Next chapter, where the link to Beren’s Band of the Red Hand become very apparent. ~flashbacks~
The later half of the First Age from the perspective of two elves trapped in Angband, loosely inspired by A Dance of Dragons. The childhood companion of Finduilas Faelivrin must take the princess’s identity to survive in the enemy’s hands. Another prisoner, regretting he did not join Beren’s quest, tries his best to save her.
Faron had trained himself not to think of his regrets as he curled in the cells of Angband, useless an endeavour as it could hope to be. Angband was coal and iron and regrets. Thoughts that were not centered on present pain and misery only spiraled back to regretting the path that led to it. In Angband sleep came without rest or relief. It rarely came anyway. His bed was stone and his companions wargs, so what little sleep the elven thrall could snatch was huddled against the flanks of the oldest beast, the jaws of the warg resting atop his ankles as its red eyes watched him under heavy lids. The wargs barely tolerated him in their pen; if he thrashed in his sleep or cried too loud the beasts would savage him. Their sleep was no more placid than his.
The memories came when Faron slept, flooding his thoughts with more variety than the day-to-day banality of physical pain and fear allotted to thralls of Angband. Futilely his mind chased after the void as poisons of anxiety, pain, and self-recrimination accumulated in the marrow of his bones. An arrogant boy he had been, desperate to avenge his friends and prove his prowess to anyone that knew his name, desperate for glory to make his name widely known so that his accomplishments would earn something besides scorn from his father, to overshadow his martyred brothers and balance the guilt of betraying those friends he had loved more than any brother. That arrogant boy had laughed when he rode into battle. Faron tried to recall his old laughter, and could only hear the examples of orcs. He almost wanted to hate that boy, that fool that believed in victory and glory. Faron had been a boy that thought himself a man, who thought his duty was to avenge the companions he had not died beside. Eager for death he had been, in the manner of young warriors who thought death was something they bequeathed and never received, whose thoughts lingered on loved ones that had gone to the Halls of Mandos and not of what their own passage would cost. He feared not a life underground because he knew only the caves of Nargothrond, coddled by the freedom to seek the sun if the echoes began to overpower him. As a thrall of Angband, he has not seen the sun since the disastrous battle. No day ever came again. Eager to ride north and challenge the darkness he had been, that boy named Faron wanted nothing as strongly as to see Angband and win glory before its iron gates. He had known nothing of true darkness. Angband was the cruel fossilization of soul, entombing a body in the miserable all-encompassing darkness of its iron mines, slowly eating away flesh and bone, and filling the cavity with a broken slinking creature that cowered in desperation.
He should have died beside Aglar, together as prisoners in a different dungeon.
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.
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.
A thought just now- this must have been blindingly obvious to everyone else.
So it seems like about every thing an elf (or anyone) is said to use a musical instrument, its a harp. Fingon plays a harp, one of the human bards -Glirhuin- played a harp and composed a song about the Narn, Tuor plays a harp (assuming here he learned how to make one from Annael.) It doesn’t look like the published Silmarillion actually says if Maglor played a harp, but he probably did. [Edit: I checked the text and nope. Maglor is never said to have a harp in the Silm, only Fingon, Finrod, and Glirhuin. But at least in the older Lay of Leithian is has one line of "Maglor, son of Fëanor, / forgotten harper, singer doomed".]
Bëor has a crude harp which Finrod will pick up and play- and even Finrod has a harp in silver on his sigil.
And then it hit me- that silver harp of Elrond is a symbol of the friendship between men and elves, of the Edain and Friend of Man. And symbolically Elrond fulls that role as the Friend of Men in the Third Age, so of course he’s going to play his silver harp- it’s as strong a symbol as the Ring of Barahir of this bound, and as the symbol given to Finrod by the people of Bëor, in that context an older and pure one.
[cut]
Still thinking about Elrond’s silver harp. And how it’s Finrod.
Because this:
“Then he [Finrod] went among the sleeping people, and sat beside their dying fire where none kept watch; and he took up a rude harp which Bëor had laid aside, and he played music upon it such as the ears of Men had not heard; for they had as yet no teachers in the art, save only the Dark Elves in the wild lands. Now men awoke and listened to Felagund as he harped and sang, and each thought that he was in some fair dream, until he saw that his fellows were awake also beside him; but they did not speak or stir while Felagund still played, because of the beauty of the music and the wonder of the song.”
and his sigil, designed by Tolkien with a silver harp:
coupled with the quotes on Elrond and the Hall of Fire, when Frodo enters after the feast and the music starts:
At first the beauty of the melodies and of the interwoven words in elven-tongues, even though he understood them little, held him in a spell, as soon as as he began to attend to them. Almost it seemed that the words took shape, and visions of far lands and bright things that he had never yet imagined opened out before him; and the firelit hall became like a golden mist above the seas of foam that sighed upon the margins of the world. Then the enchantment became more and more dreamlike, until he felt that an endless river of swelling gold and silver was flowing over him, too multitudinous for its pattern to be comprehended; it became part of the throbbing air about him, and it drenched and drowned him. swiftly he sank under its shining weight into a deep realm of sleep.
