The Seven Gates by Laerthel  

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The Treason of Anardil

Glorfindel sees a new dream, solves a moral conundrum, and is troubled by foreboding for seemingly no reason. Meanwhile, in the fortress of Barad Eithel, Tyelcano is thrown into the depths of family conspiracy.

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The night of the same day

He had forgotten how the snowstorm would rage in his dreams.

Laurefindil pushed himself to his feet with the vigour of sudden determination. He knew he was dreaming, but the pain in his arms and legs was persistent, and the wind biting as it howled among the stony peaks above. The way, as always, seemed hidden; and he kept searching for some unknown path among whatever horrors this new vision would bring.

It all felt dreadfully real, though. Frost scratched his skin like tiny claws, running over the trails on his face where tears had streamed down; but Laurefindil did not remember when or why he had shed them. His vision was blurred in the blizzard, the sound of his own footsteps swallowed by ice and snow.

Then he noticed that his tears were still falling, but impossibly, they did not blur his vision. The wetness was hot on his face, almost steaming in the winter night; and when he wiped his face with the side of his palm, it left a dark mark.

Dirt, he thought, or blood.

The cold crept under his robes as he struggled along the invisible path: onwards, always onwards to an end unknown; and on he pressed with each ponderous step and each laborious breath. The dread mounting in his chest soon became all but unbearable, as if all the anguish of previous visions had built up in his fëa to convey one last, unsurmountable trial of endurance. In his waking life, he had never felt this exhausted, this careworn, this… old.

And then, like clockwork, spoke the Voice.

He who walks in starlight does not flinch, it whispered, and hummed, and chattered; but Laurefindil did, in fact, flinch. He hides in caves and near breaches and behind rocks; and on he wonders, and on he wonders, but a dead end awaits. The Gates are closed. You have opened them, Lord of the Golden Flower; and you have let the world wither.

With sudden horror, he glanced up, realising that what he had previously heard as a prophecy now sounded like a doom.

You have failed, sang the Voice, you have failed so utterly. Pity stayed your hand when ire should have reddened your blade. What have you done, oh, what have you done!

The blizzard rose around him, and the world went dark.

And there he stood, like before, like in half-forgotten visions, not three coranári ago and yet so far back in his life; and now that Laurefindil knew him, he recognised his face.

Tyelcano of Himring was tall and menacing as he waited for him in front of the open gate, watching, listening; and in his eyes was not the light of Aman, but that of madness. He was a shade, a ghost, a blaze of cold fire, a wild creature coated in filth. His features, so wise and so loved and so well known, were twisted into a ravenous snarl; and the Star of Fëanor, impossibly, smouldered upon the chest of his tabard as if touched by branding iron.

And there was blood.

There was so much blood that it dribbled, and oozed, and splattered, and flew like a river, and lapped at his feet like crimson waves. So much that it crept up the hinges of the gate, doused the pale lights of the torches in their holders, painted the smooth stones an angry red: the only colour in the darkening landscape.

“Tyel —”

You could have stopped it all, chanted the Voice, ended it all before it began. But you are shallow and cowardly, Laurefindil of the Golden Flower; vain and reckless, and that shall be your downfall. Behold the monster you have let go! Behold the monstrosity you helped escape your City!

“No!” Laurefindil wanted to shout, to scream, to fight; but all he managed was a ragged whisper. “No, you are lying — you must be lying, he would never — Tyel would never —”

A pang of sharp pain in his leg reminded him that Tyel already has.

You know what awaits now, said the Voice, and you know that you cannot escape.

“Tyel!”

It felt like falling into a bottomless chasm.

The world was suddenly shattered into pieces, into smoke and waves and senseless ruin. Laurefindil screamed, lost his balance, and like many times before, he reeled into the incorporeal void beneath his feet.

This time, Tyelcano’s ghostly hand did not catch him.

✶

“You forgot about the door, did you not? The door, I tell you. The one the Windlord spoke about. He said we could refuse those visions if they came to us again. They did not come to me, though, my door is very thick. Oak and wrought iron. How’s yours? The more detail you imagine, the more useful it gets… Laurefindil, meldonya, will you at least look at me?”

Anardil’s voice filtered through the deafening silence of the Void, the shapeless dark, the pit he had fallen in. Warm hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him up — had he truly fallen? — and strong arms steadied his steps, helping him back to the bed of his own suite in the Tower of the King. Every shivering inch of his body hurt as if he had ran into a battering ram. The pain mounted until it reached the edge of unbearable, then faded into a slight tingling of his skin. Slowly but surely, his vision cleared and the sweet-smelling summer night of the Hidden City came into view. The light of Ithil danced gracefully on the parapet of his balcony, the curtains were lifted now and again by a soft wind, and Anardil’s hair swam around his concerned face like a halo of silver.

