The Seven Gates by Laerthel

---

Interruptions

Conflicts arise in the Himring, and Tyelcano has a very rough day - then, a message from the High King makes it even rougher.

---

The Fortress of Himring, FA 467, the fifteenth day of Lótessë

“Lord Nelyo,” said Counsellor Tyelcano for the fifth time, “is weary. He has been weary ever since the last time your lordship inquired about him, which was exactly twenty-four and a half minutes ago; and sadly, if you look for him in another twenty-four and a half minutes, I shall probably have to send you away again. Let him rest.”

“It is important,” repeated Maglor stubbornly. “I must speak with him about a very pressing matter. As I have told you before, it concerns the safety of Himlad and our people.”

“And as I have told you before, Lord Nelyo gave me precise orders that I should tend to all matters of the household this morning, and I should make all urgent decisions in his stead. Therefore, it would be best if you sat down, my lord, and told me what happened, so we could take the necessary course of action.”

After a few seconds of silence, Tyelcano added, “This is a strange occasion to question my competence in leadership, Lord Makalaurë. If the inquiry is not too forward, may I ask when and how did I earn such mistrust?”

Maglor collapsed into the armchair facing the great desk in Maedhros’s study. It felt strange to look at him – Tyelcano was used to sitting at the other side of the table.

“There is no need to see offense where there is none, Counsellor! There isn’t a soul in this castle who can deny your capability. If I told you about my intentions, though, you would restrain me from doing anything stupid… and that, on this special occasion, goes against my very plans.”

“…which suggests that you are planning to do something stupid,” said Tyelcano, “and you expect Lord Nelyo to help. Tell me, why are masters of art always drawn to lost causes?”

“They inspire the best songs,” said Maglor, and he smiled; but the smile did not reach his eyes.

Their conversation seemed to halt at this point, but the Counsellor did nothing against it. He proceeded to read another report instead, corrected two grammatical errors with a sigh, then placed the parchment on top of a slowly collapsing tile.

“Nelyo would try to understand,” Maglor pressed. “And maybe, maybe he would approve of my plans.”

Tyelcano’s quill stopped above the next parchment, stayed there for a moment, then it was placed neatly back in the inkwell.

“I can see two ways to solve our situation, lordship,” he heard himself saying. “One: you sit back in that thrice-damned chair and tell me all about your plans… And two: you turn around and leave. I have been reading reports since the third hour of the day and I am at the very end of my patience.”

“If anyone told me that your patience had an end, I would not believe them,” Maglor raised his brows in a way that bordered insolence. “But now that I know it does, I would rather not find out what is beyond. All right, I shall stay if you will listen to me; but I want my brother to hear about everything I said. Today.”

“I will make sure of that,” Tyelcano leaned back in his chair.

“Good,” Maglor, to his astonishment, didn’t immediately start speaking. Instead, he looked around the room, picked up a chessboard from a nearby table, and placed it upon the desk, in front of the Counsellor; only then did he sit back.

“This is Beleriand,” he declared, running his slender fingers along the board. “This is the Himring,” he said then, and placed a white rook at the far edge. “There is Angamando and the Anfauglith.” A black rook and two black pawns around the top-middle. “The scattered Orc forces in Himlad.” One black pawn west, and one south of the Himring. “What remains of the Gap.” A black rook with two black pawns. “And here we are!”

Two white knights and three white pawns were stuffed around the Himring, and Tyelcano was beginning to hope that the conversation would not take the most likely course of purpose.

Then, of course, it did.

“Even a child can say that we are surrounded,” said Maglor, the outlines of his face hard and sharp in the morning light. “We’re an isle floating idly upon a poisonous sea. The longer we pretend we’re safe, the harder our walls shall crush down. We should clean Beleriand up, starting with our own homeland – starting with Himlad.”

Tyelcano took a deep breath, ready to interrupt, but Maglor raised a finger.

