The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The Second Betrayal

Six months have passed. Tyelcano has found his place in Gondolin, made friends, and is almost happy with his new life. Fate, of course, is quite ready to ruin everything.

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The House of the Fountain in the Hidden City, FA 468, mid-Narvinyë

The fire had burned out in the guestroom again.

The floor was slippery and cold under Tyelcano’s feet as he climbed out of the bed and fumbled around among charred pieces of wood with a stoker. Not only were his efforts completely fruitless, but they would have also balanced on the verge of insult, were the lord of the house there to witness them. Ecthelion of the Fountain was known to do everything within – and sometimes beyond – his power to keep his guests comfortable.

And Tyelcano was quite comfortable indeed, until the first tendrils of cold started to sneak under his blankets, waking him. The City of Ondolindë saw such a harsh winter that year that he had dreamed himself back to Himring ever-cold; and a full minute passed until he realized his mistake.

The knowledge that he was far away from home with no chance of escape was not earth-shattering anymore. He was used to it now, hard as it proved to be to unlearn century-long practices and habits; and as months went by, he came to the somewhat ashaming conclusion that it started to feel almost bearable. Ondolindë was a worthy successor of the city of Tirion in the Undying Lands: large and prosperous, grandiose and beautiful, lively, yet peaceful. Tyelcano could not bear to sit idle, thus, by decree of the King, he was granted a place in the Council; and many a day he spent there, seated next to Turukáno himself. Soon enough, the Lords of the City started listening to his word, even those who had little love for the House of the Star and less for its servant; for his counsel was wise, and for long years he had served the House of Finwë.

A few days after the Gates of Summer, the Lord of the Golden Flower approached him, inviting Tyelcano to spar with him and the Warden of the Gates. There was challenge in this request, and Tyelcano answered it – ultimately, he was glad that he did, for Laurefindil and Ecthelion became close friends to him. Many a summer night they spent together outside the City, in the green valley of Tumladen and the lower hills of the Orfalch Echor; content, they gazed at the stars and raced the King’s best stallions until they would tire of it.

It happened thus that Tyelcano of Himring experienced things previously far out of his reach: he had friends – not lords he helped raise, but genuine companions, who would take great pleasure in teasing him –, a luxurious suite, one free day each week, if not more – something he had not experienced since Fëanáro decided to leave the Undying Lands –, and not a single thing to worry about.

At least, nothing as taxing as provision counts, reconstruction plans, or acts of war. The most fearsome enemies he had thus far encountered in the Hidden City were the faulty water pipes of the palace, the reconstruction of which had been a hot debate topic all summer; and the turning of the season offered no satisfactory solution, either. Tyelcano promised the King that he would see it through; and so far, he was making great progress.

The despair he had felt upon Turukáno’s prohibition to leave his city slowly chastened into reluctant anger, then sadness, then a distant feeling of guilt; and the compassion of his new friends blunted its edges soon enough. Tyelcano knew that he would always long for Himring and his lord, but he also knew that many years might pass until the first, faintest opportunity of seeing him again would present itself.

Until then, there was nothing he could do but wait; and try what Nelyafinwë would have wanted him to try.

Gain trust and respect.

Learn as much as he could.

Make friends.

He could deem himself quite successful so far. He had a whole group of new friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, yet only one open enemy: Salgant of the Harp, of whom he preferred not to talk. The story of their ongoing quarrel was a general favourite in the City as rumours went, and – as oft is the case with rumours –, no one knew the complete truth of it, but Salgant and himself.

The Counsellor slid back under his covers for a while, but sleep eluded him; so with a sigh, he stretched his limbs, dressed, and made his way down to Ecthelion’s spacious dining hall.

To be fair, it looked more like a painter’s workshop now: one of its walls was made of thick glass to let the light in, and the other, stone walls were covered in pictures he, Anardil, Laurefindil and the King had painted of their dreams. Tyelcano even tried to imagine how Nelyafinwë’s and Findekáno’s dreams might have looked, according to what he had heard of them; but those paintings were mere sketches: not nearly as telling as Anardil’s richly coloured landscapes, Turukáno’s sombre, stylized shapes, Laurefindil’s vivid scenes, or his own blurred patches of foggy darkness with crows, corpses, and flowing blood.

Different as they were, all the pictures told the same story: that of a lone wanderer lost in a remote land, his coming heralded by no more than the caw of hungry carrion crows; and escorted by no more than the forebodings of a bodiless Voice.