“Can you hear me when I am talking to you?”

Laurefindil raised his head with an effort, squinting at his friend. Even the moonlight hurt his eyes, as if he had spent days in dark tunnels under the earth.

“Grateful for the interruption as I am…what are you doing in my rooms?”

“I was going to talk to you about something.” Anardil shrugged, the gesture nonchalant and at the same time self-conscious. “And then, I heard you scream. You’ve seen another dream, have you not?”

“It was… different than the others.” Laurefindil rubbed his eyes, fighting the impulse to shiver. “I must be truly exhausted.”

“You were scared out of your mind,” Anardil observed. “Had I not witnessed it, I would have scorned any who dared accuse the brave Captain Goldilocks of screaming like that. I will not ask what you have seen, but — are you quite all right?”

Laurefindil took a deep breath. “Aye. Aye, I am all right. Thank you for waking me.” He flexed and unflexed the fingers of his sword hand. “What did you want to talk about?”

It was only a dream, he told himself while he smoothed down his night robe and settled out on the balcony with his friend, who kept looking at him warily. A meaningless blend of prophecy and nightmare. My own mind is playing tricks on me.

Below them, the City of Ondolindë was silent, its many towers gleaming like slender thorns in the moonlight. The mountains were covered in the shroud of night and the skies were clear from north to south, and full of stars; only on the western horizon remained still a gathering of clouds, the remnants of a summer storm.

Tyel would never.

It was absurd, really, the scene he had seen; so abhorrently violent that it teetered on the edge of parody. Tyelcano of Himring was noble and kind, and he was not going to let himself be consumed by darkness.

If the Enemy is trying to deceive him, he will have to do a lot better than this.

“Laurefindil?”

Anardil was still there, wary and haggard in moonlight; and for the first time in months, Laurefindil caught a glimpse of the faint marks on his wrist where Sauron’s shackles had bit into his skin.

Was it not said that the thralls of the Master of Lies could never truly be free of him? Was it not the custom of escaped thralls to lie, to deceive, to lay low and see enemies in every shadow? Was it even possible to overcome that terror, if one was no Nelyafinwë the Unbroken or Findekáno the Valiant?

…where were these thoughts coming from?

Was he losing his mind? Was he being driven? Was he still shaken by his dreams? Or were these legitimate concerns?

“Manwë and Varda, Fin, will you not talk to me? Can you even hear my voice?”

Anardil was no thrall of the Enemy as he knelt before him and held his hands, in his eyes deep and genuine concern. He simply could not be.

“I can hear you,” he managed in a low voice. “I am here. I am coming back to myself. I — as I said I’ve had a dark dream; but I think it was only a simple nightmare. I did not see… I did not see the things I was supposed to see.”

“Do you want me to wake Ecthelion? The King? Lord Námo himself in the Halls of Waiting?”

Laurefindil smiled. “I would love to see you try that one.”

Anardil sank into the other chair, his eyes never leaving him. “Do you often dream like this?”

“Sometimes,” said Laurefindil. “Rarely, I should think. I possess some measure of foresight, and the things I foresee tend to be visions of darkness and doom. Would that I could rather dream about some new version of Star and Harp!” He sighed. “You are looking at me the way Ecthelion does whenever he gets wind of this. The last time I’ve had such a night terror was before the Great Council, where you revealed who you truly were. Ecthelion questioned if I was fit to do my duty, even.”

“And are you now?” said Anardil sharply. “The problem, you see, is not having night terrors: it is the utter refusal to talk about what you are going through. With me, with Ecthelion, with whoever else. You keep it all inside, thinking it a deed of valour, while you are really only hurting yourself.”

“I seldom comprehend what I see,” said Laurefindil truthfully. “The images are confusing, the scenes vivid, yet impossible to put together, and the faces…”

“The faces of whom? Who did you see?”

“I am not sure,” said Laurefindil after a beat.

It was not Tyel. Tyel would never.

“As you wish.”

“I am glad that you have come,” said Laurefindil sincerely. “I would have probably tried to hide it all if you haven’t, and faced it all alone. War is upon us, I am the Marshal of the Armies and I cannot allow such things to affect me. Will you not tell Ecthelion about it? I wish to do it myself, at a moment better suited to such things than this.”

“You will never tell him, I think,” said Anardil, “but that is your right. Still, I wish you would."

“Enough about me,” said Laurefindil gently. “You have come to me about something. Will you not tell me what it is?”

“I would not want to put another burden on you,” said Anardil. “And yet…”

“And yet?”

“I was wondering… Laurefindil, do you think you would ever commit high treason?”

Laurefindil stared at his friend, waiting for the jest; but there was no laughter in his eyes.

