The Seven Gates by Laerthel

---

The Wrath of Maedhros

Fingon comes to the Himring, and hell breaks loose.

---

His twin brothers were waiting for him near the gate, stern and graceful like statues. Even their horses refused to graze; used as they were to the thick, green sward of southern meadows, Maedhros suspected that what grass grew in Himlad’s hills was too scarce, too dry for their taste.

Thirty scouts were surrounding the Ambarussar. Maedhros had chosen them himself as soon as he had returned from Belegost, and with great care; twenty from amongst the Noldor and ten from amongst the Edain, all brave, fierce, seasoned – and trusted.

“Good morn, Nelyo,” Amrod greeted him as he approached. Amras, in the meantime, hardly even seemed to be aware of his presence; his fingers played idly with the mane of his stallion.

“Good morn,” said Maedhros lightly. “Everything settled?"

“Aye,” said Amrod, “if such is possible.”

“I would rather not assume that everything will go flawlessly,” Maedhros admitted, “but I do believe fairly well is a reachable option.”

“Meaning, the Moriquendi not having our heads?” Amrod laughed.

“They would not dare,” said Maedhros. “And you stand a better chance than either myself or anyone else in the family. I trust you, both of you!”

“Thingol will not send aid,” said Amras softly.

“...and going to Menegroth is a waste of time, for he might not even let you in his forest. I know. I do not ask you to convince Elwë Singollo, for he is determined to see us as a haughty, overweening people who would celebrate his downfall. Still, if by chance, you reach his halls, you might be able to heal some old wounds.”

“Yet by your command, Nargothrond must come first,” said Amras. “Tyelpë and Erenis. What if they turn their heads when we meet?”

“Then turn their heads they will,” said Maedhros. “You must try, nevertheless.”

“We shall,” said Amrod gravely.

“That is the most important part of your mission, truly,” Maedhros sighed. “I do not expect Artaresto to see further than his own thirst for vengeance, and even less to help us in the Marches; and I have no such hope in Doriath, either. Still, do not despair! Our strength will grow with time. You must not let the gloomy halls and brusque manners of the Moriquendi discourage you.”

“Never,” Amrod smiled at him.

“We shan’t have the time,” Amras quipped.

“Then I wish you all the luck in this world and beyond,” said Maedhros. “May you return with good tidings, Tyelpë and Erenis! And an army of woodelves, of course,” he added good-humouredly.

Musing, he watched as the gates were opened and the Ambarussar rode out amongst his best spearmen. He despised the thought of them leaving, but Elwë Singollo had to be parleyed with; and neither himself, nor any of his other brothers seemed fit for the task.

“Good to have you back, Nelyo,” called Caranthir’s booming voice behind his back. “If you are the one to say so, I am almost tempted to believe they will succeed.”

“I am not counting on what you would call success,” said Maedhros. “That, however, is not something I could say while your peery-faced Easterlings listened.”

“And the reason for your distrust…?” Caranthir raised an eyebrow. “Strange accent? Rounded ears?”

“No reason – for now, at least,” said Maedhros. “When my Counsellor returns, I will have him spend time with Ulfang and his sons so he can get to know them.”

“As you wish,” said Caranthir. “All I am saying is that I have fought with these Men. They are fierce, and loyal as a hound if you are also loyal to them.”

Maedhros looked away. “That parallel has lost some of its power lately, has it not?”

“Right you are!” Caranthir smiled ruefully. “Still, I do not think that Tyelcano would fully understand these Men. He will call them crude and insensitive, while they are, in truth, neither. Surely, they are nothing like the Edain in Findekáno’s service, but that makes me sympathize with them even more. They come from the Darkness, but they did not flee from it: proudly they marched away, ready to gain back what was once theirs.”

“A homeland they lost?” Maedhros guessed.

“Aye, for one. Many lost their families as well: young mourn their ancestors and old mourn their descendants. They seek vengeance, and the fire in their hearts could be easily kindled. I have been through a lot with their leaders – and believe me, my trust was not easy to earn. Let them prove their loyalty to you the way they did to me!”

“I hear you, brother,” said Maedhros. “The chance shall be given: let us hope they use it well.”