The Gates are closed, the Voice said again and again, over and over; and the wanderer came upon a heap of corpses, charred and butchered and broken, left out under the open sky without funeral or pyre.

“There is nothing we can do but wait,” was the King’s verdict; and it seemed that there was indeed nothing they could accomplish until the meanings of their dreams would unfold.

A day after the Gates of Summer, Voronwë Aranwion was sent, in great secrecy, to gather news about the deeds of Beren and Lúthien and learn the truth of them; and those who saw the dreams gathered every evening, trying to find their meanings. Yet soon enough they have all started to come to the same conclusions; their reflections and assumptions reached a dead end, as impenetrable as the Gates of the Hidden City themselves.

After two weeks, the King gave his mind to other matters, Anardil decided that all of it was just plain nonsense, and Tyelcano got tired of the constant feeling of intellectual defeat; but Laurefindil and Ecthelion continued debating, searching, and analysing, and thus the paintings became a permanent decoration in the House of the Fountain.

To his chagrin, Tyelcano had to look at them now as well, as he sipped his morning tea in front of the glass-wall. With a sigh, he turned away from the eerie pictures and towards the landscape instead; for Ecthelion’s dining hall faced the royal palace as it towered proudly above the city: a remarkable sight even now, in the dead of winter. The rooftops were capped with snow and icicles hung above every window; and the streets seemed to have been wrought with diamonds overnight, though their silverish gleam was faint in the morning light, veiled by snow-clouds.

Every inch of the outside world froze in solemn anticipation; and Tyelcano, who had seen many winters, knew that a storm was coming. He was quite thankful for the shelter of Ecthelion’s halls, for he had been granted no less than three free days; and the Warden of the Gates had whisked him away from the prying eyes in court so he could have his well-deserved peace. Laurefindil was off duty, too, and Anardil had dragged Pengolodh with him to “have a cup with Lord Melancholy, and that is all”; but one cup became two, then five, then more. Eventually, they stopped counting upon unanimous accord, and everyone stayed for the night.

While Tyelcano sipped his precious tea, his friends came downstairs as well, and settled around him. They all broke their fast together, told stories and laughed; then Ecthelion took his silver flute, and played them many a tune, for his mood was high. Outside, the sky was darkening; but they paid no heed to winter’s fury, as though it could never reach them.

At one point, Anardil smiled mischievously at Tyelcano, and spoke.

“Now, Lord Mopey – ”

“Will you ever stop calling me names?” said he. “I have several of my own, you know.”

“And none of them offers such an insightful description on your person as Lord Mopey.”

“That may as well be,” said Tyelcano, “but I am not the only one thus wronged. See, you are not called Lord Nuisance, either.”

Laughter rose around the table, and Anardil laughed as well.

“There is something I need your permission for,” he pressed, mirth dancing in his eyes. “That is why we came here with Master Pengolodh in the first place… although the wine was nice, far it be from me to complain.”

Tyelcano raised an eyebrow.

“Permission for what? It is hard to imagine such a terrible deed that Lord Insolence would not do without.”

“I never said I would not,” Anardil was still smiling. “See… it is time we’ve had a conversation about a song of mine: a composition of unprecedented artistic value that is yet to make its debut. ‘When The Lord o’ Harp Drew That Sword W’ Ease (And Lost his Teeth)’, it is called. You might have heard of it.”

“Briefly,” said Tyelcano. “Although I cannot fathom why you would need my permission to perform something that has clearly nothing to do with me.”

Anardil rolled his eyes.

“Come on, we have all seen the Terrible Deed! A true scandal. I was proud of you. Still am.”

Tyelcano glanced reproachfully at him.

“It was a private quarrel, one that would have been solved more… privately, had I been in charge of the events. There was truly nothing to see.”

“The training fields were almost empty,” said Laurefindil cheerfully. “No one knows what happened, for so we have agreed. The Deed passed on to legend, thanks to some who cannot hold their tongue...”

Here, he glanced at Ecthelion, who seemed to have suddenly found something terribly interesting on his empty plate.

“And that is where the Deed should remain,” said Tyelcano. “In legends and tales. I wish to make friends here, not enemies.”

“It might be too late for that,” said Ecthelion. “Salgant truly hates you for what happened. Egalmoth and Rog trust you not, although even they might think that he deserved what he got. Still, Lómion understood that you should not be trifled with, and that is good. Embarrassing as it might feel for one of your reputation, I daresay the Deed was very useful. You showed strength, and strength you will need if you want to be respected by the proper sort of people in this city.”

