Chapter IX – Henneth Annûn
15 Narwain, T.A. 3001My father used to tell me that if there was one thing he hoped I'd learn from him, it was that a man can't back down from his fears, or someone else will end up getting hurt. When I was five, I didn't understand, because whenever I was afraid of something I was the only one who got punished for it. My mother used to tell me that the hardest thing for a man to live with is knowing that he failed to do what he knows is right. At the time I believed that she only meant that I shouldn't steal sweets from the kitchens, or I'd get a good, solid smack later from my father.
Now I understand. What she said was meant to go side-by-side with my father's warning: If a man fails to fight and do the right thing at the right time, someone else will get hurt and the man will be haunted by his conscience forever. I can't remember if I gave my parents' adage much heed when I was a child, but maybe if I had things would be different now…
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"Lord Faramir, is this your first time with the Ithilien Rangers, too?" The other young man looked admiringly at Faramir, as if having something in common with him would be a blessing. He looked a little older than Faramir, but even then not by much. Faramir thought that the Rangers must be shorthanded if they were suddenly taking on so many younger faces. Quick to please the nervous young man, Faramir smiled and lied easily.
"Yes, it is," said Faramir, shining the length of his blade with a clean rag. The truth was that Faramir had come with the Rangers dozens of times since his seventeenth birthday. He had pushed himself and worked twice as hard as most boys so that he could prove his worth to his father, and moment he'd turned seventeen he was asked to join by the Rangers' captain. But a tiny lie to make the newest Ranger more at ease could hardly be considered treacherous. Besides, nothing ever really happened on these excursions, anyway. They patrolled the borders, hunted some squirrels, bathed in a few streams, and then headed home with hardly a scratch. If there were any enemies in Ithilien, they were apparently sparse enough not to get caught by a company of Rangers.
The young man practically beamed with pleasure. "My name is Aerandir, my Lord. You're even the same age as I am," he said in a confidential tone. "Well, almost. Your birthday is in a week, is it not?"
"Yes. I'll be passing my eighteenth year," said Faramir.
"We'll match in age then." Aerandir smiled. "For a time, at least. My birthday is in four months."
Faramir returned the grin. "It is nice to see another Ranger my age," he admitted. "You must be an excellent swordsman."
"Oh, no." Aerandir scratched his neck shyly. "My grandfather was a renowned archer in the service, and he insisted that I learn to use the bow before the blade. Honestly, m'Lord, I only know the very basics of sword work. Captain Seregorn accepted me because of my archery skill."
"Me, too," said Faramir. "My father wanted me to excel in the sword, but I don't have the brute strength for it. Boromir is more the type of soldier to…" He trailed off when he saw that Aerandir had his head down and was almost blushing. "What is it?"
Aerandir shrugged uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, my Lord. It is only strange to…well…"
"To what?"
"To speak with the Steward Denethor's son, my Lord." Now Aerandir was really blushing.
"Oh, that." Faramir sighed. "Please, Aerandir, don't think on it. I am as human as you are and quite as flawed. I wish you to treat me no different."
"I do try, my Lord, but I am unaccustomed to finding myself among such distinguished companions…"
Faramir laughed. "I am not distinguished, Aerandir, and I do not like to be treated so. If Boromir were here, you might have reason to be embarrassed. He is a true soldier, experienced in the art of combat. If anyone in Minas Tirith should receive the title of 'distinguished' it should be he, not I."
"Very well, my Lord…I will try."
"Good." Faramir finished cleaning his sword and paused. "Here, let me show you how to polish your sword so it shines like Minas Ithil in the light." Aerandir handed the sword to Faramir, who took it carefully. His attention was caught by some of the detailing on the hilt; twin horse heads were engraved just at the base of the pommel. The shape and craft of the blade was broader and thicker, too, than what Faramir was used to seeing. The pommel was large, shaped like a half-sun.
"This is of Rohirric make, isn't it?" he asked, surprised.
Aerandir nodded eagerly. "Yes, Lord Faramir. I was born in Rohan, though my parents are both Gondorian. We lived there for a long while, my Lord, before we returned to Gondor. My father was even in their army! This sword used to be his, when he was a soldier."
Faramir smiled. "Good. Then I definitely must show you how to take proper care of it. Here—watch me." He took the rag between his first two fingers and his thumb and ran it through the fuller along the entire length of the blade. "Taking good care of your sword is very important to a soldier," Faramir instructed him knowingly. "If you allow it to get wet, it will start to rust, and rust is one of the sword's worst enemies. Even if you manage to clean it off, it can still eat into the blade. Blood, too." He saw Aerandir flinch. "But you won't have to worry about that. I've heard that the patrols never run into orcs in Ithilien." Aerandir was visibly relieved.
