People of the Ice by Fadesintothewest

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Chapter 7: All is not what it seems

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Fingon peered down the steep mountain side of what the Grey elves referred to as Cirith Ninniach, the Rainbow Cleft, towards the water falls.* The people Turgon had sent out were exploring the area, recently emerged from behind the water fall, looking for a way to build a hidden entrance to what would be Turgon’s settlement in the coastal region of Nevrast. The cleft was known by Fingolfin’s people in the old tongue as Glorfalc, the Golden Cleft, but the Noldor also called it Falqalaure for none of the exiles had known these lands before they had Journeyed.

 

Fingon stood on a narrow rocky outcropping and above him rose the steep face of the eredlemrin, the echoing mountains, named the Ered Lómin by the Sindar. Though that name did not satisfy the Noldor as it did little to differentiate from the Ered Wethren to the South, name given to the Mountains of Shadow by the Sindar that encircled their new home.

 

Fingon felt exposed. He could not see or hear the elves he had stationed at points above him. The sound of the waters of the incoming sea at the Firth of Drengist was loud. He had to rely on his eyes to see Turgon’s people in the distance and the others stationed along the northern side of the eredlemrin. The range ended here at the Firth of Drengist. On the other side began the Mountains of Shadow called eryd-lómin by the Noldor, that they only named amongst themselves, to prevent confusion with their Sindarin neighbors. A few elves had made their way across the Falqalaure. As the crow could fly, these men were closer, but by land they were hours apart. Fingon’s unease made him cold. Though the steep rise of the cliff stood behind him he could not help but be aware of his brother’s grave near the shores of Lammoth, where others had been buried after their first battle fought on these middle earth lands: lands of their origins that were now destined to be hold their bodies in death. For the Noldor feared death, the Doom of Mandos a whisper ever present upon them.

 

Fingon saw the signal from Turgon’s group as well his own scouts. The signal was relayed by sight to the scouts above him by those on the other side of the cleft. Now began the arduous task of carefully picking out paths along the narrow ledges and rock outcroppings of the steep mountain side, until he could find a safer path down to Turgon’s people at the foot of the waterfall. It took him a better part of an hour to find his path back, even for nimble elven feet, the slick rock walls were treacherous, but Fingon and his group managed. The remainder would make their way through the easier high ground and meet them on the other side of the waterfall.

 

Fingon felt a tremor in the Song, a different chord and it shook him to his core: Orcs

 

They descended upon them like ravenous carrion from the ground above. Around him Fingon could only see bodies falling, flailing, letting out a fierce battle cry. These orcs were committing suicide with their attack, but they did not die. Somehow the wretched creatures managed to survive and attack with a fury that Fingon had not witnessed before. Elven warning calls were shouted out. Fingon braced himself as an orc slammed hard into him, casting him with great force against a boulder. Fingon bounced off and landed face down upon the wet earth. A spear glanced off the back of his helmet. Fingon knew he had but a moment to act. From the edge of his sight he saw one Turgon’s men violently impaled with such force, it split the body in two.

 

Vomit came up in his throat. Fingon wielded his sword desperately, hacking at whatever was near him. Around him he heard the desperate cries of his people, shouting out enemy numbers, anything that could be useful. Battle cries from both friend and foe echoed through the steep valley, so fierce the sound of the raging waters could not dampen them. The stones deep within the mountains trembled and the earth was electric with the terrible energy of battle. Fingon kept watching for the elves that had been stationed at the tops of the cliffs of the Cleft, but they did not come.

