The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The Lord of the Gap

Maglor is found, and he has many things to say. Brotherly sap ensues.

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The first thing that registered in his mind was the stark familiarity of pain.

Sharp, searing pain.

Something sticky and warm drippled down his face and through his garments, pooling into something that Maedhros ultimately identified as his own blood.

The second thing that registered in his mind was the ugly, gurgling noise of a wounded creature fighting for its life. At once alert, he snapped out of his bewilderment and sprang to his feet, longsword in hand.

He could not have been out for more than a dozen heartbeats. His attacker – a giant warg – was pressed to the wall by the point of Fingon’s lance, cowering with fading malice. Its eyes were narrow slices of burning, red hate.

Maedhros’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. “Finno! Don’t do that – retreat!”

But it was too late. The beast gave a thundering growl and it rushed straight into the lance with its last strength – the weapon’s point slid under fur and skin, but the momentum of the leap turned it off its course. It slid harmlessly along the beast’s side, leaving the High King of the Noldor quite weaponless against a hundred stones of dying hate.

Maedhros slid to the side and cut. The edge of the blade left a long, gaping cut along the side of the large body; hot, black blood oozed out of the fresh wound, and the heavy smell of death filled the air. Fingon drew his own sword and put it through the defenceless spot under the warg’s chin.

With a thin, almost dog-like cry, their enemy died.

“Manwë and Varda,” said Fingon. “It was huge.”

“And clever,” said Maedhros. He turned the beast’s head to the side with his foot, observed as one burning eye turned blind and lifeless. “This one must be akin with the wolves Moringotto had released upon us after the Flames. They know how to slide past lances, swords, and daggers, for long we have fought against them with those; and most arrows do not penetrate their hide. I will bid Curufinwë to find something against them. Some alloy of metal that cuts vile intention, maybe.”

A smile ghosted through Fingon’s face. “You saved my life, cousin.”

“And you mine,” said Maedhros, “as things should be. Let us not linger here! Kano could still be around here somewhere.”

“Were he dead, we would have found him already,” Fingon offered, although his voice held no mirth. Maedhros knew their fears were the same: the tidings of Tyelcano’s capture were still fresh and vivid in their minds, and inadvertently, they both started to imagine that the same fate could befall Maglor. The Orcs had already captured him once, after all, and not very long ago – maybe they were truly after him.

Maedhros was inconsolable. Idiotic as he is, he, the Warden of the East might have just handed his own brother over to the Enemy on a silver platter. Vengeful, proud and furious, with little heed to his own safety… aye, a terrible fate could have befallen to Maglor if he took his decisions on the battlefield with such haste as he did at the council table.

Findekáno’s voice cut through the silence like a silver knife.

“Russandol,” he said. “Russandol, look!”

It was the lute.

Weather-beaten, fissured on the side and missing half its strings, but it truly was his brother’s lute. Untouched by blood, debris and decay, it lay abandoned under what had once been a window to an airy suite, further away from the carcass of the warg. It looked as though it had been placed there by the will of the Valar, and not forgotten in the hasty abandon of a battle-call, years ago.

Maedhros looked at it, then turned away.

Fingon picked it up.

“Do not despair,” he said gently. “Many a curious fate I have seen since we have come to these lands. My heart tells me that your brother has still much to do before he goes to Mandos. Whyever else would his lute be here, as though waiting for us?”

“Despair is not something I can allow myself,” said Maedhros sharply. “Woe to my brother that he did not listen when the Counsellor begged him to stay! Now none of us will hear his wisdom ever again.”

Fingon’s hand was heavy on his shoulder; and his armour was heavy as well as he climbed down the tricky mountain of debris with one hand.

He ended up carrying the lute across the barren wasteland, dead Orc-eyes following him wherever he went.

* * *

The following days blended into and endless cycle of riding, fighting, and losing sleep. What remained of Maglor’s old fortress was left under Celegorm’s control, Caranthir was sent back to the Himring as Regent, and Maedhros continued the Orc-hunt with Fingon, Curufin and the best of the army. Meticulously they searched the Northern Marches and the Gap, driving their enemies out of their hides under the earth; and the waters of Gelion ran black with blood every day. No mercy was shown to Orcs, wargs, or the distant spawns of Ungoliant if they crossed their path; and Maedhros and Fingon did many a deed that would later be worded into song.

It soon became clear that although the fortress of the Gap had been abandoned over defeat, Maglor had not given up cleansing his lands of the Enemy’s servants. The trail of his men was faint and well-hidden, but it was there; and Curufin, who was a skilled hunter, would follow it with ease, and even predict it after a time.

And so it had come to pass that when the sixth day of their hunt dawned, Maedhros saw a trail of smoke rising to the skies as they camped near an old watchtower that used to mark the border between Thargelion and the Gap. The smoke came from the depths of the forest where the tower – or its ruins – stood; and Maedhros, who had climbed the nearest hill to have a look around the wastelands hurried back to the camp, knowing that the guards had long seen what he had just glimpsed; and they were getting ready to depart already.

