A Different Kind of Hell [ Silmarillion ] 3

Chapter Six: Ghosts in the Ice

HELCARAXË

Time made little sense in endless wanderings beneath clouded skies. Finno had given up trying to count the days since the light had failed. The blending of Telperion and Laurelin almost faded from memory. Instead, in their place, he saw only a greyscale of snow and black ice.

Finno had never felt cold like the Helcaraxë. They'd halted for the night. Night. Finno scoffed. He looked up, trying to see beyond the mists that hid even Varda's stars from them. Everything was night now.

They'd halted for the time being. After making rounds to check in with the lords of his house, he'd finally returned to sit alone on the edge of the ice sheet. He watched the way a few stray icebergs floated some distance away, bobbing up and down and creaking and grinding like wooden wheels that needed to be oiled. He couldn't feel his fingers very well. What he could feel of them he wished he couldn't, as an odd cross between burning pain and frozen numbness vied for control of his extremities. The packed snow crunched as he shifted in place. He pulled his cloak closer. The hood, frosted over, drooped over his face. It offered little warmth but he couldn't do much about it.

He'd given his blanket to Itarillë. The little girl had stopped complaining about wearing boots weeks ago. Finno wished he could've found humor in that, but he couldn't. Neither could Turvo nor Elenwë. They all longed for the whines of the little girl who wanted to run barefoot through the fountains of Tirion.

Itaril had aged even in the time since the Rebellion. She didn't speak much. Then again, none of them did. Finno closed his eyes and tried to hear the voice he missed most. But he couldn't hear her. Not even in his mind.

Tears tried to burst through his shut eyelids, but he resisted. Though all he could hear was grinding ice, lapping waves, and a steady, rumbling, low murmur of elven whispers behind, he didn't allow his anger and his grief consume him. He couldn't. Tears on this journey across the Helcaraxë could spell disaster. He'd seen more than one elf's eyes covered in ice.

Finno wished he could feel the heat of the hatred that had spurred him to action at the sight of the flames across the water. But he couldn't. His hatred had cooled, as with everything else in this place. It had frozen, turned to fear, even though sparks and burning embers of anger sat waiting to be stoked.

He had to trust that Eve still lived. He had to trust that she had not known about the burning of the ships. He had to trust that his half cousins, though they forsook all bonds of kinship to his own house, would take care of her as one of their own.

Because now, as he sat, body shaking as he froze on the Grinding Ice, he had to worry about the men and women and children under his care. Nolofinwë had divided the host among his children and their cousins. They hoped to move in small groups to put less strain on the ice, though they remained in sight of each other at all times. He and Turvo had taken half the people of Nolofinwë while their siblings marched with their father and the other half. Findo and Artanis took half their kindred and those of the house of Nolofinwë with close kinship to the Falathrim, and Aiko and Ango the rest.

Every day, as Finno made the rounds, he tried to speak to each elf in his company. Sometimes that meant no rest for himself. Sometimes that meant that by the time they halted, he'd have to start again. Elenwë and Turvo hounded him about it. They insisted they could split the load. But Finno refused.

He opened his eyes and looked out at the depths of dark water, black in the evernight, contrasting starkly with the ice that he sat upon. He hated the quiet moments. The quiet moments reminded him that his other half was gone.

For a while, the fog had played tricks on him. Sometimes he swore he heard her laugh on the wind. In the beginning of the march, it was her voice that called his name. But that had faded. He missed them. Ghosts of Eve were better company than most of the living.

Crunching snow from behind him pulled him from his thoughts. Finno considered turning. But he knew that gait. "Elenwë."

"Finno, you are too close to the edge."

Her voice came muffled, her mouth covered by layers of cloth as with most of the elves on the journey. She came to stand beside Finno though. Her grey boots had a layer of thick, balled-up snow clinging to the soles. He still couldn't bring himself to look up at her.

"Finno, please speak to us." She settled down beside him, taking his arm and pulling him closer. He couldn't resist the heat she offered. "Finno, you speak to everyone but to your family. Please."

"There is nothing to be said," he croaked out. His voice sounded scratching, and his throat burned from it.

Elenwë didn't respond at first. They just sat in the frozen air together. Finno closed his eyes again. He had to put Eve out of his mind to focus on the others.

"How is Itaril?"

"Quiet. But she is warmer, thanks to you." Elenwë frowned. "She does not understand why Eve is gone."

"Neither do I."

The admission came out before he meant it to, indeed, before even he was aware of the thought. They paused in silence. Finally he turned to her, past the hood of his cloak, into her grey eyes. Only a portion of her once brilliantly golden hair could be see past her own cloak and scarf, but her eyes were all he needed to see to know it was her.

"Finno, she was still injured. That is why she was on the ship. She never would've left you behind on purpose." Elenwë's voice didn't waver, strong and sure as she answered his unstated question. "You will see her again. I have never been more sure of anything. This frozen waste is perilous, as is her road, but she will be there to welcome you at the end."

Finno lowered his gaze, turning away from her. He couldn't respond. It took all his strength not to cry. This frozen waste, endless in its dangers and its isolation, drained him.

"Findekáno, do you wish to know what I think?" Elenwë didn't wait for his answer. "You will hear it regardless. I think Eve believes. She believes that the houses can be one again, and it never would've crossed her mind how far Fëanáro had fallen. It was not her choice to leave you, it was her choice, I think, to try to bring you across. But the malice of Fëanáro and Morgoth himself brought it to ruin."

Finno looked up and across the ocean. Morgoth. The anger that had lain sleeping in his chest burst to life. Morgoth would pay for this. There was, perhaps, no hope for them as they stood at the edge of a frozen world, cut off from paradise but not yet in the abyss. Fëanáro's words sprang into his mind. Was sorrow forboded to them?

He stood off the ground. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. Perhaps sorrow was to be their lot after all, and they had no hope at victory, but he intended to make it to Middle Earth and do such hurt to Morgoth that generations to follow would sing of his deeds.

Offering Elenwë a gloved hand, he lifted her off the ground. Neither spoke. Finno didn't need to. They understood each other. Turning his back on the black sea, he faced the huddling mass of shivering elves. They would reach Middle Earth. They would do it to the sound of trumpets, trumpets which would cause Morgoth to shiver in whatever hole he had crept back to. And they would find Eve.