Release the Bonds of Winter by Dawn Felagund

Death of Cold

Winter is upon me again. Today, we had our first significant snowfall in my hometown, and I felt the first touches of seasonal dysthymia, so I thought I'd try to hold off the thought of both with some writing. Unfortunately, I think the quote Chance chose for me might have only made things worse ...

For between the land of Aman that in the north curved eastward, and the east-shores of Endor (which is Middle-earth) that bore westward, there was a narrow strait, through which the chill waters of the Encircling Sea and the waves of Belegaer flowed together, and there were vast fogs and mists of deathly cold, and the sea-streams were filled with clashing hills of ice and the grinding of ice deep-sunken.

The Silmarillion, "Of the Flight of the Noldor"

The Noldor arrive at the Helcaraxë and at a change within themselves that they never expected. A triple drabble (300 words).

Our arrival at Helcaraxë was not sudden. It came upon us like melancholia, like disquiet, like betrayal. It came upon us like evil: creeping in upon the peripheries of our senses, first lifting the hairs on our arms, then sending minute shivers the lengths of our bodies; first leaching the world of color--what frail colors could remain in the coronas of our lamps--then erasing all that was lovely with ice; first dulling our voices, then muting them, then--with a crack and a splash and a scream barely perceived--silencing them entirely.

Our unceasing footfalls acted as a metronome to the slow invasion of despair into our spirits, to the ice thickening beneath our feet.

Then, a moment--

A moment when we, nearly as one, looked heavenward, and we saw darkness broken only by stars; we looked around us, and we saw only ice, and each other: All life was gone.

We were alone.

The tales that followed would speak of the first crunch of our feet upon ice; would speak of a lingering touch upon the last tree we passed; would speak of the way that the sky opened suddenly when we left the mountains and forests of Valinor behind; would speak of the sharp pain of the ice, of sudden death, of severity, of light and shadow. The tales that followed would speak of shock! suddenness! as though we hadn't foreseen Fëanáro's betrayal, as though death of drowning is ever quick. The tales that followed were meant to make the audience gasp, eyes gone wide. The tales that followed were wrong.

The ice--the evil--crept upon us. It was a slow death of cold. We were long in feeling it settle upon our flesh. We were longer still in feeling it settle in our hearts.

Chapter End Notes

Moreth wrote an answer to this piece called The Ice in the North that considers the crossing from a slightly different perspective. It's a gorgeous piece; please check it out!