The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The Third Betrayal

Anardil is faced with a terrible choice, and Maedhros finds aid where he least expects it.

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Chapter 35 – The Third Betrayal

The blood on the snow would be covered by dawn, Anardil knew.

The winter storms came back with a vengeance after a few hours of calm. Wind howled among the Oroquilta and drifts of snow drizzled over the crooked streets behind Cleanwater Alley as they all made their way to his home, the wounded Eagle spread behind them on a makeshift raft. Frost sat on their brows and snowflakes covered their hair, and they shivered in the night, glad that the march would soon be over.

It was a complete mystery how the three of them succeeded: how Tyelcano descended to the outcropping in the wall of the abyss where the Eagle lay, checked if it was still alive and dragged it up slowly, painstakingly, to the edge of the precipice, careful not to hurt its broken wing; and how they had carried it to safety together, unseen and unheard by all but a large carrion crow that settled on top of Anardil’s gate, gazing at them with clever eyes.

By all logic, someone should have seen something, and ran to the King with the news. To raise a weapon against one’s own kin, Quendë against Quendë, was a terrible sin; surely, the Powers meant for the King of the Hidden City to know that it occurred, and a judgement was to be made.

And yet nothing happened.

The snow fell heavier and heavier around them, the flakes so large they blurred Anardil’s view. The Eagle was too large to carry through both gate and door without bending its wing, so they ended up lifting it above the fence and through the open window. Anardil did most of the work with Tyelcano, since for Laurefindil, every step was a struggle now; and Anardil felt painfully aware that he had to trust a Feanorean to carry half the weight.

Because that was what Tyelcano was – a Feanorean. A kinslayer: a fact Anardil had forgotten somewhere along the way, or maybe he chose to overlook it in exchange for his friendship; because kinslayer or not, Tyelcano of Himring was a good friend. Just, noble, generous, and kind as the sea on a quiet morning.

Yet tonight, he had sunk that blade into Laurefindil’s leg as if it was nothing.

And the blow he got in return was much worse.

Anardil hardly even dared to look at his friends anymore. It filled him with an uncertain, lurking sort of dread, as if one word was enough to sever the fragile threads between them as if they had never existed.

Devoid of better options, the Eagle was lowered carefully onto Anardil’s bed. Tyelcano fetched water for it, and Anardil fed the fire in the hearth until it roared and sparkled. Heat engulfed the room within minutes, and the shadows of the flames lapped at the walls in the soft, orange glow.

“The Eagle is still alive,” said Tyelcano. “I can feel it. Let us hope its strength shall be regained.”

“Well, this place helped regain my strength,” said Anardil. “It is the best chance this Eagle has got – you, on the other hand, might be hopeless, for pride and idiocy leave different scars.”

Tyelcano did not even raise his eyes from the wounded Eagle as he answered.

“I know what you must do now; and I hold no grudge for it. I shall only ask that you do it quickly.”

“Very well,” said Anardil. “So – chamomile or milfoil?”

Tyelcano and Laurefindil both stared at him in wonder; and Anardil made a show of filling his kettle with water and putting it above the hearth.

“I only have half a bottle of wine,” he went on, “and it would be most impolite to serve that to such noble guests, or so Pengolodh tells me. So tea it is.”

“Do not play with me!” said Tyelcano sharply. “I broke the King’s Law. I tried to leave. I shed the blood of my kin once again. My punishment shall be death – but I would rather die than abandon one of the Eagle-folk in a time of need.”

Anardil turned his back to the kettle.

“I told you something after the Gates of Summer,” he said. “Do you remember?”

“You said that I would never change. Here I am, unchanged – and here you are, genuinely surprised at the truth of your own assumption. What did you think, Anardil of the Falmari? That the luxuries of this place shall make me less loyal to the House of the Star?”

“Not so fast, Lord Mopey,” said Anardil, raising a finger. “I asked you two questions that day – if you wanted to get out of here; and what you were willing to do for it. And you just answered both with your deeds. You are loyal to Nelyafinwë, to an extent that is somewhat concerning; but beneath all that rigorous nonsense, you are still a decent fellow.”

Tyelcano looked at him with great bewilderment.

“Am I?”

“Well, you are a colossal idiot, that much is clear; and apparently, so is Laurefindil. Still, if you truly wanted to hurt each other, you would both be dead.”

“You are being kinder to me than what I deserve.”

“What can I say – I am the kindest creature on Arda,” Anardil quipped. “And so I shall remain if I see no more blood on your hands. Now go and tend to each other’s wounds, you lackwits.”

Laurefindil smiled at him; and Tyelcano closed his eyes for a long moment before he crossed the room and helped the captain down to one of the armchairs.

“I am so sorry for your leg, meldonya,” he said softly.

“And I for your neck,” Laurefindil countered. “It was a dangerous strike. I do not know what came over me!”

“The cut is shallow,” said Tyelcano. “I have done worse. Valar’s sake, I might have given you a limp!”

