The Seven Gates by Laerthel

---

He Who Walks In Starlight

Anardil makes new acquaintances, takes an illegal shortcut through Ecthelion's gardens, and has a big revelations about his dreams.

---

XVI. He Who Walks In Starlight

“What on Arda was that about looking decent?” Anardil inquired.

They were standing side by side in a dark, empty alley, faint notes of music and laughter rolling down from the nearby inn to where they waited. Anardil had done what he could in terms of decency, to be sure: he was wearing a long, blue-and-silver robe, the most festive one he could find in his wardrobe. His unruly tresses were tamed with a hairclip, and he wore a pair of new boots.

They made him feel almost like a true lord.

“I wanted to make sure you seemed like a normal person this evening,” said Pengolodh. “I am bringing you somewhere new and you shall meet people there – some of them important. It will not hurt if you look fine, speak well, and in general, behave.”

“And am I good-looking?”

“Well, your robe certainly is.”

They both burst out laughing.

“Where are we going, by the way?” Anardil glanced at his companion. “To the palace?”

“The place is called The Blind Guardian,” said Pengolodh, “and it is something you would perhaps call a tavern. It looks like a tavern, it feels like a tavern, it smells like a tavern; yet in the deeper sense of the term, it is nothing like it. It is… well, it is a place of importance, a place of renown. When two lords come to an agreement, it oft happens at The Blind Guardian. If a young musician wants to try his luck, he goes to The Blind Guardian. If a bunch of historians and other madmen want to spend a night out together, they visit The Blind Guardian… and if you want to buy or arrange something in secret, the Blind Guardian is the place to go as well. Everyone heard of it, and still, no one ever gets caught. 'Tis like a legend: some believe it, some not, but we, scholars know the truth behind.”

“And what unholy thing shall we do in that tavern-that’s-no-tavern this evening?”

“Nothing unholy, mind you,” said Pengolodh elegantly. “I shall introduce you to some people you’d might care to meet. They are my friends, and I hope they will be yours as well. Also, I confess I shall boast a little about how I gained your good will and utter trust in one single day. I ask you to assist and cooperate. Agreement is, let’s say, a bottle of wine every two hours, and you get to choose.”

“Consider it done,” said Anardil with an easy laugh.

“Good. Now let us go!”

They rushed through the lower parts of the city, heading almost straight to the King’s Palace. Not far from the gates, however, they turned left to the Road of Arches, and climbed a set of steep, ivy-mantled stairs at its narrowing end. There opened before them the bushy green park that covered the Square of the Folkwell. Indeed, one who wandered close enough to the centre of the park could clearly hear the chatter of a fresh spring; and as Anardil approached in awe, he glimpsed the light of Ithil glimmering on a thin stream of water, running carelessly downhill. Once the water reached the cobblestones, though, it was immediately led off by small, clever marble ducts and pipes.

“A forest within the City,” Anardil whispered. “Marvellous! This place has all things indeed; all things but the Sea.”

“All but the Sea,” Pengolodh echoed. “Would that I could see it again! But come now; The Guardian is on the other side, and I thought you’d like a walk through the verdure.”

They slid through the park arm in arm, paying little heed to the heads that turned after Anardil as he walked. He’d learned already that the gesture of holding a companion’s arm, which had been considered highly intimate in the old days of Tirion and Alqualondë, was perfectly common in Ondolindë; in fact, it was highly recommended to stay in physical touch with the one you were walking with, lest you’d be swallowed by the crowd in the streets.

A wide path led through the park, illuminated on two sides by colourful lanterns that hung from the trees: some blue, some red, some orange, some green; some golden, some silver; some pink, some purple; and the array of hues went on and on, endlessly. Anardil doubted he had seen each of those colours before.

“Painted glass?” He looked at his companion.

“Good guess,” Pengolodh nodded, somewhat offended. “Although many who have walked this road with me thought they were flameless lamps.”

“Anyone who saw the Kinslayer’s handiwork before would only laugh at that,” Anardil declared with bitter admiration, and turned away from the lamps.

“When did you…” Pengolodh’s sudden halt resulted in an uncomfortable pull in his shoulder. “You did not speak of that when you told me your story!”

“I told you of the time when I was assistant in a stage-house in Tirion, did I not?”

