The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The Oath Awakens

The Oath of Feanor is awakened, but the flame of its fury is no longer fed by hatred.

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XXI. The Oath Awakens

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

“Maitimo,” came a melodious voice from the other side of the half-open door, “I don’t want to bother you with this, but the provision counts…”

“…are ready. Three copies. Come and collect yours.”

“Oh.”

Maglor entered his room cautiously, as if he was expecting the floor to crack below his feet. Maedhros paid no heed to him at first; he leaned back in his chair, and resumed his reading of Celegorm’s latest account about his patrols, and the disheartening state of dams over Little Gelion.

Tyelcano started telling him almost twelve years ago to have them renovated. The dams were the least of his concerns at that time, though – and who could blame him? Who would have ordered constructions, with the death-rate of Ñolofinwë fresh and vivid, in this cold, far country where the Northern Wind still carried the whirling ashes of Anfauglith over emptied wastelands…?

I should have had.

Devoid of clear instructions, Maglor spent some time finding the adequate scroll of parchment. Maedhros watched him from the corner of his eye, wondering when he would finally leave.

“Maitimo?”

He closed his eyes for a moment.

“I could never fathom,” he said, in a tone that sounded more exhilarated than crude, “why would you address people questioningly. You called for my attention. Where is the question in that?”

“Questions are everywhere,” said Maglor quizzically. “I just wanted to thank you, you know, for allowing me…”

For allowing you to ride off into a battle and bet your life on the biggest, emptiest gamble I’ve ever thrown? Anytime. Great pleasure.

Maedhros felt the pieces of his lordly mask click together as he made an effort to smile.

“If any of us has the right to claim the Gap, it is you, Kano. My heart tells me I’ve made the right choice, however unwise it may seem to send you off with an army of wild Men to meet your fate.”

“I will not disappoint you,” said Maglor. His voice was low, but shrill.

“I know,” Maedhros lied. “We shall hold a last council meeting at sundown. Tell your men to be ready to depart at dawn – swiftly and quietly.”

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

The flight of stairs that led up to the Northern Tower was painfully long. Not that Curufinwë was tired; oh, not at all. But the passage – and thus the march – was long enough for his dark thoughts to break free from the chains of his shattered self-restraint and overwhelm his fëa.

Still, he went on, grinding his teeth, hands tightened into fists; restless, graceful, invincible.

But what for?

You shall no longer hold a place in my council, Nelyafinwë had said, thunder in his eyes, and no one shall be put under your command, lest they choose so themselves.

And still he had been summoned, with the rest of his brothers. No matter how many locks he kept on the doors of his workshop, the message was still waiting for him placed promptly upon the bench when he entered the smithy, written in his eldest brother’s hand – clumsy and ridiculous to anyone who did not know the story behind the snaggle-toothed cursive.

He, Curufinwë was expected in the council room. But why?

Has Nelyo forgotten? Could he be jesting?

Nay; and nay.

Curufinwë’s quick stern steps were slowing down, his breath spasmodic as if he had just run a mile without halting. It was an alien sensation; did he, Curufinwë Atarinke run out of breath after no more than climbing a tower? He, who had no notion of being truly exhausted? Why was his breath speeding up, why was his heart drumming frantically against his ribcage?

Breathe. He could not breathe, as if someone had set his insides on fire; cruel flames were lighting up in his chest, making his limbs go stiff. What was it – anger? Shame? Distress?

He stopped grudgingly, leaning to the wall with his back. Coldness crept up amongst his muscles where the back of his cloak met the hard rock; the thick wool sheathings beneath his garments were no challenge for the creeping coldness of the Himring to penetrate. This corner of the castle seemed seldom used; merely one or two torches were lit in each bend of the staircase, the rest of the holders gaping emptily.

Curufinwë let the sensation of cold overwhelm him. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, taking several deep breaths, trying to chase away the demons inside his head.

He did not want to see any of his brothers now. Oh Valar, how he loathed to see them.

Where are your children? Makalaurë’s soft musical voice echoed mercilessly in his head. Where is Tyelpë? Where is Erenis?

