The Seven Gates by Laerthel

---

Law Is Law

Antalosse mourns his friends, and Counsellor Tyelcano gets acquanted with his new, rather luxurious prison cell.

---

Dragged. He had been dragged through some moist, hollow tunnel; his shoulders had repeatedly grazed along coarse walls, and there was blood, and anger, and itching pain.

Captured. He had been captured, then carried along long-forsaken paths like a sack of corns, to use Lord Nelyo’s favourite figure of speech. What a disgrace to die like this, he remembered thinking, to be put out like some smouldering little flame, drowned in the ashes of its own ambition!

Senge had been there, too; and there had been whispering, then arguing, then shouting, and spectacular swearwords and a scandalised “do you have any idea who this Elf is…?!”. Then other words were spoken, hushed and urgent; and later, a hot, burning liquid washed down Tyelcano’s throat, and he saw no more.

Such a vivid dream. However, if he were to believe his visions, he was now held in captivity; which raised the question why would he, a prisoner, be tucked safely and diligently under the finest feather bedding he had ever felt against his skin.

Counsellor Tyelcano opened his eyes, propped himself up on elbows and glanced around. Thick, heavy curtains of velvet encircled him as he lay; delicate patterns danced across them, flickering playfully in the half-light. (Were they stars…? or shells… or tiny eagles…?)

As he looked further, Tyelcano also understood that the curtains were not attached to the frames of his bed but were hung from a wide round-arch that shielded him from three sides. The entrance of the berth was bevelled, so as to shield its occupant from curious eyes; and the round-arc itself was a masterpiece, laced with thin leaf-patterns and stills of a depicted hunt.

Somewhere at the edge of his vision, faint, silvery hues of light filtered through giant windows of painted glass, and the giant canopy bed engulfed his shattered body like an ocean of silken pillows. And the pain, that terrible pain from his dreams had vanished.

There was no pain, no death, and no fear. There was only peace, and solace, and that gentle silver-light, so very different of Anor’s intrusive burning…

…could it be…?

Staring at the ceiling, Tyelcano took a deep breath and let it out slowly, gently, relishing in the privilege of aghast relief.

Yes. There was only one way to explain this –

A dream.

A terrible-terrible dream without beginning or end. Everything – the death of Finwë, the Oath, the Doom, the Flight, the ships, the battle under unforgiving stars, Fëanáro’s demise…

…Nelyo…

He, Tyelcano son of Ettelë, Counsellor of kings and mentor of princes was back in Aman now: in magnificent Tirion itself, where he belonged. That was the only possible, feasible explication. It had to be true. The beauty, the luxury, the comfort, the peace, the silence that surrounded him – it was non-existent in Endórë, and impossible, and entirely alien.

Valar, how his head was swaying, and pulsating with foggy pain…!

~ § ~

As time passed, and hunger settled in his stomach, Tyelcano’s senses sharpened as well, and other details caught his attention.

There were two openings within the soothing circle of curtains: one on the front and one on his left. The former adjoined a dimly lit hallway with cushion-loaded armchairs that bathed in the gleam of the polished marble floor, while the latter revealed a table loaded with twenty-some different vials of medicinal potions and fifteen further boxes of dried herbs.

Tyelcano kept glancing at them, then away, then back again, puzzled, and unsure. He doubted if such a variety of medicine had ever existed in the Blessed Realm. A new feeling settled in his guts: that of unease, faint, yet shrill. He stared stubbornly at the ceiling for a time, battling his weary mind, then closed his eyes to think.

Those who dwelt in Aman knew no illness, no weariness, no sorrow, and no fear. The Lands of the Valar were not besmirched by Moringotto’s machineries. All taint of darkness Tyelcano carried with himself came from his own memories of Endórë, and the Great Journey; cold and distant like the Stars themselves.

They had ceased to haunt him a long time ago. Why would they return now? And why would he see all those horrible visions of the royal family? Their mere concept was ridiculous and highly improbable; yet they were so vivid, so detailed, so horribly believable… And there they lingered still, at the delicate frontier of memory and fiction within his mind. His fëa felt the truth in them while his logic persisted, pointing out the evident irrationalities of Fëanáro battling giant demons of fire, of Ñolofinwë fighting the Grinding Ice, of Ñelyafinwë being captured by the Enemy, of various, slightly hostile kingdoms forming in the wide, unoccupied lands over the Sea…

…and still…

At this point, there was a fracture in Tyelcano’s thoughts, and for once, he relished in the warm, welcoming fog that settled within his conscience. He was weary after all; and Manwë, how soothing it was to be released of the burden of his pain!

Pain.

