The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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Waybirds' Nest

Antalosse's luck turns once more, Fingon's questionable wisdom is introduced, and Maedhros strengthens an alliance.

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Hithlum, FA 467, the eighteenth day of Nárië

The fortress of Barad Eithel sat in the embrace of the Ered Wethrin, large, painted windows squinting down on the narrow mountain pass like curious eyes. Its watchtowers faced the East proudly, an open threat to the forces of the Enemy: such was the seat of the High King of the Noldor since the times of the Siege, when Morgoth had cowered before Ñolofinwë and the strength of his alliance; and even with Ñolofinwe dead and half his people scattered, it still held some stern, quiet authority.

Antalossë of Himring stared blankly at the blue-and-silver flags of the High King as they fluttered in the wind. The softest breeze made them fly, as if they had been weaved of empty air themselves, and they were so fine that he thought he could see the outlines of the walls behind them. He could have ripped them with his bare hands if he wanted. They seemed so fragile! Or were they like pendants of Curufinwë’s making: thin, detailed and fractile-looking, yet solid as rocks?

Antalossë had never thought he could see those flags, or the High King, or his court. Life outside the Himring had become hard and dangerous since the Flames; and the average Elf got shot, hammered, captured or daggered by Orcs before they could even dream of such things. Yet here he was, and in Lord Nelyafinwë’s good graces at that. After all, he had somehow managed to save three of his brothers.

Antalossë had never saved anyone else before; and even then, it was only sheer, dumb luck. If the Lord’s brothers had not come…

Yet none of that mattered now. Not the past, nor the future: only the here and the now. Only the course of his purpose as he would carry it out. Only the truthfulness of his reasons. Only the fact that he was about to do the right thing, even if that right thing meant death.

It truly did not matter. He had delivered the message he had been trusted with; and thus, his imminent duty was done. Now came the duty of honour and decency. Of friendship. Of gall and despair…

Lord Nelyafinwë’s seal ring graced the High King’s finger now, but Antalossë could still feel its weight in the pouch that hang from his belt: cold and insistent, like the touch of a heavy hand that sought to turn him back from the fate he had chosen for himself.

There was, however, no true challenge in choosing one form of treason over the other. No matter which way he went, darkness awaited; and the only stable point in the storm of his doubts was his wish to choose the lesser evil, and desert the command his heart so strongly resented. With every step he took on the other road, the road reason and common sense told him to follow, he was failing his Lord and betraying his command.

“What are you doing, child?”

Antalossë immediately recognized the voice, and his breath stuck in his throat. Of all the people who could catch him red-handed…

“Nothing, Highness,” he said, and folded the sheet in his hands as calmly and accurately as he could manage.

“And you are wording that nothing just now with a bar of – what even is that?”

“A sharpened bit of coal, Highness.”

High King Findekáno leaned against the balustrade next to him and smiled. “Are you a poet?”

Antalossë knew he was supposed to raise his head and look at him; and so he complied, stricken by the sudden force of his presence. King Findekáno was ageless, like most of the Eldar: neither old nor young, lithe yet strong; lively and graceful like a willow-tree that has seen many winters, yet still grows greener than saplings. His dark hair was a sea with waves lapping at his elbows, his eyes wide and bright like gems, his voice liquid silver; and his entire being a well of radiance that shone through his garments, which seemed way too modest for one of his stature.

“You must be a poet,” he decided. “Only poets stay mute if asked. They are particularly bad at lying.”

“I – I do not possess the talents of poetry or deceit, my King,” said Antalossë, bewildered. “I thought poets were good at lying,” he added uncertainly. “Skilled as they are with words…”

“Skilled, aye. Common misconception – it is not the wording that makes a good liar. It is the ability to speak of something else than yourself. If you show me a poet who is capable of that, you know more of the world than I.” King Findekáno laughed. “You must have met my cousin Makalaurë. Have you ever heard him lie…? No. You cannot always catch the meaning of his words, that much is true; but whatever he says, he means it in some implausible dimension, because that is the way he is. It must be as tough as the Doom of Mandos.”