Tyelperinquar is his own master now, the ghost of Tyelko's voice clashed sharply against Kano’s. Seek for the answer in your heart, you will find this is true. Why would you be so eager to fight your own fate? Let him go, Curvo. The Oath is enough burden on our shoulders.

Curufinwë ran his fingers through the surface of the hard stone wall, exploring every lump and delve. There was not one finger-hold that escaped his unceasing attention. The stones were to his liking, from an old and deeply solid kind that might have been forged and chiselled long ago by the Great Smith Aulë himself, only to be left behind in Endórë, given over to the black claws of Morgoth.

But the ghosts of the past went on haunting his mind.

We shall not lay our hands upon them, the echo of Orodreth’s voice said bitterly. But bread and shelter I shall grant them no more within my realm and there will be little love between Nargothrond and the Sons of Feanor thereafter: this I swear.

Let it be so! Tyelko had laughed like a madman. And he, Curufinwë – he’d said nothing but smiled.

Why had he smiled? Maybe it was just the irony of it all.

They called us traitors. But what else could we have done?

Pressing his thin lips together, he gathered what strength he could and climbed the rest of the stairs. It was not like he, Curufinwë, son of Fëanáro could allow himself to stay behind while his brothers sat in council, circumstances be damned. He gathered himself completely by the time he reached the door; his thumb lingered on the handle for a moment, for he could not hear any words spoken from behind.

The warmth came unexpected.

A jolly fire was burning in the hearth at the nearest corner; its crackle echoed softly between the cramped walls, coaly nibs of flames lapping the hearth-frames. The entire room was no more than a cave-like hole on the top of the tower, and it looked more like an attic than a council-chamber. A big, round table stood in the middle – which alone occupied half the space in the room – and his six brothers were surrounding it. Apart from the hearth, the only source of light was the huge golden candle-holder that stood firmly in the middle of the table; its gleam reflected yellowishly upon a heap of unfolded parchments.

The only empty chair was placed right between Makalaurë and Carnistir, and this fact angered Curufinwë. Of course, he would be forced to sit in silence, to act as if nothing had happened all those days ago. He could not show any sign of weakness – not now.

“I am glad that you came, brother,” Nelyafinwë glanced up to meet his eye.

“Tell me what decisions were made,” said Curufinwë, far less smoothly then intended.

“We did not start the meeting without you,” His eldest brother replied patiently. “We are to discuss an important matter that concerns all of us. You cannot stay behind, Curvo. Come, and sit.”

Curufinwë took three steps towards the table, then came to an abrupt halt.

“This is unexpected,” he crossed his arms. “It has come to my understanding that my title as Lord of the House of Fëanáro has been taken from me, along with the burden of knowledge and responsibilities. Why would you suddenly wish to discuss anything of importance with me? Or Tyelkormo? I see him at this table as well, although he’d suffered the same fate as me. Have you changed your mind, lord brother?”

“I did not involve you in the making of my decisions,” said Nelyafinwë without a blink, “yet I have tasks for you, and I thought it would be useful to acquaint you with them. If your wishes extend to no more than sharpening arrows, though, you are very welcome to crawl back into your hole.”

Curufinwë had at least three possible comebacks at the tip of his tongue, but there was something in his brother’s eyes that made him stop; a distant white flame, burning terrible and low. Curufinwë knew that look; it was enough to make him nod, and take three other steps towards the table then sit, escaping both Makalaure’s and Carnistir’s searching glance.

“Good,” said Nelyafinwë. “Now hear me, brothers! We have battles to win and allies to gather if we truly want to cleanse our lands from the pent-up dirt. We have all made our choices, faced our foes, fought our wars; yet there is one mission, one mission above anything and everything we shall ever do, one task that binds us together until our Quest ends and our heritage, our birth-right is safely back in our hands – until then, or until the World ends. This ultimate purpose: the burden of our Oath is above every rule, every law and every judgement ever made. For what is the doom of the Lords of the Ñoldor against the Doom of Mandos itself?”

“So we came to the proverbial dead end, at last,” said Makalaurë.

