The Seven Gates by Laerthel  

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Winds of War

Anardil learns a new skill, Tyelcano opens up about the darkest years of his past; and Maedhros and Fingon say their farewells.

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The Seven Gates
Chapter 42 - Winds of War

It was strange, truly, how the world could turn dark and perilous in a blink of an eye.

Then again, he was surrounded by Noldor.

And the thought that soon enough, his personal selection of Noldor would no longer be there to surround him only darkened his mood further.

Anardil had long suspected that his new life was too rich, his friends too dear, his luck too persistent. Such joys could not remain permanent since the Darkening: the Enemy always had to stick his dirty fingers in the crack of the door, pry it open, and ruin everything.

His friends spent their days out in the training fields, practicing and fighting, trying each other's strength, discussing strategy and warfare and positions and weapons of choice and locations of high value and supplies and escape routes and chains of command and hundreds of other things he had never even heard of. The stupid Noldor enjoyed it all, of course: the Boasting Of Past Deeds, the Valorous Stances, the Making Bets On Who Shall Kill How Many Orcs and the Flashing Their Weapons About. They have always been a bit overfond of warfare for his taste; these days, however, it was impossible to talk to them about anything else.

Pengolodh was the only exception. Always a scholar, frequently absorbed by new sparks of interest: the most recent of these being love poetry from the Years of the Trees. After a few weeks of deliberation, Anardil decided that he did, in fact, prefer stanzas and stanzas of pointless pining to crossbow-wielding tips and lengthy debates on the ideal velocity of backhanded blows, so he spent most of his time in Pengolodh's study, listening to how Ladies finally yielded their hearts to Lords, and how Friends became Dearer Friends, or Lovers Sworn Enemies. Incidentally, Star and Harp was reborn as a witty comedy about two Enemies, who became Friends In Heart (Or Maybe Something Else). By the time they had become Enemies again, Anardil grew bored of writing, and realized how gravely he missed Laurefindil and his extravagant lance tactics, Tyelcano and his complicated defense strategies, and Ecthelion with his sudden exclamations of 'Don't cross your feet, you deft goblin!'

He missed the time when his friends used to spar for fun only, and attend council meetings, and gossip about Salgant, Lómion, Rog or some other; when they gathered in Ecthelion's house and sang the night away; when they waged collective wars of chess against Tyelcano who bested them all; when Laurefindil wrote music for some new variant of Star and Harp or The Wooden Spoone; the quiet summer nights when they rode out to the valley of Tumladen and laid on the soft grass, stargazing for hours.

Anardil knew, in his heart of hearts, that those times were forever gone.

For as long as he could remember, he possessed some measure of foresight. Most of the time, it was mere instinct; and Anardil had learned to trust it, much like one trusts the hairs on the back of their neck when they stand up. And thus, when Tyelcano barged into the King's study, Anardil knew that the Feanorian would, once again, bring the end of the world with himself.

It must have been a family requirement.

It was, surprisingly, Voronwë who finally dragged him out of his black mood. He still held his grudge against him - as Anardil supposed he always would -, but he was kind enough to stop by his house one day, and make an Unnecessary Noldorin Ceremony out of a Polite Warning that he was in no position to bend Tyelcano's will - or Laurefindil's, or Ecthelion's, and least of all the King's -, and there was no use of even trying. They all wished to fight; so they would all leave soon, and possibly never return.

It had, of course, made Anardil want to change things even more. He could not shake the faint, nagging feeling that a disaster was coming, even if he had no idea how, why or when. Something felt deeply wrong with the way Tyelcano had roused everybody for war; and there was something tragic about the King answering his call, and vowing to save his brother from the trap he was about to walk into.

Not long afterwards, another Great Council was held. The Twelve Houses were in uproar, and they all swore to help Lord Supreme Feanorian and his alliance fight the Enemy. Anardil had not seen the Noldor in such a mood since Alqualondë, and silently he shivered among the shadows; such emotions and impulses were in motion that no reason could compete with.

And rightfully so, for once.

Anardil knew how much death, ruin and sorrow Morgoth had caused to the House of Finwë. He killed two of their Kings, stole their Jewels, enslaved their kinsmen, hung their favourite prince over a precipice, burnt their fortresses, destroyed their lands and threatened their lives in Beleriand for hundreds of years; and although the people of Gondolin had been sheltered from the Flames, their wrath was no less great. The possibility that their King's brother was about to be killed in a treacherous, cowardly attempt was widely unacceptable - so much so that they were willing to fight alongside the Sons of Fëanor and Men from the East, if such an alliance meant victory.

Most of them, at least - for Salgant had once again proved a staunch enemy of everything Tyelcano and his friends stood for. Anardil had to admit that he admired the lord's perseverance in adversity: even if almost everyone else wished to fight, he continued to say nay, and naught, and never again.

Anardil, for once, completely agreed with Salgant; and the more time progressed, the more difficult it became to hide it. The warning of his foresight differed from his dreams. The dreams, before they ceased, had been a source of half-forgotten horror, always fading into nightmares of his captivity. They were closely connected in his head: the memory of his cell, and that dream of mountains and crows and a barren battlefield.

This strange, new whisper in the back of his mind, however, was something else. It filled him with a quiet certainty, a slowly building anticipation instead of dread and disgust: some quiet, half-denied urge to stop the upcoming great battle from happening.

Somehow. Anyhow.

It was impossible, though; and that was how Anardil slowly came to the conclusion that if there was no way to keep his friends and his King from leaving, then he must go as well.

