V. The Ice - Boundaries
They sat huddled close to the slight tent around a small fire. The evening meal - or what would have been such - had been frugal and now quiet conversation streamed among the gathering.
Ilvanya smiled briefly at her father, then turned to Arakáno, who sat silently at her side with his legs crossed beneath him. There was a frown on his youthful face, and the maiden followed the direction of his gaze. He was staring at the golden-haired Elf - Laurefindil, she corrected herself - who had saved her from certain bodily death. He was currently immersed in discussion with her father, and looked weak and drained, grimacing from his wound. Ilvanya felt a measure of guilt for having indirectly caused this strife. She had not asked for his aid, but her gratitude for his presence and guidance during the recent ordeal now knew no bounds.
The maiden leaned closer to Arakáno, her voice lowered amid the hum of conversation. "I'm glad you found us in time."
The son of Ñolofinwë startled, his light eyes cutting to hers. His expression was unchanged. "I found nothing. And I was too hasty."
"You were," Ilvanya admitted, placing a gloved hand over his. "But I thank you, nonetheless." She puzzled for a moment. "He holds no grudge; he hardly seems the type, if I am honest," she threw the golden-haired Elf a swift glance.
Arakáno smiled. "I will make amends." His grip tightened on her hand.
Ilvanya nodded, about to speak when a flurry of gold rushed between them.
"Itarillë! My lady, what in Eru's name are you doing away from your mother?" Ilvanya groused, her face lit as the form of a child wedged between her and Arakáno. A shining braid brushed the maiden's shoulder.
"I've come for uncle Arakáno," Itarillë chimed, her face solemn. The others cast smiling glances her way. A glowing, happy child amid the Ice, no matter their woes, was always a welcome presence.
Itarillë turned her little head and pulled at Arakáno's cloak. "Grandfather and uncle Findekáno have asked for you. They heard there was trouble and wanted to make certain you were unharmed! I am so glad you are!"
Arakáno shifted, his arm slung around Itarillë, who giggled as the prince slowly rose with her in his grasp. "Here I am, whole and unspoiled. And you ought to be resting."
Itarillë pouted, gazing down at Ilvanya. "Is he so tiresome with you, too?"
Ilvanya placed a hand to her mouth, her eyes narrowed in mirth. She glanced briefly across from them, and her gaze locked on Laurefindil. He had been watching her, his eyes like gems as he nodded her way then looked back into the fire. "Not all the time, but worry not," Ilvanya said as Arakáno turned Itarillë so she rested in his arms, her hands locked around his neck, "between the two of us," she winked, "we'll set this prince on the right path."
"All right, enough of that," Arakáno muttered, half a smile on his lips as he eyed Ilvanya, "You're teaching her the wrong things, Ilva. Whose side are you on, again?"
"Mine!" Itarillë chirped as Arakáno set her down. He was grinning.
"Fine, let's be off then," he said and took his farewells, then returned to Ilvanya, who had taken to rebraiding the child's unruly hair. He knelt and removed his glove, his stiff fingers grazing her cheek. "I will find you before our hunt."
"Be careful, Káno," Ilvanya said, gripping his arm.
"Strange words, coming from you," the prince teased, though his features were cold; his eyes held his true meaning.
"I still meant them!" the maiden retorted, a frown creasing her eyebrows as she stared at him.
"I know you did," Arakáno sighed; his hand was icy as it cupped her cheek.
"Of course I did not mean to worry you, or anyone else. It's this place. I only wanted… I want Father to allow me to help. Everyone else risks their lives. He has to see this. I… I was so angry, and ... stupid, I see that now—"
Arakáno looked away, and her eyes saddened.
"Why do you speak this way?" he asked. "Listen to me, I know there will come a time when we will need everyone. There is a long road ahead of us, and our wares are dwindling."
Ilvanya wet her lips, drawing a hand over her face. "Are you agreeing with Father, then?"
"I want you to be safe," Arakáno said, in that odd tone Ilvanya knew could sway hearts and turn minds. It was a family trait. "Selfishly," he added, looking down between them. "But whatever my feelings, I'm not sure this adventure gained you any favors," Arakáno stated plainly; his voice held no censure.
Ilvanya shook her head as she looked at her hands. She smiled. "Do seek me out before you leave."
"Are we going?!" Itarillë asked tiredly from behind them, having spent her regards with the others in the group. Their exchange was a mystery beyond the patience of children.
"Coming, you little wasp," Arakáno said, his lips twisting upward.
The prince rose to his feet, then with a last glance towards Ilvanya, walked away holding Itarillë by the hand, who explained in no uncertain terms that she was sorry, but she promised she'd return with him and no one else, and they barely let her come by herself so she must do this right; this was how bargains evolved, surely he knew this, it was politics …
Ilvanya followed them with her gaze as the pair walked to the cluster of tents where their close family dwelt not too far away. Her attention returned to their gathering, and her eyes fell on Laurefindil; he looked even worse than before. His hood was pulled over his head, his sunken features framed by the spill of his bright hair. He no longer gazed her way, seemingly entranced by whatever topic her father was weaving.
A strange one, but hearty; brave - as most of them, for that matter. There came a flare of sadness for him, knowing the Elf was bereft of kin in this place. His grief was plain to see, his manner restrained, but Ilvanya knew his kindness and care firsthand now. Her cheeks warmed when recalling the tension in his back, his grip on her legs, the way he steadied her against his hard frame. He smelled of crushed petals and summer. Ilvanya swallowed and shunned the undesirable thought, instead focusing on the dark shades beneath his eyes.