“Nay; I do not think so.” Laurefindil smiled weakly. “Come now, I will help you wash if you help me patch my leg up. Then we shall keep vigil for our Eagle friend.”

Anardil did not stay with them while they fetched warm water, and herbs, and all the salves he kept in his kitchen. Laurefindil, Ecthelion and Tyelcano all liked to dress up in armour and wave their stupid swords and lances and daggers around, flaunting their skill and testing their reflexes; and oftentimes, they would end up with wounds. Not like the ones they had now, per se; only small cuts and bruises, purple knees and yellowish spots, toenails that cut into their flesh, nosebleeds because they had run into each other, sore throats because they had shouted too much and laughed too loud. Anardil kept salves for all those small nuisances that none of his friends would ever complain about; but time and time again, the salves would come handy. He did not know if they even noticed or cared – not that it made a difference. The only thing that mattered was that he had friends: company to spend his days and sing his nights away.

When they were not fighting each other above execution pits, that is.

Anardil sighed. Without realising it, he had walked into his garden, around his house and through his open gate, ice-capped snow crunching under his feet as he looked around in the deserted street. Even Pengolodh had his light out at this hour; and Ithil and the stars were once again veiled by clouds.

The crow was still sitting on top of his gate, though Anardil did not remember passing it on his way out. It kept looking at him with clever eyes, dark as coal; and he shivered in the night.

“Judging me, are you?” he said in a low voice. “Before I could have even done anything. As if I knew what could be done.”

“Caw,” said the crow.

“It is all your fault, you know,” Anardil decided. “You showed the Feanorean the way out; of course he will attempt it. That is how they are. They burn things and attack people and flee from everywhere, thinking that elsewhere, things shall be better. But this Feanorean, he has potential; or at least, I see some in him. And you must be seeing it as well, am I right?”

“Caw,” said the crow.

“Do not run your mouth at me, carrion-bird,” said Anardil. “I know you’re up to something.”

His voice came out weak and croaky; and as the crow took flight and disappeared behind the House of the Fountain, a strange stillness settled in Anardil’s chest. He could not call it sadness, for it was too vague; and he could not call it fear, either, because it was too deep.

Time was ticking; and something had to be done.

Anardil considered waking Ecthelion. He was the Warden of the Gates, after all; he had to know about an attempted escape. And Laurefindil would tell him sooner or later anyway because such was their friendship. That way, however, he would betray Ecthelion; for he would have no choice but to bring matters before the King, and watch as the Law of Secrecy brings his doom upon their friends.

Or he could tell the King himself, of course: and that way, he would betray his friends, calling the doom upon them – and whatever that doom might be, none of them would ever trust him again.

Or he could tell no one; and convince himself that he had kept his friends’ secret by ordonnance of the Powers. That way, he would betray his King: the one who gave him a new life and trusted him when no one else would.

And that was unthinkable.

“Always barging in the middle of things, aren’t you?” Anardil muttered to himself. “You pry into lordly business, and when you become part of it the way you had so desired, you just end up being a general disappointment to everyone.”

He had to tell the King indeed; or else the promise he had made in the privacy of his halls had been for naught, and his life had been spared for nothing.

I would not have rewarded your future deeds if I did not see them coming, Turukáno had told him. Respect my insight and consideration until you learn to trust it.

And the time had come for him to trust it indeed, however great the cost.

The icy fingers of despair gripped at Anardil’s chest as he turned his long strides uphill, towards the palace. He climbed the low wall behind the gardens, following the light of Glingal and Belthil as they stood in eternal blossom against the darkness of the winter night. Anardil had never dared to linger near them before; they were too perfect as likenesses of Telperion and Laurelin the way he could still remember them: eerie and giant and full of light. But as he came closer and saw, each time with new realization, that they were just excellent craftwork, his heart sunk.

The people of Ondolindë came to the trees quite often, as he had noticed, and marvelled at them, and sang songs – and sometimes, they wept. And Anardil wept bitter tears as well when he settled down and leaned against Glingal; and buried his face in his palms.

He did not even raise his head when he heard the thump of footsteps from behind – low and shrill, almost as if someone had climbed out of a palace window.

But that would make absolutely no sense, of course.

“Anardil? Is that you? Are you not cold?”

He flinched as he heard the King’s voice above him. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered his hands, his breath a silver cloud of smoke, sparkling with the light of Trees.

“My friend, are you weeping?”

“Alas,” said Anardil, “you shall have to banish me from your city, Majesty. Or have me cast down the Caragdûr, or cut off my head, or something of the sort; for I am faced with all the wrong choices!”

And as he spoke, new tears fell from his eyes, betraying him.

Turukáno stared at him for a long moment, speechless; and then, he smoothed his luxurious cloak, settled down under Glingal next to him, and took his hands in his to warm them.

“You are not known to fall into such throes of despair,” he said, “so it must be with good reason. And yet I doubt that your fate must truly be so grim as it now seems to you. What happened?”

