People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 5: Forgiveness 

Irissë pulled Fingon into the kitchens, moving baskets filled with recently harvested foods. As they made their way through the maze, she picked up a plate and began loading it with food: fresh bread, recently churned butter, heavy cream, berries, and smoked fish. She found a flagon and filled it with a fresh batch of ale from a nearby barrel. With her foot, she pushed Fingon into a stool at a table that still had flour spread on it. Setting the mug next to Fingon, she retrieved a small besom and swept aside the flour, careful not to sweep any of the flour onto the floor. Satisfied the table was clean she set the plate on it and proceeded to wait for Fingon to eat.  

Fingon hesitated. He should offer some words to his sister. Shaking his head, answering his internal chatter, Fingon decided to eat. Satisfied that her brother was eating, Irissë finished cleaning up the flour and carefully filling a basket lined with waxed cloth, glancing up periodically to watch Fingon eat. It was the best receptacle she could find. The making of kitchen tools offered to be a bigger task than anyone would have believed. They had bartered and traded precious gems for many items from the neighboring Sindarin elves and received a trivial offer from Thingol, but the Noldor were industrious, possessed of nimble hands and mind, so they made quick gains.  

Fingon ate the hearty portions on his plate. Eyeing the ale, he had doubts about whether to drink it. Irissë pulled up a stool next to her brother. “I’ll be the first to use it,” Irissë said, filling a clay mug with ale. “Do you like it?” she turned to her brother, taking a sip. The ale left a foamy mustache on her upper lip. “So good,” she hummed.  

The ale or the mug?  Fingon considered.  

“The mug of course,” Irissë answered, guessing her brother’s thoughts. “Who knew I’d have a knack for making clay dishes.” Fingon tentatively reached for the large flagon in front of him. “Lalwen brewed the beer,” Irissë informed him. She talked like this, filling her brother in on the smaller details of life in their new home while he sipped the ale. It was delicious, its aroma filling his nose with the smell of the hops that they had found stored in the food caches the Fëanorians had left for them. Noticing Fingon’s eyes beginning to droop Irissë carefully set aside her mug. Taking a deep breath, she asked what she had not dared ask until this moment. “Did you speak with Tyelko.” 

Not a question, Fingon deduced. Instead of an answer he raised an eyebrow. She had not spoken to Accarrë, though Fingon doubted Accarrë would say anything of Tyelko to Irissë. 

“Do not give me your silent treatment,” Irissë bristled. “I need…to know,” she faltered. She felt helpless, trapped even.  

Fingon let his chin drop on his chest. He was tired. “I did,” he admitted. Irissë scooted closer. Fingon sighed, sharing, “He did not ask for you. We spoke of battle plans. I insulted him and it went over his head.” This made Irissë laugh, but she did not interrupt her brother who was famous for his lack of words. “He attempted to aim an arrow at me but Accarrë was quicker and put a dagger to his throat.” 

“What?” Irissë cried out, almost falling out of her stool.  

Fingon waved off her concern. “Heat of the battle stuff. I’m sure Accarrë will fill you in.” 

“I would ask her to do no such thing,” Irissë retorted, knowing that Tyelko was an unspeakable thing between them.  

Fingon shrugged.  

“Bastard,” Irissë hit Fingon. Irissë stood up abruptly, sending the stool flying back. “You think you are the only one that has suffered? How dare you treat me as your lesser.” 

Fingon let out a groan. He’d not meant, but… “Spare me your pain, Findekáno, you are not the only one that is crushed,” she accused him. Fingon reached out to grab Irissë’s hand. She slapped it away: “Don’t.”  She walked away from him.  

Fingon stood up to go after her. “Irissë,” he soothed, reaching out for her, but she slapped his hand away harder.  

“Stop,” her voice cracked, but in her eyes was anger. They all treated her as if she would up and vanish into the air. None of them spoke of it, referred to it, named it- her loss.  

Fingon did not let up, wrapping his arms around her. She was bones in his arms, stronger, but not healed. Fingon tried remembering when he had last embraced his sister this fully. It had been before they crossed.  Irissë too remembered. She had not felt her brother’s embrace since before they left Aman, when they saw the ships burning. He held her then for they both shared in the betrayal of those fires.  

Irissë collapsed into Fingon’s arms, weeping. Fingon held her tighter, learning anew what it meant to be there for someone in this way. He rubbed her back, held her as her sorrow was unleashed. She felt frail to him, her loss unimaginable in the scope of everything they had been through. Her loss, the first of its kind for her people, happened so early during their journey across the ice, that it seemed to belong to another story. She marked history and memory in a manner that would not be noted. And so the story of Irissë’s first loss never made it into to the grand narratives of the Helcaraxë and the First Age, sanitized stories of Elven glory and might.  

