Soldier by heget

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The Sixth

They called the third major battle the Dagor Aglareb, glorious victory. Songs of praise for Prince Fingon the Valiant and his horse archers were composed and sung throughout the north, and there was much feasting and joy. But a victory did not mean no losses. In the grey ruins of a snowy outpost east of the great plains that the dragon had defiled, an elf dying of a poisoned barb begged his protege to kill him before the degradation did, handing over the great sword that symbolized his honor and dreams.

Weeping, the younger elf accepted. His fingers curled around the hilt. The protege stood. Dying sunlight painted slivers of silver across the broad edge, and the dull tip of the blade dragged through the snow. Strangled sounds of pain and labored breathing rose from the dying elf’s throat. He called for the young soldier to hurry. The sword lifted from the snow. Clouds of breath dissipated into the whiteness. The young elf knew any pressing heaviness of the sword was not the weight of steel but the burden of his friend's pride that demanded from him a cruel mercy.

Cheek bleeding and arms tired, the young soldier adjusted his grip on the hilt and swung the great sword down.

 Arms encircled him when the young soldier began to weep again, months later when he returned to Menegroth. He had come to visit the garden and the one who tended to it. Steady golden light from hanging lanterns illuminated this corner of the giant underground city that saw few visitors. No wind or cold reached this place, no darkness could overwhelm its constant lights. The gardener did not ask why the soldier wept. Nor did she not ask why a new scar marred his cheek right above his jaw or why the sword resting against the potted seedlings was not the same blade that the soldier had carried before.  Usually the gardener asked many questions of the soldier. She was eager for stories of everything outside the Girdle. Their day together would be spent with the soldier entertaining the gardener with his stories, then assisting her in the tending of the seedlings. Not today. Today, the gardener who tended to young flowers now tended to the heart of this young soldier. Slender arms encircled the man’s torso. This created a light bond against the heavy muscles and dark mail, yet restrained them all the same. No dragon could have removed the man from her embrace. Her arms smelled of flowers and moist soil. They were such soft scents to combat the lingering stench of smoke and blood, scents that could not overcome the evidence of foul battle. Yet with time the smell of peace could erode the harshness. For a moment she could make him forget the horror outside the warmth and light of Menegroth. The gardener held the soldier in her arms while he wept for a mentor and himself.

The soldier’s name in these lands untouched by the light of the Two Trees was Bân, his long Quenya name translated and winnowed down to a simple syllable: fair. Terrible name for a soldier. A hero could carry such a name, though, and Bân wanted to be a hero. All he wanted was to have been a hero.

 During the mass exodus of Noldor eager to avenge their king’s death and the destruction of the Trees, a young man joined without informing his parents. They had not partaken in the Exile, and only knew that their son had joined long after the news of Alqualondë's ransack and the curse placed upon the departing Noldor had reached them. The guilt over that decision to forgo goodbyes struck the young man later, somewhere in-between gusts of wind on the Helecaraxë, when his lips were as blue as his eyes and the repeating memory of the Doomsman’s dire proclamation was drowning under the shrill creaks of splintering ice. He never forgot the words of the Doom, but freezing to death temporarily superseded that in importance. He had no experience with snow or cold. This boy came from a village between the Pastures of Yavanna and Lord Oromë’s forests. That had been far to the south, a place warm and lush and safe. But Bân survived the ice desert. He survived the early battles of Beleriand and would survive the later one when the mentor who trained him did not. When he stood in that first sunrise, slowly become warm again, he vowed to become a hero so eventually his parents would forgive him for leaving without farewells.

His first year under the newly-made sun Bân studied fighting under an older elf named Angell, who had noticed how Bân survived crossing the Helecaraxë. During the journey the young man had dared the people around him into snowshoe races up the sides of the glaciers and tried to coax the small white foxes to share his portion of dried seal jerky. According to his mentor, Bân showed tenacity and generosity of spirit, plus the competitive courage that would make a good fighter. Or Angell had decided Bân was hyperactive and simple-minded and thus would not complain when forced into unending sword drills and muscle-building exercises. One or the other.

Bân’s mentor had the trust of the Noldor princes and their commanders, and Bân as his protege inherited that trust. That Bân had learned enough of the new language of the Sindar in those first few months to be a proficient speaker, though he had no easy knack for the subtlety of dialects or accents like Captain Heledir or Prince Finrod, also brought him to their attention. Together these two virtues earned Bân a place in the prince’s entourage for an upcoming visit to the great Sindarin city.

Bân had heard rumors of this city of a thousand caves, Menegroth with its goddess queen and the tall proud king, Elu of the three who had first seen the Two Trees and had been the equal and friend of King Finwë and High King Ingwë. Accounts of Doriath, its half-divine royalty and sophisticated people, its music and lore, the ancient forests fenced by a Girdle that Morgoth could not penetrate, and the vast city festooned with carved images and tapestries of unimaginable beauty, excited and intrigued the Noldor long before Prince Angrod returned with testimonials of its truth. Bân had not been immune to this fervor. He was overjoyed when nominated by Angell to join the entourage.

Prince Finrod and his brothers had visited King Elu and Queen Melian several times by now, and Prince Finrod’s sister, Lady Galadriel, was already living in Menegroth. Bân thought it odd that while everyone else was shortening their names to adapt to the Sindarin tongue, the new name for Princess Artanis was longer. The name had been a gift though, so Bân concurred that it was more beautiful. It was to Princess Galadriel that Prince Finrod wished again to visit, and this trip was the one that Bân was to join.

