The Seven Gates by Laerthel

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A Face from the Past

Laurefindil meets a child who is no longer a child, and Ecthelion feels left out.

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The next morning, Laurefindil was surprised – and less than pleased – to hear the same sleek voice calling after him.

“This morn, Lómion, it is me who did not dream to find you awake,” he said. “Have the Eagles returned?”

“Nay,” said Lómion. “Sleep eluded me tonight, and so I decided to take a walk till the night turned into dawn. I was heading back to my quarters when I saw you crossing the marketplace; the streets are quiet and the peace of my mind returns.”

Laurefindil risked a glance at the Counsellor. Lómion's eyes made him as uneasy as ever: they were too lively and yet too distant; and they spoke of knowledge; an understanding of things well beyond his age.

“...and then you realised that your peace was again perturbed by my presence,” he said with a smile.

Lómion turned away from him. “You jest, Captain; and yet our last conversation left me tense and wondering.”

“In that case, you must forgive me. It was out of grief that I spoke; and it may as well be that my words cut deeper than I thought.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Lómion. “But pray tell me, Laurefindil: do you think I am cold-hearted?”

Laurefindil blinked. Since when did Lómion care what anyone thought of him…?

“I do not remember saying that.”

“No indeed: you would never insult me so. Yet it seemed to me that you thought I was – or would be – unmoved by your pain; that I did not care for those outside Ondolindë. It is no intention of mine, of course, to cross any line of intimacy, but you made me ask myself if there was anything about my behaviour that implied cold-heartedness… callousness... dispassion...”

A minute passed in silence before it dawned on Laurefindil that he could not, by any means, avoid answering.

“I find, Lómion,” he said at length, “that you are courteous and delicate. Clever and observant. You know your limits and your qualities and you use them well. This may indeed make you seem stern, sometimes distant. But callous? Dispassionate? I think not. After all, do we act out of character or choice…? I doubt anyone could tell me that. You may think that I am putting pride and revenge before duty when I want us to stop hiding; and I may think that Eru had wrought your heart from ice. Thinking, however, does not make any of these assumptions true; and I am unfit to make judgements in this matter. Are you not?”

“Am I?” Lómion raised his brows. “Intriguing. What if all my sternness is an act fuelled by mere caution? Or the wish to spare lives? Does that make me a liar? Should I speak the truth, then, and let disaster happen?”

Laurefindil stared at the silvery white gleam on the pavement, as if it was the greatest wonder of Ondolindë.

“Yes and no,” he said at length. “I cannot tell you which choice would be the right one, or which one I would choose.”

“How about betrayal, then? Should I break a promise if it means that I can save my family? Should I defy my king if he belied the bonds of blood and honour? Should I clash against my brother-in-arms in a battle if he is grief-stricken and desperate, and might hurt others or himself? Should I tell a mother that her son is dying, or should I let her hope until he draws his last breath?”

“Yes, yes and yes,” said Laurefindil. “But never crush the hopes of a mother. I refuse to live in a world where there is no hope.”

“Is that a command of head or heart, then?”

“At times, they do mingle,” Laurefindil mused. “May I answer you with a question?”

He expected a dark glare, or some quick snap of the other’s tongue as an answer; something like “you already have,” but there came none.

“…my question is: why does it matter?”

Lómion's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why does it matter? You could then ask – why anything matters?”

“Aye, a fair question in return.” Laurefindil laughed. “Why? And: does it?”

“I fail to understand you.”

“And I you, Lómion. You are of royal blood, both counsellor and craftsman. Yes, you are still half a child; yes, you may still have much to learn. And you eventually will. But why would you care whether Laurefindil of the Golden Flower – or anyone else, at that –, thinks that you are cold-hearted? And what would you do if I did – challenge me with a sword? Send me flowers each morn?”

Lómion was silent.

“You cannot make everyone love you, young lord: not with your sharp tongue, your cunning mind and skilled hands. And if you were to change, you would lose everything you are now loved for.”

“My father always told me…” Lómion drew a shuddering breath. “You... you spoke like him, and yet you did not. Not in the end.”

“Like your father?”

“I said not in the end. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. I may have spoken like your Atar at some point of his life; why would that be impossible?”

“Because I have no Atar,” said Lómion; and now he did sound cold-hearted as he stood with his arms crossed, gripping the fabric of his clothes so hard that his knuckles whitened.

Lo and behold, Laurefindil thought, the lore-master who knows every law and rule is truly no more than a lonely, frightened child.

He had always felt that there was a shadow over Lómion’s heart; but the sheer reality of it suddenly seemed almost as heart-breaking as the passing of Findaráto.

“Prince Tyelkormo was once a good friend of mine, did you know that?” Laurefindil suddenly said. “We would oft hunt together. Oromë himself joined us at times.”

Now, Lómion did glare at him.