“The mighty Lord Salgant did not deserve anything,” said Laurefindil with a wink, “because nothing happened, am I right?”

“Will you ever stop talking about it?” Tyelcano sighed. “All of this has been going on for months, and I am terribly tired of it.”

“Months or years… those are quite the same, in our reckoning,” said Ecthelion. “My friend, you have beaten the living soul out of Salgant with a training sword. Wood against steel. Stories like that, they last for decades in Ondolindë.”

“Time flies if you live like I used to,” said Tyelcano softly, “drifting from one deadly danger to another. Every day is a gift.”

“That they are,” said Ecthelion. “Yet one should not feel swollen with gratitude every time a new day is granted to them. You have earned some peace, Tyel. Or at the very least, you have earned the right for us to be the disturbers of your peace instead of the Enemy.”

“But what did the Lord of the Harp tell you, truly?” Pengolodh’s soft voice cut in. “I have heard countless versions – yours, Lord Warden, then that of Captain Laurefindil… and then, that of Salgant himself, when he was talking to Lómion during a break in the council sessions – that one was very different from the previous two, I must admit – and then there are, of course, the twenty-something different stories that are told in the streets and inns…”

“And are those not enough?” Tyelcano groaned. “Nothing of significance happened that day. I enjoyed a friendly sparring match with the Lord Warden here; Laurefindil was watching us; then Salgant came and ruined my afternoon. The rest is parody and fiction, which I loathe most ardently. It gives the impression that I would knock people’s teeth out over minor inconveniences, which is, as I hope you understand, quite untrue.”

“Do you deny that you knocked his teeth out?” Ecthelion tilted his head.

Tyelcano’s face was expressionless. “I am not denying anything. I am merely saying – ”

“So you did knock his teeth out!” Pengolodh exclaimed.

“One tooth. In a sparring match. And he deserved it.”

 “Which is why that song should go, When The Lord O’ Harp Let That Weapon Loose (And Lost His Tooth),” said Laurefindil helpfully.

“The other one goes better with the lyrics,” Anardil lamented.

“I must admit that I dislike the mocking style of the title,” said Ecthelion solemnly. “It would clearly benefit from an educational undertone. ‘One Summer Day The Lord o’ Harp had Learned a Lesson Trite: Warriors Beat Armed Fools With A Single Wooden Pike’, or something of the sort.”

Tyelcano’s face remained as stoic as ever, but his eyes sparkled with mirth while all the other Elves laughed aloud.

“It has always been educational,” said Anardil reproachfully. “But that is no way to call a song! The title must be as catchy as the first version, the one in which Star chases Harp with the Wooden Spoone, Thieved Straight from the Kichene. It is a constant fan favourite. All it needs is some embellishing, and a moral lesson at the beginning.”

“You could not write anything moral to save your life!” Ecthelion laughed.

“Nay? Then listen to this –”

“There is truly no need…” Tyelcano sighed, burying his face in his palms, but Anardil took his lute, and sang, with great theatrics,

It is oft said in Elven lore
that all must do what fate them bore:
warriors fight and fools make jests
so in peace each of them might rest
at the end of day, when stars shine high
and the Powers set Ithil alight.
Peaceful they rest; yet two’s apart:
the Lord o’ Star and Lord o’ Harp.

“Promising,” said Laurefindil. “A foot missing here and there, but we might help you with that. Great allegory with the Star and the Harp, though. No one will ever catch the reference.”

“If you truly must keep torturing me with my past,” said Tyelcano with a resigned sigh, “change the names to those of animals. That is how this sort of lyrical abuse was practiced in Aman. No one had the right to be offended, for if one was, then they were most graciously asked: my dear lord, what ails you so? Are you a wolf, or a horse, or a seashell? That is what I truly liked about The Lay of the Wooden Spoone when I first heard it – I believed you were aiming for that level of abstraction.”

“I just thought it was hilarious,” said Anardil. “But this is a great idea indeed – what d’you think Salgant should be? A slug will do nicely, eh? Or a frog…”

“I trust you will come up with an ingenious solution,” said Tyelcano dryly. “And I also trust that I shall not have to hear about any of it in the near future.”

But the sternness of his voice was forced, and he was smiling – an open expression of mirth, the kind of which he seldom allowed himself.

“But how did Lord Salgant anger you so?” Pengolodh’s soft voice broke in. “Is it true that he insulted the Lord Nelyafinwë?”