“Yes, Counsellor. I know what any sane person would say: we’re too few, too weary. Too far from our kinsmen, with no place to return to if we tire ourselves in Orc-hunting at the far south or east. We would need at least another castle to do such a deed: at least another safe haven for our people to return to.”

“One other at the very least,” Tyelcano nodded.

“The very least should be enough, should it not? Well, if you acknowledge the need for it yourself, you might as well approve my intention of retaking the Gap. All I need is the accord of my brother to gather my men and leave.”

There was a swift, almost invisible flash in Maglor’s eyes, as if the weight of his own words made him recoil; but it was no more than a passing impression.

Valar above… he must have truly meant what he said!

Tyelcano forced himself to count to ten in his head, lest he would start screaming or tearing his hair out.

“Cundunya,” he said, his voice calm as a frozen lake, unaware of his use of the outdated title, “your brother doesn’t have armies stuffed in his pockets. The few soldiers he does have are either exhausted and scarcely armed – as you have mentioned yourself – or constantly out scouting. I fear that you might be asking too much.”

“I don’t need much,” Maglor looked him in the eye. “Our enemies are unprepared, and not fit for a true battle. I think a hundred scouts would suffice... I would gather solely those who were my own followers, and my castle had been their home – my castle, which is now a hothouse for thieving Orcs and other monsters. Surely, my brother shall grant me the permission to hunt them down.”

Tyelcano shook his head. “Perhaps the Orcs are unprepared for such an assault, yet so are we. You are Lord Nelyo’s eldest brother. You are valuable in our enemies’ eyes; if captured again, you would get them a ransom you cannot imagine, and you would be carried off to Angamando, to suffer a fate that is far worse than death. We cannot risk that! Your last escape was a miracle, and you shan’t be that lucky next time. Sending you – or anyone else – off with a hundred scouts would mean risking a hundred lives to take a castle we cannot man, renovate, or even keep. And you seven, the heirs of Fëanáro, the Sons of the Star should all gather and stay together, here within these walls. Do not scatter your forces to chase dreams! Our household is not that strong, nor that wealthy anymore; yet with all our forces united, our eyes keen, our spirits steeled, we may survive, as we have survived the Battle of Flames and all the horrors that followed.”

Maglor’s face hardened into an expressionless mask.

“Lord Counsellor,” he said slowly. “I have been captured and tormented by Orcs – in the light of day, during a ride that was supposed to be a routine scouting. My men were killed in front of my own eyes, and I was tossed and turned and kicked and lashed upon the ground like some rag doll, stripped and trampled into the ground with those filthy beasts standing above me, spitting on me, laughing at me. I shall not tolerate the memory of that any longer. It was an insult to my person and title. It was humiliating.”

His tone would have made Tyelcano wince if he wasn’t so terribly tired.

“Do you hear me, servant of my House?!” Maglor spoke with a vehemence that almost invoked his father. “I felt devastated. I felt like a helpless child. I, a Lord of the House of Fëanáro and a former High King of the Ñoldor, will not abide such flagrant insults to my dignity! I will avenge them! I will chase the filthy Orc-scum out of their dwellings and I will pull the hair out of their skulls, strand by strand! I will make them taste the lash like they made me! I will make them crawl before my feet and fear my name!” His voice was steadily getting stronger. “I deserve that much! Give me men and let me end this ridiculous retreat we’ve been doing for the past years! We’re still Lords of the West, and Moringotto’s thralls should learn to fear our names again. Where is the Lord Counsellor I have known, the one who wielded both the quill and the sword…? Where is the Hero of the Battle of Flames…?”

“That was Lord Nelyo, I only assisted,” Tyelcano sighed, suddenly overwhelmed by sympathy and a deep sort of understanding. “My lord… my child, listen to me…”

“I am no child, who needs your consolation and pity,” Maglor seethed. “I WANT JUSTICE! DO YOU – OR ARE YOU A COWARD?”

 “JUSTICE?!”

