The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The Advice of Melian

Celegorm and Curufin come to Doriath to parley with Thingol -- but the first battle, they must win against their own selves.

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Six weeks later, Doriath

The Forest of Region grew almost nothing but hollies.

It should not have, of course, come as a surprise. Naturally, Thingol would have his halls built deep in an evergreen forest, robbing travellers of the soul advantage that the frost of winter could have given them: far sight.

Curufinwë had no knowledge of the woodlands of Region, nor any other part of Doriath: it was a grim, quiet, alien land where his tongue was banned and his family frowned upon – and now, apparently, not only robbed, but also taken captive.

If Thingol truly holds Pityo and Telvo against their will, that makes him share the crimes he attributes to us, Curufinwë thought as he let his horse fall behind, searching for lichen on blackened tree-barks.

And somehow, he was still supposed to find remorse in his heart.

He felt none.

This became more and more evident to him as they passed the borders of Himlad, rode through the mist and shadows of Nan Elmoth, then came back out on the other side of the lands that once had been Eöl’s. Then, they followed the bend of the river Celon as it rushed southwards, joining the long straight line of Aros. Where the two rivers merged and the land flattened, there was a ford; but Curufinwë would have never tried its tricky currents if Dairiel did not take the lead, helping their party cross.

Curufinwë had presumed that the stern but well-spoken elleth would be the only one to come with them; but to his surprise, so did the archer who had called him a kinslayer. Esgalon was his name, and Eöl had taken him as an apprentice in his forge; but now that Eöl was gone and the forge had run out of materials, Esgalon had not much to do.

So Curufinwë had, accidentally, made a show of leaving detailed instructions to everyone in his workshop before he departed, and he had pointedly left the door open for passers-by to hear his every word. It was hardly more than an act of spite – and yet it had, nonetheless, opened the pathway for that ill-mannered Moriquend to talk to him.

Maril, on the other hand, was probably still wondering why his master had suddenly become so warm and generous, letting him use all his tools, materials, and smelters without restriction. Not that he had any reason to withhold any of those things from him – he had taught him well. Briefly, but with precision and care: stern and demanding as he had been with his own children. And he had taught them well, too: Tyelpë who had a hand of gold, and Erenis who had a mind of crystal.

If only he had told them more often how much he valued them – but they had to know, did they not?

It was outrageous and terrible, the way they turned against him, he thought as his horse gave up its hunt for lichen and lumbered uphill again, following Tyelko’s mare. They knew that he had spoken in anger. He was proud of them: always proud and always full of love, and always ready to do unpleasant things in the name of that love.

And Findaráto had betrayed him just as much as his children did.

He knew what would happen if someone other than Fëanáro’s kin claimed a Silmaril. He knew that the House of the Star would act. He knew that he, Curufinwë was bound by his own words of honour… and his children must have known it, too. And yet they acted as if the Oath meant nothing.

That night in Nargothrond was the first time Curufinwë had felt the torment of his given word in what he supposed could be its full intensity. A sensation of not merely flesh but over flesh; the touch of searing bonds on the very essence of his being, drawing him closer and closer to choices he hated to make. He hated them with all the fervency of his insatiable spirit, and the mere thought of what he had to do made him recoil.

And then, he did it: he planted the seeds of treason and watched them grow.

For a moment of clarity, he knew it was wrong; but Curufinwë was cunning, and proud, and such an excellent liar that the whispering echo of his voice could mislead even itself. Because it was not really wrong, was it?

To do something wrong, he had to have a choice first.

And what did Findaráto gain by this Quest, after all? He died a death so bestially cruel that no minstrel dares to sing of it; the heritage of the House of the Star was stolen, and it fell into the hands of an enemy king. Because that is what Elu Thingol is: an enemy king. How else would he call one who captures envoys? One who has never uttered a word of friendship towards his family, not even before he had word of Alqualondë and Losgar? All the folly of Beren and Lúthien had brought upon Findaráto – or anyone else – was grief indeed.

Had they, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë not defended him and his kin when the Flames came? Had they not advised them any way they could? Have they not worked tirelessly to minimize the casualties of war? All for naught, it seemed; for when Findaráto had to show them loyalty on his turn, he never did.

He stayed true to his word, much like you have, a naughty little voice said in Curufinwë’s mind. Still, somehow his choice is considered valorous, and yours an act of treason. But then again: this is part of your doom, Atarinkë, is it not? And you tried to talk him out of it. You tried to make him see that Thingol was asking for something that was not his; and that thus, his promise did not truly hold him. Not in your eyes, at least.

And what did Findaráto do to ease the torment of your own Oath, to find a way to escape its hold? Naught and naught. Instead, he left, and he let you be exiled: stripped of your honour and scorned by your children.

And then, he died a terrible death in a far, desolate country.

What a waste of the blood of Finwë.

Curufinwë shuddered as wind rose among the hollies. Dawn was still far; they had wandered the woodlands for more than a week now, searching for a path that Esgalon remembered from his childhood, and which would, hopefully, lead them safely to Menegroth. There was no way of knowing if they had already passed the invisible girdle of enchantment that Melian had drawn; they hoped it would recognize them as messengers who bear no ill will.

Even if Curufinwë had some trouble recognizing himself as such as he dismounted at the edge of their hastily made camp and listened to the noises of the forest.

If Thingol was truly as bad as he seemed, there was a real possibility that he and Tyelko would never return home. Maybe Thingol would make an example out of them, deciding that Nelyo’s punishment was unsatisfactory. Maybe he will conspire with Artaresto and have them locked up, lectured, and humiliated. Probably in front of Tyelpë and Erenis.

