The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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The First Betrayal

A message comes to Himring from Menegroth.

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Himring, FA 467, the first day of Víressë

Tyelcano held his arms tight against his chest as he walked, to keep a messy heap of parchments from falling. Gingerly, he placed his burden on his lord’s desk and unrolled the thickest scroll: it was a map.

Lord Maedhros’s fingers were drumming impatiently on the table.

“Have you sent the letters?” he asked.

“All, my lord, but the one for King Findekáno. That I restrained and rewrote, as was your wish.”

“Good. Read it out, will you...”

Tyelcano unfolded another scroll, one he had filled with different versions of the same, one-paragraph message, knowing his lord’s desire for perfection. He chose the last one – which he deemed the most evasive – and drew a breath to read it aloud… only to let it out in a flummoxed huff when someone knocked on the door.

Maedhros’s eyes meet his; and Tyelcano shook his head to answer the unspoken question. They had not been expecting anyone from inside (or outside) the fortress; and if something was amiss, the guards would have sounded the horns long ago. The watch on the borders had been doubled lately: every hand that could hold a sword was needed in service. Ever since the Bragollach had reduced the green, fertile plains of Ard-Galen to a desolation of ash, the people of Himlad slept little and less, their vigilance never ceasing.

“Enter,” said Maedhros sternly, and Tyelcano closed the scroll. A letter to the High King was a confidential matter: the less people knew about it, the better the odds. His effort, however, proved vain; it was the Captain of Guards, Tulcestelmo who appeared in the gap of the door.

“My Lord Maedhros,” he said in clumsy Sindarin (which was suspicious enough for the two Elves to rise from their seats). “A messenger came from the Halls of Menegroth; he brings you word from King Thingol.”

Maedhros’s eyes went wide. He rose, and Tyelcano saw the knuckles of his hand whiten as he gripped the edge of his desk. His own mind was racing as well. Thingol had not contacted any Son of Fëanor since the long-gone feast of Mereth Aderthad; he ignored Maedhros just as haughtily as Maedhros disregarded him. There was no friendship between Himring and Menegroth; yet nor was there enmity.

Until now, at least.

Could it be, Tyelcano thought hopefully, that Thingol finally saw reason, and he seeks our friendship? Could it be that he decided to return the Silmaril?

Nay; if he was honest with himself, neither of these options seemed by any means likely.

Lords change little, and Kings change less. There must be some other reason for the Woodelves to send us a messenger. But what could be that reason?

Luckily, however, he had little time to brood on possible misfortunes and disasters, for Lord Maedhros took a deep breath and pulled on the solemn mask he wore as Warden of the East.

“Let him enter,” he said, “and speak.”

The gap between the door-wings widened, and a lone Elf came forth, clad in the grey-green colours of Menegroth. His face was pale and austere, and the shadowy line of a scar ran through the side of his cheek. Tyelcano saw that it must have been long and painful to heal.

“Be welcome in my halls,” said Maedhros. His Sindarin was well-practiced, and despite its lingering taste of Quenya, it also seemed effortless. “I am Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of Himlad and Warden of the East; and this is my counsellor, Tyelcano. Please enter and sit, for we much desire the message of your King to be delivered.”

“I greet you, Lord Warden, Lord Counsellor,” the messenger said. He bowed deeply before settling down in one of Maedhros’s wide armchairs. “Feredir is my name, and my King chose me to deliver grave tidings. First… Lord Warden, I inform you with regret that two dozen scouts bearing the crest of your House have been found dead near our borders, now not entirely six weeks ago.”

“In which colour they were clad in?” Tyelcano asked immediately.

“Unadorned black, Lord Counsellor, with the Star gleaming silver upon their chests.”

Carnistir’s men, then.

This was a piece of information, Tyelcano thought, and a precious one at that. Maedhros obviously followed his trail of thoughts, but he showed neither approval nor dismay; he simply sat, and listened.

“My King had long intended to send you a message,” Feredir went on, “but circumstances made it impossible to cross the borders of the Fenced Lands. It is only now that I am able to inform you that the previously pledged union between your and King Thingol’s Houses has proved a fruitless endeavour. My King offers to the House of Fëanor to lay the matter aside, and leave this attempt out of account if it comes to any further collaboration between our forces…”

“Excuse me?”