Fingon pulled away from his sister so he could look her in the eyes. “Come with me,” he whispered, “I do not wish to be alone,” revealing some of the things he dared not admit before. Irissë did not resist, allowing Fingon to lead her back through the kitchen and into the night.  

The stars were bright, the half-moon like a jewel in the sky, resplendent. They walked to the many trees within the encampment. Fingon pushed his sister up the tree and into its sturdy branches where he had fashioned a comfortable bed on top of a flet, a design Fingon borrowed from the Laiquendi. Irissë found her voice amidst her tears. “Really?” Her brother’s choice of bed was so essentially Findekáno that it was both amusing and heartbreaking. Fingon smiled wanly. Irissë rolled over on his bed onto her back. The view took her breath. Fingon flopped down beside her, wrapping an arm around her.  

“Rilmien,” Irissë murmured, “her name…” she sobbed. Fingon closed his eyes. Irissë trembled against him as the grieving took hold. Fingon remembered the last time she wept so deeply, that dark first year they spent on the ice.  

Fingon kissed his sister on the forehead. “Rilmien,” he repeated reverently, giving name to the baby that did not survive a fortnight on the ice. Slowly her sobs receded, leaving her spent. Fingon felt warm against her, reminding her of their time on the ice, when they would sleep together for warmth.  

“Tell me what happened out there,” Irissë asked.  Nolofinwë had forbidden people from revealing too many of the details of the massacre to her, but Irissë was astute and managed to put bits and pieces together. “I do not need to be treated as if I will break.” Irissë shared, angry that her agency was but a shadow of what it had once been. Fingon pressed his mouth against her temple. “Forgive me,” he lamented his own participation in her caging. Nolofinwë’s people did not know how to tend to Irissë’s loss, so great and unimaginable it had been: such was their fate. 

Irissë shivered. “I do not need your pity.” She said this not only for Fingon but for her father, for the lot of them that could not look her in the eye without the compassion they thought they held for her. Irissë believed that behind that compassion was also judgement, but most withheld it for Irissë’s punishment had been greater. 

“I know,” Fingon soothed, adding, “nor I yours.” 

Irissë held her breath. She did pity him, saw in him the same disgust she felt for herself. Her people were right to judge her.  

Fingon stirred next to her, “Irissë, look!” Irissë glanced up to the sky and saw a trio of falling stars light up the night sky. Fingon whispered, stirred by the stars’ spectacular death, “She guides us!” 

Irissë was once more overcome with emotion, remembering the brief moments she shared with her Rilmien, glittering light, so named for the light of the stars that infrequently penetrated the mists and fogs of the Helcaraxë during the darkness of the ice, the only hope that dared to pierce that icy wasteland. Irissë curled up close to Fingon and watched the stars; they were bright and clear. Next to her Fingon’s eyes closed. Deep sleep found him and he dreamt of a golden-haired child laughing, dancing. He understood, that one day, he would meet her, Rilmien. 

 

)()()()( 

 

1497: Before the crossing of the Helcaraxë. 

A hooded figure moved amongst Nolofinwë’s camp in Araman in search of someone. The elf had a frantic energy about them, looking through groups of people, peering in the makeshift tents that had been quickly erected. Whoever or whatever they were looking for was not to be found, but the figure kept on in the darkness of the Long Night. The Darkening of Valinor at least aided this elf keep themselves hidden in the shadows, until he spotted her. She was luminous not only because of her white clothes but because like all of the Eldar, she radiated a brightness, a light that Tyelkormo knew intimately.   

Tyelkormo was careful to keep his identity secret. Not eagerly did Nolofinwë follow his father, and less eager and less love was there in the followers of Nolofinwë of Fëanáro’s people. There was no turning back; the Kinslaying, the Oath, and so much more converged upon the Noldor who were beginning their exile. Fëanáro’s host and a number of Nolofinwë’s host was leaving on the ships as part of the first group. The ships, it was expected by Nolofinwe and his people, would return and take the larger host across the sea to Beleriand. Nolofinwë’s host was readying itself to leave. The horses that had come with his host were being led to a ship.  

Tyelko was in charge of this but he took his leave to go into Nolofinwë’s camp. Hidden behind his hood, Tyelko waited for Irissë to walk away from the group she had been talking to that included Turukáno and Elenwë. As soon as she walked away he discretely followed her until he found the opportune moment—a private space between tents and carriages filled with foods and other crates. Before he could speak she turned to look at him.  

