The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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Blood on the Snow

Laurefindil struggles with the power of foresight; and his friendship with Tyelcano is put to test. A lot.

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Two weeks later, the Hidden City of Ondolindë

“…and so it would span the entire width of the Orfalch Echor, right before the passage widens. Seven great pillars should be enough to support the weight: seven stories high each, and sharp as a needle. Crossbars, seven times seven. Entirely impenetrable, I should think.”

“Material?”

“Unalloyed steel, Majesty, with guards stationed on horses.”

“Very impressive, Lómion,” said King Turukáno approvingly. “What do you think, Captain?”

Laurefindil furrowed his brows. The morning was bright and clear in the Hidden City, but some nameless, groundless worry veiled his thoughts. It proved a lot more difficult to imagine the Seventh Gate then it should have been, and give valuable input.

“If you could make it open vertically between the pillars,” he said at length, “we could raise and lower parts of the gate as we please.”

“So have I envisioned,” said Lómion, the spark of creative interest flared in his eyes. “And so the Seventh Gate could continue in a wall, a last, great circular defence line around the City. A wall of steel.”

“It does raise a certain question of sustainability,” Tyelcano’s dry voice cut in.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, there is not enough steel in the world.”

“Ah, you would be surprised,” said Lómion. “The mines under these mountains are the richest I have ever seen.”

“And how many have you seen, cundunya?” When Lómion gave no answer, Tyelcano smiled at him. “Build that Gate of Steel, make it as impressive as you are able – and then look at the state of your mines: that is my advice.”

Laurefindil smiled to himself. It would have been too much to say that Lómion had warmed up to the counsellor, but they were both visibly trying their best for the King’s sake, who seemed to be rather taken by the idea of another Gate. Even without the planned constructions, the Orfalch Echor was an impressive sight: the sharp, icy peaks were thickly covered with snow, and icicles jingled high above them with every gust of wind.

“I very much support the idea of a seventh gate,” said Ecthelion. “One even deadlier than the Gate of Gold. It would serve as a last resort to stop any enemy that should seek to vanquish us.”

As soon as he said this, Laurefindil saw a commotion in the valley below them. Two guards rode forth from the direction of the yellow marble walls of the Sixth Gate; and between them, on a borrowed horse, sat a hooded figure. The guards dismounted in front of the King, took down their golden helmets, and bowed their heads.

“From the West comes your kinsman, Majesty,” one of them said. “A long and perilous journey is behind him but behold! He has returned safe and sound.”

The newcomer threw back his hood, revealing the austere face of Voronwë Aranwion; and Laurefindil’s heart was glad.

“How great to see you again, my friend!” he said. “Alas, we feared that you had perished.”

“We have indeed,” the King nodded. “Never I have been so glad to err.”

“If I am alive today, it is thanks to the deeds of others,” said Voronwë, “but this, my King, is a story you might prefer to hear in the privacy of your own quarters.”

Turukáno waved the guards away, then looked at his companions, one by one, and shook his head.

“Nay; I am surrounded by members of my Small Council, who would eventually hear the tidings you bring anyway, may they be good or bad.”

“As you wish,” said Voronwë. “Well – my journey was long and hard. The mountain paths are treacherous, for Orcs lurk near them: not many, but vicious. They are the only survivors of the liberation of East and West Beleriand – everything east of the river Sirion.”

“Liberation?” Laurefindil stared at him.

“Indeed, Captain. The Seven Sons have chased the Orcs out of their lands; then, they forged alliance with Azaghâl, the Dwarven King, and again went to war; and then, also victorious, the Warden of the East and the High King rode West to scourge the whole kingdom of their enemies. One can ride across Himlad, Ard-Galen and even Dorthonion now. Hithlum shall be next.”

“These are the best news I have heard in centuries!” Ecthelion exclaimed. Laurefindil’s heart leapt as well, but he said nothing, for Voronwë went on, and his face was grave.

“These tidings I have learned from the High King himself, Majesty.”

“You have spoken to my brother?” Turukáno stared at him. “Against my explicit orders not to?”