Curufinwë looked at him, wondering. Makalaurë had been the last to utter the Oath that bound them endlessly to the fate of their father’s Silmarili; Makalaurë, who had never wished to do it and possibly never intended. Makalaurë, who tended to overlook or sometimes even forget what they had sworn to do...

“…so we have. And yet, a sparkle of hope has flared up in my heart,” said Nelyafinwë firmly. “A fool’s hope if you wish. We have sworn a terrible Oath and we are bound to it until the end of Arda; or maybe after that. And while there is the smallest chance to fulfil it, we have no choice. Each of you must know this, deep in your hearts, as I do.”

“We do,” said Tyelkormo, his voice distant. “Moringotto has been rused and one of our Atar’s Jewels is now missing from his black crown. And alas! it is in Doriath – in the hands of Thingol the Thief.”

“Aye, it is,” Carnistir growled. “And have you and Curvo been just a little less foolish, it could never have gotten there. Did you even consider the possibility of reclaiming the Silmaril after it had been stolen? Let me answer my own question: of course not. I remember Atar knocking on my head from time to time, asking, Do you keep a brain in there, Morifinwë? I am now asking the same question. You could have aided that Man, or could have feigned to do so. You chould have challenged the son of Barahir to get the Jewel and keep it if he could, encouraging him. Indeed, you did not.”

“Do you keep a brain in there, Morifinwë?”

Curufinwë barely raised his voice but his tone and speech were so alike Fëanáro’s that each of his brothers gave a start, then glanced upon him with wary eyes.

“Indeed, we did not,” Curufinwë said, articulating each word thoroughly and precisely. “Our trial has long ended, our choices were made, our deeds discussed, and our punishment received; yet to satisfy your curiosity, Carnistir, hear this. We were convinced – as any of you would have been – that the Quest of the Silmaril was initially doomed to failure. There seemed to be no point in wasting our time on such foolish notions. What would you have done in our stead, brother? Join the party in their folly? You would have been killed before even winning a chance to glimpse the gates of Angamando. Have you not heard what happened to Findaráto and his company? That Man has also been captured and nearly killed; who could have guessed that Thingol’s daughter would go after him with Tyelko’s hound in her heels to fight that lickspittle of Moringotto and his bats and werewolves and all the monstrosities that lurk in those dark lands?! Had it fell upon me to first tell you the tale, all of you would have deemed it nonsense! As it was! As it is! Search your feelings – how could we have been possibly able to foresee this?!”

“You could have tried to measure their valour better, at least,” Carnistir said. “You could have elaborated a what if-plan. And, most of all, you could have been eluded to be dismissed from Nargothrond for all Ages to come... and all the mess that came with it.”

“We did what we deemed best, as I have already told Nelyo,” said Curufinwë gravely. “And I answer to no one else. It is not my problem that the power to hammer common sense into heads is now taken from me.”

“If I were to hammer common sense in any head I would not entrust you with it,” Carnistir snapped. “You are far too fierce and proud, Atarinke. And what for?”

“Then teach me, o Champion of Sobriety!” Curufinwë snapped, in his eyes a menacing light. Before he could realise what was he doing, he jumped to his feet, staring down at his older brother with unhidden anger.

“Enough!” Said Nelyafinwë, his voice splintering down the walls like pieces of gravel crashing down from a cliff on a stormy day. “Carnistir, what our brothers have done is already done, and calling them names will not change the past. Nothing will. Let us be thankful that they have not fallen into a trap of Moringotto, nor were they ambushed by Orcs on their way from Nargothrond and they are here, safe and whole. And Curufinwë – you answer to each and every one of us in this room, just as we do to you, when it comes to any deed related to our Oath. Understood?”

Curufin swallowed his anger. This was justice, and he had earned it. Still, the humble words seemed to roll up his throat like hot flames of pain.

“Yes, Nelyo. Understood.”

“Good. Now sit back, you two, and let us turn our attention to things of importance. Unless anyone protests…?”

