Clarity of Ice
Author: Marina (taelle@mail.rcom.ru)
Pairing: Maedhros/Fingon (implied)
Archive: yes
Rating: PG-13, at most
Dislaimers: This story uses characters and
universe belonging to J.R.R.Tolkien. They
characters are not used for profit. Please view my
story as a respectful comment on the work of a
beloved writer.
Summary: Helcaraxe and memories of fire
-----------------------------
Elenwe started to die long before that ice patch
broke under her. She just slipped into dream and
never really came back.
We noticed it much later, when on the side of our
main road the ice started moving. Suddenly Idril
cried out. Turgon ran to the sound of her voice. I
followed.
What we saw almost made me freeze. The moving
surface shifted the great blocks of ice and the
whole area quickly turned into a deadly trap.
Heavy lumps of ice began falling down on the
frozen ground already covered by a web of tiny
cracks. Some of these started to widen, opening
the still dark water underneath.
And in the middle of this chaos were two pale
golden-haired figures that could be seen clearly
only on the background of black water — Elenwe and
Idril. The girl cried, tugging her mother's hand,
trying to find something for them to cling to. But
Elenwe's movements were painfully slow. It seemed
that she did not care what was going on around
her. The crack widened again and they started
slipping down. Turgon cried out and tried to run
there, but we held him back. Two young elves
started a slow and careful approach without almost
any hope to get there in time.
Elenwe and Idril were already falling into the
darkness when the water itself rose. Flailing her
hands desperately, Idril managed to cling to an
overhanging block and stayed there long enough for
the rescuers to reach her.
But Elenwe did not move. A spot of gold and white
on the black of the water, she sank back with the
sudden wave, and the surface was calm and unbroken
again. Of Elenwe there was no trace.
Turgon did not want to believe. He stayed there.
He called her. He sang her favourite songs. There
was no answer from the freezing water. Turgon did
not even notice when the crack started to close.
We wanted to drag him away, but did not dare to
come closer. He seemed as cold and unreachable as
the dark water where Elenwe finally found rest.
At last he stood up, looked at the small patch of
water still seen through the ice and went off.
Somebody called him, and he looked back with
unseeing eyes. "Let's go! Let's hurry!" he said.
"Our kinfolk waits for us in Arda, do they not?"
Then he turned away again and went straight ahead.
I sent Idril to stop him. She ran after her
father, crying, asking him to wait. I looked
around. The same ice everywhere. Mountains and
rocks of ice and clear patches in between. Not
much to remember the place, now that the cracks
were closed again. Elenwe was not the first to
die, and all we had to remeber our dead by was
ice. Empty ice.
We had to almost run to catch up with Turgon.
"What are you doing, brother?" I asked him. "Too
many of our people died on ice. Will you make more
of them drop down because of your hurry?"
He looked at me and smiled. "We will stay as we
are," he said. "Nobody else will die, and we will
all hurry to Arda where our kin is." And I saw the
reflection of the fire in his eyes, the fire
kindled from the white ships of Alqualonde far
ahead over all this ice. But there was no warmth
in that fire.
I started forgetting about warmth though. Light
from the Trees, warmth of out homes, all seemed
unreal. Long past.
And it was truly past, even if we could never
really forget. The Trees died. Our homes were far
behind. There was only ice, endless clear ice.
Nowhere to rest. Nowhere to hide.
I wanted to hide. Hide from tiredness in the faces
of our people. From the look in Aredhel's eyes,
longing for the freedom of the forests. From
Turgon's strained voice, urging everyone to move
faster, only becoming softer when talking to
Idril. But most of all I wanted to hide from
myself.
Only there was no hiding. My soul managed to
become as empty and clear as the ice of Helcaraxe.
I saw my own anger and pain reflected in this
clarity. At times it was no less than Turgon's,
though I cannot claim such losses as his. How
could that happen? How could they leave us?
And I still see reproach in Turgon's eyes. He
never said anything, but it's there. I see it. "It
was you," his eyes say. "*You* insisted on going.
*You* persuaded father and many others. You. You.
We wouldn't be there if not for you, though you
claim to dislike Feanor."
I do dislike him. These ice fields are so barren —
even Maglor, I'm sure, would find here nothing to
sing about. Not that I'll be able to ask him any
time soon. So I hide from this emptiness in the
flimsy haven of my own soul, asking myself endless
questions, examining everything I've ever believed
in. And I still find Feanor too stubborn, arrogant
and conceited to like. But is liking or disliking
one particular elf the right reason for deciding
the fate of our people?