which sounds almost exactly like what happens when Finrod began to play, (and here’s the rest of the quote):
Now men awoke and listened to Felagund as he harped and sang, and each thought that he was in some fair dream, until he saw that his fellows were awake also beside him; but they did not speak or stir while Felagund still played, because of the beauty of the music and the wonder of the song. Wisdom was in the words of the Elven-king, and the hearts grew wiser that hearkened to him; for the things of which he sang, of the making of Arda, and the bliss of Aman beyond the shadows of the Sea, came as clear visions before their eyes, and his Elvish speech was interpreted in each mind according to its measure.
(Tolkien does well in describing the transportive nature of listening to music)
And then later, travelling with old Bilbo, and all my Finrod and House of Bëor feelings~ Because Elrond has carried on the tradition of Finrod, of Friend of Men, not just in the legacy of Beren and Lúthien through the heritage he is so proud of, of the Half-elven and the fostering of the heirs of the Dúnedain, but of Nóm with Bëor the Old. That Biblo stayed in Rivendell into his twilight years, as Balan did in Nargothrond.
But yeah, silver harp of Finrod:
“Elrond wore a mantle of grey and had a star upon his forehead, and a silver harp was in his hand, and upon his finger was a ring of gold with a great blue stone.”
(Also, star on brow, how very Eärendil and Erendis).
But yeah, can Elrond’s harp please be the harp of Finrod, passed down all these years?
Okay, it feels as if I’m jumping on the bandwagon but your headcanon was so beautiful I couldn’t help.
So, I have a possible explanation for how Elrond got Finrod’s harp, but it basically involves Gil-Galad being Orodreth’s son.
My headcanon about Gil-Galad is that he was born in Beleriand. Not entirely sure about Finduilas though. I think there’s a pretty big age-gap between the two siblings, and Finduilas being born in Valinor and Ereinion in exile would be a good explanation. However, I also like the idea that Gil-Galad’s mother is a Sinda, and even better, a member of the Falathrim. Because then you’d have Orodreth acting as Finrod envoy/representative in Falas and meeting his wife there. Soooo… Or you could have Orodreth pulling a Finwë and marrying a second time after his first wife died on the Ice, which would link to Finduilas falling for Turin over Gwindor.
But nevermind that, basically Gil-Galad is Orodreth’s son. Mother unknown and he was born in Beleriand, i’m adamant. And also I really like the idea that the last High King of the Noldor in Exile is… actually not in Exile ? And really more of a Sinda then a Noldo ? Basically the Noldor end up rulled by a Sinda. And Feänor’s spirit is spinning so fast in his cell, you can power Valmar AND Tirion with it. Or alternatively Alqualondë because screw you Feänor.
But the point is that Gil is very young so after the Nirnaeth, when things start to get really bad, he is sent away (to his mother’s kin). Finduilas stays because she’s older and doesn’t want to live, because it’s her kingdom as well and Morgoth can damn well try to take it.
Anyway so after Finrod’s departure and subsequent death, Finduilas gets the harp. (Also Finrod teaching Finduilas how to play I say yes !). After the fall of Nargothrond, the survivors rally Cirdan, they take the harp with them and that’s how Gil-Galad receives the last heirloom of the House of Finarfin. I also really like the idea that Thingol’s house, here the only things we have left are a harp and the ring of Barahir which represents the alliance between Men and Elves ? I mean that’s glorious !
And you know that Gil-Galad’s hero and role model as a king would be Finrod Felagund. So Gil-Galad clings to the idea of the alliance. And he fulfills the role of Friend of Men during the Second Age. And after his death, that role goes to Elrond along with the harp and Viilya.
😀 Thank you!
While i don’t headcanon Gil-galad as Orodreth’s son (recent post reiterated), I do firmly believe his mother and Finduilas’s motehr were cousins and very close, that baby Gil-galad stayed for a while in Nargothrond with his cousins and was treated as a younger brother, adn that Finduilas’s mother was the one that took Gil-galad to Círdan and thanks to the war, ended up staying with him on the refugee island and became his second mother. Oh, and that yes! Gil-galad is Noldo in name only.