Maedhros’s face darkened.

“Would you care to elaborate? I cannot quite remember which one of my secret Sindarin lovers you are talking about.”

Tyelcano glanced at his lord, suddenly alarmed. Maedhros was, without any doubt, the wisest and the most considerate among the Sons of Fëanor, but Valar forbid, that was not saying much.

Feredir of Doriath, however, was a young Elf, and of better taste for jests than most of his kinsmen, as it seemed. He could not suppress a grin, which was quickly overtaken by astonishment.

“Could it be, then...” he managed, “that your lordship has yet to hear about the affair of the Lord Celegorm and our beloved Princess Lúthien?”

“Oh, Valar,” said Tyelcano, before he could restrain himself.

Maedhros leaned forward, the spark of amusement now overwhelming in his grey eyes.

“Please, do enlighten me.”

Feredir shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Forgive me, Lord Maedhros, if my question is by any means too bold,” he said, “but... may I inquire exactly how much do you already know? Are you aware, for one, of the quest Princess Lúthien had pursued with a certain Beren, son of Barahir…?”

“I do know of the stolen Silmaril, if that is your question,” Maedhros said starkly, before Tyelcano could voice his displeasure, “and I know where it is. I also know that my brothers were banned from Nargothrond... and that Morgoth sleeps no more.”

Feredir blinked hard when he heard the Enemy’s name, but then his eyes widened.

“Is that... is that all, my lord?”

To Tyelcano’s overwhelming relief, Maedhros gave a curt nod. “Aye, that is all. Am I missing something?”

The messenger let out a stormy sigh, forgetting about his manners. “I have brought you a letter from my King,” he said wearily, “but if your knowledge of recent events is so scarce, Lord Warden, then I should perhaps tell you a few things before handing over the letter. I am grieved that it is me who should bring you these tidings, and not one of your kinsmen, as you would have deserved…”

“Please tell me you are not bringing me tidings of death,” said Maedhros.

“And yet I am, my lord.” Feredir bowed his head. “Please receive my King’s, my Queen’s and all my people’s deepest condolences. I say with terrible regret that your cousin, King Finrod Felagund of Nargothrond has been brutally murdered.”

Brutally murdered, Tyelcano thought.

Not “fell in battle”, or “perished”, or “missing” or even “killed”.

Brutally murdered.

If the Counsellor had previously suspected that something was amiss, then now he could be entirely sure.

“This is bad news indeed,” Maedhros said, his eyes distant. His shoulders tensed for a moment, as if struggling under some invisible weight. “It saddens me, and deeply, that Findaráto walks these lands no more. My heart weeps for his kindness; his wisdom and valour shall much be missed this side of the Sea… And yet I find solace in the thought that instead of being captured by the Enemy, he is at least with Mandos now, the chains of his hröa cast away. Morgoth cannot do him further harm and we, who are left in Endórë, must go on; for his sake as much as for ours. Tell me, Feredir of the Woods, who rules my cousin’s people now?”

“Orodreth, son of Angrod,” said the messenger, “and his realm is no longer in turmoil; his strength is rising, and his borders are being shut.”

“And why should the realm of Nargothrond be in turmoil?” Maedhros asked curiously, propping his chin up with two fingers. “Not exactly the word I would use for a land that weeps for its late ruler.”

“That, Lord Warden, is one of the things you must learn,” Feredir said. “It shall be a long tale.”

“In that case,” said Maedhros, “I will listen to it comfortably. You have come a long way, Feredir of Doriath, and I ask you for more tidings than you were ordered to give. The least I can do for you is making you forget the perils of the road. You must be hungry and worn out. Counsellor, please,” he said to Tyelcano, “bid a servant to bring us food and wine, and come back here as soon as you can. I want you to hear the tale as well.”

* * *

When Tyelcano returned, Feredir was seated at the same spot, facing Lord Maedhros at the other side of the wide desk. Lunch and wine were soon served; and Tyelcano loaded up his plate with soused meat, fresh leaves of lettuce dressed in saffron and herbs, and several dippers of richly seasoned mushroom-stew to ease the discomfort of their guest. He knew that Lord Maedhros was not very likely to eat properly, not while being this alert and curious. Then he took his place between his lord and the messenger, on the shorter side of the table, and listened.