He should hope that he would never see them again.

Curufinwë grabbed a piece of dry wood and stirred the embers of their small campfire – while he had been brooding over his unavoidable doom, the penetrating winter chill had almost snuffed it out. The slow, repetitive movement cleared his thoughts for a time, but his heart turned stubbornly back to Tyelpë and Erenis, again and again, as if he was following deer tracks in the woods, only to find them all coming back to the same crossroads.

Now that smithwork did not occupy every minute of his waking life, he found that he was no longer angry enough not to miss his children – in fact, he was even a little proud. He did teach them to listen to their own judgement above all, and to never betray a cause that they deemed just. And that is all they did. It was their right.

Curufinwë only wished they had parted from each other at better terms; his last words to them were something he regretted. Sincerely. He also regretted dwelling on them for long afterwards, trying to justify the vicious things he had said. There were many – perhaps too many – things he knew he would be willing to do to retrieve the Three Jewels, even without the torment of the Oath; but hurting his children was not one of them.

And yet that was what he did when he had first felt that unearthly pull, that terrible pressure, born perhaps of the secret fear of what would happen if Beren retrieved that Silmaril.

Maybe he should have told Nelyo. Asked if he had ever felt it. Surely nothing can free him of his Oath, either?

But Curufinwë knew he would never mention it; and now the quiet of this Valar-forsaken forest was getting into his head. There was no use in dwelling on deeds already done; no one would forgive them. Certainly not Thingol.

Still, he had to try.

Curufinwë looked around. Tyelkormo had chosen the upper side of a gentle slope as their campsite; and it seemed that he did well. The trees were closing in on three sides, sheltering them from wind and snow – only, the whole scenery looked terribly familiar.

They had probably camped here before. More than once.

“We have lost our way,” said Esgalon from the other side of the fire.

“I was unaware that we had ever found it,” Curufinwë retorted.

“Queen Melian shall eventually grant us passage,” said Dairiel. “Until then, we must endure.”

“Melian’s enchantment is not the only thing that hinders us,” said Tyelkormo suddenly. “There is something else. A whisper in the wind.”

Curufinwë rolled his eyes. “Very poetic. Care to elaborate?”

“I have no words to explain, not truly,” said his brother softly. “You would need to hear it; but that is not something I could teach you in a day. I have learned to listen to the wind long ago, when I was young, and you were not even born yet. And it whispers evil things to me, Curvo: of old blood that the roots of these trees have drunk; some dark designs that are afoot; and other cruelties that have not yet come to pass. It is not one enchantment that binds us, but several – as if it was not truly Melian who wanted to keep us out. Or not only.”

Dairiel and Esgalon looked at him with great wonder.

“It is whispered about you, Lord Celegorm, that you speak the language of birds and beasts,” said Dairiel, “but I never believed it. Is it true, then?”

“Some of them.” Tyelkormo turned away. “Or at least, I used to. All creatures of Arda do not speak the same way; and the sorrows inflicted upon these lands alter the way they express themselves. They are not forever bound to the world the way we, Quendi are: but their understanding is deeper than ours in many things.”

“And do you not happen to speak the language of holly trees?” Esgalon tried.

“I am trying to listen to them,” said Tyelkormo, “in the same way that you are trying to recall your childhood memories. One of us shall eventually succeed.”

And he would speak no more; not as the ghastly eye of the Sun settled under the hollies and night claimed the woodlands once again. Curufinwë took it upon himself to respond to their companions’ lamentations: the silence was indeed heavy, this was indeed the harshest winter since the Flames, indeed the marchwardens of these lands must have noticed them by now, and indeed they must have commands not to harm them, nor guide them. He recognized the nature of such sighs, claims and barely veiled questions: the Moriquendi were tired, and cold, and afraid, and they wanted to turn back, and warm themselves at the fires of the Himring; for Nelyafinwë’s great fortress was only cold and grim on the outside, and not once had the Enemy taken it.

Curufinwë could not blame them. Were he on mere messenger duty, this would have been the moment to curse Thingol aloud and go home – but his brothers he could not leave. It fell to him to press on despite all: to keep everyone’s mind busy. So he would do with Tyelkormo if need be.

And thus, when his brother went to gather firewood, Curufinwë went after him, leaving their horses to Dairiel and Esgalon. He almost had to run as he followed Tyelkormo’s long strides: first downhill, then uphill, then downhill again, as if firewood could only be gathered from a mile away.

“Tyelko?”

They had come upon a snow-covered clearing, deep in the woods. In the middle of it, a frozen pool of water stretched between the protruding roots of a particularly large holly, like a crystal mirror below a crouching figure. It was an eerie sight; and Curufinwë shuddered.

“Tyelko!”

His brother did not react. He knelt in the snow near the pool, gazing at the ice as if it were some grotesque mirror.

“Tyelko, what ails you?” Curufinwë snapped. “You should not have come this far.”

“You should not have followed,” his brother retorted.

“Was it all a lie, then?” Curufinwë crossed his arms. “Did Oromë never teach you anything? Now that I think of it, I have not heard you talk to birds or trees in centuries.”

They both knew this was not true; but the provocation made Tyelkormo frown all the same.

“And why do you think that is, Curvo? Can you not guess? Why haven’t I used my obvious advantage the first moment we had need of it? Because I am an idiot – or because I cannot count on it anymore?”

