The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The Gates of Summer

Many meetings occur, songs are sung, and revelations are made.

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The Hidden City of Ondolindë, FA 467, the morning before Tarnin Austa

Cloaks were, as a general rule, of versatile use. They kept one warm, shielded them from weather and attention alike, and helped one mingle with the crowd so they would not be continuously disturbed by uninteresting everyday grievances, such as taking their potions in time.

The latter, especially, was true for black cloaks, as Counsellor Tyelcano had observed; and yet, it seemed that most things he had identified as general rules would not apply in Turukáno’s realm. Not here, where the very air shimmered with silvery light; not here, where needle-thin towers oft seemed to reach as high as the very mountains that encircled them. The streets of Ondolindë were full of sharp edges, hidden corners and unearthly shadows; and Tyelcano felt one of them. He did not belong here, into this canvas of pale-coloured, painful beauty.

Twenty days had passed since his pain had woken him in the bed of his new suite: twenty days of healing, rare books and inexhaustible generosity. Turukáno’s healers visited him thrice a day to see how he fared, and the King himself came often as well. The rest of his court, Tyelcano had yet to meet; for his broken leg was still healing, and it was the King’s command that he should not be disturbed, questioned, or even let outside his quarters.

Tyelcano, however, got out of his bed after a mere five days, and limped over to the bookshelves to explore their contents. The next day, he got as far as the balcony, and watched Anor set. The day afterwards, he bathed himself; and ever since, he kept pacing back and forth in the rooms when there was no one to watch him. The last time he had remained this idle for this long was when the Flames came, and a lance nearly ripped his arm off; Lord Nelyo would then lock him into his highest tower and station guards to the door. Sheer torment: and that was home!

Today, on the twenty-first morning of his captivity, Tyelcano finally felt strong enough not only to fully dress (boots included), but also to walk out to the secluded corner of the King’s Gardens, right under his balcony. He had been there before, once with his favourite healer and twice with Turukáno himself – what neither of them knew, though, was that he had slid a coin into the hinge of the garden gate so it would remain unlocked; and now he was wandering the streets of the City, grateful for his own newfound rebelliousness.

Dawn had already come; but Anor’s fiery glance lingered below the Echoriath still, and most of the city was sleeping. Each of Tyelcano’s steps sent silvery dust whirling into the air, as it would in Tirion; and he felt the weight of long, perilous years settle upon his shoulders as he walked. It did not matter how fully he would heal or how kindly Turukáno would talk to him: nothing would change the fact that he was a prisoner; nor the fact that Lord Nelyo would await him in vain. His message would perhaps never reach the High King, and the Orcs would surely not cease their raids and plundering out of sheer good will alone!

Whatever would happen, he would no longer be a part of it: unseen, he would wither away while the Seven Sons, his lords, his family would fight and bleed.

Thus, Tyelcano felt truly and entirely helpless; and that bred some strange, contemplative sadness in his heart which made it very difficult to keep his mind in the present, or even put one foot in front of the other as he walked. In did not even matter where he walked, in fact; sooner or later, he would reach the bars of this diamond cage, and he would need to turn back.

“Lost, are we?”

The voice was merry and clear, and it reminded him of the Sea, somehow. Glancing up, he realised that he had wandered further from the King’s Tower than he had thought; and he was standing outside the freshly painted gate of “One, Clearwater Alley”. From the other side of the gate, a silver-haired Elf was watching him curiously – he was wearing a pair of riding-breeches and a loose tunic; and his feet were bare.

“More than you think,” said Tyelcano morosely, and he turned away. He was not used to be addressed so freely, especially when he was this clearly averse to company.

Some people, however, could just not take a hint.

“Very sententious,” said the Elf. “Fancy a cup of tea?”

Tyelcano stared at him. “You do not even know who I am, and you would invite me into your home?”

“Why not?” The Elf opened the gate with a click, and leaned comfortably against one of the pillars that supported it. “The weather is fine, my roses are making great progress, and I am bored. Besides – pardon me, but you look like you have just lost your pet in a fire-storm or something.”

