The Seven Gates by Laerthel  

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The Watchers in the Vale

Tyelcano leaves Gondolin. That's it, that's the chapter.

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The Seven Gates
Chapter 43 - The Watchers in the Vale

FA 472, Nárië

Curufinwë was never going to forgive him. Not for this.

The atrocity was not visible to the untrained eye, not immediately — one could maybe notice a slight fault-line of the cascading metal rings as they followed the flow of the wearer’s movements, but nothing more.

Tyelcano had been standing over the careworn length of chainmail for three hours, pliers biting into split rings of steel. His previous encounter with Orcs had left many of the tight-knit links jagged and dangerously deformed; and he knew it would only take a few of such weaknesses, and sooner or later, an arrow would find its mark, and bite through the mail.

He also knew that Turukáno would probably take offence at the assumption that he would be let go without a complete wardrobe change; but he did not need a new set of armour.

Well — he may have needed it, but he certainly did not want it. He wanted the same mail that had survived the Flames with him, even if keeping it meant that he would never stop hearing how the rings were misaligned, how terrible they looked, and how he had ruined good metalwork for life.

He wondered if since then, Curufinwë had also discovered the likewise imperfect repair on his Lord’s favourite chainmail, between the shoulder blades, that he had been forced to do in the Year of the Flames. He had worked on it overnight, while Findekáno complained ceaselessly about his broken knee. Nelyafinwë, for his part, insisted with increasing fervour that one was not supposed to get out of their bedchamber with a broken knee; and even more importantly, that broken knees were supposed to hurt, and they were supposed to incapacitate even Findekáno the Valiant, however strongly he protested against it.

Indeed, cundunya, Tyelcano had reasoned to no avail, if your knee were to stop hurting overnight, no healer could save you. And if we could see you walk again tomorrow, it would mean that we have lost our minds.

Nelyafinwë thanked him for the repair when it was done, then donned the mail immediately, hardly even looking at it — which, to Tyelcano’s overwhelming relief, ended the broken knee debate —, and already he was off fighting Orcs.

Or was it Valaraukar? Giant wolves? Sauron himself?

All Tyelcano remembered was that Findekáno’s knee kept hurting; and he kept repairing chainmail.

It was not that the Himring had no suitable craftsmen: but said craftsmen were also busy night and day, with similar endless repairs of mails and shields and helmets and swords and daggers and lances and maces and arrowheads. War was a constant threat, Orcs were lurking everywhere in abundance, and the raging inferno of the Flames dulled into perpetuity.

And yet we were, impossibly, all together at least, Tyelcano thought, Nelyafinwë and Findekáno and Canafinwë and Tulcestelmo and Inglorion and —

His thoughts stopped there; for the rest were dead, and the memory of their suffering together had only been sweetened by time, and distance, and acceptance, and the fact that he had missed his home for so long.

Now that he knew that he would soon depart from the Hidden City, he could scarcely believe it.

“…please tell me that you have not felt the need to mend it yourself,” said a voice from the shadows.

It was different from Curufinwë’s, of course; softer, and younger, and full of well-concealed doubt every time it called to him.

“I am afraid that I must displease you, cundunya,” said Tyelcano levelly.

“The King ordered you a new set months ago,” said Maeglin Lómion, and he stepped within the halo of the smelter’s fire. “I have been seeking you to see that it fits.”

“And I shall gratefully accept the valuable gift, of course,” said Tyelcano, bowing his head. “And yet this shirt of mail saved my life countless times! Leaving it behind, unrepaired, would feel like abandoning a wounded friend to an Orc band. My conscience revolts against it.”

The prince was smiling. “That I understand,” he said. “You must keep both, then. My uncle shall not be easily dissuaded.”

“Terrible work, I know,” said Tyelcano when he caught him glancing at the steel under his gloved hands. “Uneven, and horrifying to the eye; but it has kept me alive.”

“I have seen worse,” said Lómion.

“When I left the Himring, I thought Curufinwë was going to have my head for this,” Tyelcano confessed. “You closed it, he lamented, like one would close a hole on a pair of underpants! And yet that repair, at least, went under the armpits. This one is clearly visible.”

Lómion was silent for such a long time that Tyelcano started to think he had somehow offended him; but then the prince glanced up, and he saw the flare of curiosity in his eyes.

“Is he skilled, then, the way his father was? Curufinwë?”

