The Seven Gates by Laerthel  

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Utúlie’n aurë

The appointed day of the battle dawns; and Tyelcano takes it upon himself to try and shield Fingon's army from the taunts of Morgoth's envoys. Meanwhile, at the other side of the plain, Celegorm and Curufin make a chilling discovery.

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From now on, up until the end, all chapters can (and will) contain:

TW: extreme violence, blood and gore
TW: dead bodies, postmortem wounds and mutilation
TW: torture (both physical and psychological)
TW: character death (both minor and major)

Please take these warnings seriously.

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FA 472, Midsummer

When the sun rose above the grey-blue line of the Oroquilta, the trumpets of the High King were sounded.

The morning was bright and the air smelled sweet, but it made Tyelcano more uneasy than joyful. The light of day, he knew, would soon be snuffed out by the soul-stifling darkness of the Enemy. Each time that darkness had fallen before, the Noldor could withstand it; still, his heart trembled at the thought of having to stand such a trial again.

When he tried to rest, the night before, he kept dreaming about the last precious hours before the coming of the Flames. His memory had preserved it all in minute detail: the pale stars above the Marches when they halted at the outermost guard-post with his lord; the bitter cold gnawing at his bones; the way he had succumbed to Nelyafinwë’s insistence to ride on despite his own fatigue and strain. And just as vividly he remembered the shelter under the earth that saved their lives; and the waveless sea of ash and death the world had become by morning.

For the first time since Tyelcano’s return to Beleriand, the Enemy had attacked without warning or pretence of parlay. In a matter of days, he laid both the forest settlements of Dorthonion and the wide plains of Ard-Galen to waste, and burned their defenders alive, killing them in their sleep — almost to the last Elf. Tyelcano supposed he would not commit to fairness this time, either: the Noldor had bested his captains too many times.

Still — Moringotto may know that High King and Warden are both ready to break his gates, drag him out of his own fortress, and call the Doom of Mandos to strike him instead of the Exiled; but he surely does not believe that everything he can and may do is already expected.

Surely, he does not believe that he might be the one to shed those unnumbered tears that were promised.

Standing atop the wall of Barad Eithel, armour gleaming in the brightening sunlight, Tyelcano of Himring almost believed it could happen so.

As if by higher ordinance, he then cast his glance further East, across the ashen desert of the Anfauglith to the baldened hills of Ladros. The morning air was crisp and clear; and though he could scarcely believe it, he saw — or thought he saw — the gathering of dust near the horizon, as if stirred by a large crowd. Straining his eyes further, he saw the glint of steel through the tumultuous cloud; and his heart swelled with hope.

“He is coming, is he not?” said Findekáno behind him. He was wearing the chainmail made by young Lómion, as he had promised, and the golden ribbons woven into his hair were gleaming in the soft light. “The Warden of the East is sailing the sea of ash. If only I could look at it without rage and regret! Not long ago it was a sea of wildflowers, and bright it blossomed from spring to fading.”

“So have many lands,” said Tyelcano. “But such slow decay is coming to an end now. Either Moringotto is vanquished, or he shall swallow our world.”

Findekáno remained with him as the morning passed, and noontide came. Antalossë stood guard behind, near to his King as always. Soldiers kept manning the guard-posts along the wall, silent, solemn, ready to fight.

Below them, hidden in the forest, was the entire might of Findekáno’s host, stationed in a long semicircle from northeast to southwest: archers, riders, spearmen and swordfighters; the valiant Men of Dor-lómin and Brethil with their crossbows and axes; a small force of Falathrim, sent by Círdan the Shipwright from the Isle of Balar; and the Doriath forces, led by Mablung and Beleg Cúthalion. And on the forefront, closest to the enemy line, waited Gwindor of Nargothrond and his company of warriors: all seasoned, all fearless, all survivors of the Flames.

Tyelcano met all the captains in the past few days; he was mostly received with kindness, or, at least, recognition. Nelyafinwë had apparently made sure everyone in the host knew who he was and which cantos of The Lay of the Warden he had inspired. The gesture flattered him at first, but soon he had to fight a surge of annoyance whenever someone started off with and below silver stars he rode, or but there was one last steadfast heart, and especially, into flame-whip bit his sword. To think that the lord had to endure this every day…!

The Secondborn made Tyelcano wonder. He had never been overfond of mortal men: they grew to adulthood too quickly, burning high as a flame, yet waning within a blink of an eye; and yet Findekáno held them in great esteem. Their leaders came from the House of Hador, to which the legendary Dragon-helm of the Dwarves had finally come — Tyelcano vividly remembered the diplomatic conundrum caused by the simple fact that neither his lord nor Findekáno was fit to wear it —, and the younger two, Húrin and Huor, had apparently been raised by the elder, Haldir of Brethil, who was also their uncle through his wife, Glóredhel.

Tyelcano liked the two brothers best: they were still young, valiant and vigorous, quick to boast and even quicker to laugh. No matter how many years he spent east of Aman, he could not shake his uneasiness around Men or Dwarves who were visibly aging, but he could not deny that Haldir had the air of a calm and measured commander; far more than Gwindor, at least, who seemed to grow increasingly more agitated as the appointed day of the battle grew close. Tyelcano did not think he was afraid, per se — he rather seemed to be seething with pent-up rage.

It had been a question of debate among the captains whether Gwindor or Húrin should be stationed further outside with their men. Haldir and Mablung suggested that the Nargothrond forces should be placed closest to the enemy line, experienced as they all were in field battles; still, Húrin and Huor wanted to remain closer to the fire, all too willing to avenge the wrongs inflicted upon their family. Gwindor himself, however, insisted on leading the vanguard.

“The Warden of the East gave me his word,” he said. “He promised that the two of us would meet on the battlefield and break through the Iron Gate shoulder to shoulder.”

“If so he promised,” said Findekáno, “then so it shall be.”

Thus, the matter was settled; and Tyelcano breathed a sigh of relief that the High King did not decide to stand there himself. Húrin and Huor were stationed right at the feet of Barad Eithel, and Haldir further up North with the main host. The Doriath forces were led south, along with the Falathrim; and Tyelcano himself resolved to no longer leave Findekáno’s side.

A sharp intake of breath called his senses back to the present. Suddenly, he was waiting atop the high wall again; the rising wind made the flags flap in their holders, and Antalossë stood next to him, eyes wide and frightened.

“He has seen us,” he whispered. “He knows!”

“He has known for a long time,” said Findekáno. “He has been expecting a challenge.”

Far North, above the hostile line of the Ered Engrin, a cloud was gathering. The Nightfall of Aman itself had not been this black; the nameless darkness sourced above Thangorodrim, then rapidly, it began to take over the skies like a rolling shroud of gloom, swallowing the daylight as it still danced atop pools and streamlets in the Fen of Serech. The painted windows of Barad Eithel lost their glow, and Tyelcano could no longer see the silvery gleam of lances that heralded the coming of his lord.

He is out there alone, he thought. He is out there, and the Enemy is wrathful.

Nay, he battled his own despair, not alone, never alone. He has allies; and we are awaiting him.

“Now comes the greatest test of our endurance,” said Findekáno beside him. “We have gathered all the forces we could; but shall it be enough, I wonder? Still, there is no use for such rumination. We must do what we can.”

Glancing up at the High King, Tyelcano saw the weight of doubt settle on his brows as his eyes searched for the Iron Prison in the North. He then looked at the silent line of the Oroquilta, remembering the great city hidden beyond; and his heart soared with hope, and quiet certainty.

“Have no fear,” he said, “for you are stronger than you think. Have no fear, for the Enemy is not as all-knowing and all-powerful as he fancies himself. Have no fear, for you are not alone!”