As they both looked down from the high castle wall, wind rose in the north, and their hair, raven and copper, mingled in its rush. Anor peeped out from behind a veil of clouds, and draped the plains below in clear morning light; and all of a sudden, Maedhros felt incredibly alive.

And he narrowed his eyes.

“Will you spar with me, Moryo?”

“No hits and bruises today, thank you,” his brother groaned; but Maedhros would not give up so easily. Not today – not when the Sun was this bright, the world this beautiful, the hope this new and shy in his heart.

“…afraid, are we?”

“I am not afraid,” said Caranthir balefully.

“Nevertheless,” said Maedhros, “you are slow. Painfully –”

He jerked forward and grabbed the pommel of his brother’s sword.

“ – slow!”

He pulled the sword from its scabbard and spun around to evade Caranthir’s angry counter-attack. Then, he disappeared behind the nearest bastion.

“I shan’t go easy on you!”

Maedhros rushed down the stairs and out to the guard-posts. By the time he reached the edge of the wall, Caranthir was already in his heels, pursuing him with a lance he must have taken from a guard. Maedhros counted three heartbeats, then spun around, sword in hand, ready to clash against the long lance.

Fighting, they stormed along the bastion wall, down some more stairs, across the gardens, around the stables, and out to the fields. Throwing playful insults at each other, they were lost in the graceful dance that was sparring.

Maedhros did not see his chance when it came. His instincts reacted instead, barely within control; and he smote the spear-shaft with his brother’s sword, breaking it in two.

“All right, all right,” said Caranthir. “You win.”

“I always win.”

“Aye, you always win the... chivalrous part of a fight.”

“And what part comes now?” Maedhros asked, baffled. Were they to fight with their daggers? Or perhaps with their fists? That would not be chivalrous indeed…

With an evil smile, his brother kicked his legs out from below him; and before he could think of a counter-attack, he was thrown on the ground, his shoulders grabbed and his knees blocked.

“Now,” said Caranthir, obviously pleased with himself, “comes the part when the Warden of the East will be tickled to death.”

“Oh, no you shan’t!”

“Doubt me, do you?”

“You would not dare – most childish – stop – I said, sto – CARNISTIR!”

That was the end of it. Maedhros could not bear it any longer; and he burst out laughing. He laughed, and laughed until tears welled in his eyes; and Caranthir tickled him most thoroughly and mercilessly, the way he would when they were children. How did that silly game of theirs emerge from the depths of time, Maedhros did not know; and he did not care, either. It was good to be tickled, good to be slammed to the ground, his hair full of grass, his boots filled with dirt, deprived of all kinds of lordly dignity.

Eventually, Caranthir let his guard down, and Maedhros could tickle him on his turn; but his brother was tough and fierce as ever, and he fought hard against his half-handed assaults. And then came a time when they sought peace, and laid down in the grass next to each other, watching Anor and the clouds as they journeyed in the skies.

“Hantanye, aranya,” said Caranthir suddenly; and their moment of peace ended.

“I am king no longer,” said Maedhros. The ground was hard and dry under his back; it needed rain, and perhaps tending. “And you have nothing to thank me.”

“Yes, I do. You give us all something to fight for. You...” Caranthir swallowed. “You know, I used to think that Moringotto’s biggest enemies were the Valar; and that it was the tragedy of our lives that they would do naught against his malice. And I was wrong. It is not the wrath of Manwë Moringotto should fear, Nelyo, but yours.”

“You do not know what you speak of,” said Maedhros sharply. He got on his feet and dusted his cloak off, carefully avoiding his brother’s eyes. “None of you know.”

“Here it comes again,” Caranthir sighed. “The spree of false modesty. Our Father got rash and fearless in his brilliance, and you think that beyond your naturally earth-bound way of thinking, you must as well learn the additional humility that could have saved him. Do not lie to my face! I stood with you in the Flames, Nelyo, as did Tyelcano and the rest of your household. We saw you save what could be saved of Beleriand. We all know what you are capable of; pity enough that you keep forgetting it yourself!”**

As if to seal that phrase, they felt light pounding under their feet, which soon became a sound: the approaching, unmistakeable clatter of hooves.

