The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The Wrath of Fingon

Maedhros and Fingon undertake the impossible task to find Tyelcano's trail in the wilderness. What (and who) they uncover instead puts their friendship to trial.

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Westwards beyond the Crissaegrim, a few hours later

Maedhros was still afraid of the dark.

Orcs and wolf-packs lurked in the wastelands of what had once been Dorthonion; some of their paths concealed, some betrayed by the abundant snowfall of the last few days. It was nothing short of obvious that his cousin would choose for them to ride out on such a night, when not even Ithil would show her silver face.

The wind howled hungrily along the ice-covered slopes of the Crissaegrim, and the windstorm swept drifts of snow off the mountainside, but to no avail. High King or not, Findekáno continued to do whatever in the name of Manwë and Varda he pleased – although in the past few weeks, Maedhros had grown just as restless as he was. They sought to find trails where there were none.

Maedhros tightened his cloak around his shoulders, acutely aware of the gaping chasms of blackness on his two sides as their horses needled through another narrow mountain passage. Uneasy alertness and exhaustion waged their war in his mind as he watched the path before him – unnecessarily so, for Silmatal found his way through the rocks with steady steps. If Maedhros stared at the horse’s silver mane stubbornly enough, he could almost ignore the growing sense of dread that seized him whenever he was surrounded by utter darkness.

This dread, he had to overcome quite often. Sometimes the candles blew out in his bedchamber, sometimes he had to journey by night, sometimes he hunted for Orcs in the Marches. It was all the same in the end: time and time again, he had to prove himself that his suffering in the Iron Prison was over, and the most frightening thing he could encounter in the night was probably a reflection of his own face.

Maybe it was not even the dark that was so terrible, but the nothingness. The absence of scenery: the empty canvas of darkness that his mind would paint with memories more dreadful than his imagination could ever have conjured.

It was easy to picture Tyelcano in such terrible, pervading, all-consuming darkness.

Tyelcano in shackles, starved and forgotten. Tyelcano watching as prisoners are turned into Orcs. Tyelcano thrown at Morgoth’s feet, kicked at and spat upon. Tyelcano being jerked awake each time he falls asleep. Tyelcano whipped and stripped and mocked and humiliated.

Tyelcano hung from a cliff, praying that he would die before anyone could rescue him.

Tyelcano, whom no one would rescue.

Maedhros reeled his horse in, following Fingon through the increasingly steep mountain pass. He had visited his cousin several times in Hithlum in the past few centuries, and they had oft ventured far among the mountains, seeking thrill and adventure; but they had never come this far into the mountain land, not even in daylight.

They left the camp and their entourage near the Sirion a fortnight ago, with the promise that they would soon return. What had been intended as a prolonged sparring match and a long-overdue conversation about their mysterious dreams turned into a reckless scouting mission to find Tyelcano’s trail. Neither of them said it, but they both knew that the other thought the same; even if it was all completely hopeless and irresponsible, even if the Counsellor himself would have scolded them for even trying.

How could have they ever imagined finding him, even if Gildor had led them to the exact location where Tyelcano was last seen? How could have they known which trail to follow?

In another Age, Maedhros would have hoped that the Valar might help them. Now, he no longer dared to hope; all he had was the faint, but unmistakeable feeling of guilt. He had left behind his castle, his men, his responsibilities to risk his life for – probably – nothing, and so did Fingon.

I would choose you, same as you would choose me, and doom them all, he had told him not so long ago.

Maybe he would not do that only for his cousin, but also for his counsellor. He knew that he would miss Tyelcano’s wit, imagining how he would solve a problem, or strike a bargain, or make peace, or prevent a disaster. But he did not think that he would miss him this much even as a companion, a family member. Someone he could always confide in and rely on; even when Findekáno and his brothers were hundreds of miles away.