After a brief battle with his rather antinomic feelings of vexation and mirth, Tyelcano raised his eyes to meet the other Elf’s. At once, he had understood three things: the first being that the other had seen the light of Valinor as well; the second being that he looked every inch a Teler; and the third being that said Teler could clearly notice the Star of Fëanáro vowen into the soft fabric of his tabard.

“…that is exquisitely polite of you,” he said stiffly, “but I am afraid I cannot accept your invitation.”

“Why?” said the Elf brightly. “Have some very important brooding to do?” When Tyelcano stared at him, aghast, he burst out laughing. “Oh Valar, the look on your face…! Listen to me, Lord Kinslayer: I am not going to poison you, or even offend you – intentionally, that is –, I am merely curious about you. Very much. Everyone in this city talks about you, but no one has actually seen you – much like with Oromë’s white stag in that lay, if you have heard it –, and now that you are here, I shan’t let you slip away. Tea it is!”

“If it is not your intention to offend,” said Tyelcano balefully, “then Lord Kinslayer is not a very fine name to call me.”

“Probably not,” the Teler admitted. “How do I call you, then? I am Anardil of Alqualondë.”

“And I am Lord Tyelcano of Himring from the Household of the Star, Counsellor to Nelyafinwë… although none of that truly matters anymore,” said Tyelcano, his voice grim.

“Well, it is easier to be just Tyelcano, is it not,” said Anardil cheerfully, as he shepherded him inside. Tea was, in fact, ready, and a heap of very inviting slices of warm bread were waiting on the garden table, along with fresh butter and strawberry jam; which gave Tyelcano the strangest impression of dreaming. In what parallel reality could he be joining a Teler for tea…?

And when exactly did he agree to this, either way?

“So,” Anardil said, once they had settled around the table and Tyelcano took his first, measured sip of tea, “there is one question above all I need an answer to: did you truly debate Counsellor Lómion from what everyone else had thought was your deathbed?”

Tyelcano blinked.

“Who is Counsellor Lómion?”

“That is a no, then,” Anardil frowned. “Shame! It would have made a good story.”

“Why would I have to debate anyone?” Tyelcano pressed.

“Oh, well,” said Anardil, “because of Elemmakil, you know.”

“Who?”

The Teler squinted at him. “You would not even care to learn the name of the one who has saved your life?”

“Of course I would!” Tyelcano snapped. “But I remember little, and less. When I first awoke in that large featherbed of Turukáno’s, I thought I was in Tirion. Either that, or the Halls of Mandos. Since then, I have spoken to no one but your King, and the healers.”

“Oh,” said Anardil, “that makes sense. Well, you know, a certain Captain Elemmakil got into quite a bit of trouble for having hunted down the Orcs who were after you. This City is well hidden, and we are forbidden to leave it; yet leave he did, so great was his wrath when he saw what happened to you. He nearly got thrown into the Caragdûr for that.”

“The Caragdûr?”

“Huge open crevasse between sharp rocks,” said Anardil, mouth full of jam. “Can’t miss it.”

“You mean – executed?”

“This side of the mountains, we call it the Law of Secrecy.”

“I see,” said Tyelcano. “So – I take it that this Elemmakil was given mercy, and that mercy, somehow, was attributed to me. I am truly sad to admit that I had no part of it; although if I knew about the matter, I would have probably offered to go in his stead.”

Anardil glanced at him.

“I did not know brooding Noldor could fly.”

“They cannot.” Tyelcano sighed. “Yet, it would make little difference. I cannot go home to Himring, for your City is sealed, and that makes my existence worse than useless. I would have so much to do – and yet I find myself shackled! At least if I went to Mandos, there would be a slight, slight chance to find a way out. Or so they say.”

“All right, I get it,” said Anardil. “You are in a foul mood. And the Law is tough…”

“The Law is just,” said Tyelcano. “Turukáno does whatever is the best for his people: that much I can see, and respect. It is myself I am angry with; if I did not break my leg so foolishly, the Orcs would have never caught us… my companions would not be dead… and I would be on my way home already.”

“On your way to peril,” Anardil reminded him.

“Yes, peril,” said Tyelcano, “and the Seven Sons, who must seem terrible to you; but to me, they are very dear. I helped raise them, as I did with Fëanáro; and I cannot forsake them so easily.”

