The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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Sea-breeze

Anardil and his eloquently offensive manners are introduced, and Ecthelion makes a wager.

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The Gate of Gold was sixth in line of the Great Gates in Ondolindë, yet first in beauty to Laurefindil's eyes. Stern and robust it stood: a relatively low, broad wall of yellow marble that spanned the lowering crests of the Orfalch Echor. Above its narrow entrance, a pyramid stood high and proud with the image of Laurelin, its flowers wrought of topaz in long clusters upon chains of gold. Paintings of Anor, the Sun inlaid the inner sides of the entrance, though seldom were they seen; and those who did glimpse them never saw them again, for such was the law of the Hidden City. Any well-willing Elf was accepted in the service of King Turukáno on condition that they would never leave the Valley of Tumladen again.

Sunlight danced upon the marble path before Laurefindil as he walked towards the Gate; but it paled next to the aura of magnificence that surrounded Ecthelion as he descended the stairs. Dressed in deep blue and gleaming silver, his shining helm upon his head, the Warden of the Gates came forth; and Laurefindil, who knew him well, could tell that he was more than pleased with himself.

A great lord he is, he thought, brave, valiant, honourable – and vain. He is here to see an old friend coming home from a tiresome journey; yet dressed up as he is, he could march forth to greet mighty Eönwë and the Lords of the West.

Of all the weaknesses one could have, though, Laurefindil believed that vanity was still tolerable. Ecthelion liked to seem terribly important – which he was –, and never denied it. He was also proud and sometimes scornful, even dangerous; yet also kind and fair.

A gust of wind rolled down from the mountains; it made the guards raise their rounded red shields, Ecthelion swallow a curse and Laurefindil tighten his borrowed cloak. The guardians of the Sixth Gate were clad in the colour of his House and so he took a spare from the armoury.

Am I truly less vain than him? Laurefindil mused as Ecthelion clicked the latch of the Gate. If he wanted to be entirely honest with himself, he did not take the cloak to keep himself warm, rather to hide his unusually casual attire. Now which one of them was the pouting peacock...?

Erestor appeared on his right side, peeking through the open Gate: a rare sight in the Orfalch Echor.

“Wine awaits on the table, m’lords,” he announced with mock pompousness. “The best I have found. Shall I have my reward, then?”

“You might.” Ecthelion smiled. “We will share all goods with our guest when he comes. You may not remember him, but he will know who you are; Voronwë is his name, and he is a kinsman of the King. He may seem distant, and sometimes cold, but never let that discourage you.”

“I will not,” said Erestor, but his voice did not sound convincing. Ecthelion drew a sharp breath, but then, the sound of horns echoed forcefully along the lowest range.

One, two, three, four calls flew over the Gate on the wings of wind; and both Captain and Warden stilled.

“Four blasts,” Ecthelion whispered.“Four blasts, Fin. You heard them.”

Laurefindil nodded.

“And that would mean... guests?” Erestor frowned. “I've never heard four blasts before.”

Laurefindil grabbed the hilt of his dagger, keeping his eyes on the road outside.

“Four blasts means newcomers,” he said in a low voice. “Outsiders. Voronwë must have brought strangers with him; though for what reason, I cannot guess.”

“Elves from outside the Orfalch?” Erestor exclaimed in wonder.

“Yes, child,” said Ecthelion, “which is why you will stay by Captain Laurefindil’s side while I ride forth to meet them. Fin, get the archers ready.”

Outside the first watch-line, Ecthelion was his superior; thus, Laurefindil nodded his agreement and climbed the stairs on the side of the wall to reach the parapet, dragging Erestor with him.

“Stay behind the pyramid,” he said. “You may peek through Laurelin's lowest branches if you know your way enough to climb, but stay out of sight.”

“Yes, Laurefindil,” Erestor bowed.

“Promise me that you will do as I bid.”

“I promise.”

“Then look!” Laurefindil pointed.

A small group of soldiers approached the Gate along the yellow marble path. First came two guards with lances, then two others with longbows, then a pair of way-worn travellers and four more archers at the end of the line, their eyes watchful. All soldiers wore the uniforms of the Fifth Entrance, the Gate of Silver.