Curufinwë stared at him.

“You mean…”

“When you talk to the creatures of Arda,” said Tyelkormo gravely, “your words betray as much about yourself as the mere sight of a bird, a beast or a tree would tell you about them. Think of it! You know that the beeches shed their leaves in winter, and the hollies do not. You know that the fox is sly, the wolf ruthless, the deer easily startled. You know that the winter sun is paler than the summer sun, that the smell of rain lingers in the air, that the earth betrays the steps of Orc feet from miles away. And yet you look at another one of the Quendi, and you cannot know their heart – not always! We may not look like the people we are. We can lie, deceive, or lay low. We can embellish our qualities and extenuate our vices. But the moment I speak to a bird or a tree – or even worse, the moment I utter a word of Command – nothing can hide my true face anymore. And I think my true face is not quite so fair as it once had been.”

“You are thinking of Huan.”

“He was my best friend.” Tyelkormo looked away. “And now I am stuck with you.”

“Not quite so fair indeed,” said Curufinwë sharply. He looked at the frozen pool of water and studied his haggard reflection before he spoke again. “Still, you will try to talk to them, will you not? You have already made up your mind about it. You thought you could sneak away and save us from harm, chivalrous as ever.”

“And of course you would interfere.”

“That is what I have done most of my life, brother.” Curufinwë gave a humourless chuckle. “I interfered.”

They were both silent for a time.

“Do you not feel it?” said Tyelkormo in a small voice. “The Oath.”

“Of course I do. I can always feel it. But I shall not listen to it: not this time. I have other things to do.” Curufinwë crossed his arms in front of his chest: a shield. “This time, this one time, I am stronger. And I run faster.”

His brother’s eyes were hard. “What is your plan?”

“Talk to the trees, make friends, give a piece of my mind to Thingol, free our brothers, flee home, have a lavish welcoming feast. Easy and efficient, as always. Not a drop of precious Moriquend blood to be shed.”

“And what is your real plan?” Tyelkormo sighed. “Before I speak the words, I must know.”

Curufinwë turned a rock over with his foot; frozen moss peeled off of it like dead skin from a snake.

“You will have to trust me.”

“I find it somewhat difficult to trust you these days.”

“Then don’t trust me.”

“Curufinwë…”

“I cannot speak of it!” He snapped. “I made a deal with the High King, and if it goes through, the sorrow of our family shall end, once and forever. That is all you need to know. And if you think Findekáno would see me cut the Woodland King in two and still let me have my way, then you are not quite as bright as I thought.”

“Since when do the two of you make deals?” Tyelkormo stared at him.

“Since when are you afraid to talk to trees?” Curufinwë raised his brows.

“I have always been afraid,” said Tyelkormo softly. “And yet it must be done.”

Still, he did nothing for a while. He walked around the snowy forest clearing, crossing his fingers behind his back, and listening to the wind. Curufinwë watched him quietly as he circled the frozen pool with the holly tree beside it, again and again, moonlight dancing in his silver hair.

And then, softly, Tyelkormo started singing.

It was a simple song at first, following an ancient air that Curufinwë remembered from the cradle; and the words that sprang from his lips were Quenya – or so it seemed to him. He felt as though he understood what they said, but he could no longer recall them a moment later. The song was more like a hum at first, but it gradually became stronger; and Tyelkormo’s voice rose above the trees and mingled with the night wind, until it seemed to Curufinwë that the very earth and the snow-capped grass and the bark of the trees had picked up the air. The woodlands stirred around them, and came to full alertness; then settled, the way the watchful eye of a wolf settles on its prey.

Weighing.

Measuring.

And then, Tyelkormo spoke three words of Command.

They were Valarin, Curufinwë knew, but they did not feel like spoken word at all. In a way, the Words were like the Oath: they pulled at the strings in the depths of his being, and laid his soul bare, their power so great that all his carefully crafted plans seemed like a child’s play; and for a fleeting, terrible moment, he saw all his deeds for what they were.

He saw treachery, pride, and stubbornness. Manipulation and murder. Ire and defiance. And yet, he saw love as well: an all-consuming, terrifying love for his family. He saw the loyalty he had for Nelyo; his admiration for Káno; the competition between him and Moryo; the responsibility he felt for Pityo and Telvo; the bone-deep sense of familiarity he shared with Tyelko; the fierce, proud kinship he felt for his children; and the longing for Her at the other side of the Sea: for Her, who should have been his eternal and constant companion in all things until the end of times, yet chose to remain in the Blessed Realm and never see him again.

It had been centuries since he had last allowed himself to even think about Her; and the memory was so sudden and so forceful that it freed his fëa from chains he never knew held it.

And then came the rest. Terrible longing for Ammë, and equally terrible anger against Atar. More anger against Nolofinwë – he was supposed to make everything right again. Nelyo said he would; and yet he chose Atar’s path as well and marched into his doom in the end.

He felt envy of Findekáno for being so loved.

Envy of Turukáno for being so powerful.

Envy of Findaráto for being dead, really.

And hatred, unbridled hatred of Moringotto.

And fear.

Fear of breaking his Oath, and fear of fulfilling it.

Fear of his exile ending.

Fear of going home.

Fear that no matter what the Powers intended for him, he shall never be happy, or free, or loved, or even held in high esteem ever again.

Fear, fear, and fear. When has he become such a coward?

When Curufinwë came to his senses, he was kneeling in the snow, nails digging into the dirt. The frozen pool seemed blurry, as if he was looking at it through a waterfall.

