Carved in Bone by Maggie Honeybite

Carved in Bone

Read Carved in Bone

 

Helcaraxë, seven years into the march

 

The Helcaraxë was not what Elenwë had expected. When they set out on their journey, grieved by the sight of ships burning in the distance but determined to make it to the other shore nonetheless, she had thought she was prepared. She could handle the cold, her feet were used to walking, and she had reserves of patience aplenty. She and Turgon could keep Idril safe – she was sure of it. It was simply a matter of wanting it badly enough.

But as one endless day turned into another, years piling on top of years like thick layers of ice, her certainty ebbed away. The ever-present cold seeped deep into bone, and she didn’t have as much patience as she’d thought. Most of all, outcomes couldn’t be guaranteed simply by manifesting desire; that truth became plain the moment people began dying – frozen in place after a night of howling wind or fished out of dark water, lips blue, damp strands of hair freezing solid.

By then it was too late for regrets. Every day they marched; there was no choice but to keep up.

Turgon was busy looking after his father’s people, and whatever servants had provided assistance back in Tirion had their own families to see through the ordeal, so it fell to Elenwë to tend to Idril’s needs and make sure she was safe and kept pace. Besides, given a choice the little girl always called upon her mother. Elenwë would look up at the heavens and call upon Elbereth for strength and patience with her little one’s questions and protests. It was the work of motherhood, nothing more, but the years on the march had depleted her stores, and it is hard to call forth a beautiful blossom from soil that is parched and dry.

How much farther, Idril would ask, and, when will the wind cease? Mama, I’m cold, and mama, the sled is bumpy. Why is it so dark, she would ask; and Elenwë would tell stories about the stars they could not see, spinning tales to keep her little girl’s interest for as long as she could. Mama, I’m hungry; and Elenwë would give her the waybread tucked into her pockets, and pieces of dried seal meat. Mama, I’m thirsty would follow, and that one was harder to manage. She had a flask for just such a purpose, but it was small and had to be husbanded wisely.

Mama, why are we travelling? was the hardest question of all to handle, not because she didn’t know the answer but because she found the justification slipped from her grasp a little more each time she gave it. Then the sled dogs started dying, and the children had to take turns on the sleds to keep from overloading the dogs that remained. That meant walking, which in turn meant tired little feet and the incessant refrain of, mama, will you carry me? She did, for stretches, holding her precious, infuriating bundle close, her back straining in protest, silent tears freezing on her lashes.

It was a burden, it was love in action, it was a habit, it was a soundless scream of rage, and it went on and on, day after day after day. And the next morning she got up and did it all again. Turgon helped. He carried Idril sometimes, fielded her questions, held Elenwë close at night and asked how she was managing. But what could she tell him? That she did it gladly, with love in her heart, but that the unceasing effort of it had wrung her dry? That the ice and darkness stretched on into infinity and sometimes all she could see in her future was despair? She would look into Idril’s eyes, see the light there and feel relief. And then she’d wonder about the light in her own.

Then, one day, the ice began to crack. They’d encountered cracking ice before, but this wasn’t just a crevasse or two. The scope of it was terrifying: as far as the eye could see, beyond the horizon.

The sound was first heard at night, as they slept, and the disorientation added to the mounting sense of dread. It seemed akin to the creaking of metal, a menacing groan as the forged material lost its integrity and came apart at the elemental level. Iron bending, tearing asunder where it should have been strong – a thought unnatural to the Noldorin host with so many smiths among them. They left their tents and stood, wide-eyed with fear, listening for the source of the noise.

It was like the gut-wrenched complaint of some subterranean animal, a monster heaving up its growl to those listening above. Shuddering it rumbled as the ice shook beneath the Noldor’s feet. Some likened it to the strain in a ship’s rigging during a storm, and the memory of ships burning only added to the horror. Then came what sounded like a series of violent explosions, followed by more creaking and a sonorous purring. The ice was alive, it seemed, and it was intent on expelling the Noldorin interlopers from its surface.

They struck camp with unparalleled haste and set off into the darkness. Travelling in small groups, each urged on by their leader, they hurried to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the angry presence beneath their feet, but it seemed impossible to outpace. Soon small cracks appeared in the ice, widening alarmingly fast to reveal the black waters below. Those who could, piled on top of the sleds, pinning their hopes on the dogs’ speed and the ability of the sleds’ wide runners to bridge the gaps between the floes. There was solid ice ahead of them somewhere; they just had to reach it.

Idril sat atop the sled, her fingers clutching to hang on, too terrified to cry. Beside her sat other children; the adults ran alongside. Elenwë had grabbed hold of a thick leather strap attached to one of the wooden planks, wrapped it around her wrist as she ran. Even if she were to slip and fall, she would not be separated from her daughter. She could hear Turgon’s voice hollering somewhere behind them. Keep moving, he was shouting, as if they could think to do anything else.

The gaps in the ice had widened; the people who were running had to leap in order to land on the opposite side. Elenwë heard a scream and a splash to her right, discerned efforts to help the one who had fallen. Even if the rescue were successful, there would be no time to change into dry clothing. Wet furs froze solid unless you kept moving.

