A Trail of Things Lost by Nitheliniel

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Chapter 2: Innocence

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"Findo[1], Nís[2], come, my father wishes to speak!"

They turn as one at the calling, Findaráto’s arm still holding her to his side. Findekáno’s face, as carved from marble, betrays no emotion, but in their shared knowledge of each other they have not to guess at how it rages inside of him. They speak not, not even to scold for the unwanted monikers. Instead they follow, and in doing so they let go of each other.

"At least you are not reduced to your hair," Findaráto mumbles, self-consciously tugging a stray lock behind his ear.

"No, I am reduced to being a woman," she quips. "But I understand, why he prefers Káno."

Findaráto grins at her, then quickens his step to catch up with the dark haired man before them and in a simple gesture of compassion puts a hand on the rigid shoulder. Findekáno’s frame leans into the welcome touch. Artanis envies her brother and envies him not this gift: to make the people dear to him feel better in any kind of situation. But what only adds to his strength would be called a woman’s gentle nature in her.

At first, it had not been a conscious decision to actively defy the expectations she was unable to meet, but ever since she has grown to understand how names are connected with meanings and implications, she had set her mind to forgo any risk of appearing meek and gentle.  Eventually, her mother named her according to what she perceived as her daughters nature and left Artanis Nerwen[3], who already disliked her father-name, with a mother-name she resented. The kind of nobility associated with femininity is still not a trait she identifies with and she refuses to comprehend why she cannot be strong, wilful, and independent without her strength being compared to that of men. She has long resigned herself to the knowledge that she yet has to wait for a name describing her true nature.

Her cousin’s pained words shake her from her thoughts as he answers to something offered as consolation.

"I thank you, but as they chose to follow, they are all at fault. As are we. History will blame us all."

She lacks the information necessary to comprehend the first part of his answer, but she smiles bitterly at the latter. Seemingly, the whole of the stranded part of the Finwëan family shares a mutual feeling of guilt.

"I blame him not more than I blame myself," Findekáno adds and instantly Maitimo’s shock of red hair blurs the vision of Artanis’ inner eye and explains the conversation before her. Findekáno surprises her with his graceful inclination to forgive his friend. She cannot bring herself to share his feelings or follow his argument, even though she shares his assumption that they were betrayed mostly by the father but probably not by all of his sons.

The conversation is not continued as grim faces greet them, pale beneath dark or golden hair. Nolofinwë waits for them, the three of them the last to join the family circle. Her missing brothers are already there, their eyes fierce as their nature, standing next to Nolofinwë’s other sons, who are now joined by their elder brother. The women, as often, form their own little group, not aside but distinct from their male relatives and husbands.

There are few women whose council her uncle listens to and whom he counts among the leaders of his people. Their journey ahead will permanently separate him from his wife and to Artanis’ eyes he gives away the same air of loneliness as Findaráto – a loneliness not sated by being surrounded by family. Another battle between pride and heart won by the former. The remaining female family members are women with a clear conception of who they are and want to be and have found ways to reconcile both. Still, Artanis opts for remaining with her brothers.

Irissë’s questioning look follows her as she passes by her friend, clearly puzzled as to why Artanis does not join her. But she is standing next to her aunt and Artanis cannot abide to see Lalwendë smile through the darkest moment of their exodus yet. It is a constant wonder to her, how someone as naively cheerful as her aunt could have gained the respect she is granted. Even now, the upwards tremble to the corners of her lips makes Artanis wonder, not for the first time, whether it may be a physical condition. Even in her most mirthful moments, she reaches not the same level of delight Lalwendë is capable of showing when facing despair.

Elenwë is the steadfast rock in their agitated circle. She is the only one kneeling and young Itarillë has dozed off with her fair head in her mother’s lap, Elenwë’s hand stroking the golden tresses.

Eldaloté has come too and is apparently reconciled with her husband, because they alone stand side by side in anticipation, their hands joined with knuckles white.

"We will brave the impassable path," Nolofinwë says by way of greeting. "We will prove that it can be taken – that we are stronger than oaths and curses, stronger than water and ice."

One of her mirthless smiles flickers over Artanis’ face. Her uncle’s words make it sound as if they had a choice where there is none. It is no longer their decision to brave unknown dangers, but a necessity if they will not consider settling permanently in the wastes of Araman or grovel their way back to Tirion, pleading for forgiveness. They will do neither, it seems, and she agrees with the decision if not with the words. 

Nolofinwë speaks on, but she hears him not. Her eyes are involuntarily drawn towards the grey lands north of them, hardly perceivable now behind a shifting cloud of mists. Elentári’s stars struggle but fail to cut through the veil hiding the ice and so all she can see are a few ragged pinnacles piercing the fog like sharp teeth. In her heart the fire still burns strongly, but at the view a sick and clammy feeling nests behind her navel, whispering maliciously how on that path many will be devoured. Her arms wrap around her middle unconsciously and when the movement finally registers, she still keeps them there for support. "Some of us will die in it," echoes in her mind. – Many of them will not reach the hither shore to die there. 