“Perhaps not the way his father was,” said Tyelcano truthfully, “but very skilled, aye.”

“My father hated him with a fervency I never understood,” said Lómion after another pause. “And Tyelkormo, too. It hurt my mother, I think. She told me once that they were her favourite cousins.”

“And Írissë was theirs, without any doubt,” said Tyelcano. “Before the Darkening, and before the Enemy’s lies turned the sons of Finwë and their children against each other, they were inseparable; and so they eventually became once more when they met again in Beleriand. Írissë spent much time with them while your uncle dwelt in Vinyamar still; and I was not surprised when he told me the tale of your mother’s departure, how she got tired of the safety and comfort of Ondolindë and wished to hunt with them again. For even if Curufinwë is a craftsman, he is very fond of his freedom and the vastness of the wild; and above everything, he is fond of Tyelkormo, who can only suffer to remain in one place for so long.” Tyelcano glanced thoughtfully at the prince. “If you meet them one day, I believe they shall see your mother in you; but do not expect them to conceal their harsher thoughts of your father.”

“None will, and none should,” said Lómion. “I renounce Eöl. If it was not for his envy and spite, my mother would have never gone to Mandos.”

“Never is a heavy word,” said Tyelcano softly; but his curiosity got the better of him. “Is it true, then? Did he truly—”

“He sought to slay me with a poisoned dart, but pierced my mother instead, as you have doubtlessly heard in the streets,” said Lómion darkly.

Tyelcano had heard no such thing in the streets.

“Intentionally?” He asked, suddenly all to aware of the shrillness of his own voice. “And not to defend himself?”

“My father wanted to kill me,” said Lómion, articulating every word precisely. His face was haggard, but fair in the firelight, and Tyelcano could tell that he had been trying not to acknowledge this truth for a very long time. “What is the word for that, Counsellor, tell me? A son-slayer? You held a torch at Losgar and yet you would never do something like that, would you? Your face is whiter than the gems in my uncle’s vaults.”

Tyelcano had no response to him. There were many things he could imagine himself doing if his lord’s life was in immediate danger, and some of them were quite terrible, but this —

“You may now deem me insincere for being shaken so,” he said after a long pause, “for I, too, have shed the blood of my kin. And yet…”

“Not like this,” Lómion nodded.

“The Enemy’s lies are cunning,” Tyelcano said, almost against his will. “I am sorry that your father succumbed to them.”

“That is what we always say in the House of Finwë, is it not,” said Lómion, “Ai, the lies of the Dark One! How terrible they are! And how easy it is to blame our own sins on them!”

“It is unnatural for Quendi to raise a hand upon each other,” said Tyelcano firmly. “They must be driven so — which does not, of course, lift the weight of our misdeeds, but knowing so may keep us from repeating them. You have seen much for your short years, cundunya, and that darkness left its mark; but such sorrow does not define you; and you shall be free of it, if you allow yourself to be freed.”

“Are you free of it?”

“I am trying to be,” said Tyelcano truthfully. “I have not stayed my blade at Alqualondë and have not stood aside when the ships were burned; those are things I cannot change. Yet every choice I have made since then, I have made with the burden of that knowledge; and wrought with horrors as it is, I try to learn what I can from my past. I am exiled from my homeland, and I might never return, nor shall I ever be untainted by the Marring of Arda; I have survived dangers and seen more sorrow, death and ruin that most; and I have seen many yéni, more than the realm of the Eldar itself in fair Valinórë. And yet that does not mean that I shall ever stop searching for new knowledge, or striving for good.”

“You said never was a heavy word,” said Lómion quietly. “I find good heavier.”

Tyelcano had no answer for him; nor could he be certain that he unequivocally believed what he had said. He wished to believe it for certain; and yet… had his thoughts not been tainted by the Enemy himself in days long lost? Could he be certain that he was free of that influence by now? Could anyone be, ever?

“I offended you,” said Lómion suddenly. “For that, I apologise.”

“Not at all, cundunya. You made me think.” Tyelcano glanced up at him. “I take it you sought me to have my new chainmail fitted? Very thoughtful of you to do it yourself.”

He saw only a split second of confusion in the young prince’s glance before he straightened his back, told him that it was all natural indeed, and the invisible string of courteous distance was once again pulled taut between them.