 

Fingon allowed himself to reach out to them through the Song that was elven brutality- a Song both beautiful and terrifying to behold. The threads of their unique voices were gone. Dead, they were all dead. Damn these shores, Fingon thought bitterly with every slice and pounding he took against his shield. This was close combat and he was taking a beating, surrounded by three orcs against the cliff, but elven battle fury was worth more than three enemies. Fingon too was stronger than the last time he battled orcs from such close distance. This too caught them by surprise. Managing to knock one Orc to the ground, Fingon charged the other two. Using his sword’s broad side, he pummeled the shield of an orc, shattering it, and with his own shield, Fingon took the impact of the sword, driving it in to his shield with such strength that the orc could not free his sword from it. It gave him enough time to slice at its feet as he rolled away, bringing one orc with him. The other orc let out a guttural shriek. Fingon had sliced through its tendons to the bone. Fingon rolled onto the other orc. They teetered dangerously on the cliff’s edge, the river raging below. It would be an easy out for Fingon to jump below but he could hear his company being slaughtered.

 

The orc grunted and screamed at Fingon, but Fingon’s sword found its belly. Spinning to his feet he ended the other creature’s life. Fingon ran as swiftly as possible towards Turgon’s people. Around him, some of his men and women fought fiercely but they all said one thing to him: Get to them!

Fingon spotted one of his men also racing ahead: Ondion! With great effort the two elves flew to the waterfalls. The sound of the melee ahead of them was sickening. Too many desperate elven cries were heard.

 

Too few of Turgon’s people stood. Fingon noticed some of that party missing. “They must have been taken,” Fingon heard Ondion answer him. This was a fate worse than death for the Noldor had first learned from the Sindar and come to witness themselves that Morgoth would not kill all his captives.  Fingon and Ondion felled a number of orcs with arrows but had to draw their swords quickly for the orcs were fast upon them. Fingon had little energy to call forth a Song of Power. The fighting waged heavily in favor of the orcs. Fingon’s company were fighting for their very lives.

 

Fingon raised his sword to strike down an orc but an arrow brought it down and it fell dead at his feet. The sounds of elven voices rang around them. Where this company had come from Fingon did not know but he had little time to ask questions.

 

The skirmish was soon over. Fingon was barking out orders and about to go speak to one of the elves that had come to their aid unexpectedly, but Fingon felt woozy and fell back. Ondion caught him.

 

“I’m well...” Fingon attempted to reply but threw up.

 

“Help me,” Ondion barked to a young elf that had come with the other company.

 

Eyes wide with shock the elf hurried over to help Ondion sit Fingon down. Ondion took his water skin and poured it over Fingon. They were all bloodied. Sure enough, after washing away the grime of battle, Ondion found a large gash and swelling at the back of Fingon’s head. “A serious wound, though not life threatening,” Ondion observed, more for the young elf that was helping him.

 

To another elf he shouted for medicine. A small vile was thrown in his direction. Ondion caught it and gave it to the young elf named Nildo. “Give him some,” he ordered and “You,” he called out to another youngster he knew from Fingolfin’s camp, “help Nildo carefully lay Fingon down and check him over for any other wounds. I do not like the look of the bruising on his arm,” Ondion ordered. While he wanted to tend to Fingon there were others with more serious wound and he was the most battle savvy healer they had in the company. Fingon would have his head if he knew he stayed to tend him and not the most gravely injured. None of Fingon’s company would break their carefully constructed protocol and Ondion being the newest member would never dare it. Fingon had set aside an intense animosity towards him and asked Ondion to join the company.

 

Ondion spied Ireth coming down the rocky precipice near the waterfalls. “Ireth,” he whispered. It had been her archers that had saved them. Ondion shouted at Fingon, “It is Ireth we owe are lives to,” but Fingon did not respond.

 

Ondion turned to look for Fingon, expecting him to be sitting up and protesting the young elves attempts to get him to lay down, but was surprised to find Fingon laying down. Ondion walked over and stooped over Fingon, lifting his eyelids. Fingon was out cold.

 

Ireth was quickly at his side. “Tell me it is not serious,” she exclaimed, not liking the sight of an unresponsive Fingon.

 

Ondion shouted out to the younger elf that had earlier assisted Fingon. “Just how much of the curare did you give him.”