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Then Antalosse said, as if against his will:

“I am drawing a map of these lands. The only ones we have are from before the Flames, and I thought… well, Counsellor Tyelco was preparing one for the lord. So I am trying to finish it, you see. Highness. Have it sent to him somehow.”

“I see,” said King Findekáno gently. He leaned closer to the youth, and they both looked at the silver ribbons of distant flags as the wind picked them up. “Was he your friend?”

“I cannot truly say, for I seldom saw him, but everyone likes Lord Tyelco,” said Antalossë truthfully. “He is clever… he was clever. And he always knew what to do.” He swallowed. “It is so unjust. I should have died instead of him. He was the one carrying the message… but he broke his leg, and then the Orcs came. There was nothing I could do, yet now I cannot stop thinking about ways I could have spared him from his fate. He was the wisest Elf I knew... apart from Lord Nelyafinwë, of course.”

“I do not claim to understand the workings of Arda,” said King Findekáno slowly, “but I know this: everything happens for a reason, and behind the evil machineries of the Enemy, there always remains the simple, unbreachable order of life. Of dusk and dawn, of rising and falling, of victory and defeat. Of acting, then suffering the consequences of your acts. No one is free from that, young one. Not even Moringotto. One day, he shall pay; and I shall do my utmost to live to that day and see it for myself. The Enemy can be defeated – we have defeated him before, and we shall do it again if we have to.”

“If anyone, then you will, Highness.” Antalossë bowed. “You, and your cousins. Forgive me for weighing my sorrow upon you… there must be many matters and grievances on your heart at all times. I do not wish to be one of them.”

“Worry not. You did not make it onto the list,” said the King, his smile suddenly rueful. “In fact, I was hoping you could help me do something very stupid and irresponsible. See, I have found myself in possession of a secret I have never meant to possess, and it gnaws on my mind. It would be best to lock it up in my fëa until the end of times, but I cannot do it. My heart tells me otherwise – it tells me that the evil of untruth is greater than the evil of trepidation, and I find myself conflicted.”

“What kind of secret is that, Highness?” Antalossë asked. “Are you certain that it is me you wish to share it with?”

“I must tell someone, and swiftly, before my heart gets chained by common sense,” said King Findekáno softly. “There are times… strange and rare times… when the clockwork of our logic betrays us and we must walk other paths. I have never been afraid to walk such paths, you see. If I was, my dear cousin would still be hanging from that cliff.”

Antalossë did not trust himself to speak; and the King held his face between his palms, turning it upwards until their eyes met.

“There is a chance that Counsellor Tyelcano is still alive,” he whispered. Then he turned away. “There. I said it… now there are three of us in Arda left with such terrible knowledge; and tell me, please tell me that your heart aches as much as mine. What would you have me do, soldier of Himring? What would you have me do?!” And Antalossë trembled at the fervour in his voice.

Then something occurred to him.

“Lord Gildor knew…” He choked on the words. “And he lied. He said that he had burned the bodies. He left Lindír and me with the knowledge that Lord Tyelco had found rest. And my brother-at-arms Senge. He led us on in blessed ignorance… but he told you, did he not? He had to. He cannot hide anything from his King, in the same way that I cannot hide anything from Lord Nelyafinwë. It is unimaginable.” Antalossë drew a heavy breath. “Woe to me Aranya! You have told me a secret that could bring great evil upon us all.”

“I do not see why it should,” said King Findekáno, “as you would already be on your way North if I was not holding you back with my secrets.”

Antalossë winced. “How did you know…?”

“I am a king, not an idiot.” Findekáno crossed his arms, fingers drumming impatiently on his doublet. “I know your kind, Antalossë of Himring; and yes, I do remember your name. You remind me of myself, from the times when I was, in fact, not a king but an idiot… You would have now been ready to ride North and avenge the demise of your friends as any true soldier should – and leave the guarding of your lord’s lands to others. Leaving duty to others. I have done that before, and it could have brought the evil of evils upon my head – if it did not, it was only because the Valar heard my desperate plea and the great Thorondor rescued me. Yet one cannot rely on such unearthly interventions. You are needed here, young one; and not out there in the wilderness, alone, however upliftingly terrible it might seem for your troubled conscience. Have I been clear?”