“You did, but…”

“They had one of those Feanorean lamps,” Anardil said in a low voice. “The small kind. It worked marvellously. Such a vivid light… I would oft sit around it late at night, just for the sake of watching. There was nothing burning inside, but something moved beneath the surface. As if the lamp was alive. It was small and precious; I could have pouched it in my pocked if I dared, but it was likely worth more than the whole stage-house itself, so I did not want to risk that.”

“The King gave orders not so long ago to recreate those lamps for mine workers, as I have heard,” said Pengolodh. “And our good Counsellor Lómion succeeded, or at least he made similar ones. Their light is white, though.”

“I thought he was a lore-master,” Anardil raised his brows.

“Was Prince Fëanáro not a lore-master as well? And a fearsome fighter, a poet – and the veriest fool?”

“You have a point, but…,” Anardil closed his mouth immediately as they reached the entrance of the tavern-that-was-no-tavern. The oaken doors were wide open, with a pair of luxurious red curtains tied loosely to the sides in an inviting gesture. Looking up, Anardil glimpsed a large signal on the façade, gleaming bright silver in the embrace of low tree-branches. It read, in archaic Quenya,

HERE STANDS THE INN TO THE BLIND GUARDIAN
FOR TIRED HEROES-TO-BE TO SIT AND WAIT
UNTIL THE NIGHT PASSES

“…tenn'auta i lómë,” Anardil read with an effort, furrowing his brows. The words tasted foreign on his tongue. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It is an allusion to the Lay of Arinion the Great," Pengolodh said. “I do not think you have ever heard about it – a friend and myself have picked it up from the Dark Elves, a long time ago; and in our youthful arrogance, we re-worked it a bit so it would suit our traditions better. Somehow, the story was entirely forgotten through the years, and nothing more than our voice and quills carried it to this city. It was my friend's suggestion to name the inn after Arinion.”

“And what is the lay about?”

“That is a fair question,” Pengolodh nodded approvingly. “What is any lay about? Perhaps they all tell us the same thing, perhaps they tell us nothing. Perhaps they are trying to teach lessons, perhaps they were written to woo a lady or scorn a lord. Perhaps they were written as a bedtime story for the author’s children and with time, they became a lesson for us all.”

“All right, Master of Subtle Secrecy,” Anardil rolled his eyes. “How does the story go, then?”

Pengolodh stayed silent for so long, Anardil was beginning to doubt he was about to answer at all. When he finally did, his voice was that of a storyteller.

“Arinion was a prince in the realm of Intyalë. He was young, strong, fair of face and many deemed him wise, yet he was never pleased or satisfied with his own valour: he wanted to be a Hero, and the greatest of that name. It happened thus that he set out and travelled all the known and unknown world. When he had journeyed for seven times seven years, he encountered Manwë Súlimo, King of All Things himself and his brother Námo, Lord of the Sleeping and Passing. Both were in disguise, and Arinion was kind to them, even if their glamour made them seem frail and fragile. He offered them the comfort of his tent, the warmth of his fire and the luxury of his finest food and drink; and in exchange for that, Manwë, King of All Things revealed his face to Arinion, and gave his counsel on how to become a true hero."

“A Hero has seven faces, he said. He has the face of a lore-master, an adventurer, a warrior, a guardian, counsellor, a lord, and finally, that of a King. Thou shalt need to be all those seven things at once, son; then and only then shalt thou become a Hero. – Thus spoke Manwë, King of All Things, and Arinion thanked him kindly, for good was his counsel and wisdom was in his words. Yet Námo, Lord of the Sleeping and Passing spoke up as well and said: That is what makes one a Hero indeed. Yet thy wish is to become the greatest of them all; therefore, thy trials to prove thy valour must be all the harder. Hast thou the bravery, the endurance, the humbleness to become a lore-master while thou hast no memory? An adventurer while thou art seasick, and afraid of heights? A warrior whilst thou fear thy own shadow? A guardian while thou art blind? A counsellor while thou art mute? A lord without men to command, and a King without a crown?”

“And lo! As soon as Námo, Lord of the Sleeping and Passing spoke these words, Arinion lost his memory; and thus began his Seven Sufferings and Tribulations. For each trial, he lost the very ability, the very talent in himself that would have been essential to carry out the task at hand: his voice, his power, his eyesight… Yet his will was strong, his heart good and his soul pure, and he passed all trials. At the end, he became not only the greatest Hero, but the most renowned lore-master, the most seasoned adventurer, the strongest warrior, the keenest guardian, the wisest counsellor, the most graceful lord and the most just King of all times. And the Valar saw that, and rejoiced.”

