The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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Trisemes and Ladders

Erestor makes a new friend and Ecthelion * almost * executes a most gruesome royal order.

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The storm was raging.

Coldness crept under his robes as he struggled along some invisible path: onwards, always onwards. Snowflakes blurred his vision; frost scratched his skin like tiny claws, running over the trails where his tears had streamed down.

His hands and knees were numb, but he pushed himself to his feet whenever he stumbled, with the desperate determination of one whose mind is fully set upon his mission. Shadows danced around him as drifts of snow glimmered in the night: brushstrokes on a pale, silvery canvas.

And there it stood. The tall creature waited in front of the open gate, watching, listening. Its face was veiled, but his eyes, he could see. They shone not with the light of Aman but the cold fire of madness. The shadowy figure did not enter the gates, nor did it cross the distance between them; and as in each and every one of his dreams, Laurefindil heard the doom.

“He who walks in starlight does not flinch,” chanted the all too familiar voice of his nightmares.  “He hides in caves and near breaches and behind rocks; and on he wanders, and on he wanders, but a dead end awaits. The gates are closed. Will you open them, Lord of the Golden Flower? Or will you let the world wither?”

This was the first time he heard himself openly addressed, and he shivered at the sudden impact. For a moment, he saw – or thought he saw – a dimly lit room with thick, green curtains and a wide desk full of parchments; then a table loaded with a fine meal and shy sunlight dancing on cutlery. Then everything went black as ink, black as the Void beyond the Circles of the World.

It felt like falling into a pit. The world was suddenly shattered into pieces, into smoke and senseless ruin. Laurefindil screamed, lost his balance, and reeled into the incorporeal void beneath his feet.

And then, in a moment of utter despair, the shadow sprang forth.

The shady figure leaned into the whirling darkness around him, and held out its hand. Laurefindil caught it, wrapped his frozen fingers around his saviour’s wrist. Ice and frost ran along his nerves: an unpleasant, tingling feeling that made him feel very much alive.

Next, he saw a field at the dawn of spring, green grass and foggy hills; he saw a trail of black blood flowing down a gentle slope; he saw a red cloak flapping in the wind, fleeing from approaching riders.

And a silent figure he saw: an Elf sitting upon a rock, surrounded by the sour smell of earth, his shoulders slumped, his eyes hollow and empty. His face spoke of grief and utter despair.

And Laurefindil knew that face.

The Captain’s Quarters in the Royal Palace of Ondolindë, FA 467, the second day of Víressë

Laurefindil, Head of the House of the Golden Flower, Captain of King Turukáno’s Guards and Marshal of His Armies woke up on the floor next to his own bed, covered in sweat. Soft morning light was wafting into his bedchamber, shadows shifting softly from one side of the wall to the other as some breeze played with the curtains; and yet, Laurefindil’s spirits seemed to stubbornly retire into the darkness they had emerged from.

If only there was some way – any way – to stop this struggle, he thought, still panting. What on Arda is the meaning of these dreams?! The Gates are closed – but it is not within my power to open them. And why would I? Why should I? This is absolute madness. Irmo, Lord o’ Dreams, take these visions from me, I beg thee!

And Tyelkormo, he went on. Why did I have to see Tyelkormo in such a state? Could this dream be real? Could this cruel Shadow haunt him, just as it haunts me…?

“No!”

Laurefindil stood, draped his nakedness in a towel, and marched into his bath-chamber, determined, hands tightened into fists.

“It was only a dream,” he said aloud, eyeing his reflection in the mirror. “A meaningless vision created by my imagination, sewn together from my grief and distress. These visions have nothing to do with reality. And Tyelkormo – I only saw Tyelkormo because I mentioned him the other day.”

Laurefindil could hardly expect his reflection to speak up and answer while he remained silent, yet after a few seconds of apprehensive silence, he concluded:

“There is no reason to feel concerned – it was a dream, and only a dream. Everything is all right with me.”

It is not particularly all right to converse with myself loudly in front of the mirror, though, he admitted. He had never felt the need for it; not even when he had first received a position of leadership, and was suddenly expected to give orders.

I have never had such nightmares in my life! Not even when the Trees were felled.

Laurefindil closed his eyes, calmed his breath. Inhale, exhale. Soon, the mad pounding of his heart was reduced to a soft, steady rhythm and his mind was cleared. Yet, his thoughts immediately turned back to the shadowy figure: now a constant element of his visions.

It has grey eyes. I have never noticed that before.