“Y-yes, my King,” Antalossë said, as determined as he could make himself sound. “But… Highness, if I may ask… why is this knowledge so terrible to you, then? You seem to be sure what to do. You seem to have accepted that the delivery of a simple message from Lord Nelyafinwë cost him his most trusted Counsellor, even if he is alive; yet then again, we do not know if he is alive, do we? He could be anywhere. He could be in an Orc camp, or even worse. Oh, Manwë and Varda, where do you think he is…?”

“Aye, said King Findekáno softly, “that is the true question. Where is he? Are Exiles taken into Mandos, even? The Counsellor has killed, young one; same as I have killed, and my cousins, and their father, and my guards, and my cupbearer, and many, so many of our people. What happens to us when we die, we cannot know. Maybe our fëa flies free… and that is the best possibility. If I assume the worst – well, you cannot erase a truth by delaying its enunciation. The worst place Tyelcano could be is Angamando. If the Enemy’s servants find him… if Moringotto finds out that he has captured Nelyo’s closest advisor, right from the House of the Star… beloved servant to Finwë himself, mentor of princes and Counsellor of Kings… what do you think he shall do, then?”

Antalossë could not speak.

“Can you now see why my head battles my heart, young one? Can you now see how cruel is the choice that lies in front of me? Lie to my cousin, and he shall find it out – perhaps not immediately, but sooner or later he shall, just as surely as Anor rises the next morning – and then he will turn away from me and call me a liar; and I shall lose one who is dearer to me than any friend or brother has ever been. Or tell him the truth and I deliver him the blow myself.” The King’s voice was hard as steel. “And what do you think your Lord will do, then? What do you think he will do when he finds out that his most faithful servant is about to suffer the same fate as he had? Nelyo is his father’s son; and his wrath is terrible, his despair deadly. I am afraid of telling him – but he shall learn the truth either way, and his wrath shall only be the greater.” King Findekáno shook his head. “I lead the Noldor, day by day. I manage hundreds of miles of lands and I stand vigil over thousands of people, yet I find that I cannot carry this weight. It seems that once again, I shall need to choose from a variety of evils; and I dread the thought that as time goes on, all my choices shall be reduced to that.”

“Then you must the lesser of those evils, Highness,” said Antalossë. “That is why I wanted to leave: to avenge the friends I have lost. I have lost too many this year, and I could not even grieve for them properly. I am not even a hundred years old, and I feel ancient!” He swallowed. “And losing the Counsellor… Lord Nelyafinwë bid me to go with him because I had saved his brothers from an Orc attack. He did not understand that it was not my merit but only luck… I did not understand that it was only luck… and now I have failed my Lord and I have failed Counsellor Tyelco, too. It seems only right that I should avenge him, and Senge; and Ohtar and Vorondo.”

“You could do more by simply going home.”

“I am guilty of cowardice, Highness. I could not look my Lord and his brothers in the eye and tell them what happened! They would send me in exile, and they would be right about it. No scout should stay alive while his lord is dead – worse, captured! Oh, if I could only know that Lord Tyelco has gone to Mandos! I believe that if he had the chance, he would go willingly, rather than to expose himself to Moringotto. But if he had been truly captured…” Antalossë swallowed the end of his sentence, then slowly raised his eyes to meet the King’s. “Well – then Lord Nelyo is in grave danger, and you are the only one who can help him.”

“I ask you because you are loyal to my cousin and you follow his command: what would you have me do, Antalossë? Should I tell him – or should I lie, and risk his wrath, and wonder how long the bliss of illusion lasts?”

“Captain Gildor must have already told you what you should logically do, Highness,” said Antalossë measuredly. “You should choose the lesser of evils and lie – not to conceal, but merely to delay the inevitable.”

“Is that what you would do?”

Antalossë raised his head, suddenly fearless.

“No, Highness. I would tell Lord Nelyafinwë the truth. And I would not use messengers: I would go myself.”

“Truly?”

“Aye. As you can surely see, this is a terrible piece of advice – which is why you should definitely ask someone else.”

King Findekáno narrowed his eyes.

“I like you,” he decided. “I might as well have you ride next to me.”

