The Seven Gates by Laerthel  

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The Gift of Telchar

Maedhros gains the trust of his allies, and Celegorm and Curufin step on the path of redemption.

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The Seven Gates
Chapter 41. The Gift of Telchar

Beware.

Danger.

Beware.

The echo of the words remained with him ever since he had first heard them: sudden, close, and unexpected.

Only, they were not words; and Maedhros had never heard them.

It rather felt as though someone had carved their outlines into the back of his skull with an immaterial chisel. Tyelcano's message had come to him in a moment of brief quietude out on the high wall of Barad Eithel; and since then, he could hardly think of anything else.

He knew, of course, that ósanwe was possible; its use had not been uncommon in his family in Valinórë, long before one's mind became a place to be guarded. Ósanwe had always been a narrow path, a secret path: secure before the need for security existed. It had never occurred to anyone that ósanwe needed rules, for to abuse the intimacy of thought was unthinkable; darkness was nonexistent, and the world free of corruption.

Ósanwe depended on Will and Unwill until Moringotto found a way around its rules: Maedhros never fully understood how, but he had seen it happen. And that was what made him hesitate.

Was it truly Tyelcano's voice that he had heard?

It would not have been the first time Moringotto tricked him through ósanwe. After all, he had always preferred torturing his spirit instead of his body. Hanging him out on a cliff above his lands had been a last resort, a new way to break his will; but it had almost come as a relief.

Moringotto had made him relive his worst fears hundreds of times. He had made him believe that his brothers were coming for him and he was slaying them one by one; that Father had never died, and he was kept in chains above a pit of fire; that the Kinslaying at Alqualondë had forever turned Elf against Elf, brother against brother, lover against lover and friend against friend; that the Kindoms of the Noldor would never stand, that solace would never come, that no light would ever rise above the peril-laden lands of Beleriand east of the Sea. All of these had been lies and visions; so detailed and so believable that he still woke gasping sometimes, fully expecting to be back in his chains while his beguiled imagination painted the darkness around him with horrors unnamed.

When he kept walking around in his dreams, full of crows and mist and battlefields, he at least knew that he was dreaming. He could be certain. He could tell what was real from what was not. He was aware. He was in control.

But if Moringotto could somehow worm his way into his mind again, and make him think that Tyelcano was talking to him...

But he would know that, would he not? He could tell. He would recognise evil more than anyone else: he who has defied him, and broke free of his chains. He whom the Free People of Beleriand called the Enemy of the Enemy, the Warden, the one whose stronghold withstood siege, assault and treachery, and stood firm and proud above the raging Flames.

He could fight Moringotto because he knew him. He knew his machineries, his elemental thirst for power, his possessive desire for control, his compulsion for havoc and destruction, his eternal pull to erase things from existence. He knew that Moringotto thought of all Illúvatar's creatures as thralls and playthings; irreversibly inferior to Valar and Maiar, little more than insects to crush with the soles of his feet and put fear into their hearts without the most fleeting of risks.

And yet the House of Finwë sought his ruin, and stood firm against him time after time, century after century, siege after siege, battle after battle. Forever he would feel the bite of Nolofinwë's sword in his foot, and forever he would walk in the waking world with an uneven limp, or so it was sung.

Moringotto must have learned by now that the Lords of the West shall never yield to him: that they will fight him until their last breaths, and defend the last free footholds of their lands. That they would rally such strength they still have, and go to war, and risk losing everything in exchange of their freedom.

Tyelcano had told him once that some Powers - lesser than Valar, but still mighty - could build material forms with the force of their will alone. Their power, however, was diminished each time they took new shape, until they finally became unable to sculpt their bodies according to their preferences, and then, finally, lost their ability to appear in physical form altogether. And that was what kept Maedhros's hopes up when the Flames had struck: the faint outlook that if he managed to kill the bodies of Balrogs and dragons, he would at least gain some precious time until their wrathful spirits returned to their master to seek new vessels of torment.

And yet as the siege went on, he had come to the conclusion that the same thing was happening to his own people. A slow, irreversible decay, adorned by valour and enlaced with glory, but ultimately leading to loss and ruin. The Enemy was starving them out, slowly but steadily, trying their strength from time to time like a cat standing still above a dying sparrow, observing its last wingbeats.