The first time the idea crossed his mind, he laughed. It was simply ridiculous to assume that he would survive on a battlefield any longer than he could remain underwater without breathing. He would probably be deadlier with an oar than a sword, and he doubted that he could even find the headhole of a chainmail at first glance. He knew how to wield a knife or even a dagger - his past journeys had taught him some self-defense skills -, but he had never owned a sword, and neither did he have any desire to. He was not ready to see bloodshed again, either; but the thought of staying behind in the luxury of his home and letting his friends die horrible deaths seemed unthinkable.

If he was truly honest with himself, he doubted that he could be of any real help. And yet this was what his heart commanded; and as the seasons passed, the army was accountered and soldiers began to train actively, he decided that this was what he must do.

The only question was how.

An army of ten thousand strong was being trained for war, and Laurefindil made sure himself that no one was enlisted without mastery of arms. Additionally, every soldier had to have had at least some field experience as a scout, a guardian of one of the Gates, or a battle survivor.

It made perfect sense of course: unspeakable horrors could escape the Iron Prison at the Enemy's will, but the mere fact that Anardil had already seen such horrors did not make him more capable. No swordsmaster would train him, knowing that they would need to start from the beginning.

Unless...

That unless was the reason Anardil had dragged himself out of bed long before Anor had risen. He walked out to the training fields, feeling quite inept in his loose tunic and slippery boots. Plenty of battle-hungry Noldor were out there already, of course, graceful, alien, and frightening to his eye.

It was easy to spot Tyelcano among them. Anardil was surprised to find him alone, sharpening his sword on a whetstone. He wore a full set of chainmail, vambraces, and high leather boots, and a helmet was placed on the ground next to him.

Was he about to fight someone with a sharpened sword?

Has he finally lost his mind?!

"What kin shall you slay this fine morning, if I may ask?" Anardil told his friend as a manner of greeting. "By the Powers, you're sparkling."

Tyelcano cast him a long, withering look.

"I shall have to measure up to Salgant sometime, do you not think?" When Anardil did not lower his gaze, he sighed. "Laurefindil wishes to fight me, so we can trust each other again," he added, more quietly. "He believes that if we add the threat of grave injury to our sparring match, that shall reveal the true extent of our friendship. Not a choice I would make if I were to fight myself; yet alas..."

"You will not hurt him," Anardil said bluntly.

"You can never be sure."

"Oh, you can!" Anardil looked him up and down. "And you have done this before, have you not? I would not go within arm's reach of your lord without being clad in steel anyway."

"A wise decision, if you cannot hold your tongue," said Tyelcano sharply.

"But you have sparred with him this way, have you not? Why would you be afraid to fight Laurefindil, then?"

Tyelcano sighed.

"Because I do not know him so well," he said. "We have trained together for centuries, my lord and I. We could fight each other with our eyes closed. Laurefindil is a fine swordsman, but I am not used to him nearly enough to trust myself around him. We use training weapons for a reason. I wish I would have taken one with me right now so I could smack you in the head."

"I can fetch one if you like," said Anardil, "but you have to catch me first." After a beat, he added, "As a matter of fact, I hoped you would teach me some swordfighting. Just in case the good Lord Salgant breaks my door down in the middle of the night. Some stanzas of the new Star and Harp are rather wicked."

"You want me to teach you swordfighting," Tyelcano repeated, articulating every word precisely. "You."

Anardil frowned. "You make me sound like an idiot."

"Not at all, it is merely - unexpected. And why would you ask me anyway? Laurefindil is far more patient."

"Because you would win in a real fight," said Anardil. Or if not, it would only come to be because you spared him. You are the best swordsman in Beleriand, or so they say."

"The second best, perhaps," said Tyelcano. "But why would you suddenly be so interested in the art of the sword? I thought it annoyed you."

"It does," Anardil admitted. "But... well. Master Rog said the fighting scene in Star and Harp was highly surreal."

If he thought the tangent truth would dull the sting of concealment, he was mistaken.

Have you not learned your lesson about deceit, Anardil of the Falmari? It shall only ever do you harm!

But Tyelcano did not seem to notice the war he waged with himself.

"Surreal it is," he admitted, "and highly entertaining. Was that not what you aimed for?"

"I want it to be realistic," said Anardil.

It was true, he pleaded with himself. He truly did want that...

"And in your opinion, the best way to achieve that is to learn some swordfighting?" Tyelcano's face remained stoic as ever, but his eyes were smiling. "Quite the commitment."

"So will you teach me or not?"

"I could not teach you swordfighting in the upcoming hour anymore than I could grow wings and fly home to the East, but I can show you a few things. Step here."

Taken aback by the sudden turn of his chance, Anardil complied, observing with detached interest as Lord Sparkling Kinslayer arranged his limbs into a stable standing position.

"Take this," he said, handing him his own weapon. It was heavier than it looked, and terribly sharp, and the hilt would not ease into his palm.

"This is a longsword," said Tyelcano. "Most people hold it with two hands. Your dominant hand goes halfway under the crossguard and your off hand to the pommel - aye, like that. Hold it steady, but your grip should not be too firm. Think of the sword as a living thing; do not let it escape your grip, but do not crush it, either. Your dominant hand will yield power to it, and your off hand will control that power. It is easier than it looks, once you have grown used to it."

Anardil tried. The sword did have a certain weight, but his arms were strong; and now that he no longer held it like an oar, it became easier to move around.