Pengolodh’s voice trailed off. They both watched the shadowy figure of the bartender moving back and forth inside the building. A gust of wind played with the curtains and made the door’s hinges creak.

“There you have the story in short,” Pengolodh spoke up again, hesitantly. “You would want to hear the whole ballad tonight – its story is no work of art, for it has been forming itself for centuries by folk who sang it to others, and other folk who sang it in return; yet the one, more or less crystallized version is heart-warming.”

“Why is it always Námo who has to ruin things?” Anardil asked, grinning. “I thought we, Teleri were the only ones who held that fact as tradition. It is unfair, surely, considering that Manwë, King of All Things has another, slightly more problematic brother.”

“Lord Námo ruined nothing,” Pengolodh raised his brows. “He gave Arinion the Great the very chance to become – well, Arinion the Great.”

“He must have been very thankful for that. Especially when he lost his eyesight.”

“At the end, he was thankful, and his humbleness earned him his titles and experience. That is the moral of the story.”

“I don't like the moral of stories,” Anardil crossed his arms. “The very term seems haughty and pretentious to me. Stories have morals only for those who hear them from afar: at the comfortable distance of not being involved. Which, essentially, is nothing less than an insult towards the real heroes in those tales.”

That earned him a sharp, lingering look from his companion, but Pengolodh said naught else on the matter. “Come, let us enter,” he said instead. “Follow me and be courteous, the way I've taught you.”

Having no time to protest, Anardil followed the Noldo's smooth footsteps inside the inn.

~ § ~

The first thing to strike him inside the famed Blind Guardian was the abundance of curtains and hidden corners. The building had no second or third floor as most taverns in Tirion did; it expanded mostly backwards instead, working its way amongst the verdure like a giant labyrinth. The shadowy, spacious room that had first seemed to be the main piece of the inn was, in truth, only its entrance; at the far end of the room, there stood a small bar with a bored-looking keeper tending to it. Behind his back yawned seven open doors, each of which seemed to lead out to a different looking corridor.

Pengolodh stepped forth, presented a bow that seemed far too formal to match the occasion, and said,

“Hail and well met! Tired wanderer as I am, I would much appreciate the hospitality of this house, and perhaps a Loremaster’s Mischief. As for my friend here – he is a new resident of our City, yet he deserves no less.”

Anardil tried very hard not to smile triumphantly upon hearing the term ‘friend’, but his face betrayed him. The bartender nodded, unmoved, and poured two cups of red wine, so dark and dense that it was almost black.

“Let us drink to the King’s health,” said Pengolodh; he picked up his own cup and drank the wine in one long swallow. Anardil did likewise, silently appreciating the bouquet; it was thick and sweet, and it smelled of fresh grapes and summer. It almost felt like drinking stum.

The bartender then stood aside, and Pengolodh grabbed Anardil’s arm - less gently than before - and led him through the first door from the left. Anardil found himself in one of the dark corridors he had glimpsed before, framed by richly carved columns and abundant decoration; but very soon, the corridor took an abrupt turn and he bumped into a bookshelf, overloaded with thick volumes and dust-smelling parchments.

“Careful!” Pengolodh snapped. “Some of those are hundreds of years old!”

“What the…” Anardil tossed a thick pile of linguistic studies back to the shelf and looked around in awe. It seemed that they had walked right into an ancient archive; there were bookshelves looming in the dimly lit piece as far as he could see. “Is this... a library?”

“This is the Lore-masters’ Lair,” said Pengolodh, as if this was the most predictable evidence one’s mind could convey. “Lore is found and acknowledged through reading. If it is silence and studies that you seek, this is your place to dwell in The Guardian. But come now! My friends are waiting for us.”

Six turns and several dimly lit corridors later, just when the sore wounds on Anardil’s thighs were starting to ache, they walked through an open door, into a room that bathed in candle-light. It was a large chamber, slightly similar in build to the one with the bartender, but there were no further rooms opening from it. It was furnitured with large, comfortable armchairs instead, all of which were placed around a wide round table with a merrily burning hearth behind it. Around the table sat five Elves; three of them reading, one of them scribbling, and another one looking up at them as they entered, beckoning them closer with a smile and a wave.