His predictions came true: Maedhros’s appetite was reduced to a cup of soup, while the messenger – taking courage from Tyelcano’s pretense of voracity – stuffed his plate and drank his fill, unused as he probably was to dine in study-rooms.

Much later, when only a few flagons of wine remained on the table, Feredir leaned back in his chair, and began his tale.

“I do not even know how or where to begin, Lord Warden,” he admitted, taking a small sip from the chalice in his hands. “I believe that I must first dwell into the past, to reach the very roots of the most unfortunate events of times nigh...”

Tyelcano crossed his legs and closed his eyes. Despite the utter contentment of his stomach, his senses told him that he was not at all going to like what he was about to hear.

“When the terrible Flames struck from the North, a dozen years ago, my people were saved from the Enemy's wrath; but that never lessened our fear of his malice. We held our watch thrice as warily and vigilantly as before; and we despaired over every piece of news, peril after peril, death after death. All we could rely on was the vigilance of the Ñoldor in the North, and here in Himlad. Some deny this still, but I know it to be true… My people hoped that the Enemy would never find his way to Menegroth, or Nargothrond; and yet in the end, the shadow of evil reached them both. Our hearts soon grew hot in the face of peril; and many of us wished to take up arms and fight for your people and the Lords of Dorthonion. And yet our King – led by the wisdom of his long years, some say; or led by his distrust of the Ñoldor, say others – remained in his seat and denied our request.”

“And yet he did not remain idle. His mind – so it is said – oft wandered past the borders of his lands, and so did the searching glance of our Queen; that is how the presence of Beren, son of Barahir was overlooked. That is why he could wander our woods unseen, unconsidered; and that is how he laid his eyes upon our beloved Princess Lúthien. This Beren was bold enough to ask King Thingol for his daughter’s hand; and although the King refused him in anger and disbelief, Princess Lúthien herself was willing. And thus King Thingol set an impossible task upon Beren as a bride price: he asked him to steal a Silmaril from the Enemy’s crown to prove his worth.”

Tyelcano and Maedhros both nodded. This much was known to them.

“Beren was valiant enough to attempt the Quest,” Feredir went on. “Remembering the oath King Finrod Felagund had sworn to his father, he rode to Nargothrond and spoke to King Finrod, who remained true to his word, and offered him help.”

“...and that was the hour when the first complications arose with this glorious Quest,” Maedhros said with pride. “For no living creature, be they Eruhín or spawn of Moringotto, can keep a Silmaril for themselves, lest the wrath of the Seven Sons pursue them beyond the Circles of the World. Surely, everyone in Beleriand is aware of this. To take it lightly would be folly; to disregard it completely, as Felagund apparently did, borders insane. Surely, I cannot blame your King for his request, for using the parallel of a stolen Silmaril to describe impossible for this mortal Man; but I most certainly have great trouble understanding why my cousin would have envisaged, or even considered such a quest.”

“He was bound by his own words of honour, Lord Warden,” Feredir said. “Much like you are.”

A spark of some hidden fire flashed in Maedhros’s eyes.

“Aye,” he said, “how thoughtful of you to remind me.”

The messenger, slightly terrified, opened his mouth to form an apology; but the lord waved him off.

“Go on with your tale.”

“As you wish, Lord Warden,” Feredir complied, his voice slightly shaking.

Tyelcano frowned. The messenger seemed quiet, respectful, even shy in his own way; but he was clearly no coward. If he was this reluctant to go on, then something truly terrible must have happened.

“...when Beren’s request and King Finrod’s decision to help him were announced in the halls of Nargothrond, Lord Celegorm rose, and drew his blade; and he gave a stern remainder of the Oath he had sworn, naming the Silmarili as the rightful heritage of your House. And there was movement among his followers, silent glares and hands upon sword-hilts; for his powerful words made Beren’s quest seem not only bereft of reason, but also unwarranted. Then Lord Curufin spoke, and his words were much softer. He voiced his fear of King Finrod and his kinsmen being captured, dragged on to the mines of Angband, and the secrets of the realm drained from them by horrible torment. He spoke of death and ruin, of cruel flames invading the halls of Nargothrond. Thus, he put a great fear in every heart, and no-one wanted to follow King Finrod… Your brothers, Lord Warden, have most cruelly betrayed him; for even after he departed with Beren and the few faithful followers he had left, they searched to undermine the power of Orodreth, wishing to seize it for themselves.”