"This sword is two-edged," said Tyelcano, "but whenever you hold one that is not, be sure that the edge faces your knuckles, or you will either lose it, or cut yourself, or both." Anardil adjusted himself, and he nodded approvingly. "Good - now try swinging it. The force you yield it with should not come from your arm, but all the way from your shoulder. That would, of course, prompt you to make wide, swinging cuts, but try and refrain from that. Keep the  tip of the sword between you and your opponent at all times, or else you will lose control. Wait for the right opportunity to strike, and choose your movements sparingly. Try to fight with as little effort as you can; you never know how long you shall need your strength. Leave theatrical flourishes for those with a death wish."

"Harp does have a death wish, though," Anardil remarked. "Why else would he be willing to fight with Star?"

"Because he thinks it will be an easy fight," said Tyelcano, "and quite humiliating for his opponent. Like this one. Go ahead, then - charge!"

Anardil stared at him as he stood there, his eyes still smiling, his face still stern, his chainmail like a thousand gleaming diamonds in the sharpening light of dawn.

"Are you completely out of your mind? You do not even have a shield!"

"You should not be afraid of me, then, should you?"

"Of course I should," said Anardil, almost expecting Lord Kinslayer to suddenly grow a third arm, and a fourth, armed with a mace, a crossbow and a thousand throwing daggers.

"You are wiser than Harp, for certain," said Tyelcano dryly. "But do make a stance! In a real, unplanned fight, it is less than likely that your opponent shall be likewise armed. A sword is a mighty weapon, but also limiting."

"It does not feel that way," said Anardil.

"It certainly does not, does it? Here I stand, weaponless. Let us say I am an Orc with a death wish. You have taken my weapons and backed me into a corner; and now I am fierce, and desperate, and mad with hate." He gave Anardil a piercing stare. "You have to kill me. What do you do?"

"I force you out into the sunlight," said Anardil, "and sing something in Quenya. That will burn you and give you a headache at the same time, so I might get away, and let the Noldorin experts do the killing for me."

To his surprise, Tyelcano did not seem annoyed at the slightest.

"A wiser choice than you think," he said. "A blade should not be the only tool to exert your will. But try and charge at me! I wish to see how you would do it. Keep your knuckles parallel to the sword edge, though, or you will hurt yourself."

Anardil readjusted his grip, trying to ignore the impossibility of his predicament. Is this truly what he has come to...? Charging against a weaponless opponent?

He tried to imagine Tyelcano as a giant, sparkling Orc, but to no avail - he was distracted by his relaxed posture. He kept his shoulders down, his feet slightly apart, his arms crossed against his chest. He did not seem bothered by the possibility of being overrun... but then again, he was clad in steel from head to toes, with only the helm missing. He carried all that weight with himself, so he would probably move slower than usual. Ignoring the sword, he kept his gaze on Anardil's face, probably reading his thoughts from his eyes as he kept glancing from left to right...

"You think too much," said Lord Kinslayer, in all his sparkling confidence.

Anardil charged.

It was a swift cut, and fierce: his shoulders lent more force to his raised arms than he had anticipated. His eyes widened in fear as he watched the blade slide gracefully through the air, right against his opponent's shoulder -

Tyelcano sidestepped at the last moment, and the sword glided through thin air.

"First lesson, for the sixteenth stanza," he said dryly. "You do not need to dodge a cut by a foot. An inch is enough. A hair's breadth. Now your blade is behind me; and I could slam down on the crossguard, and take it from you." He stepped back, and Anardil felt exposed under the scrutiny of his silver eyes. "Try again!"

Anardil tried. The blade bore down like silver lightning, then slammed into something with a sharp clank. It was Tyelcano's vambrace: he had raised it before his face, calm and unyielding, diverting the momentum of the swinging sword downwards instead of onwards so it would not break his wrist; then pushed back against the blade with sudden onslaught, the force coming from all the way down his hips.

Anardil became vaguely aware of the fact that he was holding the hilt the wrong way again.

He adjusted his grip -

Tyelcano's thigh slammed between his knees, pushing him off his feet and into the ground. The sword slid from his hands, landing out of arm's reach.

"Twenty-fourth stanza," said Tyelcano. "Watch your feet. What Star did there was entirely ridiculous."

"Not only am I watching my feet," said Anardil, "but I am starting to feel them. Indeed, I do not remember the last time I was this acutely aware of their existence."

"Good," came the answer, calm and ruthless, "then try again."

The third time Anardil charged, Tyelcano stepped forth and wrung the hilt from his hands. The fourth time, he slid behind him, and squeezed his head into a deadlock. The fifth time, he slammed into him from the side, and the next moment, his mouth was full of dirt and Lord Kinslayer was kneeling on his chest, frowning.

"Anardil," he said, "which hand to you write with?"

"On an ideal day, the left," he groaned, "but in my current state, I might just dictate my last will to Pengolodh."

"And did you not think you should have told me that when I was talking about your dominant hand?" Tyelcano sighed. "You, my friend, are left-handed: that is why you stumble upon my every move! I wonder how I have never noticed it."

"But I do everything else with the right!" Anardil shook his head. "It is just the writing. I cannot even think of holding the sword the other way. It feels wrong."

"You always put the other foot first," Tyelcano shook his head. "That is a lot more important than a sword grip. It changes with every weapon. Here - do this."

And he picked the blade up and switched his posture, as naturally as Anor would rise every morning above the mountains; and Anardil stared.

"Are you - "

"I have learned to fight with both." Tyelcano tilted his head. "I believe you can guess why."

Anardil said nothing; he let the other guide his moves instead. Now that his left hand was pushing against the crossguard and his right was controlling the pommel, the blade felt somewhat lighter, as some sort of natural extension of his shoulders. His grip on the hilt had felt strange at first, but after a few steps and a few swings of the sword, he felt more confident.