The chainmail fit like a second skin, and it was worthy of a king; and Tyelcano found that the longsword he had reluctantly accepted a few months ago from Turukáno’s armoury, picked out especially for the moderate decoration of the hilt had been, of course, newly adorned.

“It is my uncle’s strong wish that you keep this blade,” Lómion declared. “I am afraid that finding the one you have lost beyond the Crissaegrim would be an impossible task. Have you thought of a name?”

“I have never named any of my weapons,” Tyelcano admitted, “nor has anyone else in the House of the Star. We break or lose them often, my Lord especially so. Do you think I should find a name?”

“Not if it is against your wish,” said Lómion. Then hesitantly, he added, “I thought Curufinwë had a knife with a name, or so I have heard in Nan Elmoth.”

“It must have been Angrist,” Tyelcano nodded, “made by Telchar himself. Alas, it was lost also; or so he tells me. And yet I remember one fair day, in the early days of the Siege, when he told me how dangerous he thought it was to distinguish a weapon. And yet it would have been, he thought, unjust to keep calling Angrist a mere knife while it was no longer so.”

“Why is it dangerous to name a weapon?” Lómion stared at him. “The Dwarves do it all the time.”

“I would not say that it was,” said Tyelcano, “for I am not certain; and for the longest time I thought that Curufinwë’s dilemma of have-I-cut-the-throat-of-this-rabbit-or-was-it-Angrist was a shallow attempt at contemplation; since I could have just as well said that the knife had cut it. And yet I keep returning to that thought. Names shape their owners, as they are oftentimes given after very real qualities or vices, would you not think? Anardil, for one, calls me Lord Mopey; and I am rightfully afraid that it shall stick.”

“I do not think that many would have the courage to call you so to your face,” said Lómion.

“Not even if I was deserving of it?” Tyelcano smiled.

“Especially not then,” said the prince.

He put his arms around Tyelcano’s waist to buckle the new sword belt that came with the chainmail; and above his shoulder, Tyelcano glimpsed another blade, leaned against a whetstone. The sword drew his eye because the whole length of it was black as night, the hilt gleaming cold, almost silver-white in the firelight. He felt strangely drawn to it, as if the blade whispered to him, and sang to him, quieter than the crackling of fire in the smelter, yet still clearly audible, although he was almost certain that he was only imagining it.

“That is my sword, Anguirel,” said Lómion. “I have little love for it, and yet I have never held a better weapon.”

“It was forged of galvorn, was it not?” Tyelcano stepped away from him, walking slowly closer to the sword, as if in a dream. “I have never seen anything quite like it.”

“It was,” said Lómion. “It can cut through iron like a knife through butter. A vicious blade; I wish I could find more of that ore so I could forge others. Although maybe it is best to have fewer weapons of such power.”

“Maybe so,” Tyelcano agreed. He fought some unexplainable urge to pick up the blade and try his grip on the hilt; but it would have been even more discourteous than useless. Why would he wish to trade the work of the Prince of Ondolindë for that of his father, Eöl, a slayer of kin worse than himself? And why would Lómion ever agree to it, either?

And yet he could not shake the quiet conviction that one day, that black blade would redden in his hand.

✶ ✶ ✶

“Do not tell him of my coming. Not unless you believe that all could be lost if you keep your silence.”

“You know that I shall not.”

“He will not be patient, and his questions will be unceasing. Nor shall he hide how displeased he is with me. He is every bit as stubborn as our entire family. You shan’t wear him out!”

Tyelcano smiled. “I have the pleasure of knowing your brother quite well, Majesty.”

They were standing under the great oaks and poplars on the Place of the Well; chest to chest, their voices quiet, as if they were merely exchanging words of farewell. Neither of them wished to rouse suspicion among the increasing number of bystanders, who all sought to witness the departure of the great Feanorian warrior and counsellor whom they had grown to, if not like, at least grudgingly respect. The only ones to hear what was truly said between Tyelcano and the King were Lómion, who stood still like a statue next to his uncle, scrying the crowd with a strained smile; and Itarillë who now wound her arms around Tyelcano’s neck and kissed his cheek.

“Be truly careful,” she said merrily, “the wrath of my uncle can be terrible.”

“Once I have survived that, a battle shall be nothing, aranelinya,” Tyelcano agreed.

“You will tell him that I miss him, will you not?”