And even as the dark cloud reached the Fen of Serech, even as the Sun hid and the land darkened, the call of a trumpet was heard above the watchful lands; and there was a great cry of astonishment, then wonder, then joy, fierce and unbridled. For another trumpet answered the call, and yet another, and yet another; one for each of the Twelve Houses of the Singing Stone. Across the vale, the banner of the King of Gondolin was raised, and then those of the other Houses, one by one; and the great forces of the Hidden City showed themselves at once with bright mail, and long swords, and spears like a forest of slender, gleaming thorns.

For a long moment, Findekáno said nothing; but his eyes were bright, and for the slightest moment, his lip trembled.

“Did I not tell you, High King,” said Tyelcano, unable to hide his smile, “that I have done everything within my power? Did you truly think I would come alone? Did you, in your heart of hearts, believe that your brother would abandon you?”

“Nay,” said Findekáno slowly, “not for a long time. But why, kinsman? Why would you hide such a thing from me?”

“Because so I promised,” said Tyelcano, “and because such was the condition of my release.”

“Aye, that is very much like Turukáno!” Findekáno sighed; but his smile was radiant.

“Majesty?” called Gildor’s voice from the direction of the courtyard.

“Aye, Inglorion, my brother is here with — Counsellor, how many…?”

“Ten thousand.”

“Ten — nay, you must be jesting!”

“Then thousand, I said!” Tyelcano crossed his arms with mock secrecy. “And I may have hidden a few dragons under my cloak as a last resort.”

“Even then I would no longer be surprised!” Findekáno laughed from his heart.

He was still standing atop the wall beside him. The crown of the House of Finwë gleamed like a thousand stars upon his head; power was in his hand, and wisdom on his brow. And suddenly he cried out in his great voice —

“Utúlie’n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatarni, utúlie’n aurë! The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!”

And all those who heard his cry as it echoed in the hills, answered,

“Auta i lómë! The night is passing!”

At first it was only the guards. Then, the bowmen. Then, the main host picked up the cry, and carried it to the lips of Mablung and Beleg and Gwindor and Haldir. The night is passing! The cry went up strong, again and again, proud against the Darkness Tyelcano had once thought would be everlasting. Again and again it flared up, reverberating from cliff walls and echoing in hollows; swimming in the cool air of the Fen of Serech, sliding through the woods of Mithrim and stirring up the dust of the Anfauglith. The night is passing! The day has come!

“This is your doing, lord, is it not? And it has been all along!”

Tyelcano turned back, surprised. Húrin Thalion was running up the stairs, face swimming in sweat; but his eyes were bright, and his smile wide as he bowed before the High King.

“I should have known the King of Gondolin would answer the call,” he said. “What a day of glory! And this is why I have come to you, Majesty: there are envoys crossing the valley. From your brother, I expect. Gwindor’s men have taken notice of their coming. Who shall receive them?”

“Station them at the Mouth of Sirion with the host,” said Findekáno, “and bring the leader up here yourself. If my brother has a message for me, I want you to hear it. Leave Huor with your men, and Haldir with his; but bring either Mablung or Beleg, and Inglorion, too.”

When Húrin left, Tyelcano glanced at him.

“Your brother may have sent someone who saw the dreams, or knows of them,” he said in a low voice. “In such an event, you might wish to have some privacy.”

“Of course,” said Findekáno, but he barely listened as they descended to the courtyard with Antalossë at their heels. Tyelcano knew better than to speak; he merely kept his steps slow and level, his shoulders straight and his face solemn.

“Do you think he shall come himself?” Findekáno said suddenly.

“Allowing two allied kings to meet this close to the enemy line would break every principle of warfare ever known to our people,” said Tyelcano softly, “and you know it.”

“Nelyo would try.”

“Certainly; yet I would argue against it until the dawning of the next Age.” Against courtesy and convention, Tyelcano took the High King’s hand into his own, and squeezed it. “You may hold a grudge against your brother,” he whispered. “You may disagree with many of his choices. You may even deem him callous or over-careful, but never think that his thoughts have left you even once since he had turned away from the shores of Vinyamar. Never think that he did not rouse his City the minute he understood that a trap may have been laid for you!”

No more words were spoken between them until the gates were opened; and there was a great commotion in the courtyard as the riders came through. Banners and entourage were left behind, and Húrin rode proudly ahead with Beleg Cúthalion of Doriath. As the leader of the envoys came closer, Tyelcano saw that it was Laurefindil, clad in the vibrant green and brilliant gold of his house. He wore an easy smile, golden hair floating freely about his shoulders; because of course he did not care to wear his Valar-forsaken helmet.

Tyelcano waited in silence as his dear friend dismounted, came to Findekáno and gave a graceful flourish of a bow.

“Greetings to the High King of the Noldor from his brother, the King of the Hidden City and the Singing Stone,” he said. “He comes to you, Majesty, in this hour of battle and peril to aid your endeavour. If you so wish, I shall bring word from you directly to him, agreeing on signals and commands.”

“Send my greetings, then, to Turukáno,” said Findekáno, clasping Laurefindil’s hand in a warrior’s greeting. “His coming is dearly welcome, if unexpected. Some of our plans may be known to you already, the rest I shall reveal. Come now!”

The commanders stood in a circle in a quiet corner of the courtyard, discussing battle plans — stationing, numbers, escape routes — and Laurefindil gave an overview of the Gondolin army.

“I shall lead the right flank, and Ecthelion the left,” he said. “But if we are to join forces, let us not do so near the Serech. Those marshlands are treacherous for those who know them not.”

“The first thing the Enemy shall do is try and separate us,” said Húrin. “Already he must be plotting how to get out of the pit we have put him in. An entire secret army! We could attack now, and strike him fast. West, South and East: he is surrounded!”

“Nelyafinwë is too far yet,” said Findekáno. “And that is not what we agreed upon, either.”

“There may be provocation, Majesty,” said Húrin, “and my men are getting impatient.”

“So are we all,” said Tyelcano, “and yet, the more provocation is witnessed, the more I advise that we stay put.”

“You think there is a trap?” Húrin looked at Findekáno, then Tyelcano, then Laurefindil. “Nay: you know there is a trap!”

“We do not know anything,” said Tyelcano, but Húrin was barely listening.

“Even if he laid a trap, he could not know that a third army was coming!”

“Which is exactly why his taunts and blackmail may get worse,” said Tyelcano. “Morgoth is sly and powerful, but his anger rises fast, and it often yields oversight. Let us stay put, and wait for the Lord Warden. I say we should not make unnecessary sacrifices: we have suffered enough loss since the Flames, and soon we shall suffer more.”

“As much as I would love to charge in righteous fury, I shall heed your words,” said Findekáno.

“Such are the orders I was given as well,” said Laurefindil. Then, hesitating, he looked at Tyelcano; and as soon as their eyes met, he knew that his friend was deeply perturbed under the sunny surface. “The King also said… in case you have not already revealed…”

Tyelcano held his gaze without blinking.

“My message had come through,” he said. “It is known. All of it.”

“All of it?” If he knew him just a little less, he would have thought that Laurefindil’s face brightened; but his joy remained on the surface.

“In case you are referring to our favourite Counsellor’s trip to the Unseen World to warn his lord beloved, then yes, I do know of it!” Findekáno said with a smile. Húrin stared at them wide-eyed, Beleg of Doriath did not even try to hide his childlike wonder, and Inglorion exclaimed,

“You did what?!”

“It seems that all is well, then,” said Laurefindil. “I am glad to have spoken to you, High King. May we next meet on the battlefield, victorious!”

