IV. The Ice - Shadows
"Do you still feel your fingers?"
He was helping Ilvanya wrap the strip of cloth around his injured palm. "Yes," he said.
Her own fingers were clumsy and slow. Ilvanya wiped her eyes with her sleeve when she finished. "I hope we find our people soon. The bleeding is slower, but the ice cut deep enough."
Laurefindil regarded his wound, then glanced back at her. "Thank you."
"A fine pair we make," she looked to her injured leg with a dry smile.
He gazed outside, over the places they had to cross in search of the Elven host. "Are you ready for this?"
Ilvanya breathed a sigh. "No. And I wish I weren't a burden just as much as you, believe me."
The Elf shook his head. "It is done." He shifted on the ground so she could hold on to him. "Not much use for regret now."
They drew their hoods up, and he carefully stepped out in the cold. Laurefindil marched through the fog with her on his back, his face tipped up to the skies, where for brief occasions he discerned patches of stars through the mists.
"We were going east, which is that way," he pointed towards an area of relatively flat terrain strewn with jagged ice formations.
Ilvanya too glanced at the stars. "Let us go, then."
He carried without rest for the better part of the way. The winds hissed loudly against them, but soon their surroundings became eerily quiet, as though they'd passed into a void of sound.
Dread surged through his bones and he floundered, and his heart sped at the grit of a high-pitched wail that pierced the air, feeding a flare of irrational fear. Laurefindil froze; his life struck wildly in his chest.
"Did you hear that?" her voice in his ear, her breathing fast with trepidation.
"Yes," his feet felt knotted together, but he pushed onward, farther from the source - or so he hoped.
The noises rose around him again, this time louder, the vibrations like scraping stone on metal.
Ilvanya whimpered and her palms went to her ears; Laurefindil sank to his knees, deafened by the crashing wails rushing through him like waves in a storm. His gaze snapped upward, and his fear spiked as he spotted fast shadows shifting through the mist.
"What in Eru's name…" he stammered.
"What?! What is it?" Ilvanya asked, gripping him tighter without thought.
He gained his feet again, gathering his will, "I don't know; hold on."
She clung to him, and the Elf sped forward, avoiding the slippery ice as best he could, trying eastward.
"Lights!" Ilvanya exclaimed after a while. "In the distance, there!"
Moving darkness flitted before him, its tendrils sluicing around his legs; his knees went weak.
"Laurefindil!"
They both fell to the ground in a heap; her sharp cry of pain rose in the night.
His sight swayed, and a peal of hoarse laughter filled his mind, vibrating in a spiral through his ear like the echoes in a seashell.
"Please," Ilvanya was shaking him, "Are you unwell? Can you walk?"
The Elf blinked several times, shook his head, then without a word lifted her in his arms and stood, running for the lights. In the corners of his vision, he thought he saw the oily darkness gaining on them. Not in this way. Please, not this end, he prayed to no one, employing all his strength to move faster.
Sharp pain erupted under his clavicle; he groaned, losing balance, and barely held to Ilvanya.
"Stop!" her voice grew shrill in the rising fog as Laurefindil fell to one knee, his features contorted in pain. He glanced up to see their attacker, saw many booted feet approaching through the icy gloom.
"Arakáno, yield!" Ilvanya cried then as bows were drawn taut.
Arakáno? Laurefindil wondered, grasping at the unraveling strings of reality. The son of Ñolofinwë?
A dark-haired Elf in a silver-blue cloak strode forward and crouched before her, drawing her to him. "Ilvanya, Eru be good, we heard your cries; are you harmed?"
"No, but you wounded him! Arakáno, he aided me, please, do something!"
Laurefindil looked at the faraway lights. The grey fog had lifted, and he could see the sad, sharp outlines of tents and carts. He was dizzy from the pain in his shoulder.
The one called Arakáno looked him over as he tried standing straight, his fingers quivering around the arrow shaft.
"Help him to the lady Narye, quickly," the Elf asked of his companion. He then sought Ilvanya, "We were combing the surroundings for you."
The group cut across the ice plains through the night. They reached the encampment and walked a while longer before stopping at one tent. An Elf woman emerged, trembling with unrest.
"Arakáno! Have you-" her gaze found Ilvanya, nestled in the Elf's arms, then Laurefindil, nursing his wound and walking supported by another.