When he came back to the hastily made camp, he was greeted by a curious sight; for his brother and his cousin were sitting away from their men, shoulder to shoulder, talking in hushed voices. To Maedhros’s utmost surprise, the shadow of enmity seemed to be gone from Curufin’s face, and the weight of mistrust seemed to have lifted from Fingon’s brows – two occurrences he had previously deemed about as likely as Eru Illúvatar materialising from thin air before the gates of the Himring and inviting them all back to the Undying Lands.

He knew better than to mention it, though.

“We must make haste,” he said. “I believe we have found Kano at last.”

Curufin turned swiftly away from the High King, his face suddenly an emotionless mask.

“Not so soon!” he said. “I have not yet devised which would be the slowest way to murder him. I have slept in bushes and over gnarled roots for a year, and I had no intention to do so ever again, not even for the sake of his inane whims. Six days, Nelyo. Can you imagine how many broken swords I could have fixed in six days?”

“Then be glad that your tribulations are over,” said Maedhros. “Provided, of course, that I will not decide to drag you with me for the rest of the Orc-hunt. We still have countless miles to cleanse.”

“I am not going further away from my forge,” said Curufin, and in his voice was the kind of playful insolence he had missed for years. “The Warden of the East will have to chase me, and on his feet.”

“Careful you be, or he will do just that,” said Fingon. With that, he stood, and walked over to the edge of the camp where their horses grazed. Soldiers were mounting around them, donning their helms, lances and hauberks gleaming coldly in the morning light.

Maedhros followed him, with the visibly pretended purpose of checking Silmatal’s hooves.

“Anything I should know about?” he asked in a soft voice.

Fingon smiled. “What do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean.”

“As much as I know and love you, cousin, I do not read your thoughts, nor would you want me to.”

Maedhros rolled his eyes. “Curvo was nice to you.”

“He can be kind as summer, whenever he wants something.”

“And what is it that he wants?”

His cousin laughed. “Who knows? We might want the same thing, for once. Do not burden yourself with this, Nelyo. He has done much for you in his own fashion, much more than you think. I wonder what Tyelcano told him that made him stay.”

Maedhros stared at him. “What did you say?”

“Tyelkormo told me the other day... he wanted to keep his titles and leave – and he, in his despair, went to your Counsellor for help. And so the matter was settled, though no one knows how. No one, but Tyelcano and Curufinwë.”

Maedhros looked away from him, keeping a stern, unmoving gaze on the trail of smoke above the woods.

It made his eyes water.

“Let us go,” he said. “Your father used to tell me that killing should never bring solace; but Valar know it would ease my heart to kill something right now!”

Fingon’s eyes were liquid pools of compassion.

“You did not deserve to suffer such a terrible loss. My heart is weeping for you.”

“Let us go!” said Maedhros again, this time sharply.

They rode far ahead of their companions, and the clatter of their horses’ hooves was thunder, and the sunlight gleaming on their blades was lightning. No enemy could stand against them; and indeed the Orcs of the Marches cried out in anguish and fear when fleeing from the Lord of the Gap, they ran straight into the Warden of the East in the height of his fury.

Their hunt was short, and the Orcs’ bodies were put in a great pile afterwards; then the Easterling Bór and his sons set it on fire, and the hunters waited until only ashes and bones remained. Then, the roofless watchtower was visited, its state measured, and an order was given that it should be rebuilt and manned.

Maglor – to Maedhros’s great relief, and something akin with indignation – seemed unscathed. He greeted his brothers curtly, thanked them for their help, exchanged a few formal words with Fingon, then disappeared as soon as Maedhros turned his head; so it fell to Bór and his accented – although much progressed – Sindarin to recount the events of the past weeks.

“Your brother’s heart is heavy, Lord Warden, if you do not mind my saying so,” he said. “He had lost many men; and had he not given up on his old fortress, we might have all perished. Still, he chose to spare us at the end, and so we hunted the Orcs in their hides under the earth. We have slain more than we could count. I daresay that the lands around Lake Helevorn are free of them by now.”

“That is more than I hoped to hear,” said Maedhros. “I do not see why his heart should be heavy, then. His endeavour had always been a risky one; still, you are alive, and your sword is sharper than ever.”

“Indeed, Lord Warden,” said the Man, bowing his head. “Your brother did much for us. He saved my youngest son from a pair of wargs, risking his own life – for that, he bears my gratitude until the day I die. I tried to tell him, but he would have none of it.”

“I will not forget it,” said Maedhros. “You have served him well; and it may as well be that you shall have to follow him to battle again soon. For the Enemy has angered me greatly, and I shall bear with his malice no longer. We are going to free Beleriand.”