“What I wanted to say is,” Anardil went on, wringing his hands with a gesture of uncharacteristic poignance, “can your mind convey a situation in which you have two choices: one is unbearable, and the other one is, well, you know?”

“I would probably describe high treason itself as unbearable,” said Laurefindil, “which in this case would mean that you are facing two unbearable choices. What is the other one?”

Anardil hung his head. “You make things sound so easy,” he said, “so straightforward, so black-and-white. High treason is unbearable, you say, and yet the King could give me the opposite command tomorrow than the one I am compelled to forsake, and transform high treason into heroics. It all depends on his word, truly.”

“Aye, that is what Kings are for,” said Laurefindil gently. “But my friend, you are not thinking clearly. Not all commands are equivalent. If the King told you to wear a blue tunic because it matched your eyes, and yet you found yourself afflicted by a terrible desire to wear a green one, I daresay that your conscience would remain clear. How could you forsake him? You hold no grave duty, nor you are sworn to fight.”

“Nay,” said Anardil, “I am not. And I thought I would never grieve that I was not.”

Laurefindil glanced at him. His head was still pounding and weariness dragged at his limbs, but even with such a dulled conscience he could plainly see that Anardil was troubled by something. His face was solemn and grave, his mouth hardened into a straight line; and for the first time since the day of the King’s doom he seemed, again, a true lord of Gondolin.

“What is the meaning of this? You hate battles, you watch our sparring matches as mild entertainment, and you openly scorn preparations of war. Surely, you are not telling me that you suddenly long to fight!”

“I do not long for it,” said Anardil, “nor have I any desire to go and have myself killed, or see you killed, or have anyone kill anyone else, really. I would be the happiest Elf in Beleriand if the Enemy would just magically disappear and we could all forget about him without the satisfaction of revenge. And yet I am afraid, Laurefindil! Like yourself, I fear for things to come; although I cannot name them. I do not dream anymore, and yet it seems to me that there is nothing between me and utter ruin but a thin veil of chance, one possible path that I must find among countless others; for all else lead to darkness and despair. My heart tells me to follow the King and fight; and yet alas! He commanded me, strictly and in no uncertain terms, that in Ondolindë I must remain. How could I even dream to act otherwise, and scorn his hospitality, his mercy, his goodwill! And how could I dream to act against my heart, and take the road I despair of? When he gave me his command, my heart was eased for a while; and yet as the days pass, my sense of doom has returned.”

“Alas,” said Laurefindil, "this is difficult indeed.”

“It is,” said Anardil. “Maybe I should tell him everything. And yet I know not how — the King is not one who changes his mind, that much I have learned about him.”

“Probably not,” Laurefindil admitted. “And yet what choice do you have?”

“I have already told you,” said Anardil. “Act against my heart, or act against the command of my King. Both choices are terrible for different reasons. And yet for naught, I have told myself for so long. I am no warrior: what would I even do on the battlefield? I would not even know how to hold a sword, I said — but alas, that is no longer true: Tyel showed me. The King would never grant me as much as a chainmail from his armoury if I were to depart, I said, — yet alas, I no longer have need of it; for Tyel forgot his old chainmail on the back of his chair in his rooms. I noticed it earlier, before he said his farewells, and I went back to fetch it for him; and yet finally I did not come to see him depart. I hid that mail in my house, and waited like a thief! Indeed I am a thief now; and a conspirator, and a soon-to-be traitor, it seems. I would not even know the front of that wretched thing from its back.”

“If you try to don it,” said Laurefindil, “it shall follow the shape of your shoulders. You should be naturally able to move in it, and lift your arms, and circle them; if you feel tension, then you have it on the wrong way. If the rings leave marks on your skin, you have donned it inside out; and if you find yourself impaled upon something, you have forgotten to wear it entirely. I hope that helps.”

Anardil stared at him, and to his own surprise, Laurefindil laughed.

“I am no paragon of virtue anymore than you are, Anardil of the Falmari,” he said, “although today you have brooded and moaned and complained enough to become an honorary Noldo, according to your own reckoning of our vices. You have always been exceptional, ever since you have set foot in this City; and alas, it seems that your choices must be exceptional as well. I know you by now, and I know that your heart holds no malice. How could I accuse you of it? If it was not for your friendship, I might not even be alive today; indeed we could have slain each other in our folly, Tyelcano and I.”

And perhaps that would have been for the best, a voice whispered in his fëa, alarmingly similar with the Voice of his dreams. Have you not seen what shall come of it all? Have you not seen the stain of death in your own future? It could have been all over by now, if you were not clinging so stubbornly to a revenge you shall never have.

This is not about revenge, Laurefindil thought firmly.

Where were these thoughts coming from?