"So when you're cleaning the sword, be sure to clean off any little black spots," Faramir continued. "It's corrosion, and it'll patch your sword with these little grey spots everywhere. Also, once you're in battle the blade can get chipped, and such. See—" Faramir pointed to a spot on the edge of the blade. "It already has a little notch in the metal here. They're easy to fix with a whetstone, but every time you do that, you wear your sword a little thinner. Now, see how I'm careful at the edge?" said Faramir, demonstrating for the boy. "You don't want to press the rag too hard at the edge, or you might accidentally cut yourself. I've done that before." Faramir handed the sword and the rag back to Aerandir. "Here, you try now."
"How do you know so much?" Aerandir muttered, beginning to polish the blade carefully.
Faramir sighed and gave the boy a wry smile. "Boromir taught me all about being a soldier and how to hunt and how to care for a sword. He says he's taught me everything he knows, but…" Faramir laughed, shaking his head. "…I doubt it." He paused as a pair of Rangers hurried past, headed for Captain Seregorn's quarters. Something was about, though he wasn't sure what.
"It's all very…well…creepy here," said Aerandir. "The waterfall keeps me awake all night, and it seems like there's always a hard rock under my head and a stalactite dripping water onto my face."
Faramir smiled again. "You'll get used to it." He looked around at the small, damp chamber towards the fireplace at the opposite end where a handful of Rangers were gathered eating their supper quietly. "Strangely, I find Henneth Annûn to be a cozy little place, full of quiet and peace and warm firelight. The wolves howl you to sleep every night, and the birds wake you every morning. The great silver moon is reflected so beautifully in the Forbidden Pool…like a great orb revolving in the sky…" He realized suddenly that he was rambling and laughed. "Forgive me, but it seems to me almost poetic, like something out of a fairytale."
Just then, the two Rangers returned led by Captain Seregorn, who looked tense and agitated. "Mablung," he said, turning to one of the young men sitting by the fire. "Get together some of your scouts and archers. Meet me outside the waterfall." He swept out without another word, the two Rangers right behind him. Mablung's eyes found Faramir from across the room.
"Faramir, take your friend and get him a bow," said Mablung swiftly. "Something is amiss at the falls! Hurry!"
Aerandir looked confused as Faramir stood and pulled him to his feet. "My Lord, what—"
"No time! Hurry now!" Faramir seized Aerandir by the arm and raced with him towards the armory. "Don't ask questions, just take orders and be silent!" Faramir grabbed his own bow and strung it hastily before slinging a quiver of arrows across his back. He looked Aerandir up and down, judged his approximate height, and selected a longbow of the appropriate length. When both of them were equipped, Faramir pulled his hood over his head and indicated that Aerandir should do the same.
They found Mablung waiting for them outside the waterfall with four other archers. Faramir could hear Aerandir's quick breath. His own heart was pounding in his ears. He had never seen Captain Seregorn so stern and worried before. To say that something was amiss did not describe the look of fear in Mablung's eyes.
Before long, the Captain joined them. It must be snowing; his hood and cloak were coated with a fine layer of snow. He and Mablung exchanged anxious whispers, and then Mablung swept through the door that led to the top of the waterfall. The Captain stayed behind and turned to the band of archers assembled there.
"A small company of orcs is gathered below us by the shore of the Forbidden Pool," Captain Seregorn murmured. Several of the archers cursed under their breath. Faramir clenched his fist tighter around his bow. "Our scouts have given no word of orcs, and there have been none in these parts of Ithilien for long ages. It is unnatural, and I do not understand it…"
He shook his head. "They are many, but we have the advantage of surprise. They have not yet realized that these caves house a hidden refuge. We must slay them before they do, or Henneth Annûn shall be overrun. Come with me, and stay close to the ridge. Do not let the orcs see you. They bring archers of their own." Captain Seregorn met the eyes of each man before leading them out after Mablung.
Faramir could feel his hands shaking and fought to steady them. He would be a poor shot if his hands shook, and he could not afford to miss. Aerandir stood beside him, equally shaken by the thought of battle, and they gave each other a brief glance that said, 'Be brave.' At a signal from Captain Seregorn, Faramir pulled an arrow from his quiver and notched it. Below he could hear the sounds of the orc rabble, but he was pinned to close to the wall to see them over the ledge.
"The Master said not to come this far South," snarled one orc angrily. "Glutazh has led us astray!"
"He is right!" joined another. "It is too open in this country! You can never know when you are being watched!"
The Captain raised his hand, and the Rangers took their positions closer to the ledge. Faramir could see the orcs now. Black and ugly, they swarmed like vermin beside the Pool, shoving and cursing each other violently. Most were armed with chipped, black blades, but a handful lingered behind with bows made of horn and sinew. Faramir knew to aim for the archers first.