The Tyelcano he had first come to know was his grandfather’s trusted servant and advisor; one who came to Valinórë from the unknown dark lands beyond the Sea, someone who could remember Cuiviénen. This Tyelcano held Father when he was a child and held him and his brothers and his cousins as well, one by one, teaching them runes and arts and songs and tales. Then the Darkening came, Tyelcano abandoned the squill for the sword, and the blood of his kin dirtied his fate; and he accepted Maedhros as his lord and believed in him more than anyone else ever had. Tyelcano was there when he reined his brothers in, and built the Himring, and became the Warden of the East. Tyelcano was there to commiserate when the Mereth Aderthad turned out a disaster; and he was there as well when Maedhros made proper peace with his uncle at least, and the houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin ceased the worst of their strife for the few prosperous centuries of the Long Peace.

It was the coming of the Flames that changed it all; or perhaps the change had been there before, but the Flames made it apparent. Tyelcano was no longer only a servant to him, but a friend, his equal in everything but birth; and birth held no consequence for the Eldar, not until the Darkness came, and their natural leaders died, and they all sought to replace them with their sons.

A very dear and loyal friend, Maedhros realised, a little too late.

A friend he would apparently abandon his duties for, and search Beleriand’s coldest lands for weeks in the dead of winter, wishing he was there to scold him for it. Perhaps deservedly so, as he had found nothing, and the weather was getting worse, if that was still possible.

Anor had been hiding all day, which made it difficult to keep northwest along the winding mountain paths. Since nightfall, they had to rely on instinct, and some rumbling noise in the distance that Fingon decided to follow. They were now many miles southwest from the ravaged plains of Dorthonion – and only a few hours away from being declared missing, Maedhros supposed.

He shifted uneasily in the saddle. He was used to the cold winters of Himlad, but the penetrating chill of the night had gotten under his garments and sitting made it worse.

“We should go back,” he said quietly.

“Just a mile further,” Fingon insisted.

Maedhros sighed. “I am restless, too – that cannot be helped. We have tried against hope and good reason, but now is the time to go back to our duties. Even if I hate the thought of it as much as you do.”

Another rumble shook the frost-laden air, much closer now than before; and they both went very still.

“Do you think that was a troll?” Fingon drew his sword.

“I think it was an avalanche,” said Maedhros. “Come now, cousin, let us turn back. In any case, we will probably have to listen to your captain’s complaints for months. Deservedly so, I might add.”

“That depends on your point of view,” said Fingon. He was still gazing into the darkness, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of the source of the noise; but everything was still around them, the only light the faint glistening of the snow-covered surfaces on the steep, zigzagged mountainsides. “You could say that we’re trying to find a valuable asset for our fight against the Enemy.”

“You could say anything.”

“I am so sorry, cousin,” said Fingon softly; and Maedhros knew that they both wished they could stay here for months, search all the paths, roam the mountains until they knew every cave and crevice – but they could not, and that was breaking their hearts.

They had still done a lot more in the past few months than anyone could have imagined, their long ride to Tol Sirion being a barely disguised expedition to hunt down Tyelcano’s killers – or capturers, an ugly little voice in Maedhros’s head whispered every now and then. They brought three hundred scouts with themselves, some Himring forces joining Fingon’s entourage; and Bór the Easterling came too, with his sons on his side, and his blade sharpened.

The Orc packs in Himlad were scarce and scattered, now that The Gap had been taken back and the guard posts along river Gelion cleansed. Maedhros showed them no mercy when he raided their dwellings and camps; and the Orcs fled from him and Fingon in terror, as if they were chased by the ire of the Powers themselves. The Marches were safely guarded in Himlad, and if one came to Maedhros’s lands, they could now travel the roads unbothered, even by night, for few enemies could escape Caranthir’s wrath and Celegorm’s vigilance. In the East, Azaghâl was gathering his army and craftsmen as well; and word travelled far and free about the deeds of the House of Fëanor.

The Warden in the East picked up arms again, some whispered. He is challenging the Enemy’s servants and freeing our lands!

Even the Casari help him, others spread the word. They prepare him armour and weapons in their secret caverns.

Most of these rumours were started by the Dwarves themselves, an excuse to raise the prices of their handiwork as far as they pleased; but Azaghâl was a fair partner in trade, and Caranthir a rare talent in negotiation. Maedhros’s growing army could use the resources in any case. When he left the Himring again, his lands were no longer in imminent danger, and the effort made to cleanse them had proven lasting – as lasting as things could get since the Flames.

