The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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Into the Fire

Something is burning, and for once, the Seven Sons cannot be held responsible.

Or can they?

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The northernmost lands of Beleriand were naturally fenced by mountains, which had drawn Maedhros’s tactical mind to the southern edge of Lothlann, where the Enemy’s threat was constant and pervading. He had built the fortress of Himring to the edge of that natural shield, to a convenient distance from the Pass of Aglon; and Caranthir had fortified the western slopes of the Ered Luin, around the clear waters of the Helevorn. Their castles were facing each other above the wide opening of the Gap, where Maglor kept his men until the Flames came, and his fortress fell; and vile Orcs had overrun Beleriand once more.

The Gap was where the Flames had burned the hottest.

The Gap was where the blockade broke.

The Gap was from where the dragon had come; and now, the Gap was where Maedhros was about to lose a brother as well.

“At least Kano managed to get inside those tottering ruins,” said Curufin’s stoic voice behind him. Turning back, Maedhros saw that his preparations for the battle had come down to the fact that he hid a hauberk under his garments; and instead of a sword, a dagger or even a lance, he carried an oversized sledgehammer.

“Moryo dared me to fight with it,” said Curufin when he caught his glance. “Besides, I did not quite have the time to dress like the commander I no longer am. Some people do work in your castle, you know.”

“I could not tell,” said Maedhros dryly. “Look, Curvo – about that thing I am allegedly hiding from you…”

“I do not care,” said Curufin.

“Of course you do.”

“Then I will teach myself not to.”

“I do not want things to stay this way!” Maedhros sighed. “I did not punish you for the sake of punishment itself; I want you to prove me wrong. I want to know that I can trust you!”

Curufin’s fingers were playing with the handle of his hammer. “And submit myself once more to your ridiculous expectations? Forget it. Your Counsellor is dead – and you should get another one, instead of brimming with sudden generosity. You do not need me around. I could lie to you, and deceive you again, and do so with great pleasure. Or have you forgotten how vile I am?”

Maedhros stared at him with dismay; and he saw the subtle change in Curufin’s eyes as his brother realized that he had truly hurt him.

And then the words spilled out: sudden, incoercible, against logic and better judgement.

“Tyelcano is not dead.”

Curufin stared at him, his eyes suddenly bright, and frightening.

“What?”

“Finno told me…” Maedhros drew a shaky breath. “His body was never found, and there are trails that suggest that he was captured.”

“But you cannot be sure.”

“My heart tells me that he is alive,” said Maedhros sternly. “It weighs on me to know it, and tell none; I may as well share the secret with you, and you alone. You wanted my trust – now carry the burden.”

Curufin pursed his lips. “So – what do we do, then?”      

“We retake the Gap.”

“…about Tyelcano, I mean.”

Maedhros turned away from his brother, and the hazy vision of their troop as they finally caught up to the vanguard that the two of them were leading. Moryo would be among the approaching riders, he knew, and Findekáno, too; and Tyelko would ride at the far end with Tulcestelmo and Gildor, securing the road back to the Himring.

“We wait,” he said, “and hope that he has joined Father in the Halls of Mandos.”

“Curse it!” Curufin snapped. “Curse the Orcs, curse these lands, curse the cruelty of fate, and most importantly, curse Moringotto and his vices!”

“Curse it, you say?” Maedhros rolled his eyes. “And for what? Our curses are about as effective as our blessings and prayers. Words have no power here. Sledgehammers, however…”

“I should have never agreed to this,” Curufin muttered. “I will look like a wood-cutter.”

“And those filthy Orcs will look like chopped wood,” said Fingon’s overly cheerful voice as he reined his horse in between them. “A wonderful match, do you think not? We could also add the fire to the allegory, which would give us chopped and charred wood – or should I rather say ash?”

Maedhros swallowed his snarky response, and narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the details in the fire-storm that was raging where once Maglor’s stronghold stood. The flames lapped at the walls hungrily, like tide rising in a scarlet sea; and black smoke rose over the Anfauglith beyond.

“It is burning from within,” Caranthir suddenly voiced what all of them were thinking. “D’you think Kano is in there?”

“I hope not,” said Maedhros, “for if he is, and the flames do not kill him, then I will.”

“Who cares about the fire?” said Curufin with fake nonchalance. “Those stinky bastards are on the other side. I can hear them. Let us run them down!”

“And take all the fun out of it?” Fingon lamented. “I would much rather like to surprise them. We are here to hunt, after all, are we not?”

“Not to argue with a High King, but the two hundred riders behind us do give away the general direction of our plans,” said Caranthir.

“Aye, perfect! We send them all up front, and we sneak in from behind. Give those Orcs the last fright of their pathetic existence.”

“Well,” said Curufin, “that would certainly be less boring than the usual flow of war cries.”