“May it be so!” Findekáno answered. “Bring my brother my thanks, and tell him to wait. Heed the signal of our vanguard in any other event.”

Laurefindil bowed, and for a moment, he seemed resolved to leave; but he spent an unduly amount of time checking the stirrups of his horse, and when Tyelcano walked past him, he felt a tug on his cloak.

“Can we talk?”

His friend’s lips barely moved; and so did Tyelcano’s as he answered.

“I am guarding the High King of the Noldor in a major event of war. It better be important!”

Laurefindil squeezed his gloved hand so much it hurt.

“New dream.”

“You should not have allowed yourself to see one. The Windlord said…”

“I could not stop it!” Laurefindil kept his voice low but pleasant, as if they were merely conversing about the weather; but his eyes were cold. “I cannot possibly talk about it to anyone else. Forgive me, meldonya, but I must get it off my chest. I must…”

They had been standing too close to each other for too long. Their conversation was drawing eyes; and Findekáno was almost gone, headed back to the top of the wall.

“Come,” said Tyelcano urgently. Beyond the courtyard, the outer rim of the fortress was almost empty; and the guards were unlikely to pry on them. “Let us steal a moment to speak; but no more. So long we have laboured to set up this battle for our lords; we cannot desert them now!”

“I know,” said Laurefindil when they were alone, “but I must warn you in case my dreams come true. Tyel, I think... I think I am going to die.”

Tyelcano stared at him, tall and fair, strong and radiant, still smiling, like an incarnation of Anor itself in form of an Elda.

“…you are going to what?”

“Die,” said Laurefindil lightly. “Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon. And if I die, I shall be rather indisposed to warn you of what I have seen. For I have seen... dear friend, something dreadful shall happen to you!”

Tyelcano blinked. “Am I going to die too?”

He was no longer surprised at his own impassivity. Dying was of little significance if it meant that Findekáno and the lord kept living, and breathing, and fared well: he had learned as much of himself since the Flames.

“Worse,” said Laurefindil. “You were…"

“Captured?”

“No… maybe… I do not know! Maybe even worse than that. I saw you… ai, my friend, I can barely speak of what I saw!”

“Was I changed into a treacherous thrall? An Orc? A nameless creature of dread?”

“You were…”

“…a Kinslayer once more?”

Their eyes met; and Tyelcano drew a deep breath.

“Whatever must come, shall come,” he said. “All we can do is aspire to bring about the best possible outcome of our own fate. Hurry now; wherever you go, my thoughts shall go with you. Fare well, brave one — and for the sake of Manwë and Varda beyond the Sea, wear your helmet!”

That finally made Laurefindil smile from his heart. Tyelcano beheld him as he stood there with the gloom of Morgoth taking over the skies, yet never dimming his light; and it was then that he realised that the High King had come to fetch them.

“I have no wish to intrude upon a moment shared between close friends,” he said, “merely to aggravate you, kinsman, and have you ride ahead with me to the frontline.”

“If such is your wish, Majesty,” said Tyelcano, feeling more aggravated than he liked to admit. No High King of the Noldor could ever suffer to stay behind while his men fought, but he had hoped to stall Findekáno in Barad Eithel for a little longer. His wrath was mighty; and it would likely not require much provocation for him to charge upon the suspiciously quiet borders of their enemy.

And then —

People would die soon, Tyelcano knew: friends, acquaintances, guards, servants, soldiers, craftsmen and many others unknown; néri, nissi, Men and Dwarves. Laurefindil might die, as he prophesied; or Ecthelion, or Voronwë; or he might die himself.

But the High King must live.

The bone-deep weight of that duty settled on him for a moment.

“Ride with me,” said Findekáno then, and his light touch on his shoulder anchored him to reality. “I shan’t be safer here than anywhere else.”

Together, they left the courtyard and descended the stony ramparts.

“Tell all to wait until Nelyafinwë comes, unnecessary as such a warning might be,” said Findekáno to Laurefindil as they rode through the forest where the army was hidden. “My brother has never been known to act unwisely.”

His friend wore that surface-smile again, Tyelcano noticed; sunny and delightful, concealing anything and everything that was to be concealed — and right now, teetering at the edge of mischief, as if an idea had suddenly struck him.

“Some in our City deem his coming here deeply unwise in itself,” Laurefindil remarked, “and yet your brother could not be restrained. He would have come alone, if he had to, but many of us longed to fight. In fact, Majesty, a mutual friend to our dear Counsellor and myself insisted to have you know that most of the House of the Harp has come, and without their lord!”

“Salgant, was it?” Findekáno raised an eyebrow. “I must confess he is one I can hardly imagine defending the cause of others.”

“You are an excellent judge of character, Majesty,” said Laurefindil innocently. “Some sing that the good Lord Salgant has delved into gardening lately, and wields the Flower-Spade instead of the Sword. A fickle enjoyer of crafts, would you not say, Counsellor? When you left, it was still the Wooden Spoone.”

“The Lord of the Harp is a master of many crafts indeed,” said Tyelcano, his face set in stone.

Findekáno glanced at him, then at Laurefindil, then back at him.

“There is a jest hidden in your words,” he said, “and I shall hear it.”

“I assure you, Majesty, there is nothing funny about it!” said Laurefindil with mock indignation. “It is a Lay, about a Hero!”

Tyelcano looked sharply at him. “Captain, this is truly not the moment…”

But Findekáno grinned, and took his face between his gloved hands.

“You will not escape, o kinsman beloved! You must tell me the joke! ’Tis a command from your King. Make it a game of Forgery, if you wish.”

Tyelcano cast a pointed glance of exasperation upon Laurefindil.

“Such friend you are,” he said. “Very well, Majesty, I will tell you — on the condition that you may never, ever, under any circumstance, tell the lord.”

“Now you’re ruining it!” Laurefindil laughed. “I will personally make Anardil sing it to him!”

“You shall do no such thing!”

“Is it a song, then?” Findekáno tilted his head. “Let us hear it! I will ask for Húrin and his harp at once.”

“Majesty — ”

Yet even as the High King prepared to send for his favourite captain, the earth rumbled. The noise seemed distant at first, like thunder from afar, but away it echoed, shaking the earth under their feet. Tyelcano’s horse balked with a dismayed huff, and Findekáno pulled his own stallion to a halt, eyes transfixed on the far north. There was a commotion beyond the Anfauglith and before the Gates of Iron.

“He is coming now,” said Antalossë in a small voice. When all eyes turned to him, he lowered his head in shame; but Findekáno looked at him with kindness.

“Nay, young one,” he said, “not yet. Not until all his slaves are dead, his walls broken and his power diminished. He shall come only as a last resort to keep that accursed crown, and the Holy Jewels of the House of Fëanáro with it. Wretchedly small a triumph his last trial must have been: a Vala, brother to Manwë Súlimo himself, walking away from my father’s challenge alone, miserable and limping! Do you think he made the thralls of his tortured lands rejoice of such slaughter? Do you think they cried his praise to the prowling wolves?”

“The Enemy may not be coming himself,” said Laurefindil, “but someone is.”

Across the Anfauglith, another cloud of dust was gathering indeed, and many iron-clad feet tapped against the soil in unison. Beyond the tapping, Tyelcano heard the clatter of hooves.

“A troop has come forth!” said Inglorion, reeling his horse in. “We have not learned their exact numbers, for the dust they have stirred is too thick; but they are sallying forth with great haste, almost as if to overrun us. I presume, Majesty, that your brother’s arrival angered the Enemy, for they are numerous.”