“Aye, that’s it,” said Anardil. “That’s the problem. I must tell you what happened, even if it will cost me my friends. And here you are, Majesty, appearing out of thin air, just when I have need of it. What in the holy name of Manwë would a King do in the gardens before dawn? And why would he not use the door?”

Turukáno smiled at him.

“Well,” he said measuredly, “these are my gardens – so the question, I suggest, should be reversed. This is not exactly where my front door would lead you.”

“True,” Anardil admitted. “But no one would have let me in at this hour. And – well, this cannot wait.”

Tears welled in his eyes for the third time, and the King squeezed his hands.

“And why would telling me cost you your friends?”

“Because I would have to betray them,” said Anardil, and in his voice was great turmoil. “Again. The way Voronwë always tell me I would. But I cannot hide this from you, Majesty; not after everything you have done for me.”

“And are your certain that your friends would hide it?” The King’s voice was serious.

“I do not know!” Anardil shook his head in agony. “They might, or they might not. But you – you are my King. You must know.” His voice broke. “Even if it shall cost me everything, and I shall once again wander your streets alone.”

“Look at me,” said the King softly.

Anardil raised his eyes to meet his, and beheld him: his noble, austere face as it bathed in the light of Glingal and Belthil; and he felt as though Turukáno had pulled him up from underwater to finally breathe.

“I want you to remember your friends,” said the King. “Who they are. How they are. Do you truly think that you could not weigh your honour upon their choices?”

Anardil took a deep breath. His heart was still hammering in his chest, but the blessed radiance of clarity came upon his heart.

“Be at ease,” said Turukáno, “and do not let the shadow of your torment haunt you. You shall not betray anyone tonight; not your friends, not me, and certainly not the Warden of the Gates, who had, upon direct questioning, told me what he suspected of tonight’s events, taking all the blame on himself.”

“But you knew that it wasn’t him, didn’t you,” Anardil murmured. “You’re not exactly an idiot. Majesty,” he added quickly.

“I trusted that the truth would come to me,” said the King, “and that it would be significant. We all share the burden of our dreams, and we look for guidance in them; and no judgement shall be made until I have heard all sides of the story. Come with me, and you shall hear them as well.”

And he stood, pulling Anardil to his feet; and they walked back to the end of the gardens, and left through the small gate that only the King had the keys to. And it seemed to Anardil that the soft glow of Glingal and Belthil followed them and lighted up their way, rebounding from the windows and the walls; and peace settled in his heart, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

They came to his home at last; and Anardil found that all was unchanged. The light was still on in the room where the Eagle lay, and the Gate was still open the way he had left it; only the crow was missing.

“Be welcome in my house, Majesty,” he said, suddenly self-conscious. “I hope you shall excuse me for the mess. And I know that courtesy must prompt you to say oh, don’t mention it; but soon you will understand.”

With that, he opened the door, and stepped inside the small house; and the King followed, and his eyes were filled with wander as he saw the Eagle, its broken wing spanning the entire width of the room. Then, he saw Ecthelion by the kitchen table as he was sewing shut the long cut on Tyelcano’s neck, and Laurefindil as he lounged in an armchair with a visibly wounded leg; and a deep crease appeared between his brows.

Anardil lagged behind as his friends greeted the King; he tried his best to trust them, but that terrible, icy dread crept slowly back in his chest.

“So here we are,” said Tyelcano after a long pause, “and we await your judgement. I most of all; for this is all my fault.”

“Strange,” said the King – and Anardil was astonished to see him smile. “For the Warden of the Gates told me the very same thing an hour ago; as would Captain Laurefindil, without any doubt, if I were to ask him. As for your friend, Anardil, he said naught; so it must fall to you to tell me what happened tonight, and how you found my friend Gwaihir.”

“The Eagle?” Tyelcano’s eyes lighted up with interest. “Is that his name?”

“Aye. I know him from the colour of his feathers and the sharpness of his beak. He comes from the nest of Thorondor himself, as it is said. Have you talked to him?”

“He has not stirred since we have brought him here,” said Laurefindil, “but he is alive. That much, at least, could be said.”

“I wonder what befell him,” said Ecthelion. “I have never seen an Eagle with a broken wing before. These are strong creatures, and swift. Whatever attacked him, I dread the thought that it should live among our mountains.”

“Indeed,” said Turukáno, and his eyes were somber; and slowly, reluctantly, Tyelcano and Laurefindil both told their side of the events. To Anardil’s great relief, they left nothing out; and when they were done, the King turned to face him.

“You have saved your friends today, Anardil of Ondolindë,” he said, and in his voice was kindness. “You have helped them conquer the worst foe one might face: themselves. Without your intervention, great evils could have been done; but you made them see the error of their ways, and helped them do the right deed in a way only a true friend could.”

“You grant me too much merit,” said Anardil in a low voice; but his friends did not cast their eyes away from him, nor did they turn their backs on him. As a matter of fact, they seemed thoroughly impressed.