“You are late, Quendo,” he said in an amiable, but slightly accusing tone. “I trust you have enough reason to defend yourself?”

“I do indeed,” said Pengolodh smoothly. “I brought you the one you were seeking. Let me introduce you, my friends, Anardil himself of the Falmari.”

All well-rehearsed gestures of courtesy were forgotten in an instant as Anardil made a realization.

“Your name - Pengolodh!” He said. “How did I never realize it before – it is Sindarin!”

A small creak of disapproval appeared between Pengolodh’s brows, but Anardil paid no heed to it.

“It must be a translation, of course,” he said. “Which raises the very evident question why did you let me know how your name sounded in my language. Did you want me to understand you better? Did you want me to see you as less of a stranger? Is your name so foreign to you that you prefer to use it in another speech…?” He suddenly realised where he was. “Oh, forgive me, good lords. Please receive my greetings.”

“Received!” said one of the Elves, placing down his large book. “And lo! That is a fair question indeed, that of Master Quendingoldo and his name. I would much like to hear the answer myself.”

“Your companion is every bit as crude as the stories describe him,” said the previous Elf, grinning. “Such a level of honesty, however, is nothing if not admirable.”

“It has been a long time since anyone called me honest,” said Anardil. “Rude is a much more common case; but my people have a saying that goes, there is no smoke without a fire. There may be some truth to those stories, even if my scandalous level of righteousness is not something I can deliberately change, or even acknowledge.”

“Can one ever acknowledge themselves?” said a third voice from the shadows. “What say you to that, Master Anardil?”

Anardil fell silent for a few seconds. He knew when he was tested.

“I say yes,2 he answered, hesitantly. “Just as much as one may be certain that the sky is blue; even if at times, it is clearly grey or black or even purple. Just as much as one can claim that there is healing and consolation in the Halls of Mandos, even though they never dwelled there. Just as much as one may claim that they do not fear death or blood or shadow or prison when they have never seen them. Only as much as one may hope when hope seems foolish or even a lie. One can think that they acknowledge themselves; for even if our fëar have their limits, the only true way to acknowledgement is thinking. Whether one can acknowledge himself justly is entirely another question.”

A strange sort of silence followed his words; and suddenly, Anardil became very much aware of all the clear grey Noldo eyes on him.

“I must be very drunk,” he mumbled apologetically, and laughter broke out around him.

“You should drink up, my friend,” said one of the Elves, and Anardil’s heart fluttered upon being called a friend for the second time that evening. “I wish my ventures in the hazy realm of drunkenness made me spit phrases like that.”

“Luckily for all of us, you keep spitting them even without a sip,” Pengolodh quipped.

Laughter rose again, and Anardil sat down in one of the armchairs, facing the burning hearth. His friend settled beside him, and they slipped back to their previously rehearsed roles: that of the boasting scholar and his new acquaintance. Anardil listened dutifully to the Elves’ mazy names, as if he could hope to remember them at first hearing; he recounted his first meeting with Pengolodh (detailedly describing his stage of undress and his utter astonishment when he found a spy in his rose-bushes), then improvised an ode to Pengolodh’s wisdom, empathy and the way he honoured him with his friendship. It then fell to Pengolodh to present a revised version of Anardil’s story; and the Teler had to admit that it did have a nice ring to it, now that it was all tidied up and written down with nice calligraphy.

And that evening, for the first time in decades, he felt like someone respectable and valuable, surrounded by friends.

~ § ~

‘I can’t believe I forgot to ask your friends about the Lay of Arinion!” Anardil grieved much-much later as they crossed the park arm in arm again, relying on each other to ease the curious swaying of their steps. It almost felt as though they were boarding a ship.

“None of them could have answered that,” Pengolodh said measuredly. “The friend I had collected the story with... she did not pass to greet us today. It was a busy night, of course – she must have been working.”

Pengolodh’s voice voice trailed off, and for the thousandth time that night, Anardil was left in the dark. The Blind Guardian was home to many curious things, and nothing was, in fact, more curious than those who worked there. All of them wore names like Lómelindë, Parmaitë or Ránasta: names that were tailored and cut like fine clothing: names that fit them, yet were not truly theirs. All servants of the inn were polite, silent, and swift as shadows, yet pleasant to have around whenever they appeared. The drinks had strange names, too, such as ‘The Wayward Moon’ or ‘King’s Bane’; and when Anardil tried to make fun of the habit by ordering a “Bystander’s Bollocks’, he was offered a cup of dry, white wine that seemed to fit the description quite spectacularly.