“All well?” Turgon appeared at her elbow, looking determined if a bit frantic. He kept on scanning to left, to right, behind, ahead – trying to take in the entire situation all at once, all his responsibility.

Elenwë caught his eye. “I’ve got her,” she said. Like two musicians passing a tune back and forth, trusting the other to come in with the harmony in the crucial spot. Except so much more at stake this time.

They could not linger on sentimental speeches or farewells. He touched her cheek, nodded, glanced at Idril perched on the sled, love in his eyes. “Eru preserve you both!” he shouted, then moved on. The frenetic journey over the ice carried on.

By the light of the lanterns, you could discern the shape of solid ice in the distance, but the floes had drifted so far apart that the dogs had a hard time leaping over the fissures now. Their handlers slowed down, gauging distance to the next floe. Nerves taut with adrenaline, they picked their way forward with care, using every bit of their skill to guide their dog teams where the chance of safe passage was highest. The sky was blocked by icy mists; the night was black as ink.

“Mama?” The little voice was holding back tears.

“Yes, honey?”

“Bear doesn’t like this.” Idril clutched her tiny bear carved of ivory-coloured bone.

“Of course not, love. But Bear needs to be strong. This won’t last forever, and then we’ll be in our warm tent and we can all rest.”

“When?”

“Soon. You’ll see.”

What do you say to a trusting child when you have no certainties to offer? You lie. You feel the bile rise up from your gut, protesting against the untruth, and you smile. And pray for the grace to stop lying someday.

“Mama.” This time not a question, just blue eyes seeking reassurance.

“I love you, Itarillë. Daddy loves you too. We’ll be alright, I promise.”

“Promise?”

“I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. That’s a promise.”

Their sled had slowed down, the dogs’ handler peering ahead, gauging distance to the next floe; the one under their feet wasn’t stable, rolled like a rowboat when you first step inside. The lantern they had gave little light. Where was Turgon? Elenwë wondered. He should be checking in with us about now, as he’d periodically been doing. Or had time simply stretched to seem longer? It felt like they’d been running for hours.

Elenwë could tell something was wrong before her brain registered what was happening. The sled moved forward, and she prepared to jump as she’d been doing for most of the night. But when the dogs leapt and tried to land on the level ice surface ahead, they found that it was suddenly gone. In its place was the churning, violent clash of two floes crashing into each other, straining upwards like two mountain peaks hell-bent on destruction.

There was chaos: the squeal of dogs landing in a heap, paws desperately seeking purchase, the snap of wooden runners turned to splinters, people’s screams as limbs tangled in the dogs’ lead lines and harnesses. Elenwë’s focus narrowed to the outline of one shadowy form. She lunged toward Idril, listening for her voice, tumbled upside down in the darkness, reaching, straining, grabbing, and all the while hollering her daughter’s name.

The impact of the landing was hard, and immediately she could feel herself slipping down into the icy waters, but at least she held Idril by her ribcage, gripping under her armpits. She tried to push the little girl upwards, deposit her on something solid, but there was nothing solid there. The cold of the water stole her breath. She gasped, felt her lungs contract.

She would have called out Turgon’s name but her diaphragm’s spasm made her mute. Idril’s face registered shock and she was breathing unnaturally fast; Elenwë concentrated on keeping her above water as much as possible. Someone please help us, she thought. And then, Turukáno, where are you? Her own breathing was fast too; she could not slow it down. She inhaled the salt water, coughed, spluttered, tried to raise her head.

“Elenwë! Itarillë!” Turgon was kneeling on the closest ice floe, reaching out with both arms, eyes wild. So far away. Too far.

Elenwë pushed Idril toward him, straining with every fibre of her body, every bit of strength in her soul, channeling every scrap of love she’d ever felt and every bit of hope she had left. Squeezed it out of her heart and willed it to flow from her hands, to help her push her daughter closer to Turgon’s outstretched arms.

She was almost there, almost there, but something was happening to her. Her limbs were slowing down, Idril felt so heavy in her arms, her feet were refusing to move, and her thoughts felt slow, ponderous, unwieldy. It was like trying to read sheet music before she’d learned how, the notes crowding on the page, their meaning inscrutable. Impossible to decipher. Black puzzling marks sitting like birds on a clothesline. Black birds sitting on a line. There was something she needed to do, if she could only focus. She knew it was important. More important than her life. If only she could remember... If only she could...

Elenwë floated face-down in the black waters beneath the Helcaraxë.

 

*****

 

Gondolin

 

Idril hadn’t slept well in weeks. She was exhausted, and not just because the baby woke several times a night, demanding to be fed. That was normal, expected; she was used to it. She’d nurse him, settle him back in his crib and then climb into bed herself, dropping off to sleep like a stone slips into water: swiftly, with little fuss. But then, long before morning, she would wake again – uneasy, with an odd sense that something was wrong. The night would be dark outside her window, the city peaceful, Tuor’s warm presence next to her comforting, Eärendil’s breathing regular – nothing amiss. And yet.