“What are you saying, o Captain?” Anardil raised his brows. “Do royal commands apply to all but those of the highest moral standing?”

“They certainly apply to all of us,” said Laurefindil, “and the Lord of the Golden Flower and Marshal of the Armies of the Singing Stone shall of course tell you to stay where you are, and trust the wisdom of your King; and scold you for even having considered otherwise. Your friend, Laurefindil, however…”

His voice trailed off; and he averted his eyes from Anardil’s scrutinising gaze.

“Yes?” his friend urged. “What says Laurefindil?”

“Laurefindil remembers your hand on his shoulder as you shook him from his worst dreams,” he said slowly, “and he trusts you. He trusts that you shall find the right path, whatever it may be, and however difficult it may seem. And just incidentally, he tells you that the Lord of the Golden Flower, before whom you should certainly not reveal yourself, shall lead the right wing of the host, occasionally scouting ahead; and The Lord of the Fountain, before whom you should definitely not reveal yourself, shall lead the left. If I was a traitor seeking to avoid my King, I would follow the Lord of the Golden Flower; yet not too closely, lest he would get wind of my being there. Which he would of course have to reveal before the King, for his duty would compel him so. And yet if he had no way of knowing I was there — what could he do, then?”

“How is telling me this any different than helping me escape yourself?” Anardil raised his brows.

“I certainly shall not help you do this,” said Laurefindil. “I cannot. And yet I know how heavy it is on the heart to be plagued by foreboding, helpless against the darkness, the doubt, the malice of it. And I trust you, my friend: I trust your decisions. I know that you fear that the shadow of your torment is upon you still, but I do not believe so. You have grown much since you have come here; or it may be just that you have become yourself again. You have come to me for counsel, and yet the only counsel I can give you is that you should listen to your own.”

Anardil took a deep breath. “I hear you.”

Laurefindil took his hand, and kissed his fingers. “Fear not,” he said. “Better days are ahead; but in order to bring them about, we must first fight. I ride at dawn with the vanguard, then I shall wait for my men in the vale; I would better get dressed. Will you help me? So many layers go under the mail; Anor shall climb up the skies and sink down again by the time I would don them all alone.”

“I would not know how,” said Anardil.

“You need not know; for I will tell you.”

“You’re being very obvious.”

“Me? Certainly!” Laurefindil tilted his head. “I am not a patient Elf, as you very well know. I would like some help — now get me dressed!”

“Who did you dream of?” Anardil tried.

“I wish I knew,” said Laurefindil; and not much more was said between them as the soft, padded layers were donned, one by one. Then he slipped into his mail shirt, then a tabard of deep, rich green with the golden flower of his House, and fastened his sword belt. Anardil then wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, slid his dagger into its sheathe, and fastened it to the side of his off hand, the way he would wear it lately. Then, he reached for his helmet; and Laurefindil frowned.

“Nay, Valar! Not yet — I shall certainly not deprive myself of sunlight, and the wind on my face!”

“And what if you deprived yourself of the delicious sensation of having your skull broken instead?” Anardil inquired.

“Now you are just being difficult!” Laurefindil laughed. “Who shall seek to break my skull in the fair valley of Tumladen? The sparrows, perhaps?”

“Ecthelion tells me that your head is like an empty bucket,” Anardil declared. “You have simply forgotten to wear a helmet to most of the Great Battles of the history of your people.”

“Helmets are heavy and cumbersome!” Laurefindil rolled his eyes. “And after a few days, the air starts to smell inside them. Worry not: I shall carry mine, but do not expect me to rejoice of it.”

“As long as you carry it on your head,” said Anardil.

“Until we meet again, my friend,” he answered with a smile. “Be at peace, for whatever must come, shall come.”

With that, he was gone; and soon enough Anor painted the skies purple, then red, then golden. Turukáno’s vanguard left the Hidden City, and Laurefindil of the Golden Flower rode with them, carrying both sword and spear, as well as the dagger that hung from his belt.

He longed to believe what he said, and he longed to be the beacon of shining hope that his people saw in him; and yet he was silent and grave in the beautiful morning, and his thoughts plagued him still.

Had he made a terrible mistake? Could he have entirely misjudged his friend?

Nay, he thought with quiet conviction as he rode through the Gate of Gold, Tyel would never.

✶    ✶    ✶

Meanwhile, in the fortress of Barad Eithel

“Of course you have never seen anything like it! It is called The Unseen for a reason. Yet is that all you can tell me? It is not called The Unspeakable, my dear Counsellor. Say something similar, or adjacent, or tangential! I wish to know what it was like.”

The High King of the Noldor, at first glance, was seething with wrath under a rapidly thinning surface; but Tyelcano, who knew him better then most, guessed that his notorious temper was battling his curiosity of legend.

