The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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Morning Mist

Tyelcano receives a curious gift, hears his lord's secret message, and departs from the Himring.

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XVIII. Morning Mist

“You closed it! Closed – like one would close a hole on a pair of underpants!”

Curufinwë’s voice was nothing short of hostile as he trailed along the workshop, chisel in hand; back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. There was an unsteady rhythm to his strides, but a rhythm nevertheless; and Tyelcano anchored his mind to the soft sound of his steps that kept the world together.

“You closed it!” Came the accusation for the third time, as true as it had ever been.

“This is my best hauberk,” he pleaded, “the one that survived the Flames with me. I did not think that I’d have to use it again this soon. I did not wish want to part from it, so I took a few precautions…”

“You ruined it! You stole into my workshop by night and r-u-i-n-e-d it!” Curufinwë sang. “Look at this, look at the way you’ve tackled these poor strings of metal…” He shook the hauberk slowly, theatrically, listening to the eerie jingle of its rings. “Hear them scream in pain!”

Tyelcano couldn’t hide his smile. Listening to such a tirade over rough-and-ready work felt reassuring in an odd way: he remembered suffering through such growleries from Tirion and Formenos, both by Atar and Atarinke.

“…why didn’t you tell me, anyway?!” Curufinwë sighed. “Though no longer your lord, I am at least a craftsman in this castle. I could have ended the suffering of your wounded chainmail instead of tormenting it any further!”

“It would have been audacious to wake you in the middle of the night with such a request,” Tyelcano insisted. “I did not have much time to reflect on the details of my journey; I must leave in all haste, and my plans of action were consequently reduced.”

“What I find audacious is the botching-up of this poor piece of metalwork,” Curufinwë crossed his arms. “Your only chance is that you’re leaving so I shan’t have to look at it every day. Now hurry, take it off!”

“Lordship, there’s no time…”

“Tsk-tsk,” Curufinwë raised his finger, a bit imperiously, a bit mockingly, a bit playfully. “No more lordships if you please. Find something dark and destructive, and call me that.”

 “A sledgehammer?” Tyelcano offered. Instead of the snort of laughter he’d been hoping for, the comment earned him no more than a disgruntled noise under the smith’s breath. In a better place and a better time, it could have been a chuckle; but this was Beleriand, and the fourth hour of the day, and the Counsellor was soon to leave.

“Take that outrageous thing off, I said,” Curufinwë commanded. “You shall have a new one by the time you come back, but I must have your size.”

“Don’t waste any expensive material on me,” Tyelcano insisted, but he began undoing the clasps all the same. “We are becoming short on metal.”

“Say no more! You, my friend, are like Nelyo: if you get a hole in your chest, this whole country will burn down to ashes within a few weeks,” Curufinwë stated matter-of-factly. “Get your hands out of my way,” he added, and tossed the Counsellor’s arms up into the dusty, coal-smelling air. Tyelcano felt a measuring-tape grazing his back like a strayed band of lash. “I won’t let you die, Counsellor. You will have a decent armour, and you will use it.” Another caress of the measuring-lash. “Left arm up, right arm down ‘til midway!” Another. “Good, now switch them!” Curufinwë muttered under his breath, “…to ruin a perfectly fine hauberk like that… what would Father say?!” The measuring-tape crept all the way up Tyelcano’s shoulders. “Flex your muscles and raise your arms again!” A touch of leather upon his neck, an uncomfortable shiver running down his spine. “Don’t move and keep your chin up! Thank Manwë you don’t have Nelyo’s size, how can someone be so terribly tall and have such a thin waist… arms down, Counsellor, we’re almost done. Unflex your flexing bits. I’ll cover you in metal from head to toes if I have to, but you won’t die.”

“Yours has always been a practical mind,” Tyelcano smiled.

“If you want me to declare how profoundly grateful I am for everything you have done to me the past few weeks, then so be it,” said Curufinwë. “I truly am. You gave me work and a purpose, and the latter… that’s something I’ve been lacking for a long time. A nice change. Now raise your chin once again, if you don’t want your armour to throttle you!”

“You need not be grateful, filthy sledgehammer of Moringotto,” said Tyelcano (and this time, Curufinwë did smile), “just get better, and remain sane and useful to Lord Nelyo… and above all, be happier, if you can. That is all I ask from you.”

