squirrelwrangler:

It’s done, this monster of a fic (it’s thrice the length of the others in this series). So, just like the ninth, our characters come from a JRPG. Same one, technically. Look, if you recognize Final Fantasy: Crisis Core, you will recognize several lines, scenes, and concepts. In fact, watch this. Also I indulge in various head-canons about Menegroth, its silk production, domesticated pets, paper manufacture (including a canon tangent about tengwar tehta use), go back to my roots about complaining about Exilic Noldor military “noob”-ness, and fashion.

Expanding once more on This list

• The Sixth: Soldier

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.

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 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.

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