A/N: Okay this is the start of a collection of chapters about some of the Noldor Exiles during the early years of the First Age as described in the Silmarillion. For those who don't know Argon is the youngest son of Fingolfin and, while not mentioned in the Silmarillion he does show up in some of Tolkien's late work were it is said that he died in battle before the sun rose. While I liked the idea of some of the Noldor dying early in the war against Morgoth I chose, for this story, to keep him alive until the Dagor Aglareb (the Third Battle of Beleriand). While Tolkien (or rather the Tolkien Estate) owns Argon all that he says about this character is that his name means "High Commander", he was very valiant in battle, but died before the sun rose, and that his name was a popular boys name among the Elves of later ages. So the rest of his histroy, including the fortress of Hûlbarad, is my creation. Hope you enjoy! I might write about more of the Exiles, if my schedule allows and inspiration strikes.
Argon
A Spectre of Regret
The wind howled around the towers of Hûlbarad, belting its crude, grey stones with ice and hail and cold that cut through skin like a knife. People said that it was in the grey wastes of northern Hithlum that the spider Ungoliant, the devourer of light, assaulted Morgoth when he refused to sacrifice the Silmaril to her hunger. The legend also said that Morgoth's cries forever echoed in these lands and were responsible for its violent snows and hails. And to tell the truth, Argon, the youngest son of the Noldor King Fingolfin, who at present found himself in the midst of one of those storms, was more than willing to accept the truth of that tale as he, protected by his heavy cloak and shield stumbled towards the fortress' keep.
Hûlbarad, the Tower of the Battle Cry, was the northernmost of the many fortresses that dotted the eastern Ered Wethrin and also the smallest, the least adorned one and the least cheerful one. No women or maidens lived here to beautify the keep, no youths or boys filled the courtyard with shouts and games and no minstrel ever strayed that far from Mithrim to silence the howling storms with music and tales of better days. Less than one hundred, full-grown men was all that called this bleak, colourless place their home. This had the reason that Hûlbarad, unlike the larger fortresses and castles in the south did not receive any recruits from Fingolfin. No, getting stationed here was strictly on a voluntary basis and in the cases of neigh all of the fortress' inhabitants, its lord, Argon, included, the decision to brave the northern storms had been made out of regret, a sort of self-inflicted exile. Argon snickered bitterly beneath his cloak as he mulled that thought over; the exiles from the exiles, truly was there a sadder fate in Arda?
Reaching the gate Argon was hailed by its two guards. Down in Mithrim and Barad Eithel they sometimes called Hûlbarad "Barad-in-Úthir" or "Barad-in-Úeneth", which meant the tower of "the Faceless" or the "Nameless" in the language of the Sindar. Grim names, but it was easy to see how they had originated; wrapped up in their armour and cloaks the two guards seemed indeed to have lost their faces and names, their identities stripped off them by the howling winds that had covered them head to toe in snowdrift, transforming them into ghosts of these northern lands. Argon was very well aware that he himself appeared no different; the faceless lord of the nameless.
If Argon had been lord of a fortress further south his approach might have been signalled by someone shouting a welcome, or even the sound of horns, but here in Hûlbarad, the guards remained silent as they turned to open the gates for Argon, blankets of snow falling from their frames as they did so, causing brown and black to invade the world of grey and white as the fur of their cloaks and leather of their gloves was revealed.
Argon likewise gave no word of greeting back as he walked past them into the keep, which was just as well; any attempt of communication would have been drowned out by the storm; Hûlbarad was not just "Barad-in-Úthir" and "Barad-in-Úeneth", but during storms like these it was also "Barad Úconath", the "Tower without Voices".