“I have had little choice in the matter,” said Voronwë dryly, “for it was him and your cousin Nelyafinwë who rescued me from a troll-cave, out among the Crissaegrim.”

None remained unaffected by these news. Lómion’s hands tightened into fists, Ecthelion gave a soft oh, Tyelcano’s face went wide as niphredils in a field, and the King exclaimed:

“Here? What business could they have so near?”

“Nelyafinwë sought to know if his Counsellor was dead or captured, to – well, act accordingly,” said Voronwë measuredly. “From our meeting, he had deducted the truth, and although his wrath had somewhat subsided, I would not take the liberty to say that he was pleased.”

“Nelyafinwë and Findekáno, exploring the Oroquilta in the dead of winter,” said Tyelcano, his voice remarkably impassive. “Alone, of course, with nothing else than their infallible wit and valiancy to guard them!” Against his will, his voice flared up. “Covered in blood and dirt from head to toes, no doubt, genuinely surprised that they would find trolls in a troll cave.”

“Very much so, my lord,” said Voronwë, his voice honeyed by mirth. “Nevertheless, I owe them my life; for they slayed my captors, warmed me by their fire, and shared their provisions with me.”

His voice suddenly faltered as he finished his sentence; and Laurefindil saw a shadow pass through his face, faint and fleeting, but a shadow nonetheless.

“And then they let you go, respecting my Law of Secrecy?” Turukáno raised his brows. “How unusual.”

“This is not how things came to pass, Majesty,” said Voronwë. “I…”

“Why would you hesitate to speak?” Tyelcano was watching him intently. “What happened?”

“If I stand here today, free and unfollowed,” said Voronwë, visibly bracing himself, “it is solely out of the good will of Nelyafinwë. He let me go in secret, while the High King wanted me questioned; for alas! his wrath has turned against you, Majesty, for he feels that you have forsaken him.”

“And Nelyafinwë does not?” The King’s voice was incredulous.

“He said that if he could prevent any strife between his cousins, he would do it,” said Voronwë. “Your brother is troubled, Majesty, and his grief is heavy. Yet his strength in arms is also great; and with the Seven Sons, he is setting Beleriand free.”

“And Nelyafinwë did not threaten, or belittle me – “

“Nay, Majesty; but he would welcome your help, if you decided to give it.”

“There is something that you are not telling me.”

Voronwë sighed.

“I must admit that according to what little Nelyafinwë told me of his plans, I believed that he might succeed. I truly believe he could – if you aided him.”

“That is not a decision you can, or should take in my stead, kinsman,” said Turukáno sharply.

“Nor would I seek to, unless such was your command,” said Voronwë, and bowed his head. “These are all the tidings I bring you, my King. No one followed me here, and therefore, the Secret of your City remains safe.”

“And my Lord knows that I am in Ondolindë,” said Tyelcano quietly, “and that here I must remain.”

“He does.”

“So can I safely presume that the eldest sons from the House of Finwë shall cease prowling around alone in the wilderness like mad wolves?”

“Small victories, my lord,” said Voronwë, but his eyes were distant; and Laurefindil was seized by a sudden feeling of dread.

Tyelcano was too calm. Too collected… and when Voronwë gave him his lord’s dagger to keep, his thanks were too gracious, his grip on Turukáno’s shoulder too tight as they all walked back to their quarters.

Lómion was the first to leave, and Ecthelion the next; Voronwë stopped by the armoury to see his chainmail tended, and Tyelcano excused himself to his quarters.

He appeared entirely calm indeed; and the King the opposite of calm. Laurefindil had seldom seen him so touched by any tidings that came from the outside world.

“Have I truly forsaken my brother, Captain?”

Laurefindil froze mid-step as he heard Turukáno’s voice calling after him. They were standing alone in the gardens of the palace, and Anor looked down on them from behind the clouds like a ghastly eye.