Laurefindil signalled at the archers; three hundred arrows seated on three hundred bended bows, and they waited.

“Who comes to the Gates of Ondolindë?” Ecthelion spoke up, his voice clear as jingling silver bells in the morning wind.

The newcomers closed in, and the wall of guards opened in front of the two hooded travellers.

“Here comes Voronwë Aranwion from the House of Ñolofinwë, with his friend, Anardil from the Household of Olwë under his protection,” the taller one exclaimed. “We have walked a long, perilous road and brought news for you and for the King.”

“Show your faces,” Ecthelion commanded. The soldiers stepped aside, and the newcomers threw their hoods back, opening their grey cloaks to show their garments underneath.

Voronwë was exactly as Laurefindil remembered him: tall, willowy and stark, and he moved with grace. His companion, Anardil was one of the Teleri, as his title suggested, but his shoulders were wider, his legs longer, his smile broader than what was common amongst the Sea-people; and his hair was an untamed forest, in the colour of gleaming silver.

“Stay,” Laurefindil said to Erestor. He left the parapet and ran down the stairs, almost jumping through the gate. The Teler lord had woken his interest.

“Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo, Voronwë, meldonya! I am most glad that you returned.” Ecthelion clasped Voronwë’s hands in his own. “And hail to thee! Be dearly welcome at the Sixth and Last Gate of Ondolindë, Anardil of the Falmari,” he then said, switching to his accent-dampened Sindarin. “Ecthelion I am, head of the House of the Fountain and Warden of the Gates. When thou follow’st our valiant kinsman, Voronwë, and ent’rest the first Gate, thou wert acquainted with the gravity of thy decision. Any son or daughter of the Eldalië is welcome in our City; the way in is open, but any way out is barred with sharp rock and iron. What brings thee to the Hidden City?”

“I did not enter the First Gate, my lord,” Anardil said. In his voice was a hidden strength that somehow reminded Laurefindil of the Sea itself. “Nor the second, nor the third, nor the fourth. The Eagles flew us to the Gate of Silver, for our journey was long and I am wounded. We were being followed, and the Eagles disappeared with us just in time.”

“Followed?”

Laurefindil could have imagined many smoother ways to join the conversation, but the damage was already done. Anardil raised his eyes to meet his; and Ecthelion was unable to hide his smile.

“Lord Anardil, I present to thee Laurefindil, head of the House of the Golden Flower, Captain of the King’s Guards and Marshal of the Armies – courteous and subtle, as ever. On top of the gate, thou mayst also notice my beloved nephew, Erestor, in the process of ruining King Turukáno’s favourite statue of the mighty Laurelin.”

Two slim hands and a pair of peeking grey eyes disappeared in an instant behind the golden pyramid; and Anardil smiled. He clasped the hand Ecthelion offered him, then bowed slightly in front of Laurefindil.

“Well met, Lord Warden and Captain of Guards,” he said.

“Well met, Lord Anardil,” Laurefindil echoed him. “I am grieved to hear that thou hast been wounded. Would riding be a nuisance to thee?”

“Riding? I believe I could try it,” Anardil raised an eyebrow, “but I cannot see any horses around. Can you even keep them alive in this icy mountain-land of yours?”

“Ai, we can,” Laurefindil laughed. “Lord Ecthelion and I still miss Nevrast at times, and verily. The meadows there were large and wide, and we would race our mighty stallions along them.”

“And even since our races here are much shorter, they have not ceased.” Ecthelion nodded. “We still have the sons of the sons of those stallions.”

Laurefindil sent off three guards for horses, then reached out to clasp Voronwë’s arm.

“My dear friend!” He said fondly, pulling the startled Noldo in an embrace. “How glad I am that thou hast returned!”

“You honour me, Laurefindil,” said Voronwë in his stern voice. “Yet it haunts me to see the shadow of turmoil and sadness in your eyes; and I hate to admit that the news we bring are not at all pleasant, either.”

“Who dareth hope for good tidings in these times of peril?” Laurefindil sighed. “I can only wish that your news are already known to us. I could not stand another pang of grief today.”

“That we shall see,” said Voronwë solemnly.