“What do you want Tyelko.” Her eyes glared at him. 

“I needed to see you Irissë.” 

“Now you desire to see me?” she retorted.  

“Come with me on the ships with my father’s host,” he spoke, betraying what he swore he would not do.  

“Are you mad?” Irissë seethed, taking a hold of his cloak. “After everything, you come to me now, in this moment?” She was incredulous. Tyelko had lost his senses. 

“I know,” Tyelko admitted, grabbing Irissë’s hands and pulling her closer into him. She resisted, but he kept her close, whispering desperate words. “Listen to me Irissë, I know not what will come. I do not want to lose you. I made a mistake walking away from you before.” 

Instead of pulling away she stood on her tiptoes so she could be eye to eye with Tyelko. “Too late for mistakes, Tyelko,” she recriminated him. “You swore an oath.” 

Tyelkormo pleaded with her, “Please, listen to me. It is all so mad and frenzied, I know not what to think, how to think. But amidst it all, my feelings for you have not changed. Irissë, I love you,” Tyelko begged, his eyes bright with tears. His father’s words, spoken in secret to some of his sons, were a warning to Tyelko, and in a moment of desperation as he guided the horses onto the ship he knew he would never see her again if his father’s plans materialized.  

Irissë caught her breath, “You tell me this, here, now?” She was irate. How dare Tyelko do this to her now? “Was it not enough that I rejected your marriage proposal? You want me to follow you?!” she added, in shock and disbelief.  

“Hear me,” Tyelko begged. “I could not bear it if I lost you.” 

“You act as if you will not see me again,” Irissë replied.  

Tyelko wove his fingers through her hair. “A strange thing indeed happened, it came to me, the possibility that I might not see you again.” Tyelko held her cheek with his other hand. “It grows and as hard as I try, I cannot shake it.” 

“Tyelko?” Irissë breathed. Just what was going on in the Fëanorian camp. “What has your father said that has you so spooked?” 

“He has said nothing.” Tyelkormo lied. “Irissë, please listen to me.” 

Irissë furrowed her brow, Tyelko was not revealing everything to her. She needed to find out more. “Come,” she decided, a choice she would grow to regret. Pulling her hood up she led him through the dark into an empty tent. Once inside the tent, she removed her cloak. Tyelko too removed his. She was going to say words to send him back but what he did next was unexpected. He dropped to his knees in front of her and wrapped his arms around her. Between sobs, he kissed her hands, speaking feverishly of loss and the smell of horses, of their rides together, and how he regretted that he had not asked for her hand in better times. “If I had asked you to marry me before Moringotto, before everything fell apart, maybe it would have been enough to unite our families and all this,” Tyelko indicated with his hand to the commotion outside, “might have been different.” 

Irissë closed her eyes in frustration and to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. “Tyelko,” she groaned. How could he be such a fool?  

Tyelkormo desperately grabbed at her hands, kissing them. “Irissë,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. Irissë would always be undone by that face, those eyes, so fair, so brash. In better times, she had wished for this moment.  

“Not like this,” she whispered. Tyelko wrapped his arms around her and brought her down, embracing her fully. Irissë was enveloped in her old lover’s arms, found his familiar scent, felt his strong arms and legs around her. Looking up into his eyes, she cried, wanting to say more but found she was overwhelmed.  

Tyelko smiled through tears, whispering, “Irissë.” With a hand at her chin, he led her into a kiss. It was tentative and pleading at first. Irissë was not unwilling and Tyelkormo became more urgent, his kisses searching her for what he needed. Like a moth to a flame, Irissë fell into him once more, not knowing it would indeed be the final time. Their kisses became feverish, frantic, and they experienced passion in a way they never had encountered: at the edge of death and the unknown. The moment, more than an aphrodisiac, was punctuated with the searching whispers of love and crying, giving and taking.   

Frantically they pulled off each other’s clothes, revealing soft skin beneath. This was a well-worn ritual between them. Irissë climbed atop her lover and took him and he welcomed her, filled her. Together they rode, their rhythm familiar, but there was something more. “You will always be my only love, Irissë,” Tyelko’s voice managed to share though it took him much effort. 

Irissë looked into his eyes as she straddled him, her forehead touching his. Each watching the other, observing, kissing, and taking in everything they could of their lover. Little could they know they were creating life. It seemed the end of times and their passion was given over in a way that was not familiar to the Noldor. Had they slowed, had they not been under threat, without a Doom looming over them, they would have recognized the act of creating life, of filling the other so completely and with such finality could only result in one thing. There were many firsts for the Exiled Noldor. This would be one amongst many things that had once been impossible.  