“Of course you do,” he said, “and yet it would take a greater storyteller than me to describe things that were never meant to be revealed before the Firstborn. All I can say is that I went there, and I saw an appearance of the one who sent the dreams; and he warned me of the might of Moringotto, saying that his wrath had turned against us.”

“So the mighty Master of Dreams took all this trouble to warn us of things we already knew?” Findekáno quirked an eyebrow. “Do the Valar think we are this imbecile, or this arrogant?”

“We have no way of knowing if he is indeed of the Valar,” said Tyelcano for the third time, keeping the strain out of his voice with painful deliberation. “We can only hope so.”

They had ridden through the better part of the evening, and came to the gates of the fortress at nightfall; and almost immediately he was sat down with the High King in his study room to exchange news. Dinner was served — Findekáno, just like Nelyafinwë, seemed ready to forsake traditions of polite dining —, but their food remained untouched. Hunger ate at Tyelcano’s stomach like a fanged beast, and his thoughts were twisted into uncomfortable knots. He could not permit himself to reveal too much; but hesitating at the wrong moment or remaining silent when he should have reacted would have seemed deeply unnatural.

“Am I tiring you?” Findekáno looked at him sharply above the table. “Or do you not trust me all of a sudden? After all, I can only imagine what memories my dear brother has retained about my character.”

Tyelcano caught his hand above the table, and kissed it.

“Forgive me!” he said. “Ondolindë is a remote and secret place; and habits of war are easy to unlearn. Let me tell you the shameful truth, my King — I have not skipped a meal for almost three years now, and I have been riding for a day and a half. My thoughts are muddled and words flee my lips.”

Findekáno’s face melted so quickly that it was almost dizzying; and he felt a pang of guilt for misleading him, even if he spoke the truth.

“Ai, my friend, it is you who should forgive me. I am being a terrible host. But enough of that! I shall eat with you while we talk. No just King would torment you any longer; and I am hungry myself.”

He picked up a piece of bread and dipped it absently into the honey jar — definitely not the way the cooks intended, Tyelcano thought absently —, and pushed the bowl of roast closer to the front of the table.

“I did not expect you to know that I had dared the Unseen,” he admitted, snatching a piece of cheese from the plate. “If I had, I would have sought to find better words for it. Even in the Blessed Realm, few had ever walked those paths; and none could accurately describe what they had seen. Turcafinwë could not, for one.”

“Well, we do not love him for his silver tongue,” said Findekáno with a knowing smile. “You, on the other hand, are one of the most eloquent of speech I have ever met. It would certainly cause you no grief to describe the indescribable unless you sought to hide something from me. Spare me of it, perhaps. A grave accusation, you might say! And yet I cannot help but think that your curious silence could somehow be connected to the observation of young Antalossë who warned Nelyo that at one moment during council, his Easterling captains were deeply terrified. Almost as if some secret plan of theirs had gone awry… Am I wrong?”

The world stopped. Tyelcano dropped his food most unbecomingly and stared at the King speechless, heart pounding fiercely in his chest.

“...and you, Counsellor, are also terrified; for you still think me a child. You fear that if you told me too much, I would be consumed by rage and grief, and rush east to rescue my cousin from a threat that might not even exist; and thus all our designs would be for naught! You are terrified to disturb the precarious order you perceive; and yet loyal as you are, you could not bear to sit idly. I understand that; but you should learn to trust me more.”

“Ai, that you should both know of this!” Tyelcano cried, unable to contain himself any longer. “That my message had been heard! That all should not be lost! Ai, what joy!”

And he held his hand to his chest, eyes brimming with tears of relief; and Findekáno sprang from his chair, came to him, and hugged him tight.

“There is still hope indeed,” he said, “more than I have ever felt since I’ve crossed the Grinding Ice and came to these lands in cold starlight. Never shall I forget the way Anor had first risen, like a ball of wrathful fire, over the ruins of the first Battle. Hope, then, was a foolish thing: one that I was begrudged for, discouraged of, yet stubbornly have I clung to it. For there is comfort in foolishness, and courage can be taken from impossible odds. We know much of our Enemy’s plans; and we are prepared to stand our ground against his Power. But we are also prepared for the alternative! This message from the one who calls himself the Master of Dreams could, in fact, be a ruse: a treacherous plot to turn us against our sworn allies. Nelyo has taken the risk of keeping the Easterling forces in his host, but he has not taken it blindly. We cannot keep choosing kin over ally, he told me; and yet I know that his vigilance never sleeps. Fear not, Servant of the Star! You have defended your cause, saved our family once more, and now you may rest. There is no need to watch my every move, lest I would fall into some terrible trap. I know where the trap is.”

