People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

---

Chapter 2

---

Chapter 2: Is your heart together now?

 Is your heart together now? The words his niece had asked upon their return to the encampment from the meeting with Fëanáro’s sons filled Findekáno with sorrow and anger. Is your heart together now? Such an innocent question, but Itarillë was not innocent. She was a child that had lost too much and yet she always worried about others, about those that cared for her, held her to their hearts to keep the cold at bay and keep her heart together. But her heart had broken. Shattered and somehow she managed to put her heart together, over and over. Perhaps it was made possible by the little pieces of themselves that her family gave her every time she experienced loss. She was a child of the ice and the new Journey. She was not made in the image of Aman. She would be what the Noldor would become: resilient, born from a brokenness that would make her a survivor. And what of him, what of Findekáno? Is your heart together now? The words haunted him. Findekáno felt his stomach turn in knots from hunger and anger. He felt that icy bitterness claim him for well he knew that Itarillë deserved a gentleness from him, deserved his smiles, the dance of light in his eyes that would make her coo when she was a baby curiously watching Findekáno’s face contort with happiness.

 

Findekáno allowed his breath to mingle with the gentle breeze in a way that conjured the Green magic of Endórë. It did not bring him joy. Not yet. It was a mere utility for him.  It had only been but a few days after their return with their meeting with Fëanáro’s sons and disgust refused to leave the pit of his stomach. He wanted to take his knife to Makalaurë’s throat and run it across the delicate skin, allowing the blood to spill, warm his hands and drain the wretched life out of him. Findekáno remembered how the warm blood of ice creatures could warm their hands in that icy hell, like a soothing balm. Though the blood was spilled it was jealously collected to make a hearty broth that sustained, a rare treat. From the blood of the dying came life.

 

Findekáno walked on, a movement to his left caught his eyes. A deer. Quickly he paused and strung his bow but he lowered it as a fawn trotted out from behind bushes to catch up with its mother. The mother looked apprehensively about her, her nose catching the scents in the wind. She smelled him, looking in his direction, recognizing his breath. She took her little one and walked on, confident of her safety, instinct telling her that elves did not hunt mothers, not during the warm seasons. Findekáno understood the mother’s lack of fear towards him and he cursed himself for wanting to take her life and fill his belly with her meat. It took great self-control to keep his arrow pointed to the floor.

 

Stilling his anger, Findekáno allowed his anger to seep into his bones and down through his feet, to the earth beneath that was solid and warm. Some solace. The breeze tickled his nose, a scent was carried on it. Not a doe, not a small thing. This smell was of iron and blood: a living creature, strong with life. Findekáno stilled himself and allowed his senses to reach out. He heard its hooves landing tentatively on the earth below. He was not in sight but Findekáno was sure that he would soon find the large buck. Findekáno crept forward, his steps silent, his breath like the breeze. He saw the buck through the dense trees, a large and fine creature. Not one of the oldest for those also should not be killed as they carried the knowledge of their herd’s migrations. Findekáno allowed his mind to drift towards the buck, find its patterns of thought and look through the myriad of colors and shapes that were deer language. He does not know the way yet, Findekáno surmised. He would make an honorable kill. Findekáno notched his arrow and allowed it to fly. It was true and it fell the buck, killing him instantly. Findekáno did not pray to the Valar. Instead he offered his words to Endórë, to the deer, to that story that was contained in the life he claimed. Findekáno walked over and using leather ties, bound the legs together. He picked up the large animal, arranging the bound legs like satchel over his head. The deer was heavy but Findekáno managed. He would only have a short distance to travel before he could hand it off to others.

 

Before long he found the others and they came and took the deer from him to quickly dress the deer. Findekáno walked back towards the encampment noticing that his people had assembled a good amount of food: grouse, rabbit, deer, and even a large boar, all taken with respect to the laws of Endórë. Her laws were not fickle, not prone to the capriciousness of the Valar as they were in Aman. Endórë had opened her bosom for them and they were thankful for this for well the elves knew that the Black Foe could send out his pestilence at any moment. They foraged finding wild berries and onions, and other greens that came in spring. From the hearts of ferns, they took the fiddleheads, assuring continuous growth, and found caches of wild rice that were not ready to harvest but this brought joy for they knew they could tend these things that would come for days ahead. Some of the smaller animals such as rabbit were set aside to be domesticated for food production. Satisfied with the industry of his people Findekáno walked towards the horse paddock quickly taking shape. While elven horses did not need to be corralled, the darkness of Endórë required such security measures.