Now safely inside Argon shook the snow of his clothes before entering the Hall of the Hearth, the only place in his forsaken castle were voices could be heard even in winter, where his faceless men might at times even make music and sing after such fashion as warriors and stable hands might do and where the glow of the fire allowed light and colours to live. Not many colours, mind you, red and orange mostly as the flickering sheen danced over wood and stone, over brown cloaks and silvery mail, white skin and black Noldor locks. And, of course the device of Argon's father, Fingolfin hung over the hearth; the red and golden sun in the field of stars and midnight blue, commemorating the day of the first sunrise, when Fingolfin marched the host of the Noldor across Ard-Galen. With a wistful smile Argon remembered that moment when they had first walked in that new, golden light so much like Laurelin of old and yet wholly different, how flowers had sprung up in their footsteps and how, for a moment, the lands of their exiles had not seemed so barren, so lifeless to the Noldor after all.
Argon had no device; no, devices and symbols were for those who sought glory and fame and who wished to be remembered in the songs of later ages. Argon did not wish for any of those things, or rather, he did not wish for them any longer. Those aspirations had vanished from his soul long ago, chocked to death in the dust of Araman together with his innocence, his joy, even his love. Argon, the Lord of the Faceless and Voiceless Elves of Hûlbarad did not seek glory or remembrance, no, he hungered only for two things; absolution and vengeance and he knew very well that he had little chance of obtaining either, let alone both.
Taking of his helmet Argon shook his long, dark hair and combed through it with his fingers, freeing it from any remaining traces of snow or ice that might have been caught in it. His hair was now neigh as long as that of his father and his brother Fingon; falling like molten pitch over his pectoral muscles and shoulder blades. He wondered if his family, especially his mother in Aman or even Anuingwen, whom he had not seen since Ard-Galen, would even recognize him like this. For in his youth in Tirion, when he had known swords and horses only for sport and chase Argon had kept his hair shorn short, the way Fëanor and his sons had worn theirs. It was after Alqualondë that Argon had largely stopped cropping his, but only since he had built Hûlbarad he had allowed his hair to grow to a greater length like the rest of his family; long hair was just one more layer of protection against wind and rain.
He slipped off his fur cloak, breast plate and sword belt, leaving them at the door, but he did not bother to take off his gloves, he seldom did so anymore. There was nothing in Hûlbarad Argon desperately wanted to touch with bare hands and the things which touch he did long for, well, they were far away. And even if they were within his reach, hands like his were no longer fit to feel them.
On one of the tables to Argon's right, a group of three Elves were just taking their supper; dried meat and winter onions, which was all any of the inhabitants of Hûlbarad were going to eat until the spring taws reopened the passes into Hithlum.
One of them, a servant whom the others had taken to call Rochanar, "Lion Brother", on account of his unruly, dark golden hair stood up from his seat when he noticed Argon's presence.
"Hail, my lord," he greeted Argon, "mayhaps you join us? Shall I go fetch you some food? We still have a few casks of wine in the kitchens as well, if it strikes your fancy. Tis more water than grape, I fear, but it must suffice till spring comes and we can send to Lady Lalwendë's lands for more."
"Many thanks, Rochanar, but not in a thousand years I'd dream of separating the brother of a lion from his meat while he is eating, even if it is only dried scraps and onion bits," Argon answered and smiled, "so go back to gorge yourself on this meagre prey of yours and do not concern yourself with the Lord of the Voiceless Tower, who shall himself be voiceless for a while as he sleeps by the golden glow of the fire and dreams it was the light of Laurelin over the plains of blessed Aman, where your brothers dine on meals far richer."
Argon and Rochanar, both, as well as the serf's companions laughed at this, but it was a hollow laugh, for even if their past had not purged jest from their all their minds, the cold would have frozen it off long ago anyway. It was really more a force of custom that caused the Elves of Hûlbarad to continue to hang on the Elvish love for wordplay and banter than true desire for it. Perhaps fear too; if language left them, could they still count themselves among the Quendi, Those that Speak?
Perhaps not, for immediately after all four elves became voiceless once more; Argon, cold and tired from his last inspection of the battlements resting himself on a wooden sofa near the hearth and the three others continuing their silent meal.