“I shan’t drape myself in that smoke like a thief in the night,” said Caranthir. “I will charge. Alone, if I have to.”

“You will have me,” said Celegorm.

“Well – if you go, then I go,” said Curufin.

“Nelyo,” said Fingon theatrically, “you are my only hope. Will you help me in my thievery?”

 “I am afraid I must indeed give in to your childish whims,” said Maedhros, “for I wish to find out why are those flames on the wrong side of the castle.”

“Highness,” called Gildor’s voice from behind, “with all due respect – I do not believe that one with your stature…”

Fingon smiled magnanimously at his captain. “Are you calling me fat or important?”

“He is calling you a lackwit,” said Maedhros dryly. “Still, we must go, and be lackwits together.”

“The word I had in mind was rash, Lord Warden,” said Gildor smoothly. “And the same is true of you. It would not be wise to…”

“Definitely not,” said Maedhros. “We have already established that. Yet my mind is set and my patience thinned; and if you stand in my way, your fate shall be none the nicer than that of any Orc trying to lay a hand on my cousin. Am I understood?”

“Most thoroughly, Lord Warden,” said Gildor, with admirable collectedness.

Maedhros tried not to imagine the reproachful look on his counsellor’s face as he would follow them to peril – secretly, if he had to. Against his command, if he had to.

Gildor did not.

~ § ~

Waiting was the hardest part of it all, Maedhros decided.

Their troop had attacked in one fierce onset, sweeping away all enemies that dared to challenge them. Still, the battle was not easily won, for the Orcs were numerous, and they had savage wolves with them, which – as it seemed – were trained to go after the horses before they would touch their riders. These wolves prowled all around the Gap; if not for Fingon’s quick thinking and a perfectly accurate dagger-throw from Maedhros’s part, they would have been discovered in no time.

The Orcs, as it seemed, still held the western wing of the once graceful stronghold, despite the fact that the fire spread very quickly inside. The noises of the outside battle were getting closer, but not nearly as swiftly as Maedhros would have liked. It did not matter how much he or Fingon thirsted for their enemies’ blood – it remained, at the very least, necessary that no one would see them enter.

“You are hoping to find something in there,” said Fingon softly.

“Survivors,” said Maedhros. “Answers. And hopefully not my brother.”

“Is that truly all?”

“I have had the oddest thought,” Maedhros admitted. “You know – when the dragon came?”

“Yes?”

“Kano left his favourite lute in there. I have not heard him play one ever since… now, it is always the harp. I hate harps, with all my might.”

“You never told me,” Fingon smiled.

“Well, I did not always hate them. Only since the Flames. So I thought… I know it is utterly ridiculous, but I thought that if I managed to find that bloody thing, Kano would finally agree to play something else than laments. Something that lifts our spirits, instead of making us weep. Selfish, is it not?”

“Perhaps,” said Fingon slowly. “However, this also means that you would be willing to rush through flame and death to find your brother’s lute.”

“And end the torment of the harp.”

“Still – you would.”

Maedhros frowned. “You have something on your mind.”

His cousin nudged him with his elbow as if they were still children, hiding from their parents and duties. “Most incredible. Does that ever happen to you?”

Maedhros watched as the remains of the old Western Tower gave in to the flames, and collapsed in a cacophony of rock and soot-smelling debris, then turned his head.

“Either you can tell me,” he said, “or you can go on suffering, but with less theatrics.”

“It was only a fleeting thought,” said Fingon lightly. “And, contrary to your lute-related ambitions, it was selfish.”

“You have always known how to make me curious.”

They waited in silence for a while.

“So?” said Maedhros softly. “That thought has now been fleeting for a while, you know. Stiff and unyielding, like a grudge.”

“Perhaps it is a grudge,” said Fingon.

Maedhros stared into the flames. The smoke made his eyes water.

“You are incapable of holding one.”

“So I have thought, until the Flames.”

Maedhros bowed his head. “I know I could have done more for Aikanáro and Angaráto…”

“Not against you, you idiot! You did everything you could. You saved us all – for the Stars of Varda, Russandol, you rode alone against an entire troop, and came out unscathed!”

“They took a mighty rise out of me,” Maedhros muttered.

“…you spend months out in the wilderness hunting Orcs, you held what was left of Himlad, you drove back that dragon to the pits of hell whence it had come from, and somehow you still managed to keep us fed, housed and most importantly, alive…”

“Do not make it sound as though I was alone,” said Maedhros.

“That is it!” Said Fingon, with sudden fervour in his voice. “That is where my grudge comes from. You were not alone! You had me, and Kano, and Moryo, and the Ambarussar, and your Counsellor. Tyelko and Curvo could only be cut off you by force, and Atar by the countless leagues that lay between your lands and Hithlum. And yet – do you not figure that someone is missing from the picture?”