There was a long silence. The sound of heavy rain washed down from the roof and the flames in the hearth were growing down, crackling angrily as a few straggling water-drops wormed their way amongst them from some hidden breach in the walls. Then Nelyafinwë stood up, pacing soundlessly in the room. Curufinwë watched the dim light dancing around in his auburn hair, his long thin brows, his stern jawline, and those thin lips that seldom smiled, but when they did, they changed the entire face.

“As I was saying,” his eldest brother went on, “I believe we now have some hope to stand against Moringotto. If an Elven maiden and a mortal Man could indeed manage to steal into the Enemy’s fortress, so can we. Yet we are no thieves, brothers of mine, as were this Man and his mistress; nor could we ever hope to get through the Iron Gates unnoticed. The borders of the Enemy’s lands will be fortified now and watched thrice as carefully as before. There is no more hope in playing hide-and-seek with Moringotto.”

“Then what would you have us do?” Tyelkormo gazed up to meet Nelyafinwë’s eyes. “Gather an army and go to Angamando to bang on his doors with a thousand lances?”

“Now there is an idea worthy of our King,” Nelyafinwë said, eyes lighting up in dark amusement. “Nay, Tyelko; all I hope to do – for now – is to bring back order to these lands. Beleriand shall no longer be a playground of Orcs and other monsters; for Beleriand is the rightful property of the Free People, be they Quendi, Atani or Casari; and the Free People shall defend it. Together.”

“We’re gathering allies,” Curufinwë heard himself saying. “You’re gathering allies,” he corrected himself with a snarl.

“Aye,” Nelyafinwë closed his eyes for a moment. “I have a task for each of you, after your merits, and I shall trust you with those. I shall expect them to be carried out by the time I come back.”

“You are leaving!” Curufinwë exclaimed. His bitterness was suddenly forgotten, and all he felt was the terrible, terrible lack of balance; something akin with dread. “But Nelyo, you can’t leave…”

“I am going on a diplomatic mission,” said Nelyafinwë coolly. “So does Káno, albeit a more violent one. And so do Pityo and Telvo.”

“Albeit an entirely pointless one,” Carnistir barked.

“Silence.”

What, Curufinwë wanted to ask, then realised that he would probably get no answer to his question. He wished to spare himself the shame of being defied.

“Tyelkormo,” Nelyafinwë’s voice rang proud and shrill, “you shall be the commander of the scouts until my return, and Captain Tulcestelmo is remanded to his post in the castle-watch. I know that you are fond of hunting, brother, and I am sorry that the only amusement I can offer is a hunt for Orcs.”

“Better have a lowly amusement than no amusement at all,” said Tyelkormo truthfully. “And I am glad to be of any help.”

His voice was calm, almost indifferent and his face unreadable, yet Curufinwë sensed the tension within him.

He knows nothing, either.

This was the first time he understood what their punishment truly meant.

“Curufinwë,” said his eldest brother, and he dared not look away as their eyes met, “my task for you is sole and simple: I want you to finish what you’ve started. I need craftsmen; smiths, apprentices, eager hands. I want you to teach anybody who is willing to learn, and to pass on as much of your craft as possible. You have all my workshops, my iron and silver and gold and my tools.”

“You will not be disappointed,” said Curufinwë, but he could not grasp the meaning of his own words.

“Good. And now, there is one more thing to discuss…”

The sentence wasn’t immediately finished. Nelyafinwë studied their faces one by one, and Curufinwë had to hold himself from flinching and looking away when that stern, penetrating gaze proceeded to read his heart.

 “…do you want the Oath fulfilled?”

Do we want – what?

“What is the meaning of this?!” Carnistir snapped. “We do – Valar, of course we do!”

“And why do you want it fulfilled?”

Everyone stared at Nelyafinwë at this question. Why. Why?

“There is no such thing as why, Nelyo,” Makalaurë finally said. “We have no choice. We fall to the Darkness, if we don’t...”