Yet Bân was a country boy from southern Aman who had never seen either King Finwë or High King Ingwë from afar, and unlike his mentor or others in Prince Finrod’s troop, he had little experience of the cosmopolitan Tirion or any other city to fall back on. As much as the prospect of close proximity to such high royalty excited Bân, it unnerved him more. He spent the majority of his time preparing for the journey by pestering his mentor about protocol. Bân wanted advice on subjects such as how to properly bow to nobility and what topics of discussion were appropriate. Angell made it clear that Bân was to stay silent. His place in the entourage was least-most in status, an extra bodyguard for the ride to the Fenced Kingdom, someone to hold horses and porter gifts. He role was to be a visible reminder standing behind the ambassadors of what the arriving Noldor were promising the king and queen in Doriath, a glorified prop. Bân was the promise of fresh sharp swords to protect the people of Beleriand from the monsters of Morgoth. Bân could be that. He wanted to be that.

During the initial arrival to Doriath, escorted by grey-mantled march-wardens through the twisting long shadows of the Girdle’s maze, Bân ensured he did nothing to stand out from the rest of the Noldor guardsmen. He was grateful that Angell had drilled him in the proper parade rest stance. He stayed silent during the formal greetings, listening for his cues to bow in a language still half-learned. He averted his eyes to the corners of the opulent subterranean throne room, praying no one addressed any questions towards him. They did not. He limited the number of his opening stares to the double thrones so he only had glimpses of Queen Melian with her eyes as bright and overwhelming as Varda’s stars and King Elu, a giant figure in silver silk shifting between the harshness of steel and softness of Telperion’s light made solid. Instead, Bân focused on a plate of curiously purple fruit in the corner of the room and prayed he did not come across as rude. Also he wondered when they would be fed. When King Thingol praised the fortuitous arrival of the Noldor to aid the people of Beleriand in their fight against Morgoth, Bân felt a gut-churning mix of pride and shame. Such praise felt too akin to accepting unearned acclaim, especially when King Elu pontificated on how many of his kinsmen’s lives the Noldor had and would save with their courage and swords. Bân knew the Exile had been motivated by vengeance and the desire to reclaim the lost Silmarils, to claim lands and glory, and a fear of the unseen Second-born whipped up by Fëanor’s speech. The elves who had remained in Beleriand, never completing the journey to Aman, had barely brushed the thoughts of most Noldor, Bân included. With the glowing silver eyes of the king and queen of Doriath upon him, Bân privately rededicated himself to protecting the people of Beleriand as his premier motivation and duty. It helped to smoother the voice of his guilt.

Afterwards Bân followed Captain Heledir to their temporary quarters like a puppy, half-blinded by the play of shadows and the brilliance of golden lamps. He was overwhelmed by the scents of earth and sweet unfamiliar flowers, his ears twitching at every echo of birdsong or elven voices. The songs drifting through the corridors of this subterranean metropolis were unfamiliar but exquisite. A voice growing louder, singing of the joy of the first fall of snow, was so wondrously beautiful that it made the most captivating melodies of Bân’s memories mere tuneless drivel in comparison. Bân who had endured the hell of the Helecaraxë suddenly found beauty once more in the pureness of cold and winter. His commander had to drag Bân into their rooms, or else the young soldier would have stood in that walkway listening to the song as tears ran down his cheeks.

“This can be a dangerous place,” Heledir whispered. “Be thankful the Princess Lúthien was not present, for the beauty of this place overwhelms even without her presence.”

Bân needed a long moment to compose himself, breathing into his cupped hands to see his breath was not visible, that the lingering feeling of cold was only an aftereffect of the haunting tune, then he replied, “If the food is a seventh as good as their songs, I shan’t leave.”

Heledir’s responding look spoke of mild disdain. Bân reevaluted the demand to fill the position of troop comedian.

“Mind your tongue and manners. Speak as little as you can, answer no questions, and chew with your mouth closed.”

Bân was having dark suspicions of how his mentor might have described him to his superiors.

Perhaps the rest of Bân’s stay in Menegroth would have remained as uneventful, tinged with wonder and unease, if not for the incident. What happened qualified as an embarrassment in multiple categories.

The terriers that hunted through the halls of Menegroth had been unexpected, until one remembered the dangers of rats and burrowing creatures like badgers and moles, snakes and worse, that an underground city faced. The small dogs wandered throughout the halls of the great hidden city hunting for prey or affection from indulgent courtiers and clerks. It seemed Queen Melian’s protection spared Doriath the predations of orcs, but the Maia could do nothing to block mice. Still the presence and popularity of the terriers had been an omission in all the tales brought back of Menegroth. Bân would have preferred a warning. Some ladies had tamed ferrets, which were the only other small domesticated hunters to prowl the corridors, cats seemingly foreign to Beleriand. After his first four days in Menegroth, Bân was considering if his preference had shifted from canines to cats. The small dogs voiced loudly when excited by the appearance of strangers, which meant Bân grew quickly accustomed to their noise. The irritation brought on by their yapping helped to tarnish the overwhelming wonder invoked on Bân’s first day, though the vague melancholy induced by that unseen singer still lingered.

When one of those small terriers in furious pursuit of a rat barreled into Bân’s ankle, disrupting his balance and sending the soldier flailing over the side of a high gallery railing, his companions noticing too late his headlong plunge down the cavern, Bân’s last thought before blacking out was firm certainty that he hated all small dogs.  

That Bân survived the fall down the cave shaft was a minor miracle, aided by falling through silk awnings and landing on a surprisingly soft surface. That his sword had slipped during the fall so he did not land directly on it still scabbarded to his back also saved him from dire injury. What truly saved him, Bân believed, were the flowers.

A voice drew him back from darkness, waking him with its sweetness. It stood in strange counterpoint to the incoming sensations of pain. A soft hand ghosted across his brow, calling his consciousness back to his aching body. A face filled his clearing vision, and perhaps it was that haze of pain that made her face glow with celestial light, her smile as bright as a blossom of Laurelin.