Moringotto had been biding his time for the entirety of the Long Peace, deliberately failing his smaller attacks on Nolofinwë's marches, then dealing the final, devastating blow in the dead of winter when none expected it. But the Himring had stood and the House of Finwë prevailed.

Moringotto had not expected that, Maedhros was sure of it. And he probably did not expect his enemies to start banging their lances on the very gates of the Iron Prison, either.

Not that his own war council would, of course. He shall need to surprise them.

Now most of all if would have been a relief to have Tyelcano by his side, and make him go through everything he had planned. No one had any experience with strategic battles when they first crossed the Sea after the horrors of Alqualondë and Losgar, and marched upon the forces of Morgoth; all they could rely on was the imagination of his father, darkened by grief and rage. It was not until the Dagor Aglareb that Maedhros truly immersed himself in strategy and warfare, for in the Blessed Realm, there were no wars to be fought; and it was only in the years before the Darkening that swords, lances, arrows and daggers became more than instruments of artful exertion or hunt.

But Tyelcano remembered another time: a time when the world was dark, dangerous and deadly, and evil creatures lurked in the shadows. He remembered how to flee, how to kill, and how to learn the motives and plans of their enemy; he observed raids and threats and slaughter and acts of revenge. Nolofinwë, Findekáno, Tyelcano and him had planned the Battle of Glory together, and built the Siege, keeping Moringotto in check for centuries; and with each challenge, each surprise attack and each attempt at retribution, they had all gotten better at strategy.

Tyelcano's advice had never failed him, not even when they disagreed. Rare as they were, their clashes were fruitful, sometimes yielding in one way, sometimes the other. They had both gotten better at finding faults in the other's plans: and this was exactly what Maedhros would have needed now. Someone to nitpick his strategies. Someone to criticise him, to make him see his own errors. Findekáno had done so more than once in the past months; but he was bold, and cheerful, and he trusted him too much; which is why he had decided to test his plan in the council room. He supposed that Azaghâl would not refrain from saying that his head was filled with Orc piss if he so believed.

And yet he still missed his Counsellor: not only for his wisdom, but for the gentle reminder to dress for court, to have his hair rebraided, to replace the sword he broke - he thought about it several times a day, then it slipped from his mind again -, to start wearing his new armour well before the battle and get used to moving around in it.

That one task, at least, he would now perform; even if Tyelcano was not there to see it.

If only I could know what you wanted me to beware of, Maedhros thought with uneasy grief. Danger of what? I am surrounded by many and more, and you know it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, keeping his posture stern and his face blank as he walked through the camp at the feet of Fingon's fortress, searching for Curufin's tent again. Being stripped of his power did not stop his brother from ordering him around, insisting that they must meet in his tent before the council. The emphasized secrecy in his tone suggested that his armour was ready - and his request for it to remain simple promptly ignored -, but Maedhros went along with the pretense of receiving a mysterious gift. Curufinwë might be right in his ostentatiousness after all: he was the Warden of Beleriand now, and the commander of the armies of the Free People. He could not ride around in just any armour.

He should probably wear it in the council too, uncomfortable as it will be to sit in it.

Maybe he would not sit at all.

Maedhros had not worn a full set of armour since the first smaller battles of the Flames. Later on, the threats became so permanently imminent, so various and so sudden that even sleeping without protection became unthinkable; so much so that the defenders of the Himring - scout, guard, stableboy, Counsellor and Warden alike - limited themselves to a simple set of chainmail, vambraces, tabard, cloak and thick leather boots, crowned with any vaguely weapon-like object they could grab at the moment of need.

He had so much to relearn, and so little time to relearn it.

Maedhros welcomed the intermission of having to look for his brother. It felt strangely relaxing to walk outside the fortress and feel the sun on his face - or so it had been before the rain started falling. The camp was quiet now, tents fading into dark patches of mist as the downpour hit them. He pulled his hood well above his face as he walked across the muddy field. No one stopped to even look at him twice and he sank deep into his thoughts, his mind turning back again and again to the moment he had heard - or thought he heard - Tyelcano's voice in his thoughts.