They filled one another, and bit back their cries of passion, afraid to be found out. Tyelkormo lost himself within Irissë, loving her so completely even if it was only momentary. He gave her all of him, came inside her carrying so much dread and desire, mixed with the unknown of tomorrow that he became blinded by light. Irissë could feel every pulse of Tyelko within her, her own desire claiming him, and together they shone so brightly their tent filled the night with light.  

They stole a few moments together after their love making, knowing Tyelkormo had to return to his post or incur the wrath of his father. “Come with me,” Tyelko implored, “you and others will be welcome on the ship with the animals.” Tyelkormo deceived her once more. While Nolofinwë’s debates raged on with Fëanáro about who would get on what boat, Fëanáro secretly conspired to abandon them. Nolofinwë believed that Fëanáro had acquiesced to at least the vanguard of his host being given one ship that would allow them return for more, but Nolofinwë could not in his heart imagine that Fëanáro desired that.  

Irissë traced his face with her finger. “I,” she faltered. “Your father will not allow it.” Silently, she thought, my father will not allow it. He will want me on the ship with him.   

Tyelko pulled her in to kiss her. “My father will grant me this. I believe it,” Tyelko whispered, not believing his own words, though he was desperate for them to be true. “Meet me when I light my lamp, you will recognize it. Come to the ship with the horses. You only have to pretend to offer me instructions for your noble Vilintál and I will bring you on the ship with me. You can wait with me there until we depart. You will be needed there and your father will allow it.” He would sneak her on board.  

“Vilintál,” Irissë sighed, her beloved horse. It would be comforting to make the crossing with her beloved steed, surrounded by horses and Tyelko. Perhaps. “I will try to meet you,” she said.  

She was going to say more but Tyelko did not want to hear it. “I will be waiting,” he whispered, gathering his clothes.  

*-*-*-*-*-* 

It had been days since Tyelkormo met with Irissë, though the Long Dark made the accounting challenging. He’d wanted to escape to see her again, but was thwarted by his father’s needs. But he found a moment to slip away, waiting by the boat. Much of the cargo that could be put on the boats for the first crossing was loaded. There were few around the boats. The icy mists would not retreat. Tyelko found his lamp and lit it, trying to look through the mist. It was thick even for keen elven eyes, but beyond he could manage to see a light flicker here and there. Surely Irissë would be looking for lamps lit by the boats, surely she would see it. He knew she would recognize it, the same lamp he used on many a hunting trip that they left to guide them back when they found themselves needing a beacon. He waited for long hours, but she did not come. 

“What are you doing?” Fëanáro hissed. “Do you wish to stay behind?” Fëanáro accused his son, the threat and fear growing in his mind that his sons and his people would not follow through on the oath. “Of course not father,” Tyelko replied, “It is just that there are so many of us.” And one I wait for, he wished he could have said.  

“Too many,” Fëanáro corrected. “To the ship, Tyelko,” Fëanáro commanded. A breeze from the northwest began to stir. “A good wind comes,” Fëanáro whispered. “Our people are on the ships. We must leave now, take advantage of the wind and use what we learned to cross the seas.” 

Tyelko hesitated.  

“Would you abandon your father?” Fëanáro recriminated his son, “and for what,” he spat out, guessing that Tyelko did not want to abandon Irissë. “Remember that Nolofinwë wishes to usurp me my son,” Fëanáro spoke darkly, grabbing Tyelko’s shoulder. “Do you wish to see that?” 

Tyelko cast his eyes down. “No father.” He did not wish for Nolofinwë to cross with them. There was only one person he wanted making that crossing from that host and she had not come.  

“To the ship then and no turning back,” Fëanáro commanded.  

Tyelko took one quick glance but boarded the ship on his own accord, understanding that they would not return for them. Orders were whispered and the ships were soon groaning, moving into the open water, propelled by the wind that picked up from the Northwest. Tyelko stood at the stern, watching the lights of the camp disappear. She had not come.  

*-*-*-*-*-* 

Irissë walked on the shore. She found another figure on the rocky beach. Gracefully she walked across the rocks to an outcropping upon which large waves crashed. On it stood Findekáno. She came to stand next to her brother.  

Findekáno reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Why does my heart feel such a heaviness,” Findekáno confided in his sister, both contemplating the lovers they had lost, were losing.  

Irissë shuddered. “I feel a shadow of a doubt growing,” Irissë admitted. Findekáno shared a meaningful look with his sister. Irissë knew she would not be leaving with Tyelkormo. She would walk with her family just as Tyelko would go with his. It would always be this.  