Yet the greatest mystery of all appeared to be the innkeeper. Anardil supposed they had to be a very strong, fearsome Elf, for no one, not even Pengolodh spoke their name; and his friend appeared to be slightly blushing whenever the innkeeper was mentioned.

It might have been only the wine, though.

Yet now, as they were waddling their way back home, Anardil seemed so grieved by his missed chance that Pengolodh gave in with an exhausted sigh.

“I’d need to read my notes to recall how the lay starts,” he said, “yet I know that before each of his Trials and Tribulations started, Arinion had to enter a gate; there were seven gates, just as there were Seven Sufferings. And it was when he entered the fifth gate that he lost his clear, ringing voice that had always been a pleasure to listen to; and alas! this grieved him so, for it was his fifth mission to become the greatest Counsellor the world has ever known. Yet there he was, out in the wilderness with foes around, and he was not even able to call out for help.”

And softly, Pengolodh sang,

On blood-steeped soil he lay,
above him crows sang shrill
and no other sound was heard
atop the lonely hill;
he crawled on hands an’ knees
as one crawls on cruel ice
there was no gentle breeze
to blow his hair from his eyes.
Moved Arinion’s mouth:
“All flowers shall wither”
no voice escaped his lungs
and no-one came thither;
“In sorrow it has started,
in sorrow it must end!”
Alas! his strength was gone
his voice, gone with the wind.

And the night was passing,
yet another came to loom;
so black, blacker than ink
so black, blacker than doom;
many years would he wonder
many years would he hope
yet he would not find his way,
for the mountains were cold;
for the windy slopes were high
the peaks icy and cold
and he had no voice to shout
his heart empty and cold.

And in starlight he walked
draping himself in clouds
in cavern’s shade he hid
in breaches he lay down;
and on he wandered still
and on he wandered more
yet to dead end he came:
for the Gates, the Gates were closed -

“...but Anardil, my dear friend, what ails you?” Pengolodh exclaimed, staring into the other Elf’s shocked, stricken face.

“Oh,” said Anardil, “nothing. Nothing, really. It's just – I am slightly surprised if you care to know.”

“You’re looking at me as if Lord Námo had his hand around your wrist and you were about to answer his call.”

“It is but the ghost of the hand, and the echo of the call,” Anardil whispered. “Yet for a moment, I felt as if I was... no, no, forget that. I rarely drink this much, and I sleep rather badly sometimes. I am mixing things up. I am giving too much significance to certain coincidences. It is most intriguing, though...”

“What?” Pengolodh lost his patience. “You babble as if you were reciting the choir’s lines from some tragedy. Speak your mind!”

“It appears,” said Anardil, “that I’ve been seeing dreams about Arinion. All this time, only about him; and I had no idea! Indeed, it is all clear as day now: the sea, the storm, the shadows, the foes and the crows. It was him! Now this is clearly a sign that is above my means of understanding; yet I shall search for my answers, relentlessly, until I find them.”

“You dreamed of Arinion?” Pengolodh’s voice was very serious, even though he had to grab hold of a fence in order to set himself straight. “Are you certain?”

“No,” said Anardil truthfully. “I am probably too drunk to be certain of anything. We shall speak of these matters on the morrow; nothing more than thinking of those dreams gives me the chills.”

“We still have almost ten minutes to go,” Pengolodh sighed, as if that meant the end of the world. “And dawn is not far. Will you not tell me now?”

“You will not remember anything once you get sober, and I shan’t bother explaining myself for a second time,” Anardil grinned; then he gave a sudden start. “But wait... ten minutes? How is that possible?! You see that tower over there? ‘Tis only two corners away from my house. And that other house after the bend in the road opens to the Way of Running Waters. We’re very close!”

“No, we’re not – we have to go all the way around. There is no path between the buildings before us; these are lorldy quarters here with parks, fountains and street-long arbours.”

“Then those lords can all go to the Enemy’s seven hells with their fountains and arbours,” Anardil declared, once he gave the matter a few moments of consideration. “I’m weary and hungry, and I’m going as the crow flies.”

And he shook out his cloak with a flourish, then pulled himself halfway up on a gleaming silver fence, his legs searching for hold.

“What – are – you – doing?!” Pengolodh whispered, scandalized.