Hithlum, however, was another matter: burnt, ravaged and destroyed in the Dagor Bragollach, its last remaining fortress was Barad Eithel, the dwelling of the High King, still standing proud above the Sirion. Half the kingdom lived there now, their temporary settlements slowly turning into the crooked streets of a city. The Noldor who lived there grieved for Fingolfin still; and the Sindar for their dwellings of old. Orcs lurked in the northern highlands, raiding villages, hunting Elves and Men alike. The House of Hador was no longer strong enough to fight them off – and thus Maedhros returned with Fingon, and as large a troop as the Himring could spare. If they truly wanted to free Beleriand, they had to make the westward roads safe as well – and to spur their horses together in the wide wastelands, to do deeds of surpassing valour that would later be woven into songs: that temptation was too hard to resist, even for the Warden of the East, whom some had started to call the Warden of Beleriand.

I would never be the warden of anything again if this avalanche swallows us both, though, Maedhros decided as the mysterious rumbling noise grew closer still. Beside him, Fingon was staring into the darkness, tense and alert.

“What if they are truly trolls, though,” he said in a low voice. “What if this is all that happened, and Tyelcano had been captured by trolls?”

“He would have escaped by now,” said Maedhros. “Or killed them.”

Still, neither of them moved, and their horses stood frozen in place as well, as if by higher ordonnance; and Maedhros was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of doom.

Above them, a pair of smooth wings were flapping.

Caw, called the raspy voice of a crow.

Maedhros and Fingon both glanced up. A pinny tree was poking out of a steep cliffside above them, its roots clutching desperately on the scarce, unforgiving soil between the rocks. On its thickest branch, sat a crow.

Caw.

Caw.

Caw, it called again.

Higher up in the skies, the rolling clouds revealed Ithil’s round face, and the snowy mountain passage was draped in silvery light.

And Fingon gasped.

“My dreams!” He whispered. “Nelyo, this is from my dreams! The dreams are true!”

Caw, said the crow.

“If they are true, then they lead to ruin,” said Maedhros slowly. “We should probably not follow.”

But he could not hide the eagerness from his voice, nor could he take his eyes off the crow; and Fingon laughed.

“You did not even convince yourself, cousin. Let us go and see where our path leads us! I daresay we have both survived worse.”

“You never know,” said Maedhros, but he nudged his horse to follow, and Silmatal compiled readily, as if under a spell.

The crow led them on along the mountain path, flying from branch to branch, from rock to rock; and its eerie voice kept calling them. Fingon sheathed his sword, and leaned onto his horse’s neck, impatient as ever; and Maedhros followed warily, almost against his will. It seemed to him that his entire being was tied to the crow’s route with an invisible string: to not follow would have been unthinkable.

Maybe they would find his Counsellor, he thought. Or maybe they would die out here in the wilderness, unseen by all but the shiny black eyes of that bird.

Either way, something would finally happen.

The crow kept leading them. The mountain roads were windy and dangerous, the rocks sharp and the passages steep; and their horses struggled more than once to keep their footing. The mysterious rumbling noise, once distant, could now be heard loud and clear, as if someone was hitting a giant sledgehammer against the mountainside.

“Trolls indeed,” said Maedhros. His voice was low, but shrill.

“Or worse,” said Fingon.

They both looked at the crow. The creature was sitting above them on a large rock and kept staring at them with clever eyes. It called no more and moved no more, as if its task had been carried out.

“We are going to look, am I right?” asked Maedhros lightly.

“Of course we are,” said Fingon. “And we are going to find something. This is my dream. It is coming true – and whatever is waiting for us after that bend in the road, we will survive it. How else do we get to see the rest? The battlefield? The corpses? They say that dreams are exempt from the restraints of logical threads, but mine are clear as day.”

“Be glad, then,” said Maedhros. He dismounted and run his hand through Silmatal’s mane. “Run, if you have to, my friend. I shall not have you slaughtered.”