And, just as he had hoped, Argon did really feel his mind slowly drifting from the wind harrowed cliffs of the Ered Wethrin and back westwards. In the dream the glow of the fire did become the golden light of Laurelin, but it did not illuminate the wide plains of Aman's wilderness, but instead it danced over the green fields of the festival grounds near Tirion. Music was playing, banners held in all the colours of Yavanna's flowers fluttered in the wind and the air was heavy with the fragrance of orange blossoms and frangipani as folk from all over Eldamar had gathered to attend one of the many tournaments the Noldor held in those days. And these were not voiceless, faceless snow spectres mummified by cloaks and snow; but the true Eldar of Aman in all their glory; white robed Vanyar with hair like sunbeams, Falmari from Alqualondë dressed in pearls and gossamer stuff, shimmering like sea foam and their wilder cousins, the Shoreland Pipers, dressed in naught but loincloths and seashells, their white hair in tangles as they preformed their lively dances. Yes even Nerdanel's kind was present the Aulenduri in their strange garb of green and red and their hair glinting like copper in the light, and, above all, the Noldor of old, the lords and ladies of Tirion from before their fall; their tall frames wrapped in silks of bold colours and intricate embroidery, their dark hair shimmering with gems and jewels of every kind, sitting in the high seats as they watched the knight below in their joust. King Finwë was there, wise and noble as Argon remembered him and Queen Indis, golden and beautiful. Around them Finwë's children; Fëanor, placed, as always, in the seat of honour to Finwë's right, looking as if he would rather be anywhere but there and doing anything but watching a tournament. Close to him sat Finwë's and Indis' daughters; gentle Findis in her healer's robes and merry Írimë, Lalwendë, with a crown of roses in her hair. Finarfin, the favourite of Indis, sat on his mother's side just as Fëanor sat by Finwë's, and with him was Argon's father Fingolfin, and all the rest of the Princes of Tirion, even little Idril sleeping in her mother's lap.
The only ones missing were Celegorm, the son of Feanor, and Argon himself. This had the reason that both of these princes did often participate in the tournaments themselves and indeed, where the next to joust against one another. In the dream, Argon found himself on the tourney ground, on the back of Lomëanna, his old horse that had later drowned on the Helcaraxë. He was dressed in full armour, not the crude, grey mail he possessed now, but the suit he had possessed in Aman; polished steel, painted dark blue like the starry skies over Eldamar, enamelled with silver and encrusted with sapphires and diamonds. Rohir Ilmarion he had named himself back then, the Rider of Starlight.
On the opposite side of the grounds Celegorm climbed on his horse, his armour black like pitch, just like his hair and eyes, all in contrast to his skin, white as snow, that earned him the name of "the Fair". It was hard to believe now, but back in Valinor Argon had greatly admired Celegorm and had done so from a very young age. Argon had first met Celegorm when the son of Fëanor had visited Argon's sister Aredhel, with whom he had been close friends and, to his childish eyes, Celegorm had seemed like the most fascinating person in Arda; Celegorm who could talk to the animals and even had a dog that could speak Quenya, Celegorm who knew the names and calls and tracks of all animals in Aman, Celegorm who could ride better than Fingon, was faster with the bow than Aredhel and more knowledgeable about plants and animals than Turgon. For long, too long as it should turn out, Argon had literally worshipped the ground under Celegorm's feet. So much that when the Fëanorians were banished to Formenos Argon had, unsuccessfully, begged his father to allow him to accompany them there, something not even Aredhel had considered.
Then Fënaor's Rebellion had happened. There was probably not one among the original exiles that could not remember Fëanor's speech and the ensuing debate on the terraces of Tirion. The light had just gone from Aman, forever, the marble of Tirion was shimmering red from the shine of a thousand torches that tainted the air with their smoke and even blocked out the stars over the city. Fëanor's mighty voice bellowed promises of adventure and free kingdoms in Middle Earth, some spoke against him, many more agreed with his vision. Among those was Argon, for he was hungry for adventure and glory and he was determent that this time, his father would not keep him from going where Celegorm went. Fortunately, or so it seemed to Argon at the time, that was not an issue that time; Fingolfin, the great enemy of Feanor, did not wish to surrender the crown of the Noldor to his half-brother and so, since the majority of the Noldor was following Fëanor into Middle Earth, had no choice but to go there as well, and, as the youngest son of Fingolfin, Argon was of course required to accompany his father.