With an uneasy turn of thought, Tyelcano looked down on himself, only to realise that his right leg was broken – badly – and it was hung from the canopy with straps of weaved linen. An alarmed look at his arms revealed dozens of tiny cuts and bruises, all cleaned, all tended to, all bandaged or sewn together wherever needed. And he was clean, entirely clean from head to toes. Someone had even bothered to stuff his pillows with fresh-smelling herbs.

All gentle phantasms of Tirion vanished immediately from his mind, giving way to uncertainty. Where in Moringotto’s seventh hell was he…? Has he been stuck within his own dreams…?

Then, with a slight creak, a nearby door opened beyond the curtains, and two shadows fell on the embroidered pattern of hunting dogs charging at a white stag.

“How is he?” asked a gentle, and alarmingly familiar voice.

“The lord is the lucky one of the pair, Highness,” said another. “The infection affects him no longer. I have stayed with him through the night. His breathing is even, and he feels no pain; yet weeks may pass before he walks again, and not solely because of the fracture. Some of the draughts I had to use are heavy. Highness, with all due respect, is speaking with him truly that urgent…?”

“I shall not disturb him,” said the other voice. “I only wish to see him for a short while. As soon as he wakes up, however, you will tell me.”

“As you say, my King,” came the answer, and the invisible door closed with a soft thump.

Infection. Draughts. Fracture. King. Tyelcano shut his eyes, hardly even daring to breathe.

No dream, then. So that was where this strange feeling of peace, and the wild swaying of his head came from!

Willow bark, most probably. And some light venom, too, with a purging side-effect; also, one of those potions that help raise my fever to get rid of hidden infections. Aye, that would explain everything… Manwë above, did those reckless children carry me all the way to Barad Eithel?!

Tyelcano decided he would have a word with Gildor and his scoundrels as soon as he was strong enough to distribute some heartfelt slaps. At this point in his thinking, however, a soft current of air caressed his face, the curtains fluttered aside on his left, and someone sat on his bedside.

“There we are,” murmured the familiar voice from earlier. “Your face has more colour than the last time I looked. Then again, you have always been a fighter, have you not, Counsellor?” A small chuckle. “I wonder what brings you this far from Himring.”

Within a heartbeat, face and voice clicked together in Tyelcano’s mind, terribly unlikely as their match was. He never reached Barad Eithel, either, that much was evident…

Questions assaulted his mind like an arrow-flight, yet all he managed to utter was a ragged whisper,

“Turukáno…!”

There was a sharp intake of breath.

“Nay,” Tyelcano murmured to himself, “impossible. You have vanished from the face of the earth. No one has heard from you for centuries.”

“Yet you have found me,” said the voice gently. “You have been carried past my Gates and accepted in my House. You are safe now.”

“Safe,” Tyelcano echoed, savouring the word. He gathered his strength and opened his eyes; and there he was, settled comfortably on his bedside: slender-faced, starry-eyed Turukáno, son of Ñolofinwë and brother to Findekáno. There he sat, exactly as how Tyelcano remembered him – long nose, thin lips, dark hair weaved into mazy patterns, brows knitted in deep thought, as if in eternal worry over some ineluctable doom. Yet he could not recall all the lines that furrowed the austere face, or the crown that graced the tall forehead, wrought of fibres of the cleanest silver, gemmed with diamonds, opals, and glowing sapphires. These details were new to him and mysteriously meaningful; and he took notice of them, one by one, and they stayed with him for a long time afterwards. He remained silent for long moments and watched that strange outer light paint its meandering shapes upon Turukáno’s face.

“It is good to see you, child, after so many dark and perilous years,” he said. “Although, if my eyes do not betray me, I should rather call you Highness now.”

Turukáno lifted the circlet from his brows, placed it neatly upon the nightstand, and smiled at him.

“Not to you; not when we are alone,” he said. Without the silvery gleam of the crown, his eyes seemed grave and hollow, like bottomless wells. “Now… I presume we both have questions to each other.”

There was something in his tone that made Tyelcano tense, and extremely aware of the fact that he was no longer speaking to the pouting little boy he used to ride on his knees, as he had done with most of the House of Finwë. All he did, however, was mirror the smile, and rearrange his limbs into a more comfortable position.

“The first thing I have for you is an expression of my thanks,” he said. “Your people saved me from death, or worse. But I was not alone: what happened to my companion, Senge? Is he safe as well?”

Turukáno closed his eyes for a moment. “I am sorry, my friend… he answered the Call of Mandos this morning. My healers tell me that he died of a poisoned wound that ran too deep in his stomach. I am afraid he carried you through my Gates with his last strength; for he would not let go of you, not even when my guards came to your rescue.”