“He was a merry youth, always boasting of his skill with bow. And he had every right to do that.”

“Why are you telling me this, Captain?”

“Because things are different now, and it would probably come to the swords if we met. Still, that does not make him less of an old friend for me, and I refuse to hate his memory because of what happened. And you – you cannot change the past, Lómion. Yes, you had a father, and yes, your father betrayed you. That does not poison every word he had ever said to you.”

“No, you misunderstand,” Lómion shook his head. “You spoke like him and you did not, I said. My father always told me that uncertainty was weakness itself. Again and again he would insist that if I was not loved or cared for, it was no more than a sign of envy. He expected me to hate those who scorned me. He told me to hold my head high, and look right through them... yet I never truly had anyone around me to look through.”

“In a way, your father was right,” said Laurefindil, “but his words are bitter. You need not hate anyone. You merely need to accept that you will never be loved by all, for such a thing is not possible.”

“And wanting to be loved,” said Lómion in a low voice, “is that a sin, Captain?”

And he left.

*

The Alley of Roses came to an abrupt end, and the green valley of Tumladen opened in front of Laurefindil. He stopped for a moment, letting his eyes run far and free; as far as the icy peaks of the Oroquilta let them, and as free as his wandering thoughts allowed. Carelessly, he crossed the fresh green sward, drawing nearer to the edge of the encircling mountains, where the ground started to rise abruptly. There winded the first watch-line of the White City, no more than a dozen feet above the rocky ground.

Laurefindil's bliss slowly faltered as he climbed the stairs, mulling over Lómion's last words.

Wanting to be loved? But he is loved well enough – or acknowledged, at least. What could this be all about?

Lómion always cared to wear a mask of confident indifference in front of those he worked with, be they craftsman, lords of might or his own uncle; it was remarkably unlike him to hint at his thoughts, or Valar forbid, feelings.

And why would he come to me? We were never close – not the slightest bit, as I recall. And why would my grief concern him?

This was not the first time Laurefindil felt embarrassed by the sudden trust of others. People were known to open their hearts to him, for they knew he could keep secrets, and he was a great listener. Laurefindil, on the other hand, found himself would not easily return such intimacy; and more often than not, he felt lonely amongst those who relied on him. Lómion was different, though – Lómion was someone Laurefindil did wish to know better, suddenly as the chance might have come.

The narrow wooden stairs were slippery with dew, and fresh morning scents reached Laurefindil's nose as he climbed. A guard rose from his post to greet him, and he greeted back.

“Is the Warden of the Gates on duty today?” he asked.

“Indeed,” came the answer, “and your presence might as well be required by his side, Captain. The Gate of Gold is to be opened this morn.”

And so Voronwë returns, Laurefindil thought, smiling inwardly. The stern, quiet mariner was one of the lucky few Ecthelion held close: distant as he sometimes seemed, he had a good heart, and most of all, he could be trusted.

He also held the rare privilege or leaving Ondolindë every few years, and bringing news.

Laurefindil left the guard-post, following the stairs as they winded up the hillside. The next entrance was crowned with an arch of stone, and more guards surrounded it. After an exchange of greetings, Laurefindil passed below the thin arch, now following a path incrusted with stones of gleaming yellow marble. His thoughts were drifting away again; he did not even notice the approaching figure until it bumped right into his chest.

“I – oh, I apologise, Lord Captain!” the newcomer exclaimed. He was a lanky youth with clever grey eyes, raven hair, and cheeks coloured by his sudden shame.

“Now, Lord Captain is indeed the most glorious title I have ever received,” Laurefindil grinned, watching the boy's face darken into a deep shade of crimson. “I might even say too much! Why the hurry, my bright young friend?”

“My Toronar sent to find you,” the boy said, “for his friend has returned from a long journey; and he sent forth a letter saying he had news for you as well.”

“Your Toronar?” Laurefindil grabbed the boy by the shoulder, and held him closer. “Are you – Valar, are you... but no, you cannot be...!”

“If by Valar, you mean Erestor of the Fountain, then yes I am,” the boy smirked. “I remember you, Captain Laurefindil! You used to carve me little toys and sing me songs, Ages ago.”

“Ages ago!” Laurefindil laughed. “Why, it seems like yesterday to me. Little Erestor, standing tall and proud in front of my eyes – strange indeed! But let us hurry; we do not want to disappoint Ecthelion, do we?”

They were heading to the gate, side by side, and Laurefindil kept his eyes on Erestor. His garments were blue and silver with the crest of his family upon the chest, but his boots were worn and a knife hang from his belt. He seemed to know his way around all too well.

“…what errand you have on this side of the golden Gate, if I may ask?”

“Mother sent me to the City and Toronar agreed to take me in,” said Erestor proudly, rocks crumbling under his feet as he led the way up to the third line of watch. “I have seen the Caragdûr, and the Hill of Watch, and the gardens, and the Fountains and the King's Tower – and Uncle said we would also enter some day!”