Anardil’s glance, on the other hand, was openly curious.

“I have been told that this City was an island of peace and prosperity, and that no harm could ever come to it. I have also been told that its beauty and grace matched that of Tirion in Aman, and that is a sight I long to see... How comes, then, that even the Lords of Ondolindë have friends to grieve?”

“That, Lord Anardil, is not a matter to be discussed this far out in the watch-lines,” Ecthelion said. “Follow us, and answers shall come to thee.”

* * *

By the time they settled beyond the Gate of Gold, Erestor was already serving them wine. He greeted the two travellers courteously, and smiled when Voronwë stared at him in wonder, asking if he still remembered him.

Laurefindil never ceased to watch Anardil from the corner of his eye, wondering how in Manwë’s name could he become friends with Voronwë. They could not have been more different: the only thing they shared was a distant gleam in their eyes, a privilege of those who sailed the Sea. Yet Anardil’s eyes themselves were nothing like Voronwë's, either: they were a fresh, bright shade of green, the like of which Laurefindil had never seen before.

“Come, take a seat,” Ecthelion called, and Laurefindil settled beside him. His eyes were still on Anardil, who stretched his long legs under the table. His shoulder was wounded, and badly: Laurefindil could see it now from the way he let his right arm hang loose.

“Good wine,” said the Teler suddenly. “Delicious.”

 “It came from thy people,” said Laurefindil, “with the last trade we could make before the Enemy attacked the North. Do you not recognise it?” He added experimentally. He had not spoken Sindarin in several hundred years, and it seemed that the use of pronouns had considerably simplified since then.

“Not all of us can sit around, sipping wine,” Anardil said. “I have forgotten what it tasted like.”

“Forgive my friend, Lord Laurefindil,” Voronwë broke in, glancing weightily at Anardil. “The pain in his shoulder is sharpening his tongue.”

“I meant no offense, Captain,” Anardil added with a slow nod, “I truly did forget it. The past few years... well, I have seen happier times in my life. Back in the years of peace, I was one of King Olwë’s household – one of importance, you may say. Then Fëanor came and claimed my ships along with the others. Those were all my wealth; and they were stolen and burned, my mother killed, my father drowned and our house put to flames. I lived near the shores...”

Anardil spoke without the smallest hint of anguish or indignation in his voice, as though they were merely talking about the weather. His eyes were hollow at first, but as he mentioned the loss of his family and beloved ships, deep wells of sadness opened within them.

“How comes, then, that thou dwellest not in fair Alqualondë still?” Ecthelion asked.

“I could not linger there singing laments for ever. I built a new ship and came to Beleriand, and here I shall remain. I have travelled far and I have seen much. I watch your proud kingdoms as they rise and fall, and I do not hate you Ñoldor... You are not the true Enemy, and we are kin. That is why I am here with my news. That is what you fail to take in those thick skulls of yours while you rant on and on about your endless grievances and strifes.”

“What have I told you about High Elves and courtesy?!” Voronwë exclaimed, but Ecthelion smiled; and Laurefindil knew that he felt the truth in these rough words as much as he did.

“No one can tell thee, Lord Anardil, that thou art reluctant to speak thy mind,” Ecthelion said. “The King shall like thee.”

“That is good to hear, Lord Warden,” said Anardil. “I never meant to offend you – or you, Captain, or you, young Lord Erestor.”

“Or me,” Voronwë broke in. “If that holds any interest to you, mellonamin.”

“I have already offended you enough times for you to learn not to take it in,” said Anardil. “Yet what I truly meant to say was – well, ever since the pits of hell opened below our lands in the Bragollach, I am afraid, my lords. Sindar, Nandor, Ñoldor, the few Teleri who still wander the shores, the mighty houses of Men... we are all leaderless, adrift, like dry leaves in the wind. And the Shadow is spreading, the Enemy is growing stronger. You have this city; King Fingon has Hithlum and his watchtowers; King Thingol and his Queen watch over the woodlands... you are all separated, and Dark creatures are starting to fill the holes between your lands. I am not skilled in warfare, nor am I familiar with the ways of the Ñoldor, but of one thing I am certain: something has to happen. Someone has to... do something.”

