Chapter Thirty-Four: Tarna
Lalwendë walked ashore with Turgon and Elenwë, an extra blanket wrapped around her shoulders to ward of the freezing cold air. She scanned the milling crowd for familiar faces; most of them were setting up camps, lighting fires with what little wood they had.
'Maedhros!' she exclaimed, seeing her nephew's face in the throng. He looked up at her call, and she waved to him, hurrying over.
'Lalwen,' he said. 'It's good to see you. Did you just arrive?'
She nodded, pulling the blanket closer around herself. 'Have you seen my brother?'
'Fëanor? I'm looking for him too.'
'Not Fëanor, Fingolfin.'
'I haven't, I'm sorry,' Maedhros said. 'It's so dark. Your best chance will be to wait by a fire until things quiet down. It's hard to stay warm here. Keep your blanket.'
'Right,' she said. Just then, there was another shout.
'Lalwen! Lalwen!'
Lalwendë turned just in time to see a flash of braided golden hair before Galadriel swept her into a bone-crushing hug. 'By the stars above, you're alive!'
'Yes,' Lalwendë grunted, squeezing Galadriel back. 'Now let go of me. Broken rib.'
Galadriel stepped back and took her hand, shaking her head disbelievingly. 'I cannot believe it, it truly is a miracle… you have to come with me. Fingolfin will weep to see you.' She glanced at Maedhros. 'Oh – and if you're still looking for your father, he's with us too. Come with me.'
'Thank you,' Maedhros said, relieved, and they followed Galadriel as she turned and began weaving through the camp. 'I've been searching for him for half a day, but it's impossible to find anything in this eternal night.'
'How long have you been here?' Lalwendë asked.
'A day and a half, I think,' Maedhros said. 'But people are already tired of the cold. I came on a ship with Caranthir, near the front of the fleet. I think yours will have been the last ship to arrive.'
'Can you blame us for being cold?' Galadriel said. 'There is nothing here in Araman but ice and snow. The sooner we make a decision on how to get to the Hither Shores, the better.'
'That's why I need to speak with my father,' Maedhros muttered darkly.
'Lalwendë!' came a shout, and this time she had a little more warning before Fingolfin was wrapping her in his arms. 'By the Valar! You – you are – by the Valar!'
Lalwendë pulled back and wiped tear tracks from his cold cheeks. The relief at seeing him safe felt like it was crushing her.
'Nerwen promised me you would cry,' she joked, and he sniffed, wiping his face.
'Let me be happy. I thought I'd lost you, and I cannot tell you the grief I felt.'
'I was rescued,' she said, smiling. 'And I'm alive. We're alright.'
'It seems an achievement that we've made it even this far,' Galadriel said darkly. 'But Fingolfin – Maedhros wants to find Fëanor. Is he still here?'
'He's just there,' Fingolfin said, pointing behind him. Maedhros nodded his thanks, then made his way over. Fëanor was standing in a huddle with a few of his sons, deep in conversation. He glanced up, caught Lalwendë's gaze and held it for a moment. Then he began to walk towards her.
She raised an eyebrow at him when he stopped in front of her. 'Lalwendë,' he said.
'Fëanor.'
'We heard you'd drowned.'
'I nearly did,' she said, pulling her blanket closer around her. Fëanor nodded, and she thought she could see a faint relief in his eyes.
'I have something of yours,' he said, pulling a silver chain out from under his cloak. Hanging from it was the blue, glowing crystal, which he handed to her. She took it. It was warm in her hand.
'Why are you returning it to me now?' she asked curiously.
'I didn't have the chance before,' Fëanor said flatly. He was staring at her with a strange look about him. It was making her uneasy.
'Well. Thank you,' she said. 'It was useful before.'
'I hope it will be again,' he said. Then he nodded at her and returned to his sons, not sparing a glance for Fingolfin. Lalwendë shook her head, nonplussed, and turned back to Fingolfin and Galadriel.
'So, where to from here?'
'We stay until we figure out how to cross over to Middle-earth,' Fingolfin said.
'There are two possibilities,' Galadriel said. Fingolfin shook his head.
'There is one possibility.'
'There are two possibilities,' Galadriel went on stubbornly. 'One, half of us sail over in the ships, then we send them back with a skeleton crew for the rest of us. Two, we cross the Halcaraxë.'
'Only the Valar have ever set foot on the Helcaraxë,' Fingolfin said flatly. 'It's a treacherous path filled with shifting glaciers and freezing, deadly streams. It is utterly impassable. It would be the death of us all.'