 

Findekáno was given space to be alone. That would not last long. They all had roles to play, duties to look after, and a people to inspire. There would be a feast, a celebration of the fullness of the moon that revealed her cycle to them as time wore on. Some elves prepared for the feast while others readied impromptu housing for the larger number of Nolofinwë’s host that found themselves in the old Fëanorian encampment. Findekáno for his part, besides organizing the hunts and patrols, took immediately to the task of making sure their new herd of horses was properly housed and fed. This was an easy task as the old Fëanorian encampment was well equipped for this, but these tasks cemented Findekáno’s role amongst Nolofinwë’s people as their leader of armies.

 

Írissë oversaw the housing of the Nolofinwion camp. She was in the large hall that served as both throne room and banquet hall during the inclement weather found in Endórë. A large part of the hall was turned over to living space that was given to the men and women that would become Nolofinwë’s army. The smaller mud huts and stone buildings became homes to the families that crossed. At least for now, the spring weather afforded them the comfort of sleeping under the stars, but secure housing was needed, particularly for when Morgoth would send out foul weather. The kitchens were Lalwen’s domain and for now, they were busy preparing the bounty the elves had gathered and storing away foods in the large storage rooms that were an indication of the harsh winter weather.

 

Turukáno quickly began to oversee the task of looking for building materials, assessing the nearby quarries that Fëanáro’s people had abandoned, and quickly finding the ink, quills, and parchment left behind. On this paper, he sketched out what their new home would look like. Nolofinwë, for his part, had gathered the leaders of the various houses, sharing the news of the meeting. In this task, the children of Arafinwë were useful. In all, the host committed themselves to making their new homes safe, but they knew that this would only be temporary for in ways of safety they needed to look towards a better refuge. And through Arafinwë’s line they also began to make alliances with the Sindar, the people of these lands. Indeed, many of those born on this side that had Journeyed and were now returned and those who remembered the names of relatives and friends began to seek them out. There was many a homecoming of sort. This bode well for Nolofinwë’s host.

 

Itarillë had taken to a task of her own, one she preferred to keep to herself. She was allowed such choices. Not because elven children mature quicker—sure there was that—but because her childhood was different. There would be no innocence growing up under the light of the Two Trees for her. And yet Itarillë, like the youth that had survived the Journey across the Ice, were bound with a different type of childhood magic, gifted by the shortness of life and the scope of knowledge they had gained. They were tender, quiet, and patient. They loved fiercely and their hope was iron clad, born from hardship and heartache. So Itarillë quietly set about to talking to people, venturing out with Irissë on hunting trips, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Green elves. They had come across a sort of earthen shrine the Green elves devoted to what must be their dead and departed: a testament to the different lives lived in Endórë.

 

Findekáno watched her and another young elf reverently carrying a basket. In better days Findekáno would have teased her for such a show, but these days were different and Findekáno grew somber knowing that whatever was in that basket meant a whole lot.

 

Itarillë found her uncle. It was obvious that her task was sensitive for the other young elf walked ahead, giving the elder elf and his niece privacy. “Uncle,” Itarillë greeted Findekáno. “I knew I would find you here after the hunts.” Findekáno nodded his head, an elegant brow raised, as Findekáno of old tended to do. “A fine stag you brought us,” Itarillë continued, holding the basket gently against her.

 

Findekáno broke his silence. “It was indeed.” He was going to say no more but Itarillë’s smile reminded him he still had a role to play as uncle. “It will fill many a stomach. It bodes well for the winter.”

 

Itarillë’s smile grew brilliant. “It does indeed,” she offered, repeating her uncle’s words. This elicited a snort from Findekáno who found it hard to laugh. For Itarillë it was enough. “I have fond memories of our times together riding out in the wild lands of Aman,” Itarillë revealed, her eyes looking into memory. Findekáno found it ironic that anything had been considered wild in that place they left behind. Itarillë came to the same conclusion: “Funny, isn’t it, that we called those places wild.” Itarillë grew serious. There was nothing comical in her observation. They both knew it. They were traversing the gap between two ages, where what was known was completely and utterly sundered, and now they were embarking on something new, heretofore unimagined. Itarillë looked down at the objects in her basket, her face struck with sorrow. “These things here are part of that story of who we were and who are to become.” Itarillë paused, looking up at her uncle. “These things here are what we lost in the in between.”