Tonight was similar to many nights that had come before: she woke up not quite able to catch her breath, with the sense that something dark and disturbing was just out of reach. Half asleep, Tuor opened one eye and murmured, “All right?”

“Yes.” She waited until his face relaxed in sleep again, then quietly rose.

It was chilly in their bedchamber, the flagstones cold, so she wrapped a blanket around herself as she knelt beside Eärendil’s crib. He was slumbering peacefully, lying on his front, knees tucked up underneath him, bum up in the air. His face was half turned toward her: a flutter of eyelashes, pink mouth like a tiny rosebud. One of his arms was extended, hand sticking out beyond the crib’s wooden slats.

She took the tiny hand, pressed it to her forehead. Closed her eyes. “Honey sweet, what am I meant to know?” she whispered. “Am I forgetting something? Not understanding? I feel like there’s something just beyond my reach.”

She let her mind drift in hopes of finally cracking this riddle. Her father? He was fine, no cause for worry there. Tuor? She smiled. He was happy, healthy, and their marriage had never been better. If anything should cause her anxiety, it wasn’t that. The city? Her father’s decision to seal Gondolin off completely had worried her, but years had passed with no ill effects; people were growing used to it. No reason why she should dream about it now. Maeglin? Ah, well. There was that. She would probably never have sunny associations when it came to her cousin, but even he had left her alone of late. And if she felt his eyes on her as she walked by, well, that was nothing new, was it?

She sighed in exasperation. Her thighs were cramping and her feet were cold, and still whatever insight was needed kept eluding her. She kissed Eärendil’s fingers, tucked his tiny hand back in the crib, stood up. She had just turned to climb back into bed when something caught her eye: Bear. Above her son’s crib, in the back corner of a shelf – her childhood toy, her talisman. The one she’d clutched when her father fished her out of the icy waters, howling with grief to see his wife’s floating body. The one she’d clung to on many nights after, when she’d needed her mother so badly. The one she’d brought with her to Middle-earth and kept long after she was grown. A faithful witness to her life.

She tucked Bear in the crook of her arm as she lay down beside her husband. Maybe comfort was what was called for? Bear was good at that; he’d had years of practice.

She fell asleep quickly, but soon the dreams came back: vague sensations of darkness and unease, of something missed, something just beyond her understanding. These were the usual ones, draining but familiar. Most nights they’d eventually fade away or wake her – but not this time. This time the dream intensified, morphing into something concrete: images vivid and terrifying, full of pictures and sounds as real as if she were awake. Maeglin wrenching the baby out of her arms and throwing him into flames; Eärendil’s high pitched, almost inhuman, shrieking. She was there, watching in horror, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t get to her son. She felt immobilized, helpless. Trapped.

On the edge of consciousness, frantic with fear, she heard her mother’s voice whispering, “Find a way out before it’s too late.” And then, “I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. That’s a promise.”

She woke up scrabbling and flailing, so surprised by her sudden ability to move that before she knew it, she’d leapt right out of bed and crashed onto the floor. Someone was screaming; it took her a moment to realize that she was the one making that sound.

“Itarillë!” Tuor crouched beside her, strong arms holding her steady. “Another dream? Sounds worse than the others.”

Eärendil began a soft mewling in his crib. Damn, she’d woken the baby. Her heart was hammering and she didn’t quite know where she was. Part of her could still see those awful flames. “I’m not sure it was a dream. More a vision of the future.”

“Bad?”

“Yes.” The room was taking on its real contours now, the flames receding. But her mother’s voice still rang in her ears. “We have to change it,” Idril said.

“Change the future?” Tuor had scooped Eärendil up and gently settled him against his shoulder, patting his back. “How?”

Find a way out before it’s too late. “I’m not sure, but it has something to do with this city.” The baby was fussing more and more now. Idril held out her hands to Tuor. “Here, give him to me.”

She undid the top three buttons of her nightgown and settled Eärendil against her, the back of his head cradled in her palm; felt him latch onto her breast. And then that whooshing feeling of calm swept over her as the baby suckled her milk, pulled at her very essence. She let out a sigh, leaned back against the bed. All was well.

Tuor sat down beside her. “You were saying?”

I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. But find a way to get out. A message, a warning – from one mother to another. Idril looked straight at Tuor now, fully awake and calmer than she’d been in weeks. “We need to build an escape route out of Gondolin,” she said. “Because I think we’ll need it.”

“Your father won’t allow it.”

“Then he can’t know.”

Tuor looked at her intently, examining the expression on her face. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

He brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said gravely.

After she’d fed Eärendil and settled him back in his crib, Idril picked up Bear from where he’d fallen on the floor. Carved out of bone, the figurine was crude but smooth – made by her mother’s hands all those years ago. She weighed it in her palm and carefully set it back on the shelf. Then she climbed into bed, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and didn’t wake until morning.

 

END

 

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Chapter End Notes

Elenwë's exhaustion was very much inspired by pandemic burnout. Hats off to other moms who juggled working from home and parenting young children. Trust me, it's no picnic.