“Someone is coming,” said Maedhros, immediately wishing he had swallowed the unnecessary statement. “I hope it is Kano – you have not heard from him in two weeks, you said?”

“That is no news,” Caranthir shrugged, “and I shan’t poke my nose into his business until I am forced to do so. That, he cannot suffer.”

“Sometimes, he must.”

“Then rather be it your nose then mine!” His brother laughed. “Now, look: I believe those are your banners.”

Maedhros turned away from the view of the castle walls, and towards the sea of Himlad’s grass, to watch the approaching riders. They carried the blazon of the Star indeed, bright golden in a blood-red field: his own colours – and yet, the horses seemed vaguely unfamiliar, and the riders were clad in blue with their hauberks gleaming silver.

“Now that is what I call business,” said Caranthir. “You send five scouts, you gain – sixty, seventy-five, eighty-two… for the Stars of Varda, how many are there?”

“Everyone will be housed,” said Maedhros, although he could not care less about that detail at the moment. “Yet, I wonder…”

“Lord Warden,” called Captain Tulcestelmo’s voice from the wall. “Were we expecting this many –”

“Obviously not,” said Caranthir. “Fear not, Master Curufinwë shall have two new wings built to the castle overnight.”

But Maedhros paid little heed to them. His eyes wandered further still, to the end of the troop, where another banner was flapping proudly in the rising wind: a white star upon a silvery blue field, in a crown of golden flames.

“Captain,” he said sharply, “is Silmatal still saddled?”

“I believe so,” said Tulcestelmo. “My Lord, do you not wish to –”

“Then bring him. Now! I want answers, and I shan’t waste a second waiting for them.”

“Bring me a horse, too,” said Caranthir. “I should dearly like to call Tyelcano out on his newfound pompousness. One hundred and twenty, Nelyo. I have marched against armies with that many swords.”

“Every time we meet, I am genuinely surprised that you are still alive,” said Maedhros fondly.

He paced restlessly along the castle wall until Tulcestelmo reappeared with Silmatal and the giant black war-horse that had carried Caranthir through Beleriand, and he nudged his horse into a gallop as soon as he pulled himself into the saddle. His brother was up for the challenge; the wind whispered in their ears as they raced their horses down the stone-path that led to the Hill of Himring.

Leading the line of newcomers was Gildor Inglorion, clad in the colours of the High King; and he greeted them with his usual courtesy.

“You took your time,” said Maedhros. “If I had time to worry, I would have by now.”

“There are many tidings you have yet to hear, Lord Warden,” said Gildor solemnly. “I hope some of them shall bring you solace.”

“Do you carry a message from my cousin?” Maedhros demanded. “Then speak! And waste my time no longer.”

“I carry no such thing, my lord,” said Gildor, “for His Highness carries it himself.”

“Wha–”

“Now truly!” Caranthir rolled his eyes. “You should have at least sent a vanguard so we could hide the bodies.”

“Why?” Maedhros’s voice was stern, commanding. “Why is he here? Something has gone wrong, has it not?”

“Lord Warden…”

“Why is Findekáno here?”

“Ask me no more, I beg you!” Said Gildor, rather faintly for one of his rank. “It is my King’s command to keep my silence.”

Maedhros spurred his horse without a single word and stormed down the paved road, tearing across the troop of newcomers. Grass-stains coloured his garments after his fight with Caranthir, and a twig was stuck in his hair; yet graceful he was in his haste, and mighty in his fury.

His cousin was waiting for him and the end of the long line; his clothes were simple, his sword naked and sharpened, the ribbons braided in his hair gleaming with a cheerful, golden light. The sole – yet unmistakeable – novelty in his appearance was the crown: the very same circlet of silver that had drawn a silent wedge between them ever since Nolofinwë had been slain.

On Fingon’s right rode young Antalossë, thinner and paler than before, with an ugly scar running down the side of his neck. When Maedhros looked at him, he bowed his head without a single word.

“Findekáno,” Maedhros told what must have been the clumsiest greetings in his entire life.

“Maitimo,” said Fingon, his voice strangely aloof. “How nice to meet you again, and see nothing on fire!”*

“For now,” said Maedhros.

