Cold Fame by Agelast

Chapter 1

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As I trudge across this blasted icy waste, even my thoughts fail to warm me.

In the back of my mind, I always known, that when forced to choose, Maitimo would always pick his family over me. His loyalty is unshakable, his devotion unquestionable. Were that my own loyalties so easily discernible... Ah, even to myself!

I kick an block of ice from my path, and that earns me a glare from person in front of me. My frustrations must be quieter.

No, no, no, I do love my family, I would cling to them desperately -- even if they were to sink into the frozen sea. I would do everything to save them, I could never bear to lose them!

And yet if I had to choose between them and Maitimo, I know, in my heart of hearts, my choice would be different than his.

Fëanáro and the rest have burned the ships. We saw the dull gleam of it on the horizon. We knew ourselves to be betrayed. I knew myself to be betrayed.

Maitimo has chosen them over me.

Perhaps, I am wrong to think of it as a choice. Perhaps choice departed when my kin decided to draw swords upon our kin.

Certainly, I choose - wrongly, I see that now - when I ran pell-mell into the fray, determined to save my beloved cousins - my beloved cousin - from an unfair attack, if I could. Of course, it was not an unfair attack, and I was entirely on the wrong side. See, I have had a long time to think about this.

I chose wrongly. And now I am truly contrite. I am also very doomed.

I state this as flatly as I can, that despite my contrition and the doom that is upon me and mine, if I knew Maitimo to be in danger, I would risk all to save him. Again. That is a bald fact, if not a prediction of the future.

Whatever - who ever - he chooses, I would always choose him.

*** 

Do not mistake me for some lovesick youth, bemoaning his friend's cursed inconstancy. It is not for my friendship scorned I seek passage to Middle-earth. Well, it is not only for that. It is not, it is not, my mind tells my heart.

Ai, I must forget Maitimo. I must stop thinking that some great harm must have befallen him to betray me in this way. I must let him go, I think rather desperately. I am far too old to nurse such romantic delusions.

No matter, those are not the reasons I keep going. Of all my numerous family, it is only Artanis, my youngest cousin, who understands. In truth, we only come to know each other on this march. Long ago in Tirion-that-was, lit by the Trees and coddled in our vain innocence, I had failed to pay much mind to my remarkable cousin. The difference in our ages and genders prevented us from becoming more than friendly acquaintances, despite our close bonds of blood.

But now we keep good company with each other. We speak in dark. We speak of our hopes for the new world, still invisible on the horizon. For new lands and new people, for dominion over places we have not yet even seen, people we have not yet met. For these things, she and I seek Middle-earth.

Our purposes are the same, and so are our arguments. If any lore-masters should survive this trek across the Helcaraxë, she and I will surely be mentioned in the same breath, for we are closely coupled in thought and in action.

In my grander moments, I hope to take precedence, as, here and now, I am the eldest of the family - save my father only - but there is a spark in Artanis that even I lack. I think she will get her lands and her people, and both will be glorious indeed.

Saying it aloud, of course, makes both of us seem quite unbearable. Perhaps we are. And yet, I will not long forget the sight of Artanis, so bundled in furs that she could barely move, seriously stating that, of course, we must always have the consent of the governed, wherever we rule. Yes, I say, and take my heavily gloved (and yet still half-frozen) hands into hers. Together, we guide each other's steps through the icy path before us.

As lightly as I can manage, I say, "We shall be such leaders, all will clamor to be ruled by us."

She laughs and reaches and tugs my frozen braid. I bat her hand away.

She says with some warmth, "At least you have not lost your sense of humor."

I grin at her. "I'd sooner lose my life."

A shrill, high scream interrupts our bout of gallows humor. We race to the source of the scream -- now the site of a writhing mass of people. My father is there, shouting for everyone to get back -- and of course he is right, for if the ice is weak here, the last thing we need is hundreds of more bodies piling on to the compromised surface.

I take up the cry and so does Artanis -- pushing back the onlookers, until there is no one left on the edge except she, my father, and I. We watch the dark waters, rope weighting uselessly in our hands. Long minutes pass as we wait for the rescuer to return -- or not -- with the victim -- or not.

In a low voice, I ask my father who fell through. With eyes full of despair, he tells me that a cascade of ice knocked Elenwë and Itarillë into the water. My heart sinks.

"And Turukáno?"

"He seeks them."

There is a dead silence.

I hate this.

I hate standing here helpless, as my brother fights for his family. Dully, I can hear Findaráto calming the others behind me, supported in this by his brothers. Somewhere, far away, Irissë is weeping.

But the noise is interrupted by a splash -- and then a great, heaving shape surfaces out of the churning waters, and toward us. We scrabble to throw the rope to him -- for who else could it be but Turukáno? Together, we haul him to edge and then over. He grips the rope fast, and slides towards us. When he reaches us, he is swiftly smothered in blankets.

"No! No! Do not suffocate her!" he cries out -- and indeed, Turukáno has not returned alone. Itarillë, his daughter, is curled up against his chest. Her pale skin is faintly blue, and she is barely breathing, but still, she lives.

We do not ask of Elenwë. The look on his face is enough to tell us what we want to know. Both Turukáno and Itarillë are hustled off to the healers, for what healing can be found for them.

We lose more like Elenwë. Oh, we lose so many more like her. Sometimes, the would-be rescuers are also lost, pulled down by their burdens and their own exhaustion. Eventually, and this is true, though horrifying to admit, we do not stop for the sudden cry of the lost.

*** 

To stop is to be lost yourself.

There is nothing in this waste except ice and silence.

No.

Not silence.

The wind upon the ice sings. We instruct the little ones not to listen, though many adults must also be reminded not to do so. To listen is to be lost, for the voices of the dead are in the wind. They clamor to be heard, always. They are maddening, the voices. They speak of love lost, of trust betrayed, and of blood split. So much blood.

My vision swims and I think of the docks of Alqualondë, awash in blood --

Walk on. Do not listen. Do not think. Do not freeze. Keep walking.

I do not listen. I walk on, but in truth, I am lost. My thoughts give me no comfort.

My heart has frozen long ago.

When will I reach Middle-earth?