Why would I care, though? Grey eyes or not, the Shadow has never existed, and never will. It must be a sign. A symbol. If I could only understand myself better...! Could the explanation truly be as easy as Ecthelion suggested? Could it be that this Shadow is my own grief, or my feeling of guilt...?

Aye, Laurefindil concluded, such are the possible answers to this riddle. And nothing else.

If the visions would not let him be, then he would not sleep. Eventually, he or the dreams would have to yield; either he would fall asleep and see them through, or he would exhaust himself to a point where no dream can wake him. He had no time for this nonsense!

Laurefindil had tried to fulfil this conviction the night before: he had picked up the nearest book from his shelf and settled back in bed, trying to convince himself that the lore of ancient poetic structures held much more interest than any dream he could possibly have. For a couple of hours, there was no sound in his bedchamber, save for the low rustle of turning pages; but then came a moment, when Laurefindil closed the book with a soft thump. It was all over: he had read it, he had swallowed it whole. Poetic structures and quantitive verses were chasing each other in his weary mind, and the back of his head was pounding.

Iambically.

“Enough!” Laurefindil groaned. The dreams made his days a turmoil and his nights an agony. He had to put an end to their onslaught, once and for all. Only, he did not have the slightest idea how to do so.

Or did he?

Hidden in the lowest drawer of his nightstand, there was a small flask: Voronwë’s gift from his last great journey, a few years ago. Its contents were a particularly effective mixture between strong alcohol and sleeping draught; according to Voronwë, those who tasted too much of it were bound to suffer the impact of the former, while those who used it within bounds could enjoy the latter’s qualities.

Laurefindil’s first encounter with the drink had been a stormy one. Though Voronwë did warn him and Ecthelion not to take more than a sip, dawn found them kneeling behind the parapet above the Caragdûr, hoping that no one would witness the struggle of two mighty lords emptying their stomachs like green boys.

Clearly, he had thought, he was more responsible now. He would use the drink wisely…

Laurefindil remembered taking the recommended small sip before he slept: once he swallowed it, the world had started to twirl slowly, the colours had faded, the sounds had hushed around him. Then, he fell asleep in a haze. A blissful dream he had seen afterwards, completely devoid of shadows, snow, withering flowers… or Tyelkormo.

Whatever effect the drink had, it must have worn off by now. His next sip should be larger.

“All I want is to get some undisturbed rest,” Laurefindil told himself. “Is that too much to ask? It is too early to be out of bed either way.”

His hands reopened the lowest drawer almost by themselves.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

The Royal Library of Ondolindë, the third day of Víressë

“Come on!” Erestor gritted his teeth, and prayed to any Vala above for his hand to reach just a little further. “You are the next Lord of the Fountain. You can do this...”

“May I be of any assistance, young lord?”

Erestor almost fell off the ladder when he heard the voice, and looked down to see none other than Counsellor Lómion glancing up at him.

“I...yes, cundunya!” He bowed. “I was trying to reach a book, but I am not tall enough.”

“The ladder is too short. You are not the first to complain.”

Erestor stepped aside on the great wide ladder as Lómion climbed up lithely next to him, his hand stroking the rootlets of the books at the top.

“And which one do we need?”                                              

“The first of the great annals!” Erestor pointed excitedly.

Lómion’s hand abruptly stopped.

“A yearbook? Impressive.”

“Hantanye,” said Erestor, feeling bizarrely self-conscious. “You are very kind, you know.”

“Praise should not spring this easily from your lips, Erestor of the Fountain,” said Lómion. He handed Erestor the book, then turned quickly away, sliding down the ladder.

Erestor followed him as fast as he could, but the Great Library of the King’s Tower still held his gaze. Through seven stories its collection expanded, and each level was furnished with giant bookshelves from floor to ceiling. Erestor and Lómion were now standing on the top level of the library; if they glanced through the windows, they could see snowy mountain-tops in all directions of the compass.

Erestor watched the Counsellor in silence as he packed himself with huge, thick volumes of books and settled below the largest window. He was curious what the other would read, but he didn’t dare ask. Lómion intimidated him in many ways, though he was not without kindness – as Erestor had just witnessed, moments before.

And he immediately witnessed in once more, for the Counsellor patted the chair beside him and said,

“Come and sit with me if you wish. There is enough room for both of us, and annals are heavy; you may need a table to hold it. Also, you might enlighten me why would you care for such a dry read.”

Erestor climbed a few steps, then settled beside Lómion. His armchair was stuffed with cushions, and the desk was wide, and richly carved. There remained enough place indeed for them both.