Tyelcano cast one long look at him, then picked up a training sword from a nearby stack - unlike Star, who had grabbed a Spoone, a Great Wooden Pike or a Flower-Stake, depending on which version of the original one was quoting.

"Try once more," he said. "Your goal is to remain on your feet, and nothing else. Watch your knuckles," he added vigorously. "Remember that you are not clad in steel. I am."

Anardil bent his knees instinctively, his eyes locked on Tyelcano's face.

He charged.

Steel clashed with wood; and his sword was stuck mid-air, as Tyelcano sidestepped and slid the training blade all the way down to his crossguard, blocking his movements and stopping him from harnessing the sword's greater force.

"Good!" He said approvingly. "That was good. And there goes your forty-eighth stanza: this stance is exactly what happened with Star and Harp; and yet you somehow managed Harp to fall into a pile of horse dung. The comical potential is undoubtable, but there is only one - and quite unlikely - way you could end up face down from this position."

"But that is my favourite part!" Anardil complained.

Tyelcano stepped forth without warning, and dealt a forceful blow on the tip of his blade with the training sword; so swift and powerful that he lurched forward instinctively to balance it. Before he could even blink, his feet were kicked out from under him, and he found himself lying on his stomach in the dirt - blessedly devoid as it was of horse dung.

"All right," Anardil sighed, "you have made your point."

Tyelcano extended his hand to help him on his feet.

"Laurefindil is late," he said. "I hope nothing is amiss."

"A vain hope." Anardil bowed his head. "Look around us, and all this war-craze. Everything is amiss."

Tyelcano looked at him with compassion.

"Many of us will die," he said. "And some deaths shall be terrible. We may truly come to see the abandoned battlefield that used to haunt us in our dreams, full of death and decay. Still - were you presented with the choice of either going back to the dungeons of Sauron or dying a valiant death, which one would you pick?"

"I know not," Anardil sighed, although he thought he did. "I am not a war hero. I can barely hold a sword as you can see... and there is nothing valiant about dying. It is deeply unnatural for us Firstborn. It is said that we go to Mandos, and then we are rehoused when the time comes. Rehoused - but no one knows what that means. Will I become somebody else?"

"It is said that you shall be yourself again," said Tyelcano, "with your memories intact. But how that comes to be, I do not know."

"I thought you knew everything," said Anardil softly.

"Still - I would rather die a thousand deaths and be rehoused into the body of an Orc than let the Enemy lure my lord into a trap! Indeed I would deserve to be cast out to the Eternal Darkness itself to allow such a thing to happen on my watch. I shall either prevent it, or die trying."

"What is it with you Feanorians and the Eternal Darkness?" Anardil sighed. "You could have just said that you were angry."

"I have a hatred for Moringotto that you would not understand," said Tyelcano, and his face was grave.

"You have met him, have you not?" Anardil was looking at him intently. "And you tried to hide it from us. Back in the study room. I may be a terrible swordsman, but I am not a complete idiot, you know!"

"You are actually remarkable for a beginner," said Tyelcano earnestly.

"...and I am not moved by flattery, either." Anardil stepped closer to him, straining his eyes against the soft glow of his chainmail. "Come on, you can tell me. We are friends; and He is the best liar on Arda. He would have deceived anybody. I shall not judge."

"It was long ago," said Tyelcano, his voice barely audible, "back when Manwë freed him of his chains, and let him dwell in peace in Aman. Those days, he was mighty and fair, his voice pleasant to the ear and his power alluring to any who dreamt of secret knowledge."

"Such as yourself," said Anardil.

"Such as myself." Tyelcano nodded. "Aran Finwë had always been wary of him and Fëanáro hated him. His instincts told him what I should have noticed... but Finwë was King of the Eldar, and I his close advisor. I was in no position to turn my back on one of the greatest Powers, brother to Manwë himself, when he came to me, and offered his aid. And aid me he did, Anardil, in more ways than you may imagine. He taught me secrets that should have been forgotten... and whispered lies into my ears, lies that had only borne bitter fruit yéni later. Fëanáro would tell me, time and time again, that I should keep my distance, find excuses, come journey with him instead - but duty kept me with the King; and Melkor, for that was the name for him those days, never stayed far from his court."

"So Fëanáro knew, even then," said Anardil, "and you would not listen to him. Then later, when you should not have listened to him, you did."

"Fëanáro's eyes saw far and wide, and oftentimes he had the sharpest insight," said Tyelcano slowly, "but his heart was very hot, and plagued by sorrow. Over his mother... and over the lies that Moringotto had sown. Before I knew it, there was open enmity between him and Nolofinwë, and his sons had stopped talking to their cousins; and for a short while, I truly believed that the sons of Finwë were truly fighting for the crown, each wishing to seize it for themselves. But then, one day, the true nature of Moringotto was revealed to me... and when it came to the swords between Nolofinwë and Fëanáro, I, too went to exile." Tyelcano closed his eyes. "His sons rarely came to the palace in the days of my corruption; I do not think that any of them knows of this. Neither do I think that I could ever tell them; especially not Nelyafinwë."

"Why would you tell me, then?" said Anardil gently.

"Because it bothers me; and I fear what could still come of it. It was Moringotto who had first taught me ósanwe, Anardil. The Dark One, the Evil, the Enemy himself; and what he had told me of it was not what Gwaihir revealed! He never said that we could simply refuse it... I keep replaying those long-gone days in my head ever since. I keep trying to remember everything I told him, everything he could use against us. And I curse myself, I curse my short-sightedness. I keep telling myself that I should have known."