Fingon clasped his arm in a heartfelt greeting, and they embraced like brothers, not caring that others saw them; and those few heartbeats of long-desired closeness were enough for Maedhros to understand that something was amiss.

“Well met, cousin,” said Caranthir, as he turned his horse’s head back towards the Himring. “Next time you plan to flood us with a kingly escort, do send a pigeon. Or a crow.”

At the mention of crows, Maedhros and Fingon looked swiftly away from each other; and Caranthir crossed his arms.

“All right,” he said, “speed this up, shall we? Just tell me who died.”

“No one as yet,” said Maedhros, “yet I fear it is only a matter of time. There are many things we must speak of, many things that can barely wait any longer; but until then… truly, I did not think I would live to see the day when my Counsellor greets me not. Where is he?”

He was met with silent stares over the soft whispers of wind, and a deep, shuddering breath that Antalossë did not manage to hold in; but he only had eyes for the momentary, fleeting expression of despair on his cousin’s face.

“My Counsellor, Findekáno,” said Maedhros slowly, balefully. “Where is he?”

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

The welcoming feast to celebrate the unexpected arrival of the High King was without any doubt the shortest and grimmest of gatherings the Himring had ever seen. Maedhros seated Fingon in his own chair at the upper end of the table, and sat on his right. Caranthir remained by his side, and Curufin at the other side of the table; but Tyelcano’s usual seat, on Fingon’s left, remained gapingly empty.

Maedhros stared adamantly at the table-top whilst the others emptied their plates around him, fighting the constant, low-burning desire to get up and start destroying the furniture, breaking the windows or setting something on fire. The flames of his fury sprang high, then hissed, then subsided; and his heart went heavy with grief.

“Maitimo,” said his cousin softly. “Eat.”

Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment. “Lunch was enough.”

“Yesterday’s lunch, you mean,” came Caranthir’s betrayal from his right. “If your Counsellor was here, he would also tell you to eat your damned soup.”

“Politely,” said Curufin.

“I am not hungry!” Maedhros snapped. “And even if I was, I could not just eat, while… I could not! We have more important things to do, either way.”

“This was a long day,” said Caranthir, his voice unbearably – and uncharacteristically – soft. “Find some rest. Whatever you two are hiding from me, you can tell me tomorrow.”

Curufin’s face darkened.

“Say no more,” he quipped, “I can take a hint. You shall have to bear with my presence no longer.”

“How can you make even this about yourself?!” Caranthir groaned. “You cannot think –”

“Shut your mouth, Moryo, before I stuff it with a sledgehammer,” said Curufin, “and let me take my leave with what dignity I can scrape off this so-called high table.” Brusquely, he bowed his head towards Fingon. “Do enjoy your stay,” he added, and with that, he was gone.

Silence brooded over the table once more; in stretched on for a full minute before Caranthir slammed his cup on the table.

“What in Moringotto’s sorry hell is going on here? Nelyo, you shan’t even rebuke Curvo? Finno, you shan’t even ask what was that all about…?!”

“The question asks itself,” said Fingon slowly, “although I am fairly confident that whatever happened, is closely connected to the ridiculous myth of the stolen Silmaril of Doriath.”

“It is no myth,” said Maedhros hoarsely. “Thingol has it.”

“Pity we do not have his daughter,” Caranthir nodded.

“I am going to pretend you never said that,” said Fingon lightly.

“Why? We would give her a nice airy suite, write a few angry letters, get back what is ours without bloodshed and live in peaceful prosperity for the rest of this Age.”

“And according to what the minstrels sing,” said Fingon, “she would break down these walls and your peaceful prosperity would remain what it is – wishful thinking. I did not believe a single word of those tales; but if you tell me it is true…”

“You stare at me like Tyelpe and Erenis would,” said Caranthir. “Be at peace, Findekáno! We shall not march against Doriath, although Thingol is a thief, and it would teach him a valuable lesson about the Lords of the West. Still, we hate Moringotto a little more than him; or at least, I do – I cannot speak for Curufinwë, you see. Yet even if I wished to tear Menegroth down to rubble with my nails and teeth, I could not; for Nelyo, in his dramatic wisdom, had forbidden it.”