“You live!” the sweet voice said, and the glowing face tilted up and away. Bân groaned and began to shift his limbs in feeble attempts to sit up so that she reentered his sight. “Hold still!” the voice cried, and the beautiful face returned, staring down at Bân. “You had a terrible fall.”

Bân’s answer was a croak.

The owner of the beautiful face and sweet voice smiled at him. Pieces of brown hair framed her face, and as she turned her head to look at the shattered pots and flowers that he had crushed in his fall, he could see the caul of silver mesh studded with seed pearls capping her hair and one long plait braided down her back. The ribbon threading through that braid had frayed badly, and loose threads dangled off the end. Bân’s fingers reached out to touch the ribbon before he was conscious of the desire, so his hand hung abandoned in the air, matching his lowered jaw.

“See,” the maiden said, turning back to face him and pointing up to the ceiling where an obvious hole in the thin latticework of wood, hanging lanterns, and stretched canvas showed where Bân had crashed through. “You landed on my flowers after falling through there. They saved you.”

“What is this place?”

“The Queen’s garden wing, dedicated to fruits, grains, and the trees needed to feed the silkworms. And flowers! Let’s see, there’s the little alfirin, elanor, anemone, I try to grow niphredil because of the princess, the cowslip and primrose have bloomed, the larger lilies, roses, and mallos - I grow them all. They needed the Queen’s touch, and steady light and warmth and water, to sprout. Before the sun, the best method to grow anything was to keep them underground, and even with the new lights that has not changed. My duty is to tend the seeds and the young plants, coax them to bloom, before they are transferred throughout the city.”

“They are lovely,” Bân said. You are lovely, he thought, but caught himself before saying them aloud. “Are you one of the Queen’s handmaidens? I heard she teaches her magic to others; Lady Galadriel is learning from her.”

“I’m Aereth, just a gardener of the lower levels,” the maiden answered. “That’s all.”

The soldier smiled. “Well, I’m Bân.”

The gardener helped Bân to his feet, and together they stood in a spiral of potted flowers, frail seedlings and delicate blooms just beginning to open. The flowers were pale and small, mostly shades of pale yellow or white, and under the hanging lights, they looked like a field lightly blanketed by snow. They stood, and time seemed to slow, then the moment ceased. Carefully Aereth led Bân out from the center, towards a bench against the dressed stone wall stacked high with pottery and vaguely familiar tools. She frowned every time his boots came too close to tipping over a pot.

“Do they have flowers like these back in Valinor? The queen tries her best to describe them.”

“Um,” Bân rubbed the back of his head. “The same, I guess? Well, not all. Many of the flowers where I lived, they never ceased blooming.” He spent most of his childhood outdoors, playing in the jungle, but his studies had not been to horticulture, even if most of his village had been devotees of Yavanna. “Um, much larger and brighter, but fewer petals, not as delicate. Very tall and the plants had wide leaves. It rained every day, the village where I grew up, but gently, and never got cold, because Lady Yavanna wanted to grow green things that would thrive under Laurelin’s brightest light.”

“That sounds amazing,” Aereth said, hands clasped behind her back.

Eager to reassure the Sindarin maiden of the equal beauty of her home, Bân elaborated, “Most did not have a pleasing scent, not like flowers here. And I like the flowers here in Beleriand, that it is special if you find them blooming, like a secret.” That made the gardener smile. Curious, Bân asked, “How did you know I was from Valinor?”

“Because of your eyes.”

“Huh?”

“They glow, you know. They’re very pretty, blue and bright. Your eyes look like the new sky, but in a good way.” Aereth turned and smiled, then taking pity on his confusion, explained, “It scares me, how the sky changed. Everyone was concerned and a little frightened when the new lights in the sky appeared, especially the bright one that blocks all the stars, because we did not know what had caused it at first. We did not know about the Trees.” Aereth sighed. “The first one, the moon, that one wasn’t so bad. Like a giant star. But the sun,” she shivered slightly. “The world outside looks so strange. Such bright colors without being inside walls to hold in light. It is beautiful, but I don’t feel like stepping outside; I don’t feel safe when everything feels so wrong. I know it’s foolishness, but I am afraid of the sky. I can’t help up to feel if I look up at it, all light and blue, that I’ll be sucked up into it.”

Bân understood perfectly, for the night’s darkness still felt strange to him. Telling Aereth so made the maiden laugh, especially when he explained how until the death of the Trees, he had never seen the stars except in pictorial representations. So did that not make both of them foolish? That made the gardener’s cheeks blush as brightly pink as her roses.

“I owe you,” Bân said, “for the flowers I crushed.”

Aereth laughed. “You did not mean to. Though this is the first time someone has fallen from the upper galley. Usually I have to pick hats or other small items off the roof. And once I had to shoo a pair of nightingales wanted to build a nest. The ferret wanted their eggs.”

“I should get you a gift to make up for the trouble I caused. Perhaps I could escort you somewhere? If I promise to hold your hand, maybe the daytime sky would not feel so strange?”

Aereth eyed him sharply from the side, but there was a wide and gentle smile on her face. Bân was growing intoxicated off the sound of her laughter and the view of her gentle smiles.

“Help me replant the seedlings whose homes you smashed,” Aereth said.

“Rescuer of flowers, coming up,” Bân said, rubbing his hands together.

