Short Stories from Middle-Earth

Finwëan Ladies Day 4: Idril Celebrindal

Idril was so cold.

The bitter winds that swept Helcaraxë howled through her, and no amount of furs, torches, or companions could shield her from the angry gusts; fractals of ice scored her cheeks, and all she could do was pull the hood of her cloak tighter and try not to slow everyone else down.

She thought of Valinor, hoping that the memory of warm summer days and nights dancing in the grass would thaw the ache in her bones. The swirling blizzard was so thick, and the night so dark, that Idril could almost see the dewy fields of Aman fragmented in the frigid mirage. How she wished she was there instead of here, twirling through the wildflowers to the rhythm of the harpists' songs!

Idril had never wanted this to happen—she had begged her father not to follow her uncle and his band of madmen out of Valinor; the nightmares had been clearer and more graphic than any she had had before.

No boat will bear the House of Nolofinwë from Valinor, and many will fall to the teeth of the Grinding Ice.

Among the many faces of Elves who would succumb to the cruel storms of Helcaraxë was her own mother, Elenwë—and Idril would not let her perish if there was any way she could save her.

None of her pleading had shaken her father's will, though he had said that Idril would be in no danger if she stayed behind. This gave her no comfort—her visions were so terrible that she, against her better nature, decided that she had to at least try to change what she had seen.

So it was that Idril Limbrindal, who loved sunlight, and trees, and flowers in the fields, traded all of that for the howling darkness and mountains of white ice as sharp as knives. It would be a long time before she could dance again, she felt—she could hardly shuffle along at the same pace as the other Elves around her, who were all older and stronger; she was hardly old enough to be considered an adult, only permitted by her father to join them because she was not young enough to be a child (and because, she knew, he would have felt guilt at having left his only daughter alone).

"Take this," said a gentle, cracking voice beside her, so muted by the winds that she could hardly hear it. "You need it more than I."

Idril made an effort to turn and look at her mother, whose stiff, gloved hands held out a lilac shawl, which was already encrusted with snow. She shook her head. "N-no," she forced out. "I'm all right. You... you keep it."

Elenwë's lips will be as blue as her eyes, which will never open again as she rests in the ice and snow, left behind with the other victims of the frost.

She shook her head again, and the vision along with it. She would not let that happen. That was why she was here. "I can manage," she assured her.

Her mother nodded and rubbed Idril's back, trying to warm her up; but Idril did not feel it through the cold and the many layers she wore.

Up ahead, the strong voice of her grandfather Fingolfin called out over the storm: "The ice is thin here—be wary where you step!"

Against her will, Idril let out a moan. How much longer would this journey be? Was there no end to this frozen hell?

"Keep your spirit up," her father said, seeing her distress. "Just take one step at a time. Just think: soon, we shall be in a whole new world, a world of infinite possibilities—and you will forget what being cold feels like."

Idril barked out a laugh as frigid as the air. "I rather think I shan't," she answered. In her heart, she doubted she would ever forget the terrible bleakness of the Grinding Ice. But she said nothing more of it; it had been her choice to come here, and she resolved not to complain about it.

She did utter a curse for Fëanor, wherever he was. If he was basking in the warmth of a fire, feasting with his family (which he had deemed so much better than Idril's, for a reason she could never understand), she hoped all of their food burned. They could burn too, for all she cared—it would be laughably ironic if the Fëanorians burned while the Nolofinwëans froze.

Idril's thoughts were interrupted by a sharp crack, and the sensation of ice buckling beneath her. She froze, fear spiking through her heart.

"Atto," she called, not daring to move or even shudder as the ground grumbled at her trespass; when she glanced furtively downward, she saw large bubbles floating up to the surface of the ice, which was webbed with white fissures.

Her father's eyes widened. "It will be all right, Idril—just stay calm," he answered, his own voice laced with panic. "Just come towards me—very slowly—and it will be all right."

Idril swallowed hard and took a step, shutting her eyes as another crack split the air and the ice beneath her.

"Keep going," her father urged. "Come on!"

She took another breath and inched forward, trying to control the shaking. It's just another dance, she told herself, Be intricate and precise with the steps. Do not slip.

A few agonizing moments, and she was almost there—there was just an arm's length between her and her father's reaching hands, and the other Elves who were anxiously watching. The ice always threatened to break beneath her, but so far it had let her pass—she would make it. Just one more step, and—

The ground broke, the yawning maw of the sea opening to swallow her up, and she plunged into it before she could think, before she could scream.

"Idril!" shrieked a voice, faint and cut off by the water that went over her head. The last thing she saw before she went under was her mother, skidding forward along the ice towards her.

Idril's body seized up, frozen like stone—her mind rushed, her heart pounded, her lungs screamed for air as she fought against her own flesh for survival. She forced herself to swim upwards, towards the surface, but what little strength she had was waning...

She will live to see the end of the Helcaraxë, barely alive.

She will see a great city, greater than Valinor, rise and fall.

A dark Elf will cross her path, his eyes as lustful as they are cunning. Idril must be wary of him.

Her hands, and her heart, will be taken by a strong hero whose face is hidden from her—but from him will come strength more than she can imagine.

Something clutched at her shoulder and dragged her into the air, and she gulped in a knife-sharp breath. Her father's face, white and terrified, looked into hers. He gripped at Idril's clothes with one hand, while the other was propped up on the edge of the hole to keep himself from falling in.

Idril fought to clamber onto solid ice, her wet clothes heavy on her skin and already beginning to freeze in the biting air. Her father helped as best he could, dragging her to safety—but there were tears on his cheeks, and his face was twisted with grief.

"Ammë," Idril croaked, looking around for her mother. She had come forth to save Idril—but Idril did not see her.

Her father did not speak, but wept harder; Idril needed no other answer.

Elenwë's lips will be as blue as her eyes, which will never open again as she rests in the ice and snow, left behind with the other victims of the frost.

Idril screamed and howled, her tears freezing on her cheeks even as she shed them—she could not feel her legs, she could not feel her hands, she could not feel her heart as she sobbed into her father's arms.

"Her feet are still in the water," called a blurred voice, but Idril did not hear it. She had come here to save her mother, to keep her from death—but instead she had been the cause of it. It was her fault her mother was dead.

Her lamenting grew weaker, and she felt herself slip from consciousness—perhaps she would die here too, and see her mother again in the Halls of Mandos.

Idril Limbrindal has died in the ice, but Idril Celebrindal will dance again, with feet of silver as graceful as ones of flesh and bone.

But, she thought as the darkness took her, the ice will forever be in my heart.