“Oh, we can enter even today, if that is your wish.” Laurefindil graced him with his brightest of smiles. “I will show you were I live. I still have my books, you know.”

“That would be wonderful!” The brief flash of a child's innocent bliss disappeared from Erestor's face as he added politely, “If you do not mind, that is.”

“If I did, I would never make the offer. But why did your mother send you here?”

Laurefindil wanted to know if his deductions were correct. Erestor, as many other children of the Gondolindrim, had been born in the Mountains, brought up in bastions and guard-posts, educated between two changes of the watch. His wits have always been quick; it seemed only too right to have him trained and taught the way his parents were.

“I must learn how to fight,” Erestor boasted, “or so Toronar said. I could content myself with following him, though. When I first came here, I marvelled at how everyone answered to him! He is far more powerful than I imagined.”

“Aren't we all?” Laurefindil winked at him. “But behold, young one, here we are!”

This time, there were no guards to greet; stepping onto a narrow, domy terrace, they found themselves face to face with the steadily pacing Lord Ecthelion. He was dressed in blue and silver as always, lustrous black hair flowing about him, and his glorious helmet rested on a chair in the nearest corner.

“You did not waste your time, Erestor nin!” he laughed. “You would not even let our Captain dress appropriately.”

“I am off duty today, you pouting peacock!” Larurefindil stepped forth to embrace his friend. “Not all of us take pleasure in plundering the armoury each morn. I was already on my way, if you must know, and young Erestor ran into me on his way – quite literally so. And what on Arda is the matter with my new tunic?”

“Now at second glance, squinting, it looks almost acceptable,” Ecthelion laughed. “Stressful night, was it?”

Laurefindil did not laugh with him.

“It was,” he admitted, taking a seat next to the balustrade. “I have news.”

Ecthelion sat next to his friend, his gaze suddenly very intent.

“News of what?”

“Outside,” Laurefindil whispered, and Ecthelion understood at once, old as their friendship was. He grabbed Laurefindil’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Something happened? Someone captured... tormented... dead...?”

Laurefindil nodded.

“Which one?”

“The last – and worst. Lómion came to me yesterday...”

As far as Laurefindil could remember, Ecthelion and Lómion had never been on good terms. Indeed, even now a slight frown would cloud his friend’s brows before he asked, “Who?”

“Findaráto.”

“Fin...,” Ecthelion’s face was stricken with grief. “No, that cannot be.”

“The King Findaráto of Nargothrond, you mean?” Young Erestor broke in. “Did you know him, Toronar?”

“I do... I did.” Ecthelion shook his head. “This is mad. This is utterly mad. Killed?! But why? How? And whom…?”

“I do not know,” said Laurefindil. “I did not have the composure to ask, and Lómion would have probably told me if there was anything else to know. No one truly knows anything, as I understand; not even the Eagles. All we hear are tales. Theories... rumours...”

“But that is not the reason why you are here today,” said Ecthelion slowly.

“It is not.”

Ecthelion drew a deep breath, and turned to Erestor.

“Climb downstairs, child and fetch us wine,” he said. “If you tarry enough to find the best, you get to taste it as well.”

“So you can discuss whatever you want in peace.” Erestor nodded.

“Subtle as always, you cheeky brat. Now off you go!”

But there was a smile on Ecthelion’s face as he uttered these words; and young Erestor whistled on his way down the stairs, in the unlordliest manner one could possibly imagine.

“You are fond of him,” said Laurefindil.

“Quite so. He is clever, you know. When I first brought him here, I wanted to have him trained as a guard like his father was; but I think I might rather take him with me to the next Great Council. He might prove useful against Counsellor Lómion when he grows. Counsellor! Lómion is, what, a century older than my little Erestor…? He never earned that title.”

“Do not search for enemies where there are none!” Laurefindil said. “Lómion is more than capable; and he has a caring heart. He proved that by the way he told me the news.”

“If you say so,” said Ecthelion, without the slightest conviction.

“He also mentioned that a Council shall be summoned soon, and the matter of the stolen Silmaril discussed in details.”

“The matter of what?!”

“Oh! I thought you knew.”

Ecthelion could only stare at his friend for a while, wide-eyed, before he found his voice.

“I would have flied to your quarters as soon as I heard such news. A Silmaril, stolen?! And you just sit there and blurt it out as if it happened every other day? A Silmaril?!”

“If this is news to you,” said Laurefindil, “then it will be news for everyone else in the Council as well...”

“…yet Lómion told you in advance. Why?”

“Because he trusts my judgement?”

“It is because he wants something from you, Fin. Beware!”

“And why would I be this suspicious about him?” Laurefindil sighed. “Lómion said it was the King’s personal wish that I should hear the news.”