“I get it,” said the Teler emphatically, “I really do. Sometimes, I miss home as well – the Sea and the wind, that is. Even the seagulls, evil little nuisances as they might be.”

“Are you a mariner, then?”

“I was – until I came here, wounded, and the King took me in. I think he must have been the one to spare the Captain Elemmakil’s life as well; he is a lot less fond of executing people than others; or Counsellor Lómion himself, for that matter.”

“Is it not the King, then, who decides who lives and who dies?” Tyelcano was surprised.

“Not alone,” said Anardil. “There is a Council – with the Twelve Lords of the Twelve Houses, and other guests. They give mazy speeches for hours before doing anything. You see, m’lord, that Council would have gravely punished me as well, if Voronwë had not asked for the King’s pardon on my behalf. And the King, he – he understood me. I imagine he steps in whenever he has to.”

“What did you do?” Tyelcano wanted to know.

“Lied to the Council – I know it was wrong, yet the King was the only one willing to hear why I did it.”

“Well, and why did you do it?”

“Fear,” said Anardil, without the slightest morsel of shame. “I was Sauron’s prisoner for some time, you see, and it is hard to chase the Shadow out of one’s fëa. Perhaps impossible.”

“Fear not,” said Tyelcano softly. “I have seen it happen.”

At that point of their conversation, the door opened, and a lithe, dark-haired Elf walked in, carrying a heap of parchments so high that he barely saw where he stepped.

“Almost ready,” he told Anardil, “and you owe me dinners unmeasured. Now, where is my tea?”

“Say to say, it is being usurped,” said Anardil. “My Melancholic Lordship, I present to you my Constantly Trespassing Neighbour, Pengolodh – who, contrary to what his current attire might suggest, is familiar with the concept of combing his hair.”

“At least I have shoes,” said Pengolodh without the slightest inkling of vexation in his voice, and dropped the scrolls onto the nearest chair. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” He continued warily. “Tarnin Austa is not an occasion for jests – and some verses in the Lay of Arinion are quite… by the Valar!” He exclaimed, as his eyes met Tyelcano’s.

“We all are,” said Anardil dryly. “Always good to be reminded.”

“Anardil,” said Pengolodh exasperatedly, “have you any idea, who this is?”

“Well – I did not, but then he introduced himself.” Anardil waved the kettle. “I was jesting about the tea, you know!”

Reluctant as he was to acknowledge it, Tyelcano had to admit that he was quite amused with this pesky Teler child. Pengolodh, on the other hand, seemed considerably less obnoxious than his friend – for one, he actually bothered to address him in the way his titles warranted.

“My Lord,” he said, bowing deeply, “it is a true honour to meet you. I hope Anardil spared you his accidental, yet grievous insults as yet!”

“I would not say so,” said Tyelcano, “but this breakfast is a redeeming quality.” He hesitated. “Did I hear you mention Tarnin Austa? Quite the subject for your scholarly research.”

“Research?” Anardil stared at his friend in dismay. “I was told there would be a celebration!”

“And there would be one indeed,” said Pengolodh smoothly. “The Gates of Summer are celebrated every year in Ondolindë,” he explained, not without pride, “the way they were in Tirion.”

“The same songs and tales?” Tyelcano stared at him in awe. “The same rituals…?”

“The very same, my Lord.”

“I thought I would never live to see them again,” said Tyelcano softly. Suddenly, the thought of being cast down the Caragdûr did not seem nearly as compelling as before; and his dark mood lifted, and his heart was glad.

“Well, you can come with us and see them for yourself,” said Anardil. “Apparently, the Gondolindrim like to dig up old songs everyone has forgotten about; and we did just that.”

“You did just that,” Pengolodh lamented. “My research was fruitless – our friends specifically requested the Lament for the Ark, and all I could retrieve were the first two verses.”

“Who shall see a white ship – leave the last shore – and all that?” Anardil scratched his head. “Aye, that’s a shame. But everyone will be just as delighted to hear those two verses thrice. The air still lives on. Only the words are forgotten.”

“Turukáno will welcome anything and everything you have reconstructed,” said Tyelcano. “He has quite the enthusiasm for research.”

“Oh,” Pengolodh laughed, “it is not as though we would dwell in the palace, my Lord. We shall celebrate on the walls, like most of the Gondolindrim do.”

