The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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A Practical Arrangement

Anardil settles into his new life in Gondolin, and makes a friend.

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Gate I. of Cleanwater Alley in the Hidden City of Ondolindë, FA 467, the ides of Víressë

It was the sharp whistle coming from the kettle that shook Anardil from his reverie.

Briefly, he wondered if the sound meant that the whole house was on fire, or about to collapse; but nothing terrible, deadly or even unpleasant happened. The kettle merely went on whistling; then it started shaking, ever so slightly, as if trying to get away from the heat of the furnace.

Indeed. He must have forgotten about it – again – and fallen back to sleep.

Anardil watched the thing jolt for a short while, appreciating the fact that he once again owned a furnace and a kettle. The sudden turn of his luck still felt somewhat overwhelming.

As he sat up in his bed, soft, clean blankets extruded around his waist, still far too thin to match the strong build of his shoulders – it was getting there, though. Slowly and accurately, he flexed and unflexed his fingers, tracing the outlines of scars where Sauron’s shackles had clawed on his skin. Sometimes, he could still feel them.

The shackles, however, were no longer ravaging his wrists. Around him was a light, spacious room, opening to a small terrace; the windows faced the snowy Echoriath and the green meadows of Tumladen, several hundred feet above its sea of grass. Below him was a soft mattress. His hands, feet and hair were warm, and clean. They smelled of soap, safety, and a good night’s sleep.

Bracing himself for the day ahead, Anardil poured a cup of tea. It was a concoction of dense, sweet-smelling camomile: the cheapest he could find in the Lesser Market. He knew from hearsay already that the City had another market, one that was as huge as the King’s Gardens; but he knew he would need a companion to wander that far from his new home if he did not want to get lost.

That was the only thing he lacked indeed: a companion. The King had fulfilled his promise and gave him a home to dwell in; its rooms were filled with fine furniture, pillows and sheets, robes and shoes and trousers and everything one would need for housekeeping (including a bag of coins on the dining table), yet no one, not even King Turukáno had the power to give him company. Anardil was supposed to find that on his own, but he did not have the slightest idea how to start. Owning the first house in the street meant that he had only one neighbour; and that house seemed empty.

Then again, Anardil could not be sure if anyone would be willing to talk to him at all, let alone be his friend. The Way of Running Waters ran two corners away from his home: and the folk who lived there belonged to the House of the Fountain. Anardil had not forgotten the way Lord Ecthelion treated him at the Council. A leader’s prejudices could easily extend to his household just as well as his circle of friends: he had learned that lesson long ago, in fair Tirion.

Valar, how Anardil missed Voronwë’s company! He had thanked him wholeheartedly for the unexpected help, yet Voronwë remained collected, courteous, and cold as an iceberg, assuring Anardil that he would not wish to indulge in his friendship or company any longer. This decision may or may not have had been related to the fact that since Voronwë refused to open the door for him all day, Anardil had climbed down his roof a few minutes past midnight, sliding through the window.

Anardil was sure he would appreciate if he had a friend this dedicated to him. The Ñoldor were the most bizarre creatures he had ever met indeed.

~ § ~

It would have been a terrible waste to spend such a warm, sunny day lying idly inside. Once it was sufficiently cooled, Anardil refilled his kettle, and stepped out into the garden to observe the state of spice and vegetable seedlings he had planted a few days ago. He wanted to grow them on his own.

Anor’s glow was so warm he did not even dress properly; he had no more than a thin white sheet wrapped around his waist to cover his nakedness. At one point, he even considered to drop that, but the scars around his thighs were still swollen and ugly, and he did not want to see them. He watered his plants instead, humming softly; then, seeing that one lavender was growing very promising fresh leaves in a sunny corner, he burst into song out of joy.

Now there, now there,
now there, good friend
why would you smile so bright?
Why would your laughter
fill my dark halls
at such an early hour?

The moon is gone
the stars asleep
not even Anor shines
Why would you be
so happy now
at the silent dead of night?

Thus spoke to me
the landlord’s son
upon the midnight hour
when I was dancing
all around
new hope shy in my heart

Good landlord’s son,
where I begin?
- I laughed as if I’d burst
Have you ‘ver heard
water running
when you were mad with thirst?