Aereth handed him a broom and pointed to a corner where he could sweep the broken pottery pieces. As he swept, she watered the seedlings and re-potted the ones that could be saved. Eventually he moved to the aisles between the various pots, calling out if he passed a plant whose leaves seemed to be drooping. The gardener smiled each time he did so, maneuvering around him like a courtly dance to inspect the sickly plants. Thus did Bân assist Aereth with her chores until the chiming of bells called out to him, singing reminders of his obligations. Feeling foolish for forgetting to send any word to his fellow Noldor and dreading the disappointment and anger of his superiors and the shame of leaving them in worry and ignorance, Bân handed the broom back to Aereth. He promised to return if he could, and Aereth laughed and pointed to which tunnel he needed. Back in the guest quarters, the wide grin on his face and his babbling account of the beautiful maiden that he had encountered removed any mystery behind his long absence, though his commander only had terse words of relief that their visit to allies had not been marred by the accidental death of one of their soldiers. Such awkwardness would have placed a pallor indeed over the alliance. As Bân had survived the incident with only heavy bruising, and considering his euphoric infatuation with his new acquaintance as an overall positive, the event instead became a fountain of ribald teasing and gossip. Partly for Bân's obvious infatuation, but mostly for the absurdity of a soldier brought low by a small dog. Even the March-wardens grinned when Bân passed.

Any hope that humor made over the incident would abate was dashed during the departure back to half-constructed Nargothrond. Captain Heledir was holding a boldly-marked, half-grown wire-haired terrier in his hands, the pup wiggling and chewing at the leather laces of his vambrace. Bân eyed the creature with trepidation. His commander gave Bân a flat look. “It’s a gift. Not for you.”

That settled it; the captain hated him.

Angell commissioning a collar with embossed name tag for his new puppy confirmed it. Bân-bîn. Angell's choice of name would the only source of a rift between Bân and his teacher for decades. The steward must had thought it hilarious, as Edrahil cited no regulations against housing the pet in the barrack corridors of the new city. 

Bân’s unofficial goal whenever stationed on northern patrols through the Ard-galen and joint training exercises with the troops directly under High King Fingolfin was to bring back a litter of kittens, as he would rather have cats wander the hallways of the hidden city of Nargothrond if he must suffer the presence of small rat-catching pets. His chances greatly improved when the People of Hador with their enormous furry cats moved into Dor-lómin, yet by then both Angell and the dog had been long dead, and the quest only earned Bân strange looks from the mortals. The elf with the strange obsession with cats survived as a folkloric tale even onto Númenor.

For the second visit to Menegroth, Bân’s tight energy during the official greetings was impatience instead of nervousness. When given leave to explore the city, he wandered the halls questioning anyone that had the air of servant until he could be pointed in the direction of the queen’s gardens. To find Aereth’s work chamber took only an hour of dedicated searching, and he found Aereth kneeling before a large container holding a sieve in which she was shaking dirt, sifting the soil for the right consistency for her potted seedlings. She smiled when she noticed Bân at her doorway, which the soldier took as an encouraging sign. Welcomed inside, Bân looked around the room for differences. He noticed the hole in the roof had been patched, and a row of new pots lined the far edge of the room. Filled with water, a plant sprouted up from each container, with tiny comb-like leaves spreading out like a skirt at the waterline. The few that were already blooming also had small white blooms with yellow centers. Most of Aereth’s flowers were those colors, same as her pale gown. Here against this wall Bân placed his scabbarded sword, then pulled out his present. “As recompense for the flowers I crushed last time.”

“What is it?”

Bân unfolded the kerchief to reveal the item he bought. “A new hair ribbon.” He displayed a long length of bright pink silk. Aereth cooed and reached for it, holding it up to the light. Reassured by her smile, Bân continued, “I noticed your other one had frayed. Does the color please you?”

“It does,” Aereth said, then unbraided her hair not covered by the cap of pearls and fine wire to pull out the old ribbon. She turned around. “Here, help me tape the new one in.”

The heat of his embarrassment should have wilted the surrounding flowers, for Bân knew his face and ears were as red as roses, and the flush was spreading down to his chest, which was tight and uncomfortable. He stared at the cascade of brown hair and at the slim hand reaching back, dangling the ribbon for him to take. Aereth hummed pointedly. Bân ran his fingers through the smoothness of her hair, then hesitantly lifted it from her neck, the back of his hand brushing against the back of her neck. That his face could grow hotter should have been an impossibility. Taking the ribbon from Aereth’s hand, he tied a knot, trying not to overthink the intimacy in this act. He began to weave the ribbon through her brown tresses, keeping the pink ribbon flat and even. Pieces of hair curled around his fingers, sinuous and fine. He thought of the coarser texture of his dark shoulder-length hair and tried not to think of Aereth’s fingers running through. He reached the end of the braid at the small of her back, tied a second knot, and stepped back with his skin feeling too tight and hot. Aereth’s hand pulled the plait over her shoulder to inspect his handiwork, her face still turned away from him, but the small hum of satisfaction signaled that she was not too displeased with his efforts.

Surreptitiously Bân dipped his hand into the water of the water violets to try and cool his face, willing the redness of his blush to recede. Aereth must have heard the splash, because her next words were, “The water barrels are near empty. If you wish to help again, you can go refill it from the cistern.”

“Gladly!” Bân said.

As Bân worked, they shared personal stories. Bân spoke more of the jungle, of the flowers he now wished that he had carried seeds over the Helecaraxë to give to her, of his parents and friends, his lack of siblings and nervousness around kings. Aereth explained her history, how her parents had been killed by orcs when she was very young and the queen had taken her in as a ward. Protective yearning blossomed in Bân’s chest, warming him like the sun.

Bân wished most of all to protect Aereth from himself and the weight of the secret Doom.

When the truth of the Exile surfaced, of the Kinslaying and the coverup, of their shameful part in withholding this dreadful truth and the curse that they were under, Bân could not fault the king’s anger, no matter how fearsome it was to face. He stood behind the princes, silent as a prop, mute and shamed. The weight of the secret had been poisonous, a wound needed to be lanced. At first King Thingol’s anger had been razor sharp like his sword, no longer any softness to his silver, but Prince Angrod’s explanations transformed it to a blunt war hammer, a smashing weight to knock the air from their lungs and shove them away, but something they would be allowed to recover from.