It was said among the Eldar that at moments of dire need or great urgency, the pathways of ósanwe would open to those in need across even the greatest of distances; especially if there was such fondness between them that went deeper than duty. Tyelcano would have served him just as faithfully either way; but his acts were more often the acts of a friend or a close family member than those of a servant.

And yet that familiarity did not mean that the message was clear; especially as there had been nothing dire about the moment it had come. It was a quiet day - as quiet as days of warfare would get -, and eventless. He shared some thoughts with his cousin, then talked to the Easterling captain and his sons, trying to determine in which parts of Hithlum Orc packs still roamed. And as soon as he had glimpsed Findekáno coming to meet them, the ghost of his Counsellor's voice had warned him of danger.

Had Tyelcano seen the same dream as he? About Findekáno dying?

It would not have been the first time. Perhaps he also figured out that crows were not to be trusted - that the dreams were not to be trusted. He was no fool, after all. Why else could he have chosen the exact moment when Findekáno came?

But how could he have known? Had he walked beyond the visible World, a deed most of the Eldar thought impossible? If anyone would dare the paths of the Unseen to warn him, it would be him, of course. Faithful old Tyelcano, strong and stubborn, quiet but deadly; his wit as sharp as his sword.

Of course he would never leave him without guidance. If Turukáno shut his gates in front of him, if the entire deadly range of the Crissaegrim stood between the two of them, then Tyelcano would dare the Unseen to guide him...

If it was truly him.

Because he could never be sure: not with the power of the Enemy still so dark and all-pervading. He had to keep reminding himself of that; for was this not exactly what Moringotto would do if he wanted to confuse and daunt him?

Maedhros had a good plan. Bold and risky and unheard of, for certain; but it was a good plan. Probably the best that could be devised, under the circumstances.

He was certainly in danger. He had never stopped being in danger since he had set foot in Beleriand; or perhaps even long before that.

He could not let that danger stop him, lest he lose all hope and let darkness take over.

For if he did, then neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, nor dread, nor danger, not Doom itself would defend him from the bitter fruits of his own failure.

*

Water had leaked through his boots by the time he folded back the flap of his brothers' tent, and looked around. Celegorm was nowhere, but Curufin was standing over a large table in the middle, inspecting a set of throwing daggers. It seemed that not even long distance travel could keep him from working.

"You have summoned me, Master of the Forge," said Maedhros with a lilt, "and over wrathful seas of mud I have sailed to you."

"Why did you not remind me of that sword?" Curufinwë snapped at him as a manner of greeting. "I saw the blade hanging broken from your belt."

"The forge here is far below your expectations if I well recall."

"It might have sufficed for a start," said Curufin sullenly. "The forging of a good sword takes time. What shall I do if you ride off to war tomorrow, and I have nothing to arm you with? Where is the dagger I gave you?"

"Lost," said Maedhros carefully, "but it may yet be found."

"I cannot believe it!" His brother crossed his arms. "Will you do that to your armour too, casually dropping rings of steel as you walk about?"

Maedhros doubted that Curufin's mood would be improved by the full story of how he lost the dagger; and he also knew that Fingon regretted his lapse of judgement.

"You know how little luck I have with weapons," he said instead.

"One hand, and still he loses everything he touches," Curufin sighed. "But that cannot be helped, now, can it? Come, I need you to try this."

The new armour was kept under a set of drapes, the first of which revealed a fine chainmail. Maedhros did not need to put it on to know that it would fit him like a second skin. It was delicate but strong, light, but impenetrable.

It was also white as snow, as niphredils, as clouds travelling in the bluest summer skies.

"How did you do this?" Maedhros breathed, unable - and unwilling - to conceal his awe.

Curufin pulled the neckhole of the chainmail over his head, letting it cascade down his shoulders, arms and torso before giving a satisfied nod.

"Good. It fits - you have lost a few inches from here, though," he commented, touching his fist lightly against his brother's waist."Now, on to the next part."

"The next part?" Maedhros stared at him. "I am not going to be plated in steel from head to toes like a Dwarf, am I?"

"Not from head to toes," said Curufin, smiling, "but I have made some improvements." With that, he pulled the belt of the chainmail tighter - also white, adorned with pale gold -, and went on to reveal an equally white set of vambraces, greaves, pauldrons and chest plates.