“Of course I will; and so do I hope that you shall not have to miss him much longer.” Tyelcano smoothed a golden tress out of the princess’s eyes. “I confess that I have true hope of victory in my heart; and that is not something I have felt since the first sunrise after Dagor Aglareb.”

“Let us hope that your heart is right,” said Lómion, “and may our next meeting on the battlefield be a glad one!”

Tyelcano glanced at the prince. Anguirel was hanging from his belt, gleaming dark and cold in the bright morning light.

“I take it, then, that you have not changed your mind?”

“I have not,” said Lómion. “This is not my battle to fight, of that I am aware; and yet now that the Twelve Houses have been roused, I find that I cannot stay behind. There is little glory in standing watch over an empty city.”

“So might say those who shall seek to return to it,” said Itarillë, “paying no more thought to it before they do. And yet the greatness of some deeds is only perceived in their absence.”

Tyelcano agreed with her quite deeply; and yet he had no wish to shatter the delicate peace he had made with Lómion.

“Please accept one last expression of my thanks,” he said instead, and raised his eyes to meet the King’s. “You have received me, Turukáno, as one of your own; and for that, I shall be forever grateful.”

“You are one of my own,” said the King, “and so you shall always be. Do not forget this if the waves of fate wash over your head; or if your loyalty steers you upon a path too dark to follow. You are welcome in my court, my home, and my heart. Were you to ask for it, you could lay your sword and chainmail aside this very instant, and dwell in my halls as long as they stand.”

“I know,” said Tyelcano softly. “And miss you I truly shall, King of the Singing Stone; yet the same thing that I have said to your daughter I shall now say to you! Our parting shall not be for long, and there may still come a time when we shall not word our farewells as though they might be the last.”

“This one certainly cannot be the last!” The King laughed. “If it was, I would never let you depart with a single set of garments and sword as a parting gift. Are you truly certain that you cannot take anything else?”

“There is only so much my friend Gwaihir can bear,” said Tyelcano with a smile, “and these alone are gifts worthy of a prince. In truth, I am worried that I shall be more glamorously clad on the battlefield than my Lord Nelyafinwë himself.”

“I hope to see that,” said Turukáno. “Fare well, servant of my House; may the Winds of Manwë bring you swiftly to the borders of my land! Soon I shall lavish you with new gifts, if fate so wills it.”

Tyelcano bowed his head, but did not trust himself to speak. The moment of his departure had come; and though for many months he had longed for it, he felt a sudden, inexplicable reluctance to leave the city of Ondolindë: a haven of bliss and peace, the like of which he had not seen since the Darkening of Valinórë over the Sea. He had grown fond of what he had first perceived as a diamond prison, and ceased to see the King’s command as bars on his windows and fetters on his ankles. He had grown to love the city and its people, and he had been glad to dwell among them: to deny this would have been as false as it would have been ungracious.

But then he remembered the Himring, the high walls of smooth grey stone, the vigilance of his lord as he held his own through war and strife and fire and death; and he steeled himself to depart.

He only wished his friends would be there to say farewell. He had always assumed they would, and yet he did not see them in the crowd, nor among the guards.

The very real possibility that he might never see them again suddenly felt overwhelming — he had taken his leave from Anardil the evening before, but there was no use seeking out Ecthelion or Laurefindil. They had both gone outside the Sixth Gate a few days before to devise the best manner one could hide the coming of an army ten thousand strong among the mountains. Tyelcano had hoped they would return before he left; and he felt a pang of regret.

To tarry would have been impossible, though; and foolish, and a great risk upon his Lord and the High King. So Tyelcano of Himring did his duty, and kept his silence; and he raised his palm towards the gathering of the fair folk of Gondolin in a last farewell. When Gwaihir stooped down to him, he mounted the Eagle without protest.

And then they took off.

Tyelcano had expected the moment to be less fleeting, and more ceremonial. Before he could calm his racing thoughts they were high up in the skies already, the Tower of the King topping over the Hidden City like a diamond thorn. Sunlight refracted from slender windows of painted glass, burning flameless in the summer sun; and the wind weaved lazy patterns into the sward of Tumladen, green and rich and soft as a pillow.

They flew over the foundations of the last Gate first, and the mounds of earth that had been piled up around the edge of the green sward. Most of them were no higher yet than a parapet, but Tyelcano saw their shape and structure, and knew that once finished, they would be impenetrably high and treacherous. The way was still open where the last of the Seven Gates would stand, but he had seen the plans; if once wrought, that Gate of Steel would even keep the Valaraukar out of the realm of Turukáno.