“Very well,” said Findekáno. “Bring this command to all captains: stay put! Let the Enemy challenge us. Let his slaves run, and be out of breath under their iron garments; let them lose their courage as our mountains rise silent before them; let their feet tremble as the Serech swallows those that thread its paths without caution! We shall not go forth until the Warden of the East signals us so. We shall answer to neither teasing nor taunting, however hard the Enemy may try to have us stray from our plans!”

Inglorion hesitated. “There may be… extreme provocation,” he said cautiously, “the like of which we have endured in the Year of the Flames. What then?”

The lines of Findekáno’s face hardened.

“No one attacks until the beacon is lit in the East,” he said. “Whatever you hear, whatever you see, whatever is said to you, stand your ground, be patient, and wait. That is my last word.”

“As you wish, Majesty,” said Inglorion, and he was gone.

“What manner of extreme provocation have you endured?” Laurefindil inquired.

Tyelcano looked away. “We did not yield to it; and that is all I can say.”

“In any case,” said Findekáno tactfully, “I doubt that any Captain of Moringotto would resort to such brutality, not unless they believed all was lost. Let us all feast in Barad Eithel when the battle is won! And may good fortune, bravery and valiant deeds fall to our lot!”

“May the Valar be with you, High King,” said Laurefindil, bowing. “And with you as well, Servant of the Star and Hero of our Lays!”

“Wear your helmet!” Tyelcano retorted; and suddenly, it seemed to him that the growing distance between them could not be bridged again, not even if he walked the Unseen once more.

“You chose wisely,” he told Findekáno as they rode back through the woods. “That army is here for spectacle; the Enemy would never reveal his full power like so. He is provoking us.”

“Let us hope that the Orc-stench is the worst thing he shall provoke us with,” said Findekáno. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper, “And yet if his envoys came to the very edge of the woods, and brought forth my father, I do not think I could stop. This is a great fear I harbour.”

“Impossible,” said Tyelcano. “Your father is in Mandos. Thorondor himself brought him to the Hidden City when he fell. A great pile of rocks has been raised above him; and grass grows green upon it in the midsummer sunlight, even now. I have walked those mountain paths to pay my tribute.”

Findekáno squeezed his hand. “That comforts me; and so does knowing that Laurefindil is dear to your heart.”

“They have grown closer to me than most, him and Ecthelion,” Tyelcano admitted. “And so has another called Anardil, the company of whom you would most enjoy. Still, for the sake of our collective sanity, you must never meet him!”

“You make me curious! But my cousins and I shall all question you together; just you wait.”

The hours of the day lumbered on, and the army of Moringotto marched upon the Host of the West. Another, even larger troop set forth to meet Nelyafinwë, or so Gwindor’s messengers claimed; and yet the host in the East tarried still. The beacon remained unlit, and Findekáno’s host grew impatient. The army of Morgoth was not far now; it kept closing in, a thick, dark ribbon twisting and turning in the Vale of Sirion, wedged between the Ered Wethrin and the Echoriath. Their coming passed without incident apart from the occasional shout of obscenity, and some crude demands for the allied forces to come forth. As they progressed, they seemed to slow down, and their courage dwindled; for no response came from the silent woods and watchful mountains.

The sun set, then hidden, it rose again; and the wind brought smells of ash and death. Still the army marched on, and still the High King made no move; and still the banners of Nelyafinwë were nowhere to be seen.

“Why would the Lord Warden not come forth?” Húrin complained when he was next summoned for news. “He should have been here a day ago! Or is it two days already? We have seen him approaching — where is he? Could his valour have forsaken us in our greatest need?”

“Never,” said Tyelcano sharply, paying no heed that he had spoken before the King; but Findekáno only smiled.

“Nay, my friend — as my kinsman has wisely asserted through gritted teeth, Nelyafinwë is not one to forsake his allies.”

“Do not mistake my meaning,” said Húrin. “What if the Enemy has stopped him?”

“Never!” said Tyelcano pointedly, and the High King’s smile became wider.

“To give you an idea of the battle prowess of my cousin: can you guess what his preferred weapon came to be in the War of the Flames?”

“A battle-axe, perhaps?”

“A Balrog’s whip,” said Findekáno. “It was twenty feet long or so, and flaming with red fire; and when one cracked it, it threw sparks. Which is to say — my cousin is the kind of person who would casually walk around with such an article, to the utmost comfort to everyone in his surroundings, no doubt.”

“I have no doubt in his prowess,” said Húrin, “but I fear a trap. What if the Enemy learned of our true plans? Shall we still follow them?”

“He wants us to leave our posts, and run that troop over,” said Findekáno. “Trap or no, I shall not cater to the whims of Morgoth.”

He would say naught else, and Húrin walked away impatient and unhappy, eager to fight. So were his men, Tyelcano knew; and so was the entire western host, including himself.

A wicked wind rose from the North, stirring the dust again; the skies were dark, the ashes of the Anfauglith colourless in the blurred distance, and the mountains rose on the edges of the Vale of Sirion like greedy fangs. When Tyelcano’s sight cleared, he saw a great commotion upon the plains once more, and it seemed to him that the spears of his lord’s army had moved; and yet still the beacons were unlit, and nothing heralded their coming.

Glancing to the distant East, he felt a pang of uncertainty. His lord would not tarry, not unless something terrible befell him or his allies. But what could that be? Have the Easterlings truly forsaken him right before he would march into battle? He would still come then, of course, but his advance could only be achieved through terrible loss. Is he reorganising his entire army? Is he making a detour? Is he planning to surprise the Enemy as a means of revenge?

There must be by now, he assumed, whispers of treason within the army, probably the way Moringotto intended. He has ever been so eager to sow suspicion and enmity, then see it grown and harvested by others. This would be the perfect opportunity to turn the leaders of the Free People against each other: to make them cower in hiding and break under the pressure, riding straight into his trap.

And as he stood and waited, Tyelcano came to fear that the trap must have been laid twofold: once in case their forces ran down the approaching army, and once more if they stayed put.

“Still, we would better wait,” he advised Findekáno. “Not only do we have the high ground, but we know these lands. It seems to me that the Enemy’s captains have orders to drive us forth.”

So passed the third day of their waiting. Anor set beyond the mountains again, and the menacing dark mass of the approaching army faded into the blackness of the night upon the great plain. The next morning was cool and foggy, dewdrops glimmering like a thousand diamonds upon the trees as Findekáno gathered his captains once more among the forest-clad hills. At dawnbreak, the enemy forces were seen marching forth again, and they progressed as far as the inflowing of the Rivil into Sirion, just south of the Fen of Serech. Still none came forth to withstand them, and the mountains were silent and hostile; but not long after, as Inglorion reported, the army halted.

“Majesty,” he said, “they are asking for parlay. I believe they have prisoners.”

Findekáno was silent for a moment.

“Well, then,” he sighed. “Shall we hear what the Dark One has to say?”

“Foul things and forgeries,” said Tyelcano. “Stay here, I beg you!”

“Someone must receive these envoys,” Findekáno objected. “And it would be most unimaginative of Morgoth to capture me the same way he captured my cousin.”

“I do not think he would. Yet such a parlay shall likely raise a moot cause, or offer an impossible choice; the aim being, of course, to make you appear ruthless and cold in the eyes of your men. Which is why you would better send me.”

“Why you, and not another?” Húrin crossed his arms. “Do you deem yourself the most valiant of us all?”

“Not the most valiant,” said Tyelcano, “but the least kind. You are a brave man with a full heart, Húrin Thalion, and you have great love for all that is alive and grows: this much I have learned in our brief time together. Me? Weigh my heart’s desires, my kinsmen’s lives and all the treasures of my home in the West against a single command from my Lord; and I shall turn from them all, and do what I must. If I have to sit through fire and death and torment and despair, so be it! If the Enemy knew I was here, he would never place such a trial in front of you.”