“Why not me, then?!” Ecthelion pouted. “And what did he say exactly?”

Laurefindil did his best to recall everything Lómion said; and when Findaráto’s name sprang from his lips, sadness crept back to his voice in the way twilight creeps over the fields as the sun sets. “He told me Findaráto was slain. As simple as that. No details, no explanations. Only the fact.”

“Which means more than hearsay," Ecthelion picked up the thought. “It means that his body has been found.”

Laurefindil nodded.

“Ah, Findaráto,” Ecthelion sighed. “He was so bright and fearless. And truly, truly kind. Such a terrible loss.”

“The news of his passing saddened me as well,” Laurefindil said, “but now I also feel some kind of foreboding. As if Findaráto's death was the last step of something: the end of one road and the beginning of another. As if something had to... happen...”

“Happen?” A thin line of worry appeared between Ecthelion’s brows. “What do you mean?”

“I had a strange dream, and that is why I decided to come to you. I must tell someone.”

“And so if it was for the Captain of the Golden Flower, his best friend could die without knowing of the stolen Silmaril!” Ecthelion crossed his arms. “Thank you kindly!”

“I told you, I thought you already knew...”

“Then I would have come to you to discuss it!”

“Do you care about my dream at all?!”

Ecthelion rolled his eyes.

“You know that I do. I only wish to lighten your mood.”

“We have lost one of our closest friends,” Laurefindil reminded him.

“Well, Findaráto has not been quite that close lately, has he?” Ecthelion sighed. “I knew this would happen when we followed King Turukáno: our old companions were left behind, and there is no one now. No one, just you and I. You have me, and I have you; and nothing can change that.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Laurefindil, “or I might truly cry.”

“Then pray tell me about that dream.”

“It was very strange,” said Laurefindil. “I was here, just outside the Gates, and a strange voice spoke to me. All flowers shall wither, it said. There were no flowers to be seen, though, other than the sigil on the shield I was carrying. The crest of my House… All flowers shall wither, the voice said again, and I shivered. Night has fallen. Storm is coming, closing in, but the gates are closed. Will you open them? That is all the voice said; then, a faceless shadow came through the Gates, and disappeared in the night. And then I was awake; screaming, and covered in cold sweat. I don’t know why I was screaming, though, nor can I imagine why was I afraid of this dream. Told in words, it is not at all frightening.”

“Yet meaningful,” said Ecthelion. “The shadow is you, the voice is you, the warrior hiding behind the shield is you – everything is you in this dream. You are struggling with yourself. You want to do something about Findaráto, but you know as well as I that you cannot.”

“Maybe,” Laurefindil agreed. “Is there truly nothing we can do, though?”

“Fin, for Valar's sake!” Ecthelion cursed under his breath. “Must I remind you of the lawful punishment for having even uttered such words as a Captain of Guards? Matters of the outside world should not concern us. It was foolish enough that you spoke your mind to Counsellor Lómion. That treacherous bat!”

“Are you giving up on our friend so easily?”

“Findaráto is dead. We both know what dead means, Laurefindil... he is far away now, in a land no evil can reach. Let him rest in the Halls of Mandos and do not give in to treacherous thoughts. Let us hope that he died an honourable death and let us keep his memory: that is all we can do for him.”

Laurefindil did not answer.

“You are grief-stricken,” Ecthelion touched his chin lightly. “Why? I did not know you were close.”

“We were not,” said Laurefindil. “But Findaráto was kindness itself. Honour itself. And he... he represents something to me. How many others have been killed that we do not even know about? Yet we are sitting here, in the only remaining safe haven of our people, doing nothing: and they call you the Lord Warden and me the Captain!”

“Law is law,” Ecthelion said, “or have you forgotten?”

Laurefindil remembered all too well; but before he could answer, the sound of a horn cut through the fresh morning air.

Voronwë had come.

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Chapter End Notes

Pocket Quenya

‘Toronar’ is my DIY Quenya reconstruction for “Uncle” (toron-en-atar, brother-of-father).

The Caragdûr (m.: ‘dark-spike’) is a black precipice of rock on the north side of Gondolin, rarely used for executions (Eöl was, for example, shoved down from there). The name itself is in Sindarin, and it appears in this form in all sources I have seen, which is why I kept it. An attempt at Quenya translation could be Morikirya (‘dark-teeth’ – ‘teeth’ here referring to ‘sharp rocks’.)

On Erestor's parentage

In this story, his father and Ecthelion were brothers. The brother in question was called Soronto (amilesse; m.: ‘eagle’). He was one of Gondolin’s Guardians from the first days of the city’s existence; he died outside the borders, during an Orc-ambush, when Erestor was still a small child, around ten or fifteen years old. Now, in the story, Erestor is only months away from his fiftieth begetting day, and thus his majority.