“I certainly do not believe that anyone would refuse if I took you with me,” said Tyelcano smoothly. “Will you come?”

“Aye, and a thousand times aye!” Anardil exclaimed. “I believe it would also suitably shatter your Melancholic Lordship’s reputation as a terrible kinslayer if you actually had friends coming with you.”

“Anardil…!” Pengolodh seethed.

Tyelcano turned away; and to his own dismay, he had to fight a rueful smile.

~ § ~

“I have searched for you,” said King Turukáno.

They were standing on the topmost balcony of the Tower of the King; outside, preparations were ready for the most abundant feast Tyelcano had ever seen, and most of the chairs were already occupied as well.

“Forgive me,” he said simply. “I wished to spare your household the grievance of having to provide me company for a walk at the break of dawn; yet it seems that inadvertently, I have caused more turmoil than I have prevented.”

“Just never disappear on me again like that,” said the King gravely; but Tyelcano saw laughter in his eyes. “I take it you are feeling better, then? The last time I visited, you did not seem nearly this… alive, if you pardon my wording.”

“These are difficult times for me, as I am sure you understand,” said Tyelcano. “The Gates of Summer, though, are not something that I am willing to miss; not even for the sake of my own troubled conscience. If you would be so kind to have us, that is.”

“It would be my pleasure,” said the King, “although I must say that I am surprised. I never expected you and Anardil to get along quite so well, and quite so soon.”

“Well, he did not slay me,” said Anardil smugly.

“…which is a wonder in itself,” Tyelcano sighed. “It must have the same explanation as the King letting you roam freely in his City.”

From anyone else, such an insult would have been unbearable indeed; yet coming from Anardil, it sounded unavowably hilarious and cuttingly well-earned at the same time. Tyelcano did feel sorry for Pengolodh, though, who was unnerved by the King’s presence alone, and now winced at every strike of Anardil’s unabashedly playful banter.

“Come, and join us,” said King Turukáno, still smiling.

To Tyelcano, the rest of the evening felt like a dream: sometimes rushing, sometimes frozen into eternity; sometimes merry and at other times, sorrowful; and most of all, full of long-forgotten faces and voices emerging from the depths of time, and springing to existence in front of him. Itarillë ran to him, and kissed his cheek; Galdor and Rog clasped his arm into heartfelt greetings; Voronwë drank to his health; Ecthelion and Laurefindil were introduced to him (although Laurefindil, he might have already met; he was not sure); lords Penlod, Egalmoth, Salgant and Duilin greeted him as well, if not with overwhelming enthusiasm; and Maeglin Lómion, son to the – mysteriously absent – Írissë studied him with barely hidden scrutiny.

As for Anardil and Pengolodh, they proved a delightful company; and Turukáno himself was in a high mood as well. Pleasantly, they feasted the evening away; and although despair was still clawing at Tyelcano’s throat, and he still wished to depart, he could not shut all festivity out of his heart; for he was one of the Firstborn as well, and beneath all the layers of woe and suffering, mirth was still a part of his very nature. His spirits, too, were lifted, when Lómion told them a set of freshly invented riddles that divided the table into several hotly debating groups; he, too, was listening intently when Itarillë told them a tale about the Hounds of Oromë and the sly Fox; and his eyes, too, became misty when Ecthelion took his silver flute, and played an hour away.

Then – as a result of increasingly heated pleading – Pengolodh stood, and took Egalmoth’s lyre, and burst into what he could retrieve of the Lament for the Ark.

Men cenuva fánë cirya
métima hrestallo círa,
i fairi nécë
ringa súmaryassë
ve maiwi yaimië?

Tyelcano suddenly felt as though Vairë had weaved those words into the fabric of his soul – he knew them from times so distant, so ancient that he could not even name them.

Man tiruva fána cirya,
wilwarin wilwa,
ëar-celumessen
rámainen elvië
ëar falastala,
winga hlápula
rámar sisílala,
cálë fifírula?

The rest of the song was lost, but the lyre sang on; and so did Tyelcano’s heart, for that rest had been there all along; and sudden, uncalled-for, the words sprang to his lips.