“Now that is some lunatic phantasm of you Moriquendi!” Maedhros sprang from his seat. “And a grievous insult!”

“My lord, please,” said Tyelcano, “let him speak. You may still have to accept that he has proof of what he is saying.”

“That is impossible,” said Maedhros icily. “They are my brothers – my own blood!”

“To steal a Silmaril from the Iron Crown was also impossible, my lord, until the day it happened. Let him speak!”

Feredir waited several seconds before continuing, probably wondering whether Maedhros was planning to behead him now, or only later.

“...and it happened thus, Lord Warden,” he continued at length, “that the City of Nargothrond was overwhelmed by turmoil and great fear. For the rule of Orodreth was faint and feeble, and your brothers were still supported by their followers. My King sent me to inquire about Beren’s dwelling in King Finrod's halls: that is how I saw the following events with my own eyes. I am aware, Lord Maedhros, that you are a warrior of great renown, and a good leader of your people; and it must grieve you to hear about your – certainly most beloved – brothers’ wrongdoings. But you have longed for the truth; and so the truth has come to you.”

Maedhros’s face was grim, expressionless. He gave a slow nod.

“Ignorance is a weakness. I have to know.”

“As you wish.” Feredir blinked. “One morning, your lord brothers rode out to the Taleth Dirnen to hunt, and took their hounds with them. And lo! When they returned, Lord Celegorm was carrying no game but Princess Lúthien upon his stallion; for she had run away from her father’s halls in despair, and chanced upon him and Lord Curufin, who promised her aid. I thought that your brothers would return Princess Lúthien to her father’s Halls; but I misjudged, for they locked her up instead. I was sent back to my King with word that Lord Celegorm wished to take the Princess as a wife, for he had fallen in love with her; and that he would not return her home until the request would be granted. And since your brothers’ followers were loud and many, Lord Orodreth could do nothing to lessen the harm their devious ways had caused.”

“So it happened that Princess Lúthien was imprisoned in Nargothrond. I was then away for a while, for many leagues lie between that city and my King’s halls. King Thingol was wrathful when he heard of Lord Celegorm’s request; yet still, there were voices, small voices within our realm that said ‘better her groom be a Lord of Ñoldor than Beren, a mortal Man’! But the King did not listen to such counsel; he sent me back with a small troop to reclaim the princess. He would have gone to war to have her back, if he had to; but that would have meant another Kinslaying, and he wanted to avoid that by all means.”

“The rest, Lord Warden, I know only from hearsay. It is said that Beren, King Finrod and their escort had been imprisoned in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the once so proud fortress of your kinsmen in the West; and Sauron, the Enemy’s servant questioned and tormented them. Your cousin, my lord, was thrown in front of a werewolf, its claws and teeth crueller than steel and iron; and yet Felagund killed it with his bare hands, though died as well. It is also said that Princess Lúthien came, riding a mighty Hound; and she broke the doors of the fortress, setting the thralls of Sauron free. Many who once were prisoners had returned to Nargothrond, and its turmoil deepened; for people complained that lo! an Elf-maid had dared to accomplish deeds that the Seven Sons would not.”

“There was no mirth on Lord Celegorm’s face when he heard that the Princess was safe; and thus, the folk of Nargothrond understood that everything he and Lord Curufin did, they did it to seize power and kingship. Thus, they understood that your brothers cared for nothing and no one, but their Oath... Their followers were enraged, roused against the ones they had served for so long; and they wanted to have their blood spilled! Blades were drawn, curses were shouted, the shadow of Evil descended upon the city.”

“And that was when I came back. I saw your brothers, my lord, surrounded by their own kinsmen, who, raging, demanded their deaths. I saw fires lit in the mass, and daggers drawn; and I heard many shouting ‘Death to cravens! Death to traitors!’. Yet Lord Orodreth refused to have your brothers killed; for he knew that such a deed would only bring more evil upon all of us, Quendi. And he banished your brothers from Nargothrond, promising that there would never again be friendship between him and any Son of Fëanor. Thus, your two brothers rode away, followed by no more than Huan, the giant grey hound…”

“Followed by no more?” Tyelcano’s voice was harsh. “How is that possible? Lord Curufin has a son... a daughter...”