“This is a matter of consideration, Majesty,” he said. “You keep asking for tidings about your brother’s deeds. You have cleared his path of enemies more than once in the past centuries, unasked-for, unseen, and so has Írissë. And he remains none the wiser: he sees you not, and hears you not.”

Sadness fleeted across Turukáno’s face as Írissë’s name was uttered.

“Indeed,” he said slowly. “I have done as much as our sister, who had always done whatever in the name of Manwë and Varda she pleased, without any regrets or regards to others. Findekáno has no possible way to know what befell her; to him, she has disappeared from the face of the earth, same as I did, and still his wrath turns against me, not her.”

“He must miss you very much,” said Laurefindil softly.

“And so in your eyes, I truly abandoned him.”

“You feel that you have not, and he feels that you have. These two things can be true at the same time, Majesty.”

“Still, you would go to war with Nelyafinwë if I let you; and bang your fists on the Iron Gates. You would fight.”

“We all must do what we think is best,” said Laurefindil. “It might be that fate leads you to your brother again, and you shall take up arms together, and the House of Finwë shall once again be united; for this is what your heart shall command you. But it may also be that your paths must be harder, and torn asunder, and so you shall remain apart. You are my King – the king I chose and the king I shall follow, whatever may come. This I have sworn to you ere our coming here – with an Oath less terrible than the one that binds your cousins, but an oath nevertheless.”

Turukáno stared at him in silence for a long moment. The hard lines of his face slowly softened.

“You are very good at evading questions, and making others feel grateful for it. You must already know this, Laurefindil, but you truly have a way with people.”

“Involuntarily, Highness.” Laurefindil bowed his head. “I never say anything that I do not mean; and if something weighs on your mind, you can always tell me.”

“That I know.” Turukáno’s hand was heavy on his shoulder. “But I also want you to know that you can expect the same help from me. I am here too: one of the many friends you have made in this City. I can see that something ails you.”

“There is something gnawing at my heart indeed,” Laurefindil admitted, “but I do not yet know what. I have been blessed once with the power of foresight before, and what I feel now is similar, but more uncertain. A subtle, but constant warning, an invisible hand weaving the way out for me in a great tapestry.”

“So Vairë weaves all our destinies,” said the King. “Curious times are ahead, of that, I am sure. I would be a fool to deny that my heart is troubled, and I do not yet know which way I must take. I am waiting for the same sort of sign I received of the Powers to have this city built. Until then, I shall carry out my duties as they seem best. May your trust in me prove earned!”

“And may your trust in me never disappoint you,” said Laurefindil. “Wake me if you need me, Majesty. Even on my day off duty, in the darkest hour of night.”

With that, they parted ways; but Laurefindil could not find joy in what was possibly the most private exchange he had ever had with the King. His heart was beating hard and fast, his senses sharpened, and his legs carried him up the walls and out to the guard-post above the Caragdûr.

From the walls, he could see the spot where Tyelcano had almost fallen to his death, not so long ago; and his mind’s eye could still see the treacherous path as well, the path that led out of the City and westward on, to Hithlum, Vinyamar and all the lands and seas beyond. Wind rose above him among the mountains, and the depths of the great abyss seemed to whisper to him, and sing to him, luring him closer to the edge.

Laurefindil stared into its nothingness; and he knew, with the dull certainty of foresight, that one day, he would fall. It was too far to see, but he could still feel the bottom of the pit; the moisture oozing from the walls of an underground tunnel, the sharp pressure of rocks as he fell from unfathomable heights, sulfur and fire and heat and burning –

He could see the dark, deadly depths as they started rushing towards him, so hard and so fast that they seemed frozen in place.

*

Laurefindil could not remember his walk back from the pit to the House of the Fountain. Ecthelion’s halls were full of light and laughter as their friend group gathered, and Anardil decided to sing them a new song he had written; however, they finally all found themselves to be more preoccupied by the story of Voronwë’s rescue. The stark Elf also accepted Ecthelion’s invitation and told them a prolonged version of his adventures; and once he had been in his cups, the events benefited from some embellishing.