“Irissë,” Findekáno breathed, sensing a change in her. “What has happened?” Irissë looked up at her brother, startled. 

“What are you suggesting?” she offered, surprised by Findekáno’s words, the guilty memory of her last meeting with Tyelkormo a constant source of agony.  

Findekáno’s bright blue eyes grew large, “Irissë, do you not hear it?” 

Irissë gasped. She had not been listening, but she heard it now that Findekáno had brought her attention to it.  

“Irissë?” Findekáno queried, turning fully to face her and turning his back on the water. The waves broke wildly behind him but he did not fear them. 

She looked up at him, her eyes panicking. “I, I, how?” The new song was faint, but it was there, the first signs of a new life growing inside her.  

“Irissë,” Findekáno breathed, pulling her into a hug, “Tell me all you can.”  

Irissë shared that Tyelko had visited her, revealing all he had said to her. Findekáno listened, but he could not help but frown. Damn Tyelko for this, he thought to himself. She did not offer him details, but she offered enough context for Findekáno and Irissë to realize what had most likely occurred and why.  

“Oh Finno, my heart grows darker,” Irissë voiced. 

“You must hide this new song,” Findekáno urged, unsure what such a happening might do to the fragile peace.  

“But how?” Irissë asked, scared.  

“Let me find Accarrë,” Findekáno offered, knowing that she would surely know of a way to hide the song.  

Irissë nodded, sad to put this on her friend. Findekáno left in search of Accarrë and Irissë made sure to keep herself away from the camp, worrying that perhaps others had heard the new song she carried with her.  She settled on Findekáno’s cloak, a rock behind her, waiting for Findekáno to make it back. 

When he finally did he had Accarrë with him. Her eyes betrayed that she knew what afflicted Irissë, but she did not recriminate her, instead offering her what little she knew how to make the song hide within Irissë’s song so that others would not hear it. “You might be able to manage a month or two. I have never heard of anyone hiding it for more than that.” 

Findekáno said what the others did not: “What about extinguishing the song? Have you considered this?” 

Irissë sighed, of course Findekáno would think this. It was not out of the question under normal circumstances, but these were not them.  

Accarrë answered for her, “Extinguishing a song can be done, but such a thing takes much from a person. Irissë would be in no condition to travel for a few weeks to a month. She would not be able to board the ships.” 

“Then it is settled,” Findekáno answered his own question, knowing as did his sister and Accarrë that it was impossible for Irissë to stay behind.  

Findekáno built a fire and they settled in listen to the roar of the waves crashing on the shore. Irissë and Accarrë sat on a patch of sandy shore, the rocky outcrop behind them, keeping the cold wind at bay, speaking quietly. Findekáno stood on the rocks, his eyes turned to the sea. A breeze started to pick up. Irissë looked up expectantly towards the boats, believing that Tyelkormo stood and waited for her there, but swore she saw no boats. Surely it was just the mists.  

Findekáno cried out, “The boats!”  

Irissë and Accarrë stood up and ran up the rock to where Findekáno stood. The breeze was now a strong wind, whipping the boats out quickly to the open sea. The mist gone, it was plain for all to see, the Fëanorian encampment was emptied and the fleet of boats was all departed. 

“The boats!” Findekáno cried out, grabbing hold of Irissë, joining the chorus of shouts on the shore as Nolofinwë’s people looked on.  

Later when they saw the flames from the far-off shore, they knew that it was the boats set aflame. Fëanáro and his people abandoned them. Findekáno and Irissë held on to one another and wept. Not only for the betrayal by the ones they loved but by the inescapable journey they knew they had before them. There was no turning back. Findekáno and many others were Kinslayers, could not go back.  

Irissë was not a kinslayer, but she carried the child of one who betrayed them. Bitter were her tears. Tyelkormo knew that Fëanáro had no desire for Nolofinwë’s people to go with them on the ships. It was why he came begging her to sail with him. Coward, she indicted him. His selfishness regarding her had always been a spot of contention in their relationship. She had been but a thing for him to possess, had not considered what he asked of her, to abandon her family. Had he ever known her? She would be crossing the ice carrying his child, knowing she would face rebuke from her people, her father, and most likely Turukáno. Turukáno’s hate of Fëanaro and the brothers was mighty and he had no sympathy for Findekáno and Irissë. To know that Irissë had taken Tyelkormo to her bed would surely earn her enmity from Turukáno and many others. She felt it for herself.  

Indeed, Nolofinwë and his people were determined to take vengeance on Morgoth and to meet Fëanáro and challenge him for his betrayal. A fire was lit within her brothers, Arakáno being the most outspoken. The quietness that had descended on Findekáno after the Kinslaying grew more noticeable, and he grew more distant, but no less determined to cross the Ice. All three took their charge seriously, to help their father lead their people across the ice.  