He fell silent, suddenly afraid to have revealed too much; but Húrin only bowed, and Inglorion stepped back, and Antalossë stared at him with something akin with fear; and Findekáno gave a slow nod.

“Very well,” he said, “go if you so wish. I give you no command, for I trust that you shall make the choice that needs to be made. But beware, kinsman! Your heart may not be as bound by duty as you have been led to believe.”

Tyelcano sank into deep thought as his helmet was given to him, and his gleaming cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He deemed that he had no choice but to go; but his heart was heavy as he  rode forth. The ride seemed endlessly long, and the woodlands were silent and dark.

Somewhere beyond the gloom, Anor must have been high up in the skies by the time he made his way to the inflowing of the Rivil into Sirion, where Gwindor and his Nargothrond forces were stationed. Now, at the height of summer the water was low, and its ripples faint. Tyelcano could see his own reflection in the water, pale and grim beneath the glamour of battle, when his horse halted down the bank.

“Is it even worth talking to them?” One of the guards asked.

“Probably not — yet such are the manners of warfare.”

“Aye, the very same manners the Enemy keeps violating,” Gwindor remarked, “as the Lord Warden said himself when our plans were set.”

“I shall still do what I can,” said Tyelcano. “Now — if I ride forth, and they shoot me, you will do nothing. Understood?”

“We know our orders,” said Gwindor coolly.

“Do you?” Tyelcano stared him down.  “And if they drag me, shackle me and run off with me? Shall you stand your ground?”

“If that is the command I must follow.”

“It is.” Tyelcano turned away from him. “Whatever you see or hear, you stay exactly where you are.”

“So much caution for such a simple conversation!” said an unpleasant voice from the other side of the water. The Captain of Morgoth spoke in Sindarin, but he somehow made it sound foul. “It would seem that the brave Firstborn have forgotten the conventions of war! Indeed one should announce their coming before a conflict arises; and indeed there should be negotiation between foes, if you consider the Elder King as such.”

“The Elder King is dead: your master slew him and plundered his house,” said Tyelcano, driving his horse into the Sirion. The water was low here at the ford, even towards the middle of the riverbed, but the cool spray made his horse shudder. “Tell me, what manner of wartime courtesy allows for such a reproach after an unannounced attack that burned our lands down and killed thousands?”

“And how many times have the Noldor stormed our borders?” the Captain of Morgoth retorted. Tyelcano could see him clearly now, a tall silhouette on a dark horse at the other side of the water; perhaps one of the Secondborn, perhaps something else. “How many times have they hunted our King’s Orcs as if they were prey?”

“They become prey the moment they set foot in our lands,” said Tyelcano. “And an abomination, and a threat on our lives as you very well know. Have you ridden this far to have a back-and-forth about things of evidence? For my duties are numerous; and my time precious. Say what you have to say, and then begone! Too long have you raided our homes and ravaged our lands; and the Free Peoples of Beleriand have had enough. No longer shall you have us cowering in fear, crawling in the dust and fearing the nightfall! You could not destroy us. Not your Flames, not your dragons, not your Orcs storming our walls. Damaged but proud, we have endured; and it is said that your master would only face our King in single combat when he risked the mockery of bystanders. Even then, he walked away with a limp! What hope do you have under such a valiant leader?”

“Perhaps none,” said the Captain of Morgoth, “and thus this parlay is pointless. I must say I am surprised! I was told that the High-Elves were noble and kind, unavoidably stalled by moral questions easily overlooked by lesser beings. Or have you not considered, lord, that we may have brought tokens of parlay?”

The words settled upon Tyelcano’s chest like a great weight, cold, suffocating and deadly; but he did not allow himself to flinch.

“And what do you hope for when you taunt us so? Prisoners may be exchanged before, after, or even during a battle; but the price of their lives cannot be measured against the conflict itself. You know very well that warfare allows neither the liberty of kindness, nor of folly.”

“Very well!” said the Captain of Morgoth. “Swift you must be, then, if you wish to assail us; and steadfast, and unerring in your purpose! For thralls we do have with us — now that you have decided that they must indeed become thralls instead of currency in a fruitful agreement.”

Tyelcano knew that the prisoners were there. He had been aware of them when his horse had first waded into the Sirion; and he also knew that whatever was going to happen, he had to stand, and bear it. Turning away would have been disrespectful, and needlessly cruel.

Is that truly all I can do, though, a voice suspiciously similar to Laurefindil’s whispered in his mind, am I utterly doomed to just stand, and bear it?

His friends would do something indeed, he suspected, every one of them. Laurefindil would challenge the Captain of Morgoth to single combat, appealing to his pride and arrogance. Ecthelion would try to stall him with words, appearing treacherously gullible to Moringotto’s lies, only to back out at the last moment, after several precious hours have been wasted, giving one last chance to Lord Nelyafinwë to come forth. And Anardil — Anardil would simply annoy the envoys out of their minds.

The lord would think of something too, Tyelcano thought. He would not just stand here and wait for his allies to die. He would find a daring way of escape, exploit a turn of chance, perform some deed of surpassing valour.

But what deed?

Motionless, he waited, and the cogwheels of his mind were turning. There was, necessarily, something he could do. There had to be.

He could not take on the enemy captain and the whole army stationed behind him at once, that much was plain. He could not even draw his sword unnoticed — but he still had his lord’s dagger,  the one Nelyafinwë had given to Voronwë in the snowy slopes of the Oroquilta, hidden in his left boot with the hilt around it. If he was quick enough, he might be able to draw it unsuspected, then slide it over to the prisoner at the front.

The one that the captain was now grabbing. He seemed weak and famished, and barely able to stand, and yet —

And yet maybe, just maybe he could give him a chance.

“Be swift indeed!” The Captain of Morgoth cried. “For this is how we treat rebels and disruptors of peace; and with you, lickspittle of Maidros, we shall be even less kind!”

The prisoner was kicked to the front. His face, gaunt and haggard, was revealed from under the hood of his cloak; and Tyelcano saw with horror that his eyes had been burned out of their sockets.

No power on Arda could help him use that dagger, were it to land right in his palm, even.

He had to do something else.

There was nothing else he could do.

There had to be something —

But there was nothing.

“…indeed it shall be said far and wide that no mercy awaits escaped prisoners among the followers of the Elf-Lords!” The captain cried.

Silent. He had to remain silent.

And yet Laurefindil would not have. Nor Ecthelion. Nor Anardil.

Nor the lord himself.

The lord would have thought of something by now.

“How dare you?!” Tyelcano cried, barely aware of his lips forming words. “How dare you break all rules of parlay? Have you no decency? Not a modicum of respect? Lay a hand on him and the Valar themselves will strike you down!”

But the captain and his men only laughed.

“Let them! We shall believe it when we see it!” they hollered. “As for this one here, we may strike him down instead. We have many more such at home, but you must make haste if you would find them. For we shall slay them when we return, even so!”

The true objective of the murder, as Tyelcano later realised, was not provocation. He was not forced to sit through hours of torment the way he had been in the Year of the Flames.

What happened now was way too fast.

He had hardly had the time to reach the hilt of his dagger, the men of Morgoth had already grabbed the prisoner’s bound hands, and the great battle-axe had already been swung.

The first hand came, amazingly, clean off. To Tyelcano’s shocked, disturbed mind it almost seemed like a work of art: horrifying, but beautiful in its effective brutality.