'Then we go by ship,' Galadriel sighed. 'Although I cannot understand why we don't just go.'
'Because Lalwendë's good friend Fëanor must say so first,' Fingolfin said darkly, glancing over his shoulder where his half-brother was still in conference with his sons. 'And he is taking his time.'
'The longer we wait here, the more Noldor are turning against him,' Galadriel said, turning to Lalwendë. 'They are freezing and tired, and more and more of them are blaming Fëanor for it.'
'That's another reason to delay the departure,' Fingolfin explained. 'Animosity is growing. Neither group wants the other to go first, because they are afraid they would get left behind.'
'Left behind?' Lalwendë asked disbelievingly. 'Has Fëanor heard the things people are saying?'
Fingolfin shrugged. 'I don't know. He might be aware that they're blaming him; he has seemed angrier the past few hours. He has been drawing those loyal to him closer, gathering them in a camp by the water there.' He pointed over to near the boats.
Lalwendë sighed. 'Then I suppose there is nothing we can do but wait for him to decide what we are going to do.' She tried to pull the blanket tighter to stop herself shivering. Her jaw was getting sore from being clenched against the cold. 'Can someone point me to a fire?'
'Come with me,' Galadriel said, putting an arm around her and pulling her close. 'I want to hear the tale of how you survived drowning.'
Despite the bone-chilling cold, Lalwendë managed to sleep for a few hours, her head resting on Galadriel's shoulder. She hadn't been asleep for long before she was shaken awake. She jerked upright, her hand moving towards a dagger at her hip.
'What is it?' she asked groggily.
'The ships,' Galadriel said, getting to her feet and offering Lalwendë a hand to help her up. 'They've left!'
Lalwendë peered through the dark towards the water. Sure enough, the ships had all left shore, carried swiftly by a north-westerly wind. They were quickly disappearing from sight. 'We should get ready to go, then,' she said. 'In a few hours they'll be back for us.'
'We're all as ready as we'll ever be,' Galadriel said.
Fingolfin had brought Lalwendë's pack ashore, though he'd believed her dead. Lalwendë placed it nearby, ready for the return of the ships to ferry them to Middle-earth. Then she went to find Fingolfin.
He was standing with his sons Fingon and Turgon. Elenwë and Glorfindel were there too. Glorfindel looked Lalwendë up and down when she arrived, as though reassuring himself she was still in one piece. She frowned at him.
'Why aren't you wearing a blanket like everyone else?'
'I didn't bring one,' he replied impassively. 'Don't worry, I'm fine.'
She shook her head at him, mystified, before turning to stare out at the ocean like the rest of them. 'Do you think they have arrived in Middle-earth yet?'
'They will soon, if they have not already,' Turgon said, shivering. Thick black clouds had formed above them, and it had begun to lightly snow.
'Manwë above,' Galadriel muttered in annoyance. 'I should have brought a warmer cloak.'
'They might have trouble on the way back across, if there is a storm brewing,' Fingon said quietly. 'We might need to hold off following them for however long it lasts.'
'The wind isn't too strong,' Turgon replied to his brother. 'We could do it.'
'That depends on when they decide to return,' Lalwendë muttered.
'Hush!' Fingolfin said suddenly, and everyone went still. He pointed in the direction the ships had disappeared. 'Do you see that?'
Lalwendë squinted. All she could see was darkness and the occasional snowflake. The stars were covered; there was a complete lack of light. Except…
Something red was growing, reflecting off the clouds miles and miles away. Something that reminded her of the light she'd seen before the kinslaying. She heard Glorfindel inhale sharply as he came to the realisation at the same time as she did. She felt horror seep into her very bones.
'He has left us here to die,' Galadriel whispered, the faint orange glow reflecting in her wide eyes.
'Maedhros wouldn't allow that to happen,' Fingon said firmly, his voice growing in volume as he spoke. 'He wouldn't leave us here with nothing –'
'It doesn't matter what Maedhros would or wouldn't do,' Turgon snapped. 'Fëanor left us behind, and he's burning the damned ships!'
'He didn't need to burn them,' Elenwë whispered, her hands tightening on little Idril's shoulders. 'Why would he burn them?'
'Because he is cruel,' Lalwendë said softly. Her hand crept up to hold the locket at her chest. The crystal Fëanor had given back to her only hours ago was inside. She wondered if it had been his twisted way of telling her goodbye.