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

Meanwhile in the City of Belegost

“…therefore,” said Azaghâl, landing yet another jug of ale upon the table, “you are telling me that you have finally and decisively let a screw loose.”

Maedhros turned the words of the Common Tongue over and over in his head, unable to tell if he was supposed to be offended. “Which would mean…?”

The Dwarf’s laughter was hot and rough like Curufin’s smelters on a particularly dry summer morning.

“It means that you have lost your mind, dear friend. You have always had these phantasms, that the people of Beleriand shall all stand together and hold hands in the moonlight. If you truly expect the Green-Elves and the Grey-Elves and all those other haughty hunter-people to help you… if you expect Men and Khazâd and who-knows-what-else to unite under your flag and shake their fists in unison – if you honestly do – then there is no madness in this world that could match yours. You are telling me that King Thingol still has not forgotten about that incident with the ships…”

“I do not want him to forget about Losgar, although he had little to do with it,” said Maedhros patiently. “I merely wish he would answer my letters, if meeting him remains impossible still.”

“High expectations,” Azaghâl quipped. “I, for that matter, would content myself with him lowering duties around that Mahal-forsaken forest. If not for Lord Caranthir, our minerals would barely have market. But enough of my complaining! It is ill luck to share one’s grievances with a mad Elf.”

“I am truly sorry for you, then.”

“Forget it, Maedhros. The Enemy is sleeping now, and we should live and prosper while he is; for he shall wake again and try to destroy us. We should always be ready. But to seek union…” Azaghâl laughed. “My dear, dear friend. At times, one should think that you have left half your brain in the Dark Realm along with that hand.”

“Findekáno says that all the time about my sense of humour,” said Maedhros, puzzled. There were not many people in Beleriand who addressed him as an equal, and Azaghâl was one of them. He had previously observed that getting told off by a Dwarf did wonders to one’s ability to switch perspectives – if they were not too busy trying to translate the japes or getting offended.

“Hmm. I would not say that. If you were truly smart, you would cry fool now, and tell me that you are here to order a thousand breastplates.”

“Actually,” said Maedhros, “it would be closer to three thousand.”

Azaghâl slowly lowered his jug and placed it on the table, next to the empty ones. “Excuse me…?”

“I am seeking to establish a Union, whether you think it is foolish or not,” Maedhros declared, not without complacence. “I know that it shall be difficult, and I also know that there are many conflicts to resolve; but I believe that it could be done.” He breathed in, breathed out. “I can still believe, my friend: that is the only thing I have left. I am the Enemy of the Enemy: his power is growing, and he has isolated our kingdoms from each other. Yes; he is stronger than us. Yes; he is terribly dangerous. Yes; his malice is persistent and terrifying. And yet… someone must do something before it is too late. Someone has to make amends, to initiate discussions or even feud. Someone has to unite the Free People of Beleriand. And why not me? I know the Enemy and his power. I have defied him… and marred though I remain by Moringotto’s vices, he is the one who gave me the power to fight him.”

Azaghâl eyed him thoughtfully.

“I wear no crown and the only lands I hold are my own,” Maedhros went on. “I am the only one who can face the Enemy; and for that, I shall turn over every leaf and shout into every bush if that is what it would take to have the Sindar and the Laiquendi fight for me. I shall travel to the kingdoms of Men and bend them to my cause. I shall come back to you, my friend, and buy you out of breastplates if that helps your kingdom prosper. Someone truly must do this, and it might as well be me – me, who did terrible things, who had killed in Alqualondë and stood aside in Losgar, letting evil have its hour. It might as well be my punishment, or redemption if that sounds better for your ears.”

Azaghâl scratched his beard. “Pretty words!” he quipped and his eyes shone like two gems of smouldering onyx in the light of the torches. “Tell me, Elf,” he said in a rough voice, “if I follow you to battle… Let’s say that the Dark One stuffs those trinkets of yours inside the belly of a bat and lets it loose; and the bat happens to land among my archers. What will you do, then? Ask nicely? Wait for the battle to end? Overrun us – your own friends and brothers-at-arms?”