Furiously, he rubbed his eyes and pushed himself to his feet.

“Tyelko?”

“Behind you,” said his brother. His voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting battle cries for hours; and when Curufinwë turned his head to look at him, his face was haggard.

“They will not help us,” said Tyelkormo.

“Do not be so impatient,” Curufinwë said with an effort. “You just asked them. Negotiations take time…”

“The creatures of the woods know no negotiation!” His brother snapped. “Either they will help, or they will not; and they found us unworthy. I should have known. Now they shall do anything to hinder us! I never should have done this, Curvo – I never should have dared. You know nothing of the peril this may bring upon us…”

Something moved in the darkness of the woods, beyond the pool, shadow gaining shape as Ithil peeked out from behind the snow clouds; and Curufinwë stared.

“Tyelko…”

“Speak not! You shall only make it worse.”

“Tyelko!”

“We should go back to the others before the path is closed to us…”

Curufinwë grabbed his brother by the waist and turned him around – and Tyelkormo’s mouth snapped audibly shut.

The strangely crooked holly tree that had crouched above the frozen pool had disappeared – or maybe disappeared was not the right word for it, Curufinwë thought, because what it actually did was stand up (it had legs), cross its arms (it had arms), and squint at them (it had eyes).

“Turcafinwë, son of Fëanáro,” Curufinwë said, with great wonder, “you have woken a tree. Like in the tales of old.”

“Us Quendi cannot do such things,” said Tyelkormo, although his voice was thick with awe. “You are not looking at a tree, Curvo – but something else entirely, something – someone – the Huntsman has told me about.” He stepped forth, his feet still unsteady, and looked the tree-creature in the face; because it had a face indeed. A kindly face.

If holly trees, in general, had faces, they would look exactly like this, Curufinwë decided.

“Well met, shepherd of trees,” said Tyelkormo. “Forgive me – I must have woken you from your sleep.”

The Shepherd tilted his head with a slow but fluid motion, looking at them long and hard; and Curufinwë felt humbled under the scrutiny of such ancient eyes.

“Hmm,” he said in a slow, strangely accented manner of Quenya that reminded him more of his Grandfather than anyone else. “You have woken me indeed, Hunter of Oromë. What is more, you have been walking my dreams for days now: I still feel the memory of your strides under root and over leaf, for so my lands echo of it! Whatever you are hoping to catch, you must first glimpse.”

“We have lost our way,” said Curufinwë. “We are looking for…”

“I know all about you, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë from the House of Fire and Sorrow,” said the Ent. “You have told me about yourselves, and the wind carries your names further than you think. A bold choice – not one that many would have made in your stead.”

Just show us the way already, Curufinwë thought, but instinct stopped him from putting it into words; and Tyelkormo seemed to have forgotten about their errand entirely.

“Tell us your name, Shepherd, as you already know ours,” he pleaded. “Even if I have to die in this forest, I shall cherish the thought that I have met one of your kindred.”

“Hmm! Rash indeed,” the Ent laughed. “But little else should be expected from one whose very name bears the meaning of haste. Your years are long, and age touches you not. Why would you die? Even if you find no path out of fair Region, the forest shall provide for you, the way it has led you to water and sheltered you from wind and snow. You cannot unlearn what the Huntsman taught you; and as long as your steps follow mine, no harm shall come to you under the shade of these trees. But my name! The name of an Ent is a curious name: it tells you of its owner, in more words, no doubt, than you would ever care to remember. In your tongue mine would start as Valatëa-eressëa-ornendil-hlónavantar-yára-aldëa-nelcalassëa… - but preoccupied as you are with urgent matters, you might prefer to call me Thornleaf.”

“Hail to you, Thornleaf, Shepherd of Trees,” said Tyelkormo, bowing his head. “And we thank you for your protection before, inevitably, we must ask for your guidance.”

The Ent was still looking at them, his glance suddenly sharp in the moonlight.

“You shall have my guidance, Son of Fire,” he said, “as soon as you learn enough patience to go where I lead you.” He took a few tentative steps, crossing the clearing thrice. “It has been a long time indeed since I last wandered around my woods,” he admitted. “A veil of sleep covers these lands; songs of magic and guile! But the Lady of the Woods knows best: for such glamour has saved many of my trees from fire and axes. Still – a fog of some enchanter has settled on my mind, and I like it little.”

“Is there someone else, too?” Curufinwë asked him. “Other than Melian?”

“She is not the only singer in these lands,” Thornleaf sighed. “Hmm. Not indeed. But let us not speak of such sorrows, or else you children start rushing things again. Come now! Lead you I shall, for so you have asked of me.”

Curufinwë glanced back. “Our companions…”

“The forest shall lead them where they need to be,” said the Ent, “but you must take another route. Come, children, and take my hands.”

Curufinwë did as he was told with some hesitation; he could not even close his fist around one of the Ent’s hard-barked fingers. There was no need of it, however, for Thornleaf closed his palm around his waist with alarming ease, and lifted him to sit on his shoulder, as if he was indeed a child. He did likewise with Tyelkormo, and turned his long strides northwards, following the song of a nearby river among the trees.

Curufinwë kept looking around in wonder. From up here, the forest was beautiful; and as Thornleaf descended to a wide valley, it seemed to him that the trees whispered among themselves, fluttering their leaves, telling him news. Curufinwë could see many dead ends in the woods, pits overgrown with bushes, deadly mires, and crooked paths, along which they would have been sure to lose their way if not for the Ent’s guidance; but his far-seeing eyes have now risen above mist and enchantment, and he saw, with great surprise, that the Sun was up above the hollies in the East.