“You must have loved that,” said Anardil. “Well met, kinsman! Your enemies are dead.” His right hand disappeared behind his back with a theatrical flourish. “May I treat you to a spot of high treason?”

“Nelyafinwë is nothing like that,” said Voronwë, but he was hiding a smile. “Do a deeper voice.”

“High treason, Aranwion!”

“It’s in the stare,” said Ecthelion. “Do the death stare.”

“Where is our favourite counsellor?” Anardil sighed. “It seems that my Nelyafinwë impression is in desperate need of improvement.”

“You do a perfect Findekáno, though,” Ecthelion offered. “Better than the original. You must show him if you ever meet him. He shall love it.”

“…alas,” said Anardil, his entire demeanour changing in an instant, wrath colouring his voice, his hair flowing free about his shoulders, “I shall partake in such joys no more; for my brother hast forsaken me.”

“Do not jest with that,” said Laurefindil, though not entirely without mirth. “It saddens the King greatly. He has his own grief to overcome… and Findekáno has yet to hear about Eöl and Írissë.”

“I did not say a word,” said Voronwë. “His wrath was terrible enough without having to hear such a sombre tale. The longer this knowledge remains within these walls, the more chance we have to prevent disaster.”

“What do you think would happen if they found out, though?” Anardil raised his brows; and Voronwë looked at him with such patience Laurefindil had never seen him grant the Teler since their falling out in the Council.

“It depends on who would find out first. Findekáno? News would travel from the Isle of Balar to the Kingdom of the Dwarves, and all would curse Eöl’s name. Nelyafinwë? Nan Elmoth would be taken, and its people bound to his service. Kanafinwë? There would be a beautiful lament sung of Írissë anywhere one went, with a few unabashedly wicked stanzas about Woodelves. Any other son of Fëanáro? Then the Powers save us all. They all loved the Princess Írissë very much; especially Tyelkormo and Curufinwë. They would avenge her, and bitterly.”

“But there is nothing left to avenge,” said Anardil. “She is dead; and the King threw Eöl off the Caragdûr, or so is the story told. I imagine the Seven Sons would have done something similar.”

“This goes deeper than that,” Voronwë sighed. “They are proud lords – once princes – from the ancient world, and they have always been enemies to Thingol and all of his kin, ever since they crossed the Sea, and us the Ice. Thingol banned the speech of Quenya everywhere he could, yet most of them continue to speak it; and their lands surround Doriath and Nan Elmoth now, that the Orcs have been chased from the wastelands. Thingol benefits from the warfare of the House of Fëanáro just as much as anyone else; and Nelyafinwë tried to make peace with him on several occasions, as I have heard. Still Thingol continues to overlook him, and it is said that he had sworn never to fight alongside any son of the Star.”

“Kings and their oaths,” Anardil sighed. “I have yet to see one of them who gets it right. Do you think that Thingol might shift a little bit in his fancy chair every now and then, and whisper to himself, I should not have done that? They say he has one of the Three Jewels now.”

“It is true,” said Voronwë, “and it is known; and sooner or later, the consequences of his deeds shall come to him.”

“And Lord Your-Enemies-Are-Dead did not even mention the Evil Woodelf King usurping his rightful heritage, and all that?” Anardil raised his brows. “Well, we have never met, but I daresay he’s up to something. Lord Mopey would surely know about it, if he only graced his friends with his presence tonight.”

“These news must have been hard for him to hear,” said Voronwë. “I know that respecting other people’s feelings have never been your strongest suit; but be patient with him!”

Anardil froze, and stared at him, with a sudden sharpness in his glance.

“I always encourage my friends to remind me of the failings of my character,” he quipped, “but you have lost the right to do so. Or should I say that you have overdone it? Your heart is forever cold to me: I understand that. But cease it sometimes, at least, for the sake of everyone else who must tolerate our presence!”

The paintings of their curious dreams were still adorning the walls of Ecthelion’s dining room, glinting faintly in the candlelight as Anardil turned his back on them and left, shutting the door behind himself; and Voronwë looked after him with regret.

