The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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Faith and Fallacies

More secrets are uncovered, and a certain Teler lord has yet another trick up his sleeve.

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The celebrations were over, the morning light was piercing and cheerful, and Summer had come. The Gondolindrim had left their vigil on the city walls and gone to rest, or enjoyed a rich breakfast; and silence reigned in the Tower of the King. The only sounds came from the study-room; for the King and the five lords that sat around the table were still profoundly engaged in their debate.

According to Tyelcano, the experience was about as pleasant as getting stuck between five different groups of enemy archers.

“So,” said King Turukáno measuredly, “both you and my brother… and Laurefindil…”

“And Nelyafinwë,” said Tyelcano. “That is why he sent me to Barad Eithel: so I would tell Findekáno. He could not go himself, and I was the only one to share his secret; yet alas! I have now broken my promise to keep it. Still, I believe you must know.”

“Indeed,” said Turukáno. “I have not told anyone about these visions myself, which, I am now tempted to think, was a short-sighted decision. Have you, Laurefindil?”

“He told me,” said Ecthelion, “and long since regretted it, for I would not stop pestering him. Had I not dragged him here, he would not sit with us this morn, either.”

“I can speak for myself, thank you very much,” the Lord of the Golden Flower quipped; but he looked at his friend with fondness.

“And no other son of Fëanáro sees these – visions, whatever they are?” King Turukáno pressed.

“Not that I know of,” said Tyelcano solemnly. “If Makalaurë had nightmares, he would sing about them; Tyelkormo and the twins would ride out in haste to find where they take place; Carnistir would dismiss them, saying that he had ate too much cheese for dinner; and Curufinwë would be certain that his visions shall change the course of the world; and therefore, he would cry them from the top of the Himring.”

“But Nelyafinwë would tell naught: not to anyone, but his most faithful servant…” Turukáno shook his head. “It is strange to me that he would rather stay silent, same as I did. Because I do believe you coaxed it out of him.”

Tyelcano bowed his head. “You have always been an excellent judge of character.”

“And what did he say?

The counsellor closed his eyes for a moment, fighting his unease over revealing even more details of his lord’s secret; but when he spoke, his voice did not quiver.

“Lord Nelyafinwë thinks the dreams speak of an inevitable doom,” he said, “and I thought that they served as a warning: that we could still avoid their unfolding, if only we understood what they told us. According to the words of his messenger, your brother agrees with me.”

“So Findekáno wrote no letter, either,” Ecthelion cut in. “Why is that? Is Beleriand so unsafe now that the messages of its King would not reach their destination?”

“Alas, it truly is,” said Tyelcano. “Is my journey not proof enough? My companions were slaughtered like pigs.”

“They were avenged at a terrible price,” said Lómion, who had not spoken since the start of their vigil; and now that he did, his voice was hoarse. “Our City has almost been discovered because of the wrath their deaths had roused.”

“Yet by your wisdom, one life was saved, at least,” said Tyelcano. “For that, you bear my gratitude. It would have caused me great grief, had Captain Elemmakil of the Gates helped me in a time of great need, and died for it.”

He made no attempt to blunt the edge of his voice. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ecthelion and Laurefindil exchange a swift glance; but Lómion only bowed his head.

“I am glad I changed my mind,” he said smoothly, “though neither the Council nor the King would have made such a decision based on my word alone. I do not have such power. Have you?”

“Whenever my lord grants it,” said Tyelcano against his better judgement. There was something about this young Elf that unnerved him – he was tall and slender like Itarillë, of whom no one would speak in the King’s household; yet still terribly different.

“Counsellor,” said Laurefindil abruptly, “you said that you thought the dreams served as a warning… past tense. What made you change your mind?”

“Nothing.” Tyelcano raised his eyes to meet the Captain’s, his glance intent and piercing. “My dreams have come true. I had dreamed about being assaulted in the wastelands, about my wounds, about the fight… and then, about the gates of this city opening before me and your King treating me with kindness. Now, for purposes still unknown to me, I am here; and my dreams have ceased. Alas, burdened I am with the knowledge that if my visions have indeed come to be, then so will those of my lord beloved!”

“What dreams has he?” King Turukáno demanded.

“The same voice is speaking to him,” said Tyelcano, “yet what he sees is different. That might be true for all of us, in fact: my theory was that the lord’s dreams shall only make sense together with mine and Findekáno’s, but it may as well be that all of our dreams are thus connected. Lord Nelyafinwë saw a great battlefield in his dreams, with corpses everywhere. Some other times, he flew over Tirion, draped in the light of moon, which he told me was impossible, unless…”

Tyelcano’s voice faltered.