His words were in vain, he knew; for Silmatal had faced many perils, but he would never leave him. Fingon jumped off his horse as well, and they crept up the mountain path; Maedhros with his sword in hand, and Fingon his long lance. These last few steps were more treacherous and difficult than anything along their journey, but they were finally rewarded, for wedged in the cliffside, in the gaping entrance of a large cave, a light twinkled – an oddly comforting light, like that of a campfire or a large torch.

Following their instincts, Maedhros and Fingon crouched down, out of sight. Peeking out between rocks, Maedhros glimpsed two gawky figures sitting by a low-burning fire that looked oddly out of place in front of the giant, gaping mouth of the cave: one enormous, the other much smaller. Somehow, they both seemed oddly sentient for trolls; for they were unmistakeably trolls. Their size, heavy shapes and broad features betrayed them, although they seemed very different of the roaring brutes Maedhros encountered in Angamando, and then much later, after the Flames had struck.

Huddled around the fire, warming their cumbrous hands, they almost seemed sentient.

There was another wave of that terrible, rumbling noise coming from the cave, as if a giant anvil was scratching the surface of a marble wall; and Maedhros saw that one of the trolls was – playing with broken shields and stolen helmets? There was no other word for it. Maedhros saw many of them in great piles, hoarded next to one another, as if they were some great treasure.

They belong to people they have eaten, he presumed.

He gasped as a gush of icy wind howled through the mouth of the cave. The smaller rocks gave way, robbing Maedhros and Fingon of their hiding place; they were lucky enough to avoid them as they drifted down the mountainside. Slowly, the Trolls turned their heads towards them, but to Maedhros’s surprise, they made no motion to attack. Their mouths opened, but instead of the low, guttural roar he expected they would give, their lips moved with a peculiar, alarming softness.

Almost as if they formed words.

“Golug.”

The longsword froze mid-air in Maedhros’s hand. He did not care that the Troll in front of him was two or three times his size, nor did he even notice that its giant, hard fist almost struck him down. He was barely even aware that Fingon sprang to his rescue, slashing its throat and kicking its head to the side as it fell.

“Did you hear that?!”

But there was no time to assess if his imagination had tricked him. The smaller Troll charged at Fingon, pinning him to the wall, choking him out of his breath; and Maedhros came to his rescue. He aimed his blade at the Troll’s feet at first; he cut deep into the flesh, and with the creature’s wail of anguish came another word.

“Ghâsh!”

Fire, thought Maedhros. Something warm is running down your leg, and it hurts. Of course you would not know the difference between a campfire and your own blood – why would you, if no one has ever showed you?”

He evaded the Troll’s great arm, rolling to the side with an agile motion.

“Findekáno, they can talk!”

But there was no time; the Troll fell to its knees, resuming its grip on his cousin’s neck; and Maedhros knew that he had no time to solve the mystery. Holding his breath, he found the soft spot at the nape of the creature’s neck, and hewed his sword in, right up to the hilt.

The smaller Troll vomited blood; and it was not only the black stains it left that made Maedhros feel dirty as the creature dropped dead in front of his feet. He watched as the light left the big, round eyes; and the shadow of regret came upon his heart.

Fingon’s grip was hard on his shoulder.

“What has gotten in you before?!” he snapped. “You were in its arms’ reach!”

“Did you not hear them, Findekáno? The other one said golug; and I recognize that word. It is something they say in Angamando to describe – well, us.”

“If you laugh at me for saying so, I will understand – still, you cannot take risks like that,” said Fingon. “Talking or not, these Trolls could have sent us straight to Mandos.”

“I don’t think they would have,” said Maedhros quietly. “And the second one – I think that was a child.”

“Trolls have no children!” His cousin was staring at him intently, a furious light in his eyes. “They were created by the Enemy, much like Orcs. You told me yourself. You saw it happen!”

“These are not the same trolls!” Maedhros stared at the bodies, barely aware that his lips formed words. “The ones I have seen were animals. Brutes, devoid of the power of awareness and speech. Findekáno, these ones talked to us! They knew what we were, and they feared us; but we killed them first, out of fury and vengeance.”