Tyelcano could not speak for a time. Relief washed over him, fëa and hröa, like a flood of warm water. The temptation to tell Findekáno everything was suddenly overwhelmingly great; for what could he be afraid of, truly…?

And yet instinct warned him against speaking: some secret compulsion that he could not define. He had promised to say naught, after all: to keep Turukáno’s plans in utmost secret. He had given his word and he had to keep it, even if it caused him discomfort.

His lord would have done so, he was sure of it. Such pledges were not easily unmade; and Nelyafinwë always kept his word. And what was he, if not the extension of his will?

Findekáno sat with him for a long time, shoulder to shoulder, and Tyelcano did, finally, eat; although a quiet little voice in the back of his mind soon began to insist that he’d start diminishing his portions. It was easy to fall out of the habit of deprivation, and even easier to unlearn the unpredictability of war. He had failed to consider this while training with his friends, because so had they, and because everything outside Ondolindë had started to feel like a dream.

What if he had to go without food for a week? Two weeks? Three weeks? The valour of the Eldar was remarkable, but the secret to endurance was simple habit.

“I will show you to your rooms myself,” said Findekáno when he put down his fork. “There is light in these halls again now, and music, and conversation; but I shan’t subject you to them, not tonight.”

Together, they left the room, and Tyelcano was thankful to be left out of the festivities, and allowed time to think instead. He knew that he would not be able to meet anyone from the house of Fëanáro before the battle, but he had hoped that his lord might leave him a letter, of have a spoken message delivered to him. Many news reached Gondolin about Nelyafinwë’s dealings in the past few months, but most of them had sounded like forgeries.

And yet...

The first thing he glimpsed in the guest suite prepared for him was his favourite helmet. Someone had left it upon the nightstand, vambraces and gloves placed neatly in front of it; and he felt a rush of indescribable warmth in his chest.

Then, he saw the full set of armour donned on a dress form of his size — no doubt made by Curufinwë’s own hand to the last ring of steel — and the warmth turned to ice.

How could he have forgotten…!

“Tyel?” Findekáno was frowning with concern. “What is it? You look shaken.”

“I —” Tyelcano shook his head. “You will laugh at me. Oh, Findekáno, I am sure you will laugh at me; and deservedly so, I might add.”

“This is not how I thought this conversation would go,” Findekáno admitted with discernible interest.

“I am facing the choice of who I should rather offend,” said Tyelcano, “your nephew Lómion, who has made me the set of armour I am wearing now, or Curufinwë, who promised me a new one before I left my home. Ai, what shall I do now? I cannot wear them both; and whichever I discard, its maker shall hear about it. Word travels far.”

“I see,” said Findekáno airily. He pinched some rings of Tyelcano’s mail between his fingers. “My nephew made this, you say? It seems that he has learned quite the craft from Eöl.”

“So you know about it.”

“I know more than you think.” Findekáno raised an eyebrow. “And a noble, generous king as I am, I might be able to help you out of your moral conundrum. We still measure the same sizes everywhere, do we not? And my hips are just a hair’s breadth wider.”

“Are you saying…”

“I shall, with your permission, wear the armour of your choosing. Such a solution should satisfy everyone, I think.”

Tyelcano thought about the offer for a moment. “Then you should wear Lómion’s,” he said. “It is far more richly adorned than any set of mail I have ever donned. It does indeed fit a King! And — you may not know this, for I never told the lord, but Curufinwë and I have had quite the row not long before my parting. I wish to humour him.”

“Aye, I know,” said Findekáno, mirth dancing in his eyes. “He told me himself.”

“Did he now?” said Tyelcano, trying in vain to hide his astonishment.

“Indeed, my dear Counsellor, much has changed in the House of Finwë since you saw us last. Curufinwë and I are secret allies now. Conspirators, you might say.” He found it hard not to flinch at the sudden sharpness of Findekáno’s glance. “In the past few months, I often found myself wishing I could speak to you about it.”

“To me?” Tyelcano stared back. “Why so?”

“Because I hoped you would go against Nelyo’s command for my sake.”

“That you would ask me in vain,” said Tyelcano without even blinking.

“Is that so?” Findekáno tilted his head, and impossibly, he was smiling. “We both know that you did once. The day before the siege broke on the Himring. You disobeyed him because it was the right thing to do.”

“I did so because I had sworn to protect him,” said Tyelcano sharply. “With an oath perhaps less terrifying than his; yet no less binding for me.”