“Time is playing tricks on us, it would seem,” he said. “Did we truly disturb your dreams for an entire night, o Shepherd, before you came to our rescue?”

He felt the rumble of Thornleaf’s laugh in the pit of his stomach.

“Time is a treacherous guide in these woods,” he said. “It may trick you, as it may have tricked others. Time has no importance for the Lady of the Woods, as most things were slow to change before the Dark One came to these lands. Seldom is time woven into her enchantments; and some think that in the Halls of Menegroth, it has stopped entirely.”

Time does not stop, Curufinwë thought; but he said nothing.

“I have often felt something similar when I went hunting in the Undying Lands,” said Tyelkormo reluctantly. “Oromë does not tire, and he was ever unchanged to my eyes; untouched by strain or exhaustion, and for a time, so was I. I often lost days, sometimes weeks; and when Father asked me what I have seen in the woods, I could not answer the way he would expect. And yet all that knowledge is woven into me somehow, as guidance in times of true peril.”

“One’s mind does not need to know everything their heart already knows,” said Thornleaf, and his voice was kind. “Look now! We have arrived. Tread lightly on this grass, for it is always soft: even in the dead of winter. Follow the river, and it shall lead you where you must be. I shall look for your friends.”

“Thank you,” said Tyelkormo with great respect as they were eased back on the ground in the evergreen, and Thornleaf set out among his beloved trees.

Curufinwë glanced around with renewed interest. This was certainly not Menegroth – not yet – but the chatter of the river was loud and clear in the morning chill, and the trees stood further away from each other than in the depts of Region – the forest was thinning.

Tyelkormo and Curufinwë turned their stride downstream along the riverbank. Strength was returning to their feet as they descended another declivous vale, the grass growing ever greener around them as their path came around a small mound of earth.

Driven by instinct or some strange foreboding, Curufinwë stopped to look at it.

And his heart missed a beat.

“Tyelko – Tyelko, look!”

His brother stopped beside him, blood draining out of his face as he beheld the inscription upon the tomb – for a tomb it was. They both struggled to read the thin runes, different as they were of the set of tengwar that their people used ever since their father had devised them; but read them they could. When they crossed the Sea and built their realms in Beleriand, Tyelcano had made sure their whole House relearned them.

The inscription read,

HERE LIES HUAN,
HOUND OF VALINOR,
SLAYER OF THE GREAT WOLF,
AND FRIEND TO LÚTHIEN THE FAIR.
MAY HE HUNT FREE AGAIN,
IN FAIR ELDAMAR OVER THE SEA.

“So this is how it all ended,” said Tyelkormo. “Friend to Lúthien, the Fair. Nothing more indeed.”

“I am sorry,” said Curufinwë. The words felt infuriatingly empty as he squeezed his brother’s shoulder.

“Oromë did say that there would be a wolf.” Tyelkormo bowed his head. “That nothing else could kill him. I wonder…”

They felt the presence behind their backs before they could see, or even hear anything. To run would have been useless, and Thornleaf’s counsel was still fresh and vivid in their memories: go where the river leads you, for that is where you must be.

It happened thus that they waited in front of Huan’s grave, patient, yet alert, until they saw who fate had led to meet them.

A solitary figure was walking along the riverbank: tall and imperious, fearsome but fair, ancient, yet untouched by the passing of time. His hair flew after him like a stream of silver grey, and his cloak was grey as well, as the passing shadow of dusk over a meadow still filled with light. His face was proud and noble, and his eyes shone with the light of Valinórë; and that is how Curufinwë understood, in a brief moment of unpleasant clarity, that they had found the one they sought.

Even if this was not how he had imagined the Woodland King at all: not like someone so terribly tall – possibly taller than Nelyo – and quite so strong – possibly stronger than Tyelko –; and certainly not like someone who seems to be stricken with the same sorrow and anger that had held him in his grip for so long now.

Thingol’s strides were swift and unrelenting, as one’s who is set on his course with great determination, unhindered and unbothered – yet so deep he had sunk into his thoughts that he did not seem to even notice them until he came within arms’ reach.

When he did, he stopped, and looked at them with sudden scrutiny. Curufinwë could only guess what he saw; and whatever it was, it fell probably far from how he would have preferred to be perceived. Both Tyelkormo and him had dressed very simply for the road; they did not wear the Star of their House, even, for this made their atonement seem even more striking. Their garments were weather-beaten and their armour old, but their faces and manners betrayed them.

So did mourning for Huan, probably.

“Greetings to the King of Doriath,” said Tyelkormo with an effort. “For that is who I believe you are. We have long sought for you in these woods, and my heart is glad that our paths collided.”

“Mine is not,” said Curufinwë, “yet this must be.”

If Thingol was bewildered, he hid it masterfully. His face remained guarded and impassive as he looked Tyelkormo and Curufinwë up and down, then crossed his arms in front of his chest. Curufinwë glimpsed a long dagger in his belt – so long that it could easily pierce him between the ribs and come out clean on the other side.

“If you are who I think you are,” said the King of Doriath, calm as a mountain lake, “then I misjudged you, for my kingdom is well protected against ill intention. And yet alas! I rarely misjudge people.”

“Perhaps more often now than before,” said Curufinwë. “Or hold you some grudge against the people of Eöl, the Dark Elf?”