“I will try,” said Curufinwë, and his voice was so calm and indifferent that for a second, the Counsellor almost believed that happiness could truly be acquired through simple effort.

The smith then grabbed a piece of parchment and scribbled a few inconsistent-looking numbers upon it. Tyelcano could not help but watch the process, for he used the same size-listing as his father would use, and under his breath, he also resumed his previous litany about the hauberk, just as Fëanáro would if he were there. If Tyelcano did not know Curufinwë since he’d been a promise in his father’s magniloquences, he would have probably taken offense; but he was Tyelcano of Formenos, who knew good smith-work from bad just as well as acceptable from good.

He also knew that the corrections he’d made on his hauberk, despite not reaching feanorean standards, were above acceptable; and most importantly, they would serve him well on the road.

Since Curufinwë grudgingly chose his family over his pride and remained in the Himring under Maedhros’s protection, he seemed to grow healthier and livelier with every passing day. Housed and well-fed for several weeks now, his face and hands did not look sickly and skeletal anymore; the fiery heat of the smithy coloured his arms and cheeks, and instead of blood, sweat and sour earth, he smelled of oil and coal once again: a familiar scent. His hair was shoulder-length now, its matted ends having been cut and thrown away, and the clothes he wore were clean and soft against his ivory skin. The title of lord he wore no more, but that did not seem to have any effect upon his mood, or upon the imperious, kingly way he moved around the castle; and to Tyelcano, it seemed as though some heavy shadow had lifted from him, and he could once again laugh and play his scoffing japes.

The only noticeable change in his behaviour was his absence from council meetings, dinners, routine scoutings and other public events. He spent all his time in the smithy with his new assistants and apprentices, and for the better part of the day, the only remainder of his presence was the thick band of smoke exiting the chimneys. He spoke to no one about his plans and their results, but he seemed to be in great labour, driven by his own insatiable spirit.

“You have to go, Counsellor,” said Curufinwë, with unexpected gentleness in his voice. “Dawn is coming, and Nelyo awaits. Be sure to taste wine in Eithel Sirion – our cousin has a remarkable collection, as I recall. Provided that it hasn’t been eaten by the Flames.”

“Let us hope I’ll get there in time to taste that wine at the summer celebrations,” said Tyelcano smoothly.

“Well, I have made something for you that may help you get there,” said the smith. “Here, have it! Not a remarkable thing, but useful: that much I can promise. It is the sort of weapon I’ve been dreaming about through all my clueless wanderings in the wilderness. More than a knife but less than a sword, sharp and rough, thin but widening near the hilt, slender but deadly. And it’s well-made, within the circumstances. It cuts wood and flesh and bone and Orc-necks, and even the lesser kinds of iron… but I shall be very cross with you if you break it to splinters upon some Dwarwish helm.”

“Warning heeded,” Tyelcano smiled and reached out to examine the dagger. “This is a truly generous gift, Curufinwë; one I do not remember having earned. But I thank you for it.”

“Once again, you thick-headed Moriquend,” the fifth son of Fëanáro said, “I will not let you die. Now, shall you try it or not?”

Tyelcano grabbed the hilt without a second thought, and pulled the blade out of its smooth scabbard. The new dagger had a cold gleam to it; its weight and length was unfamiliar in the Counsellor’s hands, and the soft engravings at its sides glimmered like tiny stars in the trembling light of candles.

Tyelcano stared at the weapon for several seconds, his hands numb, his head empty.

“Is it not to your liking…?” Curufinwë raised his brows lazily, disgruntledly, as if he himself could hardly believe the truth of that assumption.

“I – I have dreamed of this dagger, cundunya,” said Tyelcano. “Several times.”

Ten seconds passed in utter silence and stillness; then the Counsellor gave a short, unconvincingly bright smile.

“In those dreams,” he lied, “it saved my life.”

“Well - sometimes,” said Curufinwë, and he clasped Tyelcano’s arm in a warrior’s farewell, “dreams come true.”

~ § ~

An explanation. There must be some sort of explanation, which I will probably find out later; but there is no time for that now. Lord Nelyo awaits, and patience is not one of his many virtues.