More and more of the Noldor behind them were noticing the distant glow of burning ships and exclaiming in horror. Lalwendë just felt hollow. She'd been betrayed by her own brother. He'd left them – either to brave the deadly Helcaraxë, or die slowly in the wasteland of Araman. She hated him. She hated him.
Fingolfin was breathing hard, his fists clenching and unclenching as he fought to overcome his fury. A vein was pulsing in his neck, and he ran his hand over his face – once, twice, and then a third time. Then a mask of calm came over his face, and he turned to face his followers.
'Hear me, my people!' he shouted, and the crowd fell quiet. 'We have been abandoned here by Fëanor and his faithful. We are left with few choices, and a fate I would not wish on anyone.' He paused, looked down, and then back up. 'But I am still going to Middle-earth!'
A rumble ran through the crowd. Beside Lalwendë, Glorfindel shifted on his feet.
'With any who wish to follow me, I will cross the Helcaraxë!' Fingolfin cried. 'The way back to Valinor is closed to us. The way forward will be dark and treacherous, but we are a hardy people! So – if you will follow me into peril, we leave in an hour.'
He stepped back, and the Noldor began packing up their camp. Lalwendë shivered, trying not to contemplate the deadly path they would soon be walking. She turned to look up at Glorfindel.
'Will you walk with me this time?' she asked.
He looked back down at her, his eyes grave. 'I'll stay with you. We will survive this.'
She couldn't bring herself to reply, so instead she turned and trudged off to get her pack. Behind her, she heard Galadriel call to Fingolfin.
'See? I told you the Helcaraxë was an option.'
'Now is not the time to joke, girl.'
The Helcaraxë was a nightmare that wouldn't end.
On the second day, they ran out of wood to burn. On the third day, it began to snow in earnest. On the fifth day, the first elf died.
Many more died after that. It was cold beyond anything Lalwendë had ever even imagined; she had been shivering since they left, and her whole body hurt because of it. She hadn't been able to feel her hands or feet for days now.
The ice was treacherous and dark beneath their feet. In places, water flowed beneath its thinning surface, and ominous white cracks appeared as more elves passed across. Great swathes of land would shift and slide with groans that echoed in Lalwendë's bones. Many were lost to the shifting ice.
At first, she'd still been reeling at what Fëanor had done to them. The kinslaying at Alqualondë had changed everything, she knew that, but never in a million years had she believed him capable of leaving his own sister and brother to freeze to death, out of spite. But as the days passed, her horror faded into exhaustion, desperation, and a single-minded focus to stay alive.
Fingolfin no longer allowed them to stop and rest, because every time they did, tens of elves wouldn't get back up again. It was utterly heartbreaking.
On the ninth day, Lalwendë gave her blanket to a freezing woman who didn't have one for herself. The woman disappeared two days later; Lalwendë suspected she was dead, and she tried not to think too hard about the lost blanket.
When Glorfindel saw her blanket was gone, he glared at her. 'What have you done?'
'I had to give it away,' she said through clenched teeth. Her jaw had locked with cold. 'The elf – she was going to die.'
'But now you might die.'
'I w-won't die.'
'Lalwen…'
'I am too t-tired to talk,' she said. Glorfindel nodded, but she noticed that he walked closer to her from then on.
Two weeks into their journey, a quarter of their company had died, but there was no time to mourn the trail of bodies they left behind. There was a particularly difficult day, where they waded through knee-high snow in a blizzard. Fingolfin finally called a rest.
Lalwendë, and many around her, fell to the ground where they stood. Half-heartedly, she cleared the snow from around her. Within seconds, she was shivering again. She felt so weak, so utterly helpless.
For the first time, she truly believed she might die before they arrived in Middle-earth. She didn't feel particularly sad or angry at the thought; she just felt cold and empty. It seemed sitting still in the cold took up as much energy as walking, and Lalwendë was utterly exhausted.
She felt someone sit down beside her in the darkness, and without looking, she knew it was Glorfindel. She could feel his eyes on her.
'I miss light,' she said quietly. He leaned closer to hear her over the wind. 'I miss the Trees. Darkness all the time… wears on me.' She felt so tired. Her eyes were drooping shut. It hardly mattered; she couldn't see anything in the darkness and the blizzard anyway.
'Why are you talking like that?' Glorfindel asked. His voice sounded far away. Lalwendë realised she'd stopped shivering. The cold wasn't bothering her as much anymore.