Then came the Gate of Gold, and then the Gate of Silver; of these two, Tyelcano had also heard, and he knew how heavily they were guarded; but of the others, no one had ever spoken to him. And indeed it seemed that the secrets of Ondolindë would remain forever guarded, for after the Gate of Silver, Gwaihir took a graceful turn, and disappeared among the mountains.

“Thank you for agreeing to bear me, my friend,” Tyelcano told him. “I am glad that your strength has returned. Is this a path that your folk often take?”

“These mountains are our home,” said the Eagle. “Seldom do we find paths on their winds that we have not taken before. But prying shall help you not: it is the law of these lands that none who entered may know the way out. Not even a servant of the Star.”

“Part of me prefers not knowing,” said Tyelcano earnestly, “but curiosity is a persistent thorn in my side. In happier days, I have built my entire life upon knowing things.”

“As you become wiser still,” said Gwaihir, “you might grow able to tell when it is better not knowing.”

Tyelcano did not answer him; he revelled in the sight of the wild mountain-lands, the stony peaks dappled with snow even at the height of summer. As far as his eyes could see, not a single path had been carved into the steep hillsides, nor was there any sign of life among the deep vales. Briefly, he wondered how long and how far had his lord looked for him in such unforgiving lands.

Where did he save Voronwë from those trolls...?

And what folly made Findekáno agree to come with him?

Long they had ridden the wind; and with time, Anor hid his golden face behind a heavy veil of clouds, and the tension of an oncoming summer storm hung in the air. The Oroquilta lagged behind them, its steep slopes smaller and smaller, until they seemed to fit into Tyelcano’s palm; and he realised, not without bewilderment, that Gwaihir was going to land under a small copse of trees, at the bottom of the vale of Sirion — not far from the Pass, where Turukáno would lead his armies forth in two weeks’ time.

“I thought you would bear me to court, my friend,” he admitted. “Are you wary that Findekáno’s men will see you?”

“Patience,” said the Eagle, and there was laughter in his voice. “Everything has its own time; and so you shall come to Barad Eithel when you need to.”

Quietly, they landed under the trees, and Tyelcano took a few hesitant steps on the grass, still scarce and brittle as a vestige of the Flames. The clouds were hanging low now, ready to unleash a torrent of rain on the land; but the air was still warm and moist, draping the valley and the marshlands beyond in a blanket of fog.

“Go," said the Eagle, “and do not tarry. You will find your path from here; I promise you that you shall know no hardship on your journey. May the winds of the West guide you, and may your weapons find their mark!”

“Thank you, Windlord,” Tyelcano bowed his head; and a few moments later, the Eagle took flight, and disappeared in the mist.

The thought of bracing the Fen of Serech alone, on foot and in a full set of armour was not a welcome one; but Tyelcano trusted that a solution would come to him well before he would take the narrow and treacherous paths at the feet of the Ered Wethrin. Turukáno would even tut over the fact that he would not take his favourite chalice with himself on his journey west; surely he would not have him abandoned halfway! He probably has a horse and a generous set of supplies waiting for him nearby.

His foreboding proved to be true. As he came around the copse of trees, he saw three hooded figures around a small campfire; who, at closer inspection, were revealed as Ecthelion, Laurefindil and Voronwë, with a led horse in full gear grazing peacefully nearby.

“Here comes the fugitive at last!” said the Warden of the Gates; and Tyelcano understood, with a sudden surge of fondness, that his friends would never let him depart without a farewell.

“Indeed you do not look half as mopey as I expected!” Laurefindil grinned at him.

“The King would not have it,” said Tyelcano. “The new story is that after persistent political negotiation, I was let go in honour. More importantly, this is the truth: it would be most unbecoming to weave the web of our deceit further than necessary.”

While he talked, he inspected the foldings of the new, luxurious cloak the King had draped over his shoulders with his own hand: dark gold inlined with crimson, the inverse of his lord’s colours, the way he used to wear them in Nolofinwë’s court. Underneath, he wore a tabard of simple black over his new chainmail and a set of blissfully soft, padded layers under the steel. His sword belt was strong, but not heavy, his boots a perfect fit. Instead of a helmet, he brought a light, but strong chainmail coif — also the handiwork of Prince Lómion’s —, with the Star of his family wrought of a white jewel upon his brow; but he did not wear it for the journey.