“The big one tried to kill us!”

“Maybe to protect its young, maybe to keep its game – we will never know, because we would not talk to them!”

Fingon sighed.

“Maybe you are right,” he said tentatively. “But if your spirit is troubled, then hear this: you were protecting the High King of the Noldor against his enemies. No one can place any blame on you within the realms of the Eldar.”

“But I was protecting myself,” said Maedhros softly.

“You were protecting the High King’s sanity by protecting yourself. Here – you cannot argue with that. Now let us go and explore this cave. That crow must have led us here for a reason!”

“Maybe this was the very reason,” said Maedhros, but he followed his cousin into the dark depts of the cave all the same. “To see what we would soon be dealing with. If these trolls have learnt to talk, others might have as well. The same thing happened to Orcs if you care to know. The first ones I met in Angamando would not even keep things, nor did they seem to have any notion of what it meant to possess anything. Not even their weapons or garments – and now, they will raid and pillage and steal whatever they chance upon. The change is prominent, if terrible. They have learnt to torture prisoners as well: that is the only way to express the constant, incurable state of pain and distress they are trapped in. But these Trolls hoarded these things to keep them, and to take pleasure in them: why else would have they hidden them away in the depths of their dwelling?”

“And who taught them to keep things?” Fingon stared at him. “Moringotto?”

“This is more like Sauron’s ways of torture,” said Maedhros darkly. “And if he has taken to Trolls, that means we face a new evil in them: evil misled. They will hate and fear us golug because their master told them to; and when we shall meet on the battlefield, none of us will hesitate to strike down the other. And why would we?”

Fingon was looking at him with a strange light in his eyes.

“I do not understand,” he said. “You say that you witnessed the same thing happening to Orcs – but you hate them! You kill them upon sight. Why should we pity Trolls more than we pity Orcs?”

Maedhros drew a deep breath, but before he could have answered, they heard a faint pounding coming from behind the back wall of the cave. Fingon grabbed his lance again, but the next thing they heard was a muffled cry; and that cry belonged to neither Orc nor Troll.

No more words were needed between them. Maedhros leaned against the large boulder at the back wall of the cave with full force. Fingon helped, and they pushed with all their might; and after a few moments of painful exertion, the rock gave way, rolling slowly to the side. Behind the rock yawned a small cavern, and in the cavern sat an Elf Maedhros could not momentarily remember the name of. He knew him, though: the imperious arch of his nose, the austere line of his mouth, his clever eyes, grey as the skies before a summer storm.

And Fingon knew him as well.

“Voronwë Aranwion!”

For a few seconds they all stared at each other, awestruck; then Maedhros collected himself.

“Well met, kinsman,” he said. “Your enemies are dead. Were you hurt?”

Voronwë drew his tattered cloak closer around his shoulders and bowed his head before them.

“Highness, Lord Warden,” he said, “I owe you my life. Words cannot express how glad I am that you found me; still, I must ask… what in the name of Manwë and Varda are you doing here?”

Maedhros gave him a tight smile.

“A fair question,” he said. “If you are patient enough, my good cousin shall soon find us a tolerable excuse.”

“The excuses are your area,” said Fingon. “I am the one with the daring escapes, remember?”

“Very well,” said Maedhros, although he did not feel like things were going well at all. “If you must know, I am looking for a dear friend of mine, one who might have been lost among these mountains. My cousin here is the entertainment. You know how weary the road gets.”

“And where is your search party?” Voronwë raised a thin eyebrow. “Were they slain by Orcs, perhaps?”

Maedhros gestured to his blood-soaked garments and naked longsword.

“Do I look like someone with a search party?”

“Not your best, cousin,” said Fingon. “May I suggest some embellishing on the excuse front?”

“I am done with excuses,” Maedhros quipped. “I will tear these mountains down to the core of the earth, one by one, if that is what it takes to find the one I am searching for. I need no search party, or anyone else witless enough to try and stop me.”

“I see,” said Voronwë slowly. Maedhros was not sure what he saw on his face; but he was overtaken by a sudden, faint, but shrill sense of foreboding.