She heard Glorfindel mutter something, and then suddenly he was pulling her into his side, wrapping his cloak around them both and holding her tightly. His hands found hers and covered them. He was warm, almost confusingly so. Lalwendë started shivering again, and she moved closer.
'This isn't very proper,' she whispered, half-jokingly. She felt him sigh.
'If the proper thing is to let you die, then I will be improper.'
'Why aren't you cold?'
'I am cold.'
'You feel warm,' she said, and she let her head drop onto his shoulder. Her eyes were feeling heavy again.
'Stay awake, if you can,' he murmured. 'Just until I know you're going to wake up again.' His chest rose and fell along with his breaths. Lalwendë couldn't fight the exhaustion; she closed her eyes and fell into sleep.
She felt warmer than she'd felt in weeks when she woke up. Her shivering had stopped, and she could feel her hands. The snowstorm had passed, too. She didn't move for a few seconds before she opened her eyes.
She was still tucked into Glorfindel's side, his arm holding her there. His eyes were shut now, and his breathing was slow. At some point while she was asleep, their fingers had intertwined. Her head was on his shoulder, and his cheek rested on her hair. His peaceful face was inches away from hers, and their breath mingled in a cloud of white.
There was a crack, a splash, and then a horrified shout to her left, and Glorfindel jerked awake beside her. He glanced down at her, disoriented, but his dark eyes warmed slightly when he saw she was there. Then he looked out at the direction of the shout.
'What happened?' he asked hoarsely.
'I don't know, it's too dark,' she said. There was another desperate-sounding shout, and she reluctantly extricated herself from his arms and stood up. 'Come on.'
They made their way over as quickly as they could on the slippery ice, and found Turgon, Fingon and Galadriel in a near panic. Turgon was on his hands and knees, hammering his fists against the ice hard enough to shatter bone.
'Elenwë!' he bellowed, and Lalwendë stared through the darkness in an effort to see what he was getting at.
The ice had broken, and his wife had fallen into the water beneath. The current had carried her beyond the breach, and now she couldn't get back, trapped underwater by the solid ice above her.
She was mere inches away from Turgon, her golden hair spread in a halo around her head, her eyes wide with panic as she stared up at her husband, her hands pressed to the ice that separated them, drowning as he watched.
'Elenwë, no! Elenwë!'
Lalwendë drew her sword, the hardest, heaviest thing she carried, and dropped to her knees beside Turgon. She began smashing the hilt into the ice with all the force she could muster. Glorfindel dropped down beside her and did the same – but to no avail. After several seconds, they had achieved nothing more than a shallow divot each. The ice was impenetrable.
Turgon was sobbing, and as Lalwendë looked down, she could see that Elenwë had gone still and closed her eyes. She was already dead, a ghostly figure drifting slowly beneath the ice. Lalwendë sheathed her sword, horrified.
'Amya?' came a small voice, and Lalwendë looked up to see Idril standing behind her father, staring down at her mother's floating corpse.
'Come here, melda,' she murmured, getting to her feet quickly and pressing the child's face into her. 'Come away with me.'
Turgon lay motionless when Fingolfin called them to move on, his cheek pressed to the ice and his tears freezing soon after they trickled from his eyes. It took his brother and sister, Fingon and Aredhel, to pull him to his feet and drag him away from his wife.
The next time Azshar woke, she was being carried. Someone had her in their arms, and they were moving quickly over the ground. She could still hear the sound of running water. She didn't have the strength to open her eyes.
'It's going to be alright,' whispered someone. Glorfindel, she thought through the pain. Glorfindel was carrying her.
'It's going to be alright. It's going to be alright.'
She didn't know if he was talking to her or to himself. She forced her lips to unstick, and ignoring the pain in her head, she forced out a single word.
'Laurë…'
He froze, and she could feel his heartbeat racing in his chest. 'Azshar,' he whispered. Then – 'Lalwen…'
'Who goes there?' called an unfamiliar voice as she began slipping away again.
'Glorfindel of Imladris!' he cried, suddenly starting to run. 'Help! I need help! I need a healer!'
The memories took her back, and she could hear no more.
By the end of the third week, they had lost almost half the number that had originally set out. They had not rested since Elenwë's death, and despair was setting in with the exhaustion. Glorfindel hadn't spoken in several days; Lalwendë was just glad that he showed no signs of tiring as of yet.
She, on the other hand, was a breath away from giving up. Lalwendë found herself thinking more and more about what Mandos had said after the kinslaying at Alqualondë – you will be slain by blade or torment or grief.