"Mother, he needs our help! Your help," Ilvanya urged as the Elf woman stepped before her, her hands and gaze searching for injuries.
"Lady Narye, we found them on the outskirts of the encampment," Arakáno spoke.
Narye regarded Laurefindil, who inclined his head in a manner of greeting, his brows knit together in agony.
"Take them inside," she ordered. "Arakáno, please will you go find my husband?"
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He bit down on his lip as she spread the stinging salve over the gash in his palm.
"Acute discomfort," Narye said, eyes on her work. "It will not last long." She smiled his way.
"Don't listen to her," Ilvanya spoke from the other side of the tent, her leg cast between two splints and a makeshift dressing. "It will feel awful all the way, but the effects are worth it."
"Ilvanya," Narye shot her daughter a look. "Please; no wit from you." She finished her task and rose. "We were mad with worry."
"Mother, not now," Ilvanya looked away. She glanced up in time to see Arakáno's head appear through the tent flap.
The son of Ñolofinwë stepped inside, a wary look on his face. Ilvanya merely stared at him before her gaze drifted to her feet, her lips pressed together in a thin line.
Another Elf entered after Arakáno, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes restless.
"Father!" Ilvanya cried in relief as he descended to her side; she threw her arms around his neck.
"What happened?" her father asked, taking her face in his palms; his silver eyes drifted from her features to her bandaged leg.
"It was my fault. I am sorry," she mumbled.
"Hush," the Elf hedged, drawing Ilvanya into his embrace. He looked about the tent, and his gaze rested on Laurefindil; he frowned at the freshly tended arrow wound.
"To him, I owe my life," Ilvanya said, at which point the suspicion faded from her father's eyes. He looked closer at the bloodied shaft, set aside on a piece of cloth. "How-" he frowned and glanced up at the other Elf standing silent by the entrance. "Prince Arakáno, what happened?"
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They told him everything - about the fall, the tunnels, the lights. When Ilvanya fell silent, Narye changed the remnant of a burning candle. She faced Laurefindil. "You have my gratitude."
Looking between Narye and her husband, Laurefindil could clearly see which traits her daughter had inherited. Her face was freckled, her hair of the same auburn shade.
"Regretfully, we have not much else to give. I am Ecthelion," her husband addressed Laurefindil, a hand to his heart.
"We made it back alive, and somewhat whole," the golden-haired Elf smiled, shifting his bandaged shoulder. "That is what matters. I am Laurefindil."
The shadowed voices from their flight swelled inside him then, fringing the corners of his awareness. Should he tell them, or would they think him mad? Perhaps it had been a mere illusion. He looked to Ilvanya. Maybe she had also misheard.
"Do you have anyone here? Anyone we should send word to?" Narye asked.
Laurefindil shook his head. "No, there is no one like that." He told them how things stood. "I walk with the sons of Arafinwë now."
"You will rest here until you mend," Narye spoke, looking to the lord Ecthelion, who nodded in agreement.
Arakáno stirred from Ilvanya's side and cleared his throat. His stern features were on Laurefindil, "Please accept my deepest apologies for wounding you," he sighed. "I thought…" his steel-grey eyes went to Ilvanya, whose face was ashen. "When my betrothed disappeared, I feared the worst. It is a dangerous place."
"Not much harm done, my lord," Laurefindil replied, his head spinning anew from the words or his injury, he could not tell; he swallowed, taken by a curious torpor. "I… " His eyelids felt heavier. The winds outside roared in his ears.
"It's the salve I applied," Narye told him, rising to hedge Laurefindil in a reclined position. "Your body retreats to heal itself."
Her features were blurred. Laurefindil cast one last glance around the tent. He thought Ilvanya said something from her corner, but the words melted away. A deep drowsiness descended, and he knew no more.
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He moved slowly, left to right, opening first one eye, then the other. He was staring at the hangings of a tent. He allowed himself one piece of recollection at a time. His head felt full of stones.
The ice, the tunnels. Her warmth at his back. The voice, the shadows. Had she heard them? He had to know. The Elf tried to rise, but a small hand gently pushed against his chest.
"Better not try it, yet."
"Burning..." he murmured with a grimace. For the first time since they walked the Ice, it was too warm. Laurefindil looked up and blinked until clarity returned.
"You ran a fever," Ilvanya supplied, wiping his forehead. "It should subside soon, though." She was seated beside him, her braided hair grazing his shoulder.