“And you, Ecthelion of the Fountain,” the King went on, “took the weight of your friends’ fault upon yourself, although the secret passage under the Caragdûr had been revealed to them by either chance or higher ordonnance. Still you would have accepted punishment instead of them.”

“That was my duty,” said Ecthelion.

“And you, Laurefindil of the Golden Flower,” said the King, “did everything within – and beyond – your power to save your friend from a grim fate. Your anger may have gotten the better of you, but you meant no harm, and you treated him with loyalty and compassion.”

“Someone had to,” said Laurefindil.

“And you, Tyelcano of Himring,” the King finally said, “were faced with an impossible choice, and a cruel one. I know that you are loyal to Nelyafinwë above all, and that he has true need of you; and I also know that you felt you would forsake him if you failed to use an opportunity to leave, should you be presented with one.” He sighed. “Still, in the decisive moment, you decided to stay and help a creature in need instead of pursuing your own interest and your heart’s desire. Therefore, I shall not weigh my Law of Secrecy upon you, or Ecthelion, or Laurefindil. Our dreams are unlike anything we have ever seen, and it seems unwise to ignore the presence of the Powers when we can feel it. What happened tonight happened for a reason, even if we can make no sense of it yet.”

“Thank you, Aranya!” Laurefindil’s smile seemed to light up the room. “Not that I doubted you for a heartbeat, even.”

“Nor have I, in my heart of hearts,” said Ecthelion.

But Tyelcano cried out in anguish,

“I do not deserve such forgiveness from you, Turukáno! All I have offered you since my coming here were laments and grievances. I truly feel ashamed for how I scorned your hospitality. And you, Anardil – my family destroyed everything you had, and still you would help me at your own peril!”

“That’s what friends are for, Lord Mopey,” said Anardil fondly.

“Be at ease, servant of the Star,” said Turukáno, “for you have helped me more than you realize, and you shall help me still. And I promise you this: on the day when fate it necessary deem, and the House of Finwë goes to war against the Enemy once again, I shall release you from my City. On that day – but not before then, and not until it has become clear to me what my role must be in all this. Have I been clear?”

“You have,” said Tyelcano, “and I thank you for it. As do I thank all of you,” he said, his eyes shining with tears as he looked at his friends. “So many terrible deeds could have been committed tonight; yet it seems to me that we have found the only possible path that could run its course without bloodshed. Well – almost without it.”

“So we have,” said Laurefindil, “and that gives me hope; and the feeling that our dreams are true guidance from the Powers. If we remain brave, and vigilant, and loyal to each other, they can help us evade a terrible doom.”

“That is the way I see it as well,” said the King. He settled down on the bedside, and stroke the neck of the wounded Eagle lightly, ruffling the feathers back into their place. “I cannot wait for Gwaihir to wake,” he said. “He is one of the best flyers among his people; we must know what befell him. I shall send for my healers when the morning comes; although they are not much more experienced in fixing broken wings than myself, I expect.”

“Surely, it must be nothing like an arm or a leg,” Ecthelion mused. “It should bend another way, and remain flexible in ways that our limbs, broken and then healed, could never be. It is, perhaps, like a knee.”

“The only ones I have seen with broken knees died upon the Helcaraxë,” said Turukáno in a low voice.

“If the fracture is a simple one, and without splinters, it could be healed,” said Tyelcano. “Your brother survived such an injury without the slightest limp.”

“When?” The King’s voice was suddenly sharp.

“The Flames.” Tyelcano shut his eyes for a moment. “He dwelled with us when they came; visiting Lord Nelyafinwë out of no reason other than friendship. When the Himring was besieged, his injury forced him to rest in bed… and throw chairs upon Orc-heads when they appeared by the window one fair morning.”

“He must have been a terrible patient,” said Turukáno.

“Almost as bad as myself,” said Tyelcano, “for my Lord had locked me up with him by then. I threw a table, if you were wondering.”

“And what happened to you?” Anardil wanted to know.

“Unpleasant encounter with a Valarauko.” The Counsellor’s voice was noticeably flat.

“You have slain one?” Laurefindil’s eyes went wide.

“Not me, Nelyafinwë.” Tyelcano looked away. “I had been cut off from our men in the wastelands; and he had come after me, the same way he has now. He saved my life so many times; but that time should have been woven into song.”

“I wish we could all have been here when the Flames came,” said Turukáno softly. “Safe and hidden, far away from the malicious gaze of the Enemy. I wish none of these things would have come to pass.”

“And I wish we had never left Aman,” said Tyelcano, “for I never had any desire to; but it could not be. We must accept what befell us and try to shape our future in accordance.”

“That is true,” said the King, “and still I wonder…”

But he never finished that sentence; and the next time Anardil stirred from the quiet reverie he had sunk into, his friends were lounging in his armchairs, sleeping soundly. The first light of a winter sunrise was wafting into the room from the kitchen; and the air was heavy with a sweet, spicy smell that made his stomach grumble.