“I did not mean that,” he said, “he should know I did not! What has befallen to us all? Every soul is so quick to anger, as if some invisible evil was circling us, watching us. What is merely an inconvenience at other times seems now a disaster! Do you not feel this way, my friends?”

“Our fates are being shaped as we speak,” said Laurefindil slowly; and he was barely aware of how hollow his voice sounded. “We are all perturbed… and you have known for many moons that Anardil longs for your friendship, which you continue to deny him. Sometimes, such burdens get too hard to bear.”

“There was a time when he had my trust,” said Voronwë, “and he lied to me. One who puts himself before others in a time of peril and deceives them may do it again.”

“You should not speak of him like that!” Pengolodh exclaimed. “You do not know the evils he has suffered; and he is the best friend I have ever had.”

With that, he sprang from his chair, and went after Anardil; and their evening of merriment ended.

“What a lovely and warm gathering!” Ecthelion sighed. “At least Erestor is not here to witness what a terrible host I have been to you. I have barely seen him in days, so deep he has buried himself in the library.”

“They say that he spends most of his time with Lómion,” Laurefindil remarked.

“I know of it.” Ecthelion glanced out the window. “But it would be a greater evil to put a stop to it than to let such a connection unfold. I do not believe that I shall ever grow to like Lómion, or agree with him or most things, but I shan’t let him turn my nephew against me. If I forbade their meetings, they would complain to the King.”

“You are doing the right thing for all the wrong reasons,” said Laurefindil softly.

“And from that, the right consequences shall spring all the same,” Ecthelion quipped.

“I wonder.”

“What ails you?” His friend’s gaze was sharp. “Have your dreams come back to haunt you?”

I just foresaw my own death, and I can do nothing about it, Laurefindil thought.

“The same thing that ails Anardil,” he said aloud. “I do not know where Tyelcano is.”

“I saw him with the King last. He shall probably beg him to be dismissed once again – a request to be denied, I am sure.”

“Nay,” said Laurefindil. “I was the last one to leave the King today. I thought that he had perhaps gone with you.”

“I thought he was with you,” said Ecthelion. “I saw him heading out to the training fields with some light armour on, and I was certain that you had asked him to spar with you. Who else would break a lance with Tyelcano of Himring in the dead of winter, I told myself. It must, of course, be you.”

“A lance?” Laurefindil’s voice was sharp. “And some strong leather boots, I would presume. Also, perhaps, a rope?”

“What are you saying, Laurefindil?” Ecthelion’s face was grave.

“I cannot speak it, lest it become real. So I shall ask for you, once again: have you seen him after that?”

“Have you?”

Laurefindil shook his head. His heart was pounding hard and fast in his chest.

“What are we going to do?”

“Nothing,” said Ecthelion after a short silence. “I have not spoken the Secret to anyone, and neither have you; and neither has he. That path has been revealed to us, for reasons unknown; and we have no way of knowing whether our friend had truly taken it. We cannot be sure of his treason unless we have witnessed it; and we must not do so. The moment we do, we become accomplices. This he must know, which is why he chose to depart in secret… if he truly departed indeed. It may as well be that he is sipping wine in the solitude of his own quarters, which I personally choose to believe.”

Laurefindil stared into his friend’s eyes: piercing grey, and unforgiving.

“But if he left…”

“No one has left,” said Ecthelion sharply. “There is no way out of the City, remember?”

“Listen to me!” Laurefindil grabbed his hands. “There is no possible way for Tyel to survive this alone, is there? He must either fall to his death, or be discovered and executed, or lose his way among the mountains and be killed by hunger, cold or Orcs.”

“Long before he could reach Nelyafinwë.” Ecthelion nodded.

They stood in silence for another minute; and as Laurefindil strengthened his resolve to make a decision, he found that his decision had already been made.

“I shall go after him.”

“No!” Ecthelion’s grip was like iron on his wrist. “I shall not let you be killed over this!”

“He needs us to stop him. He shall find his way back to the lord he so loves, but not like this. This is not the way!”