Maybe it is. Maybe we started the journey for some
other reasons, be it distrusting the Valar or
looking for new lands to take as our own. But why
do we go on? Right now I cannot think about any
distant lands. All my world is Helcaraxe, endless
ice and the distant fire still burning in my
memory.
I won't forget the moment I saw this fire. None of
us will; but I think I was the last one to
understand. To believe it really happened. "They
aren't coming back for us," Turgon said. "Do you
hear me, Fingon? They aren't coming back!". And I
just looked at him, unable to comprehend his
words. He was yelling, I noticed detachedly. Why
was he yelling?
Even after I understood, I could not think about
it. Right. There's a fire ahead. They aren't
coming back. He isn't coming. Why? Where is he?
Where is Maedhros?
I used to love the fire. Flames made me think of
him. There's a moment when a flame has the exact
coppery tint of Maedhros's hair. He was always
close then. Since we were children he came every
day, or I went to see him. Often I found him in
his grandfather's smithy, staring into the flames
in fascination, watching Mahtan work. And I
watched him, standing in the doorway, afraid to
call him. He seemed a part of the flames, a
visitor out of this fiery eternal dance who could
disappear again if I made a sudden move. Then, of
course, he turned and smiled, seeing me there. Off
we went, and I had no need of any other fire when
he was there.
And now there's only ice around. Fire became a
memory. A bad memory. Why didn't Maedhros become a
bad memory too? How can my soul keep him separate
from all this?
I think now that for a long time after we saw that
fire Turgon looked at me with pity. Back then I
only noticed he looked strange, as if he wanted to
tell me something but always changed his mind.
Maybe he pitied me for believing. For still
wanting to follow.
It doesn't really matter now. Turgon tries to look
straight ahead only, and doesn't say anything. Why
imagine what he wanted to say? Why invent answers?
When I look clearly into my soul, though, I know
that I do not argue with Turgon but with myself.
Do I blame myself? I suppose I do. How could I not
blame myself, looking into the tired faces of my
friends, seeing Turgon's determined gaze. But I do
not blame him. I cannot.
He is the last bright flame in my soul, much
brighter than the fires ahead, the fires of
betrayal. I am able to forget about these because
the flame of memory still burns in me. It keeps me
warm among all this ice, not letting me become ice
too. It reminds me that I am still alive.
Author: Marina (taelle@mail.rcom.ru)
Pairing: Maedhros/Fingon (implied)
Archive: yes
Rating: PG-13, at most
Dislaimers: This story uses characters and
universe belonging to J.R.R.Tolkien. They
characters are not used for profit. Please view my
story as a respectful comment on the work of a
beloved writer.
Summary: Helcaraxe and memories of fire
-----------------------------
Elenwe started to die long before that ice patch
broke under her. She just slipped into dream and
never really came back.
We noticed it much later, when on the side of our
main road the ice started moving. Suddenly Idril
cried out. Turgon ran to the sound of her voice. I
followed.
What we saw almost made me freeze. The moving
surface shifted the great blocks of ice and the
whole area quickly turned into a deadly trap.
Heavy lumps of ice began falling down on the
frozen ground already covered by a web of tiny
cracks. Some of these started to widen, opening
the still dark water underneath.
And in the middle of this chaos were two pale
golden-haired figures that could be seen clearly
only on the background of black water — Elenwe and
Idril. The girl cried, tugging her mother's hand,
trying to find something for them to cling to. But
Elenwe's movements were painfully slow. It seemed
that she did not care what was going on around
her. The crack widened again and they started
slipping down. Turgon cried out and tried to run
there, but we held him back. Two young elves
started a slow and careful approach without almost
any hope to get there in time.
Elenwe and Idril were already falling into the
darkness when the water itself rose. Flailing her
hands desperately, Idril managed to cling to an
overhanging block and stayed there long enough for
the rescuers to reach her.
But Elenwe did not move. A spot of gold and white
on the black of the water, she sank back with the
sudden wave, and the surface was calm and unbroken
again. Of Elenwe there was no trace.
Turgon did not want to believe. He stayed there.
He called her. He sang her favourite songs. There
was no answer from the freezing water. Turgon did
not even notice when the crack started to close.
We wanted to drag him away, but did not dare to
come closer. He seemed as cold and unreachable as
the dark water where Elenwe finally found rest.
At last he stood up, looked at the small patch of
water still seen through the ice and went off.
Somebody called him, and he looked back with
unseeing eyes. "Let's go! Let's hurry!" he said.
"Our kinfolk waits for us in Arda, do they not?"
Then he turned away again and went straight ahead.