"Mother," she called to Narye, who was gathering their wares as others rose to retire for the night. They departed, stiff and hunched together, some leaning against each other.
Narye knelt beside her daughter and smoothed over her hood.
"Laurefindil looks unwell," Ilvanya said, and Narye turned her head, her eyes assessing the injured Elf.
"He does indeed," Narye concluded. "Ecthelion," she spoke up, drawing the others' attention. "It is late, and I believe our guest is weary. Should we retire?"
"Of course," Ecthelion replied, then added for Laurefindil, "Come see me about it once you are better."
Laurefindil nodded but said nothing else, rising to his feet. His eyes were hooded, and his movement was sluggish from Narye's medicine. He bit his lip when Ecthelion aided his way inside the tent.
Ecthelion returned and lifted Ilvanya in his arms. "I know we all agreed, but, do you mind his staying here?" he asked his daughter.
Ilvanya shook her head. "It is fine, father. Truly. Besides," she smirked, "Being crammed for warmth in strange places is becoming a habit for us," she said as Ecthelion rolled his eyes.
"Make no mistake, I am beyond relieved you are hale. But…" he stopped before the tent flap, gazing down on her. "Please, daughter."
Ilvanya held him tighter, her eyes beseeching. "It will not happen again. I promise."
Ecthelion hummed as they passed inside, hiding from the icewinds that grew stronger and whistled through the encampment.
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She could not rest, as many a time since their host came upon this darkened wasteland. Ilvanya listened to the soft breathing of her parents, resting in one corner of the tent; heartbeats signalling their minds and spirits were lost among the boughs of Irmo's gardens.
Her savior - Ilvanya referred to him as such with both a sense of mirth and an odd grain of tenderness she couldn't be bothered to dwell upon - reclined not too far, his lithe form still, his rich hair spilled about him like a halo. His face was turned away from her, and the slight, much too sharp tip of an ear poked through the fall of golden strands. He turned his head as she watched. The sight sent a quiver through her. He seemed too frail and exposed, with his eyes glossed over and his poorly bandaged shoulder; a slight summer bird with a broken wing. She knew the comparison was unfair, especially considering his deeds. But the impression remained, and with strange clarity the memory of their first meeting emerged.
Ilvanya blinked at the twisted path of her thoughts. When she saw this Elf that first night around the fire, it nearly broke her song; the brightness of those eyes and the grief mirrored in them had cut into her voice. She had wanted to know who he was, what his mettle was - what brought him here. There had been a flash of something familiar about him, but it faded the moment he turned away.
A sudden gasp tore into her thoughts, and reality swerved into place. Ilvanya heard struggling, an increased heartbeat - his - and saw his hands clamping over his ears. His movements did not aid his wound.
Uncertain and cautious, Ilvanya crawled over to him. "Laurefindil?" she asked, worry spiking at the sight of his eyes pressed tightly shut, the crinkle of his brows and sheen of sweat on his skin.
There came no answer; he turned his head left and right, hands over his ears as though shielding his hearing. His pale lips parted in soundless gasps, and his chest heaved with troubled breathing.
Ilvanya neared his side, hovering above him. "Are you awake?" she whispered, reaching for his face.
Pain flared as fingers like iron clasped around her wrist. His eyes snapped wide and confused, staring at her with remnants of horror in his gaze.
Ilvanya squirmed, her other hand pressed against his chest; his heart thundered beneath her palm. "Easy," she murmured, struggling to maintain her nerve.
"The shadows," Laurefindil said, blinking dazedly, his eyes darkened behind his lowered lashes. He was fevered again. "Do you hear them?"
Ilvanya struggled, but his hold on her wrist stayed firm. He was frightened, but she heard no sound aside from his breathing and the howling winds that snapped at the tent. "I hear nothing. It is only us here," she said, keeping her voice low to not rouse the others. This was unsettling, to say the least. He tugged on her wrist, and Ilvanya gasped as she was brought down closer.
"Are you... certain?" he slurred. "They are so close, so-so loud..." he tried moving on his side, and failed.
At a loss, Ilvanya reached and ran a long, trembling hand through his hair; it tangled around her fingers like soft silk. "It is only us here," she repeated. "No one else."
His eyes closed at the touch, and Laurefindil sighed, the grip on her hand loosening. "The wastes… we cannot linger," he mumbled.
Ilvanya breathed in relief, but a black dread grew and consumed her as the maiden watched his delirious expression, the unseen torment on his drawn, angular features. She recalled his recent questions, and a weight settled on her mind. Did you hear or see anything out of place?
A part of her wanted to know more about what it was he heard, or thought he heard, especially now, but the Elf was in no condition for such. Ilvanya bent over him and without a second thought took his face in her palms, lowering her head to his; her lips ghosted his ear. "Only us," she assured, smoothing his hair as before. It took a while, but late he mellowed, the tension in his body draining like blood from a wound, and his limbs slumped lifeless and depleted against the ground.
At first, Ilvanya considered waking Narye to tell her about the disturbing event, then thought better of it - his eyes were again open, glazed as in sleep. He needed much of it, from what she could tell. Carefully, the maiden straightened, watching the slow rise of his chest. Ilvanya dragged herself back to her spot and drew one knee to her chest, watching his still form for any changes; wondering how and when to broach this with him, and why she burned to do so in the first place.