“What shall you do, then?” Fingon crossed his arms. “Surely, Thingol will not part with the Jewel, not until he blackmailed you out of your wealth. He knows what you have sworn, and he is willing to use that knowledge.”

“Aye,” said Caranthir, “which is why we are going after the other two Jewels, and the Enemy himself. If we get those two back, who could stand before us? Who could refuse the saviours of Beleriand? That is the master plan, you see; and I daresay I like it more than marching against the Moriquendi. Whether they are more or less annoying than Orcs is up to discussion.”

A smile rushed through Fingon’s face. “And what about Curufinwë?”

Caranthir’s sigh was like a smith’s bellows.

“Things went badly,” he said, “and he made them worse still. Whatever pit he is sitting in, he dug it for himself. And the same is true for Tyelko, more effective though he might be in his penitence.”

“I never believed the rumours,” Fingon shook his head bemusedly. “With the news I had to bring you, I was not expecting a particularly warm welcome either way; but things are truly worse than I expected!”

“Hold no grudge,” said Caranthir. “I would hate if things would go awry between us. You are our only decent cousin.”

“I am not sure I appreciate being called decent by you,” said Fingon, with a hint of scorn.

“Of course you would not.” There was something in Caranthir’s voice that knocked Maedhros out of his half-unconscious state, and made him glance up. “I will leave you to your business now, whatever it is. We shall talk more in the morning.”

With that, he left; and suddenly, there was no one in the room but Findekáno, and Maedhros himself, and the maddening grief that spread in his chest like poison.

“Let us start with the deeply unpleasant part,” said his cousin at length. He stood and opened his arms, cutting the distance between them. “I am terribly sorry for your loss.”

Maedhros let himself be embraced. He laid his head on his Fingon’s shoulder, and wished he could weep; yet his eyes were dry like emptied wells.

“I was rash,” he said, “and foolish. I should have never let my Counsellor out of my sight. I should have…”

Abruptly, Fingon let him go.

“Do not say you should have come yourself!” He said, with vehemence. “Tyelcano could not have wanted that.”

“No,” Maedhros admitted. “He insisted he would go. Still, I should not have let him! The way our envoys were intercepted is nothing if not suspicious. Orc troops are rarely organized, or led by capable hands – it is almost as if the Enemy knew they would be there!”

Fingon sighed.

“No,” he said, “he had no way of knowing. It was truly an accident: a terrible, unlucky accident, and it is beyond infuriating that Counsellor Tyelcano had to meet his end in a way so undeserved.”

“What do you mean by that?” Said Maedhros, shaken. “Is there something you have not yet told me?”

Fingon drew a sharp breath. “I – yes. I only wanted to tell you at first. There was a time when I planned to hide the truth altogether; but I find that I cannot lie, not to you.”

“What happened?”

“He…” Fingon’s lips were barely moving. “Tyelcano, he – oh Russandol, I am so, so sorry, but we have no way of knowing he is truly dead. It is more likely that the Orcs caught him.”

“No,” said Maedhros. “He would rather end his own life.”

“Gildor found his sword, and… and a trail of markings on the ground that suggests otherwise.”

“No!” said Maedhros again. His voice was hoarse, and he felt as though someone had set his chest on fire.

“I hate to tell you this!” Fingon’s eyes were gleaming wells of sorrow; he could have drowned in them. “I truly hate it – but you must know. You must prepare.”

“No,” Maedhros whispered. “No, they cannot – not him…! I cannot bear the thought. Tell me it is not true!”

Yet no matter how fervently he wished to wake up from this horrible nightmare, it was all real; the lengthening shadows of the evening that crept up the walls, the distant call of a horn as a troop returned from the wastelands, Findekáno’s firm grip on his shoulder.

Yet again, he wished he could weep; but his tears had dried out in Angamando, and they were drained to the source.

“…how did the others escape, then?”

“Tyelcano bid Antalossë, Gildor and Lindír to look for shelter, and wait out the Orcs. He told Antalossë what I presume was part of your message, and gave him your ring. Vorondo, Ohtar and the others defended Tyelcano to their last breath; and Senge disappeared along with him. Gildor told Antalossë and Lindír they were both dead; but once they arrived in Barad Eithel, he told me everything. That is how your word came to me.”