“Then that is why you want it fulfilled. To save your own wretched skin,” Their elder’s eyes were suddenly afire. “And what if I told you that it made no difference? That the Valar were never to pardon us, no matter what we would do? We could do as some of you would, we could take up arms, march against Doriath, and slay those of our own kin again... Is this truly your choice, brothers of mine? Strife and peril? Are we no more than common thieves and murderers? I believe I am – and I have had enough! I shall not spare the lives of the Moriquendi because I seek absolution – I shall spare them because I am a Lord of the Ñoldor and not some Orc-chieftain. Our Enemy is not Thingol; it is Moringotto and he still has two of our Atar’s Jewels. That disgusting monster killed our Grandsire and he robbed us; then he had our sire killed… Then he captured me, enslaved me, disgraced me, tortured me; and how many times since then has he charged at us with all his power and wrath…! Are you truly foolish enough to think that he shall ever stop? For as long as we draw breath he shall be after us, ever seeking our death and ruin! Moringotto would be pleased above all if we attacked Doriath, for he would know we could never find pleasure in our victory, even if we would happen to win. And, how could we? No one would come to the aid of traitors and kinslayers. Murderers! How could you wish to stoop so low? I see it in your eyes – I see it; I see you would all choose the road you deem easier. But I shall not – hear me, I shall not attack Doriath. No more kinslaying. Never again. I have had enough.”

No more than a flicker of that voice would have been enough for any soul to understand that Menegroth was not to be attacked; not while the Lord of Himring drew breath.

“And now hear me, sons of Fëanáro!” Nelyafinwë went on, with such a power in his voice that seemed to put Curufinwë’s own to shame. “Cruel is the choice that lies in front of us. We have sworn to get the Silmarili back and we have not sworn it lightly. It would be foolish to think that our Oath could by any means be neglected or delayed. You say that we cannot fight Moringotto with the strength of arms we have – but do you think, do you truly think that we are the only ones to hate the Black Foe? That we are his only enemies? Others loath him too, others have also suffered his torments and monstrosities. You have heard the Men of the East, their wishes and their complaints. They hate the Enemy with fervency, and they would do anything to brighten their families’ lives – and the same is true for all the Free Ones! Every single soul in Beleriand curses the name of Moringotto, people shake their fists and grind their teeth when they hear it! Tales spread to every corner of these lands and if we gather our army while the flames of hope are still high in all hearts, we may gain the power that we desire, and the aid of the High King himself with it.”

“But not under our banners, Nelyo,” Makalaurë said softly, sadly. “You shan’t abide any more kinslaying, you say – but we have already committed this sin. All of us. No one shall pardon it. It makes no difference...”

“Yes, it does,” Nelyafinwë held his head high, so the gleam of lustrous red hair that ran down his shoulders and his back danced around, mirroring the flames in the hearth. “It does – for I want our Oath fulfilled, and fulfilled swiftly so it could cause no more harm. Absolution I shall seek no more; but I believe, I must believe that if our cause is good we shall get the aid we desire. For too long we have stayed in the shadows, not seeing further than our own fear and self-loathing. Imagine we’ve never swore that terrible Oath – even in that case, we would want to avenge our sire and grandsire and those hundreds, thousands of kinsmen and kinswomen we have lost by Moringotto’s evil scheming. The Noldor have lost three Kings to Moringotto. The fourth one we shan’t give to him – this must stop! The first Men and many of our kin, the Avari have been enslaved and disgraced by Moringotto’s servants – this must stop! Those of Doriath and Nargothrond have long suffered from his dark thoughts and malice – this must as well stop! Even the Casari have felt his wrath in their halls and caves and forges. Even they hate him and curse his name. We are all friends and allies in this one cause – all the people of Beleriand. We must stop Moringotto while we can! And I believe we can. All the force we have in these lands – all the weapons joined, all hands raised against the same Enemy, all voices crying death to the Black Foe and his servants... it has to be enough. My heart is weary not only for our own days to come, but for all the world we live in. We cannot let this Evil grow any further. We must stop the course of his plans – if we do not, no one shall.”

“This is all well, my lord brother,” Carnistir sighed, “but you cannot be fool enough to think Thingol or Orodreth would ever help us. And without them, we’re doomed to failure.”

“That may not be the case,” said Nelyafinwë with a wild smile. “Whatever happens, I want you all to remember who we are, who we once were. We are noble lords of a noble people and I shan’t let dark deeds of long ago doom our hearts.”