He did not stand close enough to smell the blood, nor could it have possibly splattered on his face; and yet he could still smell it, still feel its heat. For a moment, he became all too aware of how close the vanguards of the two armies truly were to each other, and how he stood exactly between them. This helped anchor his concentration while the other hand was being cut off.

Less clean this time.

Red. Hot. Smeared.

There must have been screaming; but all he could hear was the rush of blood in his own ears, flowing just as freely within the confines of his hröa.

The axe was swung again, and the hand fell off.

The blood was red. So red that it burned through his closing eyelids.

He saw Nelyafinwë in Mithrim, sprawled upon what he thought would be his deathbed.

Red.

He saw Finwë, bone-white and hollow.

Red.

He saw Fëanáro, dissolving into a pile of ash.

Red.

He saw Aikanáro, battered and burned, half-face-half-naked-skull.

Red.

Bile rose to his mouth, bitter and aggressive.

Blood and bone.

He could hear the screams of the prisoner now.

Flesh and muscle.

The slow waters of the ford as they splashed and murmured beneath him.

White and rose.

His horse was neighing and pawing the water.

And red!

Gwindor’s men were shouting indiscernibly behind his back.

He would not vomit. He would not.

When the feet were hewn off, in one sweeping slash of some unknown sorcery, the prisoner finally collapsed. In a flash of clarity, Tyelcano realised that he had been grabbing his dagger by the blade instead of the hilt, and wide rivulets of blood were gushing forth from under his glove.

He had been as careless with his gauntlet as Laurefindil with his helmet.

Some foreign, soul-crushing weight settled on his limbs as the axe was swung once more.

The prisoner was still half-conscious when his neck was first hit, blood gushing forth from a main artery like some bizarre, red fountain. One more swing of the axe, and his ragged screams were muffled into wheezing.

Tyelcano bit his lip, hard by instinct. His mouth filled with blood.

The axe was swung again, and the body was shaken by a series of spasms; sudden and violent, like a puppet pulled by writhen strings.

One last swing of the axe, and the severed head rolled forth, turning upwards, fully revealing the face in front of Tyelcano and the vanguard.

He was suddenly, impossibly, reminded of Gwindor.

A little too much.

Far too much.

Another cry rose to the heavens behind him, shocked and dismayed and despairing and hysterical.

It may as well have been his own.

Tyelcano swallowed a rush of bile, throat burning as if pierced by a thousand needles. He had seen many evils, mourned many deaths and endured many means of torture; but never such brutality performed for its own sake.

The lord would have thought of something. Escape, revenge, or murder at the very least. He would not have been so shackled by the fear of rousing the army. He would not have been crushed by the  force of sheer violence.

Everything was still so very red. So very bright, so unfitting in the colourless landscape.

He would not vomit.

He would not.

He would rather choke.

The severed head stared him down, half-imagined eyes burning in their empty sockets; and there was nothing, nothing, nothing he could do.

And then, the earth trembled.

Tyelcano would not have been surprised if the very depths of Arda had opened in front of his feet to reveal a regiment of Valaraukar; but the only feeling Gwindor’s horse flying ahead left in his heart was the coldest, blackest dread.

Nay, this must not happen.

It must not.

They had orders!

That thought, finally, pierced the immaterial void of horror around him; and he came back to himself.

“HALT!” He screamed. “Stay put! Stay where you are! Remember the High King’s bidding!”

“HE WAS MY BROTHER!” Gwindor bellowed, his desperate grief kindled with the wrath of one irrevocably wronged. “HE WAS GELMIR OF NARGOTHROND; AND THE DARK ONE SHALL LEARN HIS NAME TODAY! NIGHT MAY HAVE FALLEN OVER MY HEART FOREVER — BUT THE NIGHT OF HIS CRUELTY IS PASSING! WE SHALL MAKE IT PASS!”

“THE NIGHT IS PASSING!” The riders of Nargothrond echoed, and ahead they sprung all at once, following their lord and ignoring his plea. Into the waters of the Sirion they rode, and before he knew it they were out on the further bank, racing along the secret safe paths of the Serech, and the envoys were dead; and behind them, silent and watchful like a living wall, stood the Enemy’s great army.

In a flurry of motion, his horse threw him off and on he galloped, chasing Gwindor and his men; and Tyelcano of Himring was left alone in the bloodied waters.

“HALT!” He cried, desperate. “COME BACK — THIS IS NOT THE WAY YOU SHALL HAVE YOUR REVENGE!”

But Gwindor paid him no heed. Blinded by rage and grief he rode on, and his men with him; and they slammed into the Orc army like the point of a lance. Behind them, the earth trembled once more, and Tyelcano heard the trumpets of the High King in reply as they soared over mist and ford.

He could have wept.

Almost against his will, he halted, watching the sudden onslaught with awe. The western army leaped from the hills, formidable and frightening, as if the wrath of the Powers themselves had been unleashed. The drawing of their swords was like a fire in a field of reeds; and so fell was their onset that nothing could stand in their way.

Tyelcano stood in the Sirion for a full minute, drowning in grief and wonder, before he realised that he was on foot, his chainmail was heavy with water, and he was completely alone.

And his own kinsmen were about to run him down.

✶ ✶ ✶

 

The scouts should have returned at sunrise; and Curufinwë should have been more concerned when they did not.

He had joined the vanguard because it was led by Tyelkormo, and because there was nothing else to do. He presumed that riding around was better than standing and waiting; this, however, meant full exposure to the ashen desert that remained of the once-green fields of Ard-Galen.

Anfauglith, they now called these plains in the lousy tongue, the land with the gasping dust.

The Sindarin name was lacking, of course, oblivious to the nuances of suffering, presuming without evidence that there was still a land underneath the mouldering dust that settled on his cloak like a blanket of dirty snow. Curufinwë knew better than to gasp, and swallow such air, stale even now at the height of summer, and under great empty skies.

What truly remained of Ard-Galen was hard to describe. Curufinwë had oft ridden through these fields during the Siege, in the few short years when Tyelcano was stationed in Aikanáro’s stronghold; and he was surprised how much he remembered, not only of the sights, but the sounds and the smells. He thought he had lost the ability to preserve new memories the way the Eldar pride themselves so much in doing — the lost beauty of Valinórë, the Darkening, the burning of the ships and that first, disastrous battle under the stars were far more real in his mind than anything that came afterwards. Still, he must have been happy here for a fleeting moment, or content at least; for trampling the skeleton of the land into the dust on horseback ripped the scab off a secret wound on his heart. If he closed his eyes, there it still was: the green sea of swaying grass, the call of Tyelkormo’s hunting horn and the echo of Huan’s steps as he broke into his thundering run. The horn now lay on the bottom of the river near Tol Sirion, and Huan rotted in the foreign soil of Doriath; and the wind whistled in his ears over the barren, empty lands.

Their scouting remained cruelly eventless.

The ones they sent ahead were still not returning.

The vanguard had ridden far ahead of the army, meandering around deep dells, pits and hollows left from the War of the Flames. Every now and then, the horses trodded over tree-stubs, scattered bones and other dead things; and every move they made stirred up more of the fine grey dust. The main host had not advanced since the dawning of the previous day; and whenever Curufinwë halted long enough for the dust to settle around him, he would glimpse the silvery gleam of their chainmails and weapons from afar. Tyelkormo kept glancing back at them as well; now tautening the string of his bow, now loosening it, now drumming on the hilt of his knife, now putting it away, now tightening the cloak around his shoulders, now undoing the clasp.

It was the third time they had ridden out to scout together that day, the hours of unavoidable standstill stretching into a test of patience, then a trial of endurance. There was nothing about warfare that Curufinwë hated more than this: the waiting. The silent balking between present and future, the slow moment of uncertainty before their fates would be, once again, set in motion.