Suddenly, the answer was in his head.

“Unless?” said King Turukáno warily.

Tyelcano looked him in the eye. “When I first woke up after my rescue,” he said, “I thought that the Darkening of Valinórë and all our exile was no more than a terrible dream. I thought I was back in Formenos, or Tirion itself, in the halls of the Great Palace. This city is a true wonder, a remnant of what our lives had once been, and what they could still be if not for the vices of Moringotto. What if my lord saw Ondolindë in these dreams, and not Tirion? If I mistook this city for the Blessed Realm itself, then so could he.”

“That is certainly a possibility,” said Voronwë Aranwion, who had been silent for so long Tyelcano had almost forgotten he was still in the room, “although it cannot truly happen. The only way Nelyafinwë could come here was if the Eagles carried him; and if they did, he could not leave the City, either, for so goes the Law.”

“Pray that the day never comes,” said Lómion, “for the sake of us all. Surely, the eldest son of Fëanáro would have no regard for such little things as laws.”

“Pray indeed,” said Tyelcano, before he could restrain himself, “for the word freedom holds grave meaning for one who had cast away the chains of Angamando; and without whom you would have no kin alive outside these walls to worry about. Alas! on the day my Lord sets foot in here, child, you might even learn some humility.”

Lómion’s face darkened – but whatever snide remark had been lingering on his tongue, he swallowed it when he saw his uncle’s expression.

“For that, you will apologize,” said Turukáno. “I will not see my cousin’s name besmirched any further than the horrors of the past already have. He is the bitterest enemy of the Dark One who still walks his lands; and whatever ill news you might have heard of his brothers do not extend to him.”

“Do you know, then, of the deeds of Beren and Lúthien?” Tyelcano asked, bewildered. “How?”

“The Eagles,” said Laurefindil. “Sorontar himself brought the news. Are they true? Is there a Silmaril in Doriath?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Tyelcano nodded.

“And what we have heard about Tyelkormo and Curufinwë,” Voronwë added gravely, “is that true as well?”

“I cannot know what you have heard,” said Tyelcano with dignity. “News travel fast; and rumours faster.”

That was particularly weak, even for a mockery of an explanation, and he knew it.

Slowly, he turned away from the others and walked out to the balcony, his eyes fixed on the icy peaks of the Oroquilta over the gleaming city; and he felt the sudden – and quite ridiculous – desire to grow wings, and ride the winds of Manwë to his remote homeland in the East, and see his kinsmen again.

“To say that my lord was displeased would be an understatement,” he said at length, when he could no longer bear the scrutinizing gazes on his back. “Both Tyelkormo and Curufinwë were punished, and gravely.”

Turukáno stood next to him, and held his shoulder. “And they accepted the punishment?”

“I made them,” said Tyelcano.

“He made them!” Voronwë exclaimed. “Of what metal have the Valar forged you, Counsellor?”

“Everything I did, I did for Lord Nelyo,” said Tyelcano sharply, “and that is my last word.”

The name, so rarely used, sprang freely from his lips; but before he could have mulled over the degree of its inappropriateness, a large stone vase toppled over at the far edge of the balcony, flooding the floor with dirt. Where it once stood, Tyelcano glimpsed the slouched figure of Anardil, swearing in muffled Telerin.

“You!” He exclaimed, ready to unleash his pent-up frustration on the first possible target. “I did not bring you here to listen to my private conversations!”

“With all due respect, My Melancholic Lordship,” said Anardil, a bit faintly, “I am here to listen to my King’s private conversations, and not yours.”

“And how that is any better?!” Voronwë cut in dangerously. “Has your life been spared for naught? Have you truly learned nothing in the past few weeks?”

“I have learned my lesson about lying, thank you very much,” said Anardil, “or else I would have tried to convince you of my latest ambitions to become a royal gardener.”

“Unbelievable!” Lómion joined the choir of indignation. “You do not know how lucky you are to have earned the King’s forgiveness, outsider. If I lack humility, then what is it that you lack?”

“Manners, I would say,” said Tyelcano, “and cadence. So I should have expected.”

But King Turukáno himself did not seem wrathful; he watched Anardil with great bewilderment instead.

“It would indeed seem that there is another lesson in order for you, my friend,” he said. “About eavesdropping – or, at least, that is what I would say if I did not suspect that you had reason enough to do what you did.”