"Curufinwë -"

"Do you remember Eöl's armour?" His brother raised an eyebrow. "I have his forge now, and his materials. And his servants. I might have been inspired - but this is a thoroughly improved version, of course."

"Of course," Maedhros echoed. "But - white?"

"Oh, this is not merely white. It catches firelight. All creatures of Moringotto will flee upon your sight. They will wail in pain and gauge their own eyes out rather than to look at you. I cannot wait to see it."

Maedhros kept his silence while his brother helped him don the rest of the pieces. Used as he was to excellent smithwork, he was genuinely astonished at how little he felt the weight of the steel, and how easy it was to move around in it. Curufinwë had even balanced out the weight of his missing hand with the right vambrace and shoulderpiece: a comfort he would have to stop being used to once the war was over.

"I hope you have made similar clothing for the whole family," he said, smiling from his heart.

"If you do not wish to attack until the end of the century, I might have time to finish a set for us seven," said Curufin sharply. "The steel is strangely malleable - galvorn, they call it in the lousy tongue -, but solid. Yet alas, there is not much left of it that we can access without unleashing an army of Dwarves on Eöl's mines with pickaxes in each hand. The knowledge that he found such a treasure first, and used it for all kinds of nonsense grieves me more than you think. If he only shared his craft with anyone else beyond his forest of wonders, we might have saved a lot more people from the Flames."

"So if Curufinwë son of Fëanáro stumbled upon a new kind of fine and mysterious ore that no craftsman had ever touched before, he would generously travel the whole world to tell others about it?" Maedhros tilted his head.

"If the whole world was dying around me? Of course," said Curufin, "and they would praise my name for Ages to come. This is what Eöl never understood: reputation. I might have ruined mine, but that doesn't make me less aware of its utility."

Maedhros studied the adornments on his vambraces before he spoke again. "Speaking of reputation," he said, "it is Findekáno's wish that you and Tyelko should partake in tonight's council meeting, and the Doriathrim are not opposed to it, either. I cannot - and will not - take back my own words of judgement, for they have not been spoken lightly; but the High King, as you are well aware, can grant you pardon if he so wishes."

"And you will accept Findekáno's judgement over yours?" Curufin raised his brows.

"You know that I will," said Maedhros. "Otherwise, you would have never made a deal with him... no, he never told me of it," he added at his brother's brief look of mortification. "I have known since Helevorn - not of the details of your bargain, but of its existence. And I am glad of it; even if neither of you will ever tell me what exactly it was about."

"You may know in a few years," said Curufin, "or never at all. Either way, you are right: a deal has been struck. And if our cousin, in his insanity, wants me and Tyelko in the council room, then in the council room we shall be. You might need to put restraints on Captain Gwindor, though."

"I doubt he shall confront you," said Maedhros. "He has his own reason to fight; and if revenge has anything to do with it, his wrath is not aimed at you." When his brother looked away, Maedhros grabbed his shoulder. "Curufinwë," he said softly, "I trust you now. Both of you. I believe that whatever shadow had laid upon you has been chased. I want you in that room, too; and if Findekáno had not offered his pardon, I would have asked for it myself."

Curufinwë stared at him for a long moment, struggling with words; then finally, he said,

"Tyelko insisted that white would be too much. It does suit you, though. I knew it would, of course, but no one ever listens to me."

*

The heavy rainfall continued well into the afternoon, then the evening feast - most of which Maedhros had skipped, a choice he would have never dared to make if his Counsellor was present.

He ended up removing his new armour almost immediately after trying it on; the thought of dragging it through the muddy camp was even more disheartening than heading back to the fortress without it. Curufin and him ended up walking together, huddled close to each other under Maedhros's cloak that they spread over their heads. They were covered in mud up to their knees by the time they had made it back to Barad Eithel; they spent the remainder of the afternoon bathing themselves and changing into new clothes.

The feast passed eventlessly, as far as Maedhros was concerned. The sight of Eldar, Edain and Casari dining together was probably new to most people, but not to him; he had befriended Azaghâl several centuries ago, and Men were frequent companions on his Orc-hunts. He did not take more than an hour to revel in the sight of his alliance; the events that were of true interest to him would only come later, he knew.