Laurefindil almost gasped as he heard his own words from less than an hour ago, echoed by this strange Elf who seemed to have come from the end of the world.

Here I have the proof that I was right.

“In the past year,” Anardil went on, somewhat reluctantly, “I have been held in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the fortress of Sauron. My luck saved me from being dragged on to Angband, but my imprisonment was still filled with anguish, pain, humiliation and great fear. By the grace and mercy of the Valar, I got away, though I paid a great price for it... Also,” here, Anardil sighed heavily and glanced up to meet the others’ eyes, “I have ill news about one who – so I was told – had been a dear friend to both of you.”

“Findaráto,” the Captain and the Warden said in unison.

“Indeed,” said Voronwë, “but how could you possibly know about this?!”

“Theoretically, we cannot,” Ecthelion said, “and thou better forget that we mentioned it at all. Let us only say that Counsellor Lómion is friends with the Eagles; and apparently, Laurefindil is now friends with Counsellor Lómion.”

 “Now, when did that happen?” Voronwë exclaimed.

Laurefindil did not answer; his gaze remained fixed on Anardil’s face.

“What befell to Findaráto?” He asked softly. “What became his death?”

The Teler swallowed, and looked away.

“What happened, I ask thee!” Laurefindil persisted.

“His death was not... easy, my lord,” said Anardil. “If you do not mind, I shall... I shall provide a detailed description only if and when your King commands me to.”

“Tell us briefly, if you have to,” Laurefindil said, “I beg thee! How did he die?”

“He was bit... or rather: lacerated by a werewolf, my lord,” Anardil managed. “And I, along with other prisoners, was made to watch. Your friend fought fiercely, even though he had no weapon other than his nails and teeth. He killed the beast with his bare hands, and died shortly afterwards.”

Laurefindil swallowed. His imagination was nothing if not vivid...

“He died defending... a friend of his,”Anardil went on, drawing a deep breath. “And that friend was rescued, along with some of us, though he was heading elsewhere. I led south a group of refugees but an Orc band hunted us down a few days later. My companions were massacred to the last Elf… One of those filthy beasts wounded me between my blade-bones, then I got my shoulder cracked. All I remember from that hour is terrible, searing pain; I fell into the Sirion and grabbed hold of a piece of driftwood before fainting. I do not know how my enemies’ arrows avoided me. When I woke again, I was in a boat, and this strange elf, who turned out to be Voronwë, was tending to my wounds.”

“This will make an excellent song, Lord Anardil,” said young Erestor, a little bit too enthusiastically. “But who was King Findaráto’s friend?”

“I believe that is something to discuss solely with our King,” Ecthelion said when Anardil did not answer at once.

“Precisely,” said Voronwë. “That is why Anardil agreed to come with me: he believes that he could provide useful information for King Turukáno.”

“Tidings these days are more precious than gold.” Laurefindil nodded. “I marvel at your wit and valour, Lord Anardil! All prisoners fantasize about their escape, but very few of them accomplish the task.”

Anardil bowed. “If mere luck is a virtue, then I can accept your praise. Elsewise, there is none other than King Findaráto to be held in honour.”

“Still, I wonder how...” Ecthelion shook his head mildly. “But never thou mindest. We shall have our answers soon, and so shalt thou. Now tell me, how did your journey go? And who was following you?”

“The Orcs lost my track at the seashore, the half-wits.” Anardil grinned, and Laurefindil marvelled at the sudden change in his mood. “Voronwë was very subtle and evasive at the beginning, but eventually, I told him about my life and he told me about his, along with a few goblets of wine.”

“Bottles, unfortunately,” Voronwë remarked.

“You might already know him better than we do!” Laurefindil smiled. “And how were the seas?”

“Stormy – for me, at least,” said Voronwë. “I hardly saw the sun; the winds betrayed my crew and our ship swayed amongst the waves like a drunken soldier. We lost most of our provisions near Falas, and we arrived exhausted to the havens of Brithombar – several hundred miles south from our original destination, might I remind you. We are living in perilous times, my friends.”

“You are truly lucky to have this city!” Anardil nodded his agreement. “Peace and safety are blessings I have not known since my ships were stolen and burned.”