“Until the bitter end, and bitter it will be [1],” Findekáno spoke for all to hear as they crossed the threshold into the Grinding Ice.  

)()()()( 

Morgoth’s brutality weighted heavily on all of them. The details of the massacre had spread like wild fire though Nolofinwë did not wish it.  

Findaráto stood in the Great Hall: the dais was fully elaborated, an ornate wood throne sat upon it. The jewels of Nolofinwë’s house sparkled upon it as the fruits of the branches that reached out from the crest rail. He did not understand his uncle’s desires to keep the details of the latest assault from spreading. Had they not faced enough darkness and ugly death to face such news?  

A soft light filtered through the large windows, illuminating Findaráto. He glowed and his figure was regal. Nolofinwë looked upon him and saw Findaráto’s future. You too want to be a lord, a king in your own realm, he thought bitterly to himself, though he did not like such thoughts coming to him. It made him feel too much like Fëanáro, not trusting those around him. Perhaps Findaráto was right. The people needed to know all that occurred. Why did he cower away now? 

Nolofinwë sat on the throne, his head resting in his hand, in contemplation. “Your advice is sound,” Nolofinwë relented, sitting up straight, letting his eyes settle on his nephew. “We shall allow transparency to rule us.”  

Findaráto inclined his head. The lords and ladies that stood beyond Findaráto murmured in approval. This bode well for Nolofinwë, demonstrated he was willing to listen. After all there were many wise amongst the Host that were deserving of having their voices be considered. They could not imagine such a leadership under Fëanáro, reminding them of why they followed Nolofinwë in the first place.  

)()()()( 

Accarrë found Fingon in the thicket. Many more trinkets and objects filled it as more and more people began to frequent the memorial to their dead. In his hands, he held lock of his own hair. Reverently he tied it to a branch, snugly fitting between the portrait of Elenwë and Arakáno’s seal.  

Hearing her behind him, he whispered, “For Rilmien,” 

Accarrë replied, “Yes,” acknowledging Irissë’s loss, her memory of the child a bright detail she would never forget.  

Fingon pressed his hand to his heart. Accarrë pondered whether he prayed, did not know if he could any more. Fingon turned and left the thicket without acknowledging her, but she followed him—as she always would even unto her death--through the narrow path amongst the pines.  

She trailed him for much of the way until he turned to face her. “What do you want?” he challenged, though he did feel remorse for his bitter attitude towards her. His friend did not deserve it, but she was there and he had nowhere else to place his anger and bitterness.   

Accarrë reached for Fingon. He turned away from her touch it seemed on instinct. On the one hand, he wanted to be held, consoled, and on the other, he wanted nothing to do with anyone, and be left alone to contemplate his own outrage, to be allowed to cultivate it for violent ends.   

But she would not be dissuaded. “Fin,” she whispered, using the short of his name that did not change regardless of linguistic origins.  “You cannot do this,” she urged, wanting to tell him, you must live, you must begin to find some joy in the world that we have inherited here.”  

She reached for him again, but he pushed her hand away. “Leave me be,” he directed, walking away from her, but he was met with her persistence. 

“I will not,” she muttered, her own anger growing at Fingon. “Stop being insolent.” 

Fingon spun around to face her causing her to flinch. This made Fingon pause. Who had he become that one of the few people left with patience for him, cowered because of him? How much patience would they have for him, not knowing what Fingon they would meet. It was too easy for sorrow to move him to fury and bitterness. That anguish would never leave him. If he were cultivating it for violent ends, it seemed that he was condemned to lash out at those he loved.  

“I do not know how…” Fingon floundered. Looking at Accarrë, he shrugged his shoulders. “I am at a loss.” He wanted to say that he needed help, needed guidance, that he was entirely adrift and unsure how to do what she asked of him. What of you healing, what space was are you given to work through your torment? Fingon thought to himself, wishing he could offer her the same patience and care she did for him.  

Fingon laughed bitterly. “But I am a Prince!” he cried out, knowing the women and the commoners of their host were afforded little room to lick their wounds as he was. 

Accarrë laughed in turn. “We are not,” she replied, growing angry with Fingon. “Indeed, you are a bastard, thinking only of your own pain.” She said it, naming the feelings she harbored for her friend.  

Fingon wanted to grow wrathful. This time he only allowed himself to grunt at Accarrë, but Accarrë understood that Fingon needed to meet his anger and wrath head on, be allowed to succumb to darker desires and know he could control them. He needed to fully meet Fingon and accept who he was.  