So he smiled when it made sense, made polite conversation when obliged, and remained at the high table as long as it was absolutely needed. Then, at the first possible opportunity, he retired to the council room and reorganized the pawns over the great map that someone had already spread on the table. He was the first to arrive, and he knew that he would be the last to leave. He mulled over the details of his plans, again and again; and each time he concluded that he could not find any fault in them.

He almost hoped that someone would.

It all seemed too perfect - far too perfect...

"Lord Warden?"

Maedhros almost flinched when Antalossë's small voice called after him from the doorway.

"What is it, child?"

"The High King requests your presence in the Great Hall."

"Very well, then," said Maedhros absently. "I shall come."

"That is exactly what he told me you would say," said the youth shyly, "and then you would remain here."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"Never, Lord Warden! His Majesty is calling you a liar."

Maedhros suppressed a smile.

"Very well. You should lead the way, then, kinsman, and save me of my own deceit."

He managed to maintain an air of nonchalance as they walked back through the corridors to the Great Hall. A more experienced servant might have smuggled him in through some back door, but Antalossë seemed so concentrated on executing his King's order without fault that Maedhros did not have the heart to rebuke him.

So he straightened his back, and raised his head, and tried his best to look regal as Antalossë led him through the entire length of the hall and up the dais. His cousin had sat him on his left; it was only the second highest place of honour, but also the one that ensured that his missing hand was easier to conceal. It was a small act of thoughtfulness, but Maedhros valued it dearly; no matter how well he was dressed, how tall he stood or how brightly the torchlight played with his copper hair, it was always his right hand - the lack of it - that drew the eye. Most people, of course, tried not to stare too obviously, which made their staring all the more obvious.

On Fingon's right sat Azaghâl, Lord of Belegost, jewels braided into his beard; and the firelight danced mischievously in his dark eyes as Maedhros bowed his head to him, and sank back to his chair.

"And here is my friend, returning at last," he said, and his great voice echoed through the stone hall. "When I first saw him, striking like the wrath of Mahal himself, I did not think he would sneak away from those who praise his name! And yet cunning as he may be, the Warden of the East shall not escape my gratitude tonight."

"No one escapes the gratitude of Dwarves," said Maedhros smoothly. "But the namesake of a warden is safekeeping; and I find that task hard to lay by at times such as these."

"Far it be from anyone to scold you for your vigilance, cousin: it has saved us more times than anyone could count," said Fingon with a smile. "But Azaghâl has a gift for you, and I promised him that we would all see you receive it."

His face was solemn, but close as he sat to him, Maedhros saw the mirth in his eyes; and Azaghâl laughed openly, raising his goblet to his health.

"Ai! Both King and Warden stay courteous and say naught, although they know how dreadful a history I have with gifts!" he boomed. "Long ago - by my people's measure, at least -, upon our first meeting I have gifted Maidros, the Lord of Himring, the precious dragon-helm of my ancestors. Little did I know that the headpieces of Dwarves were not meant to fit Elves; and even less did I know of my dear friend's habit of putting every single piece of his armoury to good use. In such a way the helm had come from Maidros to the High King, and from him to the House of Hador; each time it was meant as a gift of high honour, but only the third grantee could finally put my gift to use!"

"To very good use, my lord!" said a strong, fair-looking Man from the other side of the table whom Maedhros knew to be Húrin, heir of Hador and sworn sword to his cousin.

"Aye; and each time you wear it, I am proud," said Azaghâl, "but my heart has been ever since shadowed by the knowledge that the Khazâd could not give Maidros something that he could use."

"That is not true, my friend," said Maedhros. "Even if repayment for my deeds were necessary - which it isn't -, you would have fulfilled your debt tenfold since then. We would have starved without you when the Flames came."

"Be at peace, then," Azaghâl sighed, "and know that this gift does not truly come from me, but from Telchar of Nogrod. Long he has laboured on it in his workshop, but now it is done. This gift shall fit you at last - bring it now, and hold it up so all may see!"

Two Dwarves seceded from the crowd of the Great Hall; and raised above their heads, they were holding a longsword sheathed neatly in its scabbard.