That moment had stretched into almost a week now, prolonged further today by the disappearance of the scouts.

They had left the Himring in spring to gather both Azaghâl’s army and the Easterlings. The Ambarussar had come later than expected as well: they had ridden far and wide, even as far as Ossiriand, and came back with a force of Green-Elves. They mostly kept to themselves, as Nelyo and Kano kept to their own, Carnistir kept to his Easterlings, Tyelkormo to the open skies, and Curufinwë to his reservations about everyone else.

Azaghâl came not long after the Green-Elves, having assembled all forces the Dwarves of Ered Luin could spare. They were a fearsome sight: their armour thick from head to toes, their shields heavy and impenetrable, the visors of their helmets wrought into stern and unyielding masks of iron. Their feet were iron-clad also, like those of Orcs; but the sound of their steps did not shake the earth like a violation, but like a burst of anger from the core of Arda itself. The three armies joined on the borders of the March; and they waited for the rest of the Easterling forces to come.

Uldor and his brothers were late for several days now, unintentionally so, as it seemed; first a set of weapons went missing, then war supplies went awry, then a large part of their host was overcome by fear of the Enemy, and they could not be mustered for battle.

“Their lapse in courage is causing us great shame,” Uldor’s brother Ulfast had said, arriving in all haste from the south. “Our father pledged his sword to the Warden of the East; and though the Breath of the Enemy might have taken his life, his oath we must keep. He had promised to send his entire army for the cause of our Union, and thus his entire army we shall bring. Pray wait for us, lord, I beg you!”

And so Nelyafinwë chose to wait; and the wait had stretched to a week. When Uldor finally arrived with his men, overloud and boisterous, Curufinwë thought he was hiding some great terror; a proof that he still had no idea how comically magnanimous his eldest brother could be.

“Do not speak to me of cowardice,” Nelyo had told the Easterlings. “The Enemy has threatened your life for generations. Few have ever faced the Dark One, and fewer of them survived.”

The armies were thus united and the matter settled; and for the first time since they had left the Himring, Curufinwë had real hope that they would finally set off at sunrise. They would have to, he knew, for the appointed day was approaching fast, and the great beacon had to be lit in the West; or else all plans would go up in smoke.

Then morning came, and the army was still stalling.  Strange news arrived, news of a nameless menace over the plains; and scouts were sent to investigate.

Those scouts were now noticeably late.

And they were almost certainly being watched, even right now, even surrounded by their own men; so Tyelkormo and him remained with the rest of the vanguard. They had not been apart for more then a few hours since they had set out to Doriath with the Moriquendi; and Curufinwë knew with quiet certainty that this was how they were going to live out the rest of their days in Arda.

Together.

He also knew, more by instinct than conscious knowledge, that the rest of their days would not take long; not even if this battle was won, not even if they lived long enough to see Nelyo triumph and Findekáno give back the crown to the House of the Star where it belonged. Still, nothing was certain. There was no way to know what the future held, not in this moment stretching between watchful peace and pent-up vengeance.

For the followers of Nelyafinwë were vengeful now.

In the years of the Siege, they had been fearsome fighters already: strong and bold and swift to adapt to any peril the tides of war had drifted them into. If Orcs attacked the borders, they chased them back into their dwellings. If their lords raised them to battle, they fought valiantly and if they were to stand guard, they did so without protest; always following commands, always ready to serve. They never forgot the Two Trees, the mountain of Túna above the gleaming towers of Tirion and the long rule of Finwë in the noontide of the world; and yet they never forgot how Moringotto had robbed their King, either and took the Jewels; nor did they forget Alqualondë, Losgar or the horrors of the First Battle. They never forgot the day Nelyafinwë was taken, nor the day he was carried to Mithrim on Eagle-back, half dead, battered and bruised and broken. They never forgot the new life they had to build afterwards; and if any of them hardened, it was not in spirit. They were still ones of the Fair People, children of the ancient world, noble and tireless, fearsome and full of strength. And yet still, it seemed that the Flames had changed something changed in their hearts; or perhaps broken something.

The folk of the Himring wanted revenge.

Nay, Curufinwë argued, maybe not revenge, merely blood. They wanted death. They wanted the enemy lands to quiesce, the great smithies of the Iron Prison to crumble and collapse, the hammers to fall, the chains and pulleys to break. They no longer refrained from speaking the name of the Enemy — a deed that, at earlier times, only the Seven Sons and perhaps Tyelcano would dare in the House of the Star —, and they no longer trembled at the possibility of having to fight him. They rallied to battle without protest, all of them — even the cooks, the guards and the stable-boys. Even the bakers and millers, scholars and hunters, seamstresses and architects, book-binders and musicians. It seemed that there were no longer any folk in the Himring, néri or nissi, who were unable, or even unwilling to wield a weapon; and none flinched when the opportunity of killing presented itself. The Flames had familiarised them all with death; and they came to know it more closely than ever before.

And they would have followed their lord anywhere, or so it seemed to Curufinwë. Nelyo could have looked that spiteful creature Glaurung in the eye and marched into his open mouth; and one by one his men would have followed, even if he had forbid them so.

This was something new; and Curufinwë kept mulling over its possible implications as they rode ahead of the vanguard for the third time that day with Tyelko, hoping to glimpse the returning scouts.

It was so easy to see their eldest brother as High King already, so easy to imagine his rule. This kind of loyalty was something he, Curufinwë could never inspire. His voice had a power to it: that of deception and guile if so he chose; but upon most, his spells only lasted as long as he cared to maintain their effect. His voice created illusions, mirages, fever dreams. Its power was not real.

Oftentimes, Curufinwë wondered if Nelyo truly saw himself as the leader he was. Were there times when he felt like a pretender? Was he even allowed to feel so?

It must have been centuries since he had last spoken to him about anything as deeply personal as that thought. When Nelyafinwë renounced the crown, he did not seek him out for a long time; not until the lands of Himlad, Thargelion, the March and the Gap were fully fortified and their borders set, not until Tyelko and he had gotten tired of hunting in their own lands and wandered further.

Curufinwë was furious at him. Resentful, even: as if that decision had been the single source of the heaviness in his chest. He felt forlorn, discarded, dispossessed, and it took years for him to start hating life in Beleriand a little less than before.

Later, he had to make peace with Nelyo, of course; for family’s sake, and because the alternative was unthinkable. Their family had always been a unit in his mind, right until the day when ammë remained in Valinórë, accepting swift defeat; and the rest of them left to fight the long one.

Now, for the first time ever, standing in the drizzling, dirty rain, Curufinwë wished they had all remained; then he wished he had at least ridden to Nargothrond before the battle, exile notwithstanding, and tried to talk to his children.

He wondered if Tyelpë and Erenis ever thought of him, and what they knew of his dealings with Thingol. If they would even care. Blood ran thick in the House of the Star, and his son and daughter were both as stubborn as he.

He would try to make things all right after the war, of course. He shall live on his own terms again.

“Curvo?”

Tyelko’s voice was raw as one’s who has spoken aloud for the first time in a long while.

“What is it dear brother? A fresh shade of dust in the air, perhaps?”

“Someone is coming.”

Curufinwë raised his eyes, feeling the wind turn. The shape of a hurrying rider materialised among the swirling dust, racing towards the vanguard. The still, silent land was suddenly quaking under the echo of thundering hooves, and Tyelkormo spurred his horse.

One of Bór’s sons had come, Curufinwë realised. He was still young, but his broad shoulders and clever eyes held promise of valour. A strange choice it had first seemed to have sent him scouting ahead, as he had yet to experience any great battle — and yet, as one of Ulfang’s sons was with the vanguard too, it seemed that the other chieftain did not want to fall behind with his demonstration of loyalty to the Union.

