A Crack in the Ice by yletylyf

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Chapter one

Warnings for mildly graphic depictions of hunting and battles, and a cousin-incest relationship.

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The ice was the color of Tyelkormo's hair.

Unrelenting and eternally unchanging, it glinted in the stars, curiously bleached of color or contrast. Just like Tyelko, with his inexplicable, starched-white hair shared by no one else in his family.

The pelts of the ice-bears were the same stark white. The Noldor had run out of arrows years ago and there was no wood to fashion more, so Irissë and Elenwë became extremely skilled at hunting the bears at close quarters together. Elenwë would distract it, Irissë would stalk it and herd it, and they would both jump and wrestle the bear down from either side.

Irissë would cut the beast's throat with a small slender knife, and watch the bright red blood splatter across the pristine white pelt.

In her nightmares, a dark Vala cut open Tyelko's throat and bright red blood splattered across snow white hair in the exact same patterns.

She woke from these nightmares with her heart racing and a restless need in her to destroy something. She had no one to speak of the dreams to. The sons of Fëanáro were not popular among those crossing the ice. And even the ice had not erased the memories of her mother quietly admonishing her that while her cousin could be her best friend, any other feelings she might harbor were inappropriate. The Eldar wedded not with kin so near. Irissë had accepted her mother's counsel and announced that she would give her heart to no one. Thus began the freezing of her nature even in the Noontide of Valinor.

Then Elenwë was lost to the ice, and the freezing crept further into Irissë's heart. Mourning the lost was a luxury those crossing the ice could not afford. They kept going. Irissë continued stalking the bears without her brother's wife, who had become as close as a sister to her. The bears reminded her painfully of Elenwë's graceful, elegant dance of the hunt, but she had no choice. The fur and the meat and the fat and their bones were necessary for keeping her people alive. The danger barely registered anymore.

 

The ice ended in a great cliff. The elves halted abruptly atop a fifty-foot wall.

Irissë stood beside her father as he surveyed the land ahead of them. He showed no dismay, but Irissë felt it in herself. Ahead of them was a long, low-lying plain bordered by frightening pillars of mountains on the left and friendlier-looking peaks on the right. And on the plain marched a host of twisted black creatures. the elves knew them immediately for being Morgoth's creations. The creatures had yet to look up to spy the new arrivals on the top of the ice cliff, but it was only a matter of time, especially if the elves started moving down the cliff.

"We have a few ropes left," Findekáno said resolutely. Her eldest brother was still the same cheerful optimist of stout heart he had been before the ice. Irissë did not know how he did it. "We'll anchor the ropes in the ice with bone and lower the strongest warriors down before everyone else."

"I'll go first," Arakáno put in. His spine was very straight and his head held high in defiance, as though he expected to be told 'no'.

"And I'll be right beside you," Irissë declared.

"Irissë," Nolofinwë started to protest.

She sent him a scathing look, and he desisted. No one who had crossed the ice would hesitate to throw themselves into the destruction of Morgoth's servants now—not even little Itarillë, who was not really so little anymore.

And Nolofinwë's daughter would be first to cross blades with an orc, given the slightest chance.

The plan wasn't particularly complicated, but it still went awry. A few dozen elves had made it down the ropes to solid ground, but there was no time to enjoy the solidness of the unfrozen ground. The orcs had spotted the movement—and unlike the elves, the orcs had arrows.

Irissë and Arakáno wasted no time drawing their swords and racing towards the band of orcs. They had few options: the elves coming down the cliffs were exposed and vulnerable. But Irissë's charge had little hope of changing the situation; her party was likely to be mown down by arrows themselves.

And they likely would have been, but for the rising of a great lamp in the sky.

Irissë did not understand it, but she did not question it. An orb of silver light arose and spilled its beams onto the ground and the faces of the elves and orcs. Magnified by the ice behind them, it shone into the orcs' eyes and made them howl. They dropped their bows and cowered before the silver lamp.

Sword high, Irissë let out a blood-curling howl of her own, hair flying wild behind her and her coat of animal pelt falling askew. She fell onto the dismayed and scattering bands of orcs, swinging her sword without mercy.