Tyelcano forced the roughly repaired hauberk back upon his shirt, then locked himself up in the dark cell of his formal robe once again; the one with the Star shining golden across his chest upon a deep blue field: so blue that it was almost black. He had worn the same colours as Herald of Finwë, as Principal Advisor of the High King, as Head of the Great Council in Tirion, as Regent Lord of Formenos and as Chief Captain of the High King just as well as First Counsellor of the Warden in the East. That robe of blue velvet was thick with duties and heavy with responsibilities; it smelled of blood and futile efforts, and reeked of mistakes and inconsistencies; yet there was also a lightness to it, a gush of wind and the strain of power. Still… now, as the Counsellor locked the last of its clasps upon the collar, he suddenly felt like his robe carried the Doom of the Valar itself, and their scythe had just bit his neck through the chainmail.

I’m being highly illogical, Tyelcano thought. My dreams are a foggy mess of recurring symbols and threats. There is no way I could be sure of having seen this very weapon in my visions; from this moment on, however, my mind shall inevitably link this new dagger to the one from my dreams. How can I be so ridiculous…? Perhaps I have even offended Curufinwë, who handed me a gift of his own making, while measuring me from head to toes to prepare another.

It was nothing if not interesting, though, he admitted silently as his horse was led out of the stables. A guard informed him that his escort had rode far out to the open lands, while the Lord Warden was waiting for him at the gates; the two parties were supposed to meet at the Pass of Aglon.

There must be something, some small detail that linked the two images in my mind. Perhaps the length of the weapon – I have never owned a dagger quite like this, so it was foreign to my hands. Or it might have been the form of the hilt… and it would be unwise to forget as well that I received it barely an hour before setting out on a dangerous journey. It is very easy to feel such foreboding when one’s mind is weary, and sharpened to see ill omens everywhere.

Tyelcano sighed. Here was a stern reminder that even he could be driven too far by his emotions.

This dagger is a fine gift and nothing more. What I said to Curufinwë may as well prove true – it shall probably save my life upon the road.

The Counsellor took a deep breath, straightened his back, and rallied his horse out of the courtyard, towards the gates.

§ ~ § ~ §

The clatter of hooves of the two horses seemed to have been swallowed up by the dim, heavy layer of fog sprawling above the wastelands. The riders sat stiff, motionless, every muscle tense as if searching for enemies in the colourless landscape; but there was not much to be seen. The fog hid them just as much as it veiled any approaching foes – not that such presence was much likely in the heart of the Marches.

Tyelcano was surprised to see Tulcestelmo at the gates. The Captain of Guards stood on top of the wall, cold and stern like a sculpture; he nodded in recognition when the Counsellor led his horse through the cramped rear gate of the fortress. The Captain offered him his arm in a warrior’s farewell, just like Curufinwë had, and wished him a good journey, voicing his hope that the he would return soon.

And then suddenly there he was, out in the wide wastelands with no more than his lord's great white destrier in his heels; for they had promised to join their escort only at the Pass, under the grim, dark walls of the last watchtower. The Sun was probably rising, but nothing could be seen of it through the fog – they were well inside the month of Lótessë, yet the last chilly breath of winter still lingered in Himlad’s lands.

Tyelcano let out a soft sigh to see if his breath was visible – it was. He shifted a little in the saddle, ignoring the sudden longing he felt for his comfortable suite. The Himring may have looked grim and fearsome to the eyes of an outsider, but hot fires burned night and day behind the thick walls, soft, heavy curtains shut out the creeping fingers of the north wind, and all who lived there were well fed and garmented.

When Maedhros first spoke, they were galloping through a wide meadow, encircled by the stooping hills of Aglon; they could not see them, but as they knew every rock and every hog's back in the wastelands, they sensed their closeness.

“You are wordless,” said Maedhros, and Tyelcano had to smile.

“I am your messenger, lordship; I speak only if asked. You are wordless, though.”

Silence stretched between them for a while and Tyelcano glanced carefully at the lord. Maedhros’s features would have been unreadable for the eyes of a stranger, but not for his Counsellor who had led him by the hand when he was still an elfling.

“You do not know if you’ve made the right choice,” Tyelcano assumed. There, he risked being angrily reminded of his role as a messenger, but Maedhros only let out a soft sigh, returning his stare.

“Indeed not.”

“And why is that?”

“I still profoundly dislike the idea of sending my most trusted advisor to such a sinister journey… And then I need to remind myself that said sinister journey consists of nothing more than crossing Beleriand to deliver a message to the High King. One message! When did we allow our enemies to bar us out of our own lands? This is outrageous, and an insult to our noble people!” Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment, then he said, without his previous fervour, “I am beginning to agree with Kano when it comes to the retaking of the Gap. I shall see how many swords can Carnistir assemble… it might as well be enough.”