“Finally, someone with an ounce of sense!” Anardil sighed. “I mean,” he added quickly, “clearly more than an ounce. Ounces unmeasured, sire.”

“You shall not jest your way out of this,” said Turukáno, his eyes gleaming. “Speak!”

“Remember when we finished that excellent wine? Highness?” Said the Teler, his voice suddenly cautious. “We were standing out here, right here, and you told me something. All flowers shall wither, you said. I recognized those words, along with others I have heard in my dreams. And for – for some unfathomable reason, I was sure that you shared them, sire. I wanted you to hear my song so we could talk about it, and the Gates of Summer provided a better excuse than I could have ever devised myself.”

“You could have simply told me,” said the King. “Or asked.”

“And would you have answered?” Anardil tilted his head. “It would not have been wise. You had no reason to trust me, and neither had Captain Laurefindil or Lord Melancholy here.”

“Nor have they now!” said Lómion. “Or any of us!”

“Despise me all you like, but never let that hinder your judgement!” Anardil sighed. “What reason could I have to wish ill upon this City? I live in it! Yes, cundu Lómion – I live here now, whether you like it or not, and that puts us in the same fishnet, as my late father used to say. I wish the best for each and every one of you, out of mere solidarity – but not for our King. For him, I wish the best because he has been kinder to me than anyone else in a long time; and if I shall ever be free from what happened to me in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, it will be thanks to him.”

“Still, you spy on him,” Lómion quipped, “and you scour his secrets instead of offering your service.”

“Of course I do!” Anardil crossed his arms, and for once, he seemed truly enraged. “I have no power here. Do you think I do not know why you, all of you, berate me so? You think of me as a thrall, a despicable creature broken by the Enemy’s malice; and whatever I do, you shan’t ever trust me because you see no further than your nose! I have no reputation to lose; and because of that, I find that I might as well try and be effective.”

“That was particularly ill said in the presence of one who is servant to Nelyafinwë,” said Voronwë, “and yet, there is truth in it. Galdor was right: we have indeed brought something back from our journey with us. Something fey, something dangerous. Doubt.”

“Nay,” said Laurefindil. “The Eagles bought the news that perturbed us so. Everything that happened since then is nothing short of inevitable. I have said this once and I shall say it again: we cannot hide here for ever! The Black Hand creeps ever closer to this safe haven of ours, groping, searching; and one day, it shall have its prize.”

“And that day, we should be ready to bite it,” Ecthelion nodded.

“And there we are again!” Lómion sighed. “My lords, your doubts are nothing if not serious, and concerning. Truly! Still, we cannot go blindly after an invisible threat. Dark and perilous times are coming – yet would it not be wiser to arm ourselves before we face them, with the help of these dreams if we have to? No blade is sharper than that of unbiased knowledge.”

“…says the one who would have cast me down the Caragdûr if given the chance!” Anardil snapped. “So much for unbiased knowledge.”

“Anardil of the Falmari,” said Tyelcano, his voice calm as a mountain lake, “for years uncounted, I have been Counsellor to lords who cannot hold their tongues. It is based upon that experience that I suggest you return to the topic of your dreams right now, before you say something else you will regret. The same is true for the rest of you,” he added dangerously, giving both Lómion and Ecthelion what he hoped was a very cold stare. “I prefer to be left under the impression that I am taking a break from home.”

“The Counsellor is right, my friends,” said King Turukáno, his eyes gleaming with barely concealed amusement. “Let us not search for enemies where there are none.”

“I did not mean to be rude,” said Lómion with an effort. “Everything I said, I said out of well-meaning concern.”

“And I, out of exasperation, which is inacceptable,” Tyelcano nodded. “You must truly excuse me as well. I am not truly myself as yet.”

Exasperation, however, was not even close to what he truly felt; keen interest would have hit much closer to the mark. It seemed that the debate he had been thrown into had started weeks, if not months before; and it did not truly concern the dreams anymore, but the current state of Beleriand, and what the Lords of Ondolindë were willing – or unwilling – to do about it. To Tyelcano, it seemed that Ecthelion and Laurefindil were a lot less eager to stay idle in this diamond cage than the rest of the lords, especially Lómion. He also noticed that no one seemed to trust, or even truly like Anardil; no one but perhaps the King, who listened with great interest as he described his dreams.