“Going home. What do you think I’m doing, setting the City on fire?!”

“Those are Lord Ecthelion’s gardens!”

“They will serve as a shortcut just as any other. If you intend to fret your legs all around the City in this impossible hour, I’m not standing in your way – but I shall go through here. So are you coming or not?”

“There is no way I would ever do this,” Pengolodh said, and he pulled himself up onto the fence beside Anardil. “This is the stupidest thing I have ever seen.”

“You did not see much, then, for a historian,” the Teler said nonchalantly, and grabbed hold of a nearby tree-branch. He sank his knee into a breach on the top of the fence, balancing his weight between two spikes of shining metal. His feet and knees were both on the other side now.

“You’re drunk!” Pengolodh spit out what appeared to be his final argument.

“I’m drunk, you’re drunk, the whole world is drunk,” Anardil sang, and he chuckled. He had not felt this alive in a very long time.

“Anardil,” Pengolodh pleaded. “This counts as trespassing! And a very ridiculous way of trespassing, at that.”

“Only if Lord Fancy Helmet catches us,” Anardil shrugged, and there was a strange, wild edge to his smile. “And what would such a mighty Elf do outside in his gardens at this hour? All decent people are asleep! Yes, of course, you are decent as well, I see it in your eyes; just climb back, then, and go around like all the others! Sweet dreams – we shall speak tomorrow!”

And he swung his legs, jumped (perhaps a bit less gracefully than intended), then waited.

Pengolodh landed beside him a few moments later, muttering phrases that did surely not match any decent person’s vocabulary. There were stray tree branchlets stuck in his dark hair, and his robes were dirtied with grass-marks, which considerably diminished his charms as a renowned scholar.

“If I get caught because of you...,” he hissed, “I swear I don’t know what I’ll do to you, but you’re going to regret it.”

“Very menacing.”

“Just listen!” Pengolodh grabbed the sleeve of his robe and turned him around. “We’re about to make a terrible mistake. We should climb back – now.”

“You're no fun at all,” Anardil complained. “Come on, it’s just a minute. We cross the park, we go around the fountains, climb the fence on the other side, and we’re home. You act like we were about to march through the Iron Prison. What is that you're afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid,” Pengolodh said, precisely articulating every word. The drunken haze of the evening was entirely gone from his wide eyes. “It just seems like a bad idea.”

“It seems good enough to me,” Anardil declared merrily. “It wouldn’t hurt to explore these gardens a bit.”

“That’s what I thought,” Pengolodh lamented, but when Anardil hit the narrow path leading into the garden, he was still walking beside him. “You’re a bad-mannered idiot who somehow always finds his way out of trouble with his charm. You know that you do – and you count on that! Where do you get the courage, the guts, the cheekiness to do whatever the hell you please?! And why am I so envious of that?”

“I don’t know,” said Anardil happily. “Stars above, look at that!” He strayed off the path to contemplate a fountain, chattering merrily below a circle of slender, flowering cherry trees. It was carved of clean marble, and its top formed the statue of a fierce, heavily armed warrior. “Do you think it depicts the lord of the House? Do you think he’d filled his halls with marble busts of his likeness and made all of them spit gold?”

Pengolodh raised his brows. “You’re still a little cross with him for the way he treated you in the Council, are you not?”

“Me? Cross? Oh no, not at all,” said Anardil, and he gave the fountain a last, indecorous look before turning away. “I’m a blessedly good soul, my friend. I am never cross with people. Not even with Voronwë for treating me like dirt on his soles. I am merely curious – well, I want to know why people act the way they do. Yet I think I will never comprehend it. I think I will never know why you are still following me, for one.”

“Because you’re drunk as a fiddler,” said Pengolodh, “and I don’t want you to get in trouble. Most likely, of course, I’m throwing myself into the pit as well, but at least that will be a pit for two.”

“You’re such a wonderful person,” Anardil sighed dreamily. “Why are you not married?”

“Don’t let the wine make you ask stupid questions,” said Pengolodh; and Anardil was too dazed to hear that his voice had an edge to it.

~ § ~

They encountered no one in the park, nor in the courtyard, nor on the narrow garden path as they sneaked around Lord Ecthelion’s house. A horse whinnied at them as they passed along its lair, but Anardil gave it a privy “psst!” and patted its nose. Pengolodh stifled a laugh at the ease his friend walked around the whole domain, just as if it was his.