 

Ireth was a step ahead of Ondion. “The whole vile!” She answered in disbelief picking up the empty vile. “Nildo!” She hissed, walking over to the young elf who was tending another injured elf.

 

Ondion smiled bitterly. It was a grave mistake to knock Fingon out. Nildo would never make this mistake again. They were not out of danger. They needed all the elves that could tolerate it to be alert as possible to fight and flee if need be.

 

Ondion turned his attention back to the Fingon. His arm had been broken. Ondion quickly checked that it had been set correctly. Satisfied, Ondion began the task of carefully moving Fingon onto the makeshift litter. Fingon would be in a lot of pain, but for now, they would have to carry him out along with the other seriously injured.

 

Ondion did not covet Ireth’s position. The wounded were tended and a plan had been elaborated for returning to their camp, but she now had to decide what to do with the dead elves as the ranking officer. Ondion surmised they could not burn their bodies as this would alert any near-by orcs that the elves were victorious.

 

One of Fingon’s scouts that had accompanied Turgon’s surveyors spoke up: “We can leave them behind the water fall. There is a cave. It has not been touched by evil.”

 

Ireth gritted her teeth. “Move the bodies,” she ordered, deciding that perhaps at another time they could return to bury the bodies. Her brother Turgon would surely come back for them. More immediately, they needed to leave this place.

 

The wounded were sent ahead with a group of guards, scouts preceding them. A number stayed behind to guard while the elves moved the bodies. “What of the scouts we had positioned above?” Ondion inquired, hoping Ireth would say they were safe.

 

Ireth spared a glance at Ondion. “Dead.”

 

“All of them? Are you sure? There were 6,” Ondion replied, his stomach churning with anxiety, anger, misery- a concoction of emotions that were too familiar.

 

Ireth shook her head affirmatively. “Aye, one of your people was able to relay to us the number. All were found as we made our way here.

 

The group walked back in silence. Ondion and Ireth speaking sporadically to put the picture together of what had happened and how Ireth had found them. She would speak to Fingon when he was conscious, so she thought, but was surprised to find Celegorm and his people making their way to them, with many of Fingon’s company’s horses with him.

 

Celegorm spared them fresh horses knowing that Ireth’s company had rode theris hard to find Fingon and Fingon’s horses had also spent themselves running away from the orcs that had surprised them.

 

Ondion travelled with the injured on the horses, leaving Ireth and some of her company with Celegorm. They would part ways after passing through the Mountains of Mithrim. For once, all of Fingon’s people were glad to see the Fëanorians.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon awoke with a start, screaming and in pain. In his dreams he saw hands sticking out from the snow. The fingers were curled over, twisted and desiccated from the bitter cold. The wind blew the snow, moving, revealing what had laid there before. Graves quickly dug in the snow, revealed. He saw his nephew’s face, frail and blackened at the nose, the cheeks, and ears. The sockets of the eyes empty, the teeth protruding from the dried lips. Yet his nephew had not died on that ice, but many others had.

 

He saw the faces of the hundreds that perished, saw the faces of those he had killed. In his dream he saw his own silhouette searching the snow drifts, digging, desperately trying to dig new graves for the bodies, but the wind was too strong, and he was buried in snow. Memory would never abandon him, nor would it forgive him. Faces, worn images, testament to the lives that lived but perished all for a Doom that should never have been. Lovers, fathers, mothers, children, brothers, sisters, friends, faces that had been someone in the time before the other side of exile, lost to the Ice in between Heaven and Earth, Aman and Endórë, the Blessed Lands and Middle Earth, between what was and what is.

 

He reached out to find the pebbles he kept by his bed, pebbles he had collected from the seashore near where Arakáno was buried. He needed to go back. They had buried him by moonlight and thus would the elves inter their dead, by the light of the moon under the stars. Fingon moved to stand up and was hit with a wall of pain. His arm had been broken and was bound across his chest. His head felt like it wanted to explode. Carefully he sat back on his bed. The pebbles stayed cold in his other hand. Most times, if he dreamed, they were a terror. How could they be otherwise?