And she needed to be more than Fingon’s auxiliary whether in battle or emotions. She dared name their treason: “I too am a kinslayer, but the people need what I offer to them, and I need what they offer me.” She placed her hand on her sword’s pommel, observed as Fingon’s bright blue eyes followed her motion. “We need you Fingon.” Accarrë ripped off her sword belt throwing it to the ground. Taking deep breaths, she began to hum, her voice buzzing, creating a magnetic energy. It was dangerous to call forth Eldar magic alone as they were but she needed Fingon to feel her pull, her energy.  She spoke, “What you feel is the pull of Endórë reminding you of your inheritance, what you feel is the need to express your fury, and what you need is a good thrash. In our early days, it was not uncommon for our people to battle one another.”  

It was Fingon’s turn to laugh, though he recognized that her conjuring had quickly turned his mood. “And you shall be the one to mete out this punishment?” 

“Aye,” she snarled.  

Fingon dropped his own sword belt. “Very well.” 

They rounded each other, like wild animals circling each other, waiting for the moment to go in for the kill. Accarrë expected Fingon to attack. He needed to do it. While they had momentarily grappled after the battle with the orcs, it was not enough. 

Fingon answered. He came at her violently, dropping her to the ground. She retaliated, elbowing him in the jaw and kicking him in the stomach. Momentarily stunned, she flipped up and went to attack, but Fingon caught her by the hair, throwing her to the ground. Her lip split and her teeth felt like they would shatter, but elven bodies, even these Ice worn bodies, were hardy. With a leg, she kicked his feet out from under him. He landed with a thud, hitting his head. With a quick motion, Accarrë landed a solid kick to his brow.  

Yet Fingon did not lose his elven gracefulness. Swiftly he flipped himself up and threw himself at Accarrë. Fingon was much larger than Accarrë, weighed significantly more though she was also tall and strong. This would be the end of it. She would surely cry out parley. Fingon pinned her to the ground, held her arms down with his hands, wrapped his legs around hers to keep her down. He ground down on her, not allowing her to push up. Accarrë’s eyes were narrowed and she was hissing at him like a wild thing. This exhilarated him. The sight of blood on her lips was rousing. They were both breathing heavy from their exertion, but there was a change in their struggle. Where there was battle fervor was now giving way to arousal. Elves, the Second Born would soon say, were strange, fey cousins. 

Blood trickled down his own face from the cut on his brow. He tasted his blood, licking it provocatively. Accarrë tasted the blood from her own lips, pushing up on Fingon, wanting to feel him there. Fingon responded, pressing his hard cock into her. She moaned, meeting and moving against it. Hungrily he pressed his lips against hers and they kissed roughly, but Fingon would not release her, causing her to buckle under him. He savored the feeling of her under him, voicing his pleasure, but she found the upper hand flipping him over.  

Fingon laughed. He was happy to have her dominate him. He grabbed her around the waste and brought her hard against him, willing her to ride him and feel him. Falling into their ecstasy, Accarrë closed her eyes and rode Fingon, but she wanted more. Fingon brought his hand up under her shirt to fondle her breast, his index finger finding and teasing her nipple. Accarrë growled, impatient. Getting to her knees she pulled down Fingon’s trousers, not caring to remove his boots. She exposed him, letting his cock spring free. It was large and hard, waiting for her. Together they frantically pulled off her boots and her trousers until was ready. Indelicately Fingon picked her up and drove into her. Accarrë cried out and pushed back against him. She rode him slowly at first, despite his growing protestations until she could hold out no longer. She rode him fast and hard.  

The two focused on the sensation of their bodies, giving into whatever dictates their lust directed. Lucky for them, nobody ventured onto that path, otherwise they would have happened upon a most indecorous scene. They fucked hard and fast, then slowed and laughed, wiping the blood that trickled from each other’s faces. Fingon teased Accarrë pumping hard here and there as they worked to catch their breath. Giving in again to their hunger, they worked themselves into a frenzied love making, their voices carrying into the surrounding forest. They did not care who heard, did not care how they sounded. They gave themselves solely and wholly into carnal desire. It is what they needed, to come out on the other side of violence feeling alive.  

Accarrë was growing wilder, nearer to ecstasy promised by sex, but Fingon could not hold out long enough to meet her pleasure. He expertly moved his hands to lay around his cock so she could grind into his knuckles, helping her tumble more rapidly into the brightness of her climax. Accarrë’s movement was frenzied, her stroke deepened. Fingon cried out, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He came with a violent urgency, but Accarrë held on longer, riding out beyond Fingon’s climax, until she too collapsed in savage release.  The bright light that enveloped them, slowly dissipated.  