“You were saving your King, because that is who he is to you,” said Findekáno, “as he should be. Do you still not understand? I am unlike my brother; I never wished to rule, nor was I made for it. I was made for deeds, not contemplation of risk; and the abandon of valiancy instead of the measured constraint of responsibility. Well loved as I may be, I am not the leader of our family, even; never was, and never will be. The crown should come back to Nelyo: the one who is most deserving of it. He may not have been so, the day he gave it to my father; but he certainly is now. He is the Enemy of the Enemy, not me. He is the one holding this Alliance together. He should be King; and I should be the prince taking impossible risks.”

Tyelcano opened his mouth to speak, then closed it without a sound.

“…Curufinwë, unsurprisingly, agrees with me on this,” Findekáno went on, visibly relieved to finally speak his secret to someone. “For his own reasons, of course, but he does, and that is enough for me. Since we both want the same thing, we made a pact. It is very simple, and most beneficial to him: should our alliance come back from this battle victorious, I, as High King of the Noldor give him pardon after the battle, and help him salvage his reputation — although he has done wonders for it himself lately —, then he helps me get rid of the burden of kingship in return. He gets that Silmaril back from Thingol without bloodshed and makes peace with the people of Nargothrond. Thus, the crown goes back to the House of the Star.”

Tyelcano schooled his features into an expression of polite interest.

“A remarkable endeavour,” he said, “however —”

“I know,” Findekáno nodded. “There is that irksome Oath.”

“Irksome is not the adjective I would use; but aye. There is the Oath.”

“And yet, if it was fulfilled… if the Jewels could be taken back from the Dark One… did you know that Curufinwë succeeded, against all odds? That Thingol promised to give the third Silmaril back as a token of peace if we vanquish the Enemy?”

“It takes a certain kind of audacity to offer something that is not his,” Tyelcano remarked.

“Very magnanimous indeed. Still — he promised. And if we indeed came back victorious, the saviours of the land, who could refuse us? Who could stand in our way? Who would dare question us? And in such an event, who else could wear the crown of Finwë than the Warden of the East? The one who has withstood the Enemy and defied him? The one who united all the Free Peoples of Beleriand?”

“You defied him too,” said Tyelcano. “The crown is yours; and do not think that you are undeserving of it, or that you are unfit for the duty that comes with it.”

“But I was not made for it!” Findekáno sighed. “And I certainly do not want it.”

“Neither does the lord, I think,” said Tyelcano slowly. “Still — were he freed from the burden of the Oath, and were all the Free Peoples of Beleriand begging him for it, he might take it once more.”

“Of course he would take it,” said Findekáno, “especially if his well-loved and well-trusted Counsellor told him so!”

Tyelcano looked away. “I doubt that. When have I ever moved his will? And even if I could, I do not believe I should; not about such things.”

“But you would love to see it, would you not?” Findekáno was looking at him closely. “You would want him to be King.”

“I would want him to be free of the Oath, above all things,” said Tyelcano softly. “But I do not know if that is possible. And mark my words, High King: as long as he is held by it, you will never get your heart’s desire. Neither do I think you should.”

They sat in silence for a while, the weight of things unsaid settling in the air; and Tyelcano was suddenly glad of the rain still pattering on the roof, though it had made his journey to Barad Eithel largely miserable.

“I am disappointed,” said Fingon suddenly. “All these sudden revelations and whispers in confidence, and you will not even ask what made Antalossë discover the ruse we suspect?”

“I believe it has something to do with the parchment you kept glancing at for most of our conversation,” said Tyelcano, and he smiled from the depths of his heart. “But for the sake of the moment, forget I ever noticed. What was it, o Valiant One? Shall your hand now point at the undoing of our enemies?”

“My brother’s diamond jail did wonders to your sense of humour,” Fingon remarked. “Though Nelyo insists you have always had one. So be it! Witness our Secret Plan to instill terror into anyone who looks upon us. Terror at our state of sanity, most probably.”

He unrolled the parchment and Tyelcano saw it was a map. He took a moment to observe the outlines of the Iron Prison and the surrounding lands, then looked up at the High King of the Noldor again, his face still as a statue.

“Truly, Findekáno,” he said, “more strongly than ever before am I now ready to believe that those Men were, in fact, only frightened.”

Fingon looked at him with barely veiled disappointment.

“Is that all? I thought you would at least call us deranged idiots, muddle-headed lackwits or suchlike!”

“My personal assumptions about your sanity of mind are of little significance,” said Tyelcano, not without mirth. “In the Year of the Flames, if I well recall, the lord contrived a similar venture, albeit without as much preparation as a map. Scrupulous as I may, at times, seem to you, I never fail to recognise character growth.”

“How kind.”

“Truly, Findekáno,” he went on softly, “I would hate you — anyone, but especially the two of you — to go back there. Still, if we are to reclaim the Jewels, this shall be necessary; and so we shall all go. Now, if I must pay visit to the Iron Prison, a map would be most welcome indeed. I would hate to cast myself into the Dungeon of Eternal Roaring Fire instead of a simple sewer merely because I wished to pass an Orc patrol unseen.”