Perhaps she had never been meant to reach Middle-earth, or to see the place where her father and Glorfindel had lived. Perhaps her turn to die of torment would be here in the ice, fading into the cold with Elenwë and so many of her people.
She thought listlessly of Fëanor; trying to rekindle her anger felt better than thinking about her impending death. He was her brother, her blood, and he had handed her a death sentence. He had betrayed thousands of them. The fury coiling inside her grew wearier every day.
Perhaps whatever goodness and humanity that had lived in him had died when Finwë was slaughtered. Perhaps he had never cared at all, and simply given her attention and smiles so she would take his side.
What she knew with certainty was that she wouldn't forgive him again. Not for this. He'd finally found her breaking point.
'Look,' Glorfindel murmured beside her, jolting her from her exhausted reverie. 'Lalwen, look. Up ahead.'
There was something coming over the horizon in front of them. It was rising slowly, revealing more and more of itself until it broke free and began to glide tranquilly up into the sky. It was silver-grey and perfectly round, and it cast a white light over the jagged landscape of the Helcaraxë.
Lalwendë stared, utterly awestruck and more than a little afraid. 'What is it?'
'I don't know,' Glorfindel said quietly. 'But we have light again.'
She looked back from the silver globe to him. The white light was reflected in his face. She could see more of him than she'd seen in weeks.
'We have light,' she repeated, the ghost of a smile gracing her face. Then there was a cry from up ahead.
'Land!' Fingolfin shouted. 'I can see land!'
Lalwendë's heart began beating twice as fast, and she stood on her toes to see. He was right; in the new, brighter light, she could see the snow and ice slowly being replaced by dirt, interspersed with tufts of hardy brown grass. She covered her mouth with her hand.
'We made it,' Glorfindel said disbelievingly. She turned to him and laughed. Then she flung her arms around his shoulders. He lifted her up and swung her around, and when he let go of her, she saw that he was smiling. It lit up his whole face. She laughed again.
'Onward, Noldor!' Fingolfin shouted triumphantly, and the cry was relayed down the line. New hope invigorated the elves. They walked with purpose, the end in sight, and the first moon rising in the sky.
They called the moon isil, and the sun – when it rose seven days after the first rising of the moon, stunning them with its warmth and brilliance – they called anar. Day returned, and Lalwendë learned to find beauty in the night again.
Glorfindel was right; she loved Middle-earth. It was breathtakingly beautiful and untamed. He seemed happy too – when the sun rose for the first time and illuminated the craggy, snow-topped mountains before them, she saw him smile for a second time.
It was only a matter of days before they came across an unfamiliar people – the dwarves.
The dwarves had lived in Middle-earth for many years. They emerged cautiously from the mountains in small numbers, suspicious of the elves – intruders, they feared, on their land. But the Noldor and the dwarves soon took a tentative liking to each other. Both people loved to craft beautiful things, and once the Noldor laid eyes on dwarven metalwork, and the dwarves on the jewels of the elves, they were tentative friends.
A week into their walking, they came across what seemed to be an old battlefield. Under the warmth of the sun, the bodies left behind had begun to smell.
'They must have been here weeks,' Turgon said, nudging one of the bodies with his foot. 'Their skin is – grey, almost, and their flesh corrupted.'
Glorfindel knelt beside one of the bodies. Its head was almost severed from its body. Beside him, Lalwendë caught a glimpse of something silver under the grass. She pushed the grass aside to reveal a dagger.
'This is elven make,' she said, picking it up. 'Mahtan the Smith made this.'
'That means this battle was fought between Fëanor and… these,' Galadriel said, glancing down at Glorfindel. 'Are they mortal men? Elves?'
Glorfindel stood up. 'No,' he said quietly. 'They are… something else. Their skin is not rotten or twisted by death.'
'What creature could be so hideous?' Lalwendë whispered, her hand tightening around the dagger.
'One made by Morgoth, no doubt,' Glorfindel said quietly. 'We should move on.'
They continued their march. The worst day was when they went by Angband, the fortress of Morgoth. The land around was dark, burned, and foul-smelling. Fingolfin, Turgon, Fingon and Glorfindel went forward and hammered on the great gate.
Lalwendë's heart was in her throat and her hand on the hilt of her sword as she watched them, but in response to their challenge, there was utter silence. Every foul creature in the vicinity had hidden itself from the elves. At Fingolfin's signal, they turned away and marched on.