Anardil took a deep breath. Slowly, they had walked away from the training fields, down the Valley of Tumladen. Dewdrops sparkled among the sward like scattered gems, and sparrows chased each other in the open skies above.

"Even if you could have known, what then?" Anardil squeezed Tyelcano's shoulder. "Melko, or Moringotto, or whatever else he calls himself is not one who would have taken no for an answer. I highly doubt that you would have been more useful to your family if you had been slain with Finwë."

"I will never forgive myself that I was not there, either," said Tyelcano, "but alas! I truly believed that the enmity between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë would finally end. I hoped to see it."

He hung his head in sorrow; and for a while, Anardil said naught, he just left his hand on his shoulder.

"You know," he said after a while, "I still believe in some... arranging power. I do not know how to call it, but I think it keeps placing us wherever we must be at the moment. Like on a chessboard."

Tyelcano glanced up at him with sudden scrutiny.

"After all," Anardil went on, lost in thought, "how else would you have ended up here? Think of it. It is highly unlikely. Your family would have never sent you here and you would have never found the way by yourself, either - and so now, you would not be in the position to bring Lord Enemy Of The Enemy a secret third army of ten thousand strong. There must be some manner of driving force behind it all."

"The dreams," said Tyelcano. "But those could have come from other Powers. Perhaps those of ill intent."

"Aye - but those intents must come from somewhere, too, must they not?" Anardil scratched his head. "But such lines of thought lead to nowhere, of course. Maybe you are exactly where you should be now... but maybe you are not, and Manwë himself shall strike you down for having made me eat dirt."

"I will miss you dearly," said Tyelcano.

"I will remember you said that" Anardil laughed, "and make you regret it. Now let us go: Laurefindil must be waiting for you. If not in the fields, then up the courtyard."

They turned back towards the City of Gondolin, and admired its might.

"Is it anything like this?" Anardil wanted to know. "The Himring?"

"Oh, no," said Tyelcano, "not nearly as pretentious. It is a stronghold in a remote, desolate land; but it has its own beauty."

"Tell me about it! Your favourite season. Maybe spring. A set of high stone walls against a field of wildflowers."

"I think my choice would be winter," said Tyelcano, smiling to himself, "and the frost as it gleams upon the high walls like a coat of diamonds. The great mounds of snow that gather around their feet. Icicles as they sing with the first breath of warmth when you walk past them. Songs and tales around the fire inside, and the song of Kanafinwë's harp over the silent lands."

"Of course you would prefer to freeze your limbs off," said Anardil. "Does that snow ever melt?"

"Most of the time, it is gone ere Lótessë, and the fields are alive again. The Flames barred the landscape, of course; they left most flowers dead. Their roots are gone, and only their memory lingers over the land: all that remains is scarce grass. Our horses used to hate it for years. I wish you could have seen Himlad and the Marches in spring before the Flames; now we can only sing of that beauty."

"Then sing of it!" said Anardil as they started walking back. "Such things shoud not be forgotten."

Tyelcano was silent for a while. "I am no minstrel," he finally said, "but I do remember a scrap of song that tells of this. It comes from a larger Lay, often sang by the scouts of my homeland. The air never changes, but they all weave their own adventures into it: it is never-ending."

And softly, he sang,

Bare lie the fields of Aglon wide
Ravaged they were, and left to die.
Not always have the lands been plain:
Ere the Flames burned them desolate,
they once were green, alive and whole
and from silver horns had come the call:
"harken ye all! peril has ceased,
for home rides the Warden of the East."

Far above the deep green fields
where the river Celon springs,
where wildflowers dappled the sward
and the force of Evil came to halt,
above the hills of Himlad proud
stood the fort of Himring stout.
And up there, among song and feast,
now came the Warden of the East.

And there, beyond the high walls stark,
with gleaming swords and lances sharp,
the people of the Marches prevailed
when hope was lost and weapons failed,
they waged war against wrath and fire
through rains of flame and deadly pyre;
And with them, against Orc and beast,
stood watch the Warden of the East.

Thus Tyelcano sang as they walked back to the City. Anor was now high up in the skies, and the walls were gleaming white and silver, the high towers sparkling like diamonds; and Anardil felt a sudden surge of hope in his heart, unexpected but welcome.

They finally came upon Glingal and Belthil as they bathed in the light of day. There Tyelcano halted, and turned his gaze upwards to them; and Anardil saw that his eyes were gleaming with tears.

"You may be right," he said. "Perhaps I truly was intended to come here; perhaps I have served my purpose. Perhaps it is no shame that I stopped hating my doom long ago for having brought me here. Do not let people think of you as a jester, Anardil of Ondolindë! Your eyes see further than you think."

With that, he was gone; and Anardil sank into deep thought, watching idly as the light played with the jewel-wrought leaves of the Trees. His foresight felt dim and uncertain, fuelled more by fear than true instinct. What choice did they have but gather their strength and challenge the Enemy one last time? They might perish in battle with no one left to sing of their deeds; but likewise they would perish if they all succumbed to the evil of Morgoth. Likewise they would perish if they did naught, and let the Eagles bring them word of the deaths of their kinsmen.

Such was not the way of Elves: not the Noldor, nor the Teleri.

They were the firstborn children of the Maker: they would fight, and fall with honour, and make the Dark One curse the day he betrayed them.

He stood alone, leaning against the Trees and letting his thoughts wonder while the city stirred; and he felt a pang of apprehension when he saw the King walk through the courtyard. Anardil had never seen him wear chainmail before, with Nambegotto in his belt, and his great bejewelled helm under his arm; and the sight was strangely unsettling. He found that he much preferred him in his ostentatious robes, inquiring about people's preferences in wine and making plans to bedeck his library with diamonds.

