so much that he fell straight upon the table, face down his mug. The song met great success among the guards, and not even Tyelperinquar managed to hide his grin.

“You still have to tell us about your friendly banter with Orcs, Uncle, as you so eloquently put it,” Erenis reminded Carnistir when the remnants of their food were carried away and she filled everyone’s cups with watered wine.

“Oh yes, I suppose,” Carnistir grinned. “Unfortunately, the story isn’t quite as heroic as it could have been.” He delved into his pocket, and pulled out a small parcel. “I’ve gone to great lengths to get this for your begetting day, young lady, but alas! Bad fortune pursued me, for I’ve been robbed on my route: my heart was stolen.”

Erenis (who had never received a begetting day gift with such open directness before, without any needless blessings or compliments) could not hide her grin, nor her utter delight when she unpacked the delicately wrought brooch from wet, mottled paper. It was of Dwarwish making without any doubt: but curiously enough, its silvery outlines formed an eagle.

“It is magnificent,” she breathed, and leaned forward to kiss her uncle on the cheek. “Thank you! But you have to tell me - who stole your heart on the road? And why should that mean bad fortune?! I’m so glad for you, Uncle!”

“Aye, we should drink to that!” Gwindor suggested with his usual heartiness.

“Help yourselves,” Carnistir laughed, “yet the thief wasn’t the sort of creature you might expect. If you keep your voices down and don’t jump on her all at once, you may see her.”

With that, he stood up slowly, gritting his teeth when his bandaged hand reached an uncomfortable angle, and went to his horse. Erenis glimpsed that the large saddlebag on the stallion’s side was half open, as if to let the air enter; and when Carnistir pulled out his hand from the bag, he was holding a small, black bundle. As he came to settle back in their circle, Erenis saw that the bundle was, in truth, a little pup, its fur black as night.

“Oh,” said Gwindor in a tone that did not quite match the Captain of Nargothrond. “She’s so tiny!”

“She also has teeth like steel,” Carnistir said happily. “We met on a cold night, not entirely a day ago. I stayed far from the road to look for a swift way up here, and that was when I saw a fire, and fifteen Orcs around it. They were about to cook and eat this tiny helpless creature. One of them held her by the neck. I saw that from amongst the thicket, and… well, Lord Gwindor, you don’t yet know me when something gets on my nerves. Long story short, I suddenly felt slightly upset and I might have accidentally massacred those filthy Orcs. At first, I just wanted to throw them into their own boiling cauldron but I didn’t quite get to that. Orc-necks break so easily… And then there was this little lady, yowling and scratching about, helpless and frantic with fear. So I took her. What else could I have done?”

“Nothing!” Said Gwindor in unison with three guards.

“Wait,” said Tyelperinquar, fingers drumming a steady staccato on his knees. “Uncle Carnistir. You threw yourself alone, without any entourage or hope for help, at the middle of an Orc camp… to save a puppy?”

“At that moment,” said Carnistir measuredly, “it seemed perfectly reasonable.”

“I would have done the same thing,” Gwindor declared grimly. Tyelperinquar shook his head.

“That’s… I cannot decide if that’s beyond honourable or beyond stupid.”

“Children and animals are the worst,” Carnistir sighed. “And maybe women. Or any other being that is suffering, really. You just see it and can’t look away. You must… do something immediately. I fell to that trap, as so many times before – the Orcs were surprised enough, but they left an ugly scar on my side -, and now I have my little lady friend to take care of. I still think it was worth it, though.”

“Does she have a name already?” Erenis scratched a tiny ear with her fingertips, smiling as the pup leaned into her touch.

“I’ve been seriously considering Melko,” Carnistir grinned, “but I figured that I could not risk your old Uncle Nelyo throwing me out of his halls. Moreover, I noticed she was a girl.”

“Oh, come on!” Erenis tried to appear outraged, but could barely hold back her laughter. Carnistir had a strange talent for making insults and otherwise horrible things seem chokingly funny.

“Nobody deserves to be called Melko,” said Tyelperinquar. The way the joke appeared to be of no effect on him sent a chill creeping down Erenis’s spine, and once again she was filled with the fear of her brother becoming this cold and distant for eternity. But as so often those days, her fear was momentary; and – as if to reassure her – some faint reflection of their former light returned to her brother’s eyes as he said, “I would name her Egnor, for the sake of her rescue and sharp teeth. Consider that, if it is to your liking.”

“She deserves a finer language,” Carnistir commented, “but I admit I like the idea.”

~ § ~

Hours went by in silence and stillness, and the two siblings tended to their uncle’s wounds as much as they could. The cuts were not deep but ugly, and their edges a little bit blackened, which left Erenis worrying. Yet Carnistir had no fever, he found joy in drink and food, and talked just as much as usual. Erenis stayed around him until nightfall, more for the sake of his booming voice and the sight of his face than the actual content of his endless chattering. Her uncle might have guessed that filling the stubborn silence that lingered around the grove gave her comfort; yet suddenly, when the fiery red plate of the sun almost settled below the horizon, he said,

“Well, I suppose this is farewell, then.”

The statement was abrupt and decisive; it sent an invisible wave of uncertainness around their dwelling that seemed to shake even Tyelperinquar who was tending to some ropes that held a tent.

“It must be,” he said slowly. “That will be better for everyone.”

Their uncle nodded slowly, gravely.

“I understand. Yes, I think I am starting to understand you two. Take care of yourselves… and if you’re this determined to trade your family for the people of Nargothrond, stick with them at least. They are decent, as it seems to me.”

“We’re not trading you, Uncle,” Erenis promised. “Never you!”

“Favouritism is an unholy thing, young lady,” Carnistir raised his finger, and winked. Erenis was suddenly strongly reminded of her Uncle Nelyo’s measured old counsellor, and couldn’t suppress a grin. “I’m flattered, though.”

“I am… we are very thankful that you came, Uncle Moryo,” said Tyelprinquar, and spread his cloak upon Erenis’s shoulders before she could resist. The evening chill was getting sharper.

“I will come whenever you need me, provided that I have still legs to walk upon,” Carnistir said lightly. “Though I’m afraid you’ll soon be obliged to reach out to Himlad if you want to hear from me.”

“We will take that risk,” Tyelperinquar said. “May the Blessings of the Valar stay with you on your road north!”

Carnistir nodded.

“Now that would be a sight to see,” he murmured, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his voice was clearly audible all around the camp. “The Valar’s Blessings upon me.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes

- Egnor [Sindarin] means approximately “fire-thorn”.

- On the usage of names: Erenis’s POV will always use Quenya names for her close relatives and Sindarin for her friends and/or acquaintances, as well as locations.