The princes and their entourage were to vacate the underground city as swiftly as possible, yet given time to pack and say swift goodbyes. That they would be allowed back to Doriath one day was a relief, but the vague limit of their temporary banishment was not. Bân raced down the corridors of the hidden city, dodging the glares from the various handmaidens in the queen’s wing of the city where flour was ground and stored, running towards the corridors set aside for the tending of silkworms and weaving of silk, shading his telltale eyes in shame. He was allowed passage only because his goal was so obvious.

His prayer to Yavanna and Nienna implored that Aereth would be in her garden room, and that if she had heard the rumors and the truth, she would yet be willing to listen to him. The paleness of her face and half-formed question tinged with horror on her mouth as she greeted him at the doorway answered both pleas.

“I was not there,” Bân exclaimed in a rush of words, “I killed no one, I was in the rearguard. It was over before I could have done anything. We were camped more than two leagues away, in the foothills near the city, and I woke to the distant sounds of what was happening with no idea of what it was. I had no part, Aereth, please believe me. I am no murderer.”

“You must go back,” she said, and Bân’s heart fell. “By the seventh bell all Noldor visitors must be out of the city; you cannot be found down here, Bân.” A pause. “I believe you. The queen is right about the darkness you carry, the Curse, but I care not.”

“I do not know when we be allowed back into Menegroth. I need to speak with you, see you, I am sorry. We were not permitted to speak of it.”

“Letters.”

Bân stared at her.

Aereth leaned over to look down the hallway, then back to Bân. “I will have someone teach me the new word shapes, and I shall write to you until you have leave to visit the city once more. Write back to me; I have friends among the Green Elves that chose to stay inside the Girdle’s safety, and they have friends among the March-wardens. Address letters to me and I to you. They shall ensure the letters are received. Speak honest words, hide no shameful secrets. I would have the respect of your honesty instead of pleasant friendship built on falsehood.” Bân made as to start a protest to her words, but Aereth frowned and rose her dirt-stained hands in a blocking gesture. “I desire to believe you, and believe no foulness rests under your fair seeming. I,” her voice faltered. “Write to me, Bân.”

The soldier bowed as low and respectfully as he had the first time he entered the presence of the king and queen. “I promise.” When he rose from his bow, Aereth was turning back to her garden nursery, whispering a goodbye. Bân watched the door close, focused intently on the pink ribbon she was still wearing.

“We will not be butchers,” Angell shouted to his protege and the other would-be soldiers of this brand new leaguer. These were the first days of the sun, before Fingon dared alone his bid to forestall a war between the two camps of the Noldor in Mithrim, back when the followers of Fingolfin and Finrod were recuperating from the harrowing journey across the Helcaraxë and staring across the lake to the distant southern shore where the followers of Fëanor had withdrawn. Fingolfin had made it that clear trumpets alone were not going to bring down the defenses of Angband, that an army was needed. And the Noldor, for all their bright swords and shields, were not yet an army. They had no soldiers trained for true combat and almost no experience with violence, especially the prolonged massed organized fighting that a war against Morgoth necessitated. An army needed be created, and for that undertaking older reliable men like Angell were entrusted. Faking a confidence in what had been only vaguely defined via tales of the Valar’s wars against their fallen brethren and advice from the newly met Sindar of Northern Beleriand, Angell and other taskmasters gathered the first batch of recruits by the lakeshore for training and speeches. Bân remembered those mornings standing in the mists, anxious and confused. At first they performed strength-building exercises and practiced carrying shields, for most had bodies weakened by the cold journey. Afternoons were spent listening to lectures and memorizing new maps with mostly blank spaces.

Some of the recruits had fought in Prince Fingon’s vanguard, and they were the ones most stone-faced and attentive to Angell’s words. The sack of Alqualondë was the only personal experience any Noldor elf in Fingolfin’s retinue had with violence, and that was not the template that Angell and the other trainers wished to emulate.

“We shall be soldiers, protectors,” Angell shouted to Bân and those around him, as Heledir and Prince Finrod looked on with approval.

The Noldor would organize themselves into captains and crews. Each prince preferred a different number to divide down the companies, for they soon discovered the complications of ordering hundreds at a time, though the smallest unit was always a crew of twelve. They borrowed the Sindarin words for those terms of the chain of command once they learned them, though the titles of individual soldiers were named by the weapon they used. Still, Heledir was addressed as Captain, and that was a statement in its own way as clear as the pattern of swan feathers that Prince Finrod and his brothers etched into their armor.

Bân copied out Angell’s speech for his first letter to Aereth, of that misty morning when he first held a sword and shield. He internally debated if he should describe for her the crossing of the Helcaraxë and knew not how to write of Valinor, either to wax on his bucolic life while the Two Trees lived or account those nightmarish days immediately following their destruction and the flight that became an exile. He decided it was better to write too much than too little, for he had no guarantee that she would be willing to read beyond his first letter. Bân poured his heart into that first letter, sentences short and slanting across the page, letter-shapes graceless, his signature crammed into the small space remaining. On the page the shortened name looked strange, incomplete and weak, and yet Bân found the more he stared at his new name, the purity he felt when pledging his honor to his prince and captain seeped back into the cold emotional emptiness like warm broth. A good name, he decided, for a man who would stand and protect.