Tyelcano stopped smiling. The name pierced through his heart like an icy dagger, and his moment of peace and lightness was gone in an instant; a crushing wave of guilt washed over him instead. Here he was, laughing the morning away with his friends, while he was needed in the Himring. His beloved lord was probably still struggling with his dreams, and Orcs lurked incessantly in the wastelands…

“There are few things left in this world that truly anger me,” he said coolly. “Salgant of the Harp said one of them, and I consequently had a lapse in judgement. I am not proud of it – and yet I promise you that he will lose a tooth again, time after time, were he to act the same way in my presence. That is my last word.”

“I think that was a yes,” said Anardil, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “If any of you have a bad tooth, you know what to say.”

*

The morning lumbered on, and none of them seemed willing to set foot outside, beautiful as the ice-covered Ondolindë was. Winds were rising in the Valley of Tumladen and among the Orfalch Echor, howling like a pack of hungry wolves; and the sky darkened to a damp grey, although it was only past midday. Pengolodh excused himself to the study-room and went through a heap of council notes; Anardil curled up in an armchair by the fireplace and began editing The Lay of the Wooden Spoone so it would fit Valinorean tradition; and Ecthelion and Laurefindil remained in the dining hall with Tyelcano, challenging him to a game of chess as a joint effort.

The Counsellor just realized he could win in six steps when he heard the first knock on the glass wall. He paid no heed to it, deeming that it was probably a branch, or a falling icicle.

At the second knock, he thought it was the winter chill penetrating the glass.

At the third knock, he glanced up, and saw the crow.

The bird’s shiny black eyes were fixed on him – only him – watching, waiting, measuring. When Tyelcano tried to ignore it and turn his attention black to the chessboard, it knocked on the glass with its beak once more, and it cawed.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

Tyelcano’s hand stopped above the board.

“What ails you, my friend?” said Laurefindil. “A shadow passed through your face.”

“Maybe it has,” said Tyelcano.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

Ecthelion turned to the window.

“Curious,” he mused. “Birds usually fear snowstorms and flee before it. And a mighty storm we shall see tonight: of that, I am sure.”

“Maybe the crow wants us to let him in,” said Laurefindil. “They are truly clever creatures.”

“I…” Tyelcano shook his head, absent-minded. “I have no logical foundation for this claim, but somehow, I am completely sure that this bird is the very same one that led me here. And now it wants something from me.”

“You were led here by a crow?” Ecthelion’s eyes widened. “You have not said that before.”

“I told you that I broke my leg fighting,” said Tyelcano, “and true as that may be, there are some details I left out. At that time, I thought they were unimportant; yet it now seems that they prove essential. Alas! my negligence has come back to haunt me.”

“You are lying,” said Ecthelion sharply, and Laurefindil turned to him with dismay.

“That is a terrible thing to say!”

But the Warden of the Gates did not waver an inch.

“Negligence?” he said, pointing his finger to Tyelcano. “You? Do you take me for a fool? I would sooner believe that Manwë himself appeared from thin air and guided you here than that you could be guilty of any kind of negligence. There is something you are not telling us, because you don’t trust us – which is, frankly, quite insulting.”

Tyelcano closed his eyes for a moment. “You misunderstand…”

“Then enlighten me!”

“Thel,” said Laurefindil, “I must say you are not exactly trust-inspiring at the moment.”

“He lied to us!”

“None may call me a liar!” said Tyelcano, his voice suddenly cold. “And none may coax an explanation out of me, either; for there is nothing I feel obliged to explain.”

Warden and Counsellor eyed each other hotly for a terrible moment, ready to fight; but then, Laurefindil stepped between them, arms outstretched.

“Something evil is at work here,” he said. “Do you not sense it? It is turning us against each other, dividing us, seeking our ruin. Remember your friendship!”

“Friends are honest with each other,” said Ecthelion.

“Friends are patient with each other,” said Tyelcano. “And they do not always assume the worst.” He looked away. “I did not tell you the true story of my coming here because I felt terribly ashamed of it. There is your explanation. And now…”

Caw. Caw. Caw.

The crow was still staring at them with clever eyes; it flew over to a nearby rooftop, then came back to knock on the window again.

“I think he wants us to follow,” said Laurefindil slowly. “He will show us something.”

“Last time, I almost lost an eye to that beak,” said Tyelcano. “And a leg. And my life.”

The crow tilted its head, almost tauntingly. His friends were looking at him, alert, yet thoughtful.

“…let us go, then,” he said.