 

Findekáno’s spirits fell. Whatever brief joy he met when Itarillë greeted him seemed to tumble into that little basket. The in between: a way of talking about the journey that had quickly caught on. It wasn’t meant to distance the elves from that crossing. Nothing ever could. It was simply a profound sentiment capable of holding everything that the journey meant. Sensing her uncle’s sadness, Itarillë lifted an unfinished carving of a seal her uncle Arakáno had been making for her. When he died, she remembered he had it and through an anguish of tears and screams searched the clothes on his dead body for it. She found it in the pocket of his vest. The Journey had forced Nolofinwë’s elves to relate to death: to the smell of it, to the bodies (if they remained), and to the grieving. A child clutching a loved one became common place. They all needed to, had to touch their dead to grieve them and understand that loss of life. A worse pain was born when the dead were taken from them as Elenwë’s body was taken and sunk into the depths of the icy waters. All this history filled Findekáno’s thoughts. In Itarillë’s too, but differently. She chose to carry that memory through a different path.

 

Findekáno’s voice caught with grief, rendering him unable to speak. With a finger he caressed the unfinished seal that Arakáno had been carving out of a creature’s broken tusk. Itarillë tenderly put it in Findekáno’s hand and wrapped his fingers around it. Looking into her uncle’s grieving face, Itarillë offered comfort. “When I ventured out with Irissë not two days ago we came across a thicket of trees.” Her voice resonated with a strange quality as she related her encounter to Findekáno. “Hidden in the heart of that place was a wondrous assortment of trinkets placed in the trees or hung from their limbs. It shimmered with sound and light in the darkness of it. Calmacil, who was with us,” Itarillë shared, “knew what it was.” Itarillë was in her mind, traveling back to that sacred place, accompanied by Calmacil, one of the Unbegotten who had pledged himself to the House of Nolofinwë in the springtime of their lives: “He said to us, ‘It is a shrine to the dead and lost of the Laiquendi, a place of offering and remembrance.’ Findekáno, I wish you could see it,” Itarillë continued, her focus back on her surroundings. “There was such a peace to be found there. I felt I could exhale,” Itarillë confessed, exhaling deeply, finishing her tale. “We are new to death and perhaps this thing the Green Elves do is something that can be for us, too.” Itarillë’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “A place to remind us, that can help us mend…put our hearts together.” Of course there would never be mending, but something put together differently: that they could do.

 

Findekáno gathered his niece up in his arms. He held her for a time, breathing in her scent, finding comfort in her youth and hope. Daring to break the magic of the moment, Findekáno gently put Itarillë back on the ground, opening his hand to hand back his brother’s work. “It is a fine thing you do,” Findekáno replied, not able to quite find words adequate to speak from the depth of emotion he found himself battling with.

 

Itarillë spoke words he could not. “I think you have something you can offer. I found a place nearby where we have begun to leave tokens to our loved ones.” Before Findekáno could say “no”, Itarillë implored her uncle, “If you could only come with me, with us,” Itarillë clarified not forgetting her companion. “There are not too many yet who have the heart to do it themselves so they have offered these things here to us which alone is more than they could bear parting with even a day ago.”

 

Findekáno sighed. He would not refuse Itarillë this, though he suspected her reason for coming to him was purposeful. “Very well. I will go with you though I do not think I have anything to give, yet.” Itarillë offered her uncle a radiant smile, not the smiles of unabashed joy. This was a radiance born of hope that knew much sorrow. It was the most beautiful thing Findekáno had ever seen. It struck him then, in that moment that he walked with his companions to the dense thicket of trees, that beauty had revealed itself to him amidst his anger and bitterness. His heart just maybe, just might be put back together, even if imperfectly.

 

)()()()(

 

Makalaurë observed the encampment across the lake. Who had they become, his uncle’s people? Silently he wondered who he had become-his father’s people. It had been months since the fateful meeting between the two camps. Nolofinwë’s people had settled to making a home for themselves, filling their bellies with game and the industry of their gardens. He waxed philosophically about it to whomever would hear him. Curufinwë was his audience on this day, but Makalaurë was strangely quiet, so much so it began unnerving Curufinwë. “You’ve been speaking so prolifically since last we saw Nolofinwë that I thought I would desire your silence, but now that I have it, I like it not. Say what is on your mind.”

 

Makalaurë grimaced. He did not find the capacity to smile, even if it was meant to convey irony, so he offered a grimace. He was tense. There was much to do and plan and consider in this new world with Nolofinwë and his people in it, alongside the threat of Moringotto. Curufinwë looked more cross, expecting that Makalaurë should immediately respond to him, but Makalaurë was unhappy that up to this point, some of his brothers did not think it important to consider what he had been going on about. Truly, it was not their fault. They were all reacting to the new world order that had descended upon them and the grief of their father’s death and Maitimo’s loss that came raging back.