“Wondrously stupid,” Tyelcano closed his eyes, bowed his head. “That is how I shall remember him.”

His voice was thick with sorrow and regret, yet his mind was clear; and he felt as if he had always known.

“Senge of Himring will rest in peace while this kingdom stands,” said Turukáno. “I will see to that.”

“There are others,” said Tyelcano. “Five other corpses. Somewhere out there. Three of Findekáno’s and two of our own. Friends. We could not… there was no time…”

“I understand.” Turukáno placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Is there anyone else… anyone alive… perhaps following your tracks?”

Tyelcano shook his head. “No one followed. Those still alive – if alive – are headed west. To your brother. We were carrying a message.”

“I have guessed that much.” Turukáno eyed him with great interest. “But why you? Why would Nelyo send his most trusted advisor on a mission that an ordinary messenger could complete, if he had no other purpose with it?”

Tyelcano took a deep breath, hiding his sudden wariness beneath a well-rehearsed pretence of exhilaration.

“Lord Nelyo is sober and demure,” he said, and his voice swelled with rueful amusement, “until his wrath is flared. Or his suspicion. The message I am carrying is of strictly personal nature, and my Lord was reluctant to share it with anyone else than myself. It was either him or me to carry it West; and the day I lead my Lord beloved into unnecessary danger shall be the day when Moringotto hands us the Holy Jewels on a diamond plate and apologizes for the inconvenience.”

Turukáno’s laughter was lighter than the jingle of bells as the spring breeze makes them dance. “Of course!” he said. “Now, is there any part of your endeavour that you are ready to share with me?”

Tyelcano considered that for a moment. “I have news that may prove of interest to you,” he said carefully. “And I will tell you about them; but first, I must know: where am I? What is this strange and wonderful place?”

“I thought you would never ask,” said Turukáno, his smile all the wider. He stood, and pulled back the curtains with one fluid motion, draping the whole room in colourful hues of unearthly radiance. Awestruck, Tyelcano sat up in his bed, ignoring the firm protests of his broken leg, and looked.

Through the semicircle of crystal-clear windows, he saw a great white city with jewel-wrought façades and colourful rooftops; narrow streets paved with the noblest marble, statues and fountains rimmed with clusters of gold; giant windows painted in the colours of the rainbow; thin towers with gargoyles and sparkling tops that seemed too thin and too high to even exist; statues of kings and knights and dragons, their eyes wrought with gleaming jewels of all colours; an abundance of gardens, singing birds and strange flowers; and all that emerging from a sea of rich, green mountain-grass. Sharp, icy peaks loomed upon the horizon as far as the eye could see, and Eagles chased each other through their steep, deadly clefts, chasms, and abysses. Anor had already passed his peak, and hid behind the closest mountain, sending orange and golden rays of light through blankets of eternal snow.

Such was the Hidden City when Tyelcano saw it first; and words stuck in his mouth and his breath in his throat, for he was reminded of Tirion over the sea, and the Mountain of Túna as it bathed in the light of Valinórë, and his eyes stung.

“This,” said Turukáno, “is the Sealed Kingdom of Ondolindë, the last safe haven of the Quendi, be they of any blood or affiliation; home to me and to all who chose or accepted me as their King.” He removed the curtains from the other side of the bed as well, revealing an airy, luxurious parlour with squashy rugs, wide armchairs that were works of art themselves, and two gigantesque (and stuffed) bookshelves that both grazed the ceiling. “…and this is your new suite. I hope your accommodations are to your liking.”

“They… exceed my expectations, to say the very least,” Tyelcano smiled. “Aye…” He glanced wistfully at the closest of the four great armchairs, picturing himself as its occupant. “I believe I could get used to this.”

“I am sure you will.”

“When may I walk again?” Tyelcano asked. “I can grant myself two weeks of rest, if you would be so kind to have me; then I shall be on my way, swift and quiet, careful not to draw any eyes on my journey. I hope your guards shall have a map to spare.”

“I think it would be in your best interest to discuss this matter only later, when you have regained your strength,” came the answer; light, honest – and filled with warning.

Tyelcano deliberately ignored it.

“Highness,” he said, honeying his voice with respect and gratitude, “I beg you, if there is anything of importance regarding my journey West that you would share with me, please do so.”

Turukáno turned away from the view of his kingdom, and sat back on his bedside.

“I will tell you the whole story,” he sighed, “lest your wrath would turn against me for things I cannot change.”

When he spoke again, his voice was distant, and faint.