“Fin –“

“I have foreseen it!” Laurefindil said, his voice suddenly powerful. “This is not the way, I said.”

“You cannot be sure…”

“Yes I can!” Laurefindil ripped his hands from his friend’s grip. “It happened before, if only once, when we crossed the Helcaraxë. I saw things to come then, and I have seen some now. I must go after Tyel.”

I must die.

The thought was terrible, but it also felt as natural as breathing, and also utterly inexplicable to Ecthelion who said nothing for a long moment, and only stared at him.

And then, he said,

“If you make it down the Caragdûr alive, the path opens before you. It is visible from several guard-posts along the Gates, although it goes under them. If you try to follow it, you shall most probably be captured, and the King’s Doom shall be upon you.” He looked at Laurefindil long and hard. “If you are not captured, you shall fall into an abyss, or be killed by something else within a day. No one could make it out alive: not even Nelyafinwë or Findekáno or Tyel or yourself. Not even Fëanáro if he were alive, and all his wrath and creative hatred would turn against the roots of these mountains. Never attempt to follow the path, or you shall both go to Mandos.”

“Well, that is one way out of the City,” said Laurefindil dryly.

“Do not jest with that.” Ecthelion pulled him into a tight embrace. “When you find him, bring him to me, and only me. I am the Warden of the Gates; and if this incident is not discovered, I have the power to protect us all. May Varda watch over your steps tonight!”

Laurefindil smiled tightly. “I shall need it.”

*

He slid back to his quarters, swift as a shadow, to don his lightest chainmail under his clothes, his favourite boots, gloves, and a thick cloak. If he were truly to die, at least he would not die out of carelessness.

The guard-posts above the Caragdûr were empty at night; they were seldom used either way, and never in the dead of winter. The Hidden City’s exquisite landscape was behind Laurefindil now, and the wind, ever howling so hungrily among the Oroquilta, had ceased. The chasm opened in front of him like a giant, toothless mouth, its depths dark and hollow in the night like the Void itself.

The edge of the abyss was covered in fresh snow from a few hours ago; and Laurefindil’s were the first footprints to soil its blank whiteness. It seemed that he was not too late, at least.

Laurefindil sat down a few paces from the Caragdûr, turned his back to its invisible depths, and waited. The night was starless and its silence sullen; and after a time, Laurefindil began humming to himself in his lonely vigil. He did not feel the passing of the time as he waited; but after what seemed like an hour, in the darkest dead of night, he heard the soft patter of footsteps easing closer to him. Whoever was coming held no torch, contenting themselves with the silvery gleam of the City itself to find their way; and their steps were swift and sure, as if rehearsed several times in the light of day. There was an iron will behind those steps, and the unforgiving sternness of deliberation; and Laurefindil was hurt by such knowledge. A wave of shiver ran down his spine, knowing that he would soon fall into the unconceivably deep abyss behind him – but with that thought came doubt, and the hope that such a fate could still be avoided.

Maybe it was only a warning, like the dreams. If those were indeed a warning.

The steps faltered behind him as his friend came around the last bend in the windy path and saw him.

“I thought you would never come,” said Laurefindil.

They stared at each other for a long moment, weighing, measuring. Tyelcano was dressed for travel, chainmail under his garments and a thick winter cloak around his shoulders, rope hanging from his belt along with his sword and two daggers – one of his own and one of Nelyafinwë’s –, his belongings packed neatly in a bag.

“Why would you come here, and witness my treason?” His friend’s voice was tired. “You know me well by now, Laurefindil. You know I must go.”

“I know that is what you think – but it must not be this way! Do not despair: we shall all see the outside world again, and soon enough.”

“Me sooner than you,” said Tyelcano, “for I am leaving.”

“I cannot let you do that,” said Laurefindil, his voice gentle but stern.

“And whyever not? I have been shown this path for a reason, and it has been haunting my dreams ever since.”

“If you go down there, you die; and you shall never see Nelyafinwë again. That path would be near impossible to follow even near the Gates of Summer, when the valley is gentle, and chattering streams run where now icicles fall. If you take it tonight, you shall be dead before the morning light comes!”