 

Makalaurë went over to a large wooden table that had a large map upon it. “New lands we have charted,” Makalaurë finally offered, “though others have called these lands home for longer than you or I have lived. Nevertheless they are new to us.”

 

Curufinwë stood up from his chair and went to stand next to his brother. “We debated the orientation of the map,” Curufinwë acknowledged, “questioning whether these lands should be oriented in relation to the West.” 

 

Makalaurë let out a heavy sigh. “And yet here this map lies, its coordinates oriented to the West, to that place we cannot return.”

 

Curufinwë could smile and he did. It was not a pretty thing. “A terrible irony that what is most familiar to us is also what rejects us most and that we have denounced.” The oath clamored in both their heads, coming to them as it was wont to do, from the depths and darkness where it found a home, waiting to be conjured and fulfilled.

 

Makalaurë spread his large hands on the map upon the details of the expanse of water between Aman and Endórë. “Nolofinwë’s peoples do not look to the West as we do,” Makalaurë spoke, conceding what troubled him. Curufinwë pursed his lips. Makalaurë was right. Nolofinwë’s people had an advantage. Makalaurë continued, guessing what Curufinwë was seeing on that same map: “Cartography is a science we both studied under father, but what I think I failed to understand then,” that Maitimo had grasped Makalaurë thought to himself, “was the world making in it. We were so arrogant to see the world solely through our eyes.” Curufinwë crossed his arms in front of him. Part of him wanted to argue that theirs was the best way to see the world and yet he understood his brother. Makalaurë let his fingers trace the contours of the coast and travel to that point where Nolofinwë’s camp was newly marked. “They are utterly changed. Unrecognizable,” Makalaurë shuttered, memories of that fateful meeting seared into his thoughts. Curufinwë nodded his head in agreement. Makalaurë’s point hit home hard. Makalaurë offered his final assessment, “If they are to be our enemy we cannot rely on what we knew of them to guess a move or motive on their part, much less an outcome.”

 

Curufinwë frowned. “Their Journey is unimaginable,” he shared, agreeing—for once—with his elder brother.

 

“And this makes them dangerous my brother,” Makalaurë turned to look at Curufinwë, his pained eyes revealing what it cost him to be a King to a fierce people that may not understand such paradigmatic shifts in elven history and time. Curufinwë sighed, bringing his hand up to rub his temple. Makalaurë knew he had him so he pressed on. “We need to forge an alliance, though not a friendship, use their need to keep us close. Only then can we begin to understand them as they are now.”

 

“Aye,” Curufinwë answered, his voice hoarse from the dryness in his throat. Clearing his throat, Curufinwë proposed what had been seemingly impossible just hours earlier. “You will have my vocal support in this.”

 

Makalaurë fell back into his chair. He missed Maitimo and his father fiercely, but Maitimo more, though that gave him an awful sort of guilt. Maitimo would have understood this scenario immediately. Fëanáro would have understood it but his pride and anger towards his brother would have blinded him. And now they were all paying for those emotions. Looking up at Curufinwë  caused Makalaurë to laugh, in spite of himself. “If I did not know you so well, brother, the way you are looking at me just now, I would think you look down upon me with disdain… and pity.”

 

Curufinwë inclined his head, “But you know me better.”

 

“I do. But there is pity there in your eyes. I see it.” Curufinwë did not correct Makalaurë. “This is not a title I wanted nor ever imagined I would have,” Makalaurë confessed what he knew Curufinwë and the others intuited.

 

Makalaurë’s words resonated with Curufinwë in light of their previous conversation. Mustering as much emotional demonstrativeness as he could, Curufinwë gingerly placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I do feel sorrow and compassion for you,” he admitted. This caused Makalaurë to put his hand over Curufinwë’s, meriting more surprise from Makalaurë when his brother did not remove his hand. Curufinwë was not finished and though he would not speak to Makalaurë like this again, he confessed a sentiment that Makalaurë would carry with him until the end of his days: “And yet you are our champion. None of us could stand in your shoes. We would sooner bring us to folly. You are our King.”

 

Makalaurë’s mouth fell agape. He had no words. The moment was fleeting. Curufinwë removed his hand from under his brother’s hand and cleared his throat to bring back attention to his face that he had once more schooled to sternness. “I must go find my son. We have much work to do.” As Curufinwë  exited from Makalaurë’s room, Makalaurë whispered a “thank you” that reached his ears. Curufinwë too would never forget this moment.