Maedhros fought the sudden – and quite unpleasant – sensation of walking on eggshells. “I…”

“I do not blame you, truly,” said Fingon dryly. “I sometimes forget that I have a brother, too.”

Maedhros frowned. “Did you not see him, then, after your father…?”

“I have not spoken to Turukáno since Nargothrond had been built, and Findaráto invited all of us,” said Fingon sharply. “Some three hundred years ago, that was.”

“But how is that possible?” Maedhros’s eyes widened. “Was he slain? Perished?”

“He built his long-desired stronghold where none can find him, and took all his followers,” said Fingon. “And since then, I know nothing of him. No letters, messengers or invitations, not even surprise visits. It feels as though he had never existed. For a time, I thought I could understand – Turukáno was never happy this side of the Sea, not even for a day. His sorrow was alien to me, however hard I tried to understand him; and somewhere along the way, it all turned sour. You know, Atar had always wanted to be everything Fëanáro was not; and yet I wish he had taught us to stick together the way you seven do. Whatever happens, you can count on each other, no matter how many leagues lie between you, no matter how cruelly Fate tries to sever your bonds. Is it unthinkable to envy you for that?”

“The crown must weigh heavy on your head,” said Maedhros, “but you are not alone, Finno. Our fathers are gone, and their strife with them. We are your family, too, and we care for you – even Curvo, even when he pulls faces and teases you out of your mind.”

“I know,” Fingon smiled at him. “But Hithlum is far, and its lands are wide… and Moringotto sleeps no more.”

“If everything goes as planned,” said Maedhros, “our blades shall sing him such a lullaby that he shall never wake again.”

“That they shall,” said Fingon with sudden satisfaction. “And we need my brother not. Let him brood in his shining castle with his knights and treasures!”

“You are truly furious with him,” said Maedhros warily.

“Would you not be?”

Conveniently for Maedhros, a disordered troop of Orcs and wolves flounced out from amongst the ruins, right before the remainder of the roofing collapsed. The clatter of hooves, armour and the singing of blades clearly indicated that his men had finally reached the walls outside; and the Orcs were, unbeknownst to them, stuck between hammer and anvil. This was their chance – and Maedhros and Fingon both knew better than to let it slip.

Swiftly, they stood and made their way to the abandoned entrance, unseen and unheeded; here, the fire raged no longer, but the ground was still heavy with smouldering bits of debris. Heavy black smoke rose with their every step as they passed under what remained of the portcullis and disappeared between the weather-beaten walls.

“I mourn this place,” said Maedhros. Absentmindedly, he caressed the inner side of an arch: the stone was still smooth, and warm. “Look, Finno, the curtain is still in front of that window… it has always amused me how some truly inflammable things survive the deadliest of fires. As if by higher ordonnance. Why the curtain…?”

“You are evading my question,” said Fingon. “Would you be furious, or not…? And do spare me your gallant self-loathing, saying that you have no right to be furious. You do – even more so than I, in a way. For centuries now, you and Father were the shields we held against the Enemy; if not for you, Turukáno could have never gotten away.”

“Still, he has no obligation to me,” said Maedhros, “and never will. The Ice tested him in ways you and I cannot comprehend, Finno. Do you think it pleases me to chase Orcs night and day? Had I not cursed myself with an impossible Oath, I would also build myself a secret fortress in some warm, green land and shut myself in for centuries playing chess… oh, and probably flooding Thingol with rude letters. He would never learn whence they came, and I would take utmost pleasure in driving him mad.”

“Yet you would never shut your gates in front of me,” said Fingon. “And you would be there if I needed you. It would never even cross your mind not to. Why is my own brother incapable of that?”

“Because he is a King of his own,” said Maedhros, “and a true King, however splendid his crown, is nothing but a servant of his people. If he wants them safe, he must protect them – he must always choose them over the bonds of friendship, or even family. See, we are both spectacularly awful at this; Turukáno, on the other hand, seems to be excelling at it. You can call him a traitor and a bad brother, but he does protect his people, and I cannot hate him for it. Can you?”

“So,” said Fingon, “if you had to choose between me and your people –”

“I would choose you, same as you would choose me, and doom them all; which makes us terrible leaders. But you have known this for a long time; and still you hoped I would say the things you wanted to hear.”

While they talked, they had crossed the smoking ruins of a patio, and blended into the shadows of the late eastern wing of the fortress. Maedhros pushed relentlessly forward among charred bodies and debris, relying on memory mingled with hope. There had to be survivors somewhere.

“Look!” said Fingon, kneeling beside a corpse. “I have never seen this crest. The Enemy might have swayed some Men into his service; it would not be the first time. I feel sorry for them, Nelyo – they never knew anything else than Moringotto and his whip, and still we must slay them.”

