The intruder moves swiftly down the dark stairs. He thrusts the ornate doors open, heedless of their betraying creak; his goal is too near at hand. The Silmarils blaze in greeting as he enters the room and confronts the dark figure on the throne.
"You! I should have known," says Morgoth. "You're as stubborn a fool as your father was. Do you truly believe you can face me alone?"
Eyes blazing, the intruder draws his sword. As Morgoth raises his hand, there is an explosion.
Who can say why the Ice claims one and not another? I have seen people considered strong in body and spirit perish, spirits fleeing spent bodies almost before they can fall into the snow. I have seen others struggle, taxing body and spirit just to reach the next camp, yet rise after a few hours rest to struggle anew. I have seen youths and maidens unaccustomed to concerns other than hunting and festivals become true leaders. And I have seen one who fancied himself a king barely able to put one foot in front of the other.
It is not the strongest or the most disciplined that survive, nor those with the brightest spirits. What, then, does the Helcaraxë test? Why such reluctance to leave each camp?
What makes each slow step so burdensome?
I walk on, focusing on the steady rhythm of my steps, the crunch of snow crushed between my feet. The wind blows; the snow shimmers.
As I feel the ice pressed against my cheek, I try to think of a reason to get up.
It is a time of festival. Many welcome the opportunity to forget recent events; I am not one of them.
The greetings exchanged are brief and polite, if more formal than is customary among close kin. They would not dare greet me otherwise.
"I win the bet, Turvo," a voice whispers. "Your best knife, please."
"But he always wears the Silmarils to festivals."
"Not when he's mad about being ordered to attend."
I turn around and glare at the whisperers. Turgon disappears into the crowd and Galadriel tucks the knife into her belt. She has the audacity to thank me.
"Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart will I be," he says. He speaks of reunion, but you cannot mend what was never there to be marred. I respond as duty dictates.
The festival shines with mingled treeslight and it seems that the whole world rejoices. Would that I were free to rejoice with it!
Suddenly, all is dark.
It is not the starlit shadows of Father's stories; this Darkness enmeshes and muffles the senses.
Where is everyone? Where is everything? I can see nothing, hear nothing, sense nothing. Is the rest of the world still there? Are my Silmarils?
After I force myself to calm down, I lie down and spread out, touching as much ground as I can to prove it's still there. Suddenly, my hand brushes against Fingolfin's; once more, he takes it.
"Don't let go, brother!" his voice comes, sounding faint and remote.
"I won't," I reply confidently. "I never thought to see you frightened."
The Darkness has me! I think for a second, but it is only the chill of the Ice. Strange; my cheek is the only part of me that's relatively warm.
Slowly, I realize that I'm wrapped in furs, lying beside a fire. How did I get here?
A cup of warm broth is put to my lips. I drink, and manage to open my eyes enough to see Maedhros's copper-framed face. "Hang on, Father"
"How is he?" Fingolfin asks. The last person I would want to show weakness to.
"Awake. We must get him off this accursed ice, and soon!"
"We'll try, even if it means carrying him all the way."
Carrying me! Oh, no!
As I find myself drifting away again, I hear him say, "Don't let go, brother!"
"I am not alone." Morgoth looks up in surprise as the explosion shatters the roof. A rope is lowered and Fingolfin makes his entrance with his customary perfect timing, closely followed by my sons.
Morgoth calls for aid, but his troops are scattered or slain. Too long he delayed, watching me walk into his clutches while my kin took Angband layer by layer, hall by hall. The only ones to pass through the door are Finarfin and my nephews and nieces.
He looks around, reaches out with his awareness, but there is no escape. Outside, our army waits.
As I look around at my companions, my kin, I see black hair and brown, red hair, and gold. We're all weary and more than a little nervous. Some of us are better at hiding it than others; none let it affect them. Then I notice one more thing. Something I've always known but never really seen.
All eighteen of us have eyes of the same blue-grey.
The Trees are dead!
The words sound strange, as if in a foreign tongue. They conjure up no mental image; the concept is inconceivable.
At least it was until it became reality.
Reality or no, it remains as inconceivable as giving up my Silmarils. That, too, would be reality if the Valar have their way. Why must everyone covet my Silmarils?
The crowd is silent, awaiting my answer. They want light, perhaps even need it. Not so much to see by, but to know it exists.
They want my light.
How can I grant Yavanna's request? How can I deny it?
What is Maedhros doing here?
The Trees are dead.
Father is dead.
How many inconceivable things can happen in one day?
"The Enemy came during the blinding Darkness. Grandfather was the only one who dared fight."
"And the Silmarils?" I ask Maedhros.
He makes no reply.
"I will not rest until we have achieved our vengeance!" cries Caranthir.
Curufin nods approvingly. "Let us take back what is ours, Father!"
Once again, I have no answer.
As I step forward and draw my sword, a west wind blows the clouds away, sending a sunbeam into Morgoth's throne room.
I strike not for vengeance, for that will not bring Father back, nor to mend what has been marred, for that is not so simply accomplished. I strike not for justice, though there is justice that his world should be marred as he marred ours, nor that tomorrow be better, for that is not guaranteed.
I strike for Truth.
I turn again to my family, Silmarils in hand.
"It is not right that one so strong should be so fearful." Though Galadriel's voice is calm, Finrod puts a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"None of us," I reply, "is meant to stand alone."
Turvo: nickname for Turgon modeled after the nicknames in HoME12