Such things I feel
wildly, I reel
for my dear wish came true:
in Anor’s light
I gently bathe
with my Lady to woo;

Her heart I took
my lute I plucked
or the other way a-round?
I cannot say;
I’ll tell you true -
By honour I am bound!

Anardil shook the last drops of water out of the kettle, running his fingers idly over the leaves of a rosebush – and he was quite taken aback when brushing the leaves aside, he found himself staring into a curious face. As they eyed each other, the intruder gave a low cry, and made a frantic move, as if to cover himself, but Anaril held the branches steadily, and there was nothing to cover himself with.

“Spying on people is a wise thing, if you ask me,” said Anardil cheerfully once he had overcome his general bewilderment. “If they don’t know you’re watching them, they will show their true colours. As it happens, I am exactly what I now must seem to you: a bad-mannered idiot who makes up songs on the spot and talks to his plants. Otherwise, I am quite harmless, I promise you. Fancy a cup of tea? Or a piece of bread and jam, perhaps? They’re from yesterday, but the bread is still soft.”

The intruder swallowed nervously.

“I am…,” he managed. “I am very sorry.”

“Good morn to you, Very Sorry,” said the Teler, extending his hand. “I am Anardil.”

Before he could savour his joke, though, a sudden realisation dawned on him.

“Hey, I know you, don’t I? I saw you in the Council – you’re the King’s scribe with those marvellously swift hands.”

“It might have been someone else you saw,” said the Elf. His voice suddenly seemed much more confident, though a tinge of pink crept up his neck. “King Turukáno has many scribes.”

“You cannot fool me,” Anardil decided. “What a fortunate meeting! Now come on, climb out of those bushes and break your fast with me. You must wait, of course, until I change my flaunting stage of undress.”

To his delight, the intruder followed, and Anardil could have sung and danced around out of sheer joy. He had company!

Rushing back into the house, he dressed, filled his kettle for the third time, then loaded the table with two loaves of bread, butter, vegetables and fruits, honey, several jars of jam and spices, salt and sugar, and even a bowl of cold stew. Now that his purse was heavy, having a guest was a thousand times worth emptying his pantry.

“There is no way I could be worthy of your hospitality, my lord,” the Elf protested, but suddenly, his eyes went wide. “Valar – is that blueberry jam?”

“My favourite,” Anardil lied cheerfully. “I mentioned it to the King, just in case he has a good memory. Come, share it with me!”

“You honour me, my lord,” said the Elf smoothly. “It would be horrendously rude to turn down such a kind offer.”

“Indeed,” Anardil gave a grave nod, and held out the jar with a flourish. “I would be deeply wounded.”

That earned him a startled laugh. “You are one curious elf,” his guest admitted.

“True enough,” said Anardil. “I am curious, in the sense that my eyes and ears – and sometimes hands – wander where they should not. Then, usually, they get burned; but the whole process is terribly amusing.” Unabashedly, he winked. “But to your well-mannered Noldo eyes, I may also seem a little… well, odd.”

“Considering all meanings of the word curious, I find that they all have a chance to prove appropriate,” said his guest, the mazy words of Quenya springing fair and free from his lips. “But I do not think you are odd. You are just… well, different. But that is a good thing. Not many would offer me such a splendid meal if they caught me eavesdropping through their fence.”

“So you admit you were eavesdropping,” Anardil grinned. “I like that.”

“What choice do I have?” The Elf took a measured bite of his bread-and-jam, an expression of utter contentment rushing through his face. “It is true. I was eavesdropping, because I wanted to hear the song that woke me from my best dreams – and when I saw who the singer was, I took my chance. For I am curious about you, Lord Anardil of the Falmari; curious as a scribe, a historian, and a collector of tellings and tales.”

Surely, your sweet tooth has nothing to do with it, Anardil thought, but all he said was,

“Do you have another name then Very Sorry?”

That earned him another laugh.

“I am called Pengolodh,” said the Elf, “and I am told to be a lore-master, but I do not claim that name. You could say that I am the King’s chronicler… one who likes to pick up the role of a scribe from time to time. You see, that last council meeting seemed very promising to me. Grave news arrived to the City and I was almost certain that something interesting would happen.” Pengolodh made a vague gesture with his butter-coated knife. “Something that would be worth writing down. And I am so glad to have attended the Great Council in person – seldom does one witness such a heated debate within these walls! And then there were you, Lord Anardil: the highlight of the whole session. You made my afternoon amusing, and for that, I am forever grateful. If you only knew the rarity of eventful meetings…”

“You, like many others, seem to remain under the false belief that I am some wayward lord,” Anardil could not help but grin. “And that is flattering, really. And yet I must tell you the truth, lore-master, as it is: I made an honest confession at the Council. I am a simple, lowly Elf from Tirion or Alqualondë, as you please – well-travelled for sure, experienced, perhaps a little bit eccentric and in certain things, doubtlessly precocious; but a simple Elf nonetheless.”

