"Ada!" I screamed into the relentless winds whipping around me.

They were gone. My hands had slipped, and they had not noticed. I could see nothing but ice, visions and figures of ice. Snow filled the air, white-washing the atmosphere, turning everything a monotone gray – not the gray of the eyes I loved, but blank, cold, demanding. Itarillë, you are mine. Come to me.

"Ada!" Part of me felt distant, the world of snow and wind and blood and tears far away. My eyes stinging, snowflakes fluttering off my lashes, blinking, weeping, sucking in freezing gasps of air that ripped down my sore throat. The memories floated to the surface of my mind, turbulent and bubbling, hissing, fire glowing far away, dooming us all. Perhaps I left it all behind at Alqualondë . . . perhaps it never happened . . .


"What's going on?" I turned toward Ada, but he was no longer by my side, but leaping forward on his stallion, Celebthir, shouting strange words that my father would never say . . .

"Turukáno!" cried Ammë, reaching out her arms to him.

"Ammë!" I screamed as I fell.


"Ammë!"

It didn't sound right.

I saw a light, faraway. I ran, my boots lodging in the drifts, sticking to the ice, dragging me down. I sputtered up, and tumbled on, remembering there used to be hundreds of lights, a forest of them, jingling and knocking against each other, swaying in the biting wind, and there couldn't be just one, but I didn't care. The light shone from a dark place – it looked something like a cave as I got closer. I did not think about the logic of it, could only think of one thing – light, family, Ada, Ammë.


Horses tore past us, and my mare reared in fright. I fell, hitting my head on the white wood of the pier. I staggered to my feet, stepping on the hem of my dress, nearly toppling into the churning black waters below.


As I stumbled into the cave, the light became brighter, the wind faded, the cold subsided, the snow on the ground gave way to polished marble, and looking down at myself, I saw my soaked and dirty furs had been replaced by my favorite blue dancing gown, and my feet were bare and rosy. (Silver-foot, once upon a time.) The walls of the cave extended high above me into the familiar golden archway of the palace of my great-grandfather Finwë. (Didn't he die, long ago, in a strange land, faraway?) I saw the tapestries of my great-grandmother Míriel. (I always thought of her as my great-grandmother, though I never called her that when Ada or grandfather was around.) There were my favorites – the one of the Two Trees and the one of Lady Nessa, dancing. (As I once danced.) I touched the silver threads of her dress.

"Itarillë!"

Startled, I turned, and saw Artanis, who caught my hand and pulled me after her down the hall. I knew this hall led to the throne room, but this time it opened up into the great dancing room. My entire family was there – and they were all dancing.


I stumbled into Makalaurë, and he caught my arms as I ran into his chest. His hands were hot and sticky, and his grip on my arms hurt. I looked up at him, and he gazed down at me. His eyes blazed with fire, raw and wild, and I cried out in fear. My legs gave way and I crumpled into him. He dragged me away and left me by one of the walls, cast in shadow.


"Come, Itarillë, dance with me!" Tyelkormo said, laughing, taking my hands and spinning me out onto the floor. (The last time I saw him, he was rinsing the blood from his silver hair in the angry waters of Alqualondë.)

We danced, turning around and around, swinging and dipping beneath the thousands of crystals hanging from the ceiling, reflecting the light of Laurelin streaming in through the enormous windows which encircled us. The music swelled louder and sweeter than I had ever heard it before, and tears came to my eyes.

Then my uncle Findekáno swept me away, the golden ribbons in his thick brown braids tangling in my fingers.

I danced with Findárato, his smile bright enough to encompass the whole world. (And how small it had been . . .)

I danced with Angárato, and then with Carnistir, and Írrisë, laughing, laughing, laughing. (Never mind the swords, the blood, the screams.)

I danced with Ada, and how handsome he looked.

I saw Ammë, and tried to talk to her, but she smiled and turned away from me.

I danced for hours, and I never tired.


Slumped by the wall, shuddering, and gasping for breath, and vaguely aware that Makalaurë's hands left red hand prints on my arms, I looked beside me.

A maiden sat at my side, limp, her head lolled to one side, her eyes wide and . . .

I leaped to my feet again as I saw the blood blooming across her white chest, and I ran, headlong into the screams.

"Ada! Ammë!"


But then the music faded, and the people stopped dancing and drifted away. I followed Artanis, crying her name. "Artanis! Where are you going?" I turned to the others around me. They all ignored me. Troubled, I wandered away from them, feeling the cold of the marble beneath my bare feet for the first time. Now my legs began to ache, and I felt lightheaded. A strange emptiness filled my heart, and I knew something was wrong. I walked down the tapestried hall, my steps becoming slower and more painful. The airy brightness, the light, it diminished and a stray, freezing wind caught my hair and pushed me back. I stumbled and fell backwards.

I sank into a snow drift, and pulled up gasping and shivering.

The ice, the gray, the winds, the winds, they had all come.

I stood, stepping on my skirt, and I heard it rip.

"No!" I whispered, pulling my cloak aside to examine the hem of my favorite blue dancing gown.

I stared at the filthy, ripped fabric, and remembered I left my favorite blue dancing gown in my room, faraway in Tirion.

I straightened, shaking, staring at the gray, swirling world I called my own.

(I left it all behind, so long ago.)

"Artanis!" I screamed. The wind ripped the word from my mouth and flung it into the sky. Tears spilled from my eyes now. "Tyelkormo! Findekáno! Findárato! Angárato! Carnistir! Írrisë!" I choked and stumbled forward. "Ada!" The ice caught on my eyelashes, filling my vision with stinging white. "Ammë!"

Even as I said it, I remembered what was wrong.

Ammë was dead.


Notes on names:

Itarillë - Idril

Turukáno - Turgon

Artanis - Galadriel

Makalaurë - Maglor

Tyelkormo - Celegorm

Findekáno - Fingon

Findárato - Finrod

Angárato - Angrod

Carnistir - Caranthir

Írrisë - Aredhel

Ada - father

Ammë - mother

This story is based off a time when I had to walk through a blizzard to get to my swing dance lesson, and I pretended I was Idril in the Grinding Ice.

I hope you all enjoyed my story!

Much love,

Unicadia