It seemed that Tyelcano’s patience truly had an end, after all – right there. It felt as though all the blood had run out of his face; the air seemed to grow hot around him, his heart was suddenly racing, and his hands trembled. Still, he schooled himself, tightening his fists, taking several deep breaths, and raising his chin. His voice rumbled like a summer storm, and his eyes were ablaze as he spoke.

“If you want justice, my child, go straight to Moringotto’s doorstep, and bid him to kindly hand over your father’s holy Jewels; and tear the Iron Prison down with your own nails and teeth if he does not! Then go and break through the Gates of Mandos, and bring back all the lonely, sorrowful souls who have suffered because of the Enemy’s work, and climb up the Taniquetil with them to appease the Powers! I wish you luck.”

Maglor sprang to his feet, and knocked the chessboard over with a loud snap.

“I came here to receive your counsel, not to suffer your arrogance and mockery! Aye, it is justice what I desire, and whatever you may say, I shall have it!”

Tyelcano ignored the hot flames of indignation in the pit of his stomach.

“Justice, as an absolute entity, is non-existent, lordship,” he said with an effort. “The wish for justice was what made Moringotto turn his back on the Valar… and justice is what your father was chasing as well. Behold, what it brought upon all our heads!”

“How dare you!” Maglor hissed. “How dare you utter Father’s and the Enemy’s name in the same sentence?!”

“What is the meaning of this?”

The voice was faint and raspy, but it held enough authority for them both to swallow the rest of their argument and get on their feet.

Maedhros was standing in the doorway, a green cloak pulled tightly around his lean figure. The hemlines of a nightshirt could be seen around his neck, as far down as his collar-bones. Tyelcano could hardly remember the last time he saw his lord in a state this close to dishevelled; it seemed that he’d been shaken from his best dreams, even though the dark circles around his eyes suggested that he’d been awake for at least a few nights in a row. And yet his countenance was still stern and imperious, and the light in his grey eyes bright and lively.

He is losing sleep again, and here we are, ruining his few precious hours of undisturbed rest, Tyelcano scolded himself.

“Lord Nelyo,” He bowed, his voice devoid of all emotion. “I am terribly sorry for this flare-up, and even more ashamed of my rash and ugly words towards your brother. I got… carried away.”

 “What happened?”

“We were engaged in an argument, and I didn’t take his opinion well,” said Maglor. “It was my fault. The Counsellor has been working all night and I didn’t take that into account.” With that, he turned to Tyelcano. “I am truly sorry, my lord. I was inconsiderate.”

“And most of all, lordship, you were being irresponsible,” the Counsellor sighed. “Thankfully, it is over now – I hope that what was previously a quarrel shall turn to a fruitful clash of views between the pair of you. And now, if my lords shall both excuse me, I must return to my reports.”

“Absolutely not,” said Maedhros sternly. “I shall have no enmity within my walls. We will talk about this matter now, whatever it may be. Sit back.”

“You need rest, lordship,” Tyelcano insisted.

 “Then do not tarry,” Maedhros tilted his head. “That concerns you as well, Kano. I don’t think anyone else than Father has ever managed to make our dearest Counsellor spit flames like that.” When he received no immediate answer, he looked meticulously around the room, noticing the disorder. “People who smash chessboards to my favourite oaken floor are usually people who have things to say. Please, do go on. I am a great listener.”

Tyelcano sat mutely in the lord’s chair for several seconds. His eyes wandered off to Maglor’s face, who seemed to have swallowed his tongue. Next to Maedhros, he was almost like a ghost with his pale skin, his dark robe, and those wide grey eyes, now partly hid behind the curtain of his raven hair. His wrath had faded, and to Tyelcano, he suddenly seemed colder than the ever-changing Moon; and Maedhros, though weary and scarred, shone like the Sun itself next to him, burning him… outshining him.

Yet all of this was no more than a passing impression in Tyelcano’s head, a sharp, telling image that stuck in his mind’s eye; and before he could put it into thought or words, Maglor collected himself, straightened his back as he sat, and spoke up.