“You have plans,” said Tyelcano.

“I do.”

“Since when?”

“Since I spoke to my brother,” said Maedhros measuredly. “No, that is not entirely true: I’ve been having them for a long time, perhaps ever since the Flames; but I put them to conscious thought only yestereve. And I daresay that they’re well-founded plans, save for the part where I send you off to the wilderness to meet your fate. I wish I could do that in your place.” A small crease appeared upon the lord’s forehead. “Even so,” he murmured, his eyes bright in the morning light, “considering everything...”

His voice trailed off and he sank back to his gloomy mood as if his thoughts were too dark to put to words. The sky began to lighten in the East, and Tyelcano knew they had to make speed.

“You cannot consider everything, my lord,” he said lightly. “That would take all the years and Ages of Arda that are still to come. Someone must deliver your message to the High King, and not by written word. You cannot take this mission upon your shoulders; we both know that.”

 “That is not the questionable part,” said Maedhros. “The questionable part is what will happen if the quest fails and I send you to your death.”

“In that case, such is my fate; but I strongly believe that the Valar are guarding and guiding us. Yes, lord, even us,” Tyelcano emphasized as he saw Maedhros rolling his eyes. “Leave haste to me, lordship, I beg you! You don't like to wait, you never did and never would; though you have already learned to be patient through the years, even if it makes you itch. This is the path I advise you to take once more: the path of forbearance.”

“Patience will not help me now,” Maedhros’s voice was rough.

“Patience always helps, my lord.”

The only answer the statement earned him was a swift pull that resonated through his whole body, as his horse turned to follow the lord’s proud stallion, uphill at last. They were coming close to the Pass; the last watchtower emerged from the pale green verdure like a black lance, fires burning below its narrow windows. Their orange glow pierced through the fog and made Tyelcano’s eyes water.

“Let us linger here for a while,” said Maedhros when they reached the hilltop. “We have one gruesome business left with each other.”

They jumped off their horses, letting them taste what remained of the dead-grey mountain grass. Despite the rains, the hill was becoming bald.

“As you say, Lord Warden,” said Tyelcano, recognizing the lord’s foul mood.

“You must forgive me for retaining my message this long,” Maedhros continued, his voice softer now. “I had hoped in vain that speaking would be easier if I tired myself with a long ride out.”

“And shan’t it be, my lord?”

Maedhros laughed humourlessly. “I did not tire myself.”

The idea was as insolent as any idea could get; and neither should it have been acted out with his best robes on, this far out in the wilderness on such a cold, foggy morning; yet Tyelcano’s hand and mouth moved on their own accord.

“Then let me tire you, lordship!”

And Curufinwë’s dagger flew out from its scabbard.

If Tyelcano sparred with someone he knew, the only thing he watched were the eyes: two shiny windows inside the soul of the other, warning him, guiding him, betraying their owner. Most of the time, Maedhros’s eyes were empty or shut like barred gates; yet some other times, the pride and fury of singing steel made his gaze flicker with harmless scorn and amusement; though never joy.

This time, Tyelcano cought the flicker of surprise in his gaze before the veil of impassivity descended upon his face.

Fighting Tyelcano with a longsword against that dagger was a tiring business indeed, and it required a lot of jumping, rolling, swearing and running around from both of them; yet for once in a lifetime, it was the lord who sweated first, and had they fought to blood, Tyelcano would have slit his left thigh open once. That would have made the Counsellor worry if he had time to consider anything else than the steady rhythm of his own strikes and slashes, and his constant awareness of the deadly longsword dancing around him.

Then suddenly came a moment when he leapt forward, his entire body alert and tense with the energy of fighting. The dagger jerked forward, and the whole length of the blade touched the lord’s right shoulder. Had they fought to blood…

The next thing Tyelcano knew, he was lying face-up in what felt like a whole lake of dew, thin strands of grass slashing his calves like blades of steel. A knee was pressing most uncomfortably into his stomach, and the lord’s longsword, with its entire width, rested across his throat.

“That was a good fight,” said Maedhros. His eyes were dark and furious, and his face was close, very close. “I admire your self-control. If I ever get you like that with a sharpened sword, I’ll probably slash you open like a sack of corns. For a moment, I wondered if I should.”