To his astonishment, he found King Turukáno of the Hidden City in his kitchen, keeping a watchful eye on the glowing embers in his hearth – above which, a full tray of small, sweet-smelling buns was baking.

“You must forgive me for the intrusion,” he said, when Anardil stared at him as if he had grown a second head, “but I thought you must regain your strength after the trials and tribulations of yesterday. I hope you like honeycakes.”

“Who doesn’t?” Anardil grinned. “Although I never expected that you would bother with it yourself, Majesty, instead of sending word to your cooks and bakers.”

Turukáno turned the tray over the hearth, casting an expert eye on the honeycakes, slowly turning golden.

“I almost did,” he said, “but then I remembered a night, so very long ago, and I thought better of it.”

“Why?”

The King’s smile was deeply amused and rueful at the same time.

“Back in the Blessed Realm,” he said, “we used to bother the bakers all the time with my siblings and cousins. Warm honeycakes were a rare treat, for there were so many of us children, and they were everyone’s favourite – and they do get cold very quickly, as you shall soon see. So one day, my sister Írissë took the matter into her own hands. She barged into the kitchens at the break of dawn and stole the first tray that came out of the oven – but by the time I found out, she had shared them with my cousins Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, and they did not leave me any. Soon enough, everyone else started following Írissë in her thievery; and often we would thwart each other’s plans. You cannot imagine the wars we have waged for those honeycakes! No matter how many were made for the household, we all wanted that first bunch, fresh out of the oven; but young as I was, I never managed to get any of it. There was always someone who was stronger, ran faster, or bargained better. I stood no chance.” Turukáno gave a tight smile. “So one day, I came to a brilliant conclusion: I decided that I should wake the bakers in the middle of the night, before anyone else would come, and command them to make some honeycakes especially for me. And so I made a secret pact with my cousin Morifinwë, and we learned where the bakers’ homes were; and one warm summer night, we set our plan into motion.”

“They must have been happy,” Anardil snorted.

“We were still very small,” the King smiled. “We did not truly realise yet what work was, or that people deserved their rest after their daily endeavours. So we have left our rooms in the middle of the night to wake the bakers of Tirion – only for my Uncle Fëanáro to catch us red-handed.”

“Oh,” said Anardil, not quite sure if he should allow himself a laugh. “And what did he do?”

To his great surprise, the King was still smiling.

“Well – he was not exactly pleased. The bakers were sent home to resume their night’s rest; then Fëanáro took us to the kitchens and said that if the princes of the House of Finwë wanted honeycakes in the middle of the night, they might as well see to it themselves. And so he shut the door; and we thought that he had left. We set to work with my cousin, and it went about as well as you can imagine; but then Fëanáro took pity on us and taught us how to make those honeycakes; and they turned out to be the best we had ever tasted.” The King’s eyes were suddenly distant. “That might surprise you; but this was Fëanáro, of course. Whatever his hands touched, he improved.”

“I thought you hated him,” said Anardil in a low voice.

“In a way, I still do.” Turukáno sighed. “And at the same time, I do not; for not all the memories I have are sour. This oftentimes makes me all the angrier, for I can see what could have been. All of this happened long before the Darkening, and even before Moringotto had started to whisper lies in our ears. In those days, we used to be a family – all of us. Not free from conflicts or grievances or spoiled children, as you can see; but a family nonetheless. And my uncle, annoying as I might have seemed to him, took the time to teach me how to make those honeycakes… and never have I woken my servants from their sleep again, not unless I absolutely had to.”

A comfortable silence stretched between them as they watched the honeycakes rise; and when the others stirred, they pushed their chairs around the kitchen table in quiet agreement, making room for everyone. The honeycakes turned out to be heavenly, as far as Anardil was concerned; but before he could tell that to the King, the door flew open.

“Ai, Anardil, I’ve had a most terrible night!” Pengolodh said as a manner of greetings as he navigated a box of apples through the frame. “I kept looking for you for the most part, for you promised that you would come and see me in the Inn to the Blind Guardian; but then I thought that you must have come back to the House of the Fountain to make amends with Voronwë; but only the servants were at home…” Here, Pengolodh glanced up, and stared at the commotion in the kitchen. “Majesty! I – forgive me, I did not expect… but what brings you here at this early hour?”

“Honeycakes,” said the King. “What else?”

“You know I always have guests for breakfast,” said Anardil leasurely. “Come now, join us – watch out for the Eagle, though.”

“The what?!”

“Your friend leads an eventful life,” said Turukáno between two bites of honeycake. “If you wish to keep up, you must remain with him at all times.”

And they all laughed and broke their fast together; and Anardil’s heart was light, as if no darkness could ever touch him again.

And then, he saw the crow.

The bird settled on the windowsill, and it stared at him through the glass, malice in its eyes. Anardil kept glancing at his friends, but no one else seemed to notice.