“Many of us feel that way, Lord Anardil, and not without reason,” Ecthelion said. “May ye both find rest within the walls of our City!”

“How kind of you, Lord Warden! But I do not intend to harness such gratitude.” Anardil smiled broadly at the silent, and suddenly very intent Ñoldor around him. “I am not a soldier, nor a guardian, nor a hero. I only wish to tell your King a few stories he might find interesting – and then I will be on my way! The Sea is my home, and your City, however fair and glorious, is foreign to me.”

“I have already told you that things were not as simple as that,” Voronwë said alarmingly.

“Law is law.” Ecthelion nodded. “I told thee as well, my lord – if thou comest in, there is no way out.”

“If I am not mistaken,” said the Teler with a smirk, “there is a King in this City. Now, according to the traditions of my humble people, Kings are chosen to rule their faithful Lords; even the Lord Wardens and Lord Voronwë-s – even Captains, mind you. And his decision may differ from yours. Are the ways of the Ñoldor any different when it comes to their Kings?”

“Courtesy, Anardil!” Voronwë snapped; but Ecthelion only laughed, Laurefindil watched the Teler in amazement and young Erestor stared at him wide-eyed. If Manwë himself had suddenly appeared from the empty air to take a seat at their table, their reaction probably would not have been any different.

“Well,” said Ecthelion, “brave Lord Anardil, if thou convincest our King to open his gates to thee, I swear I shall give thee my best chainmail as a parting gift. ‘Tis a bet.”

“Very well,” Anardil shook the hand that was offered to him. “And you, Lord Warden, shall ask any gift from me if I will not succeed. I cannot promise such a mighty one, but I am skilled in wood-carving. And singing, now that I think of it.”

“Well and done,” said Ecthelion. Laurefindil glanced at Voronwë, who shook his head in resignation; then he saw young Erestor grinning, a full goblet of wine in his hand. When he stared at him, the boy mouthed the word “Promised”, and Laurefindil gave in to utter defeat.

* * *

Later, their conversation turned towards lighter topics. Voronwë told them about his long journey North after losing his ship, and the yellow and blue flowers of Nevrast that Laurefindil missed so dearly; then Anardil told some of his own stories about strange lands and foist merchants. Then, the two mariners complained about the weather, the Orc-bands and the outlaws roaming across Beleriand.

Ecthelion and Laurefindil gladly joined this discussion, even though they had not seen Orcs for over a century.

“Things cannot go on as they are if we want to survive!” Voronwë sighed. “If only someone, anyone would gather the strength and courage to unite the wandering troops…! Once brave and honourable soldiers are becoming outlaws, once mighty Men are killing or begging for food... it is horrible to see them stoop so low; and the change is more visible each time I set out on a new journey. Since King Ñolofinwë has been killed...”

“Findekáno is worthy of him,” said Laurefindil. “Give him time, and his rule shall strengthen further than his father’s.”

“Let us hope for that,” Voronwë said gravely, “but I do have my doubts.”

“King Turukáno has an army of twenty thousand,” Ecthelion said. “He is the one thou seekest: the protector of us all.”

“But the Gates are closed,” Voronwë sighed. “And should they be opened any time, that will mean the end of us; because sooner or later, the Enemy shall find us and break our walls.”

Laurefindil sighed. All of them had tried to lighten the mood at some point of their discussion (save for young Erestor who merely stood in the shadows and listened, becoming slowly but steadily drunk), and yet they always came back to the same topic in both their words and their hearts: to the desperate desire of acting, of helping those in need. Somehow. Some way.

Yet the way was hidden.

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Chapter End Notes

- Anardil is – quite obviously – not Tolkien’s Anardil, but an OC.

- Voronwë is canonically related to Ñolofinwë.

- ‘The Falmari’ is a name for the Teleri of Aman. [m.: wave-folk] It is deliberately left in Quenya, even though Ecthelion is trying to speak Sindarin.

- On archaic English: Ecthelion and Laurefindil speak an approximately 400 years older Sindarin than Anardil And Voronwe. I wanted to make it pompous and clumsy, which I believe it is.