"Red Flame and White Flame, Telchar has called this blade, to fit the Warden of the East and the Enemy of the Enemy: him who chases Orcs and Dragons and Demons of Fire, him who grants food and shelter for all whom may demand it, him who broke free of the Enemy's chains," said Azaghâl in his booming voice. "In your tongue, I believe it would be called Narsil. Wield it with pride and honour, and think of Telchar who wrought it! All hail Maidros, my friend who has given me hope in the darkest night of despair!"

"Rejoice!" The Hall echoed; and for a moment, Maedhros could only stand speechless, overwhelmed by the sudden burst of gratitude in his chest.

He needed a sword indeed; but Telchar could not have known that. He was a legendary smith, and for centuries he had envied Curufin for the knife Angrist wrought by his hand; a weapon now lost. This was a princely gift indeed: one he was more than eager to accept.

He had met Telchar once, exchanged a few words with him in his language, and looked at the rapidly closing door of his workshop with sudden longing. It was the only time in his life that he had been vaguely reminded of Formenos. He could only guess what sort of an impression he could have made on the tacit Dwarf to earn such a gift.

Or maybe it was not even him who earned it for having given hope to the Casari; but the hope itself.

All too aware of the countless eyes on him, he bowed his head to Azaghâl.

"Tell Master Telchar that I am thankful beyond words," he said. "I promise to take good care of this sword; wield it I shall, with hope and determination, and I will always remember the one who forged it. Thank you, my friend, for bringing it to me."

Then he grabbed the hilt, and pulled the blade out of its scabbard.

It was a double-edged longsword, which felt, impossibly, a lot lighter in his single hand than it should have.

His breath hitched.

Narsil was the sword from his last dream.

*

"And so the day has come," said Fingon, standing above the council table, "for the Free People of Beleriand to plan their last great battle against the Enemy. I do believe that this would be the last. For centuries we have endured, thwarting Morgoth's plans and countering his attacks, our power dwindling; but the Flames have left us with no choice but to rally and strike, hoping for a last, decisive victory."

"You did more than hope for it, Majesty, if rumour can be trusted," said Húrin. "It is said that we have a true chance to vanquish the Dark One."

"So some say, and so do I believe," said Fingon, "but even if that were no more than a dream, our choice would be only twofold. We can cower, and become slaves, or we can try our strength one last time and leave this world on our own accord. It is said that my father left the Enemy wounded, and he slouched away like a beaten dog. He wields power that the Eldar, Firstborn as we might be, cannot even dream of; and yet he still hides behind his slaves and machineries instead of facing us!"

"It was, initially, King Fingolfin's idea to attack first," said Maedhros. The Sindarin name of his uncle, alien as it felt, did not break on his tongue. "Shortly before the Flames, he suggested that we should break the Siege and march upon Angband. That day, I said nay; and thousandfold we have all paid for my folly. All I have done ever since is naught but retribution for my grievous lapse of judgement."

"I did not wish to attack, either," said Fingon. "The blame, if there is any, must then be shared. But we were not ready: even my father knew that, in his heart of hearts."

"The Flames were a disaster," said Maedhros, "and we are all lucky to be alive. Not only did Morgoth destroy our livelihoods, besiege our homes and lay ruin to our lands, but he had done so without fair warning. When my father and I came to his gates to reclaim the Three Jewels, he answered with death and ruin - but even then he announced his intentions! Even before he captured me, he had granted my people the illusion of a parley, a false chance to avoid further bloodshed. The Flames were different: not a test of vigilance, a raid or a mere trap but an act of war unannounced. Therefore, that is how we must retaliate. The days of honest fights are over; we are going to trap our enemy, force him between hammer and anvil, and destroy his army of slaves. Then we shall break his gates and fell his throne and chase him beyond the Circles of the World, out to the blackest Void if we can. This is the only weapon we have: the hope that if we all stand together as one against the enemy of this World, then the Powers shall see us, and hear us, and aid us in our hour of need."

"A surprise attack?" Azaghâl ran his fingers through his beard, his face suddenly thoughtful. "That would be a good idea, if it was possible. But how shall we strike sudden and unannounced upon a giant black gate, surrounded by miles and miles of ash-covered desolation?"