Sending the letter off with the over-burdened messengers and waiting for a reply put Bân in company with his prince, for the ruler of Nargothrond was buried under a mountain of letters from the other Noldor princes about revealing the secret of their Doom to King Elu Thingol and the consequences of the new bans. Finrod and his brothers wrote of how they had to control and minimize the damage both rumors and truth had done to any alliance between the Sindar and themselves, that words of the Doom itself were manifest. To Maedhros alone of his brothers were messages sent and received, wishing not a repeat of the council meeting after Angrod’s first visit. High King Fingolfin was understanding, thankful that no additional weregild or grand dangerous gesture was needed. There was no convenient imprisoned kin for them to rescue to heal the blood-debt and mistrust, unless one considered Beleriand itself, so the Noldor war effort against Morgoth would have to placate and forestall the evil ends, blood, and treachery that the Doom promised.

The dwarves, learning that the Noldor had been declared exiled from Valinor for their rebellion, had nodded in agreement, and considered Thingol’s terms generous. From what little they told Finrod Felagund of despised dwarves long banished from the great cities to the east, though begrudgingly accepted as still kin, they sympathized with the situation. Bân did overhear his prince remarking to the steward that he was not sure if the dwarves now saw him and the other Noldor as the equivalent of the rumored Petty-dwarves.

The steward was the one to hand Bân Aereth’s first letter, having inquired to learn why the soldier lingered in the messenger’s rest chambers. Edrahil stood next to Ban as the soldier unfolded the letter, stiff and self-conscious, ready to offer sympathy. "What does the lady reply? Do you wish me to read first?"

The first line of the letter was sincere gratitude for Bân’s words and honesty, and a wish to hear his voice again and see him once Prince Finrod was allowed back into Menegroth.

Bân’s crow of delight echoed all the way to Amon Rûdh, according to the steward.

Aereth’s letters were short at first, accounts of her plants, the neighboring silk production rooms, and recordings of the gossip among the maids and students of Queen Melian. She noted that Lady Galadriel had sent her own written correspondence to Lord Celeborn, and that rumors flew through the city of its contents and of what would be Lord Celeborn’s reply. Her letters were written on mulberry paper, which Bân would run his fingers over to feel the unfamiliar texture, and her spelling at first he found odd, for she wrote out her vowels instead of using tehta marks as Bân was accustomed. Such, he soon learned, was the conventional mode for writing now in Beleriand, especially with Quenya banned.

Bân wrote return missives on fine vellum he cajoled from Tacoldir. As it was a costly item imported from the north, he had to trade duty shifts with the other soldier who worked as quartermaster and scribe. Thus Bân found himself serving as chief waiter for the chefs of Nargothrond, becoming intimately acquainted with all the cauldrons and ladles of the barracks’ mess halls. The work offered opportunities for free food and was, best of all, warm because of the cavernous fireplaces that lined the room and heated rows upon rows of bubbling stews and roasting meats. The bakeries, province of the chatelaine as Finrod had no wife to act as chief lady and bread-giver, allowed only women to tend and bake. Yet Bân sweet-talked his way into pastries, eating his full of them as he re-read Aereth’s letters. It was quieter in the storeroom adjacent the bakeries, the continuous churn of the stone flour grinders sounding almost like rainfall, and Bân could concentrate, though he had to use the lighted gems instead of candles for illumination. Here he could write his replies and not have another person interrupt. The living quarters for the soldiers was near to a section of Nargothrond still under construction, which caused everyone, not least of all Captain Heledir, irritation. The steward promised that the work crews would soon be finished, but until then only a few soldiers slept there. If Bân could, he tried to sleep in the bakery storeroom, a pallet shoved between giant flour barrels.

The chefs and other servers were thus the first to learn of Bân’s correspondence with Aereth besides the overworked messengers and soldiers under command of Captain Heledir, and between those two groups of notorious gossips, all of Nargothrond knew of Bân’s long-distance courtship. Bân searched the city for places to hide from unsolicited advice, leading him deeper into the original caverns and unfinished regions until the dwarven miners cursed him. The frazzled steward passed the complaints to Angell. Eventually Bân grabbed postings to the north along the Ered Wethrin, urged by his mentor, to escape the city.

His duty was to scout for routes between Eithel Sirion and Nargothrond and to guard the messengers and stone masons travelling to the new fortress. This new fortress was to be the secondary hub for the chain of outposts along the edge of the Ard-galen and the mountains that ringed the western side of Hithlu. Also it would control the only pass into Beleriand until one reached the Pass of Aglon. Prince Orodreth would assume command of the yet unnamed fortress when it finished. Bân observed from a distance as the tower was built on an island in the center of the River Sirion. He timed his patrol-lengths by the progress of its walls. North of the new outpost was fenland and then the empty flower-strewn plains. Bân’s territory was the few foothills on the western side of the pass and his duty to clear the lower mountain slopes of any surviving orcs. The pass between the two mountain ranges had sheer cliffs and few caves or overhangs for creatures to hide. Mostly he encountered wolves that were strangely large and aggressive and whose bodies disappeared in the morning mist. Armed with a great-sword, the yard of blued steel resting against his shoulder when not in direct combat, Bân could comfortably fight off packs by himself, though the loneliness troubled him. Sometimes he would see large winged shapes overhead on overcast days and hear flapping at night. The bat-winged scouts could be seen heading north towards unseen Angband on the other side of the wide Ard-galen. Bân knew of no bow with a pull great enough to reach the high altitudes that those dark spies flew, even one belonging to Oromë, so he ignored them.

With the arrival of Arodreth to Nargothrond, Angell relinquished training duties to the veteran and took command of Tol Sirion’s forces. Respect for the former Sindarin general, not concern over his wayward protege, was Angell’s avowed reason for leaving Nargothrond and coming north. He was not the only follower of Finrod Felagund to transfer to Tol Sirion- or to transfer away. The tower was finished, and the stone masons were moving on to new projects. Bân was undecided if he would move back to Nargothrond or join as Angell's official second-in-command. While Bân dithered on if to accept the promotion, he was relieved to have another trusted audience in which to share his concerns about the flying scouts. Prince Orodreth had already written to King Finrod and High King Fingolfin about the dangers of these spies. Angell wanted to investigate. Thus Bân was in the front line of the north when the dragon-led attacks came, though he never saw the golden-scaled beast, and there when Angell was struck by the poisoned barb.