Erestor opened the annal with great respect, marvelling at its small letters and smaller dates. Every detail was carefully marked, the margins were measured, and the most important details were underlined with red ink.

“I have always wanted to see annals for myself, cundunya,” he said with barely hidden awe. “My mother told me that everything we see or do is noted inside them. Annals hold the greatest knowledge on Arda, and my wish is to delve inside that lore; just once and not more, if that is all that the Valar grant me before I have to go back to the Watch.”

“You will always be welcome here,” said Lómion.

The next hour, they spent with reading. The annal was long and its descriptions winding; and more often than not, Erestor had to rely on Lómion’s explications to understand them. In fact, the counsellor barely even touched the books he had retrieved for his own research, but that did not seem to bother him. Erestor could not remember the last time when someone had been this patient with him, or took this much pleasure in teaching him…

“You are so gracious and wise, cundunya,” he blurted out suddenly, without any previous hint or warning. “Will you be my friend?”

Lómion placed the book on the table with a soft thump. For a few moments, his face remained unreadable, and Erestor felt panic stirring in his guts.

What have I done…? One cannot just pat the nephew of King Turukáno on the shoulder, asking for his friendship!

Yet a sudden, honest smile lighted up Counsellor Lómion’s face.

“I will cherish your friendship,” he said, “and with honour.”

“Truly, cundunya?” Erestor stared at him. “Then the honour is mine!”

“Meldonya,” Lómion corrected him gently. “And yes, truly. I shall be your friend, and protect you from all pitfalls and tumblers of life in court, should you need it. Of course,” he said, lifting the cover of a thick, leather-bound book before him, “I might need to re-read this first.”

“What is that?” Erestor wanted to know.

“The fifteenth volume of our Books of Law,” Lómion showed him. “I must refresh my memory on rules that concern quendi who are – or were – granted passage in our City in times of war and peril. I have a vague feeling I shall need to acquaint myself with their duties and rights before the Great Council this evening. I like to know things precisely.”

Erestor looked at the thick volume that may have held the answer for a question that has been bothering him since the very spring of his childhood.

“Is the whole book about duties and rights, then?”

“Mostly, aye. The fifteenth volume lists all actions necessarily forbidden for the sake of varnassë in our city; and in the meantime, all the íquista we have according to law.”

“And is there something in there that precises...” Erestor swallowed the rest of the sentence. “Ah, never you mind, cundunya.”

“So now I am suddenly cundu again?” Lómion’s dark eyes held his, and Erestor felt as if his newfound friend could see right through him. “What troubles you?”

“I was wondering,” said Erestor, regaining himself, “if there was any law that obliged me to follow the footsteps of my Atar. If my Atar was a guard, must I grow to be a guard as well?”

“I need no book to answer that,” said Lómion. “There is no such law, nor will there ever be one. You are free, Erestor, to learn any lore or craft, as well as to master the art of any weapon you might desire.”

“And,” Erestor said, his voice now barely above whisper, “If Toronar would not allow me to become, for example, a harpist, must I...?”

“No one has power over your choice,” Lómion stated solemnly. “Not even the King. Your Toronar is a noble lord, and not without generosity. I doubt you would have to confront him! Although your eagerness to become a musician might scandalize him as deeply as it astonishes me.”

“I have no such wish,” Erestor smiled. “It was an example.”

“Then what is that you want to learn?”

“Anything that concerns books,” said Erestor. “And parchments. Maybe also languages, and laws, and... any kind of lore that would help me materialize the things I plan... the ideas I have...”

“Ai, young one,” Lómion laughed. Erestor had never heard his laughter before: soft and rueful, yet not without mirth. “I understand your heart’s desire. I, too have ideas – and Valar know, it is the best feeling in this world to make them work! Now, as it happens, I barely see the texts I would have to read, so eagerly do I seek to solve the problem of ladders in here. If we make them any longer, they would become dangerous and no Elf could lift them. We could carve some kind of structure to keep them at place, but we would thus end up building tiny stairs everywhere, blocking half the library’s contents from view.”

Erestor remained silent for a while; then something dawned on him.

“Out in the mountain-lands where I grew up,” he said, “ladders are pushed and pulled along bars of steel that are anchored in the cliffs. Even in the biggest storm, they stick to the bars, as curtains do to the pelmet. If we could build such a structure here...”

With every word he uttered, Lómion’s eyes grew wider and wider.

“...both the ladders and the bars would have to be made of steel, though; maybe decked with wood... do you think that it could work?”

“By the Valar,” said Lómion, “this is the most marvellously excellent idea I have heard since I live here!”