“Nay,” said Maedhros. “Those are Carnistir’s men. From the East. I have their swords; and Kano took some of them with him. Are they all dead?”

Fingon drew his knife, passed it under a few noses. “I am afraid so,” he said. “How many of these Men do you have in your service?”

“A thousand back in Himring, and there are more of them coming every day. I think we will come to a good six thousand, and another five thousand Dwarves who would help us in need. Then we have my men, and what remains of Káno’s and Moryo’s… the hunters of the Ambarussar… I think my forces might amount to twenty-five thousand, at the end. For now.”

“For now!” Fingon laughed bitterly. “I, the so-called High King, do not nearly have that kind of army. I feel as though the Flames had eaten everything I had.”

“For now,” said Maedhros, and in his voice was a latent fire. “Did you not tell me, just yesterday, not to lose hope? Come now; let us hurry. If there is anything we can salvage from here, I want to salvage it.”

Methodically, they searched the castle ruins, killing the occasional Orc lingering in the shadows still. They passed the charred bodies of friends and foes alike, and Maedhros’s heart was heavy, for more than once, he came upon faces he knew, and loved. It hurt to think that some of them might have laid for days under the open skies, and it hurt as well to imagine them turn to ash in the raging blaze of funeral pyres. Their weapons and armour would be taken, for the fire would destroy them not – and more importantly, they would be needed still. There was not much glory in death; what remained was no more than the faintest trace of dignity, and even that would oft be denied.

Outside, the clamour of the battle seemed to subside, and every now and then, they could hear the call of Celegorm’s horn, and Caranthir’s boisterous commands.

“There is nothing here, Nelyo,” said Fingon at length. “We have searched the entire fortress… well, what remains of it. I know you would take a look at the Northern no-longer-a-tower, but there is no way the stairs would hold us. As charming it would be to share a grave with you, I would not choose it to be under those unsteady rocks – and not quite so soon.”

“I care little about the tower,” said Maedhros. “Look at this – the fire must have started here, and it does not look like an Orc’s work to me. It is far too effective.”

“The Orcs and wolves that fled,” said Fingon slowly, “they were quite numerous, were they not? I think…”

The two cousins looked at each other, and all that suddenly seemed to spring to their lips were colourful curses; and their swords flew out of their scabbards as they went on their furious way. By that time, the wind had ceased, and the rest of the smoke settled amongst the walls, wreathing, reeking.

The dead lay in piles, staring at Maedhros with unseeing eyes as he strode along the passageway that led to the fated Northern Tower. His blade glimmered faintly in the half-light, but that would not account for much – the battle was still going on outside, and the Orcs were not far.

“You are right,” Maedhros answered the unasked question. “The fire is the doing of our people. They were driving the Orcs out… no, not the Orcs, something else.”

“And that something else is still here,” said Fingon. “Did you not hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“That sound. It was like a thump – like someone falling, or throwing something, or maybe…”

The next sound, Maedhros did not struggle to hear – it was not a thump, but a terrible wail of a wounded beast; raw, sharp and furious.

“It seems that you must change your mind about the grave business,” said Maedhros. “Whatever this is, it is up there, in your favourite tower.”

“Wonderful.”

“Did you not want me to, I quote, help you in your thievery? It would be most proper for a thief to mistake a window for a door. Let us go!”

They both looked at the half-collapsed tower, the broken stairs and the avalanche of smoke-stained rocks.

“Russandol,” said Fingon softly, “you shan’t make it up there with one hand.”

“I do not walk on my hand,” said Maedhros coolly. “Nor do I remember asking for your permission.”

“You should let me climb,” said Fingon adamantly, “and watch the Orcs for me. If I get up there, they will see me from outside, and if I have to die from an arrow in my backside, I shall never leave the Halls of Mandos.”

“Out of question,” said Maedhros.

“Dost thou forsake thy King’s command, then?” Fingon recited, crossing his arms.

“With utmost respect for His stupid whims, I do,” said Maedhros between his teeth, as another terrible wail shook the tower. “Now let us go!”

Their climb was short and unpleasant. They chose to dash upwards with all their might, holding onto anything and everything they could grab along the way; and trying to climb swifter than the falling rocks and caving heaps of debris. Maedhros pushed onwards with all his strength, ignoring the pain in his legs and the bruises the sharp, yet slippery rocks left on his palm. He wished he would have taken a glove; but admitting so would have been admitting defeat, and – Valar forbid – considering that Fingon might have been right, which was clearly unthinkable. So on he pressed until he reached the top of the ruined stairs – the last tread gave way under his feet, so Fingon would have to jump – and pulled himself quickly up to what had once been a comfortable upstairs chamber with a picturesque view.

The last thing he saw were the eyes – wide from surprise and red from hate –, and the pressing weight of the large body as he was overrun, and shoved to the wall with otherworldly strength.

And then, the world went dark.