Argon had never felt such excitement then on the road from Tirion to Alqualondë. While Anairë, his lady mother, did not allow any of her children to journey in Fëanor's train Argon and Aredhel nonetheless rode as far ahead of Fingolfin's group as they were allowed. This turned out to be a grave mistake. For this way Argon was among those who saw the fighting in Alqualondë before it could be discovered what the reason for the battle was. Sending Aredhel back to get reinforcements Argon had charged right into battle to save his fellow Noldor, slaying Falmari left and right as he galloped through the streets of Alqualondë, desperate to help, mad from fear that friends might have been slain already, that Celegorm's blood might already be running over the quays of the haven of swans, mixing with the dark waters of the sea.
It had been Argon's, and the Noldor's, first battle, and nothing could have prepared any of them for the true nature of war. It was not long before all the screaming, the dying, the flying arrows and the clashing of metal had driven Argon into a frenzy. He could not remember much of that time only that, when everything was over he found himself standing on the beach of Alqualondë, splattered in blood and standing over the body that did not belong to one of the hunters or guards of the Falmari, not even to one of their fishers or sailors, but to one of their maidens, and a young one at that. The picture would forever be burned into Argon's mind that slender frame crushed by the hooves of his horse, that silver-green Teleri gown torn and bloodied where Argon had slashed at her with his sword, that hair, white as sea foam plastered with her own blood and those green eyes, broken and staring forever unseeing into the night. He remembered turning away only to see the body of a boy likewise massacred by him and, on the other side the corpse of a woman, still clutching a dead infant. What had happened, as Argon later found out, was that, seeking to escape the battle, a number of Falmari had sought shelter at a secluded section of beach and Argon, in his battle madness had forced his horse to ride straight into the crowd of refugees, hacking with his sword at those quick enough to escape the hooves of his horse, slaying a frightful number of them.
Those Falmari had not been the only ones to die on that beach in that battle, but so in a way, had Argon. In that moment all joy and hope and thirst for glory had forever vanished from Argon's mind. He had not laughed, truly laughed, nor hoped, nor felt an instant of untainted joy since then. The Argon who had ridden in tourneys and danced in Tirion was dead, in his place the Elven warrior that would eventually become the Lord of Hûlbarad, the Lord of the Voice- and Faceless, little more than a shadow of regret.
He remembered sitting in his tent in Araman, holding his helmet in his hands and staring at it. He had not eaten or spoken since Alqualondë. Sometimes Fingon or his father came into the tent, telling him that Finarfin had turned back with many others to Eldamar to seek forgiveness and that their mother, Anairë, had gone with him. Just as well, Argon thought, straight after Alqualondë he had, still covered in blood and raw from the battle rushed to his mother for help, comfort, absolution from his misdeed, anything, only to find her take one look into his eyes and recoil from him in terror. She never again looked at her son without crying and touched him again.
What Argon was surprised to hear was that Hanuindwen, his wife, had not left with Anairë. Argon, in his present state felt his heart almost burst in pain; Hanuindwen! His love, his one and only, his other half! She had been of Nerdanel's kind, the Aluenduri, and her hair had been red the dancing flames of fire. The "man hearted" they called her, for she was as proud and strong of will like any man, intelligent and quick with words, able to give Argon a run in merry banter. Their wedding on the steps of Tirion was still remembered by many as the last moment of Valinor's Bliss, having taken place only a few days before Morgoth and Ungoliant destroyed the Trees.