"A fair question," said Fingon. "That is why we have gathered you here tonight: to plan the battle together. We have a few ideas of our own, but I believe that each of you shall offer valuable insight."

They all stepped closer to the large map spread on the table - the one that Tyelcano had sketched and Antalossë finished, with additions from Fingon, Gildor and Maedhros himself -, and so it began.

Maedhros let Fingon explain the gist of their plan: the position of forces as they had first imagined them; the division of armies towards East and West; the placement of banners, watchers, escape routes and supplies. For a long time he said naught but observed his allies, wishing he would see into their hearts.

He had been careful to invite leaders and captains from all the Free People. Azaghâl led the line, but Mablung and Beleg from Doriath were both present as well, and so was Gwindor of Nargothrond. Next to him stood Húrin and Huor from the House of Hador; their uncle, Haldir from the House of Haleth; the Easterling Ulfang and his three sons, as well as Bór, the chieftain from another tribe that he had taken into his service.

And there stood, of course, his brothers. Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin were all there, solemn and silent, scattered among the rest of the commanders; and Amrod and Amras could only be kept away by duty, as the command of Himring had temporarily been passed to them from Caranthir. The only unexpected face in the room was that of Antalossë - another subtle gesture of his cousin's, no doubt, respecting his wish that the High King of the Noldor should be guarded at all times, even among his own allies.

There were others missing from the table, of course: his father, burnt to ashes. His uncle, slain by Morgoth. Findaráto, killed by a werewolf. Aikanáro and Angaráto, perished in the Flames. Turukáno, hiding in his city of wonders. Írissë, probably restrained... and Tyelcano, kept beyond those mountains against his will.

The essence of the plan was simple, and its preparations had already been going on for months, if not years. Fingon's army was large now, almost as large as his own: apart from his own followers, he was aided by the Men of Hithlum, Dor-Lómin and Brethil, Thingol's small force from Doriath, Gwindor and his company, and a promise of aid from Falas.

The honest plan would have been to arm these forces, and have them march upon the gates of Angband along with his own; but that was not what Maedhros and Fingon had devised. The High King's strength was hid, and Maedhros led raid after raid, surprise attack after surprise attack upon Anfauglith and the borders of Morgoth's lands. Trolls hated him, Wolves fled from him and Orcs cursed his name; and his every step seemed that of a commander enraged, thirsty for revenge and emboldened by his own success. He let himself be called the Warden of Beleriand and the Enemy of the Enemy; he took blatant risks and led daring attacks; he showcased his forces every chance he got, trying to give the impression that he had gotten reckless.

That he had forgotten how powerful his enemy was.

The idea was for Maedhros to lead his banners out into the field, as an open challenge for Morgoth; then have Fingon attack from the mountains once all Orcs have left Angband. No army in Beleriand could withstand the sudden and deadly strike of their allied forces, pressing from both sides like hammer and anvil; not even if it had Balrogs and dragons within.

It was a plan even Tyelcano would have been proud of; and it roused great enthusiasm around the table, especially among Men, who could not seem to agree which part of the army should be called which. Húrin was determined to think that Fingon's forces were supposed to be the hammer and Maedhros's the anvil, while Bór remained adamant on the contrary. When Curufin's shrill voice cut into their argument, declaring that if one were to forge anything of value, then both hammer and anvil were entirely useless without the other, Maedhros and Fingon exchanged a glance. They both saw the laughter the other was trying to hide; but in that moment, Mablung of Doriath leaned over the table.

"Very well," he said, "but what then?"

Everyone stared at him; and he raised his hands, his face solemn.

"The plan is sound. I cannot think of anything better. Our Enemy is cunning, and evil, and not deserving of respect as an honest opponent. That much is certain... still, we cannot forget that he is one of the Powers. What if, by the will of the Valar, we crush his armies and kill his slaves? What then? The enormity of his fortress shall still stand in front of us, unknown and untried. Who knows what horrors lie beyond?"

"I do," said Maedhros.

All eyes turned to him; and he knew that the moment had come.

Now or never, he was going to gain the trust of his allies.