“No one followed them, Lord Counsellor.” Feredir shook his head. “And that was for the best. Later, as I have heard, they chanced upon Beren and Lúthien, and it came to the swords; and that affair is said to have had a nasty ending.”

“Do you know anything about Lord Curufin’s children?” Tyelcano pressed.

“I know that Master Celebrimbor is well loved in the City of Nargothrond. But I never met him or his sister; I have no tidings of them to give.”

“Very well,” Maedhros said suddenly. “I am beginning to understand things.”

“Are you, Lord Warden?” Feredir sighed sadly. “As for my humble self, I seem to understand them less and less.”

“Hand me the letter of your King. That may answer a few questions.”

“As you wish,” said the messenger. He placed a thin scroll of parchment into Maedhros’s welcoming hand, who broke the seal with an agile snap of his fingers and weighed an empty candle-holder on the upper edge of the parchment to be able to unwrap it. Tyelcano knew better than to offer him help; and he glimpsed a spark of approval in Feredir’s dark eyes.

The letter was merely a few paragraphs long: Tyelcano could see it from the corner of his eye. The handwriting was neat and the letters small; they spoke of collectedness and unrelenting precision. Only King Thingol’s ceremonious signature stood out from the soldierly order of his message.

The letter is short, Tyelcano decided. And yet his lord sat above it for what seemed like hours, his face frozen, as if Time itself had stopped and all Beleriand’s kingdoms had all turned to dust.

Eventually, however, Maedhros moved. He leaned back in his chair and put the candle-holder aside so the parchment could wrap itself again on the desk.

Then, he smiled; which was only slightly less terrifying than his wrath.

“Feredir of the Woods,” he said, “you have done me a great service, and for that I am thankful. Bear me no ill will if my words have, at times, wandered past the borders of being kind, or even courteous. You may depart immediately if you so desire; but you are very welcome to spend here a few days as my guest, and regain your strength.”

“Thank you, lord Warden.” Feredir bowed. “What response shall I bring home to my King?”

Tyelcano resisted the temptation to take Thingol’s letter from the table, for he already saw the shade of resolution in his lord’s grey eyes. Maedhros’s decision was already made, and without his consent; but that was not by any means a novelty.

Why was he suddenly so uneasy about this…?

“Tell Elwe Singollo that I might consider his offer,” said Lord Maedhros, his voice harder than steel. “I shall send him messengers in a year. Tell him to open his vast treasuries and hand the Silmaril to my envoys. Tell him to give back what is mine and my brothers’ – and then the two of us may converse about friendship, justice and good will. I have spoken.”

“Indeed you have, Lord Warden,” said Feredir. “I shall bring your word to my King. And I – I thank you once more for your hospitality.”

A servant opened the door before him, and he left the room in haste.

* * *

“Come here, Counsellor,” said Maedhros when they were alone. “I need you to have a look at this letter.”

“You seem to have made your decision easily enough without my insight,” said Tyelcano.

“I did what was right. It was most unpleasant, as right things so often are; and I wanted to get it over with.” Maedhros took a deep breath. “Please, take this.”

Thunderstruck upon hearing please, Tyelcano took the letter and read.

 

To Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of the Himring and Warden of the East,

Elu Thingol, Lord of the Sindar, King of Doriath and Protector of the Woodland Realm sends his kind regards

Your lordship,

I turn to thee in an hour of dire need, for my heart is weary. The shadow of the Enemy grows, and of late, it seems to have winded its way through the borders of our realms. It is with great sorrow and concern that I think of the heavy losses your kinsmen have suffered of late.

I inform you with great displeasure that your two brothers, lords Celegorm and Curufin have kidnapped my daughter, and refused to return her home unless I grant Lord Celegorm her hand. I did not expect such irreverence from the proud Ñoldor; and by the laws and customs of my realm, I must thus deny any future union between our Houses.