“Truly?” said Erestor with sudden enthusiasm, wondering if Lómion could see the eventual result with his mind’s eye just as clearly as he did.

“Absolutely,” the Counsellor said. “Wait here!”

He came back with a whole pile of parchments in his arms; books of law were set aside as they delved into architecture. Lómion knew what he was looking for, and Erestor was very swift and eager to learn. So deep was their devotion for what they had envisioned that neither of them noticed Anor’s journey on the sky; and they missed the moment when its golden plate sank amongst the icy peaks of the Echoriath as well.

~ § ~

“Lómion?” Said a voice from behind the nearest shelf, after what seemed like barely an hour to Erestor. “Are you in there?”

Lómion gave a start.

“Aye, I am here, Aranya,” he said, “am I late already?”

“Almost,” said King Turukáno as he approached them. “What a great relief to find you, sellonya, after today’s turmoil!”

Lómion raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“Well, if you must know,” the King said, not without mirth, “I have spent this morn in the halls of our beloved Great Master Rog. Apparently, that Teler lord, Anardil offended him in some way; and you know Rog when he is offended! Then, I have received a report for investigation: some within our walls have apparently heard screaming last night. Afterwards, I was told that Captain Laurefindil missed duty today, which is most unusual; yet I could not spare the issue enough time or thought while the last preparations for the Council were being finished. And now I have an unstrung Lord Ecthelion pacing back and forth across the palace wherever I go, because his nephew went missing.”

Lómion could not hold his laughter in any longer; and even Erestor managed a smile as he bowed before his King and braced himself to speak.

“I did not go missing, Aranya! I was here with Lómion the whole time.”

“For the Stars of Varda, child! Next time think twice before you disappear!”

“I shall,” Erestor bowed deeply. “Forgive me, Highness.”

“It is your Toronar who must forgive you,” said King Turukáno. In a way, he reminded Erestor of Ecthelion; he was also very tall, dark-haired, wide-shouldered, his eyes piercing grey; his face stern and proud, but not without gentleness. “Now tell me, what were the pair of you doing here all day?”

“Young Erestor came up with a flawless concept on the matter of lengthening ladders,” said Lómion. “I will follow his plans.”

“Our plans, cundunya,” said Erestor. “It was you who made them realizable.”

“Indeed?” said King Turukáno. “How so?”

Erestor told him about the bars of steel; timidly at first, but when the King showed great interest in the plans, he became bolder.

“A sensible idea,” King Turukáno commented when he was acquainted with the entirety of the concept. “All it lacks is a way to make the whole structure comely. Perhaps if we crusted it with silver...”

“A gripping remark!” said Lómion. “Silver it is. Some rubies and sapphires here and there, perhaps – or a few ladders made of diamond?” A smile rushed through his face.

“Too slippery,” said the King, his face utterly solemn.

Erestor watched them in cautious awe, unable to tell if they were jesting.

“As you wish!” Lómion looked at his uncle, a spark of great interest in his dark eyes. “And the Council?”

“We can resume our most enriching conversation about metals and ladders on the morrow,” said King Turukáno, “It would now be best to go.”

“Then go I shall,” said Lómion. Silently, Erestor watched as their plans were set aside, and the Counsellor cast a last glance upon a paragraph in a law-book.

For a moment, he felt a sudden, aching desire to follow his friend and witness the Great Council; and in that same moment, Lómion held his gaze.

“Aranya,” he said. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Always,” the King smiled. “You were not appointed Counsellor for nothing.”

“Then,” said Lómion, “I must tell you that construction is not the only area where young Erestor shows talent. I think it would prove most edifying for him to witness the debate.”

Erestor felt his eyes widen in shock, his lips forming words of protest against this bold statement. But Lómion’s eyes met his once more, and in them shone the silent command: stay still!

“Indeed?” said King Turukáno.

Lómion held his gaze without even blinking.

“I would not ask such a thing from you if I did not see its purpose.”

Erestor’s heart was pounding in his throat. What did he do to deserve Lómion’s attention or the King’s consideration? What did he accomplish to merit his heart’s desire…?

“The Great Council is an event reserved to the Lords of the Twelve Houses and a few honoured guests,” said the King. “I cannot grant such a privilege freely.”

“I have never asked you to give it freely, Aranya!” said Lómion.

The King then turned to Erestor, who could barely hold his commanding gaze.

“Witnessing the Great Council is a reward; and for a reward, one must prove his abilities. Tell me, young lord – how much do you know about the laws of our City?”