“Not the throat, m’lord,” Tyelcano mumbled against his tears of pain. The touch of Maedhros’s knee was getting sharp and heavy in his stomach. “That would considerably diminish my charms as your honey-tongued envoy.”

“As would your robes getting dirty. What will the High King say? You look like some errant knight from a realm of Men.”

“Everything and anything for m’lord’s contentment,” said Tyelcano, not without scorn. “And now would you be so kind and gracious and remove your entire weight off my guts?”

“If you ask so politely,” said Maedhros, and he did so. The longsword disappeared as well; and the lord settled beside his counsellor in the dead grass and sighed.

“If you have recovered, I shall tell you my message.”

“I’m listening,” said Tyelcano.

“Whatever you will hear now,” the lord said slowly, “you shall receive it as if you were a blank paper, spotted with ink. As much as I value your opinion and insight in general, in this case, I don’t want to hear it, or to see it expressed in any way. Have I been clear?”

“Entirely, lordship.”

Maedhros nodded gravely. “Also – as I have already told you, this is a secret message. However, there is one rule I would like to overwrite. If, for any reason, you find yourself unable to continue your journey, you must not pass on the message. No one else can know. You shall keep it to yourself, and the High King shall receive it another time, however urgent it is. Understood?”

Tyelcano took a deep breath, then nodded his accord.

“Good,” said Maedhros, and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Wind was rising in the north, and a relentless army of clouds was gathering over the Hills of Aglon. The air was cold for the fifth month, even in the Himring; yet despite the promise of rain in the air, the Sun was rising well above the horizon, and both lord and counsellor knew that they did not have much time left.

And with a sigh, Maedhros began his message.

“Findekáno,” he said, his voice faint as a prayer. The litany of courtesies that was supposed to precede any manner of communication with the High King were promptly forgotten. “I received your word on the ides of Lótessë, from your messenger, Nirwion; and I received it with a heavy heart, since similar visions have been plaguing both me and my Counsellor for months now. Withering flowers, banners flopping in the wind, darkness, icy peaks, a white city draped in moonlight, the scream of crows, forebodings of death and havoc… we’ve all seen the same things. My own dreams are hazy and indistinct, often delirious and filled with terror; yet their regularity and similarity have long convinced me that they did not take part of my usual nightmares, no matter how reluctant I first was to consider that possibility. These visions, cousin, are trying to warn us. My heart tells me that Moringotto is not satisfied by his swift and complete victory in the Battle of Flames; that he’s plotting against us at this very minute, seeking our death and ruin. Orcs linger in my lands, and bother my people. The roads across Beleriand are dangerous, and one cannot walk them without escort. Strange tales have reached my ears about the errands of Lúthien, the daughter of the Moriquend-king, and her lover, a mortal Man… and since then, my vision has cleared. I can see the damage the Oath has caused to my family… And my heart trembles when I think of what the future may bring if we have the misfortune to forget who the real enemy is – that it is and it will be, always and forever, Moringotto the Accursed. We need to counter his schemes with such power and endurance we have; and for that reason, I shall seek counsel and gather allies. For too long we have wobbled around, crushed by the Enemy’s last blow! We need to steady our feet again, and chase His servants from the lands that have been ours for centuries. My will and my first intention, Findekáno, is to put an end to all bitter grievances and strife between the Quendi, and bring peace to our dominions; and these I shall do, with your help if you grant it, and with the support of any free folk who might offer it. This is the decision I have made, and this is the path I shall take; and no living thing can stand in my way!”

Here, Maedhros fell silent for a while, and when he spoke again, his voice was much softer.

“Then again, of course, you are no fool. You know just as well as I that Thingol has a Silmaril; and you know as well that sooner or later, I shall be forced to do something about it, lest my Oath torment me to insanity. Yet you need not to fear; I shall do Doriath no harm, and no Oath can crack my mind… not after what I have been through. It shan’t come to war, or even the slightest bloodshed; I will not let the old wounds fester any further. We have a common Enemy, at least; woe to the times when that Enemy shall be defeated, so nothing shall stand between me and the Moriquendi!”

Here, Maedhros laughed softly, then his face suddenly darkened; and Tyelcano knew that he spoke as if it was truly his cousin who listened.