Mablung drew back his bow, and Faramir quickly followed suit. Aerandir's bow was steady even though his breath was quick and heavy. Faramir took aim at the head of the nearest orc archer, and they all waited for the final signal from Captain Seregorn…
The Captain's hand slashed through the air, and half a dozen Ranger arrows whizzed through the air like lightning. Faramir shifted his bow at the last second, and though he hit his mark it was not dead-on. Instead of piercing the orc's head, the arrow struck its chest. Faramir swore to himself.
"Men!" shrieked the orc captain, the one called Glutazh. "Slay them! Kill them! Grab their skins!"
The throng of orcs rushed to the cliffs and began scaling them, swords at hand, but the Rangers picked them off one by one before they could reach the top. Faramir seized another arrow, notched it, and aimed for the last surviving orc archer, the one he had failed to kill, in one fluid motion. Before he could release the dart, a slimy orc hand grasped the top of the ledge where he stood. Faramir swung his bow down and killed the orc swiftly, and it fell back into the Forbidden Pool below. Another orc followed, and Faramir forgot about the orc archer in the frenzy to keep the mob off the ledge.
A shrill whistle flew through the air, and Faramir saw the orc arrow an instant before it struck Aerandir. Faramir's breath caught in his throat, and he watched Aerandir fall backwards onto the stone ledge. Faramir hurried to his side and saw the grisly black arrow that pierced Aerandir just below his left breast.
"Lord Faramir…" Aerandir choked out. His was pale with fear and pain. "I-I am sorry…"
Faramir shook his head vigorously. "No, Aerandir. Don't—"
"Faramir!" cried Mablung, calling him back to the battle. Faramir was loath to leave Aerandir's side, but he knew that he had no choice. He dragged Aerandir to a nook where he would not be harmed and hurried back to the ledge.
The massive tide was slowly being turned back, but only slowly. Faramir aimed straight at the orc archer's head, and this time his shot flew true. The orc collapsed limply to the ground, Faramir's arrow in its skull. Faramir sobbed.
It seemed as if the orcs would never stop coming. There were too many to stop with arrows, and a pair finally pulled themselves up onto the ledge. They were shot and killed, but three more immediately took their place. Captain Seregorn retreated inside the caves to summon reinforcements, and Mablung's fiery spirit kept the rest of them going until he returned with a company of swordsmen who would take up the defense. Mablung's archers fell back, and Faramir carried Aerandir with him.
"Here, let's have a look," said Mablung grimly as Faramir laid Aerandir beside the fireplace. Chairs and tables were cleared away to give them some room, and a small crowd of Rangers stood behind looking on anxiously. Sweat beaded on Aerandir's brow, and his face was sheer white. His leather armor was stained with red blood.
"If I remove the arrow, he'll bleed to death." Mablung's face was as hard as stone. "But there is no other choice. We can't leave it in him." Faramir nodded fearfully and helped Mablung roll Aerandir gently onto his side. The bloody arrowhead had stuck in the leather armor on his back, and Mablung removed the armor carefully.
"Hold him steady," Mablung warned. He gripped the arrow head and snapped it clean off, leaving only the shaft of the arrow to be removed. Aerandir cried out in agony, and Faramir closed his eyes. Mablung drew the arrow forth and threw it quickly to the side so that he could press both hands down hard over the open wound. Dark blood pooled around his hand, and Mablung called for cloths and for the fire to be heated as well as it could be.
Aerandir looked up at Faramir through cloudy eyes and gasped. "My Lord…I-I didn't mean t-to… I should have been…a better Ranger, like y-you…"
"No! Don't say such things!" said Faramir, tears welling in his eyes. "I am not a good Ranger, Aerandir! I am not!" He stroked Aerandir's cold brow with a shaking hand. "Don't speak. Close your eyes…" Aerandir obeyed him, and Faramir looked up at Mablung. The Ranger's face was full of sorrow and pain.
Captain Seregorn swept into the room, covered in black orc blood. "The boy," he said immediately, pushing through the crowd. "How is he?" Mablung did not even look up as he shook his head. Faramir choked on his tears.
"Can't you do something, Mablung?" he begged. "Anything? Please? This is all my fault! He can't die!"
"There's nothing I can do, Faramir," snapped Mablung. "Sometimes there is nothing to be done!"
"That's not true!" shouted Faramir. "You can help him! I know you can! You can help anyone—"
"Captain, please remove young Faramir," said Mablung tersely, his eyes still on Aerandir's stricken face. Captain Seregorn stepped forward and pulled Faramir back, bringing him back through the crowd. Faramir strained to look back at Aerandir's still body and his face, as white as death. The Captain was trying to say something kind to him, murmuring softly in his ear, but Faramir could not hear it.
Aerandir was dead.
Narwain
(January)