Erestor felt a lump in his throat; but Lómion gave him a confident smile and nodded.

“I… I know much, Highness.”

“And about heraldry?”

“Almost everything, Highness!” said Erestor, now much more confident.

“…and how well do you think you could guide Lord Anardil in the maze of our laws and customs while the Council is being held?”

“Perfectly well, Highness!” said Erestor hopefully.

“What a strange chance,” King Turukáno said, laughter in his eyes, “that he would most fervently need someone to guide him this evening! Consider this as my thanks for your library design. What say you?”

Erestor sank to one knee, and said that he was happy to oblige, of course. His uncle had once mentioned something about the Great Council being restricted, and he had seriously warned Erestor to not even try to steal in – and now, there was no need to do so! He was invited by King Turukáno himself.

And the Royal Library was to be refashioned after his design.

§ ~ § ~ §

Meanwhile, in the Captain’s Quarters

“Laurefindil!”

“Fin?”

“Lord Marshal!”

“FIN!!!”

“Captain?”

“Fin, you great oaf! Have you moved to Mandos?!”

Laurefindil. Laurefindil. Laurefindil. The name was hammering in his head like some determined blacksmith, and would not let him be. He tightened the sheets around himself, and groaned disapprovingly.

I was finally about to get a good night’s sleep! Ondolindë is a sealed kingdom, a safe place – why could they not spare me for a few hours? Or is this only another dream?

He would not answer the voices either way.

“Captain! Captain, are you in there?!”

When someone started to bang steadily on his door, Laurefindil could no longer pretend to be deaf. Supporting the weight of his body with a trembling elbow, he rose.

“What in the seventh bloody hell of Angamando is going on out there?!” He bellowed. “Are the guards so dim-witted that they cannot even change the watch without their Captain?!”

Sullen silence followed his outburst; then one of the voices spoke:

“The Great Council has been summoned for this eve, you sack of Orc dung – and according to royal orders, I am to slam Rog’s warhammer right into your door if you do not show up in ten minutes.”

Laurefindil took a deep breath.

“In that case, Lord Warden, forget what I just said. Ten minutes it is.”

“Wise choice!” said Ecthelion’s ringing voice from the other side of the door.

Then, slowly, the meaning of the words ten minutes started to sink in.

O, ill fortune!

O, deadliest curse of Moringotto!

O, cruel mischief of mariners and their gifts!

Gathering the remains of his dignity, Laurefindil stood and moved to his bathe-chamber. After washing his face thoroughly in ice-cold water, his vision cleared and his head hurt a little less. He then dressed, stepping into his favourite leather boots as a final touch. If he was to endure a council meeting this eve, he would at least endure it in the most comfortable way possible.

He was still struggling with the – suddenly very complicated – clasp of his belt, when he heard his friend’s knock on the door.

“Let me in,” Ecthelion’s voice came stifled through the white wood: soft and gentle, and entirely devoid of amusement. “We still have a moment to talk.”

“Later,” said Laurefindil. He swept a heavy green-and-golden cloak around his shoulders, then opened the door to face his friend.

“You seem pale,” said Ecthelion. “Nightmares?”

“Everyone pales next to your radiance, you sack of – diamonds. Fear not for me! I am all right.”

“You are many things, Fin,” said Ecthelion thoughtfully, “including a terrible liar.”

---

Chapter End Notes

On characters:

Rog is a canon character, mentioned in “The Fall of Gondolin”. I took the liberty to give him the title of “Great Master”. In Tolkien’s writings, he appears as a character of much cruder, harder nature than Elves in general. What we can surely tell is that he was a blacksmith, and a mighty leader of his House.

(also, I hope you like my Turgon! :D)

Quenya (if I left something out, feel free to ask):

cundunya: “my prince”

hantanye: “I thank you”

meldonya: “my [male] friend”

varnassë: “security”

íquistar: most commonly, “requests”, or here: “lawful rights” -> both varnassë and this word are left in Quenya because they are meant to be juridic terms.

sellonya: means something like “sister’s-son”; an endearment of Maeglin that Turgon will sometimes use in the story.

aranya: “my king”

Why Erestor calls Maeglin/Lómion a ‘prince’: This is a (perhaps faulty) imitation of the reverential Quenya speech mode. You may remember that Laurefindil called Maeglin simply “Counsellor”, if anything: he was meant to “thee” Lómion, so he skipped the title. Erestor, on the other hand, was meant to switch in and out of colloquial and reverential speech here rather awkwardly, because he is still a bit uncomfortable with theeing Lómion.