“But that is exactly what I am saying!” Pengolodh clapped his hands excitedly. “Yours is a unique perspective, one I have never researched, one I have only dreamed to work with! You are a historian’s dream, Anardil of the Falmari, rushing into our quiet city like a wave of storm, shaking us all from our sleep. Everyone wonders who you are and where you came from; some even claim that you are a wizard, who possesses Fëanáro’s talent of speaking and deceiving.”

“…so you came here to get my story out of me before anyone else does,” Anardil laughed. “Witty!”

“Well,” said Pengolodh, “we happen to be neighbours. I spent the last few weeks with a friend of mine, discussing his new research and I came home yestereve – or maybe I should rather call it this morning, for it was nearing dawn. I was weary and my mind needed rest; thus, it was your song that woke me.”

“Oh, sorry about that,” said Anardil. “I was fairly certain that no one lived in the next house! So… my neighbour is a historian. Unexpected! I must confess, you are not how I imagined such a lore-master.”

“You were convinced we must all be sour, collected, dry dunderheads,” Pengolodh nodded. “A common mistake.”

“I shall know better from now on,” Anardil promised. “And I am sure we can come to an arrangement.”

“And that of which sort?”

“You need a story, right?” Anardil asked innocently. “And I need company. We could call it a trade – stories for evenings out. Since you are a master of lore, you can surely teach me how to behave myself. I, on return, can teach you as many bawdy songs as you’d like. I can tell you of my adventures and you may put them through hammer and anvil, exaggerate them, arrange them into a heroic lay for all I care, you just… you just don’t let me drown in boredom, that is all. Will you accept that?”

There was a moment of silence.

“That seems like a fair deal,” Pengolodh nodded with a small, satisfied smile, and extended his hand. Anardil reached out to clasp it, then hesitated.

“One last thing,” he said. “I am not quite ready to talk about Sauron yet.”

“I hear you,” said Pengolodh. “We shall proceed with any speed you deem comfortable.”

“Thank you,” Anardil smiled earnestly, and squeezed the hand that was offered to him. “That means more to me than you might imagine.”

~ § ~

The next few days passed in a rush, and the two neighbours’ new routine was swiftly and effortlessly established. Anardil woke each day at Anor’s first light, prepared himself a tea, took care of his beloved plants, took a short walk in the nearby streets (sometimes, he made it as far as the Lesser Market where he gathered a few things for his pantry). Near midday, Pengolodh knocked on his door and they broke their fast together, exchanging news and the newest rumours that spread through the King’s Palace. Pengolodh was the source of all the nonsense, insisting that Anardil should be well-versed in such matters if he ever wanted to become involved with the court; and Anardil did not protest, since some of the stories made him shed tears of laughter.

After their meal, they settled down in Pengolodh’s spacious study, and Anardil spoke of his adventures. Pengolodh was adamant about maintaining chronological order, so the first days were spent with vast and rambling accounts on Anardil’s childhood. Yet no matter how detailed Pengolodh’s questions were, no matter how livingly Anardil remembered his journeys on stormy seas, his adventures at distant lands, his neat escapes, his many losses and few gains, he ran out of stories far sooner than he would have liked.

Then came a night they passed in Pengolodh’s study, sinking in soft cushions and sipping wine, when Anardil told the story of his capture and imprisonment in such detail he had never done before. By the end, he was shaking with anguish, and Pengolodh had given up scribbling. He sat with him instead and held his shoulder so tight it almost hurt; and unwillingly, unconsciously, Anardil accepted the comfort.

There was a curious change to their companionship after that day. They spoke no more of their agreement; and Anardil spent long evenings in his neighbour’s study, watching him work through some historic or linguistic text. Later still, he accidentally discovered that Pengolodh wrote poetry from time to time and offered to turn some of those into songs.

The moon went full, then new again; and the neighbours became friends.