“Do you still not understand, meldonya?” Tyelcano cried out in anguish. “I do not wish this path upon myself, but the Powers have shown it to me, and I must step on it. My Lord is searching for me, out in the wilderness, among these deadly peeks; through the coldest nights of winter, and with no other than Findekáno to keep him company. Surely, it has come to this, because he has grave need of me! Who knows what befell the House of the Star while I was away? There must be some pressing reason for them both to search for me so!”

“Or it may be that Nelyafinwë loves you, same as you love him, and he wished to learn what befell you,” said Laurefindil. “But right now, my friend, you are marching into your doom. Do you think he would stand for that?”

“I have promised to Fëanáro that I shall watch over his sons, and the sons of his sons, for as long as I draw breath,” said Tyelcano. “So he commanded me with his dying breath. I will not break that promise, Laurefindil, not ever. Not even for you, as dear a friend as you are to me.”

“You have promised to watch: aye! Not to die for nothing!”

“You are standing in my way,” said Tyelcano, without even turning his head. With a fluid motion, he threw his packed provisions into the hungry mouth of the abyss, close to the edge so they would lodge upon an outcrop not far down the precipice; and they did. Then, he undid the rope on his belt, and fastened it to the great chains on the edge.

“If you shall not cease this on your own accord, I must make you,” said Laurefindil.

He stepped forward –

And Tyelcano drew his sword on him.

Time seemed to slow down as Laurefindil’s steps faltered, the cold light of the blade unbearable in the faint silvery glow of the Hidden City. Wind rose among the mountains, stirring the snow up around them; and coldness crept under Laurefindil’s clothes as he struggled to keep his footing. Snowflakes blurred his vision, and frost scratched his skin like tiny claws.

Tyelcano’s blade was pointing to his heart, mere inches away from his chest. His eyes, bright and terrible, bore into his; and his voice was heavy with grief when he spoke.

“Do not make me do this, I beg you.”

“You would never,” said Laurefindil.

“I already have,” said Tyelcano, “and if you force my hand, I shall never forgive you for it.”

“You, on the other hand, are already forgiven.”

“Cease this!” His friend all but shouted at him; but the blade did not move an inch. “Step aside, Laurefindil, and tell your King that I cornered you. That I was too quick. That you never thought I would betray you so. Hate my memory, if you have to; but let me go before something unspeakable comes to pass.”

Laurefindil did not lower his gaze.

“If you want this to become an unnecessarily perilous and irresponsible sparring match,” he said, “then so it shall become.”

And he drew his blade as well; and their weapons sang a song of ice and fury as they clashed against each other. Laurefindil lost his balance, then found it, then lost it again as they danced their dangerous dance along the edge of the Caragdûr; always hungry and always watching, like a giant, lidless eye.

After a time, Laurefindil’s every move felt slowed down and dulled, restrained by the cold. The pressure of his chainmail was uncomfortable against his back, and every clash of the two blades reverberated through his bones; for these were no training strikes, but a real duel with sharpened weapons, wielded with force and will.

It was nothing like sparring; it was something terrible, and unnatural, and addictive, in the worst way possible.

So they danced for a long time; sometimes closer, sometimes further away from each other, the depts of the abyss an ever-looming threat behind them, or in front of them, and sometimes, on their sides.

And then came a moment when Laurefindil’s blade slid down against Tyelcano’s, their swords touching just above the hilt; and their momentum pulled them close, their faces less then an inch away from each other.

“I do not wish to fight you, my friend,” said Tyelcano quietly.

“Then don’t.” Laurefindil’s mouth pressed into a thin line of concentration and pain. “Put down your sword, and I shall put down mine; and we shall go, and wake Anardil, and drink him out of his tea. He has a song for you.”

“I know you want to save everyone, but you cannot. Not me. Not this time. My dreams have spoken, and I have to go.”

No. Wrong.

Laurefindil suddenly found it hard to breathe, so heavy was the sense of foreboding that seized him.