Although he seldom spoke of it, Tyelcano shared Laurefindil’s widely known hatred for helmets; the only one he did not find terribly limiting had been a gift from Fëanáro, not long before the Darkening. Tyelcano knew exactly where it was now: during the Fell Year, he had adopted the unruly habit of keeping it under the bed in his Himring suite, in case a night raid, wave of siege, raging dragon or river of liquid fire should suddenly appear in his lord’s courtyard — and indeed the old helmet had served him well more than once on similar occasions.

“Alas,” said Ecthelion, "you being hoisted over the castle wall without explanation would have been a lot funnier.”

“I would not say so,” said Voronwë. “The threat of such a great battle is a terrible occasion to reconcile brothers!”

“As terrible, perhaps, as a hopeless quest to Angamando to reconcile cousins,” said Tyelcano softly.

They ate their luncheon together in the shade of the trees, talking of positions and ideal terrains, watching the fog as it billowed down the valley. The rumble of thunder could be heard from afar; and Tyelcano knew it was heading their way.

And then, he heard the sound of hooves, and the song of silver horns as the riders of the High King stormed along the hidden safe paths through the Fen of Serech. He could see their lances and bows as they glimmered, a field of stars in the rising mist; and he felt a sudden tightness in his chest.

“Mount, and ride with them!” said Voronwë. “Swiftly, before they are gone!”

“Skilful spies of Ondolindë as we are, we could use some diversion,” Ecthelion agreed. “I have no wish to explain why I am inspecting this valley so closely.”

“Go!” said Laurefindil as well, and took Tyelcano’s face between his palms. “I shall miss you, wise one; but not for long. May our next meeting be amidst great deeds and severed Orc-heads!”

“May it be so,” said Tyelcano. “Fare well! I have not looked for friendship in the Hidden City; but for the sake of knowing you three alone, my capture was worth it.”

With that, he rose, and extended his hand to the led horse. He had ridden him before: a swift-footed dark stallion, with a single white sock on his left foreleg.

His three friends raised their hands in silent farewell, and they disappeared among mist and shadows. Tyelcano took one last look at the tree-line, and then he was gone, the Hidden City and its dwellers a swiftly fading image before his mind’s eye.

He had left the domain of Turukáno, at last.

Spurring his horse, he pressed ahead towards the Fen of Serech, riding out to meet the archers. He knew that he would be perceived in an instant, and yet still his heart rattled treacherously in his chest when the vanguard halted, and pointed their arrows toward him.

“Who rides alone in the Vale of Sirion?” a clear voice called out, merry, yet commanding, and Tyelcano was equally overcome with fondness and exhilaration.

“Surely the High King of the Noldor has better things to do than chasing simple travellers in such dreary weather!” he cried, almost unable to conceal his joy. He threw back the hood of his cloak, revealing his face even though there was no need for it; he was well known, and his voice alone betrayed him.

There was a short pause, a chorus of disbelieving murmur, then an exclamation of “Tyel!”, and the white stallion of Findekáno darted to meet him, bridging the distance between them in a few heartbeats.

Tyelcano dismounted, and sank on one knee, as he would do in front of Finwë, then Fëanáro, then Nelyafinwë, then Nolofinwë; and when the High King stepped close to him, he pulled his sword from his belt, and placed it at his feet.

“You need not kneel before me, kinsman,” said Findekáno, pulling him up, and into a tight embrace, “and if I hear a single utterance of Majesty, Highness or suchlike from your mouth when we are in close company, you’re going straight to the dungeons. Ai, what joy to see you unscathed!”

And with a wide smile, he held his face between his hands, much like Laurefindil before; and Tyelcano could not help but smile back, and hold his hand to kiss his fingers, and swallow all the Majesties and Highnesses courtesy prompted him to say. It was very hard indeed not to indulge Findekáno when he smiled like this: with radiant joy and complete satisfaction.

And entirely without astonishment.

“I thought you would never come,” he said, as if answering his thought. “Alas, you entirely missed my cousins. You shall have to settle for me and mine as you brothers-at-arms for this battle, if you would have us. What say you, Servant of the Star? Shall you ride with me through the Iron Gates?”

