Chapter Forty: The Grinding Ice
I could not keep track of time during the flight from Aman, for the land was still held under the silken sway of night. Perhaps we traveled for days, but without the Treelight we knew neither when to camp or to halt, and so we blindly pressed ever onward without cease, driven by the fire I had lit in the Noldor's hearts. So time was a blur on that great journey. But what I do know is this--it was all too soon that we reached the beginnings of the Helcaraxë.
Even before we saw the Grinding Ice itself, we could sense our nearness to the uttermost point of Aman. Chill winds knifed through even the thickest of our cloaks and tunics, and we found ourselves soon trudging through thick drifts of snow that had not melted since the beginning of time. The nearby Sea was soon covered in a splintered, paper-thin rime of ice that only became thicker as we proceeded northward. The waves themselves grew sluggish with the cold, lashing out half-heartedly upon the near-frozen shore.
Our pace slowed as we struggled toward the strait of Araman, and soon I began ordering the men to surrender their cloaks to their wives and children, for it was the women and children who suffered from the wind and cold most. They had no armor or padding, and those elaborate and lavish clothes that they had dressed themselves in for the long-past festival upon Taniquetil did nothing to protect them from the wintry chill.
I lost count of how many men and women alike begged me to halt for a brief respite from the march. I also lost count of how many times I had to say no to such an entreaty, and explain how if we halted, we would perish in this land of eternal winter. Despite my attempts to lift the spirits of the Noldor once more, I knew that their loyalty and resolve was slowly failing.
As we strove and strained through the bleak wilderness, a thick, icy mist settled about us, snuffing our torches and the starlight with its wet coldness. It felt like a suffocating cloak of dampness and cold, and soaked us to the bone. A few of our number produced and lit delicate lanterns then, hoping to shed some light on this forsaken land. Indeed, the glass casings of the lamps sheltered their flames from the stifling wet fog, but their light was so few and far between that they did little besides dampen our hopes even more.
At last, after we reached the peak of a snow-blanketed hillock, the chilling clouds cleared ever so slightly, thinning so that we could see the perilous trail of ice laid before us in all its fearsome splendor.
I had heard cautionary tales of the Helcaraxë in my youth, of the treacherous, ever-moving ice that only a Vala could cross in perfect safety, of the unimaginably deafening thunder of the bergs as they collided with each other; but no tale could have readied me for this awesome sight.
The precarious path of frost wound for what seemed like forever across the bitter, roiling Sea, to a shore far to the East that was shrouded in a veil of mist that the feeble starlight could not even begin to pierce. Sharp peaks of ice stabbed into the dark skies, some of the cold pikes reaching to dizzying, impossibly lofty heights that disappeared into the fog. Even as we watched, the jagged floes stirred and groaned, grating and rasping along the other slabs of ice with a tremendous sound like the violent, earsplitting crack of thunder, sending dagger-sharp needles of frost high into the air with bubbling foam.
Fickle, listless clouds fled from each other across the expanses of the blue-black heavens, always shifting and stirring in the constant cold winds that whipped across the shivering, icy water, piercing the warmth of flesh like needles of broken glass. All in all, the lifeless, threatening Helcaraxë was a sight that was both coldly beautiful and devastatingly horrifying all at once, a nightmarish situation that thrilled and frightened the heart at the same time.
Behind me, the hosts had stopped dead as well, too stunned and startled to even move. For a moment, all that moved was the faint vapor of our labored breathing, appearing and fading swiftly in the cold air.
"We cannot cross this field of treacherous ice and water. We are lost," someone moaned at last, and all the Noldor began emulating the speaker's outlook, collapsing in the snow and burying their heads in their hands.
"Stop it!" I shouted futilely, wheeling about and fixing them all with a baleful glare, "We will not be remembered in the annals of Arda as meek cowards who failed in their one chance at freedom! Are we not the Noldor? Are we not as powerful as the Valar?"
No cheers of admiration followed my questions--only a sullen, hesitant silence that split the cold air of the Helcaraxë in a way that no crowd's praise could. A fear colder than the icy water clenched my heart in its bitter grasp. What had happened to my ardent followers?
"What then should we do, King?" Artaresto shouted irreverently. He had clearly been bouncing on his heels for an opportunity to leap at my throat since the skirmish at Alqualondë, and had finally found his chance. I turned my sharp gaze to him, trying and failing to keep my hand from gripping the hilt of my sword threateningly.
"That is for my sons and me to decide, son of Arafinwë," I replied, voice low and dangerous. Artaresto fell silent and lowered his gaze irresolutely, but glowered still in sulky resentment. I looked about at the other Noldor, huddled together in the cold, returning my gaze with brooding eyes that mistrusted and scorned my judgment.
"Make camp," I ordered, then looked about for the members of my house, who suddenly seemed few and insignificant in this coldly distant world.