“…Yet cruel doubt pervades my thoughts; for along with the strange dreams, my illness has also returned,” said the lord, and his hand tightened into a fist. “And it is bad, Findekáno, it hasn’t been this bad for a very long time. It is all back… I am happy if I fall healthily asleep once a week, only to be dragged awake by the sensation of being suffocated – sometimes screaming, completely out of my mind, the way I used to be when… it doesn’t matter. I cannot stomach this. I can barely eat. I am feverish. At times, I need to draw blood – do you know how hard it is to draw blood with one hand?! – then the smell gives me nausea and the fit worsens, instead of tiring me out. I almost dread the moment when night falls and I must find rest – there is no rest to find in my chambers, only dust and ghosts. And darkness makes them grow. What sort of warlord am I if I’m afraid in the dark?! How am I supposed to protect my people if I can’t even sleep?” Maedhros’s voice had a furious edge to it. “I feel like I am going to tire, and to be blown out like a candle in the wind. Yet who could I speak to…? No one can know of my weaknesses, not even my brothers, least of all my brothers – they shall be the downfalls of each other, and of us all if things continue the way they are now. If one day, the mask I wear as Lord of the Himring falls down, we’re all doomed… and that mask is full of cracks. Someone must keep my men together, to bond them together, and I know it has to be me, because who else would do it…? Everything around me is so fragile, so ephemeral; it feels as though the slightest breeze of wind could ruin everything I have built. And they call me the Warden of the East! And they praise me as the Enemy of the Enemy! Can you see now how cruel you were under that cliff…? I told you to shoot that arrow, Findekáno. I told you to shoot it…”

Maedhros’s voice trailed off for several seconds; and when he spoke again, his voice was calm.

“Sometimes, I feel miles away from everyone. I cannot even hear them speak. I am alone those times, Findekáno – there is only me around, and that is when I truly see myself, and what I have become. I am not who you think I am. I am only some wretch who is afraid of that thrice-damned dark! Or maybe not of the dark itself, but of the forms it takes. I am afraid of re-living things again and again; dreams are only dreams, you may say… but I feel the lash, the shackles, the thirst and hunger, and the numbing persuasion of being utterly, entirely doomed, helpless against Moringotto’s appetite for cruelty and abuse…the images my mind creates are sharp and believable; so believable that you would believe them if you saw them… that any sane person would believe them… for they are so wonderfully detailed! Afterwards, I oft wonder about them, in complete awe. How could I, crippled of body and mind, be capable of creating such perfect illusions? Is this a sign of madness? My train of thoughts always stops at the concept of madness, though. I cannot be mad, Findekáno, can I? I cannot allow myself such luxuries. I have a castle to rule, a household to look after to, six brothers to keep at bay… I cannot go mad, not right now, I don’t have the time. Forgive me, I’ve rambled.” Maedhros held up his chin with two fingers, his eyes suddenly livelier. “Yet these dreams, Findekáno… I cannot help but think that the dreams worsen my condition, or that they are somehow related to it. In my delirious dreams, I understand connections and coherencies I have never before perceived, then I forget them as soon as the Sun is up and I open my eyes. ‘Tis maddening. I see the same dreams you’ve described almost every night now: I see the banners, the crows and the withering flowers before they turn into vivid set-scenes of Angamando. And He is always there, Findekáno, laughing at me… It makes me anxious to know that these visions have reached you, too; that you could be suffering from them as well. I pray that you’d heed my warning and keep them secret. Do not speak about them – it could be dangerous. People talk… and stories grow by the telling. I hope that you, unlike my brothers, will listen to me and remember that.” Maedhros sighed.

“Elsewise, there is nothing to say. I am exhausted, and that makes me restless. There are so many other events I’d love to tell you about, but my time is growing short. But don’t worry about me, Findekáno; worry about yourself, and most of all, worry about these visions. They are not likely to go away. As soon as Himlad is cleansed of the Orc-filth, I shall find a way to visit you so we could talk. You must as well have many things to say. Fare well! Take care of yourself… and whatever happens, whatever you might hear, please don’t do anything rash.” Maedhros made a noise under his breath that could have been a chuckle if there was any joy in it. “Fare well, Aranya.”

With that, it was over.

As soon as he finished his speech, Maedhros stood, and went for a walk around the bald hill-top; and Tyelcano took advantage of the gesture to arrange his thoughts. If he’d previously disliked the idea of leaving his lord alone, by now he outright loathed it. Every fibre of his being trembled at the thought of Maedhros facing his fits of panic alone; yet he knew that his only other choice would be to see the lord himself leave.