“The doom lies within us,” Makalaurë said. “We cannot escape it, Nelyo.”

“We shan’t escape it,” Nelyafinwë answered him. “We shall smite it.”

He towered above them all; tall, stern, and kingly. Curufinwë felt a sudden a wave of pride, devotion and enthusiasm wash over him as he looked upon their eldest.

This is the big brother we’ve greatly missed. This is Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro, Lord of the Ñoldor and Warden of the East; the Enemy of the Enemy.

“What would you have us do, then?” Makalaurë asked.

“I want you to be my first and most loyal allies,” Nelyafinwë said. “And you too, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë; for our fates are all bound within our Oath. Never fail me, my brothers. Never fail our sire’s and grandsire’s name and their memory. Cast away all kind of strife and hatred you have; divided, we shall never defeat our Enemy. I need your composure and clairvoyance, Kano; your wits and ardour, Tyelko; your fairness and prowess, Moryo; your cunningness and crafty hands, Curvo; your clear sight and loyalty, Pityo; and your frankness, yet kindliness, Telvo. I need all these.”

“You shall have them,” Tyelkormo sighed, “but now – heed my warning, for ‘tis not something that happens every day – I agree with Moryo. It seems impossible to me that Thingol and Orodreth would ever come to our aid.”

“I do not blame you for not being able to trust them,” Nelyafinwë answered him softly. “Yet if you cannot, trust me, brother. Trust my plans and decisions.”

For a few moments, they all were utterly, gravely silent.

“And now,” Nelyafinwë said, “after all that has been said, do I have your support against Moringotto and his scheming? Shall you help me gather allies, chase Orcs and keep secrets? Shall you all stand by my side?”

“We shall,” Curufinwë heard himself saying as he stood, and pulled his sword from its scabbard. The blade glittered warmly in the torchlight. “The wrath of the Sons of Fëanáro arises in might, and it is ready to chase Moringotto to the end of this world.”

And the Seven Sons all stood, and the edges of their swords clashed against each other as they promised to stand side by side, for now and always, and face together whatever may come; and thus the Oath of Fëanáro had been awakened, but the flame of its fury was no longer fed by hatred.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

The Regent Lord of Himring found the departing one in the fifth hour of the day.

“Nelyo,” came Carnistir’s ragged whisper through the gap of the stable’s door, “I’ve searched the whole castle for you. I don’t want to bother you with this, but…”

The Warden of the East stayed still as he was, his face half-buried in the welcoming warmth of his favourite destrier’s mane.

“…but?”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Are the provision counts ready, or should I prepare to hang myself?”

Maedhros could not stifle a short laugh. “I have finished them,” he said. “Three copies. It was the biggest battle I’ve fought since the Flames.”

“Right?” His brother took a few hesitant steps towards him. “Nelyo… listen. I’m really honoured by your trust, and thank you, but I still have very serious doubts about sending Kano off to battle with the Easterlings.”

“It is a question of honour for him,” said Maedhros. “And if I must leave someone other than Counsellor Tyelco in my seat, I’d rather it be you than Kano – especially with Tyelko and Curvo this close to the fire. Keep an eye on them, Moryo, but let them help you, if they are willing. And be stern.”

“Stern,” Carnistir nodded. “And then, there are the twins.”

“The council meeting took place three days ago, and we have come to an agreement,” Maedhros’s voice was sharper than intended.

“I know,” Carnistir let out a shuddering breath, and Maedhros suddenly saw a change upon his face; as if he’d suddenly pulled on the same death-mask he wore as Warden of the East. “My heart is full of doubts, but I shan’t give in to them. Come back soon, and you shall find everything in order. I will not disappoint you.”

Maedhros felt his own lordly mask crack open upon his face; and he smiled from his very heart.

“I know,” he said lightly, and kissed his Regent on the forehead.

Yet then again, he lied; he knew nothing.

He could only hope.

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Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes

The Casari [quenya] is a name for ‘Dwarves’ and the Atani [quenya] for Men.