“I have no quarrel with Eöl, other than a resting case of mutual dislike,” said Thingol. “But if the stories are true, this is a woe I share with Curufin, son of Fëanor; and yet now he reproaches it.”

“Far be it from me to reproach a dislike of the most unpleasant Elf in Beleriand,” Curufinwë quipped. “It is his people that I speak of – his people, who have fled to the Himring, demanding aid from the Warden of the East as they were not given yours.”

“They never asked for it,” said Thingol.

“So they would have,” said Tyelkormo, “if only there would have been a way. Your forests are protecting you from ill intention, you say? Well, then all intentions in these lands must be truly rotten, for I had to wake the trees of Region and whisper to the wind to find my way to you! And still I could have never succeeded, if not for the aid of Thornleaf, the Shepherd.”

“You have spoken to Thornleaf and he led you here?” Now Thingol’s face did betray his astonishment. “I thought…”

“…that we have come to thrust knives in your back, naturally,” said Curufinwë. “All of you Sindar seem to think that we are savages, and yet you keep letting us protect you from the Enemy.”

“You have kidnapped my daughter,” said Thingol, his voice thunder and ice. “Held her against her will.”

“We did not hurt her!” Tyelkormo snapped. “She was not the one determined to steal our heritage, dragging our cousin along!”

“You held her!”

“And why did we do that? Think!” Curufinwë could not hide the anger in his voice. “We did not want any of your kin involved with a Silmaril, lest it bring strife upon us all.” He made an effort to calm his speech, dangerous as it was to bend the truth yet another way. “Did you not extend such a request towards that mortal Man merely to describe the impossible? To mock him?”

“I am not proud of it,” said Thingol after a short, heavy silence.

“Forget it,” said Curufinwë. “All hearts run hot at times. So did Beren’s, apparently, when he attempted the impossible.”

“And did it,” said Thingol quietly. “As little as it might be thought.”

“As little as it might be thought,” Curufinwë repeated, “which was close to none when these events occurred. What we have done, we have done to avoid the kind of chokehold in which we now find ourselves.”

“I do not feel held by such,” said Thingol; and for a fleeting moment, Curufinwë wished he could push a knife in his back indeed. “And yet I shall not hide my surprise – this is not how your House has talked to mine until now. I wonder what honeyed your tongue.”

Curufinwë struggled in vain with a mixture of indignance and recognition – he had to admit that Thingol was, in fact, no coward.

And Tyelkormo answered,

“You have sent a message to the Warden of the East, not so long ago. You promised that should he do justice against us, you offer him your friendship, good will, and all help you can freely give in an hour of need.”

“Indeed I have,” said Thingol warily.

“And this, our brother has done. For your daughter, and for our deeds in Nargothrond.”

“Yet still you walk freely under my trees.”

“That we do,” said Curufinwë, “for the Lords of the West do not keep their family in cages. Least of all the Warden of the East. But do not think that we were left unpunished. Do you see us wearing the Star of our House? Do you see servants around us? Nay and nay. The only escort we have are two of Eöl’s people who have come with us by choice.”

“So that was the punishment of Maedhros?” Thingol raised his brows. “He gave you no escort?”

“He gave us a choice,” said Tyelkormo, “either to leave his lands and be forever shunned and abandoned by our own people; or to give up our power and serve him, lessening the evils we have done. So we have chosen. We are forever bound in the service of Maedhros; and we have learned the error of our ways. This is why we are here now, without the bidding, and even knowledge of our eldest brother: to ask your forgiveness for the wrongs we have done to your House, and to let you inflict upon us any trial and punishment you seem fit.”

“With the sole condition,” Curufinwë added, “that you set our little brothers free, unharmed.”

Several seconds passed; bile was rising to Curufinwë’s throat, and Thingol stared at them, speechless.

Then, he said,

“Your brothers?”

“Amrod and Amras are the names you may know them by,” said Tyelkormo. “If nothing else, you shall recognize them by their hair. We cannot, of course, know how many more of our kin you might keep in your dungeons.”

“My dungeons are not the usual accommodation for guests,” said Thingol slowly, “and I give you my sincere word that I have never seen or met your brothers.”

“Then where are they?” Curufinwë exclaimed. “Lost in the woods, like we were?”

“I shall have them found by nightfall,” said Thingol.

His expression was strange, and Curufinwë felt a sudden reluctance to follow his lead.

“Fear not,” Thingol added, his voice suddenly much lighter, almost playful. “You shall be escorted to a morning feast before the dungeons.”

Tyelkormo and Curufinwë looked at each other, bewildered.

“Do not marvel at common courtesy, or else I shall be offended,” the King went on. “My forgiveness, I cannot promise you; for I rarely give it to anyone. But I can see that Maedhros kept his word; and it would be unjust to punish any Elf for the same crime two times, especially while the first sentence is already being served. There is no reason for us to have anything but pleasant conversation until you shall, inevitably, demand the heritage of your House with haughty words, which shall leave many people aggravated – many who remember the blood that Beren shed for it, or Lúthien’s tears that fell for it. Be that as it may, but remember this: any scene you might cause in my Halls, you cause at your own peril.”

“We are not here for the Silmaril,” said Curufinwë. The words burned his throat like the touch of a branding iron, but he stood proud and strong, struggling with the unbreakable bond of his Oath, reminding himself that all this was part of a greater plan. “We have come in our grief and desperation to find our brothers.”