And just as their minds were starting to clear, just as the specks of dust in the air were beginning to swim in the red beams of the rising sun, just as they glimpsed the great fence on the other side that opened out almost directly to Anardil’s own gardens, they heard the sounds of a debate.

“I have told you a million times,” said a heated voice, “that my dreams mean nothing. Nothing! They’re simple nightmares – irksome and disturbing for certain, but nightmares all the same! They shall pass with time. They have much to do with Findaráto’s death, you know how it shook me. I appreciate your concern, but I am all right, or at least, I will be. And now, if we have nothing else to discuss...”

“No! No, no and a thousand times no!” said a voice Anardil recognised as Lord Ecthelion’s. “Why would you lie both to me and to yourself? You know that you need help – why are you so reluctant to accept it?! Your dreams, Fin, are trying to tell you something! They are signalling something: you said that yourself, the first time you told me about them! You can’t ignore this any longer; look at yourself, the dark circles beneath your eyes! When was the last time you’ve had a whole night of deep, undisturbed sleep?”

“Yesterday,” said Captain Laurefindil of Ondolindë, quite dryly. “I am perfectly fine, thank you; the dreams are getting scarce.”

There was a short pause.

“I don’t believe you,” said Ecthelion. “Do you believe yourself? Because if the answer is yes, you are worse off than I have thought.”

“What should I do, then?!” Laurefindil sighed, depleted. “Knock on the King’s door and apologise for no longer attending to my duties, on the pretext of losing sleep? I cannot do that! I should get over these dreams and live my life, the life we have always known. You exaggerating my problems will not help.”

“And do you think it would help if you just... slept here sometimes?” said Lord Ecthelion in a much lower, softer voice. “We could share a goblet or two, speak about whatever you please – then you could just stretch out in my guestroom and perhaps find peace. And if your nightmares come back and I hear you shouting, I”ll be there in a split second, and chase their darkness away.”

“Honestly, my friend, I’m touched that you would do such a thing for me,” said Captain Laurefindil, “but I can’t accept it. You have a life, too...”

“You have always been there for me when I really needed it,” said Lord Ecthelion sincerely. “I would be honoured to do the same. You – you’re like a brother to me.”

Anardil would have really liked to swallow a chortle at such a timid confession coming from him, but – to his great dismay – he felt probably as touched as Laurefindil himself. Pengolodh cowered beside him without a sound; by the looks of him, he was determined to pretend he did not even exist.

“Thank you,” said the Captain after a long silence. “Thank you kindly. And forgive me. I did not mean to snap at you like that. I only... I don’t understand why these dreams have such an effect on me. They are not even truly frightening, and yet they exhaust me, they bother me, they never cease to gnaw on me. When shall I be free of them?”

“As soon as we find out what they mean, my friend,” said Lord Ecthelion sternly. “And trust me, we will. Together, we will.”

A few moments later, Anardil heard the sound of closing shutters, and when no other noise than the chirping of crickets was to be heard for several minutes, he emerged from the bush he’d been hiding in, continuing his stroll in the lord’s gardens as if nothing had happened. Pengolodh soon caught up with him, his eyes never leaving his friend’s face, not even when they successfully climbed through the fence at the other end of the property.

“All right,” he finally spoke up when they arrived at Anardil’s doorstep. “Are you happy now? We’ve just witnessed a private conversation, wasting much more time than we would have spent if we’d simply walked all the way around.”

“I am not happy,” said Anardil, “but confused. For a reason I cannot truly determine, my friend, I’m now convinced that Captain Laurefindil and I are seeing the exact same dreams. And that – if true – is most unsettling.”

“How will you prove that?” Pengolodh glanced at him. “He would never share such private matters with you.”

“Probably not. But Lord Fancy Helmet here would do anything for his friend, or haven’t you heard?” Anardil grinned, sinking back to his strange mood. “So I, as you have promptly guessed yourself, will now proceed to do whatever the hell I please. And you, my friend, will help me with it this time."

---

Chapter End Notes

Author's Notes

On names:

Quendingoldo is the Quenya version of Pengolodh's name, meaning "teaching sage" / "doctor of lore".

Arinion means "Son of morning" or "Son of dawn".
Lómelindë stands for Nightingale [literal: dusk-singer] (male version), Parmaitë stands for "book-handy" and Ránasta means "Lunar month".