 

Look to the stars! Let them be the guides to your pain, to your loss, Fingon heard Acharadel’s prayers echo. Here alone, in his dark room he allowed tears to fall. We are all part of the currents of Eä, the very essence of Life. Stars are born and stars die. Elves are not eternal but tied to the fate of Arda, a fate not unknown. They were bitter but at least he found he could mourn. Look to the stars! In the intimacy of the space between you and them find the song, Fingon remember Acharadel’s words shared with him when he returned from the ill-fated scouting trip. Not the song you were taught but the song that is primordial and future, present and absent, all at once. Fingon tried to find the Song but failed time and time again.

 

The expected knock at his door came, then the familiar voice worriedly calling out: “Finno?”  Turgon.

 

Before he could bid his brother come in, Turgon opened the door. “I heard you cry out,” Turgon offered matter-of-factly. “Are you well?”

 

“I am,” Fingon replied, observing the dark circles under his brother’s eyes. “I must have been speaking in my sleep,” Fingon surmised.

 

Turgon sat down on a wooden chair near the hearth, noticing his brother had been crying. “More than speaking.”

 

Fingon grunted. That would explain why his throat felt raw.

 

“Ireth would offer you some tea, but she is not here,” Turgon said, knowing Fingon little wanted to speak of the dreams that tortured him.

 

“Where is she?” Fingon asked, realizing he had not seen her since his hasty return that evening.

 

“She was part of the party that came to your aid.”

 

Fingon raised his eyebrows. He had not seen her.

 

“Tell me what happened out there,” Turgon spoke, his voice indicating he would not accept no.

 

Fingon rubbed his eyes, his hand still in a fist. Opening his hand, he revealed the pebbles. Turgon’s eyes settled on the familiar grey pebbles, collected from the shores of Lammoth. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at Turgon, “I was on patrol along the Cirith Ninniach, protecting the crew of elves you sent to assess the building of the underground tunnel that will connect to your settlement.”

 

Turgon stuck out his chin, “I know this. I want to know how it was you came to be attacked and whether our plans were revealed.”

 

Fingon clenched his jaw. “The orcs were surprisingly cunning and organized in their attack. They killed the scouts positioned at the entrance of the cleft. They rained down on us from the ridges, aided by some magic.” Fingon turned to look out at the stars visible from his window, the twitching of a muscle along his neck revealing his anguish. His thoughts had taken him back to the midst of battle. “Those orcs should have died, had their necks broken, from such high ground they leapt. But they did not die, and they landed upon us.”

 

Fingon’s thoughts brought him back to the room. “It’s how I got this,” he indicated with his chin. As if listening to his words, a piercing pain ran through his arm. Fingon did not wince, turning his pain into words, he hissed, “And worry not, your men are dead. They have no tale to tell.”

 

Turgon sat up straight. “Do not admonish me, Fingon.” Turgon felt the loss of the men just as keenly. Unlike Fingon, for him it was further evidence that he needed to build a city behind the protective height of the coastal mountains.

 

Fingon stood up, tossing the pebbles back into the bowl. “Do not admonish you?” he laughed. “No, brother, I am simply relaying to you that you need not worry. Those orcs also did not survive to tell a tale.” Rather than plan another fortification in a strategic area, Turgon was pulling his people back, relying on others to protect him.

 

Fingon walked curtly to the window. His breathing was shallow with anger. Willing himself to calm, he finally said to Turgon, “I lost many good soldiers.”

 

“I know,” Turgon replied coming to stand next to Fingon. “Do not believe me so absorbed that I do not also mourn their loss.”

 

Fingon glanced at Turgon. His hair was unbound and he was wearing the same wrinkled clothes as the day before.

 

“Ireth’s scouts found you. If not for her insistence that she follow after you, I am afraid you too would be dead,” Turgon shared wanly.