“I can see now that the Counsellor was right about my plans: they were not presented well, and consequently, they may have seemed rash. I shall try a different approach. What I want, Nelyo, is solely to…”

There was a loud knack on the door; so assertive, so determined that Maglor swallowed the rest of his sentence, Tyelcano sprang to his feet, and Maedhros said,

“Enter – and pray that you have reason enough to disturb us!”

It was Antalossë, the young scout who answered from the gap of the door, his breath rapid and inordinate, as if he’d been running all the way up from the training fields.

“Lord Warden, Lord Makalaurë, Lord Counsellor,” he jabbered, bowing deeply, “a messenger has arrived from Barad Eithel, and it was so exciting – I mean, my lords, that he was racing as if the Enemy’s fire-spitting demons were in his heels, and he told me –“

“I cannot wait to hear what he told you, child,” Maedhros interrupted with a small smile, “but I would like to read the message first.”

“That is not possible, Lord Warden – there is no written word, that is –  it is a private message from the High King.”

A small crease appeared between Maedhros’s brows, his gaze suddenly much more intent.

“Let him in immediately. I cannot wait to hear what my cousin has to say.”

“The messenger is on his way uphill, my lord,” Antalossë bowed once again. “As soon as I saw him, I ran so I could tell you… in fact, the squires always run in the stories to tell their lords about such news, so I took the courage…”

Antalossë made Maedhros smile for the second time in the past ten minutes – a remarkable achievement, Tyelcano thought -, nevertheless, the lord raised his hand to silence him.

“Bring him here, young one, as soon as he enters the gates - and make sure that his horse is well tended, that he’s offered a cup of hospitality and that his accommodations are comfortable. Then come back! I shall be wanting you here.”

~ § ~

The next hour passed in a noisy, vivid blur; they all donned their formal robes and Maedhros locked himself up with the High King’s envoy for what seemed like a very long time. Young Antalossë ran off, then came back, then ran off again when the lord’s favourite stallion stormed out of the stables, determined to tamper with a fresh wagon-load of apples; which caused a monstrous calamity in the courtyard. Not entirely ten minutes later, two other scouts arrived in all haste from the west, announcing the arrival of Carnistir Fëanorion, the Lord of Thargelion and “his noble companions” in five days – only to be interrupted by three of their brothers-at-arms coming from the direction of Ossiriand. They brought news of death and havoc, and Orcs lurking in the river-lands.

Tyelcano, who knew a lost cause when he saw one, left the whole matter in Maglor’s hands – trying not to think about how it was justifying his cause –, and started devising the most logical way to house a host of weary soldiers in the Himring (the task seemed almost as daunting as the prospect of returning to his lord’s reports). He was almost done with the count of free rooms and other possible accommodations in the Northern Wing when the door behind him opened, and the royal messenger was sent off to have rest. Maedhros followed almost immediately, an air of strain and great determination about him.

“Come,” he told the Counsellor. “Walk with me.”

Tyelcano was a tall, strong Elf himself, yet even he had to make effort to keep up with Maedhros’s mile-long strides. The lord was too deep in thought to care, and Tyelcano knew better than to speak, or complain, or to give any reminder of his presence; he simply waited, and made speed.

“What am I going to do now, Counsellor?!” Maedhros shook his head, his gaze lost in distances he could not fathom.

“I know not, my lord dearest,” Tyelcano said, “but by the look on your face, I daresay it shall be something loud and impetuous.”

“It shall be more stupid than anything else,” Maedhros admitted. “Yet it must be done. There is no other way.”

They descended the old, rickety stairs that led to the back of the courtyard. On any other occasion, Tyelcano would have found solace in the steady, well-known sound of his strides over aging wood, but now he did not seem to have the ears for it; and neither did his lord, for he suddenly halted, then turned around to face him, a cold gleam in his eyes.

“The dreams, Tyelco,” he said without any introduction or explanation, in the most informal speaking mode of their tongue. “Findekáno is seeing them, too. And they’re making him suffer.”