Tyelkormo had been against this, of course. He would have rather surrounded himself with Noldor only: skilled hunters and eagle-eyed guards, seasoned scouts and strong-armed craftsmen. His warriors and huntsmen had, however, remained in Nargothrond, as had Curufinwë’s; and the decision of who rode in the vanguard was not theirs to make.

“What happened?” Tyelkormo demanded of the newcomer. “What have you seen?”

“An enemy troop must be ahead, lord,” said the boy, visibly bracing himself. “There is no other explanation! We had spread across the plains as you commanded, but there was a great commotion, and Ulwarth and I lost the others in the dust. When we found them... they were already slaughtered.”

“Orcs!” said Ulwarth himself, arriving in all haste. “It must have been them. Most despicable; but when has the Enemy ever respected any rule of warfare?”

“And they managed to surprise all of you?” Tyelkormo raised an eyebrow. “Orcs can be quiet, but not so much as to surprise Noldorin scouts.”

“They can be truly quiet, lord, and even quieter by dark magic,” Ulwarth cried. “So they have slaughtered many of our people. Alas, they crept into our houses by night and slit our throats!”

“Go and warn the Lord Warden before they slit any more of them,” said Curufinwë. “Such an act cannot go without punishment; but we should be vigilant. I have no wish to ride up to the gates of the Iron Prison, then get stabbed in the back.”

The vanguard retreated, spreading cautiously between the main host and the seemingly empty silence of the wasteland; and the two Easterling boys were sent ahead with the news. Yet Tyelkormo lingered behind, his entire body taut as a hunter’s bow. He watched and listened for what felt like a long time, every nerve on edge; and Curufinwë knew he was listening to things he could not hear.

And then, Tyelkormo said,

“There are no Orcs around here, brother.”

“So they retreated, then?”

Curufinwë stared into the dusty, grey emptiness. Did Moringotto aim to scare their host? Or were those Orcs… deserters? Such a thing would be unheard of, but the last two years of his life had been a parade of things unheard of.

“No — believe me, Curvo, there is nothing here. No one, but us and ours.”

“So the scouts have managed to kill them all, you think?”

“You are not listening to what I am saying,” said his brother sharply. “There is no one here. No Orc. Probably never was. I would have sensed it.”

“But they just said —”

“I heard what they said.”

Curufinwë stared at him. “And what is it that you are saying, exactly?”

“That there is no one here.” Tyelkormo’s eyes were cold. “And I am going to search for the bodies.”

And ahead he rode, faster than the wind. Curufinwë followed, acutely aware of how reckless and stupid this was; how spiteful, how unnecessary, and how very much like Tyelko.

They soon lost sight of the vanguard as they rode north, where the scouts had been sent. The earth was rockier here, the dust finer, and they had to conceal their nose and mouth so they would not breath it in. It felt like riding through the empty winter sky; everything was bleak and colourless, the sun a ghastly eye behind the swirling ash.

They found the first body not long afterwards; and then, the rest. The scouts lay in a makeshift pile, their corpses bruised and battered, half-dried blood sticking everywhere. Shades of red; shades of brown; shades of black.

These were the only colours as far as Curufinwë’s eyes could see.

“Alas,” he said, “our men came to a cruel end. And behold! There lie your nonexistent Orcs.”

There truly were Orcs lying about: two dozen of them, their bodies scattered around the six Elves. The numbers were somewhat believable, considering that this had been a sudden ambush.

Tyelkormo slid off his horse and knelt to observe a headless Orc, with far more attention than the situation, in Curufinwë’s opinion, would have warranted.

The smell was becoming terrible, after all.

Far too terrible for a killing that happened this morning, without any sound of battle.

As if to confirm his sudden thought, Tyelkormo moved to turn the headless Orc’s body over with the tip of his boot. The limbs budged only slightly, and not independently, as if he was trying to move a statue. One foot tipped over, then the entire corpse followed, completely rigid and stiff.

“This body is two or three days old,” said Tyelkormo, “and yet the blood has barely dried on our men. So is this one,” he added, kicking another Orc. “And so are all of them, I expect.”

“If one wished to stage a scene like this, they must have thought of that,” said Curufinwë cautiously.

“Days-old, or even hours-old dead bodies can become distinguishable very quickly under certain circumstances,” said Tyelkormo. “Which is why hunting is an art. For a while, you cannot tell the difference that time makes. And then all of a sudden, you can.”

“But to what end would have Moringotto ordered this?” Curufinwë wondered aloud. “Does he think corpses will scare us away? Or is he trying to instil terror in the Easterlings?”

“Help me find out,” said Tyelkormo; then swiftly, as if rushing to act before he could recoil of it, he grabbed the shoulder of a fallen scout. “Hold dear Tuilindo for me, please! Upright, if you can. I have a grim task to do, but I believe he would approve of it.”

“Upright?” Curufinwë glanced at him. “As if he was standing?”

“Just do it, Curvo! We shall have to be quick.”

The body was heavy, but not nearly as stiff as the Orcs; and Tyelkormo was strange, almost terrifying to his eye as he walked around, pacing like a hungry wolf.

“Very well then — hold still! Try not to get in the way of my blade.”

He retreated a few paces and turned away — then suddenly, as if striking from the shadows, he spun around, leaping forward and thrusting his long dagger between the corpse’s ribs, up to the hilt.

“Do you see the blade peeking out on the other side?”

Curufinwë propped the corpse up with one knee, and wiped the blackened blood from his eyes.

“I can.”

“Good.” Tyelkormo ripped the dagger out of the flesh, and crouched in front of the corpse. “Look at the wound that killed him, and now look at mine. They should be symmetrical. Do they seem the same to you from the back?”

“Nay — yours is cleaner. More force was used, obviously, as he was killed by an Orc, and with a lesser blade.”

“Do you think so? Watch this, then!”

Tyelkormo picked up an Orc-blade that lay around, and thrust again. The cut was messier this time, Curufinwë felt so even before he looked; and yet still the blade cut through flesh, muscle and skin, and came out clean on the other side.

“How is this one? Does it look the same?”

“Very similar,” said Curufinwë, suddenly apprehensive. “Almost identical to the original. I do not think I have ever seen such a stab wound inflicted by an Orc.”

“Because it was not inflicted by one,” said Tyelkormo darkly.

“Are you saying…”

“I am saying, brother, that Tuilindo and the others were killed by a Man.”

✶ ✶ ✶

 

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Chapter End Notes

On the depiction of The Nirnaeth in general: it is, of course, impossible to do this battle justice; even trying to make it half as epic as it might have been is a deeply humbling task. I am trying to assemble a plausible mosaic of different versions from The Silmarillion, The HoME and what other scraps of fictive history one may learn from TLotR (for example: Beleg and Mablung bringing a larger company from Doriath comes from the Grey Annals, whereas in The Silmarillion they come to the battle alone; Fingon asking Húrin to wait comes from The Silmarillion “original”, as opposed to the Grey Annals where these roles are reversed). In one version of the text, Morgoth’s first army — that taunts the host of the west — comes as far as the inflowing of Rivil into Sirion: I have somewhat dramatised this version so the depiction of Tyelcano stuck between Fingon, Turgon and Morgoth’s forces would make a more striking effect. As far as I know, there is no description of a ford in that area, but it made sense that a location like that could exist just south of the Fens of Serech. This decision puts the onset of the two armies a few miles south compared to Karen Wynn Fonstad’s depiction of the battle in ‘The Atlas of Middle-earth’.