Briefly, he wondered if he should leave; but then their eyes met, Anardil bowed his head like a Proper Citizen of Gondolin, and conversation became inevitable.

"It seems that we are fated to keep meeting here," said the King.

Anardil glanced up at him, feeling inexplicably caught in some mischief.

"...I have never seen you with a weapon before. How come you wear one - and Tyelcano's, if I am not mistaken?"

Lord Kinslayer's sword was still hanging from his belt indeed: he had forgotten to take it, and Anardil had forgotten to give it back.

"Oh!" He said. "I asked him to teach me some fighting, and he agreed. I was as surprised as you now seem to be. Majesty," he added quickly.

"And why would you be suddenly interested in the art of the sword?"

Anardil cast his eyes down. The memory of his King's doom crashed down on his fëa with full force; and his throat went dry. He could not lie, not to him - but telling the truth was just as unthinkable.

"Well, the battle scenes in Star and Harp are apparently not realistic enough. And you see, I told him, that is something to be amended. Feanorian or not, he is a good teacher, Majesty. Don't tell him I said that, though."

But King Turukáno was no fool, of course.

"That is what you have told him, I see," he said. "I am sure it is quite true: I have heard Master Rog say so. But anatomical accuracy of your work was not the real reason you asked the best swordsman in Beleriand to teach you, was it?"

"...no, Majesty, it was not."

The King tilted his head. "And may I inquire what it was?"

"You will laugh at me," said Anardil mournfully.

"Certainly not, unless you say something amusing."

There was an edge to his voice that Anardil could not place, and it told him to speak, even if the truth was painful and overwhelming. And yet words stuck in his throat; and he could only hang his head in shame.

"If you cannot yet reveal it," said Turukáno softly, "then walk with me; and allow me to tell you something that weighs on my mind instead. Privately, of course."

"I will not tell a soul, Majesty," said Anardil, astonished.

They turned away from Glingal and Belthil, and went deep into the gardens. The scent of Princess Itarillë's roses was thick in the air and the dew of dawn was almost gone. It was going to be a hot summer day; the kind of which was rare in this remote mountain land.

"You see," said the King, inspecting the petals of a white rose, "I am worried about my nephew. He has never seen a battle, nor can his mind convey the horrors one may see on the field; and yet he has suddenly developed a penchant for fighting, and he cannot be persuaded to stay here, where he belongs."

"So you will detain him, then," said Anardil, with a lump in his throat.

The King sighed.

"He is my sister's son, and Eöl's. Probably the most stubborn people I have ever met, apart from my uncle."

Anardil did not ask which.

"...I shall not detain him, for I fear that only evil would come of it. He is a prince of this City in his own right, and he is of age; but he is also very young, and overeager to defend his honour from attacks that have never even happened. To him, it would seem like a betrayal to stay while his family goes to war. This is not his fight; but the fight of his mother's House... of people he belongs to... and thus he cannot suffer being left behind."

Anardil looked him in the eye.

"Why would you ask what my reason was, Majesty, if you already knew it?"

"Because I see you struggle with your love for your friends, and your sense of duty, and I wish to help."

"To help me how?"

"You seem uncertain what you must do," said the King, and his eyes were pools of cold fire, "so I will tell you. You belong to my City, Anardil of Ondolindë. You are one I have grown fond of; but you are no warrior, no soldier and no scout; and therefore you shall not go to war. Indeed I command you to remain here, and stay far from this battle. Although I go must, I still fear great evil within our endeavour; and you have suffered enough at the hands of Sauron. And if you think that by obeying a direct command from your King, you would somehow betray your friends, then think again."

Anardil stared at him, speechless; and for a moment, he was overwhelmed by the sudden understanding that Turukáno, King of the Hidden City was indeed nephew to Fëanáro himself.

"A very convenient command, Majesty," he said slowly. "Indeed my heart longs more for my friends to stay here than for me to go with them! I have never held a sword until today; and if I were to ride to battle, I fear I would be a burden to them, or make them risk their lives for me because I did something stupid."

"Alas," said Turukáno, "you are wiser then Lómion. Still, my heart is glad." After a beat, he added, "And yet, you need not be apart from them until they leave; and safe as my City may be, practice is never useless. If you are truly interested in the art of sword, come down to the fields with me. Ecthelion promised me a fight; and I am sure he shall bring Tyelcano with him. There indeed is only one deadlier than him with a longsword; and that is Nelyafinwë."

"He wields a longsword with one hand?" Anardil stared dubiously at his own palm. He could not imagine it.

"He is much taller than you," said Turukáno softly, "and very strong."

"How tall?" Anardil glanced at him.

"Taller than me - but not so much that you would notice."

Anardil turned his gaze to the heavens, and the King laughed.

* * *

There was no tomb for his father under Barad Eithel, or elsewhere.

Maedhros used to harbour a deep dislike for the fortress when it was built; it was great, and well-located, and nigh impenetrable, but the wind ever whispered among the grey stones and the watchful eyes of the Enemy were never far.

He had tried to find the exact location where his father died many times. It had to be somewhere through the pass where the ground started to rise - perhaps a guard-post had been built over it, or a section of the wall. He used to think that he would instinctively know where it was, the way latent memories are carved into one's heart without conscious thought; but he could never find it. Not when the walls were finished, not when Nolofinwë was crowned, not when the Dagor Aglareb was planned, not during his scarce visits in the years of the Siege. After a time, he stopped looking, unable to shake the feeling that he was failing his father once again somehow.