“The dreams,” echoed the Counsellor, not being able to hide the wariness from his eyes. “So that was the message you received. And now you’re wondering whether you should storm down the stables, haul Silmatal out of his box and ride north to save your cousin. As if that would change anything.”

His words had an edge to them, and he regretted them as soon as they left his mouth; yet all they earned him from his lord was a sad smile, and a complete change of topic.

“Makalaurë must have truly angered you. What did he want?”

“To chase Orc-packs around your lands. I will tell you in detail, if that is your command… but please, lordship, find the time to hear your brother’s own explanations as well. I may have been wrong or biased, or it could be only my caution speaking. You’d better be the judge of that than I, or anyone else.”

“Kano wants his castle back,” Maedhros guessed immediately, with a small noise under his breath; too bitter to be a chuckle, too sharp to be a sob. “Don’t think I keep my eyes closed. It was only a matter of time.”

“I must say I am surprised. I… I have rarely seen him speaking with such vehemence. Perhaps never.”

“Everyone would say I am wrong, but I sometimes think Kano is more like Carnistir than any of us,” Maedhros said, puzzled. “Especially since my rescue. I have always been amazed to see how no one else noticed all the anger and frustration stuffed inside him. He can let some of that out through his songs – ever so sweet, ever so melancholic –, yet the worst of it remains inside, in his heart, and gnaws on him. They’re alike with Carnistir, I say, in everything save the essence. The bile is there: one brother spits, the other swallows.”

“I have never thought about them that way,” Tyelcano admitted, finding his lord’s argument disturbingly well-founded.

Silence stretched between them for a few minutes as they exited the castle and crossed the courtyard. The Counsellor expected his lord to take the right turn towards the stables before he could devise any clever way to hold him back; his chest felt heavy, as if some great, ineluctable doom weighed on it. But Maedhros took the left fork in the road to climb the nearest watchtower and waved the guards off when they greeted them, so they could have their privacy. Finally, they were standing side by side above the lands of Himlad, many-pointed Stars gleaming imperiously below their feet as the wind played with the flags in their holders.

“You were right. I want to haul that horse out of the stables,” said Maedhros. “I want to storm off to Either Sirion, to an extent you cannot imagine. I wish I could do that – but it is hardly possible. I can see that much. My lands are stuffed with Orcs, my scouts are being hunted and we’re beginning to be surrounded. My people need me here.”

Tyelcano let out the air stuck in his lungs with a soft ‘huh’.

“Yet I need to answer Findekáno, too,” Maedhros went on. “And I need to do so in the same way he messaged me – not by written word, because that could be read, because Moringotto’s servants could find a way to break even the cleverest codes one may devise. And yet… and yet I cannot trust any messenger with such information, Counsellor. I cannot! It has to be me who delivers that message, because the safest place it can be kept is here, inside my own heart, unspoken. I shall not trust anyone with it, for the safety of us all. Now, this leads us to a most uncomfortable situation, in which I am needed here and in Eithel Sirion at the same time. However – as we’re both aware –, I cannot split myself in two.”

Tyelcano, for the second time that day, was beginning to hope that the conversation would not take the most likely course of purpose.

And again, it did.

“If I am truly to depart, I shall need a plan of action to be followed while I am away, to cleanse my lands from all enemies,” Maedhros stated calmly, “by a capable person to execute my orders in the exact way I bid them to. I cannot think of anyone who is better suited to such a task than you, Counsellor. You shall need to be me while I am away. You shall need to be Regent Lord of the Himring.”

“Lordship…,” Tyelcano closed his eyes for a moment. He could not let himself loose his patience there and then. It would have meant the end of the world. “Lordship,” he said again. “I am honoured that you would weigh such a responsibility on me… but it would not work. Your brothers would not listen to me the way they do to you. They need you now, to keep them together after everything that happened. And your people as well: they need you to unite them under your flag. If Himlad is to be cleansed, it is you who should lead the hosts and sound the horns, it is you whose name should be praised, not mine!”

Maedhros took a breath to interrupt, but Tyelcano took his hand, and squeezed it.