The only thing I can do, Tyelcano concluded, is make speed. Come back to him, and swiftly.

It happened thus that when Maedhros came back to him, Tyelcano’s face was solemn and collected; and he patted the ground beside him, as calmly and naturally as if they have only been chatting about the weather.

“Come, Lord Nelyo,” he said, “sit with me for a moment.”

Maedhros sat, and he looked at him with a stern, rigorous expression that made Tyelcano remember his last promise.

No comments.

“Please, lordship,” he sighed, “just accept four words of counsel from me. Will you?”

Maedhros’s countenance somewhat softened. “Go ahead.”

“Candles,” said Tyelcano vigorously, “music, books – and a valar-damned healer!”

Maedhros, who had intended to count all those words out upon his fingers, stared at him disparagingly.

“Are you familiar with the concept of number four, Tyelco?”

“…and sleep at least thrice a week, I beg you!” Tyelcano sighed, ignoring him. “And please, lordship, don’t draw your own blood. Your condition could worsen or you could fall insensible and if you don’t stop the flow…”

“You promised me something, Counsellor!” Maedhros reminded him in a ringing voice.

“My promise be damned,” Tyelcano leaned forward, and took the lord’s face between his palms, in a way he rarely dared to. “Listen to me, my lord beloved – those visions shall not break you. They did not break you before, and they are not about to break you now. You are stronger than them, and you shall lead us all to victory against that Orc-filth. If you say that you can, I believe it. I believe in you. You are the Warden of the East, you are the Enemy of the Enemy. You are our beacon of hope, and you shall open those gates from the dreams, whatever their significance might be – you shall not let this world wither! I know that much. Be strong, lordship, and wait for me; I will be back by your side as soon as I am able.”

Maedhros said nothing, his eyes narrow and distant; and Tyelcano sighed.

“I know what you’re thinking at this moment,” he said. “You’re disappointed, because you have let your mask slip, you showed me your insecurities, something you’ve been forced to do; and I’m still capable of speaking of hope and victory…! Yet I have known for a long time that you doubted yourself. I know you well, lordship, and I have at least a notion about what plagues your heart… and still, I have just as much of a notion about who you truly are and what you’re capable of. We will speak of this another time, a time when we shall be allowed to; but please keep in mind that I trust you with my life, and with the lives of all our people. Fare well, Warden of the East! May the Valar help you in your endeavours!”

“And may my blessings guard you upon the road,” said Maedhros; and to Tyelcano’s astonishment, the lord leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “You’re a treasure I cannot afford losing, Counsellor,” he said with a wry smile, then extended his hand. “Here, take my ring! It may serve you well; give it to my cousin when you see him.”

“This is your father’s seal-ring, lordship,” said Tyelcano uneasily. “Are you certain you want me to…?”

“Don’t make me ask again. Take it!”

Tyelcano obeyed; but when he wanted to sink the ring into his saddlebag, Maedhros’s quick fingers thwarted his movement, and the ring slid safely upon the middle finger of his right hand. It did not cling to his skin nearly as perfectly as it would fit its original owner.

“I will not fail you,” Tyelcano promised.

“That I dearly hope,” said his lord. “Fare well!”

Tyelcano spurred his stallion to meet his escort of nine Elves, who were waiting for him near the Tower of Aglon, as promised. Five of the party were the High King’s soldiers, clad in the rich blue-and-silver of Ñolofinwë’s household. Maedhros’s own four scouts were bright patches of red-and-golden against them; and as he came closer, Tyelcano was surprised to see young Antalossë among them. He turned his head to ask his lord about the choice, but Maedhros had stayed upon the bald hilltop, and raised his hand in a soundless farewell. Tyelcano returned the courtesy, then turned his horse’s head towards his companions, and burst into gallop.

When he looked back for the last time, the Tower of Aglon was nowhere, nor could the lowering hills be seen. He saw the Himring in the distance, tall and proud atop the flat cleeve upon which it had been built; and as he eyed Maedhros’s flags fluttering proudly in the wind, a dark, daunting sense of certainty pierced through his heart.

He knew he would not see that castle in its glory, nor those gleaming red-and-golden banners flapping above its gates ever again; and the truth of that realization was so cruel, so overwhelming that he almost reeled out of his saddle.

Yet he barred that foresight out of his head and rode on; for he knew that duty would never fail to call, again and again, no matter how much he might wish it to.