Should they come to Doriath again, your lord brothers shall have to stand trial. In such a case, they shall be treated with care and granted fair judgement, as would any other who stands by the throne of the Woodland King.

Lord Maedhros, you are a wise leader of your people. In times as perilous as these, you could ill afford to gain yet another enemy; and we in Doriath are also weary of death and peril. Should you do justice against the captors of my daughter, I offer you my friendship, my good will and any help I can give thee in the hour of need.

With regards for you, your brother Maglor and all your vigilant people in the East,

King Elu Thingol

Written on the last day of Nínui, in the Halls of Menegroth

 

The room seemed to suddenly grow cold. Tyelcano clutched the parchment helplessly, almost afraid to meet his lord’s eyes.

“To do justice? Do you have any idea, what that means, my lord...?”

Maedhros closed his eyes. The stern mask of the Warden of the East slipped from his face for a moment, and Tyelcano saw how tired he truly was.

“I know exactly what that means, or I would not have been so swift to wager my own brothers’ lives and freedom upon my choice,” he said. “Yet… by the Valar, my brothers indeed deserve punishment for what they have done to Artaresto and Findaráto! Kind, gentle Findaráto...” Maedhros’s voice faltered.

Tyelcano cautiously removed a tress of auburn hair that winded its way through the lord’s forehead.

“I understand little and less of whatever happened here,” he confessed. “And what of Lord Carnistir’s slaughtered scouts...? What happened to Tyelperinquar and Erenis...? So many riddles... so many unlikely coincidences...”

“All is veiled by the shadow of Moringotto,” said Maedhros. “I know his malice when I see it. Thingol should have never wished for the Silmarili; behold the peril it brought upon his head! And I must have the Jewels back, for so I have sworn. Some may call Findaráto a fool for keeping his Oath; yet Feredir was right to say that his promise had bound him. But that is not what troubles me the most. What evil sorcery of Moringotto’s could have wormed its way into my own brothers’ hearts...? I have to find them, Counsellor. I shall have no rest until I learn what happened!”

“You already know what happened, my lord,” said Tyelcano cautiously.

“I want to hear it from them. There should be some means of explanation. If the Enemy is now corrupting the very hearts of Quendi...” Maedhros shook his head.

“The Black Hand would not reach that far,” said Tyelcano, with conviction. “Not yet.”

“Sometimes,” said Maedhros at length, “thralls are released from Angamando and sent back home, to bear testimony of Moringotto’s power. They believe that by their escape, they had also triumphed over the willpower of the Enemy; and yet all their words, all their thoughts are still driven by the Shadow. They are the greatest danger one could ever face; and if my brothers are by any means exposed to such danger, it is my duty to drive the Darkness out of their hearts.”

“Is such a thing possible?” Tyelcano asked quietly.

“Everything is possible,” said Maedhros, his eyes two distant, silver stars. “I am here, after all, am I not?”

Tyelcano smiled despite himself. “You are.”

“Now go. I need to clean my head; and you do not have my permission to brood over things we cannot change.”

“What of your letter for the High King?”

“Later,” said Maedhros grimly. “I have had quite enough of letters for today.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Feredir is an OC, his name means ‘Hunter’ in Sindarin.

Nínui is Sindarin for ‘February’.

Víressë is Quenya for ‘April’.

Artaresto is Quenya for Orodreth.

The Silmarillion, Chapter XIX, ‘Of Beren and Lúthien’: “But Thingol learned that Lúthien had journeyed far from Doriath, for messages came secretly from Celegorm (…) that Lúthien was in Nargothrond, and that Celegorm would wed her. Then Thingol was wrathful, and he sent forth spies, thinking to make war upon Nargothrond; and thus he learned that Lúthien was again fled, and that Celegorm and Curufin were driven from Nargothrond. Then his counsel was in doubt, for he had not the strength to assail the seven sons of Fëanor; but he sent messengers to Himring to summon their aid in seeking for Lúthien (...). But in the north of his realm his messengers met with a peril sudden and unlooked for: the onslaught of Carcharoth, the Wolf of Angband. (...)Alone of the messengers Mablung, chief captain of the King, escaped, and he brought the dread tidings to Thingol.” – I assume that in the end, no messenger came to the Himring, and Maedhros knows nothing.