"How is your ankle?" he asked.
"Better," Ilvanya said. "I will be very slow for a time," she sighed, shaking her head, eyes on the reddened dressing around his palm. "Your hand?"
"Your mother's miraculous salve helped. It's less bothersome than expected." Then he asked, "Lady Narye is a healer?"
"She has long studied the properties of nature, and how they related to us. Are you thirsty?"
"Parched," the Elf admitted.
Ilvanya reached for a silver flagon and cup placed within reach and poured. "Here."
Laurefindil took it gratefully; he drank, watching her over the rim of the cup.
"Thank you for bringing us back," she said. "I am in your debt, Laurefindil son of Aistion."
"Nonsense," he scoffed, his dimpled grin widening for a breath. But then his face drained of mirth. "Do not make me do that again."
Her own smile was pale, and Ilvanya looked to her hands. "Only a fool would, anyway."
"Have I appraised your expression of gratitude yet? It is astounding."
"Only a fool would, my lord. "
Laurefindil snorted, shaking his head. "Back to titles now? Interesting."
Ilvanya spread her arms wide in mock surrender. "What would you have me say?"
His gaze swept away from her face, resting on his bandaged palm. The wind hissed outside, filtering through the thin canvas. "That you will never run again," he said, "and will not seek your end so carelessly when others have fought against this place - and lost."
As silence ensued, he met her eyes again. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. "Is that all?"
"That is all."
She stared for a long moment. "Are you hungry?" Ilvanya asked abruptly, looking away. "I can share of our waybread," she turned and rummaged through a satchel, retrieving a carefully wrapped package of rectangular shape. She displayed its contents and broke them in her hands, offering a few pieces to him.
Laurefindil accepted the fare and took a small bite. He closed his eyes at the taste and filling sensation. If he were honest with himself, only recently a part of him did not believe he would taste anything resembling nourishment again. And then he remembered the mass of cold unlight, the hissing screech, the omen it carried.
Should he ask her of the shadows?
He watched as she put the bread away. She shifted a little, awkward with her injured leg.
He turned and rose slowly, propped on one elbow. How to begin? "Ilvanya."
"Lie back down, will you?" she admonished before asking, "What?"
"When… when we charged through the wastes, before the others found us, did you…" Her gaze was questioning; waiting for more. "Did you hear or see… anything out of place?" he asked finally.
The girl appeared confused, then shook her head. "Out of place?" she took a bite of her remaining waybread. "We are what's out of place here!"
"That is not what I mean."
She regarded him warily. "There were the winds, those high-pitched, screeching beasts with their awful shrieks. The fog, the frost. You."
Laurefindil frowned, grasping at the memory that drained from his mind like water. Fear had curdled his blood, cloven his sense of self by worming its way through his veins, and he could only see darkness clawing hungrily for his fëa, like a hunter running circles around its slow prey.
The doubt in her eyes curbed his racing thoughts. "It may have been only a figment of our exhaustion," he settled, leaning back down. His skin felt too heated, and strands of wet gold stuck to his temples. "Nevermind."
Ilvanya stared at him as though she'd let it lie. "I think you need more rest," she said, tucking a few curls out of her face and pulling her cloak around her body. They fell into a long, companionable silence.
"Forgive Arakáno," she spoke suddenly.
Laurefindil opened his eyes. He had drifted away.
"I know what I say is the last you'd wish to hear, but… he meant well."
"We've once settled the matter," he said sleepily. "I might have done the same in his stead."
Her gaze fell to her hands.
"A prince," he followed, smirking. "Impressive."
"What of it?" Ilvanya snapped, looking his way.
The Elf kept his peace, irked with himself and whatever led him to prod her. Not his business, not his place. He glanced to the entrance where approaching steps heralded another presence.
Lord Ecthelion walked over to them and knelt, greeting his daughter. He then spoke to Laurefindil in his corner. "My friend, you are welcome to join our family for the meal later."
Laurefindil tried moving, but his head spun, and he fell back against the folded cloak. "Gratitude, my lord. If it is no trouble."
The dark-haired Elf watched Ilvanya, who lowered her gaze guiltily. "This place is nothing but. But please," he said, "call me Ecthelion."
Names glossary:
Arakáno - Argon
Arafinwë - Finarfin
Ñolofinwë - Fingolfin