The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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An Earnest Seeker

Laurefindil receives terrible news, and Lómion is offended.

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The palace of King Turukáno, Ondolindë, FA 467, late Súlimë

Lómion’s voice was low and shrill; and from behind his back it came, as it so often would.

“Well met, Captain! I did not dream to find you awake.”

Laurefindil laughed. “And tell me, why would I waste such a pleasant morning on mere sleep?”

Thick fog was sprawling below their feet, past the balustrade and out in the open air, as if they were walking above mist and among clouds. The Tower of the King cut through its dim, heavy layer like a mithril-blade, gleaming sharp and needle-thin.

“…beautiful, do you think not? The last few mornings left me wandering if the city was still down there, though.”

“Have no doubt,” said Counsellor Lómion and he moved smoothly closer to the balustrade. “Look at the tower-tops and your memory shall paint the rest.”

“Is that why I see you out here at this early hour? Painting?”

Lómion blinked. “I come to you at the behest of the King. The Eagles brought news – none of them pleasant, I fear. The Council shall be gathered in a few days and King Turukáno wants you to be informed beforehand.”

“I’m honoured,” said Laurefindil, although this was mere formality. He already knew that King Turukáno valued his opinion as much as Lómion's – mostly because the pair of them would seldom agree.

The Counsellor nodded as he fell into step with him. They descended to a lower level of the walls, where the impenetrable blade of white rock adjoined an open archway, leading to the South Wing of the Palace. Laurefindil halted in the middle there, and leaned against the epaulement.

The dim tumult of fog was still well below him, but a few puffs of mist were so close he felt as though he could reach out and catch them. Dewdrops moistened his fingers when he touched the shimmering wall; then, as he touched his face, the subsiding water was so clear and cool it made him blink.

“It reminds me of the springs near Tirion,” he said absently.

“I happen to enjoy washing my face in clouds as well,” Lómion admitted, “albeit for a simpler reason.”

“And what is that?”

“I have always thought it was impossible.”

Laurefindil smiled. “I understand.”

“Do you, now?”

Laurefindil gave a slow nod. “Now,” he said, “tell me about those grave news. I doubt you are here to discuss the nature of clouds, after all.”

Lómion did not stop smiling, but Laurefindil noticed that the smile did not reach his eyes. He glanced around to see if they were alone: thus strengthened in his resolve, he sat beside Laurefindil, atop the balustrade. Neither spoke for a while; they waited in quiet, swinging their legs above the misty void. The sky was a deep, clear blue above them, the white walls of the Palace shimmering like a mountain forged of diamonds.

“A few hours ago…” Lómion spoke up hesitantly. “Well. A few hours ago, in the middle of the night, Thorondor, the King of Eagles himself came and wished to speak with King Turukáno; then persisted until we woke him up. They met in the courtyard, next to the Fountains; and they spoke until dawn. The Eagle brought many news, among them an incredible story… It seems that Lúthien Tinúviel, the princess of Doriath fell in love with Beren Erchamion, a mortal Man; and together, they broke the black gates of Angamando and stole a Silmaril from the Enemy's crown. This tale, King Thorondor said, is now spreading to every corner of Beleriand, and soon it shall be heard by the Sons of Fëanáro… and King Findekáno… and Men and Dwarves and Sindar and Teleri… and who knows what doom it may yet bring upon us!”

“One of the Silmarili!” Laurefindil exclaimed, deaf to anything else. “You said they stole one of the Silmarili?!”

 “You heard me.”

“And what has become of it?”

“Of that, we cannot be sure; but when it comes to the Gates of Angamando...”

“Lómion, this is extremely important! What has become of the Jewel?”

Abrupt silence fell between them, and Lómion's eyebrows arched higher.

“...I apologize for my crude words,” Laurefindil said hastily, “but the question of the Silmaril is delicate and pressing. Would you please tell me everything you know about it?”

“It is said that the Jewel was brought back to King Thingol, in most unbelievable circumstances,” said Lómion rigidly.

“And he kept it for himself?”

“And so he did.”

Laurefindil sighed. “This means war,” he said quietly. “The Seven Sons shall never let him have it. This means another terrible battle, Lómion, where our closest kin shall slay our furthest; and all of their deaths shall be in vain.”

“Let the fools slay each other,” said Lómion. “This is precisely why our wise King chose to settle here, among the Oroquilta... More pressing, however, is the fact that the Enemy has been woken from his sleep and he shall no longer sit idly. The Eagles say that his spies are everywhere. We have to double the watch! King Turukáno, as you are aware, has been troubled for years, seeking to help his brother, inviting him and his people to Ondolindë to live here; and now he is torn between that, and shutting the Gates once and for all. I have not changed my mind ever since: if we are to contact the outside world now, we risk being discovered, and thus destroyed.”