Looks for another old post –HERE! So it’s not the silver harp of the Bëorian meeting, but I have already posited that Finduilas saves/inherits her uncle’s harp, so yes, there had to have been more than one harp, of course Finduilas has them all. Hmm, actually, with the timeline, you could even say that when Gil-galad goes down to Círdan via Nargothrond, Finrod himself is still king and he could have bequeathed little Gil-galad a harp (same one? Who knows)- but that harp, from the very hands of Nóm himself, is the one that Gil-galad passes onto Elrond and is the one in the Hall of Fire. Yes. Head-canon accepted. Yes!
And lool yes, quickest way to say ‘wanna be friends?’ with me might be “screw you Fëanor.”
The Ninth: Don’t Forget Me/Promise You Won’t Forget Me*
He won’t remember the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.
He wouldn’t remember his mother-name, Costawë, for his mother foresaw he would live a life surrounded by strife, though she could never have imagined the fighting he would do against monsters out of half-told nightmares in a strange and distant land. Nor would she have approved, a devout Vanyar who passed down her bright yellow hair to her half-Noldor son. He won’t remember how rare that yellow hair is for elves in this land, a color naturally possessed -with only a few exceptions- by the sons and daughters of the line of Finarfin, the third branch of royalty of the House of Finwë. The cruel lord that captured Costawë and imprisoned him in the dungeon of Tol-in-Gaurhoth was confused by that yellow hair, uncertain if this lowly soldier was a prince or not. The other blonde, the one that dueled songs of power against the lord of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Sauron was almost certain was one of the remaining sons of Finarfin, though the devious mind of the dark Maia could not comprehend why a king would be here with such a small company disguised as orcs trying to bypass this island to go north. Sauron remembered the elven lord he had stolen the isle of Tol Sirion from, the one he overthrew to make this white tower into the den of werewolves. Neither of the blond elves now imprisoned in Sauron’s dungeons matched that glimpse of the fleeing Lord Orodreth. The mystery troubled Sauron.
In the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth Sauron demanded that his prisoners reveal their names and purposes. None would, least of all the one who found his memory slipping away in fever and pain.
Costawë won’t remember his second name, Fána, for the clouds that hung as mist around the mining outpost village in the Pelóri mountains. He won’t remember those peaks draped in veils of mist and glittering with the silver and gold light of the Two Trees, the tall green pines swaying in the high winds and the calls of nearby wolves. He won’t remember the place that was once his first home. Of his mother’s house, the timber-clad walls painted in bright colors in the manner of her people, the landscape expertly painted by his father hanging on the dining room wall that fooled the eye into thinking one could smell the flowers of a garden from Tirion, his mother washing the dark gray stones of the kitchen floor and his father cooking on the stove, the smell of boiled cabbage, the rooster crowing from outside, his room on the second floor with a shelf of pretty rocks and a marionette of a howling wolf – he would remember none of this.
He won’t remember the reeve’s daughter with her long dark hair and silver earrings, or how shy he had been around her, how deeply he longed to speak to her. He won’t remember the water cistern in the center of the small mining town. He won’t remember his promise to her. In the fever dreams of captivity, he would forget everything he vowed he never would.
Fána won’t remember how the language of the elves in this new land shorten his name to Fân, how so many words in the Grey Tongue came out short and quick and strong, words to shout across a battlefield or to slip and weave between the close-twined branches of trees. In the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth Fân would murmur soft meaningless syllables. He’d forget all the languages he once learned.
He won’t remember his star-struck admiration for the march-wardens of Doriath and the soldiers of the Leaguer, how eager he was to apply for training. He won’t remember Arodreth dragging a hand down his face in weary disbelief at how weak a trainee Fân was, how poorly Fân held a shield and sword, how his body buckled under the weight of the chainmail. The one scrawny Noldor, proof that not all newcomers were taller and stronger than the Sindar. He won’t remember the desire to replace Arodreth’s scorn with respect, the begrudging smile of the older elf’s acknowledgement, his pride on the day Arodreth called him a worthy soldier of Nargothrond. He won’t remember Arodreth nodding when Fân stood by the King ready to aid Beren’s quest when the majority of the city did not, the calm acceptance from the older elf, that he expected nothing less than this show of bravery and dependability from the boy he had once labeled the weakest reed. Fân won’t remember the courage it took to stand in that throne room and answer King Finrod’s call for aid. He would keep no memories of the years of strength-training drills, of lugging supplies from the boats that came down the Narog River over the west bank and into the underground city, carrying bags of grain and foodstuffs, cords of wood and blocks of stone, imported silk and finished clothing through the tunnels of Nargothrond until his arms developed the muscles he needed. Ethir taught him how to improve his archery, and Faron showed him how to use the short arrow, but it wasn’t until Bân took him under his wing and trained him in use of the greatsword that Fân found his calling. Fân won’t remember Bân smiling at him, won’t remember the mutual teasing over a similar background of small village life in Valinor, of joining the Exile out of misguided lust for adventure, fame, and revenge. He won’t remember the feel of Bân’s arms around his shoulders, the white puffs of their breath hanging in the cold air as they climbed the mountains around Hithlum. The dark-haired elf asking who Fân had annoyed as to get stationed on the slopes above Tol Sirion. They had shared complaints about the cold, about strange accents and boring patrols, about how the orcs reeked like rotten corpses and the water tasted strange, but the birdsong sounded sweeter than in Valinor. The other elf shared stories of visiting Menegroth, of a girl who tended to seedlings and sent him letters. He spoke of meeting the famous march-wardens of Doriath, of Strongbow and Mablung of the Heavy Hand. Bân spoke of the people he had left behind and those he had recently befriended. He called Fân a friend, and he might have been the first to do so.