“Where you go, I go,” said Tyelcano. “If you discarded me, I would follow you unseen. But tell me, Findekáno — how come you expected me?”

“Nelyo said I should. Your brother’s city may be sealed, but that shall not keep my Counsellor from me, he said. Nothing will.” He spurred his horse, and Tyelcano and the archers eased into a slow, steady pace around him. “I must say I hoped for something more dramatic,” Findekáno confessed; and a low, but noticeable tone of strain crept into his voice. “A daring escape, perhaps. You breaking out of Turukáno’s dungeons, hunted by his spies. You falling into my court from Eagle-back. And yet I take it that you have been let go?”

Knowing that he had to thread lightly, Tyelcano hung his head.

“I needed every shred of my diplomacy to get out of there,” he said in a low voice. “I am sorry that I could not come sooner; but the City council... the Laws... your brother's stern will... for a long time, I thought that leaving would be impossible without betraying him. And yet as you can see,” he said, gesturing at his lordly garments, “I succeeded at last.”

“I never doubted you would,” said the King, and Tyelcano suddenly wished his knights could not hear them. Findekáno seemed to follow the same trail of thought, for he spurred his horse on, only indicating with a glance that he should follow. They rode forth swift and hard, so they would have more privacy; but Tyelcano could still hear the sound of hooves.

“Is this where we must once again assail the army of thralls?” he asked. “The soil is thick with blood and sorrow.”

“It shall soon be thicker still,” said Findekáno, “but we shall talk of battle plans later. Not being here did not stop your lord beloved from flooding you with instructions, you know.” He sighed, and the mirth faded from his eyes. “He never said it, but I think he believed that you would drag along a small troop at least. I did not truly expect so — my brother never believed that we could long prevail in any land tainted by Moringotto, and his heart dwells in fair Valinórë still.”

“He did build a city that rivals Tirion,” Tyelcano admitted, “and I do not say that lightly.”

“Then it may be for the best, after all,” said the High King quietly. “If there is safety to be had in Beleriand after the Siege, then let him keep it.”

Tyelcano glanced at him, suddenly stricken. Acceptance was not at all what he had expected — he thought Findekáno would lash out in his formidable anger and call his brother names, questioning him if he had tried this or that argument, threatening to climb the highest peaks of the Oroquilta and shout Turukáno’s name into the heart of the mountain-land so he would finally listen. But he did nothing of that sort; he just pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, and flashed him another, albeit much sadder smile when he caught him looking.

“Forgive me, Tyel,” he said, his voice softer now, and full of love. “Pray not think that I ever stopped awaiting your return. You are family, too; and if I wish you would not have come alone, that only means I know my brother less than I used to. Even as we rode into the Dagor Aglareb he believed that it was all for naught, that the Enemy could not be vanquished. Why would he believe so now? And how many times must he be proven wrong?”

Tyelcano let his horse fall into line with the High King’s, and risked another sideways glance at him. If Manwë himself appeared in front of them that moment, and offered him the choice of either finding himself back by his lord’s side immediately, never to leave again, or being able to tell Findekáno the truth then and there, he would have chosen the latter; yet both seemed equally impossible.

“A day shall dawn when you come to understand your brother,” he said softly. “And on that day, you may forgive him or scorn him. I wish I could have been more than an instrument of his will; but that choice was not mine to make, as choices seldom are.”

“An instrument of his will?” Findekáno looked him straight in the eye, and the sudden sharpness of his glance pierced his heart. “Strange choice of word. Have you not come of your own volition, then?”

“I would have come sooner if that was the case,” said Tyelcano.

For a few moments, there was no sound but the soft patter of hooves as their horses kept crossing the Serech. The fog was deepening around them, the blurred slopes of the Ered Wethrin looming upon the horizon like patches of dirty cloud. Wind was rising in the north, sweeping down along the wide valley; and Tyelcano thought he could taste the ashes of the Anfauglith upon his tongue.

Then Findekáno said, his voice so low that he could barely make out the words,

“Your warning has been heeded. He heard you, you know. Nelyo.”

Tyelcano stared at him.

“He did? He truly did?”

Findekáno stared back.

“So it truly was you, then!”

“You were testing me,” Tyelcano realised. “That is wise. Indeed, that warning came from me.”

“But how could you…”

“I walked through the Unseen World, of course,” said Tyelcano, as matter-of-factly as he could make himself sound.