I sent Idril to stop him. She ran after her
father, crying, asking him to wait. I looked
around. The same ice everywhere. Mountains and
rocks of ice and clear patches in between. Not
much to remember the place, now that the cracks
were closed again. Elenwe was not the first to
die, and all we had to remeber our dead by was
ice. Empty ice.
We had to almost run to catch up with Turgon.
"What are you doing, brother?" I asked him. "Too
many of our people died on ice. Will you make more
of them drop down because of your hurry?"
He looked at me and smiled. "We will stay as we
are," he said. "Nobody else will die, and we will
all hurry to Arda where our kin is." And I saw the
reflection of the fire in his eyes, the fire
kindled from the white ships of Alqualonde far
ahead over all this ice. But there was no warmth
in that fire.
I started forgetting about warmth though. Light
from the Trees, warmth of out homes, all seemed
unreal. Long past.
And it was truly past, even if we could never
really forget. The Trees died. Our homes were far
behind. There was only ice, endless clear ice.
Nowhere to rest. Nowhere to hide.
I wanted to hide. Hide from tiredness in the faces
of our people. From the look in Aredhel's eyes,
longing for the freedom of the forests. From
Turgon's strained voice, urging everyone to move
faster, only becoming softer when talking to
Idril. But most of all I wanted to hide from
myself.
Only there was no hiding. My soul managed to
become as empty and clear as the ice of Helcaraxe.
I saw my own anger and pain reflected in this
clarity. At times it was no less than Turgon's,
though I cannot claim such losses as his. How
could that happen? How could they leave us?
And I still see reproach in Turgon's eyes. He
never said anything, but it's there. I see it. "It
was you," his eyes say. "*You* insisted on going.
*You* persuaded father and many others. You. You.
We wouldn't be there if not for you, though you
claim to dislike Feanor."
I do dislike him. These ice fields are so barren —
even Maglor, I'm sure, would find here nothing to
sing about. Not that I'll be able to ask him any
time soon. So I hide from this emptiness in the
flimsy haven of my own soul, asking myself endless
questions, examining everything I've ever believed
in. And I still find Feanor too stubborn, arrogant
and conceited to like. But is liking or disliking
one particular elf the right reason for deciding
the fate of our people?
Maybe it is. Maybe we started the journey for some
other reasons, be it distrusting the Valar or
looking for new lands to take as our own. But why
do we go on? Right now I cannot think about any
distant lands. All my world is Helcaraxe, endless
ice and the distant fire still burning in my
memory.
I won't forget the moment I saw this fire. None of
us will; but I think I was the last one to
understand. To believe it really happened. "They
aren't coming back for us," Turgon said. "Do you
hear me, Fingon? They aren't coming back!". And I
just looked at him, unable to comprehend his
words. He was yelling, I noticed detachedly. Why
was he yelling?
Even after I understood, I could not think about
it. Right. There's a fire ahead. They aren't
coming back. He isn't coming. Why? Where is he?
Where is Maedhros?
I used to love the fire. Flames made me think of
him. There's a moment when a flame has the exact
coppery tint of Maedhros's hair. He was always
close then. Since we were children he came every
day, or I went to see him. Often I found him in
his grandfather's smithy, staring into the flames
in fascination, watching Mahtan work. And I
watched him, standing in the doorway, afraid to
call him. He seemed a part of the flames, a
visitor out of this fiery eternal dance who could
disappear again if I made a sudden move. Then, of
course, he turned and smiled, seeing me there. Off
we went, and I had no need of any other fire when
he was there.
And now there's only ice around. Fire became a
memory. A bad memory. Why didn't Maedhros become a
bad memory too? How can my soul keep him separate
from all this?
I think now that for a long time after we saw that
fire Turgon looked at me with pity. Back then I
only noticed he looked strange, as if he wanted to
tell me something but always changed his mind.
Maybe he pitied me for believing. For still
wanting to follow.
It doesn't really matter now. Turgon tries to look
straight ahead only, and doesn't say anything. Why
imagine what he wanted to say? Why invent answers?
When I look clearly into my soul, though, I know
that I do not argue with Turgon but with myself.
Do I blame myself? I suppose I do. How could I not
blame myself, looking into the tired faces of my
friends, seeing Turgon's determined gaze. But I do
not blame him. I cannot.
He is the last bright flame in my soul, much
brighter than the fires ahead, the fires of
betrayal. I am able to forget about these because
the flame of memory still burns in me. It keeps me
warm among all this ice, not letting me become ice
too. It reminds me that I am still alive.