“Caw,” said the crow. Anardil could not hear its call through the window, and the sound of Ecthelion’s flute; but the raspy sound echoed in his very bones all the same.

The crow took flight; and a shiver ran down his spine.

* * *

The same morning, on the borderlands of Hithlum

The backwater was black with blood.

Maedhros paid no heed to it first, as the waters were shallow, heavy, and half-frozen as they settled in the riverbed. No matter how tirelessly his men scouted along the fast-flowing Sirion, Orcs were still a common nuisance. Their packs had been long since disbanded and scattered, but they sometimes still gathered in larger numbers.

Not here, though. We are too far west, grazing the feet of Barad Eithel.

Maedhros nudged Silmatal into a trot, following the line of the water further up north, where it would join the river. Traces of blood were becoming far more frequent now, settling heavily among the weeds; and he frowned.

I should have found bodies by now. Orcs, Quendi, or both. Or animals, at least.

There is too much blood.

“I can hear the echoes of your troubled conscience, cousin,” said Fingon behind him. “Quite unbearable.”

“Then take that harp of yours, and sing,” said Maedhros, not raising his eyes from the murky waters.

“What ails you so?” His cousin reeled his horse in so it would stand next to Silmatal.

“This,” Maedhros pointed his finger to a particularly dark trace in the backwater. “There has been a fight here, not so long ago. Someone bled, and barely escaped with their life. Here: in the lands we had just cleansed of the Orc-filth!”

“They must be coming down from the North,” said Fingon. “Food is becoming scarce; and the House of Hador is no longer strong enough to hold all the routes. Not that they would not long to fight – you shall meet them soon. They are good allies.”

“Still!” Maedhros shook his head. “I left my forces under Káno’s command, and you under Gildor’s before we rode ahead. They must have reached Barad Eithel by now and secured our route. We should not see this, Findekáno, not here! Something is wrong.”

“Well, our journey home has become particularly dull of late if you ask me,” said Fingon lightly. “A spontaneous Orc-hunt could only improve it.”

“Surely the High King of the Noldor would not imply that we should run down an Orc pack of unknown headcount,” Maedhros countered.

“I would rather call it a challenge than a suggestion.” Fingon smiled and swung his lance to the other side. “My implication is that you will not even get half as many as I will.”

And he spurred his horse, and Maedhros followed, feeling light and free as they flied along the backwater, following the trails of blood. His wrath, previously overtaken by weariness, flared again, for he remembered the stories about the Orc raids in Hithlum; and reckless though he knew it to be, a fierce desire rose within him to hunt the Orcs down, or at least give them the fright of their lives.

It was much harder to act responsible since the Flames, when laws and order lost their significance overnight; when he opened his gates before the refugees that came to the Himring, housed them in his halls and fed them from his table, be they Noldor, Sindar, Laiquendi, Edain or Casari. Suddenly, Maedhros could not care less if he had entourages, watchmen or guards with him at all times; there were dragons to chase, Valaraukar to kill, wolves to fell and Orcs to battle, anywhere and everywhere he looked. He broke his fast on guard-posts, slept among his soldiers and broke the dam over River Gelion himself before the siege closed around the Himring – a day both Findekáno and Tyelcano would remember for Ages to come, he was sure of it. There was so much to do and so little time to do it – so he did most things himself, whether or not the task at hand should normally fall onto princes from the House of Finwë.

Maedhros pursued his cousin’s horse with a fierce laugh, for there was a smell of freedom in the wind as it played with their hair as they charged; and soon they came upon the Orc pack indeed. They were easy prey, as if fleeing from something already; and it was almost too easy as well to circle them through the belt of a pine forest, until they came upon a narrow passage between two cliffs. There, Maedhros and Fingon halted, and waited for the Orcs to come; and they stepped out in front of them as they came to the passage.

Their enemies froze in terror upon their mere sight; and they laughed.

“I am afraid you have come to a roadblock,” Maedhros told the Orcs in the Common Tongue of the west. “Gone are the days when you could raid and pillage the lands of the High King as you pleased!”

“How bold of you to assume that they could understand long-winded tirades like that,” Fingon chimed in.

The Orcs, however, seemed to understand them very well; and although Maedhros counted sixty-three of them, none dared to charge, for they knew the Warden of the East and the High King of the Noldor from hearsay, if nothing more, and a great fear came upon them. Motionless they all stood, hands on their weapons, frozen into place.

“I am going to count as long as my fingers allow me,” said Maedhros leisurely.

“Which is, alas, not very long,” said Fingon.

“Rude,” said Maedhros. “Nevertheless, my filthy friends, your leeway is over when I am done counting. Run, as fast as you can, and you might be spared.”

And he raised a finger with a theatrical flourish.

“One –”

A small Orc broke into a run, back towards the wastelands; and a good dozen followed.

“Two –”

Fingon’s long lance sprang forward, sending another dozen on their way.

“Three –”

Silmatal whinnied and kicked at the front row, dust swirling where his hooves touched the ground.