 

Fingon closed his eyes, his thoughts fixed on the dead.

 

“You did not see Ireth because she is the one who found the bodies of the guards you posted in the mountains.” Turgon tentatively reached out towards Fingon but pulled his hand back.  Fingon noticed.

 

“I see,” Fingon replied, unsure what else to say. His break was a serious one and he had suffered a concussion. That Fingon was disoriented soon after the skirmish was not a surprise. He had been given a draught for pain that made him go limp. It had been too much. The scouts were young, not the most experienced healers and soldiers, and thus did not know that all soldiers are kept alert, giving just enough to take the edge off from the pain.

 

“Ireth scolded them good,” Turgon shared, smiling. This made Fingon smile too. He could imagine how severely she must have come down on them. He did not feel pity for them. Such mistakes and naïveté were costly.

 

Fingon was tired. He had spent much of his energy into healing himself. He did not want to fight with his brother.  Instead, Fingon noticed that his brother looked more than miserable, he looked translucent. “You have not been sleeping,” Fingon observed, knowing that Turgon’s sleep escaped him more than just this night.

 

Turgon cast a tired look at his brother. At least Fingon decided not to argue and pin the losses on him, though he deserved it.  “Rest alludes me,” Turgon answered, the brightness of his eyes dimmed.

 

Fingon understood that Turgon hoped to find some semblance of peace, some rest, in his city by the sea, a dream he had shared with him years ago as they watched the waters of the sea. And maybe Turgon was right to take Idril away from their camp, to give her a tower by the sea. It would not last. Both brothers knew this, but how could Fingon prevent his brother from offering his daughter this small joy. “It is folly,” Fingon whispered gently.

 

Turgon did not speak, replying only with the bitterest of smiles.

 

)()()()(

 

Forsaken, Makalaurë mused as Fingon stood before him, inside the Fëanorian throne room. It had been more than a year since he had laid eyes upon his cousin. In Valinor a year was but a day, but in Endórë, days were counted, and minutes and hours valued. Their sense of time had come undone. And once again Fingon was changed, no longer starved, but still hungry.

 

Maglor stood and walked towards a table laden with food. With a finger he indicated Fingon should join him. It was a gesture stolen from innocent times, intimate in nature, a way of saying something with his body that Fingon recognized as from a time before, but now was not that time or place. A mere gesture, now a daring show of authority. Maglor knew this. He was no fool. Fingon locked his eyes on his cousin and Maglor smiled. Of course, Maglor knew that he was playing with time, playing with the theater of what had once been and the dangerous present of the moment.

 

Fingon gifted Maglor a bitter smile. “Your father’s crown fits you well,” Fingon replied, not willing to engage Maglor in his game of cat and mouse. Findekáno, clever as he was, would have relished the challenge, but Fingon did not have time for such frivolity. Maglor knew this, Fingon was sure of it.

 

Sit and eat,” Maglor ordered, “I know you are hungry.”

 

Fingon preferred this directness. “Very well, I will join you.”  Fingon kept his eyes on Maglor as he crossed the large room and took a chair across from his cousin. Fingon served himself a healthy portion of the venison and wild rice stew. Pausing between mouthfuls, Fingon spoke, his voice not hinting at any emotion, “Ondion told me that your brother refused to burn the ships.”

 

Maglor sat up straight. The time had come for this conversation. Maglor had expected it earlier, but this new person was not one he knew well. Maglor let his fist fall on the table. “He did not. He asked our father to return for you. Demanded it, even,” Maglor answered coolly, his calculating gaze watching for anything as much as a twitch in Fingon.

 

“I know,” Fingon replied. Leaning towards Maglor who sat across from him, Fingon smiled, waiting for Maglor’s reply.

 

“Does it warm you to know my brother thought of you even in our darkest hours?” Maglor spoke, his voice silky and appealing.