“Come now, Voronwë,” he said. “You must be hungry and worn out. Can you walk?”

“I believe so.”

Voronwë rose, keeping a steady hand on the cave wall, but Maedhros had to get a grip on his shoulder to prevent him from stumbling.

“What happened to you?” questioned Fingon. “Were you travelling with my brother? Was he hurt as well?”

“Nay, Highness,” said Voronwë softly. “I was running an errand when I was detained by Orcs. Fleeing among the mountains, I was captured by the Trolls you have now slain, and I made the mistake of underestimating them. They wanted to keep me here with their treasure, but they gave me neither food nor drink. This was but yestereve, though: I kept my strength. And your brother is safe.”

“That is a relief to hear,” said Fingon slowly, “for I feared he had perished. I had not heard from him since the long-gone feast of Mereth Aderthad: since then, centuries passed and kingdoms fell, our Atar went to Mandos and the Enemy woke from his sleep. I cannot help but wonder – does my brother have any knowledge of these events?”

“More than you think,” said Voronwë. “He sees much and hears much; and he watches over you even when you cannot feel it. But he is the leader of his own kingdom, and he protects the lives of his subjects with harsh laws and utmost secrecy.”

“Are those laws so harsh that even the High King of the Noldor should fear them?” said Fingon; and Maedhros felt the slightest urge to interrupt, as if to prevent some half-imagined disaster.

“Your brother’s kingdom is well hidden,” said Voronwë. “So much so that no living soul, unguided, can find it.”

“But you know where it is,” Fingon pressed, “and now you can lead us there.”

“I could indeed,” said Voronwë, “but know this: your brother’s gates are sealed, and once you have learnt the way in, you shall become a sharer of the Secret, and thus, never be allowed to leave again. And I fear, Highness, that in your current position, and that of your cousin, such an act would put bitter strife between all of us.”

There was a long, heavy silence.

“I am his brother and his King,” said Fingon, “and Nelyo the eldest of our family. Surely, Turukno would trust us with the secret and let us go?”

“I cannot be sure of it,” said Voronwë. “The happenings of these past years have not gone unnoticed. We all see the perils to come, and we all hate the Enemy for what he did to our people; but not all are willing to die for honour and pride.”

“So my brother does not want us there,” said Fingon. “He cares not if we live or die – he has abandoned us, has he not? He thinks that we are marching to our doom, and so he has given up on us.”

“He never has. His thoughts are always with you.”

“His thoughts, aye!” said Fingon, thunder in his voice. “I remember that. My brother’s thoughts were most useful to me when the Flames came, and the Enemy’s Valaraukar and dragons ravaged our lands! I remember my brother’s thoughts, a shining great shield, stopping the beasts’ flaming breath and whips from killing me. Or was it your shield, cousin? I can never tell one from the other.”

“Findekáno,” said Maedhros warily. “Spare your wrath from those who have not deserved it!”

“I wish you would think less ill of your brother,” said Voronwë. “The people he leads are different than yours: they are the ones who were the most reluctant to go when Fëanáro unleashed the Doom upon us all. They are the ones who have crossed the Ice –“

“I have crossed the Ice as well!” Fingon snapped. “And so did my father, and all in Hithlum who are old enough to remember it. We have all suffered, same as you have.”

“But you did not want to go back to Valinórë,” said Voronwë quietly, “and in the days of the Long Peace, you were happy here. Your brother rules over people who never were; and he had built them a kingdom as safe and prosperous as could be built east of Aman. You cannot bend them to your cause with your wrath only, justified as it may be; for the people of the Hidden City want to survive. If the Enemy could find where we were, he would already have; for he hates your brother just as much as he hates you, and he wants your ruin.”

“Very well,” said Fingon. “Then crawl back along your mountain traps and tell Turukáno that the High King of the Noldor desires to speak with him. Here, in this cave, among rotting troll carcasses and blood-stained trinkets, if that is what we must have! My title might still carve a path where the word brother fails.”

“Findekáno!” Maedhros exclaimed. “You are saying things that you will later regret.”