Man hlaruva rávëa súrë
ve tauri lillassië,
ninqui carcar yarra
isilmë ilcalassë,
isilmë pícalassë,
isilmë lantalassë
ve loicolícuma;
raumo nurrua,
undumë rúma?

And the song went on, and he worded it; and his eyes brimmed with tears as he remembered what once was, and could no longer be; yet his tears were not bitter.

Such had been the evenings of Tarnin Austa in fair Tirion, as well: filled with stories, music and laughter until midnight, when a silent vigil would commence – in Valinor, until Telperion’s fading light would give way to Laurelin’s; and here, until dawn would break beyond the Oroquilta. Then, the whole City would sing ancient songs, and welcome the turn of the season.

A few minutes before midnight, silence fell around the table; and King Turukáno looked at his companions from above his goblet, asking them if they had another song to share.

And Anardil smoothed out his cloak, then stood.

“I have a story to share, my King, my Lords,” he said. “It comes from the Dark-Elves, or more precisely, from the notes my friend, Pengolodh had made about them. It is not nearly as refined or beautiful as your songs, but I think you might like it.”

“Let us hear it!” said Princess Itarillë. “Only then can we judge that.”

And so Anardil took the lyre from his friend, and sang of a long-forgotten Hero, one named Arinion, who was a prince in the realm of Intyalë – and then came a moment when Tyelcano’s blood froze in his veins.

For Anardil sang,

“On blood-steeped soil he lay,
above him crows sang shrill
and no other sound was heard
atop the lonely hill;
he crawled on hands an’ knees
as one crawls on cruel ice
and ‘re was no gentle breeze
to blow his hair from his eyes.
Moved Arinion’s mouth:
“All flowers shall wither”
no voice escaped his lungs
and no-one came thither;
“In sorrow it has started,
in sorrow it must end!”
Alas! his strength was gone
his voice, gone with the wind.”

And he went on,

“And the night was passing,
yet another came to loom;
so black, blacker than ink
so black, blacker than doom;
many years would he wonder
many years would he hope
yet he would not find his way!
for the mountains were cold;
for the windy slopes were high
the peaks icy and cold
and he had no voice to shout
his heart empty and cold.”

And still,

“And in starlight he walked
draping himself in clouds
in cavern’s shade he hid
in breaches he lay down;
and on he wandered still
and on he wandered more
yet to dead end he came:
for the Gates, the Gates were closed.”

For a fleeting, terrible moment, Tyelcano’s eyes met the King’s above the table; and he knew with utter certainty that they were thinking about the exact same thing: the dreams.

Turukáno was seeing the dreams!

The realization was so staggering, so immense that he could not even put it into conscious thought; all he could do was stare at the King, and endure his all-knowing gaze in return.

At the other side of the table, Ecthelion and Laurefindil exchanged a swift glance; and Tyelcano knew that they had understood a lot more than he would have liked.

“So,” said Anardil cheerfully, “was that any good?”

“Most enlightening,” said the King, an epitome of composure. “We thank you for it. Yet now, it is past midnight; and thus, the time for our vigil has come.”

We will talk later, his eyes said; and Tyelcano sank into deep thought.

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Chapter End Notes

AUTHOR’S NOTES

- Tarnin Austa, or ‘The Gates of Summer’ is a traditional celebration in Gondolin. There is no mention of it ever being celebrated in Valinor, but I thought I would attribute it to Turgon’s obsession with ancient rites – so that particular detail is a headcanon!

- Chapters 12-22 still need major revision; it is possible that ‘He Who Walks in Starlight’ will include less of the Lay of Arinion, so it wouldn’t become repetitive.

- Pengolodh’s song is an excerpt from the Professor’s poem, ‘Markirya’, which is so wonderful that I just HAD TO include it. Translation:

Who shall see a white ship / leave the last shore, / the pale phantoms / in her cold bosom / like gulls wailing?

Who shall heed a white ship, / vague as a butterfly, / in the flowing sea / on wings like stars, / the sea surging, / the foam blowing, / the wings shining, / the light fading?

Who shall hear the wind roaring / like leaves of forests; / the white rocks snarling / in the moon gleaming, / in the moon waning, / in the moon falling / a corpse-candle; / the storm mumbling, / the abyss moving?