"Irissë!" someone shouted in her ear. "Irissë, they're retreating, fall back. The others need our help."

The red sheen of murder fell away from her eyes, and Irissë looked into the face of her cousin Findarato. He was splattered in grime and blood and his hair was a shade darker than normal. But the silver light shone upon his face beautifully, almost reminiscent of the light of Telperion, and Irissë was glad to see him.

"You look a mess," he told her, smiling and revealing that even his teeth were bloodstained.

She snorted. "At least I do not have such a pretty face to ruin as you do!"

Findarato stuck his tongue out at her playfully, and pulled her away, back to where the elves were gathering as they descended from the cliffs.

"We should follow them," she heard Arakáno saying in raised tones. "It's what we came here to do. Let's keep going and slaughter every last one of those foul creatures."

"I don’t disagree with you," Nolofinwë replied to his son, very patiently. "But I would see everyone down safe from the ice first. Irissë!" he added, giving a great jump at the sight of her. "Irissë, you are hurt!"

"I'm not," she insisted stoutly, although it was a lie. Her cheek was smarting from a blow, and her thigh was throbbing where an arrow had grazed it. "It's just mud and grime. It's not like there is anything to clean up with. I want to go after the orcs."

"When we are properly organized," Nolofinwë reiterated. "Then you may slaughter all the orcs you like."

She glared at her father, who gave her a calm, undaunted look. His eyes then slid to Findarato at her side, and he looked a little grimmer than when he'd been speaking to his own children.

There had been some... unpleasantness between Nolofinwë and Arafinwë and their respective children, after Alqualondë. Irissë had thought all of it long behind them, however, given what they suffered together since then, and she was surprised her father would give Finderato such a look.

"As you say, Uncle," was Findarato's mild response.

Nolofinwë nodded and turned his attention back to the cliffs, while Irissë glared at her cousin.

"We came here to kill orcs," she hissed at him. "What if they get away?"

"Then we will find other orcs to kill," Findarato said with his annoyingly charming smile. "Come, let's secure the baggage from the cliffs."

It was not significantly less cold on the plains than it had been on the ice. As the battle lust cooled off, Irissë started to shiver. She could not find her animal pelt, which had fallen off while fighting, and she did not have another one in her baggage, having given away everything that she killed during the crossing.

She ignored the cold and she ignored the aches and pains from the battle. She helped everyone regroup and start to march south under the light of the new lamp. She wanted very little now other than to slay orcs and find a certain white-haired idiot.

 

They marched for days, following the trail of the orcs' retreat, and Irissë began to feel slightly faint. Irissë had not seen a single sign of animal life save birds, and so the host did not stop to hunt. They found no water on their path. Water had always been a struggle during the crossing, but at least ice could be melted (although at great cost). Down here, there was nothing but barren, brown dirt for miles upon miles.

"It's the sleep of Yavanna," Nolofinwë eventually hypothesized. "The light of the Two Trees did not reach here, and so nothing grows. The plants and animals are dormant."

"But our kin live here," Findekáno argued with him. "Surely you don't think everyone who stayed behind has perished of nothing to eat?"

"We will seek them and find out," Nolofinwë said, but he sounded tired and less encouraging than usual.

"What about those who came here more recently than the Sindar?" Irissë asked Findekáno one morning as the four siblings walked at the front of the host. "Do you think they're even still alive? It feels like it's just us and the orcs out here."

She did not have to clarify who she was asking about. Findekáno valued at least one of the sons of Fëanáro as Irissë did, and he understood her.

"I'm certain they're still alive," Findekáno said, swallowing a lump in his throat. "And I bet they've each killed a hundred orcs already."

Irissë thought of Tyelkormo slaying orcs as fiercely and gracefully and effectively as he used to hunt deer, and she smiled.

"Who cares?" Turukáno snarled, ruining the moment. "I'll only be tempted to engage in some more kinslaying when I see them."

"You don't mean that," Findekáno chided.

"Don't I," said Turukáno coldly, and he stalked off.

"He does mean it," Irissë said, thinking of Elenwë's body lying cold and still on the ice.

"And you?" Arakáno asked her. "You aren't angry at them?"