"A word of advice," he said, his voice suddenly light, almost playful, "if one day you - any of you - happen to capture your worst enemy, practice the art of self-restraint. Do not drag them along your secret halls; do not let them learn the speech of your slaves; and most of all, do not hang them from a cliff above your lands so they may clearly see the roads to your mines and barracks and supplies - unless you are absolutely sure that they are dead. For otherwise, my friends, this happens."

With that, he grabbed the only scroll of parchment at the edge of the table that had not been opened yet, and shook it out with a flourish.

It was another map: smaller than the others and less detailed, but a map nevertheless.

A map with dimensions, lands, hills, mines, roads, traps, walls, towers, barracks, dungeons, corridors, rooms and halls.

A map of the Iron Prison, and its surroundings, in such detail as it lived in his memories.

Some of the surrounding lands were drawn in Fingon's hand, and here and there, the lines did not match; but no one seemed to notice those imperfections. Men, Dwarves and Elves all stared at the map in frightened awe, the flame of incredulous, unbridled joy lighting up in their eyes.

"Nelyo, you did not -" Celegorm drew a sharp breath.

"Of course he did," said Curufin. "Of course he would."

"And you never showed us!" Maglor exclaimed.

"Is that -" Húrin tried.

"I believe it is," said Gwindor. His eyes were bright with hope as he looked up at Maedhros. "And if we know what lies inside -"

"We have a chance," said Beleg of Doriath. He kept his pale eyes on the parchment, his face suddenly white; and his features were set in stone.

"You remember it all!" Azaghâl clapped his hands. "You mad, mad Elf! My dear friend! I did not think you could surprise me still; but of course you can, and you will." His laughter reverberated from the walls, and faded into the growing feeling of warmth in Maedhros's chest. "Of course you can! Anything you set your mind to, you accomplish."

"I cannot do it without you," said Maedhros. "Any of you. Never before have Men from the East and West, Noldor, Sindar and Dwarves fought together like this: as equals. As close allies, willing to set the foundations of a new world should we be victorious... and that gives me hope. I have sworn a terrible Oath to reclaim my father's Jewels; but that is not what I wage this war for. This is a fight for our freedom, and our lives as we know it; and we must now rise to new heights, or perish, and fade into the Shadow. And I do believe, in my heart of hearts, that if our cause is just, if our loyalty to each other is true and intact, than we shall rise victorious. Keep that in mind when the day comes."

"And keep in mind also," said Fingon, "that Morgoth has slaves, and thralls, and prisoners. We, my friends, have a Union."

* * *

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Chapter End Notes

Author's Notes

On Maedhros's armour: Canonically, no one in Tolkien's world really wears plate armour. As far as I know, the Professor imagined an Anglo-Saxon/Iron Age sort of aesthetic for all his warriors, with chainmail and vambraces.

However, I have always imagined Eöl's galvorn* as partial plate armour: something that stands out from what everyone else is wearing to battle. And it appears that Maedhros's white-and-gold partial plate armour that he had worn to the Nirnaeth (never before and never again) is not a piece of my personal lore that I am willing to give up.

*Of galvorn itself: it was a dark meteoritic iron worked by Eöl in order to make very resistant armour. Galvorn itself was jet black, and very supple and malleable. No blade, dart or arrow could pierce it. The concept that Curufin could change its colour to shining white probably needs some suspension of disbelief.

On Narsil: I am quite attached to the idea that Narsil had been initially forged for/owned by Maedhros. I have only recently learned that I was not alone in the fandom with this concept, which encouraged me to include it.

Since I might never get to writing/sharing the direct sequel to 'Gates' (basically a Celegorm-centric version of The Wanderings of Húrin), I will now spoil that Maedhros will only wield this sword in one battle - the Nirnaeth - and then he will never use it again. It will be his last gift for Elros during the War of Wrath. The rest you will see :)

On warfare in general: I am aware that this chapter keeps referencing the unpublished prequel, 'The Warden of the East' quite heavily, as well as some events before -- sorry 'bout that. Long story short, I see the Dagor Aglareb as a great political turning point for Maedhros. He proved to himself that he was still a capable commander, found out that him and Tyel were a great team, and secured the loyalty of his brothers and followers.