“It had all started with the dreams,” he began. “At first, I had mistaken them for nightmares, for they spoke of death and ruin; yet their message eventually became clear: find shelter. Find a place where Moringotto cannot reach you, or those you love. Still, I hesitated; for I feared that my dreams would mislead me. Then, Ulmo himself came to me and showed me the way: into this valley he led me. This is the Valley of Tumladen, he said, and the mountains themselves rumbled with the echo of his words –, here your kingdom shall stand for many years to come. Lead your people here, and you will be safe from all peril but the one you carry with yourself.”

“Then, I made plans. Countless scrolls of parchments I have filled; I have designed houses and streets, halls and dungeons, gates and fountains and even pavements; so that Ondolindë sprang to existence in the vaults of my fëa. Yet I have returned to Vinyamar and wandered the seashores, deep in thought. I was still unsure, hesitant like the Teleri: wishing to depart, yet unable to do so. For I knew that the only way my kingdom would last was that of secrecy and isolation; and the thought of leaving grieved me more than anyone could understand.”

“Then the Glorious Battle came, and our great victory with it; yet all I did was count my losses, and visit the graves of my fallen friends. A feeling of restlessness came over me, a warning from Ulmo himself, as I understood; and I knew I had to do what was best for my people. I had to leave Vinyamar behind while it was still green and peaceful, with seagulls cracking mussels on the edge of my window-sill. Thus, the constructions began, and on they went for years; in haste and secrecy my people have laboured, and I with them. With Ulmo’s help, we moved here, leaving no one behind; and when the last ones arrived, the six Gates of my City were sealed, so no outsider may enter or leave. This was the first and utmost rule I had based my Kingdom on: that of secrecy.”

“See, Counsellor, those who have chosen to follow me all accepted to stay at the safe haven once they reached it. For the Marrer is stronger than us all, and he knows the ways of our hearts; and no loyalty, no valorous stance can help us if he captures us! I am not willing to take that risk. The safest way would be, of course, to lock our Gates once and for all, letting no one in and no one out; yet we, in this City, are unable to shut our hearts completely from our people. Those who, by fate or by chance, do find the Gates of Ondolindë, and prove to be of good and honest intention, are let inside, and taken care of. I give homes to them, very often in my own house, and do my best to help them start a new life in my kingdom. There is only one rule they must all respect: once they entered, they cannot leave while the Iron Prison stands in the North, and the Doom of the Ñoldor is at work.”

Tyelcano took a deep breath, ignoring the terrible, gripping dread that spread across his chest.

“I presume,” he said, voice calm as a frozen lake, “that said interdict is not extended to, forgive my immodesty, but envoys of high stance from the upmost quarters of the household of the Star.”

“I am afraid it does,” said Turukáno, his voice low, regretful, but harder than stone. “Your companion has carried you all the way here. You have found the Orfalch Echor, and with that, one as well-versed with maps as yourself can find the exact location of this City in no time. I cannot risk that information somehow – anyhow – reaching the Enemy. I know you would never betray me willingly; but who knows what Moringotto is capable of…? Only once before had I let guests leave my City: for three days and three nights my Council debated the issue, and the only reason I decided in their favour was that the Eagles had carried them through the mountain-lands. They would never find us again on their own, not even if Moringotto were to break their will and read their minds; but the same is not true in your case, Counsellor. You are family, and rescued from a deadly peril that will come after you if you continue seeking it. And, first and foremost, you know where you are. I am sorry, from the bottom of my heart, but I cannot let you leave; at least not now, with the Enemy’s forces scattered in Beleriand and with deadly threats looming above the heads of the Ñoldor!”

“Lord Nelyo needs me,” said Tyelcano slowly, balefully. “I have to go.”

“This matter is not up to discussion,” Turukáno said, and in that moment, he seemed stern and adamant like Finwë himself. “You shall leave when the time comes for you to leave – if you still wish for it.”

Tyelcano counted thirteen breaths until he trusted himself enough to answer. “Do not think that I scorn your hospitality, or that I am without gratitude,” he said. “It is only that I am sworn…”

“…to the House of Finwë.” Turukáno’s eyes were two gleaming gems in the light of sunset. “And you tend to forget that Finwë had three sons, and his sons had sons, who have always been more eager to hear your counsel than Fëanáro, or any of his kin.”

Tyelcano let himself sink into the welcoming embrace of his pillows.

“You should have let the Enemy capture me,” he said. “Being burned with hot iron, reshaped into an Orc or threatened with the Eternal Darkness are nothing next to the sheer torment of the good old family feud.”

“Then the torment shall cease until you get better,” said Turukáno gently, and he tucked the blankets tighter around him. “Do not let the shadows of this marred world trouble you!”

“The shadows are within, and I, myself, feel marred,” Tyelcano sighed. Then, deciding to push his luck a little further, he added, “Turukáno… will you do something for me?”