“Tell your captain he did well,” said Maedhros, ignoring the gut-wrenching feeling that seized him. “And – Findekáno, I am truly grateful that you did not try to hide this from me. I had to know… and irresponsible as it might seem, I am also grateful that you came to tell me yourself. Alas! My brothers can never learn this. It would shatter them, and I shall need their wits. We might as well get to work immediately – there is much to do.”

“Russandol,” said his cousin softly. “Sit down. Your shoulders are shaking.”

“Leave grief to those who know not what lurks past the Iron Gates,” said Maedhros in a hollow voice. “It is meaningless to me. The only thing I can do for my Counsellor is to avenge him.”

“That sort of endeavour does not usually go well for our family,” said Fingon.

“Does anything, ever?”

“Compassion,” came the dreaded answer, “and faith. I told you the worst that could happen; but the ways of the Valar – ”

“Do not tell me about the Valar!” Maedhros sprang to his feet. “They have forsaken us, just like my father had forsaken yours.”

“You are sick with grief,” said Fingon, “and that clouds your judgement; or else you would not speak like this, not after everything that befell the two of us. The world has not ended yet, and valour is found in unexpected places. Do not lose hope!”

“I did not lose it,” said Maedhros. “I wanted to tell you about my achievements; but now is not the time to celebrate. Forgive me, Finno… I am being utterly useless! Here you are, sudden and unhoped-for; I could finally tell you about everything that makes my heart heavy, and how do I use my time? I spit flames on the one who had never did anything to feed them; who only ever restrained their spreading. Again, you are a much better friend than I could ever hope to be.”

“I shan’t let you berate yourself any longer,” said Fingon, “neither to question the quality of your friendship. Let us talk about those dreams. I do long for the comfort of a bed after a month spent in the saddle, but I cannot sleep until we have seen this through. What I see in my dreams is most curious –”

Either by the ordonnance of the Powers or by simple chance, the sentence was never finished; for the door swung open, and in strode Celegorm, his armour ragged, black blood dripping from the blade of his sword.

“Nelyo,” he said, “I need your permission to – Findekáno? Is that you?”

“Well met, cousin,” said Fingon, amused. “You left a rather conspicuous trail on the floor, did you know that? And since when do you ask for permission to do anything? The world is truly going mad.”

“Things have changed,” said Celegorm coolly. “Now I need permission to breathe.”

“Granted,” said Maedhros. “What happened?”

“I wish to go Orc-hunting. Kano has trouble in the Gap.”

“If he needed help, he would send for it.”

“No, he would not!” Celegorm snapped. “I told Moryo about this before, and he dismissed my concerns as well – yet now, behold! Kano has taken into his head that the Gap is his to take back, and his alone. If he has a foothold of his old fortress to die on, he shall.”

“See?” Fingon crossed his arms. “This is why I love your side of the family. You inspire me. Amongst you, I feel tame and responsible.”

“If grief amuses you, then we shall be friends no longer,” said Celegorm.

“Enough,” said Maedhros; and in his voice was a kind of power that reined his brother in, and made Fingon fall silent, and look at him.

Somehow, he did feel powerful.

“What shall we do now?” said Celegorm apprehensively.

Maedhros raised his eyes to meet his, back straight, head raised in a gesture of defiance. His wrath, long-latent and suddenly flared, lapped at his fëa like waves of consuming fire.

“Now,” he said, his voice calm and terrible, “is the moment when I have reached the very end of my patience. It seems that Moringotto’s servants have forgotten the taste of their own blood; and it will be my pleasure to remind them.”

“You are going yourself!” Celegorm exclaimed.

“And not alone,” said Fingon. “One does not go Orc-hunting, and leave me out of it.”

“Get some sleep,” said Maedhros. “We ride at first light.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes

[*] and [**] mark my shameless allusions to an unfinished (an unpublished) prequel to this story, ‘The Warden of the East’. It is basically another gap-filler, on the Dagor Bragollach and the siege of the Himring.