“It is too late for regrets,” said Fingon. “I have searched for my brother for long years, sending him envoys and writing him letters; all in vain. I can see that now. What do you think, Voronwë Aranwion, will he abandon you as well? Or will he come to your rescue if I take you to my fortress and forbid you to leave in fear of betraying some great secret?”

And with a swift, fluid motion, he reached for the rope that hang on his belt; and the next thing Maedhros knew, Voronwë was bound, the fire was roaring, and his cousin was gone – hunting, as he claimed.

He could not decide which one was harder to endure: the empty, dead gazes of the trolls, or the silent grief of Voronwë next to him.

*

The fire was easy to feed, even with one hand.

It was less than desirable to eat their supper right next to the dead trolls, but the night was dark, treacherous, and cold; and the bodies were too large for them to move. Through some hardship, the horses found their way up to the mouth of the cave as well. Maedhros halved an apple with his knife and gave one part each.

Then, he leaned over to Voronwë, and with a quick slash of the blade, he cut his wrists free.

“Do not marvel at me so,” he said. “Take all the provisions you can fit into your pack and make haste! You are free to go, as long as you avoid my cousin and his flaming stare.”

Voronwë rose to his feet slowly, the bewilderment still visible on his face.

“Findekáno grieves for his father still,” said Maedhros, “and the crown is a burden to him. He feels that Turukáno betrayed him, and so he acts – well, you see how he acts. But if our roles were reversed, and he was the one trying to console me – well, then, you would probably ask what he was doing. And so Findekáno would smile at you, same as I am smiling now, and he would say, the term, I think, is high treason.”

“You are disobeying your king.”

“I am saving my cousin from himself,” said Maedhros warily. “He shall do with me as he pleases when he comes back; but if strife could be avoided between him and Turukáno, I will have to try. Answer me a question in return: is my Counsellor with you? In your Hidden City?”

“That I cannot answer,” said Voronwë. “Not even if you will bind my hands again.”

“Cannot or may not?”

Voronwë sighed.

“If you are as wise as you now seem to be, you must know the answer to that question.”

Maedhros’s heart was suddenly beating faster in his chest.

“Very well,” he said. “Then pass this message to your King: I am gathering an army larger than any force we have had since the Glorious Battle; and I have cleansed most of Beleriand of the Orc-filth. The rest is soon to come; and then Findekáno and I shall restore order to these lands. Whether Turukáno shall aid us in our endeavour is his choice; whether he shall come to his brother in the hour of need is his as well. And if he retains Tyelcano, my dear friend, a member of my household against his will, then he does so at his own peril; and whatever strife might follow is his own doing.”

Voronwë looked at him quizzically, grey eyes twinkling in the firelight.

“And if he is happy there? Content? Free of the Shadow? What then? Because that is what the Hidden Kingdom offers to people: a new life, free of the Enemy.”

“The Enemy is never far, and the Noldor are doomed to destroy him, or be destroyed,” said Maedhros. “You can run to the end of the world if you so desire; but our fate does not lie in our kingdoms and titles. It lies in ourselves, and my Counsellor knows this.”

Voronwë lowered his eyes, massaging his wrists where Fingon’s rope had bound them. To Maedhros, it seemed that he was battling himself.

“There are some in our kingdom who would agree with you,” he said at length.

Maedhros tilted his head. “And do you?”

“I want to see the Black Foe defeated as much as anyone else,” said Voronwë. “But he is one of the Powers, even if his fëa is wretched and disfigured beyond measure… and in all honesty, Nelyafinwë, I do not believe that he could be defeated. And still! Both you and Findekáno have done things none of us had thought possible. No one believed that there was a way out of the Iron Prison, yet here you both are, the bitterest enemies of the Dark Foe, taking up arms again! It may as well be that he is merely biding his time, seeking to crush you when you would least expect it; still, one wishes to cling any hope they might feel.”