“Anything except one.”

Of course.

“You have always been friends with the Eagles,” Tyelcano tried. “Can you at least… with or without their help… assure that my friends reach Barad Eithel safely?”

“I may.”

 “And will you come to see me again in my exile?”

“Exile is something we all share.” Lithely, Turukáno stood, and stepped outside the circle of curtains. “Worry not! You have not seen the last of me, or my household. Now rest, and regain your strength. I shall send a healer to have a look at you. Feel free to ask for any book your mind can convey – my library has it.”

With that, he was gone; and unearthly silence settled in the room once again.

Tyelcano propped his head up with silk pillows and crossed his arms, wincing inwardly at the painful tension the movement caused. He would need time to heal indeed; and assistance, and care. And he would have all that.

All his commands would be carried out, all his requests heard and honoured, all his wishes granted. All but one.

He was a prisoner, after all.

And as he lay in the cocooning warmth of his bed, indignant, grief-stricken, a sudden image flashed before his mind’s eye, from his home in the Blessed Realm across the Sea. From Formenos, where, in an empty room, there probably still was a marvellous diamond cage – courtesy of Fëanáro –, and within, a small bird, wrought of silver and gold with eyes of topaz and wings red as rubies. If one turned the key below its maw twelve times, it would sing.

And so would he.

~ § ~§ ~ § ~

Dimbar, North-West of the Brithiach, FA 467, the first day of Nárië

Antalossë had seen – and built – funeral pyres before.

Antalossë had seen innumerable horrors before, in fact, his life being one endless sequence of consecutive disasters.

Antalossë had lost friends before, and he had wept bitter tears for them.

Antalossë knew what peril was, and death scared him no longer.         

Why were his legs shaking so much, then?

The corpses did not look dead enough yet: three could have been sleeping, and two could have been at the verge of awakening with their eyes half open.

The flames crackled their tempestuous song as they ate flesh and bones like a pack of crimson wolves.

Why were his legs shaking…?

Antalossë had hoped that disaster would elude him this time; but hope did not douse in him the awareness that it could happen. Nor was he surprised that it did, after all. Peril had a habit to find him wherever he went. There was nothing special about the occasion; save perhaps for the detail that this particular disaster would have been easier to endure if he had two more corpses to burn, and not less.

There they were, slowly becoming a heap of ash and blackened bones: five empty shells, five limp likenesses of brave soldiers. He had known them by their names and called them friends. When he first came upon them, his stomach had curled into a tight knot, dreading the moment when he would turn over a corpse, and recognise Counsellor Tyelcano, or Senge, or Vorondo. Vorondo, he found; but not the other two.

He counted the dead again and again, over and over, caressed their faces, closed their eyes, clenched their palms around the hilts of their swords and whispered blessings into their ears as he helped Lindír lift them onto their pyres; yet there would always be two missing.

Later, he found the tracks: the crystal-clear path carved by a body that had been dragged along the airy plains, trails of blood and nails digging into the ground to fight the pains of a broken leg; and the deep, tamped footprints left by Orc-feet on the pursuit.

Antalossë looked at the tracks, then turned away, then looked again. Lindír was standing beside him, holding the pieces of a broken lance he was somehow reluctant to throw into the fire.

“They tried to run,” he said. Antalossë wanted to nod, but his head seemed frozen to his neck.

“…the whole band leapt after them. They could not have gotten very far.”

This time, Antalossë did nod. Lindír gave the fire a stir and turned away from the charred bones of their friends. The wind kept the billowing smoke away from their faces; still, their eyes stung.

Lindír took a breath. “Maybe we should…”

“There is nothing for us here.” Gildor’s voice was sharp, and very clear in the morning air as he emerged from under the edge of the nearest slope. “I have followed the tracks while you gathered wood and fed the fire. They keep getting increasingly trampled by Orcs as they run on, then they become unreadable.”

Antalossë stirred, his heart leaping into his throat. “But… the bodies, my lord,” he whispered. “Where are the bodies?”

Gildor looked him in the eye, hardly, almost challengingly.

“Do you mean that they were… captured?” Lindír’s hands tightened into fists. “Carried away? What do you mean, Lord?”

“Three miles North.” Gildor’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell. “I burned them.

---

Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes

‘Tyelcano son of Ettelë’ actually means Tyelcano son of ‘foreign lands’, in reference to his upbringing in Cuiviénen. The names of his parents are not known, and he never speaks about them, although it is rumoured that his father was one of the first Elves awakened by Eru himself.

Turgon’s story about the founding of Gondolin is a (stretched) retelling of the canon.