“Four –”

Maedhros drew his longsword, and the rest of the Orcs fled before him.

“Five!”

Their horses bolted upon wordless accord, and chaos broke out; and they chased after the Orcs, hunting them as if they were prey, aiming rather to scare than to kill, but showing little mercy to those that were too slow. Together, they chased the Orcs along the backwater, catching them between hammer and anvil, bright, and terrible, and frightening to their eyes; and thus they rode upon the great plains under Eithel Sirion, and the guards saw them from afar.

The Orcs were all dead or running when Gildor rode out of the castle to meet them, with young Antalossë in his heels.

“Highness, Lord Warden,” he said. “I trust you have enjoyed your hunt?”

“We have seen more interesting days,” Fingon smiled at him radiantly. “And how fares my favourite captain?”

“Now that you are back in one piece, Highness – quite well, thank you.” Gildor lowered his eyes for a moment. “Have you found what you were looking for?”

“Actually,” said Maedhros, “we have.”

“You have found the Counsellor?” Antalossë almost fell off his horse; then he remembered that he was not supposed to interrupt the lords, and his face went bright red; but Maedhros smiled at him.

“Aye, young one, we have – if not in the manner we expected.”

“He is with my brother,” said Findekáno, not without scorn, “locked away in his Hidden City.”

“A prisoner?” The shadow of confusion passed through Gildor’s face.

“Yes and no,” said Maedhros. “We have learned much; and we may speak of it in detail when Kanafinwë is also with us.”

“Very well.” Gildor cleared his throat. “Until then, you might both wish to speak to the leader of the troop from Nargothrond that has come to us three days ago.”

“The troop?” Maedhros raised his brows. “Is Artaresto fool enough to wage war against me?”

“You have asked for warriors, Lord Warden,” said Gildor, “and it seems that your wish has been granted. And very skilled warriors these are. Half of them joined the Orc-hunt of Hithlum immediately; but the rest lingers with their leader, a certain Captain Gwindor.”

“Incredible!” The sound of Fingon’s laughter was like silver bells in the wind. “Warriors from Nargothrond, who came upon his bidding! What shall be next – the King Thingol with his army of Woodelves, the stolen Silmaril on a diamond tray, and his sincerest apologies? Is there anything you cannot accomplish, my dear cousin?”

“I cannot comprehend this, for one,” said Maedhros. “I sent my brothers to Artaresto to ask for help, as I would send them everywhere else. I never expected a response – and I am not sure if I would have answered such a call either, had our roles been reversed.”

“You would have,” said Fingon softly.

They rode up inside the fortress in silent companionship; and alone, Maedhros turned his horse towards the stables when they passed the gate, unwilling to get immediately pulled into court. The rest of the day was going to be swallowed up by greetings, pleasantries, and a welcoming feast, all of which seemed like a string of pointless nuisances while there were so many enemies still lurking nearby.

Young Antalossë nudged his horse to follow him, but his courage seemed to falter after a few steps.

“Come now, child,” said Maedhros. “I can see that you wish to speak to me.”

“Yes, Lord Warden. I…” The young Elf’s hand slid under his cloak, revealing a thin scroll of parchment. “I did not have the chance before… well, Counsellor Tyelcano had started to draw this for you. As a gift, I believe… and so I finished it.”

His quick fingers unrolled the parchment, revealing a map of the wastelands from Himlad to Mithrim, in such detail that Maedhros had never seen – no doubt a result of thorough analysis of reports. The westernmost end of the map was done by Antalossë’s hand: the tengwar larger and bolder, but the lines just as exact and meticulous as the rest. The map showed how the lands came to be since the Flames: forests were gone, rivers dried and hills flattened; and although some plains had turned to moorlands, new routes appeared at places where there previously had been none.

“This is a very useful gift, Antalossë of Himring,” said Maedhros, “and I thank you for it.” He hesitated for a moment, then went on, “As a matter of fact, I wished to speak with you as well; for you have done much for me, and still I must ask for more.”

“I am at your command,” Antalossë bowed his head.

“Very well; because this is not a responsibility that I would weigh on most.” Maedhros smiled. “I will, in fact, trust you with the safekeeping of the High King.”

“Of… of the High King?” Antalossë’s eyes went wide. “But I – Lord Warden, I am so young! And he has such experienced warriors by his side…”

“He does,” said Maedhros, “and never in his waking life had he listened to them. He shall not listen to you either, of course; but he likes you, and he shall let you chase Orcs with him if you so ask. The opportunity for such adventures might present itself in the middle of the night, or at the break of dawn, or just before supper.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I cannot be with Findekáno at all times; but he is the dearest friend I have in this world, and his heart is heavy. You cannot see it, or feel it, or guess it; but it is. The last time he had been so angry, he barged into Angamando with a harp; and we all know what happened. As amusing as a similar deed would be to witness once more, I wish to avoid it if I can.”