“I hear the same voice as apparently everyone else,” Anardil said, “and I crawl slowly through a battlefield, like most. Some great Shadow moves in front of me, like a giant serpent made of ashes and smoke; and there is a deep, rumbling sound coming from below me, from under the earth. I make my way slowly and perilously through the desolation, and that is when I glimpse it: a hill in the middle of the wastelands. A hill of corpses, mouth gaping, armour eaten by rust. And still, grass grows on top of the hill, and the Shadow touches it not. All flowers shall wither, says the voice, and then – well, then, just the usual.”

“Which is?” Lómion raised an eyebrow.

“I dream myself back in my cell,” said Anardil sharply. “I highly doubt that would carry any otherworldly significance.”

“A hill of corpses, you said?” King Turukáno’s voice was light, almost casual. “Interesting. I see the same thing – nothing else, only the hill of the dead. I also hear the scream of crows, and the Voice. I climb the hill, looking for something – someone – but I do not know whom, and the faces of the dead turn to ash as I search among them. My dreams feel as though they would go on for hours; yet whenever I wake from them, dawn is always far.”

“Then,” said Lómion, “ultimately, there is only one thing that truly connects these dreams; and that is the Voice.”

“Everything is connected,” said Laurefindil. “It is the same battlefield we see; the same crows we hear; the same corpses we smell. We carry shards of a different doom, which we must evade.”

“You do not know that!” said Lómion. “You think it, and perhaps rightfully so; but you should never be certain. There is no way to know that you are indeed seeing the same things.”

“Paint,” said Tyelcano absently.

Lómion stared at him. “Pardon me?”

“We could paint pictures of what we saw,” said Tyelcano. “I cannot claim to possess extraordinary artistic talent, but I think I should manage a few crows. We will look at the colours, the shapes – and then we shall know.”

“…and here it is!” said Anardil with enthusiasm. “The first sensible idea today. When do we start?”

“Soon,” said King Turukáno, resolute. “The vigil, however, was long; and I must clear my head. I shall expect you here at nightfall.”

~ § ~

“I have a question for you,” said Tyelcano cautiously.

They were walking through the King’s gardens, towards the gate. The air smelled sweet, and the shade under the trees was tempting; but their steps did not falter.

“Why pretend you need a permission?” said Anardil. “Sooner or later, you lords always have your way.”

Tyelcano tilted his head. “You kicked that vase over on purpose, did you not?”

“Does it matter?”

“You knew that everyone would berate you, that Lómion’s wrath would once again turn against you, and still you did it. For your King.”

Anardil turned around, and looked at him.

“I think,” he said, “that the lengths we would both go to save the ones we value are somewhat concerning.”

Tyelcano hid his bewilderment. “What do you mean by that?”

“I do not know yet; not really,” said Anardil. He seemed to battle himself for a few moments, then he turned away from Tyelcano again, staring at the snowy mountains over the city. “You want to get out of here, am I right?”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Anardil echoed. “The sole question is, what are you willing to do for it?”

“I cannot do anything,” said Tyelcano warily. “The Gates are closed.”

And will you open them, the echo of the Voice whispered in his ear, or will you let the world wither?

Anardil looked at him as if he had read his thoughts.

“You told Voronwë yourself,” he said. “Everything you do, you do it for Nelyafinwë. I am not stupid enough to think that would ever change; and kindly and wise as you might seem, I trust you not. I have already seen what the followers of the Star can do for their lords.”

Tyelcano felt a hot flash of indignation; but then, he remembered Alqualondë and Losgar, the blood and the flames, and his anger subsided.

“I have known your King since he was a child,” he said softly, “and so I knew his father, and the father of his father. I would never willingly push him into peril. I would never scheme behind his back – I might never even need to do so. If these dreams can be trusted, I was meant to come here; and perhaps I am never to leave. I cannot know that.”

“Again, the carefully crafted words,” said Anardil. “The cool surface, without a single ripple. But who knows what is under that surface?”

“Grief, if you must know,” said Tyelcano, “and impatience. What shall you have me say? That I miss my home? That I fear for my lord Nelyafinwë and his brothers? That I would much rather be out there, alone in the wilderness with Orcs about than here in this city, with all its peace and prosperity? None of these is a secret. Yet, if any willing servant of any other lord was in my stead, they would most probably feel the same. I am truly no exception; and nor should you treat me like one.”

“I wish I could believe you,” said Anardil. His eyes were still on the mountains, gleaming, sincere. “You know, you are rather all right for a kinslayer.”

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Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes

Sorontar is Quenya for Thorondor.

The role of the Lay of Arinion has slightly changed in the story; the changes will be made clear in the upcoming, corrected versions of ‘A Practical Arrangement’ and ‘He Who Walks in Starlight’.