“Once I have defeated the Enemy,” said Maedhros, smiling, “I do not think it would be very difficult for me to find that bat.”

“Clever and elusive, as ever! The problem with you Elves is that you pretend to misunderstand questions we, base mortals immediately know your answers to.”

“You cannot know my answer, for I do not know it myself,” said Maedhros, his voice suddenly shrill. “You know that I have sworn, and that I did not do it lightly. You know that I must take the Silmarili back… but the key to that, I believe, is the defeat of the Enemy. One Jewel has recently been stolen, and it is now in Doriath; yet you will not see me going after it. Not yet. My Oath bounds me, that much is true, but its rope is not around my neck. Not tightly, at least.”

“Is it true, then?” Azaghâl raised his brows. “King Greymantle stole a Jewel of yours?”

“He had it stolen.” Maedhros sighed. “We do not truly know how or why. I have sent two of my brothers to speak to him, but I deprive myself the luxury of waiting for a decent answer.”

“Mahal’s hammers,” the Dwarf said. “I dislike thieves. I dislike your people’s complicated manner of speech. But most importantly, I dislike King Greymantle.”

“That makes two of us.” Maedhros smiled ruefully. “Anyway… what I have told you about Curufinwë and the forge…”

“All is well and done.” The Dwarf waved his hands absently. “I shan’t say no to good companionship. And we have decided that Lord Caranthir’s generous taxes shall remain, have we not?”

“We have.” Maedhros tilted his head. “This is the third time you asked. Is something amiss?”

“I want to be sure. The roads are becoming dangerous once again, and my people continue to suffer losses,” Azaghâl said. “You must have noticed. Since the Orcs took the Gap…”

“Maglor is taking it back. I have sent my best troops with him.”

The Dwarf scratched his head. “You lot are really doing this, eh?”

“We are.” Maedhros stood, fighting the sudden impact of ale in his head. The absence of balancing forces where his hand should have been suddenly became unbearable. “Please receive my thanks for being such a kind host. I look forward to those trade agreements.”

“Is that it?” Azaghâl crossed his arms, a trace of indignance colouring his voice. “No more sweet words? No more persuasion? No more listing of reasons why I should follow you into a battle that is already lost?”

“I would never ask you to follow a cause you do not believe in, my friend,” said Maedhros, bowing his head. “But the day when my Union has grown and it stands ready to face the Enemy… that day I shall come to you and ask you to fight by my side, for I know your people’s strength in arms. Until then – may the Stars watch over you!”

He bid good-bye to Azaghâl and left the room. Outside the door, he stopped absently, as if to admire the ornaments of the Casari in the walls; and he creased his face into an expression of great surprise when his friend stormed out the door, almost running him over.

“The Powers help me!” Azaghâl growled. “You! The way you appear out of thin air when one needs you the most! The way you fill my head with your impossible fantasies! The way you defeat armies by yourself, and protect the East, and face the enemy, laughing – what metal are you made of?! What madness possesses me when I follow your witless lead?” Azaghâl clasped Maedhros’s good arm in a warrior’s greeting, so sudden and so forceful that he almost tripped over. “All right! All right – I shall join your Mahal-forsaken Union if that is the last thing I do, and we shall cleanse these lands together. No more Orc-filth for us!” The Dwarf looked at him sharply. “You knew I would do it, of course. That is why you are still here. You have been waiting for me to change my mind.”

“I was merely admiring the wall,” said Maedhros lightly. “Your tongue is fascinating. What does barûk mean?”

Azaghâl stared at him. “You can read the runes?”

“I have been taught.”

“By whom?”

“A bat,” said Maedhros after a moment of brief consideration. “If you see one swallowing my Father’s Holy Jewels, I grant you my personal permission to slice it open.”

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Chapter End Notes

Note: ‘The Common Tongue’ Maedhros and Azaghâl use is meant to be archaic Adûnaic/Westron, as the Westron we know from ‘The Lord of the Rings’ does not yet exist here. However, it seems plausible that the languages of Men would serve as lingua franca between Elves and Dwarves, since Khuzdûl is never introduced to outsiders; and Dwarves, I believe, show general aversion towards learning Sindarin (or Quenya, for that matter).