Bór looked at him with hope in his eyes.

“If anyone can do it, Lord Warden,” he said, “than it is you.”

* * *

Maedhros found his brother on the shores of Helevorn, gazing over the lake. The waters were smooth as ever, without a single ripple: a mirror of clean, dark glass, cast into a delicate frame formed by Mount Rerir, and its ranges – and Maglor could have been a statue built to face it for eternity, so immovably he sat. He was looking at the ruins of Caranthir’s fortress across the lake; its walls were gappy and there were no banners gracing its walls.

“The Orcs do not dwell in there anymore,” he said in a low voice. “I could not take back my own fortress, but that one, I freed. I did not have enough soldiers left to man it, though. I lost too much… I was a fool…”

“You did well,” said Maedhros. “It was impossible to do what you did without significant loss. It matters not: we have taken the first steps. Our enemies will now learn to fear our names again.”

Maglor turned his head to look at him.

“Something is amiss,” he said, and his eyes wandered downwards. “Nelyo – is that my old lute? Where did you find it?”

“In your castle,” said Maedhros. “What remains of it, anyway.”

Maglor’s face was expressionless. “You have taken it back.”

“Findekáno came to visit me.” Maedhros tilted his head. “I had to provide him some humble sort of amusement.”

“You are not amused, though,” Maglor observed. “You are furious.”

Maedhros settled down beside him and handed him the lute. “I wanted to gift this back to you on a day of great celebration,” he said. “But alas! I must ask you for a lament once again instead; for soon we shall ride to battle, in the mightiest of our fury, and we shall all cast away our colours, wearing the Star in the unadorned black field of grief. My Counsellor shall not come back from the wastelands of Dimbar; and my wrath shall not subside until there is even one Orc left alive in Beleriand.”

“Alas,” said Maglor, and in his voice was great pain. “Curse the Enemy! Curse him until the Ends of Arda!”

“Aye,” said Maedhros. The weight of uncertainty settled heavily upon his chest, but he could not bring himself to burden his brother with the knowledge that Tyelcano might be alive, captured by the Enemy, defenceless to his cruellest whims. “Now come – we must make haste. We shall soon come back with soldiers, and the people of Azaghâl to rebuild Moryo’s old castle; then we shall continue our way south. And Findekáno has plans too.”

But Maglor caught his arm before he could stand.

“Wait,” he said. “Nelyo, there is something that I must tell you – something that I have been trying to tell you for a long time. It’s just that since you… since you recovered, we were never really close.”

Maedhros drew a deep breath. It would have been hard to argue with that; indeed, they were not close at all.

Maglor never left his bedside in Mithrim; he could remember him holding his hand one night, weeping, but he could never be sure if it had been only a dream. He never asked, and Maglor never talked about those times.

He also remembered being half-conscious, haunted by despair, but drawn to the faint light that was healing and consciousness. Again and again he would despair, but he would always gather his strength and triumph over his fears again, because Maglor was always there, holding his hand. He was the eternal source of hope, warmth and light that drew him away from darkness. From falling. From death.

When he learned to walk, to speak, to write again, his brother rejoiced with him. Maedhros would lean on him as they went for a walk around the healers’ tent, and each step was a wonder, each breath a gift. And yet Maglor seldom spoke to him anymore, and even if he did, he never spoke of himself. He preferred singing, and Maedhros listened to his voice in marvel.

Decades passed, then centuries, and his brother rarely sang to him anymore. He came to rule his own people in the Gap, the mighty fortress that held the most secure part of Himlad’s hills. Maedhros seldom saw him, and Maglor sometimes called him my lord; and he never dared ask why he would call him such a thing.

Then, the Flames came – and ever since, his brother had wandered his halls like a ghost.

“I am always here,” said Maedhros, hating that his voice rang hollow. “Talk to me. All the patience I have is yours.”

Maglor tightened his grip on the old lute, half-fastened strings lopping over its body on each side. He clutched it as if clutching a weapon, or one of their father’s Silmarili.

“And what if it is not enough?”

“Are you sure you want to find out?”

Maglor had no answer to that; and Maedhros found that his patience ran thin.

“I see that you are uncomfortable in my presence,” he said. “You preferred me when I could not yet talk. When I was weak, and you had to carry me. It was easier to be around me.”

Maglor’s eyes were wells of infinite sorrow as he looked him in the eye.

“I should have told you the first moment you saw me... when Findekáno rescued you. I was a coward, Nelyo, a Valar-forsaken coward, and I shall never forgive myself...”

“Come here,” said Maedhros, his wrath forgotten. “I will have none of that.”

