Clarity of Ice

Elenwe started to die long before that ice patch broke under her. She just slipped into dream and never really came back.

We noticed it much later, when on the side of our main road the ice started moving. Suddenly Idril cried out. Turgon ran to the sound of her voice. I followed.

What we saw almost made me freeze. The moving surface shifted the great blocks of ice and the whole area quickly turned into a deadly trap. Heavy lumps of ice began falling down on the frozen ground already covered by a web of tiny cracks. Some of these started to widen, opening the still dark water underneath.

And in the middle of this chaos were two pale golden-haired figures that could be seen clearly only on the background of black water – Elenwe and Idril. The girl cried, tugging her mother’s hand, trying to find something for them to cling to. But
Elenwe’s movements were painfully slow. It seemed that she did not care what was going on around her. The crack widened again and they started slipping down. Turgon cried out and tried to run there, but we held him back. Two young elves
started a slow and careful approach without almost any hope to get there in time.

Elenwe and Idril were already falling into the darkness when the water itself rose. Flailing her hands desperately, Idril managed to cling to an overhanging block and stayed there long enough for the rescuers to reach her.

But Elenwe did not move. A spot of gold and white on the black of the water, she sank back with the sudden wave, and the surface was calm and unbroken again. Of Elenwe there was no trace.

Turgon did not want to believe. He stayed there. He called her. He sang her favourite songs. There was no answer from the freezing water. Turgon did
not even notice when the crack started to close. We wanted to drag him away, but did not dare to come closer. He seemed as cold and unreachable as the dark water where Elenwe finally found rest.

At last he stood up, looked at the small patch of water still seen through the ice and went off. Somebody called him, and he looked back with unseeing eyes. “Let’s go! Let’s hurry!” he said. “Our kinfolk waits for us in Arda, do they not?” Then he turned away again and went straight ahead.

I sent Idril to stop him. She ran after her father, crying, asking him to wait. I looked around. The same ice everywhere. Mountains and rocks of ice and clear patches in between. Not much to remember the place, now that the cracks were closed again. Elenwe was not the first to die, and all we had to remember our dead by was ice. Empty ice.

We had to almost run to catch up with Turgon. “What are you doing, brother?” I asked him. “Too many of our people died on ice. Will you make more of them drop down because of your hurry?”

He looked at me and smiled. “We will stay as we are,” he said. “Nobody else will die, and we will all hurry to Arda where our kin is.” And I saw the reflection of the fire in his eyes, the fire kindled from the white ships of Alqualonde far ahead over all this ice. But there was no warmth in that fire.

I started forgetting about warmth though. Light from the Trees, warmth of out homes, all seemed unreal. Long past.

And it was truly past, even if we could never really forget. The Trees died. Our homes were far behind. There was only ice, endless clear ice. Nowhere to rest. Nowhere to hide.

I wanted to hide. Hide from tiredness in the faces of our people. From the look in Aredhel’s eyes, longing for the freedom of the forests. From Turgon’s strained voice, urging everyone to move faster, only becoming softer when talking to Idril. But most of all I wanted to hide from myself.

Only there was no hiding. My soul managed to become as empty and clear as the ice of Helcaraxe. I saw my own anger and pain reflected in this clarity. At times it was no less than Turgon’s, though I cannot claim such losses as his. How could that happen? How could they leave us?

And I still see reproach in Turgon’s eyes. He never said anything, but it’s there. I see it. “It was you,” his eyes say. “*You* insisted on going. *You* persuaded father and many others. You. You. We wouldn’t be there if not for you, though you
claim to dislike Feanor.”

I do dislike him. These ice fields are so barren – even Maglor, I’m sure, would find here nothing to sing about. Not that I’ll be able to ask him any time soon. So I hide from this emptiness in the flimsy haven of my own soul, asking myself endless
questions, examining everything I’ve ever believed in. And I still find Feanor too stubborn, arrogant and conceited to like. But is liking or disliking one particular elf the right reason for deciding the fate of our people?

Maybe it is. Maybe we started the journey for some other reasons, be it distrusting the Valar or looking for new lands to take as our own. But why do we go on? Right now I cannot think about any distant lands. All my world is Helcaraxe, endless ice and the distant fire still burning in my memory.

I won’t forget the moment I saw this fire. None of us will; but I think I was the last one to understand. To believe it really happened. “They aren’t coming back for us,” Turgon said. “Do you hear me, Fingon? They aren’t coming back!”. And I just looked at him, unable to comprehend his words. He was yelling, I noticed detachedly. Why was he yelling?

Even after I understood, I could not think about it. Right. There’s a fire ahead. They aren’t coming back. He isn’t coming. Why? Where is he? Where is Maedhros?

I used to love the fire. Flames made me think of him. There’s a moment when a flame has the exact coppery tint of Maedhros’s hair. He was always close then. Since we were children he came every day, or I went to see him. Often I found him in his grandfather’s smithy, staring into the flames in fascination, watching Mahtan work. And I watched him, standing in the doorway, afraid to call him. He seemed a part of the flames, a visitor out of this fiery eternal dance who could disappear again if I made a sudden move. Then, of course, he turned and smiled, seeing me there. Off we went, and I had no need of any other fire when he was there.

And now there’s only ice around. Fire became a memory. A bad memory. Why didn’t Maedhros become a bad memory too? How can my soul keep him separate
from all this?

I think now that for a long time after we saw that fire Turgon looked at me with pity. Back then I only noticed he looked strange, as if he wanted to tell me something but always changed his mind. Maybe he pitied me for believing. For still wanting to follow.

It doesn’t really matter now. Turgon tries to look straight ahead only, and doesn’t say anything. Why imagine what he wanted to say? Why invent answers? When I look clearly into my soul, though, I know that I do not argue with Turgon but with myself.

Do I blame myself? I suppose I do. How could I not blame myself, looking into the tired faces of my friends, seeing Turgon’s determined gaze. But I do not blame him. I cannot.

He is the last bright flame in my soul, much brighter than the fires ahead, the fires of betrayal. I am able to forget about these because the flame of memory still burns in me. It keeps me warm among all this ice, not letting me become ice
too. It reminds me that I am still alive.