“I…” Antalossë hardly even dared to look at him. “But what if I cannot stop him?”

“You shall,” said Maedhros. “I have faith in that. I know that you still blame yourself for what happened with my Counsellor; but even then, you did well. And you will do well, I am sure of it.” He did not lower his eyes from the youth’s face. “If you think that I am bidding you to leave my service as a means of punishment, think again.”

“No, Lord Warden,” said Antalossë. “I… I will do everything I can.”

“I know,” said Maedhros.

They spoke no more as they left their horses in the capable hands of stable-masters and went on their separate ways. Maedhros climbed the outer wall of the fortress, scouring all the guard-posts and looking for weak points in the walls; a habit he had picked up in the past thirty years.

The protection of the strong stone walls should have soothed him; and yet he felt more restless than ever as he looked for his men in the courtyard. Above all, he searched for his brother, but Kanafinwë was nowhere to be found. Instead, Bór the Easterling flooded him with details of the Orc-hunt, and a dozen warriors from his own household shared their luncheon with him. Maedhros sat with them for a while, as he often did since the Flames came, listening to their tidings and weighing their suggestions. It seemed that the woodlands of Hithlum were dark and treacherous, and if they wanted to cleanse them of their enemies, they needed more help from the Edain that lived there.

And that was how Gwindor, son of Guilin found him under cloudy skies: still bloodied and dirtied from his long journey, with his sword in his lap as he passed it on a whetstone while his soldiers told him stories about the fierce wolves in the woodlands north. And even though he was still dressed for the road and the wind had been in his hair, Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro, the Warden of the East and the Enemy of the Enemy sat solemn and proud as a king, his eyes alight with some hidden fire; and a proud lord though Gwindor was himself, he dared not approach him for some time.

“The Edain say that the wolves come from the Iron Prison itself, Lord Warden,” one of the guards told Maedhros. “And some are bigger than a horse.”

“Perhaps their horses are very small,” a scout offered.

“Well,” said Bór, the Easterling, “the only wolves I have seen were perfectly wolf-sized.”

“Fear makes all monsters grow,” said the guard, “and yet I wonder…”

“If the Edain told you the truth?” Maedhros glanced at him. “The Enemy never tires of creating new monstrosities. If they are his next target, I pity the wolves.” When everyone looked at him with barely contained curiosity, he could not suppress a smile. “For the Stars of Varda, my friends, cease this! Speak your mind. You all wish to ask me if there are horse-sized wolves in Angamando; but to my surprisingly bitter regret, the only answer I have for you is I do not know.” His eyes narrowed. “What I do know, however, is that at least one fire-breathing monstrosity of a dragon is still there, alive and well, and with each passing year it grows.”

“There’s a bet on who shall be the one to slay it,” said the scout. “You are leading, Lord Warden.”

“Of course I am,” said Maedhros.

“But the High King is a close second.”

“Of course he is.” Maedhros pulled the sword off the whetstone, pushing the blade back into its sheathe. “I am riding out tonight to have a look at those giant wolves,” he said, right as the thought formed itself in his mind. “If you incidentally find yourselves in the courtyard after nightfall, you may come with me; although I shall not need more than three. I seek to surprise them.”

With that, he turned away from his men, and that was when he saw the tall, golden-haired captain in the courtyard, dressed in the colours of Nargothrond; and the stranger did not waver under the intensity of his gaze.

“My greetings to the Warden of the East,” he said when Maedhros approached him, and bowed his head, ever so slightly. “I am Gwindor, son of Guilin, a Captain of Nargothrond, and a sworn sword of the High King in the war you shall wage against the Enemy.”

“I thank you for answering the call for battle,” said Maedhros. “My heart is glad that you came; although I confess that I have not expected such response from Orodreth and his people.”

“There are not many of us,” said Gwindor, “but we shall fight to our last breath, for such is the duty of all the Free Peoples as long as the Iron Prison stands.”

There was something in his voice that caught Maedhros’s attention.

“There are some who would disagree with you,” he said softly, “and say that our utmost purpose should be to survive.” And when Gwindor said naught, he told him, “It was not the King of Nargothrond that sent Captain Gwindor to my aid, was it? He came on his own volition; and took his own men. I wonder why.”

“My reasons are my own,” said Gwindor, averting his eyes; “but if the Warden of the East so wishes, I shall go and hunt wolves with him tonight.”

He gave a curt bow, and left, holding his head high and proud; and Maedhros watched him until he turned a bend around the courtyard.

You are hiding something, he thought, and you shall not hide it for long. Not from me.

And certainly not from the wolves.

* * *

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Chapter End Notes

A note on Gwindor: In The Silm, it is suggested that he had come to the Nirnaeth against his will; but I allowed myself a slight divergence from canon when it comes to his motivations (after all, these are all just myths and legends, are they not? :) ).

...and now we will go on two last adventures - one with Curufin and another with Maedhros -, and then, we can't delay it any longer.

We're going to battle.