“How is that possible?” Thingol looked him straight in the eye. “I thought you were restrained by your given word.”

“Restrained, aye,” said Curufinwë with a sudden surge of pride, “but not maddened; not rendered evil. We are no creatures of Morgoth, but the blood of Finwë! It is not you who have destroyed the peace of our realms, not you who killed our father and grandfather, not you who tortured our eldest brother, not you who laid ruin to our homes! And Morgoth still has the two other Jewels; so we shall go after him, and break his gates, and destroy his servants and ploys and lies and treacheries. Do us no harm, and we shall be allies as keepers of the peace in Beleriand.”

A cold flame kindled in Thingol’s eyes, then died out immediately.

“Very well,” he said. “If that is what you truly mean to do, then this I promise to you, Celegorm and Curufin from the House of the Star: if your endeavour succeeds – if you and your allies indeed defend Morgoth and take back the other two Jewels, thus proving worthy of them, then the third one I shall gift back to you as a token of peace.”

“How can you gift back something that is not yours?” Tyelkormo snapped. “You make it sound like a reward!”

“And you make it sound like no one from my House has suffered for it,” Thingol retorted, “daring a deed impossible.”

Tyelkormo seemed quite ready to put a swift and painful end to their diplomatic endeavours, but Curufinwë restrained him.

“Tyelko,” he said, his voice soft, but filled with warning. He would have liked to continue speaking in Quenya, just to spite Thingol, but that was not the role he had chosen for himself that day.

“Did you not hear what he said?!”

“Be at ease!” Curufinwë sighed. “This is fair. Your words has been heard; and this I promise to you in return, Elwë Singollo: if we come back from the war victorious, our Jewels reclaimed, our Enemy defeated, and still you shan’t relinquish what is ours, than the wrath of our House shall turn against you; and I will not stay my blade when we meet again.”

“This we both promise,” said Tyelkormo sharply.

“Fair in return,” said Thingol with a nod. “This matter has been settled, then. Now let us go, and find your brothers. I took a long walk this morn, and we have talked much; it is possible than I, too, am searched for.”

*

The name of the chattering river, as Curufinwë soon learned, was Esgalduin. After a time, the ground started to rise around them as they followed Thingol’s long strides, and a rocky hill emerged from the hollies where the river took a northward bend. There, the banks abruptly turned into a deep ravine, crossed by the high arch of a stone bridge. Beyond the crossing, Curufinwë glimpsed a robust gate, embedded deep into the unforgiving rock. Frost crunched under the soles of his feet as he walked across the bridge, his eyes ever drawn to the depths of the ravine below.

Impenetrable, was his first thought.

Nothing is, was the next one.

“Be welcome in the Halls of Menegroth, my home,” said Thingol. “Follow me and no harm shall come to you, no enemy shall find you, and your rest shall be undisturbed. But I advise you against wandering off; for the foundations of the city have been laid by Dwarves, weary with strangers and the treachery of the Dark One. They have laid many traps; and you would not want to fall in them.”

Curufin fell in step with him without a word. The thought of traps did not instil fear in him; either the threat was real, or it wasn’t.

Any observations you can make, the memory of Carnistir’s voice whispered in his ear.

He kept his eyes open and watchful, yet he could not remember how he was led to Thingol’s high table and given food and drink. Even with the memory of fair Tirion beyond the Sea still vivid in his soul, he was filled with awe at the sight of the Thousand Caves: the mazy corridors; the lanterns draping the walls in golden light, held by stone dragons with jewels for eyes and bones for teeth; the occasional stir of birds flying to and fro below unfathomably high ceilings; the great arched halls with pillars hewn into likenesses of beech trees with a thousand gleaming leaves; the great silver fountains and small statues of animals, all in vivid detail; and so many other wonders and oddities that filled his creative mind to the point of bursting.

The dining hall was no less remarkable than the rest of Menegroth; and Curufinwë barely noticed the curiosity of Thingol’s servants as they beheld the guests their King had seemingly picked up from the woods. He did not even realize how hungry he had been until he had his first bite of bread-and-honey; and when Thingol asked him for news, the bitterness slowly disappeared from his voice. Tyelkormo spoke as well; and they told the Woodland King about the horrors of the Flames, their flight to Nargothrond, and what they had heard about the siege of the Himring. They told him of the death of Nolofinwë and hung their heads in unexpected grief; but their mood rose higher as they recounted the latest deeds of Nelyafinwë and Findekáno.

“…and so we shall march against Angband when the time is right,” Tyelkormo said. “That is why our brothers were sent to you in the first place: they were not after the Silmaril, either, but your aid against Morgoth. Maedhros hopes to unite the free peoples of Beleriand, thinking that an alliance of all shall triumph where nothing else may.”

“And then you came,” said Thingol, “and befriended Thornleaf, whom I have not seen in centuries. How has this come to pass? I thought he had left; as far from here, over hills, plains, mountains, and rivers, over the dominions of Noldor and Sindar, over the dwellings of Men from the East, there are other forests, the vastness of which are incomparable to mine, so endlessly immense they are. I thought Thornleaf dwelt there, with his kin.”

And so Tyelkormo began a detailed account of their meeting with the Ent; and when he got to the part where Thornleaf had lifted them upon his shoulders, the doors of the dining hall opened, and he fell silent mid-sentence.

The first Elf to come through the door was known to both him and Curufinwë, if not by very fond memory; he was Mablung, Captain of Doriath, followed by and Elf, tall but lithe, that Curufinwë had never met. After them came Dairiel and Esgalon, both clearly in awe – and then came their brothers, unscathed, although filthy from head to toes: a condition they shared both with Mablung and the tall stranger.