Accarrë tumbled off Fingon. They lay next to one another, their eyes closed, hands on their chests, catching their breath, allowing their bodies to come down from that very peculiar elven energy of sex, experienced not by the other creatures of Eru’s creation. Fingon laughed, the pain and aching of their coupling was hard to distinguish from the aches and pains from their fight. “Battle lust,” he moaned, his voice unwilling to cooperate so great had he given himself to their battle.  

Accarrë grunted. She could not yet find her voice to speak. Instead she allowed her hand to fall on Fingon’s chest, feeling it rise and fall. The two laid on the path until dusk found them.  

“Witch,” Fingon whispered, stirring from the reverie that had taken him. He felt unencumbered, at a distance from his anguish and sorrow. It was not gone, but he could observe it. He had come out on the other side, for once.  

Accarrë giggled, causing Fingon to glance at her, surprise written on his face. He’d never witnessed Accarrë behave so vulnerably. Noticing Fingon’s surprise, Accarrë, mouthed a “what?” though she momentarily regretted allowing Fingon to see her vulnerability. 

For once, Fingon had the distance from his own anguish to discern the slight change in her features. Leaning onto his side, Fingon took her hand into his. “I am a fool, forgive me,” he asked, understanding that what he desired the most was…forgiveness, had been asking for it over and over from those he loved.  

Accarrë detected this change in Fingon and said a quick prayer of thanks to the goddesses that had been left behind long ago for her momentary lapse. “Not a weakness,” she whispered as much for her and for Fingon. With her hand, she pulled Fingon’s face towards her. “Fingon, I have never held you at fault for any of your missteps, for they belong to all of us.” 

Fingon touched his nose to hers, “Please forgive me.” He needed this more than the understanding she was offering.  

Accarrë sighed. She began, “I forgive you Fingon,” but what came was unexpected: tears. She also needed to grieve. 

Fingon too was overwhelmed. Forgiveness. I forgive you Fingon, the words reverberated within him and with a gentle kiss he thanked Accarrë. For the first time, beyond his dreams, he saw his sorrow and his loss, could recognize it in others, and believed he could walk with it. Accarrë’s magic was potent, had been once forbidden. Fingon truly understood that their people would need to reflect this new order: to be remade, his words began to take meaning and shape.  

)()()( 

Fingon and Accarrë walked into the encampment looking a mess. They were bruised and bloodied, their hair tangled, small branches and leaves caught up in their hair. Their clothes were dirty and wrinkled, blood dried on it. Many an elf stood and gaped. Their Prince and his witch always surprised them so. But most striking was the grin on Fingon’s face and the twinkle of mischievousness in his eyes. Being in the eye of his people, they watched him keenly, and many reckoned that on that day, Findekáno found a way for Fingon. It marked the capacity for elven whimsy to take hold and be celebrated in light of darkness and terror. For Fingon he began to understand what it truly meant to be an elf, feeling in his bones the changes that Endórë wrought, the desires she awakened within the First Born to harken to the elven qualities that had made them fey and dangerous, joyful and sorrowful- an enigma for all around them.   

Irissë and Artanis observed the pair make their way to the communal showers. Artanis snorted, “A good fuck is all he needed.” 

Irissë laughed, knowing Artanis was being flippant. “The power of women must be accounted for if we are to thrive,” she said, determined to find her place in this world.  

Artanis pulled Irissë closer to her. “We will not forget her. I will not allow it,” Artanis voiced, naming the baby that had been lost, that too many would not speak of, but not the women that surrounded Irissë, they kept her memory as a beacon. 

Irissë held her head up high, watching as Accarrë led Fingon into the baths, whispering words to him that made him smile. In the stories that would be passed down by the women folk, the names of Accarrë, Rilmiel, Celebrían and others would be celebrated, their deeds told. These histories would record their fears, their desires, and whisper the intimacies of Noldorin history lost to the tales written by men in the annals of formal history.  

)()()()( 

 “…they dared to pass into the bitterest North; and finding no other way they endured at last the terror of the Helcaraxë and the cruel hills of ice. Few of the deeds of the Noldor thereafter surpassed that desperate crossing in hardihood or woe. There Elenwë the wife of Turgon was lost, and many others perished also; and it was with a lessened host that Fingolfin set foot at last upon the Outer Lands. Small love for Fëanor or his sons had those that marched at last behind him, and blew their trumpets in Middle-earth at the first rising of the Moon.”  

-The Silmarillion 

 

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

[1] From Silmarillion, Chapter 9, Of the flight of the Noldor