The Noldor slowly set to work building temporary shelters from the cold, made of thick-woven tapestries and tattered cloaks. When this was done, they built meager fires on what dry wood they had thought to bring, clustering about the feeble flames for the little warmth they could find in this bleak night. They passed scanty portions of bread and cold wine among them, swallowing the food down in hasty, tasteless mouthfuls, for they had not eaten for a long while and were starved for the mere feel of sustenance in their bellies.
Then they wrapped the frailest and youngest among them in all the blankets they could spare, hoping that the bitter cold would not make this night their last. As the feeding and warming subsided, they looked out on the snowbound land, and the devious, ever-changing path of ice leading across to the dim, wraithlike Eastern shore, and wondered what ghastly fate lay before them.
My sons and I also made a hasty camp and fire, then gathered about the halfhearted warmth, muttering our plans to each other through chattering teeth and frost-rimed lips.
"We should get the women and children onto the boats," Tyelkormo suggested after a particularly long bout of silence, "And the men should brave the Ice."
"What do women know of maneuvering or commanding vessels, especially if those ships must be navigated across treacherous waters?" Carnistir snapped at his brother from across the fire, then nestled himself contentedly further in his fur-lined cloak and murmured something to Curufinwë, who laughed quietly in response. Tyelkormo knew, in intuitive older-brother fashion, that he was the brunt of Carnistir's jest and glared sourly at his two younger siblings.
"In any case," Curufinwë commented after recovering from his amusement, "The ships are too few to hold all the wives and children of the Noldor, let alone all of the Noldor. When we first took the ships, we had a fleet of about twenty. Now, after Uinen's intervention, we only have ten or so--enough maybe to bear most of our share of the hosts comfortably."
"Can we not wait until morning?" Tyelpinquar asked his father groggily. Makalaurë snorted scathingly at his nephew's mistake, and everyone looked at my second son oddly--that was the first sound he had made since he had seen me slay Olwë.
"No, Tyelpo," Curufinwë replied in a gentle, protective voice as he put a caring arm about his half-asleep son, then looked up at the starry black sky with an uneasy gaze. "No, my son. There will be no morning."
There was another troubled stillness as we all mulled bitterly over the portent of Curufinwë's disquieting words. Then Ambarto shifted his cloak to make himself more comfortable and asked, "What do you think, Father? You have not spoken for a while."
I met his questioning, eager gaze with worn, exhausted eyes. The fire that had lit me in Tirion was slowly dimming; even I realized it now. All I wanted now was a good long rest, far away from the world, far from the burdensome troubles of an entire people resting upon my shoulders, until my strength was replenished. Even this temporary halt in the march brought me no ease, for even resting was a constant battle for survival in this barren, snowbound land. Hearts could be stopped from the cold of one gust of wind here.
"I do not know," I confessed, hanging my head again, not wanting to meet their earnest eyes. "I do not know."
"We only have two choices, Father, if it is our wish to cross the Sea. We can either traverse the Helcaraxë and brave its dangers--or take what Noldor we can across the water in what few Telerin vessels we have left," Curufinwë reiterated patiently for me. His gaze grew pleading, desperate. "Please choose for us, Father. You are our King."
"We will follow you," Ambarussa agreed eagerly, his still-young face earnest in the flickering golden glow. Involuntarily, his hand strayed to the embossed shield and sheathed sword lying on the snow beside him, as if in remembrance of what he and his brothers owed me as my sons. "We swore the oath."
I set my hands before me to gather some of the faint warmth of the fire, watching yellow firelight play where blood had stained only a short while ago.
Lazily, I closed my eyes and thought of home. The hearth in our house in Tirion had always been warmer than a summer's day, even in the depths of winter. In happier days, I had often read to my sons or daydreamed of new creations while sitting by that warm stone fireplace, letting the day's cares slowly drain away as warmth loosened my aching muscles and eased my mind toward sleep. Lost in remembrance, I basked in memories and imagined heat until duty relentlessly turned my idle mind to my constant internal weavings of plans and designs. No time was left for me to be wistful. Duty came first.
"Of course," I whispered to myself as my sons leaned in expectantly, awaiting my response. "Why risk the lives of those who remain faithful to me upon the ices of the Helcaraxë, when I can ensure and protect their fates by letting them sail to Middle-earth?"
"But, Father," Maitimo protested, forcing a weak grin as he attempted to disperse his fears, "We just explained that if we were to make use of the ships, we would have to pick and choose whom we left behind!"
My cool silence in reply hushed all possibility of further protest. They stared at me in numb shock, each taking his own amount of time to accept my decision--unhesitatingly stalwart Curufinwë first, and reluctant, unwarlike Maitimo last.
"Let word go to the men from Formenos and their families of our plan," I ordered in a soft but compelling voice, "Tell them to bring the command in turn to a small number of those whom they deem unfalteringly loyal to me. But tell them also to not let a single whisper of this go to any member of the host of Nolofinwë, or they will face my wrath when we are discovered."
Meekly, they all stood their feet and set off. I watched them go, then followed the gaze of my people to the pitiless skies above.