“Of course he is biding his time,” said Maedhros. “He is letting us have our way, sacrificing his servants, no doubt, to later unleash a dragon horde, a legion of Valaraukar, or some other evil design to kill us all – but I also have my own designs, and he shall like them little. The Enemy has never taken my lands, nor shall his servants set foot in them ever again, not as long as I draw breath. For I am not alone! I have my family, friends, allies, and kinsmen; and Moringotto has nothing but those he had bound to himself by fear and hatred. And woe to him! Because he showed me himself the depths of his malice and the nature of his plans; and now that I know what he is, I fear him no more.”

“And do you fear yourself?” asked Voronwë quietly.

“If you are as wise as you now seem to be,” said Maedhros, “you must know the answer to that question.”

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats; and they understood each other.

“I thank you for my life,” said Voronwë at length, “and for letting me go. I shall be on my way.”

Maedhros drew his knife from his belt. “Here,” he said, “take this. I noticed that your scabbard is empty. The Dwarves forged it for me when I last visited them – it is good steel, and new.”

He handed the knife over hilt first; and bowing his head, Voronwë took it before he went on his way, swift as a shadow. Soon, the only remnant of his presence was the lump in Maedhros’s throat, fearing that the rest of the journey with his cousin would be unpleasant at best.

Fingon took the better part of the next hour to come back, and when he did, the carcass of a rabbit was hanging from his shoulder. He put it down next to the fire, eyes gazing over Maedhros in deep thought; then suddenly, his face became very intent.

“Where is Voronwë?”

Maedhros crossed his legs, easing them closer to the fire.

“That I cannot answer.”

“He was right beside you! Do not tell me that he could escape your vigilance!”

“I said no such thing,” said Maedhros levelly. “You asked me where he was now, not where he had been when I last looked.”

“You let him go,” said Fingon sharply. “You disobeyed my order.”

“I will accept any punishment you seem fit, my King,” said Maedhros. “But whenever you do something the Enemy would want you to do, I will stop you; same as you would stop me.”

“I said we take him back to Barad Eithel! Is that truly so terrible?”

“You bound his wrists,” said Maedhros. “The wrists of your kinsman, who had spent an entire day in a troll-cave without food and water. Were you going to torture him so, merely because you are angry with Turukáno? Were you going to make him travel countless leagues, maybe never to find his way back? You know that he shall not talk.”

The silence that fell between them was long and unbearable – then Fingon knelt down in front of him, took his face between his hands, and kissed his brow.

“Thank you, Russandol,” he said quietly. “You were a much better friend today than I was to you.”

Maedhros put his good arm around his cousin and hugged him tight.

“We both have our moments,” he said, “and we both have our grievances and regrets as well. Do not think, though, that I have let Voronwë go without a message carefully aimed! Turukáno has hurt you, after all.”

“We need him not,” said Fingon. “Not your counsellor, not your people or mine, not our friends and allies and armies. We need nothing but each other, and the whole world shall be at our feet.”

“The last time you said something like that, we almost drowned in River Gelion,” Maedhros remarked.

“Almost, cousin.”

They smiled at each other; and then, they both gave a start at the sound of flapping wings.

The crow was upon them again; it settled on a troll carcass at the mouth of the cave, its sharp beak tearing into the black flesh.

“Caw,” it said.

* * *

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Chapter End Notes

A Note on Trolls

Trolls or ‘olog-hai’ as such are not mentioned in the legendarium until the Nirnaeth, but I figured they had to exist much earlier. Trolls were, according to Treebeard’s beliefs, corrupted by Morgoth in mockery of Ents, much like Orcs were a mockery of Elves. The exact origins of trolls are not known, but I imagine that Maedhros saw the first ones in Angband, and later, when the trolls appeared in the mountain-lands north of Dorthonion and east of Hithlum, he recognized them.

This chapter assumes that if trolls were used as a military force in the Nirnaeth, they had to understand at least basic commands until then – therefore, Maedhros and Fingon encountered talking trolls for the first time in their lives. They are, however, still very different than the trolls Bilbo encounters in The Hobbit; they can only use a few words of the Black Speech that Maedhros had learned in his captivity. The linguistic representation is not perfect, as we only know the Black Speech of the Third Age, but we’ll have to settle for it – ‘golug’ is a name for the Noldor.