“Found within the day, as promised,” said Thingol lightly. “Although this does not explain why my Captain and the chief of my Marchwardens got tangled in a part of the woods where we no longer walk.”

No one answered him for a moment; the newcomers all stood as if frozen in place, staring at the King of Doriath as he was breaking fast with Tyelkormo and Curufinwë.

“Tyelko,” said Telufinwë in a small voice, “Curvo – how…?”

“Never you mind that,” said Curufinwë. “Are you all right? Starved? Bitten by frost?”

“Bitten by frost?” Pityafinwë laughed. “Do not pretend that we were gone for months!”

“You have been gone for almost a year,” said Tyelkormo scathingly.

“And so were you, Beleg and Mablung,” said Thingol, “although I assumed that your duties were numerous. You have seldom lingered here since the Flames.”

“If we have been truly gone for so long, Majesty,” said Mablung slowly, “then we must have fallen under some guile. We have found Amrod and Amras in the woods and sent word to you.”

“It never came,” said Thingol.

“We were waiting for your reply nonetheless, Majesty. As the days grew into weeks and the weather turned sour, we became restless; and so we hunted, exploring a part of the forest I have never seen before, not for all the years I have lived here. We must have gotten lost in the Girdle.”

“Nay,” said Thingol, “it would not have tricked you so. Never you.”

“I, too, was reluctant to think that the Queen would let that happen,” Beleg agreed.

“Well, Thornleaf mentioned that she was not the only singer in the woods,” said Tyelkormo.

“Indeed I am not,” spoke a clear voice from the end of the hall.

The voice was full of depth and enchantment, and fair as the promise of spring in crisp morning air; and Curufinwë did not need to turn his head to realize that the Queen of the Woods had probably been there all along, observing them, but uninterested in catching their attention.

“Mine are songs of protection,” said Melian, the Maia, “and yet in certain places, they have become fey and twisted. Untangling their painful bogs takes a long time, even by the measure of the Firstborn. And yet you are all here because you have heard the echo of my voice in such clamour. You have good ears.”

Everyone bowed their heads to the Queen of Doriath, dark of hair and fair of face, as she swept across the hall, eyeing the Sons of Fëanor with hidden hurt, but not without kindness.

“Is it decided, then?” she asked Thingol.

“We have come to an agreement,” said the King. “It shall be put into writing and sealed.” With that, he turned to Curufinwë. “You may rest and recover in my halls for as long as you need it; restrain you I shall not, as I respect the doom of Maedhros, Lord of the Himring and Warden of the East, which altered your fate. And know this: should you or your allies flee, or change your positions, or trap your enemies, the Fens of Sirion shall be closely guarded; as shall be the narrow fords where the Teiglin leaves Brethil and the wedge of Dimbar as it runs into Neldoreth; and no enemy of yours shall cross the Iant Iaur.”

The twins stared at him with barely concealed astonishment; and Beleg clutched the arch of his longbow.

“Are you going to war, then, Majesty?”

“That would be both unwise and undeserved, under the circumstances,” said Thingol, “but if you wish, you may join the High King of the Noldor in the north. I know you have longed to fight for a long time – and I imagine that if you depart, Mablung shall go as well, secretly furious that he could not be the first one asking for it.”

“Quite openly, Majesty,” said Mablung.

“Go then, if you must,” said Melian, “but be careful what you bring back with yourselves. And so should be the Warden of the East,” she added more softly, and Curufinwë held her gaze. “When you meet him again, give him my message. Tell him that the Lady of the Woods knows all birds in the skies; and in all the long years she has spent listening to them, she has found that it is most unwise to trust the call of a crow.”

* * *

---

Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes

Esgalon’s name means something like “a hiding place in the woods”/ “a shelter under a roof of leaves”. Doriathrin, of course.

Thornleaf starts introducing himself as something like “The proud and lonely tree-friend, walker of mountain-rivers where the water is high all year, ancient and tree-shadowed, thorny of leaves.” – and then, I reckon, he gains inspiration to shorten his name. I used Quenya because Tolkien explicitly states that Ents preferred this language when they had to speak to other races.

On hollies: most of us probably know this plant as small bushes that barely graze our waists, but they can grow into large trees. Picture hollies like the ones next to the Gates of Moria – in fact, I have recently seen large hollies in real life, and I liked them so much that I changed Celegorm and Curufin’s originally intended route (they would have come from the north, crossing Iant Iaur).

On alphabets: In Doriath, everyone uses the Certhas Daeron these days. Later, all Elven people will adopt the tengwar, but I highly doubt that Thingol would have wanted to use a runic alphabet made for a language he banned. In fact, when he wrote a letter to Maedhros earlier, he should have used certhas – a mistake I hope to correct later.

On words of Command: originally mentioned by Gandalf in The Lord of the Rings, the meaning of the term seems to be open to interpretation. Words of Command could be spells, or simple commands uttered by an Istar… or they could be something else entirely. In my interpretation, they are Valarin words; and following the logic previously described by Celegorm, the power in them comes from all the time he spent learning from Oromë. Experience, friendship, intention, all that.:)

On Curufin’s – still unnamed – wife: I have spent an indecent amount of time on finding the perfect name for an actually quite fleshed out character (if anyone’s been wondering) but then I thought that not even thinking of her name was such a Curufin thing to do.