"once lost"
.
.
Different
She had not known that it was possible to be this cold.
Before the Helcaraxë, she had seen snow, but only ever on the glittering white slopes of Taniquetil. She remembered playing in her great-uncle Ingwë's house as a child, lying on the ground and creating winged creatures with her arms and legs before rising to pelt her brothers with balls of the cold white powder. She remembered how Turukáno's face would turn in mock annoyance as he brushed his clothes dry; how Findekáno would scowl in mock outrage before returning her attacks with those of his own - pelting her retreating back with snowballs before dropping her into the snowbank on the side of the path, screaming out her laughter while their elders watched them with smiles on their faces.
Now, Irissë could not remember how she had ever been delighted by the cold. Now she only knew the tightness of her stomach, groaning in hunger and in thirst. Her skin stung from where it was stretched across her bones, made thin and brittle where it was exposed to the cold around her. She could not feel her fingers or her toes, but she was fortunate that she had not yet developed the bite of frost that had already taken so much from so many. She was tired, she was weary; but she did not fall in her path as others walked over her still form, leaving her to freeze in their wake. Her blood still beat through her veins, and though its pulse was slow, it was enough to let her know that she was alive. She was alive. Alive as . . .
She swallowed, looking ahead to where Turukáno's gait was slow and stunned at the head of their host. At his side, even cheerful Itarillë was quiet, her small and pale face drawn with her grief. Though only a child, the Ice had affected her the least – so much so that their followers had taken to calling her Silver-foot for the ease of her passing over the frozen wasteland around them. And yet, her niece had scarce spoken two words together since her mother's death. Her bright blue eyes were haunted and numb – much too young for the tender count of her years.
Turukáno had not wanted to come, Irissë remembered, feeling guilt rise up in her throat for own role in persuading him. He had been pressured by all; and his wife and daughter had refused to be left behind when he made the decision to follow his family. Such courage was a rarity - even her own mother had forsaken the journey at her father's side, and Anairë was far from the only one to let go both husband and child. But Turukáno had pushed aside his misgivings, and now Elenwë was gone - taken by the restless ocean beneath the endless Ice all around them. Turukáno walked as one numb, and Írissë could not imagine the light ever returning to her brother's eyes as it had been before.
Irissë fisted her fingers, and found that her anger kept her stride from faltering. Anger kept her face warm, kept feeling to the tips of her fingers.
Tyelkormo, she hissed within the confines of her mind. When I cross this desolate place, so help me . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted when a soft step crunched on the snow next to her. She glanced to the side, having energy for little else, and then only blinking her greeting to Findekáno. For a moment, she let her gaze linger, taking in the tight set of her eldest brother's mouth, the stone line of his jaw, before turning her gaze back ahead. She trained her eyes on an unseen place on the horizon, and imagined she could see the far shore they grappled to reach.
She counted out five heartbeats, and then ten, before glancing at her brother again. Something was wrong . . . something was different, but she could not put her finger on precisely what the difference was. He had been quiet since Elenwë's death, but there was a dark cast to his eyes as he stared unblinking at the never-ending stretch of the Ice ahead. He muttered beneath his breath at times, as if rehersing what he would say if he ever . . . She closed her eyes, unable to complete her thought. She knew that look in his eyes - for it was the same look she held in her own. For they were the only ones amongst both Nolofinwë and Arafinwë's children to love . . .
Again the thought rest, incomplete within her mind.
After thirty heartbeats, she realized what was missing from him. The difference was so stark that she stopped, letting the crowd of bodies shoulder past her, all going on by with hardly a glance. Some muttered under their breath as they walked. Some moaned. Far in the back of their group, one or two voices tried to rise in song in defiance to the chill in the air. They never made it further than a verse before faltering.
Findekáno stopped with her, a brow raised in question. She opened her mouth once, then twice, before shutting it. She could hear the cold click of her teeth as they snapped together.
"What is it, Irissë?" Findekáno asked. Even his strong voice was a whisper on the air. His breath frosted between them.
Irissë hugged her arms closer to her body. Her eyes fixed upon the black braids that peeked out from the fur lined hood of his cloak. Their color was blank and dull. Snowflakes frosted the plaits with a layer of ice, but beneath . . .
"Your gold is gone," she said frankly. Even those few words took all of her effort to speak. It was a great task - flexing her throat and passing the breath of her lungs out as words. She pressed her fingers together, seeking the warmth of skin on skin.
"My hands are numb," Findekáno's explanation was simple and frank, but the delay before his answer was too long – even when attributed to the cold. She watched, and saw the way he flinched, he never one to hide even the barest of his emotions from those he was close with. "I could not manage the plaiting," he felt the need to elaborate. "And so I did not bother."
Her brother had been a youth nearly grown at the time of her birth. As long as Irissë could remember, Findekáno had been close in friendship with Maitimo, son of Fëanáro – too close, some would say – but her brother's friendship with their half-cousin was something she had always known and accepted for what it was. It was something she could imagine no differently. She had been young, very young, at the time, but she still remembered coming across the two in the gardens behind her grandfather's home in Tirion. She remembered staring, entranced by the red, red colour of Maitimo's hair, like Laurelin when her light fell at night to set the horizon aflame. She remembered wondering how the colour could grow from the head of any Elf, even as Maitimo flicked one of her brother's braids, fingering the golden thread that Findekáno had entwined there earlier.
"I had only spoken in jest," Maitimo said, but she could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke.
Her brother had shrugged, pleased with the reaction he gained, and at the memory she tried to remember the last time Findekáno had looked so at peace. So at ease. When had last he looked so . . . content in his own skin? She tried to remember, but could only remember the Ice.
Now the braids were barren and black before her, and she felt . . . empty at the loss. Tyelkormo, she thought again, but this time his name was as a sigh. This time it was edged in grief. Why? she wondered, but even her thoughts were as whispers.
She needed to understand, she reflected numbly. She needed to know . . .
She would cross this Ice if it was the last thing she did, she swore to herself. She would cross the Ice and then stare the other straight in the eye and demand her answer of him. She would take it from his flesh, if need be, but until then . . .
"When we stop tonight I will help you, if you would like," she offered. She meant for the words to come out strong, but they were only tired. Tired, and hollow.
"Do not worry yourself," Findekáno tried to smile, but the motion was forced. Mouths could not make such shapes on the Helcaraxë, she knew. "I have no need of such frivolities here."
"When we reach the other side, then?" she asked, taking her hands from their warm cocoon inside of her cloak to hold his – for warmth, she told herself. For neither of them truly needed the comfort. To ache would be to give them a victory, and she could not . . . she would not . . .
"Perhaps then, sister," Findekáno whispered, but the words were forced to her ears. "Perhaps."
Handy Dandy Tolkien Terms:
Iressë: Aredhel
Itarillë: Idril
Turukáno: Turgon
Findekáno: Fingon
Maitimo: Maedhros
Tyelkormo: Celegorm
Nolofinwë: Fingolfin
Arafinwë: Finarfin
Fëanáro: Fëanor
Laurelin: The Tree that was the 'sun'. Telperion, the second Tree, was the 'moon'.