Hanuindwen 's love for him was also one of those precious things he had murdered on that beach in Alqualonde. Although she was his wife, she had never again spoken with him after that or lived with him. The last time Argon had seen her was during the first sunrise in Ard-Galen, as he caught a glimpse of her, unaware of his presence, smile up at the new light, her red hair lit up like a river of fire by the sun's radiance. And yet even then her face had darkened as her eyes met his and she had turned away and, for Argon, had in an instant extinguished any light the sun could have brought to his world.
So why was Argon still alive? Why had he not laid down and, in grief and pain, allowed his spirit to pass into the Halls of Mandos forevermore? The reason for that had also started in Araman, when, late one night, Argon had found himself disturbed by a commotion and, investigation its source had become the first of Fingolfin's train to discover that Fëanor had abandoned them in Araman. Cursing the names of Fëanor and all his sons, including Celegorm, was the first time Argon had spoken since Alqualondë and from that time one thing had animated his spirit besides regret; the wish to wreak vengeance on Fëanor and his sons, to avenge those that died at Alqualondë, those that froze and drowned and fell to their death on the Helcaraxë, and to avenge Argon, the youngest and most naive of Fingolfin's sons that had been destroyed irrevocably during their Rebellion.
Argon woke up with tears in his eyes. Looking down at his gloved hands he saw that the fire painted red creases into the black leather, a reminder of the innocent blood that would forever stain them. He stood up and walked over to the door, climbing back into his breastplate and cloak, putting his helmet back on and fastening his sword belt to his hips, before stepping out into the stormy night once more. This time he walked freely across the battlements, not shielding himself against the storm but allowing the wind and hail to cut into him and belt him with all their might.
Hûlbarad was more than the northernmost of King Fingolfin's fortresses, it was a self-inflicted penal colony for those among the Noldorthat felt that they had racked up too high a toll of innocent blood in Alqualonde, who felt they had become too much beast, too much fell creature to live among the rest of Elvenkind anymore and so had come here to watch Hithlum's northern borders. They were the Nameless and the Faceless, Exiled among the Exiled, the Damned among the Damned and he, Argon of the House of Fingolfin, was their lord, the Spectre of Regret.
So, I hope you enjoyed, just a bit of trivia here:
1) Argon's gloves: Because of the description of Arwen's dress in the first book of the LOTR (grey and without adornment except for a silver belt of leaves) I personally always imagined Elven dress to be vaguely Greco-Roman, so very flowing, breezy garments that granted a lot freedom of movement and were easy to put on and off. To me gloves are the most "un-elfish" type of garment there is. So Argon wearing his gloves almost constantly is meant to hint at his damaged mindset.
2) Lions and Frangipani in Valinor: There are in fact Quenya and Sindarin words for lion, one of which (Raw) I have used for Rochanar's name and the Silmarillion says that "every creature in Arda" was found in Aman. Aman was a giant continent stretching from north to south and likely possessed every climate imaginable. Eldamar in particular is said to have been located at the "Girdle of Arda" in older versions of the mythology and it is easy to imagine that to be the equator and to give the lands there a tropical/subtropical climate, hence the frangipani in Tirion.
3)As a helpful reviewer pointed out, it is not correct for the characters here to use Sindarin names instead of Quenya. However I personally prefer the Sindarin names of the characters and I think more people are familiar with them (as they are printed in the Silmarillion)
4) Rochanar (Lion Brother), Lomëanna (Twilight Gift) and Hanuindwen's (Woman with a Manly Heart) names are correct Sindarin/Quenya and constructed using an online guide, the rest of the names are hopefully correct and constructed using a Elvish dictionary.
5) The Aluenduri and the Shoreland Pipers: These do not show up in Tolkien's mythology, but are based on ideas therein. The Aulenduri are envisioned to be a sub-tribe among the Noldor to whom Nerdanel, the wife of Feanor belonged. Marked by a slightly olive skin tone and occasional light brown or red/auburn hair they are a tribe of artisans, smiths and miners. The Shoreland Pipers were the original concept of the Teleri/Falmari because I liked them I made them a sub-tribe of the Teleri here.
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