“No – you will listen to me. I was a coward, abandoning you to the mercy of the Enemy. I have forsaken you, and I cannot live with myself ever since. This is why I have been so distant with you – I feel that I have betrayed you. What I have done is unforgivable; so outrageous that I flinch whenever I look at you or speak with you. I am no longer worthy of you, brother. Knowing that there had always been a chance to save you, and I did not even try…”

Each word was like the clash of a warhammer against his chest. Maedhros could not call it pain; it ran too deep, and it made him feel dizzy.

“...it was not Father I followed to these accursed lands, but you, Nelyo. I came because you came; I swore the Oath when I heard you swearing it. I trod in your heels like a hound follows its master. I have always looked up to you... you never noticed how much, but I did; and when you were captured and I abandoned you, all that fondness turned sour.”

“It was like a cage, that crown. It felt heavy, cold, and alien. It did not belong to me, for you were its rightful owner; and everything I did while the crown was on my head was no more than a faint mockery of what you could have done. You made a mistake, brother. It was I who should have gone to parley with the Enemy. It was me Moringotto should have captured and tormented, not you.”

“Now that was enough!”

Maedhros’s voice was thunder, and ice. It all came back to him in a rush: prison cells, mines, thralls who held more likeness to Orcs than to Elves; cliffs and dark archways and racks; Moringotto in his throne room, with the Holy Jewels wrought in his black crown... Thangorodrim and the shackles...

“Listen to me, Kanafinwë – if once again in your waking life you dare tell me that you would have deserved my fate – that any creature of Eru could have ever deserved such a horrid monstrosity – I… you have no idea. You have no idea what you speak of, and that is my last word.”

Maglor held the sides of his face, pale, grief-stricken.

“I am sorry – I never meant to…”

“Don’t you dare,” Maedhros whispered. “Even to think about it... Kano... I would rather have it all happen to me a hundred times... a thousand times again... over and over... than to ever see it happening to you. Any of you... even the guards... even the stable-boys...”

“I am so sorry, Maitimo...”

Maglor’s voice was thick with care, love, and tears; it was trembling, but it still soothed him.

The shadow was passing away.

“Now,” said Maedhros, collecting himself, “it is time for my own confession. It may be hard for you to hear this, and accept it as the truth, but I would have done the same in your stead. I would have declared you dead, I would have abandoned you, or any of my brothers. I would not have come to your rescue, would not have even attempted it. Firstly, because I am not nearly as insane as a certain branch of our family seems to be; and secondly, because then, I would have been High King. A High King has no hopes, dreams, or ambitions; and He is ready to cast away family ties, bonds of love and pacts of friendship whenever necessary. A High King is a servant of his people; he must at all times do what is the best for them all. If their well-being warrants war, then the High King goes to war. If their prosperity warrants peace, then the High King makes peace. And if rescuing his brother would cost the High King his crown and the lives of his people, then the High King might have to abandon the brother, breaking his own heart, and move on; and try to build a new life for the Ñoldor in such circumstances as he has. This is what you did, and I admire you for it. You could not possibly imagine how proud I was when recovering, I had been acquainted with everything you did to make our people’s lives easier. You did well, Kano! You were worthy of Father’s name – and of Grandfather’s name. You saw further than your own pain and despair. Listen to me because I shan’t repeat it a thousand times over: I was – and I still am – proud of you. And I love you as much as I always have, or maybe more than ever. You are still my brother, and my brother you will remain, whatever befalls us; and the fact that I have survived, that the Ñoldor survived, that we can now sit here and talk: this all proves that you have never failed me, nor Atar, nor our people.”

“Never let your feeling of guilt consume you, Kano. It was a bitter mistake to try and parley with the Enemy; a horrid lesson, but I learned what I could from it. By the valiance – or dare I say, folly? – of Findekáno and the grace of Manwë and Varda I have been rescued, and I kept my sanity... well, most of it... Yet, if not for the torment I withstood in Angamando, I would not stand here now, building an alliance against the Enemy. He himself gave me the power to oppose him, to destroy him, to seek his ruin. Do not speak to me of guilt and regret! We cannot change what once was; all we can do is face the future again, side by side, for I would dearly love to be close to you again, now that I know your heart as much as you know mine.”

There was a short silence. Maglor still held Maedhros’s gaze, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I will not ask you again, ever again, for I know that your patience is short. But tell me, Nelyo... did you truly mean what you just said?”

Maedhros sighed.

“Aye, I truly meant it. But if that is what you need, then hear it: I forgive you, Kanafinwë, from all my heart, and I hope that you forgive yourself. You will need your strength; for many servants of Moringotto lurk in our lands still, and years may pass before we can put down our swords and see new days of peace.”

“We have much to do indeed,” said Maglor.

They sat together by the lakeside for a long while. No one dared disturb them until midday, when Fingon decided it was time to depart; and when the banners of Himring and Barad Eithel were raised upon the old watchtower, Anor rose above the mountains, and the black mirror of Helevorn was alloyed with gold.