Findekáno opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again; and he could not suppress the faintest of smiles.

“I will tell you how,” he said, “indeed I will tell you as much as I am able once we are back behind your walls. I am wary of this mist, even, and the wind as it whispers through the plains.”

“...that I understand,” said Findekáno after a short pause. “Until then, let us enjoy this wondrous midsummer weather and the beauty of the landscape. The Serech is fairest to behold when you cannot see it, after all.”

Few other words passed between them as they crossed the relentless mist and followed the dark line of the mountains, steadily northwards, until they glimpsed the gleaming white towers of Barad Eithel. There Tyelcano and the High King halted, and waited for another troop who were coming back from the east. A lithe scout rode ahead of them, his chainmail bright as fallen stars, and Tyelcano narrowed his eyes at him. He scarcely believed what he saw; and yet it truly was Antalossë of Himring, now clad in Findekáno’s colours.

He lagged behind, observing silently as he rode up to his King.

“Well met, young one,” said Findekáno brightly. “How fare my dear Orcs in the borderlands?”

“Worse than ever, Majesty,” said Antalossë with a theatrical bow. “I hope your scouting was as uneventful as mine.”

“That I cannot say,” said Findekáno, and his voice was clear like silver bells in the wind. “For there is a spy who escaped your vigilance and rode within arrow-shot of your King while you were on the watch! Come and behold!”

Antalossë’s face went white like niphredils in a field, but his fear only lasted until his eyes met Tyelcano’s.

“Counsellor! You truly are alive!”

“So it would seem,” said Tyelcano, with a practiced air of nonchalance. “I see that the ring I gave you is back on the King’s finger: you have carried out my errand in my stead. I thank you for it.”

“But what happened to you? The Lord Warden would not say.”

“The Lord Warden could not know.” Tyelcano spurred his horse. “As soon as I feel warm and dry again, I shall tell you all.”

“Warm and dry!” Findekáno laughed. “Why, your list of requirements has certainly become longer since the last time we fought together, kinsman.”

“The Flames were warm even then, Majesty,” Tyelcano quipped.

“What did I tell you about calling me names?”

“We are no longer alone: I see many faces on your walls, my King, and many banners.” Tyelcano fell silent for a moment, looking at the winged moon of Doriath above the open gate. “Tell me, how…”

“As soon as you are warm and dry, I will tell you,” said Findekáno. “Until then, I would not dare to utter a word!” As he passed him, he shook out his fur-cloak, scattering him with a thick layer of dewdrops. “Ai, pardon His Majesty! What a terrible accident!”

“I missed you dearly,” said Tyelcano, with the faintest undertone of resignation; and he rode through the open gates of Barad Eithel.

* * *

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Chapter End Notes

Author’s Notes

On the opening scene with Tyel and Maeglin: Initially, ‘Gates' would have delved much deeper into the ruthless side of Gondolin politics, with Maeglin (and in the background, young Erestor) serving as Tyel’s primary antagonists… further complicated by Anardil absolutely hating his guts. However, when they actually met in 'The Gates of Summer', Anardil — staying very true to his character — absolutely refused to do what was logically expected of him, and befriended the terrible kinslayer right away. So I had to reinvent everything (which is, I think, quite visible with all the political setup in the first 9 Gondolin chapters that have mostly gone without payoff); but happy as I am with the final result, I could not resist cramming in a scene in which Tyel and Maeglin have an actual chance — and reason — to talk to each other for more than two minutes.

On the naming of weapons as a primarily Dwarvish custom: there is absolutely no canon foundation for this claim; I just wanted to find a plausible reason why we don’t know practically any of the Feanorians’ weapons by name, other than them being on the wrong side of history.

Pocket Quenya: ‘Oroquilta’ is my own Quenya translation for the Echoriath. ‘Cundunya’ means ‘my prince’ and ‘aranelinya’ ‘my princess’.

One more thing: The reason I've sat on this chapter for so long (again) is that I could not decide what to cut. Tyelcano leaving Gondolin and setting up camp in Barad Eithel, and at the same time Anardil having to face the fact that his friends might not return from battle, and consequently making Certain Choices are not very plot-heavy parts of the story, but they bear extreme emotional significance. So I finally decided to cut... nothing. I'm sorry but you will have to sit through one more chapter about battle preparations before we can finally shed those unnumbered tears. I hope you can bear with me!