It was several months after the Dagor Aglareb, and Aereth held his shaking shoulders in the circle of her arms as Bân wept, unable to explain to her why he sobbed. He could not admit to her that he had become what he swore to her he was not, that he had slain another elf, a comrade and friend. Accursed.

Worry over a second surprise assault from Angband was prompting patrols to be sent as far into the Ard-galen as could be possible, though it was difficult to stay long. Only when the People of Hador arrived and settled in Dor-lómin would regular scouting patrols to the far north be possible. Bân's experience could not be wasted, loathe though he was to go. For several years he begged to stay in Nargothrond and go no further north than the Crossings of Teglin. Finally he could postpone an assignment north no longer. 

Still, a century had passed before Bân felt he could return to that northern patrol and not be haunted by memories and cruel dreams. The flowers of the Ard-galen had returned, covering any scars of the great battle in a multitude of white and yellow petals. Bân stared out at the flowers and thought of Aereth holding him in her arms, the warmth and the gentle scents. He recalled her words absolving him of guilt, promising that he had not diminished in her eyes. They quelled the memory of the Doom’s words. She spoke of their fears when the orcs first appeared, the Sindar's suspicions that friends and kin had been twisted into monsters unable to be reasoned with. "We thought we were murdering our kin," she told him, "but could do nothing else." Mercy, not treason, she promised him.

Bân looked at the snow-capped peaks of the Ered Wethrin and forgave his mentor for forcing on him that terrible burden of guilt.

As was his habit, Bân shared with Aereth stories of his latest deployment, at least the details he was allowed to. He wrote of a patrol in the Ered Wethrin north of Eithel Sirion, of the blisteringly cold mountain slopes and his new friend. He sent seeds in the folds of his letters to Aereth, as was his custom, and knew the flowers would have sprouted and perhaps bloomed by the time Bân saw her in person. This time the letter he wrote while waiting for his relief patrol reached Menegroth only a week before he did- some odd mishap with the messengers, likely blamable on the heavy spring rains. By long habit Bân rode the ferry from Tol Sirion, cheerful despite the damp weather, and borrowed horses to pass through Brethil. He greeted the Green Elves that were friends with Aereth and joined their party through the Girdle and into the underground city.

Back in the nursery room with Aereth, surrounded by seedlings from the north, Bân described his new friend. Aereth was eager for more details. The crew sent as backup support for Bân had become separated due to an ill-timed mudslide at one of the few bridges, leaving only one of the foot-soldiers beside Bân when the earth settled. Together the two had hiked back to the base camp and waited for the rest of the party to scale the roundabout path. Plenty of opportunity to share stories, and with the long delay to send search parties, healers, and then replacements to cover the patrol duties, there was little else to do. His new friend, Fân, was short, reserved, and had golden hair and a sarcastic wit if coaxed to speak. He came from an equally remote and small Noldor village back in Valinor, though one high in the Pelóri Mountains good for mining coal and little else. Bân was using his influence as one of Captain Heledir’s highest ranking soldiers as to transfer Fân to his command unit. With time he thought it possible for Fân to learn true fighting skills. Bân wished to take his new friend and protege to Menegroth so he could meet Aereth. “Gadwar likes him, too.”

“Which one is Gadwar?” Aereth teased.

“The white boar. And he has green eyes.”

“The handsome one,” Aereth said, and Bân sputtered.

“More handsome than me?”

Aereth laughed, hiding her mouth with dirt-smudged hands. “Well, I did hear that his brother is even more fair.”

Bân pouted, and would have continued to sulk as he helped her to cover the bulbs with the exact needed amount of soil, but he saw the pink ribbon threaded through the braid hanging down Aereth’s back. She still wore his gift, and any inklings of jealousy evaporated.

The next time Bân spoke of Fân was in a letter to Aereth, describing the younger man as his new roommate. He wrote of enlisting help to train Fân in both swordsmanship and archery. Faron complained that the younger man’s aim was wasted as a swordsman and was trying to cajole Fân to join his archers command unit. Bân was proud of his roommate's staunch loyalty. Half the page was spent describing the progress on swordsmanship, and how surprisingly proficient the much smaller man was in adapting to the great-sword. Bân had taught Aereth some basics with a staff, so she understood and appreciated the details of the techniques of which Bân was outlining. He spoke of the satisfaction he felt by being able to pass on Angell's teachings to another.

Fân’s talent for painting encompassed a long paragraph, and Bân promised to entreat Fân to draw images of flowers native to Valinor as to send to Aereth. Thus even though Bân had no seeds or saved flowers, now he had a way to share their beauty with her. Aereth’s delight at this prospect, even if Fân would not be able to recreate images of the exact flowers of Bân’s hometown, having never traveled that far south, flowed off the pages of her answering letter like perfumed poetry.

Fân never teased Bân about the maiden in Menegroth, though Bân learned to attribute that to Fân’s reticence over courting and lady-loves in general. Such blushes and tight-lipped hesitation spoke of a personal, perhaps painful, history, and Bân had tact. His commander feigned surprise when Bân manifested that virtue, but Bân was trying to live down that reputation of Angell’s clueless puppy.

The most recent visit with Aereth was shorter than normal. Bân excused his brevity by implying yet again that he feared to linger overlong in the Queen's hall. "I can ill-afford Queen Melian's displeasure."