When she refocuses on her uncle’s words, her eyes once more meet with Irissë’s and for the remainder of Nolofinwë’s rousing speech their gazes hold on to each other.

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The first step away from the shore and unto ground that only feigns solidity is exciting. It is too cold for her boot to sink in the thin layer of harsh snow covering the ice beneath. It is not even snow, Artanis is quick to discover, but frozen mist sunk to the ground. Her step causes the expected crisp crunching sound nonetheless and is soon followed and then swallowed by many feet eliciting similar sounds. She feels a childish glee rise and chase away the disquieting sensation from before, but she checks herself from storming forward and leaving the first prints on the virginal surface. It would be inappropriate of her station as well as too risky. Scouts had been send ahead a while ago and had ventured far onto the ice on Nolofinwë’s command. He and his family would set the example and lead the host over the Helcaraxë, but they would not do so uninformed. Not all scouts have yet returned and not all will, but those who did, reported of the dangers before them: of shifting ice and of churning seas.

In the beginning of their crossing they often walk together: the daughter of the swan-maiden of Alqualondë and the White Lady of the Noldor. Artanis and Irissë talk and watch their brothers around them. They have been told of the perils that await them on this way, but have yet to meet them and so they slip back easily into well-known habits. Their shared friendship provides them with security and a sense of belonging which helps them face the future with the certainty of the young that no obstacle exists that they will be unable to overcome. Findekanó walks with his father. Arakáno, Aikanáro, and Angaráto joke and tussle. Findaráto and Turukáno walk arm in arm, with Elenwë either sharing Turukáno’s or Irissë’s free arm, and Itarillë running free between them until the ground finally becomes treacherous and she is restricted to the secure hold of one of her family members.

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Irissë wears white since an artist of some relation taught her how white deflects all colours within light. He had used a clear crystal for demonstrating how light indeed holds all colours in existence. On that day, Irissë decided to be like an untouched canvas and that crystal alike: She would deflect and split light.

Irissë wears silver because it is the colour of all objects hard and sharp. She wanted to look the way she was: as sharp and unyielding as her hunting knife and as clear as Telperion’s light, cutting the world into sharp contrasts.

"I will no longer look like a peacock," she had explained to her cousin while sorting through her wardrobe, ridding it effectively of every colour until only white and silver remained. "You, my dear, are a child of light. And how it paints you is always beautiful. How I envy you! – Here, have this!" And thus Artanis had received a small wooden box, intricately carved, and filled with trinkets of gold. She carried it with her now, as a token of a time passed.   

Like Irissë, Artanis seeks freedom and independence. The cousins had soon recognised their kin souls and found they could be together with ease. It was much more than the shared year of their birth: With Irissë, Artanis must not keep up appearance. Neither of them is gentle, neither of them is timid.

Unlike Irissë, though, she showed considerable skill in what was considered a lady’s craft, like weaving and sewing. But she has no patience for crafting things without a purpose beyond being beautiful. While her needlework is nimble, she has no eye for stitching or embroidery. She revelled in the gossamer touch of silk sliding over her fingertips, but with it she wanted to hold of the chill and humidity of days in which gentle rains gifted their home with fertility. Artanis would have liked to join her mother’s kin in Alqualondë, where without the women’s craft no swan ships would ever set sail.

They should thank her, she muses while watching her brothers carefully choose their way over a treacherous field of fissured ice, fighting against the exhaustion that dulls their concentration. They should thank her that her reluctance to craft things with purely aesthetic intention now serves to keep them warmer than most of their companions. How they had laughed when she had presented them with unadorned silken shirts, not meant to shine, but to be worn beneath.

"Pretty, nésa[4], but they are too large for the women of my acquaintance and also they lack all the adorable adornments your sex appears to prefer," Aikanáro had commented. "I would not know whom to gift this to."

He had turned and fled when she had thrown her needles at him, determined to turn him into a new pin-cushion.

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They walk together, until Elenwë dies and Irissë finds that, harsh as she is, her presence comforts her brother – but especially little Itarillë. She turns from the scene, unable to meet the wide-eyed stare of the young girl with hair so similar to her own, pleading to anyone who would look to set her world right again.

Artanis decides to wear white in remembrance of the innocence that died on ice of the same colour.

 

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[1] Moniker from Findaráto, Q: hair-champion; findë: hair

[2] Moniker from Artanis, Q: noble woman; nís: woman

[3] Q: man-maiden

[4] Q: sister