Surprised, Findekáno laughed. “Truly, what happened to you? Nothing is ahead but darkness, and yet your heart is lighter than I have ever known it to be.”

“It is good to be back,” said Tyelcano, although an unexpected pang of his heart reminded him that Laurefindil, Ecthelion or Anardil would not have been nearly this taken aback by his mirth. “There were times when I feared I would never be.”

“He left you a letter, you know,” said Findekáno suddenly. “Nelyo. You should read it. And I should clear my head. Talking in confidence eased my heart; still, I am weary as I seldom have been.”

He turned away, but Tyelcano reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

“You are a good King with a kind heart, son of Nolofinwë,” he said. “Whatever comes to pass, remember that.”

He had glimpsed the letter himself, of course, well before Findekáno left: the parchment sat in the middle of the desk, in front of a large window, waiting to be read. It was sealed by the imprint of his lord’s ring; the wax had crackled around the edges, indicating that the message had been left months, perhaps a year ago.

Bracing himself, Tyelcano broke the seal. The letter rolled open at once, revealing his lord’s still-clumsy left hand writing.

Counsellor,

By the time you read this I shall be far away, preparing for war.

I have promised you one day, under the same Midsummer sky, that I shall aspire to be the leader you deserve. I feel closer to that ideal now than I did back then; close enough to know that I shall never reach it. You have walked with me through fire and death, and now I must lead you to darkness even deeper. Together we shall see the dawning of our new world, or the undoing of it all.

Whatever trust you have in me, my friend, I have more in you. Take all the rest that you can, and keep an eye on my cousin.

Many things have come to pass since you left home; too many indeed to list them all in a letter. Findekáno will tell you all that you need to know; the rest, I hope, we can discuss later. Still — for the sake of entertainment, I must leave you a riddle. Among these seven impossible things below, there is only one that never came to pass. I shall let you guess which.

One: Tyelkormo woke an Ent from his sleep. Since he managed to mind his manners for once, the Ent led him unscathed through the enchanted woods of Queen Melian.

Two: Findekáno and I were almost killed by a dragon in the Crissaegrim when we came after you without a search party (as I am sure you would approve).

Three: Carnistir walked openly — and alone — into an Orc camp to save a puppy-dog. Or at least, this is what they say; for the sons of Bór the Easterling made it into a song.

Four: Curufinwë made a pact with Thingol to retrieve the stolen Silmaril if we win this battle. No blood was shed, no family curses were involved, and they parted amicably.

Five: I battled a Valarauko in form of a wolf, then wore its still bloody hide to council (as I am sure you would even more enthusiastically approve). It would have been great amusement, had that monster not burned down an entire wood in Mithrim while I was trying to kill it.

Six: I must now ride home to quiet an uprising in the Himring; for all its dwellers, even the cooks and the stable-boys wish to ride with me to battle and peril.

Seven: The Dwarven smith Telchar gifted me a sword of his own making. It comes with a new armour from Curufinwë, who has been perusing Eöl’s resources, materials and craftsmen in his absence.

You have them all now: my truths and my sole forgery. Which deed of great valour — or persistent idiocy — has never come to pass? Guess well, and prove that you know us more than we know ourselves.

We shall meet again, soon now, among both allies and enemies. Until then, you have my love.

Nelyafinwë

Tyelcano sat with the letter for a long moment, rolling the parchment back and forth between his fingers. Guess the Forgery was a game Maedhros had often played with his household in the year of the Flames, listing daring escapes, heroic deeds and near bitter ends; which is why he was delighted to see him subvert the first rule in such a subtle manner.

The most ridiculous, utterly phantasmagoric deed on the list always had to be a Truth; but forgeries could be either utter nonsense, or partially true — and some other times, utterly believable, yet completely untrue.

Tyelcano might have started his own list with “I knocked someone’s teeth out with a wooden sword and it got turned into a popular theatre play” and “I have become very dear friends with a Teler from Alqualondë who calls me Lord Mopey”. The lord would have struggled to decide which one was more ridiculous, only to find out they were both true — and likewise, at first glance there was absolutely no way under the sun that Curufinwë Fëanorion could have ever met the King of Doriath and walk away without starting a war. Compared to this seemingly blatant lie, the statement about Tyelkormo waking an Ent sounded perfectly reasonable; it said nothing about the presence or absence of a violent conflict, after all.

Still, knowing what he now knew of the agreement between Findekáno and Curufinwë, and seeing the banners of Doriath flap above the gates of Barad Eithel with all the other allied flags…

According to Voronwë, after all, no dragons lived in the Crissaegrim; only trolls.