The senior handmaidens were well-acquainted with him, and their apprehension with the Doom that cursed him was long-buried. Now they smiled and asked questions of his journeys when he passed them in the corridors, inquired of which gifts he had bought for Aereth this time, or fed him pastries from their bakeries. Bân ensured each time that he was offered a baked good to return a compliment and compare the gift favorably to the pastries from Nargothrond's ovens. He did not feel ashamed over how he fed a culinary rivalry between the two cities. The end result was full pockets and stomachs. Overall, it was absurd to think he was sneaking into the Queen's corridors. Nor did Aereth hide their friendship, and she wondered how he could miss the tacit approval that Queen Melian had given him. Did he not realize who had helped Aereth to write her letters?"One time the Queen or Princess shall be here to gather the flowers, and I shall laugh at you, Bân, because you are charming."

"No, I will be too overwhelmed and make a fool of myself. Do not tempt my fate, Aereth."

The gardener could have made pointed reminders of the circumstances of their first meeting, of how undignified his introduction had been and yet how little a hindrance it proved to be. Bân's blushing face stopped her. "The queen adores you already, and no one could be frightened of Princess Lúthien."

As a rebuff, Bân countered, “For my next visit Fân will come with me, and you must promise to tease him.” Aereth laughed. Her hand reached for the scar on his jaw, and Bân wondered if this would be the time they would finally kiss. The bell chimed, and Bân pulled away. He almost forgot to wish her farewell, confident that this would be another short parting. He did not know the Dagor Bragollach was coming. There would be no songs of praise, feasting, or joy. “Write to me,” he called over his shoulder. “Next time we shall go to the forest during the day, maybe even ride out to Dimbar, have an adventure.”

Bân was cold. Naked and shivering. There was no wind in the dungeon, no snow, but he was as cold as he had been back in the ice desert of the Helecaraxë. Last time he had found ways to distract himself from the freezing darkness, games and challenges and small foxes. Only memories were left to distract him now, and the dead and dying friends around him. He wanted to see the sky. Somehow, he knew if he could look up at the sky, even if it was dark, even if it was raining, he could see her.

The Doom had promised torment and grief would slay them, not sickness, and yet Fân moaned feverish and non-responsive beside him. Words haunted Bân, promises made that he would protect his friend. That they would survive this torment. The too familiar click of nails on stone. Hide behind me, Bân almost whispered to Fân, but knew it was pointless. His friend could not understand any of his words, and the chains restricted their movement. Still, to do nothing, to wait to be butchered - Bân screamed. The clicking nails paused. Twisting his shoulders, Bân angled his body to place himself between Fân and the werewolf. His bare feet scrambled against the stone. He screamed at the wolf, pain and rage, then shouted the phrase he remembered when working in Nargothrond’s kitchens. "Come get your food!" Too bad Captain Heledir was no longer here to groan at his poor attempts at humor. Fân made no sign that he noticed Bân's attempts to shield him, just as he had not flinched at the screams or shown that he understood any of Bân's words. Bân sighed in relief when those yellow glowing eyes focused on him.

Behind him Fân's hand lifted. A feeble, unseen gesture, reaching for a friend he could not touch.

Deep within Menegroth, surrounded by potted seedlings and cuttings, water beading across her brow and soil wedged under her fingernails, a gardener paused. Once more she contemplated sneaking out of the underground city and approaching the Hírilorn, the giant three-trunked beech tree at the gates that now housed the Princess. A red cat watched her think, its tail twitching as she knelt motionless, surrounded by still flowers. The steady warm glow of the golden lanterns felt false. There was a letter buried at the bottom of her basket of tools. Several similar letters had been sent, and none replied to. She wore sturdy boots under her pink gown, for a foolish notion of hiking out of the city and the guarded borders. The doors were guarded, and she knew she was unprepared for any journey, even if to the surface and to finally dare the blue day sky. There was a fear and sorrow taking root in her heart, and Aereth wished to know if Princess Lúthien felt the same.

 An elf lay dying in the bottom of a dark pit, his breath coming up in small white clouds, blood running down his face and in rivulets off the shredded mess of his chest. He could not call for the strike of mercy. All he could do with his remaining breath was beg his friend to live, to uphold his teachings and honor, to survive and carry news of his death back to a gardener far south of here. Tell her he died a hero.

Chapter End Notes

Bân = fair (wholesome, good, untouched by evil) Partially chosen to created the rhyme with Fân = cloud
Angell = ang iron + gell triumph
Aereth = holy maiden (Airanis is Quenya form, as noted in Chapter Ten of Release from Bondage)

'Trumpets alone would not defeat the armies of Angband' is taken almost word-for-word from The Silmarillion.

The 'mode of Beleriand' for tengwar wrote out vowels instead of using tehtar marks. Other small tidbits from LaCE and linguistic notes include the use of counting in base-twelve, the position of 'bread-giver' as a title of a queen, and that bread-making and cooking was divided down gender lines for elves. And that they viewed hair as semi-erogenous, especially long hair. So, yes, Bân was a little scandalized at braiding her hair in their second meeting.

HoME explains the Petty-dwarves:

“The great Dwarves despised the Petty-dwarves, who were (it is said) the descendants of Dwarves who had left or been driven our from the Communities, being deformed or undersized, or slothful and rebellious. But they still acknowledged their kinship and resented any injuries done to them.”

Queen Melian overseeing silk production is inspired by Byzantine Queens and interconnected head-canons about the Sindar, be it their clothing and armor - or their paper, as highlighted here. Aereth's hairstyle is the reticulated caul and be-ribboned plait popular in the late medieval period and especially Italy and Spain during the Early Renaissance. Fân's story includes more footnotes on the weapons, in particular the great-swords. Domesticated ferrets were popular hunters, especially in the Roman Empire and medieval Europe, and yes, I have overthought the types of domestic animals in Arda.

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