He wouldn’t remember that face, the dark hair and bright blue eyes, the small scar along the jaw and the smile as bright as Treelight, even as it stared across from him in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.
Bân asked the younger elf about his friends left behind in Valinor, of his life back when he was Costawë, was Fána, so he shared memories of the small mining town, of the pines, mountains, and constant howling of the wolves. Dark-haired Indomuinë with her silver earrings and the promise she was holding him to Fân did not divulge, but felt that Bân could deduce.
He won’t remember Bân handing him a smaller copy of the giant sword the taller elf wielded with such skill and strength or training him in its use, learning to spin the two-handed blade like a spear. The memories of his own greatsword, the Pelóri mountain wolf etched on the ricasso of the blade between the hilt and where the sharpened edge began, would not survive. Bân’s smile as he unveiled the sword Fân too forgot.
His offer to paint the other man’s sleeping quarters Fân would forget, as he would his childhood memories of the yearly reapplication of paint to the timber scaffolding of his mother’s house and how his father could never afford enough kingfisher blue to coat the shutters and doors, how they improvised by outlining the plaster around the beams. Fân wouldn’t remember painting the reeve’s house for the chance to listen to Indomuinë practicing her lute, blushing as she asked him what his favorite color was or favorite song. He forgot how the lines of blue, orange, and green and the bright painted flowers masking the stone walls would soothe Bân’s homesickness. He forgot the pattern of stars he painted in his own sleeping quarters, reproduction of constellations he remembered while leaning against the side of the cistern tower of his mountain village, how the mist soaked into his skin as he promised Indomuinë he would return after Morgoth was defeated, return as a mighty hero.
Fân won’t remember the time his friends conned him into dressing in a borrowed gown and jewelry, and how he had been mistaken for Lady Finduilas. His memories of Lord Celegorm’s anger and Bân’s pealing laughter, of his commander and old Arodreth palming their faces to hide tear-filled eyes, the blond elf would not miss. The gratitude from Lady Finduilas was a memory he would have wished to keep.
Fân won’t remember how his name was shortened so that it rhymed with the older soldier, until they because a set, until every company that Bân led on patrols and into war had Fân at his side. He won’t remember the Fens of Serech, won’t remember how he slipped in the muck and nearly drowned, nose filled with the scent of peat and blood, Bân’s sword arching fast and desperate to clear a circle around him until the Bëorains rescued them. Ragnor reaching down to grasp his arm and pull him from the fen-mud, Arthad washing his mouth with water from a bladder skin, Barahir standing beside an exhausted Bân and relieved King Finrod, begging the elves to follow them out of the swamp to safety. The mortal men carrying the elven soldiers on their backs, their shields raised high to protect their bodies, the thud of orcs arrows against the wood or splashing into the brackish water around their feet. Bân’s bright blood-soaked smile declaring how much he loved the men of Bëor. A life debt recognized, an oath promised.
Fân won’t remember removing the silver earring of a wolf as he stripped out of his darkened chainmail and donned the armor of an orcish scout, shivering in disgust as he wove orc hair into his blond hair and Finrod sang the enchantment to disguise them. Nor would he remember the silver ring hidden in his room with a matching wolf head, a ring too small for his fingers, a ring for another person’s hand, for a promise that could never be met.
He won’t remember being stripped and thrown into a dungeon, chained to its walls in an unlit pit as Sauron waited for them to break. The darkness, the damp chill, the heat of a fever. He won’t remember Bân chained beside him, the other elf shouting for Fân to stay awake. He won’t remember his companions devoured one by one. Faces of men who shouldn’t be strangers. He won’t remember Bân’s last words, the dark humor of his call for food, words Bân normally shouted as to echo through the great gallery of Nargothrond when the soldier was on kitchen duty. He wouldn’t remember the wolf stalking towards them both, Bân kicking out to strike the creature’s jaw, drawing those teeth to the older elf. He won’t remember Bân sacrificing himself, reaching out as the wolf shredded the organs and ribs of his chest to touch Fan’s face with bloody fingers, whispering that his best friend must survive this.
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