*

The crow led them along the Road of Pomps, though the Place of the Well and all around the Alley of Roses; and then, it flew on and on, to a district Tyelcano had never visited before. Fear and anticipation were building slowly in his chest; that, and the smouldering feeling of shame, for Ecthelion and Laurefindil walked on his two sides, and he told them what truly happened in the barren lands of Dimbar.

“So the mighty warrior broke his leg because he got scared of a crow,” said Ecthelion, and his voice softened. “Still, he cannot be free of his shame. Anardil was right, you know – you should be called Lord Mopey.”

Laurefindil crossed his arms in deep thought as he walked.

“Has it never occurred to you that the crow was merely showing you the way, same as it does now? Suffering such an injury might have been the only way you could find your path to our City. There must be a reason behind your coming here.”

Tyelcano kept his eyes firmly on the crow, now settled on top of a lone pillar, waiting for them to catch up.

“I thought I knew evil at work when I saw it,” he said. “And when I last saw this crow, I suspected that the Enemy himself had sent it; yet I am no longer so sure. When I set out with my lord’s message to the High King and turned back to look at my home for one last time, I felt, with utter certainty, that I would never see the Himring again. Maybe all of this has been intended, decided. I was there, after all, when the Doom of Mandos was pronounced! Tears unnumbered ye shall shed, it said. Maybe these are my tears: maybe it is time for them to start falling.”

Laurefindil’s hand was heavy upon his shoulder.

“The Valar are not without mercy,” he said. “I believe that quite strongly. So I must believe, or else I would cast myself down the Caragdûr – which is where this crow seems to be leading us in any case. Most curious!”

And so it happened indeed: for the crow disappeared behind a high stone wall, into which a thin arch had been cut. As he stepped through it, Tyelcano found himself on the edge of a black precipice of rock, so thickly covered in ice, that had Ecthelion not pulled him back immediately, he would have found his swift and terrifying end in the depths of the abyss beneath.

“See?!” Tyelcano exclaimed. “That bird is trying to kill me!”

“You are trying to kill yourself,” said Ecthelion, his hands warm and steady on his arms, “by not using your wits. Look to your right!”

Tyelcano turned his head and glimpsed a set of chains, welded deep into the stone arch. Too startled even to feel ashamed, he grabbed them, and took a cautious step towards the edge of the precipice. It felt like staring at death itself; the howls of the wind echoed in the dizzying depths of the abyss, and the void below the Caragdûr enticed him, drew him in.

Caw, caw, caw, said the crow. It settled atop the arch, raspy screams unceasing. Caw, caw, caw.

“It is trying to show us something!” Laurefindil exclaimed. “Down there!”

“There is nothing there but death,” said Ecthelion, suddenly perturbed. “We should not have come. Step back slowly, Tyel, but not until your feet are steady. Let us go home.”

But Tyelcano paid no heed to him. He secured the chains around his waist instead; and handed them to Laurefindil.

“Here,” he said. “If you let me fall, I will come back from Mandos to haunt you.”

“What are you doing?!” Ecthelion snapped. “This is as idiotic as it is dangerous!”

“That it is,” Tyelcano agreed, “yet alas, it is also necessary!”

Lying on his stomach, he crept to the edge of the icy rock, inch by inch, staring down into the depths of the Caragdûr – and what he glimpsed there made his mouth dry and his heart race. The precipice rose high above the city, and below it was a great fissure in the earth, reaching far below the green valley of Tumladen; a narrow, moist gap of sharp stones and terrible depths.

And yet it was also there, clearly visible even in the dim half-light of the oncoming storm –

A path.

Steep, slippery, deadly, covered with thick layers of ice, carved out by some long-dried river, narrow, dangerous, impassable, and doubtlessly unused for centuries at the very least – but it was a path.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

The crow left the high arch and dived steeply down the Caragdûr, then disappeared at the bottom of the fissure.

Tyelcano stared after it with great bewilderment.

There was a way out.

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Chapter End Notes

'Narvinyë' is Quenya for January.

On the secret passage: it is said in 'The Fall of Gondolin' that Morgoth did not attack the city through the gates but he had found another way in. In 'The Fall', he attacks from the north, and as (1) the Caragdûr is located on the north side of the city of Gondolin and (2) it is an iconic location in itself, it felt natural to me to place my Convenient Secret Passage right there. As you can imagine, the existence of this "path" (though "path" might be a bit too optimistic name for it) will cause a great deal of trouble, but perhaps not the kind of trouble you might imagine.