 

Fingon threw his head back and laughed, slamming his fist on the table, causing the dishes upon it to shake. Maglor watched, appreciative that Fingon too was enjoying the absurd dance of power between the two. Fingon caught his breath. “Once upon a time,” Fingon answered. Sobering, he added, “I have little capacity to love.” Fingon grabbed Maglor’s hand. “This you condemned us to,” he hissed.

 

Maglor shook away Fingon’s hand. “We did not compel you to cross that ice,” Maglor accused.

 

Fingon stood abruptly, sending his chair to the ground. “You well know that we could not return.”

 

“Some of you did,” Maglor purred, enjoying Fingon’s anger.

 

Fingon, leaned on the table, bringing his face close to Maglor’s. “Not all of us could.”

 

Maglor whispered, “No, not you Kinslayer.”

 

Fingon grabbed Maglor’s throat, “Why? Why do you do this!” The few guards in the hall had their arrow aimed at Fingon, but Maglor threw his hand up, stilling them.

 

Ripping Fingon’s hand away from his throat, Maglor coughed, managing to whisper, “To remind you that you are not our betters.”

 

Fingon backed away from Maglor. He was not going to be pulled into this well-worn argument again. The two camps were at an impasse. Though they greatly needed one another to survive, the divide was too vast between them. Running his hand through his unbound hair, Fingon sighed, “You are worse for his death.”

 

Maglor moved to stand at a distance from Fingon, though he could not see his face as it was hidden behind his hair. “Thank you for returning our horses. Celegorm wants to thank you himself if you will have him,” Maglor offered, changing the topic of the conversation entirely. Fingon nodded.

 

Maglor walked towards the hall doors. Pausing he turned to look at Fingon, a strange light in his eyes. “Nelyo was captured by Morgoth’s creatures. We know not whether he was killed or his held captive.”

 

Fingon’s eyes grew wide. But he was dead! Had believed him gone for all these years. Fingon’s hands curled into fists. He did not turn to face Maglor, could not face him. Fingon heard Maglor leave the hall and another set of steps enter: Celegorm.

 

“Findekáno?” Celegorm queried, noting that Fingon did not respond.

 

Fingon turned to look at Celegorm. “Tell me what happened to Maitimo. All of it.”

 

The icy fury in Fingon’s eyes bore witness to Fingon’s turmoil. He would hear all of it and Celegorm would tell it. Celegorm sighed. His people were tired. Morgoth’s forces were constantly checking them at their borders. “Very well,” Celegorm answered and relayed the tale of how Maedhros went to meet with Morgoth, was betrayed and captured by Morgoth. Celegorm told Fingon of the missive that they received to surrender to Morgoth and he would in turn release Maedhros.

 

Maglor listened from outside the Hall, heard the desperation creep into Fingon’s voice as he questioned Celegorm, accused him of cowardice for not saving their eldest and beloved brother. Celegorm said nothing in rebuttal, feeling much the same as Fingon did, but had his hands tied by the will of the Fëanorian King and council.

 

Fingon stormed out of the Hall and pausing to stand in front of Maglor, Fingon spat on the floor in front of him. Maglor winced but stood his ground unwilling to look down in shame. Fingon’s eyes were ablaze, his internal Song pulsating outward into the space around them. Fingon called out to his people and they rode away with their horses and into the evening.

 

)()()()(

 

Fingon’s sword clamored on the cold stone floor of Fingolfin’s Council Hall, echoing through the empty room. He could not remember warmth, could not recall words spoken that belonged to his life, but seemed like they belonged to another. Slowly his eyes focused on the empty throne room, taking in the colors of the banners that hung from the high ceilings. They retained their original splendor but that seemed a crime to him for those banners of the Houses that crossed the Grinding Ice were the only things that survived intact.

 

He was alive. He was sure of it.

 

)()()()(

 

TBC…

 

 

 

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Chapter End Notes

* I seem to remember that Tuor gave the name “Rainbow Cleft” to the place or if it was named that prior to him. My memory is probably wrong on this!