Some days later, word came to them of Fëanor and his host; it had indeed been them that had fought on the battlefield that Fingolfin's people had come across. They'd called it Dagor-nuin-Giliath, the Battle under the Stars, because it had been fought before the moon had risen for the first time.
Fëanor and his sons had won the battle decisively, it was said. But there was more news.
'Lalwendë,' Fingolfin said, striding over to where she was sitting and talking with his son Fingon. 'Come with me.'
She looked up at him. His face was drawn, his jaw clenched. 'Brother –'
'Lalwen, come on,' he said. Then he turned and strode away. Lalwendë got up and followed him quickly, anxiety starting to eat her from the inside out. Fingolfin led her to a copse of trees a little way from the camp of the Noldor.
'Fingolfin,' she said urgently. 'What's wrong?'
He turned to face her, drawing in a deep breath. 'Fëanor's dead.'
It felt like her heart stopped beating in her chest. 'He – that's not possible. You said they won.'
'They did win. Those creatures, the orcs, they were driving them away. But Fëanor thought they might lead him to Morgoth and the silmarils, so he pursued them and – he got too far away from his own host. They turned back and surrounded him. There were balrogs.'
'Balrogs?' Lalwendë whispered.
'I don't know exactly what they are, but they're Morgoth's lieutenants, some kind of fire monsters. They are Maiar.'
'And they – he's dead?'
'He was mortally wounded, I am told,' Fingolfin said quietly. 'His sons carried him away, but he soon died from his wounds.'
Lalwendë rubbed her hand over her face. 'Right.'
'Lalwen…'
'How – how will we tell Findis and Finarfin?'
'We can't,' Fingolfin said. 'You know that.'
'Their brother is dead. They should be told.'
'Lalwen.'
'It shouldn't have happened like this. He was – he was their king, and he was one of the first to die in this land.'
'It's the curse,' Fingolfin said. 'The one Mandos put on us after the kinslaying. It was inevitable.'
Lalwendë felt… she didn't know what. She wanted to feel angry, but instead she just felt the emptiness of shock, grief licking at its sides. She slowly made her way over to a fallen tree and sat down heavily.
'You can grieve,' Fingolfin said quietly. 'No one can blame you for weeping. He was your brother.'
'I have no tears left for him,' she replied. 'They all froze in the Helcaraxë.'
'I know you loved him,' Fingolfin said, kneeling before her and staring into her face. It was almost as though he wanted her to be sad, she thought, to make up for the grief that he couldn't bring himself to feel.
'I never asked Fëanor for much,' she whispered. 'I just wanted him to love me back, or even acknowledge me as his sister. But leaving us to die…' she shook her head. 'I can't forget that, not now or ever. I will not cry for Fëanor.'
Fingolfin nodded and stood up. 'The messenger told me where Fëanor's sons have taken their host, to a lake in Mithrim. There is no more love between our people and theirs, but the spot is well fortified and good for a camp. That is where we will march from here.'
Lalwendë nodded absently, her fist tight around her locket. She barely noticed as he left her alone.
So Fëanor was dead. His pride had finally consumed him, and he'd fallen victim to the curse he'd brought upon them. He wasn't the first – the hundreds upon hundreds of dead in the Helcaraxë could testify to that – and he wouldn't be the last. Lalwendë wondered when her time would come.
She brought the locket to her lips and whispered the password. It clicked open, and she emptied its contents into the palm of her hand.
There was the golden strand of hair from Galadriel, from when she'd jokingly gifted it to Lalwendë instead of Fëanor. There was the lantern crystal – the second one Fëanor had ever made – that he'd given back to her before he betrayed them all. Then there was the tightly rolled-up piece of parchment.
Lalwendë unfurled it gently; it was hundreds of years old by now. On it, in Fëanor's graceful handwriting, was written Fëanor is also called Curufinwë, and Lalwendë is also called Írimë. Under that was the name Finwë, and beside that, the name of Lalwendë's favourite flower, the pirindë.
She stared at the words for a long moment. Then she rolled the parchment up, and placed the three treasures back into the locket. She closed it, stood up, and made her way back to the camp.
Note on canon: did the crossing of the Helcaraxë take days? Did it take years? I deadset have no idea so I'm pulling Author Rank again to make it Whatever I Want.
Keep a weather eye out for the next chapter in the coming days, featuring a staring contest between Fëanor's guys and Fingolfin's guys, Lalwen and Galadriel experiment with fashion, Angband has slippery dips, Lalwen gets roofied, and there are two very badly thought out rescue attempts, one of which somehow works. Until then, legends. S