Now, however, as the first tendrils of red started creeping up the heavens from the East, the night paled into the grey of dawn, and he was waiting for his brothers to saddle up, he could not help but look again, and find that the smooth walls of rock were still eerie, grey and silent; and his memory still failed him.

"I will challenge him once again," he said, unsure of whom he was talking to. "With all my might, and will, and strength of arms. If I fail, then there is nothing to be done."

No one answered him but the wind as it whistled through the stones; and a lone magpie as it glided across the valley to sit on top of the nearest bastion. Maedhros watched it for a while as it stretched its wings.

"Do you ever sleep?" called his cousin's voice behind his back.

"Nearly as often as you."

Fingon stopped beside him, his eyes lost in the wide plains below.

"I wanted to talk to you before you left."

"I know. I wanted to talk to you, too."

Fingon crossed his arms. "I am glad, then; because I can see that something is amiss. Not only are you trying to conceal it, but you also have the audacity to think that I would fail to notice. You may hide from your brothers, but not from me!"

"I cannot hide long from them either, trust me," Maedhros sighed. "Any moment now, the questioning, nagging and bargaining would commence. One by one they shall wear me down until I come to my wit's end."

"Very well! I shall be the first in line, then. Unless, of course, your prefer to discuss it later over the smouldering ruins of Angamando - at which point, I believe, your grievances shall have lost their relevance."

Maedhros glanced at him. "Promise that you will not call me a lackwit."

"A demanding request indeed." Fingon tilted his head. "Alas, how shall I honour it?"

Maedhros was silent; and the teasing lilt frayed from his voice as if it had never been there.

"Nelyo? What is this about...?"

Maedhros glanced at him. "Have you ever spoken to someone through ósanwe when they were very far? Without ever realising before that you could?

"Not for a very long time. My father always said that Moringotto might read our hearts. That we cannot know what he is capable of. Who..."

"Tyel," said Maedhros softly. "I think he was trying to tell me something... but it may have as well been false. It would be logical for the Enemy to prepare such a trap. To tell me such things... but it all felt so real and true!"

"What did he say?" Fingon's eyes were grave.

"That I was in danger, and I should beware. Which is what he would say to me most of the time either way; and with good reason. Still, I cannot forget it. Do mention it when you meet him; because I think you will. Your brother's city may be sealed, but that shall not keep my Counsellor from me if he truly thinks that I am in peril. Nothing will."

Fingon's eyes were distant. "You may have truly heard him: indeed I would not be surprised if you had. Or it could have been a trick. Alas, it matters little! It is a permanent truth that you are in danger - you keep yourself in danger, after all, dear cousin, do you not? -, and that you should beware. Still, you never do."

Maedhros tilted his head. "Nor do you," he said, "or else you would not have made a deal with Curufinwë. I wonder what that was about."

"You shall see when the time comes," said Fingon lightly. "We have agreed not to speak of it, unless certain circumstances are given."

"At the price of a royal pardon, I presume."

"That is but a small part of it," said Fingon. "If you do not beware, your brothers shall best you at the art of diplomacy." He smiled, and squeezed Maedhros's hand. "Will you not trust me?"

"Findekáno, I have trusted you with my life three times since the moon turned."

"Then remember that trust; and wait," said his cousin. He was smiling, and the golden ribbons in his hair gleamed in the swelling light.

They both fell silent as they heard the sound of footsteps over stone; and startled, they turned away from the view of the Vale of Sirion.

Antalossë was hurrying up the stairs, a creased tabard over his chainmail and a long knife in his belt. He looked as though he had run all the way up the wall from the courtyard.

"Lord Warden!" He gave a sigh of relief. "Thank the Valar you have not left yet! I wanted to -" He stopped, stared at Fingon, bowed his head. "Forgive me, Majesty! I truly do not wish to interrupt you, but I must. I should have come to you before, both of you, but I dared not. I thought I was being foolish, but then time passed, and - and I think I would be neglecting my duty if I told you naught. Even if I am badly mistaken, and it shall only cause trouble."

"Fear not," said Fingon. "Speak! It is better to err than to stay idle when one feels responsible."

Maedhros said nothing, only watched the youth expectantly. Whatever Antalossë wanted to say seemed to weigh heavily on his mind; he took a few breaths before he trusted himself to continue.

"When the war council was held," he said, "I saw something strange. I did not think much of it at first, even forgot about it. But the next day it came to my mind, and the thought would not let me rest. Perhaps it is nothing... still, my heart tells me that it bode ill. And that you should both know."

"What happened in the council room?" Maedhros demanded.

"When you showed the -" Antalossë swallowed the end of the sentence, looked around, and continued in a much lower voice. "Lord Warden, when you showed your allies that map, that other map... well, I was in awe. It was such a heightened moment, and I was overcome with emotion; so I looked around." Antalossë swallowed. "And on most faces, I saw a mirror of my own bliss... but not on those of your Easterling captains! Bór was the only one who seemed glad of what had been shown to him, Lord Warden. Ulfang and his sons... they seemed so terrified that I thought they would bolt from the room!"

Silence stretched between them for a long moment; only the wind whistled through the cracks in the walls, and Maedhros was suddenly glad that they had come so far out to the guard-posts.

"Antalossë of Himring," he said quietly, "do you understand the severity of your unspoken accusation?"

"I do, Lord Warden." The youth's face was pale, but stern. "I could be entirely wrong. But if I was not, and I told you nothing - tell me, what would that make me? You keep saving us all, but even you should be saved from time to time."