“Listen to me, my lord, I beg you! If we are to do anything about that stolen Silmaril, you should keep your name impeccable and your title steady. If you rise again as the saviour of the free people and Moringotto’s bitterest enemy, the way you did after the Battle of Flames, what sort of light shall it shed upon King Thingol of Doriath if he retains your rightful heritage…? And if you go… what sort of light shall it shed upon you, the Warden of the East, to hide under your cousin’s cloak while your servant is holding the ranks for you…?”

“That,” said Maedhros coldly, “should very well earn you the same sort of response you’ve received from Makalaurë. I will not have such insolence from you, or anyone else.”

“If that is what it takes to shake you back to your good senses, I am ready to receive any punishment you seem just,” said Tyelcano, gathering the rest of the insolence he could find in himself. “In matters regarding your cousin, my lord, I tend to be more objective than you, and you know that. I understand that you need to answer him, and I understand as well that the prospect of your answer getting known is daunting to you. Yet it would be very unfortunate to risk everything you’ve built here only because pouring your heart out to a messenger is risky and uncomfortable.”

“I care less about comfort than I did about wearing a crown,” Maedhros sighed. “What I care about is…”

His voice trailed off. Following some instinct, Tyelcano looked down, and he saw that the lord’s hand was gripping the parapet so hard he almost expected to see cracks on the moisty stone.

“What I care about,” said Maedhros again in a raw, shrill voice, “is my dignity. No, perhaps not even that. Yet I cannot suffer… there are still a few things left in this world that I cannot suffer, Tyelco, and one of those would be my men starting to whisper things behind my back. You… if you heard my response to Findekáno, you would understand. I am the Warden of the East, the Enemy of the Enemy, and the holder of all those names and titles that hang from me like rotten-ripe apples from a scrogged tree. There are things I cannot permit myself to do – or reveal. Have I been clear?”

Part of Tyelcano’s mind must have been aware that his lord was eyeing him expectantly, yet he said nothing, and did nothing. His hand stopped mid-air, pointing at his chin, and worry lifted from his bows like rainclouds after a spring storm. His path was suddenly clear, laid before his feet; all he needed to do was to step on it, and pray that the Powers would be in his favour.

“Lord Nelyo,” he said slowly, “you said that I needed to be you while you were away, so that your hand and will would reach Barad Eithel as well as Himlad.”

When Maedhros nodded, Tyelcano said, his voice betraying nothing of his inner turmoil and anticipation, “Then, my lord, if you can find it in your heart to trust me with your message, I would happily – and safely – deliver it to the High King, and lead any sort of negotiation you seem fit, so you could stay here and tend to the matters of our homeland. This would be the safest way to execute your plan, and this is what my heart tells me to do.”

Tyelcano knew his suggestion was bold. He suffered through the rapidly changing waves of emotion in his lord’s eyes: elemental surprise, then disbelief, then anger, then suspicion, then excitement, then pain – and then, he felt humbled and bowed his head. When his lord spoke, though, his voice was gentle.

“You hate travelling… with a passion. Do you truly think this would be the wisest way to proceed?”

“There is nothing I hate more than the thought of you – any of you seven, but especially you, lordship – riding around in Beleriand while Moringotto’s henchmen are running free. Against that, what is a bit of rain and a few roots to batter my back while I am asleep?”

Maedhros took a deep breath. “I hear you.”

Wind rose in the west, and the flags were flapping so rapidly and loudly they almost made out the beat of a battle song. Tyelcano closed his fists as a current of fresh air wormed its way under his cloak, and prayed to Manwë and Varda for his warning to be heeded for once.

“All right,” said Maedhros after a long time. “Though my heart is against it, I shall do as you advise, and put wisdom and caution before my pride. You shall depart on the morrow, and you shall hear the message to deliver on your way, out in the wastelands, where there are no walls and no ears. I shall ride with you for a while, then, to clean my thoughts; for there are other matters we should speak about. Go now, and rest. You will need your strength.