“So you would abandon our kin, helpless against the wrath of both the Kinslayers and the Enemy,” said Laurefindil rigidly.

“I said nothing alike.”

“Your words themselves contain your judgement. How could you be so cold, child? They are our kin, yours even more than mine, even though you never knew them. We should help them, and help them all! Help them now! Who are we to judge who has the right to be safe and who has not? We have been isolated for too long.”

“When it comes to the threat of the Black Foe,” said Lómion gravely, “I am indeed colder than ice – and you should be as well. We are talking about the safety of the King Turukáno, who, I kindly remind you, is my uncle; and twofold he is dear to me: as a leader and as one of my closest kin.”

“King Findekáno is your uncle, too,” said Laurefindil. “I am only asking you to remember that.”

“That I shall. And I shall also clash against you in council if need be.”

“Why, I look forward to that.” Laurefindil smiled wryly. “Shall we learn more there?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Very well,” Laurefindil sighed. “You gave me much to think about. Is there anything else the King wants me to know?”

Lómion closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, they were shimmering with pity and concern – open emotions, which was remarkably unlike him.

“There is one more thing. I hate to be the harbinger of grief, but the King insisted you should hear this before the Council. I am sorry, Laurefindil… but your friend, King Findaráto, has been slain.”

“Findaráto...?”

Laurefindil had not spoken the name for what seemed like Ages, but it has always been there, lingering at the back of his mind.

“...slain...?”

His head reeled wildly, as if he was drunk; and for a moment, he felt like falling into the misty void beneath.

Lómion put a cautious hand on his shoulder, and Laurefindil schooled himself. He was the Head of the House of the Golden Flower, Captain of the King's Guards and Marshal of his Armies – not some whining elfling! No one was allowed to see him perturbed.

“Do we know how…?”

Lómion seemed to ponder that for a moment. “Not precisely.”

Laurefindil drew a sharp breath. “I – King Turukáno was right. I needed to know. Thank you.”

Lómion nodded. “I presume you now wish to be alone.”

*

Fog was lifting over the green valley of Tumladen; the silhouettes of houses and small towers were becoming visible, grey shadows on a lighter canvas, but Laurefindil paid them no heed. He strode back to his chambers instead, locked the door, and collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in his palms.

Findaráto slain...

No tears came, only the gut-wrenching feeling of despair… and remorse.

He was slain – one I cared for, amongst hundreds. Or thousands, for all I know. How many more? How many more deaths have gone unannounced since I’ve been sitting here in idle peace?

A time may still come when the Enemy finds us; and what then? Where shall we run if all our friends are killed? We hide behind barred gates and impenetrable mountains, untouched by the perils of Beleriand and thus taking no part of it. Why did we let this happen?

For the first time since he came in Ondolindë, Laurefindil found himself openly missing the rest of the world. He missed the friends he left when he decided to follow his King; he missed green Vinyamar and the seashores; he missed the sight of wide plains as he rode out to the fields of Nevrast.

We have been isolated for too long, he thought.

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Chapter End Notes

Pocket Quenya

Laurefindil = Glorfindel [m.: "golden head of hair"]

Lómion [m.: "child of twilight"] is an amilessë (mother's name) for Maeglin [m.: "sharp glance"]

Findaráto = Finrod [m.:"golden-haired champion"]

Turukáno = Turgon

Fëanáro = Fëanor

Findekáno = Fingon

Moringotto = Morgoth

 

‘Oroquilta’ is a Quenya translation for the Echoriath (Encircling Mountains) around Gondolin. Since I found no Quenya equivalent for it, I allowed myself to create one. Basis: oro /mount, mountain/ + qilti- /gird, encircle/ -> quilta- / imitating later verb forms and some vocal harmony.

Ondolindë [m.:"the rock of the music of water"] = Gondolin [m.: "stone of music"]

On the use of Quenya: According to the Unfinished Tales and Tolkien’s Letters, “Turgon after his foundation of the secret city of Gondolin had re-established Quenya as the daily speech of his household” ; “Quenya was in daily use in Turgon's house, and was the childhood speech of Eärendil” ;  and Tuor heard the Guard of Gondolin speak “in the High Speech of the Noldor, which he knew not”. Also, Eöl later called his son by the Sindarin name Maeglin, but Aredhel “taught Maeglin the Quenya tongue, though Eöl had forbidden it”.