The Ice in the North by Moreth

The Ice in the North

It was the beauty of it that surprised me. I had not expected it.

The dark, the cold, the biting wind... we had considered all these things. And they were true. It was bitterly cold. A killing cold. The ground itself was treacherous beneath our feet and thin snow could cover a gaping crevasse. We learned early that the water was deadly; to fall into it was to die.  We learned to fear the wind, which cut like a knife and was just as lethal. We knew now what a knife could do. We learned the ice could do the same.

Beyond that - beyond our struggle to survive each moment - was the ice plain itself. Endless, immutable, ignorant of anything but its own being, it stretched in every direction. It spoke constantly to itself in a language I did not understand, muttering and cracking and creaking. I remember the majestic crash of a glacier falling; perilous thunder as it tumbled into the sea. I remember the long vistas of broken snow, gleaming silver in the star-shine, then flaring to a sudden green-blue sheen from the light I carried.

But our lamps paled compared to the sky. I dream even now of the red and green lights that flickered and moved across the north, flaring and dying in endless patterns of garnet and emerald, colouring the pristine snow with their glory. I stood enchanted and staring until my companion shook my shoulder. To stand still was to die.

I would like to see the snow again, to smell the frozen air, to feel it prickle in my nostrils as I inhale. League after league of bright, white space that cares nothing for the small doings of the Noldor. It is dangerous indeed, but it is also beautiful.

 Maybe now I would understand its words.