“You saw it in a dream that you must go? A new dream?”

“I saw myself getting out of here and being with my family again. Through fire and blood it came to pass: but I saw it. This is how things must be.”

Shadows danced around them as drifts of snow glimmered in the night: brushstrokes on a pale, silvery canvas.

Tyelcano’s breath was warm on his face.

“I won this fight, and you know it,” said Laurefindil softly. “My sword is on top: when you will try to break free from my grip, I will flick the blade, and press it to your throat, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Tyelcano looked at him, his eyes dark, and sad, and terrible.

“Then forgive me.”

“My friend, there is nothing to –“

Sharp pain.

It passed as soon as it came, but it made him collapse and gasp for air nevertheless. The cut left a deep trench in his thigh, and Laurefindil could feel the hot stream of blood through the fabric of his trousers. It was a cleverly inflicted wound, for it would render him momentarily unable to walk, and climbing a rope would be as unthinkable as flying with the Eagles of Manwë.

A left-handed stroke with a dagger, of course. Efficient, unfair, but not cruel.

Still, all Laurefindil could feel was the cold sting of betrayal, and his own fury was kindled in return.

The answering strike caught Tyelcano unawares. It cut through his cloak, ripped his garments down to the chainmail, slid off the gleaming steel and slashed the side of his neck open – ridiculously shallow for a sword wound, but long enough to draw a lot of blood. With a cry, he fell to his knees, and so did Laurefindil; for any next step was impossible, unbearable.

“What in Manwë’s holy name is going on here, you pair of absolute idiots?!”

Slowly, painstakingly, Laurefindil turned back from the mouth of the Caragdûr; and for a moment, he could only blink stupidly at Anardil as he stood there, fully dressed, fury unveiled in his gleaming green eyes.

“So?” He went on, and his voice trembled. “What is this? The Second Kinslaying? Are you proud of yourselves? Are these truly the kind of friends I made here – ones who raise their blades against each other, and bathe in the blood of their kin?”

Laurefindil bowed his head in shame; and Tyelcano turned away from them, chest heaving, his hand pressed firmly against his neck and his eyes lost in the dark distance of the Oroquilta. Between them, a trail of blood ran along the snow like a bright red ribbon, tying their shame together…

…and Tyelcano’s hand froze mid-air as he moved to grasp the rope he had fastened to the rock wall. Far above them, the rolling clouds revealed Ithil’s light; and Laurefindil saw that his friend’s face bore a haunted look.

“Valar save me!” Tyelcano said. His voice was barely above a whisper, but Laurefindil could hear him clearly. “I was blind – I was so blind…”

“That you were!” Anardil grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him back from the edge of the precipice – and then he looked down, and fell on his knees beside him.

Inch by inch, Laurefindil dragged himself closer to the edge as well to look down; and he gasped when he saw what Tyelcano was pointing at with a trembling hand.

A good twenty yards down the Caragdûr, there was an outcropping in the rock wall; and atop it lay a wounded Eagle. At first glance it seemed dead; but it seemed to Laurefindil that its beak opened and closed every now and then, as if in great pain.

And he knew, with relief, that this night would not be the one he falls down to those terrible depths, and departs to Mandos, nor the one he fights Tyelcano to death.

This night will be one to prepare a most daring rescue.

Still, he could not turn away from the sight of his blood mingled with Tyelcano’s as it spread in the snow: arborescent runes of betrayal on a pale white sheet.

A betrayal of them both.

* * *

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Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes

A small reminder: ‘Oroquilta’ is my Quenya invention for the Crissaegrim. Voronwë uses the Sindarin version out of habit because he travels much; but for the Quenya speakers of Turgon’s household, ‘Oroquilta’ is the logical choice.

A few more words: this chapter is one of the oldest I have ever planned. There are some choices I would perhaps not make today, but I am really determined to see this story through with all its grandeur and melodrama... and plot connections. The same is true for the next two-three chapters. At least they will be fun, though. I mean, I hope.:)