"Aye, that is very true," said Fingon. "And so should be, perhaps, Men from the East. What you have seen seems strange indeed; but it is hard to tell what they were afraid of, and why."

"These Men have lost their old lives to the Enemy," said Maedhros. "Carnistir took them into his service, and fought with them in many battles. Ulfang and his people have been my allies through many perils, and never before have they let me down. To see what they saw on that map... the mere thought of going there... it must seem to them a horror unspeakable. I would not have been surprised if none agreed to follow me at all. Disappointed, perhaps - but not surprised."

"Your people shall follow you anywhere, Lord Warden," said Antalossë with conviction.

"The lives of Men are fragile," said Maedhros. "Seldom do they survive more than one war. The Siege lasted through several of their lifetimes. They were not made to fight Powers like Moringotto; and yet they must. I would not be so quick to judge the true valour of their hearts."

"So you trust them?" Fingon asked him.

Maedhros looked him in the eye. "I must try," he said slowly. "Or else I must be afraid of every shadow, and see all things as traps. We cannot live like this, Findekáno: ever choosing kin over ally. The Secondborn are different than us; but we need them to win this war. If strife, enmity or even treason should later come between us, then so be it! I cannot forsake my plans now; and I think more of these Men than to presume that they have been blinded by the lies of our enemy. He destroyed their lives! A single moment of despair does not mean that they should be discarded. A single pang of doubt does not erase the many adventures I have lived with them, and the many times they lent me their strength of arms."

Fingon drew a deep breath. "I hear you," he said.

"I hear you too, Lord Warden," said Antalossë, "and I apologize."

"There is no need," said Maedhros. "You did well. Your King and I should know of these things. Keep your eyes open!"

He and Fingon watched in silence as the youth bowed and left.

"Well," said Fingon, "there is your explanation. Beware. Not necessarily of treason; but of fear itself. These Men have not yet seen the true extent of Moringotto's malice."

"Very few ever have," said Maedhros. He tried to sound confident, but Tyelcano's warning spread in his thoughts like blood in a pool of water.

Danger. Beware.

Is that what his faithful Counsellor was trying to say? Was he about to be abandoned by his allies in the moment of need? But how could Tyelcano know that? And even if it was true, what could he do now? All was set and done; the plans were made, the signals agreed upon.

"Will you not ride out with me?" He said to Fingon. "I need to clear my head."

"Not today." His cousin closed his eyes, his face content as the rising wind played with his hair. "It will rain again for hours; I can feel it in the air. Will you not stay for another day?"

"You know I cannot." Maedhros sighed. "Besides, Moryo tells me that there is an uprising in the Himring that I should quiet."

"An uprising?" Fingon sounded amused.

"My people long to fight." Maedhros sighed. "All of them. And when I say all of them, that means - the cooks. The guards. The stable-boys. Apparently, there is not a single soul that wishes to stay behind, least of all my Captain of Guards. It seems deeply unwise to grant such a wish; but who am I to deny their right to fight for their freedom? Moringotto had made them suffer too, and bitterly."

"Well," said Fingon, "the question is what you would do if things went amiss. I doubt that you could retreat so far north-east if you had to flee. If Moringotto took the lowlands, you would be surrounded. If we assume that to keep the March, you must return victorious anyway, then you could, in fact, grant their wish."

"And abandon Himring." Maedhros sighed. "I must admit that I have grown attached to it."

"Yet not so attached as you are to your men," said Fingon. "I know you - when the day comes, you shall be surrounded by raging cooks with kitchen knives, and storm the walls of Angamando with sharpened forks."

"That would make for a nice song," said Maedhros. The shadow of doubt lifted from his mind, and the anticipation of battle returned.

Soon he would avenge fair Himlad burned to ashes; as well as all the faithful, brave kinsmen he had lost to the Flames.

Soon, he might reclaim his father's Jewels; and be worthy of the help of the Powers.

"Go then, if you must," said Fingon. "And take care of yourself. I shall wait for you as promised. May we both wade deep in Orc entrails when next we meet!"

"I would not have it any other way," said Maedhros. "Fare well, High King!"

For the last time, Fingon pulled him into a tight embrace.

For the last time, Maedhros bowed to kiss his forehead.

* * *

---

Chapter End Notes

Author's Notes

On reembodiment: I assume that First Age Elves did not know much about either the Halls of Mandos or the concept of rebirth. Míriel was the first of the Eldar to die in Valinor, and up to the point where we now stand in the history of Arda, she has not come back to life. Lúthien's full fate is not yet known to anyone, since the events are so recent; so the entire concept should seem very obscure to even Tyel.

On Tyelcano's song: It is from 'The Lay of the Warden'. In my fic universe, this is a piece of oral tradition carried on by Feanorian followers during/after the Dagor Bragollach. Most of the Lay recounts Maedhros's "deeds of surpassing valour" (with Tyel as his constant companion), but there are entire cantos dedicated to Fingon, other sons of Feanor and even the Dwarves - these being part of the main saga -, as well as countless others about the deeds and adventures of Maedhros's followers (ususally sang among themselves). In the companion fic 'Thou Shalt Lead', even Maedhros himself adds to The Lay of the Warden by commemorating the deeds of his own men.

I imagine this Lay to have a simple, catchy air and even simpler rhymes in couplets, as you have seen in this small excerpt. As most stanzas were made up on the spot, and then repeated countless times in different minor variations, I don't think most of them - or at least the parts untouched by Maglor - should be very polished or elaborate, which I hope excuses the sometimes rather poor rhymes and the fluctuations in rhythm and syllables.