"I am angry at Fëanáro," Irissë said. "But the rest of them still care for us. I know they do."

Arakáno snorted. "I cannot wait to see you put that resolution to the test in person! Do you imagine Fëanáro will smile beatifically while Tyelkormo welcomes you with open arms?"

Irissë did not respond, and Arakáno never did get to see the resolution of the matter in person.

 

The elves caught up with the orcs soon thereafter, and fell upon them with a fury unequaled to anything Irissë had experienced in Aman.

She raised her sword and carved off the head of the first orc she reached, then swung it again and again into the mass of orcs. Her world had narrowed to her and the orcs. She fought single-mindedly with no awareness of any of her kin fighting beside her. She only wanted to kill, and kill, and kill. She swung until her arm ached; she dodged and countered blows of the select few orcs who tried to fight back; she fought so recklessly that she eventually lost her sword and fell into the mud.

She screamed, real fear coursing through her for the first time. Orc feet trampled her ribs and a blade swung her way. She shoved against the feet with all her might, rolling sideways. The blade missed her by an inch. Gasping for breath, she felt around her belt until finding a small knife. She stabbed at the orc feet, over and over again, desperately and ineffectively.

Irissë did not know what would have happened, if they had not been saved by a great lamp in the sky for the second time. A blinding light flooded the battlefield, and Irissë had to squint. It was brighter, hotter, fiercer, and yellower than the first lamp. She heard the host of elves crying out to the Valar in gladness for sending them aid, while the orcs screamed and fled in disarray, worse and more pronounced than the distress caused by the first light.

Irissë rolled onto her side, coughing up blood. Her lungs felt like they had been crushed and would never work right again.

No one came to help her to her feet. She made it into a crouching position, and found her sword lying not five feet from her. She stood, using her sword for balance. Something was wrong; she felt it instinctively. Irissë did not see her family among the elves celebrating the orcs' retreat. A deep misgiving in her heart, she made her way to the far edge of the battlefield. There she found her father crouching over a figure lying prone on the ground.

Irissë put her hand on his shoulder and said nothing. The sheath of ice around her heart grew colder and thicker. She did not weep at the sight of her youngest brother's lifeless body. Weeping on the ice was dangerous, and she thought they had all lost the very ability to weep.

In contrast to Irissë's cold numbness, Nolofinwë burned bright. He screeched his rage to the new burning light in the sky, took up his sword, and charged after the retreating orcs. Exchanging a worried look with Findekáno, Irissë hurried after him. She watched numbly, as though it were happening to someone else, as Nolofinwë followed the trail of orcs all the way to the doors of the frightful fortress of black despair. Her father pounded on the gates of the fortress and challenged the coward Morgoth to issue forth and fight him.

Nothing issued forth.

"They are hiding from the new lamp in the sky," Findekáno told their father. "We shall not do any good carrying on in this manner. Morgoth is hardly likely to fall to the sound of our trumpeting."

He took Nolofinwë's arm and lead him away from the gates. He permitted himself to be led back to the rest of the host as though he were the child.

Still moving like one in a dream, Irissë helped place a cairn over Arakáno's body. She helped clean up the battlefield, collecting weapons and heaping the orcs in piles to burn. She did not dare share with anyone how close she had come to dying herself, in her rage and her battle madness just like her brother's.

"Where to now?" Findarato asked, staring at the empty plain surrounding them on three sides. Whether he was addressing Nolofinwë or Findekáno was impossible to tell. Neither of them seemed to have an answer for him.

"The birds tell me of some activity to the south," Irissë finally spoke. The sound of her own voice was jarring and unlovely in her ears. It was loud and rough, and sounded just the same as it always had. Should not the death of her youngest brother have altered it forever? "Not orcs. I hope we shall find our sundered brethren of some kind, whether it be Fëanáro or gray elf."

No one had any other ideas. They marched south.

Irissë's lungs still did not work correctly. Her head pounded with every step; the bruise on her cheek had worsened; and she started favoring her right side as she walked. Her leg, she thought, had been slashed by an orc in the battle, aggravating the existing arrow wound. She catalogued all these hurts indifferently, as though they belonged to someone else. She began to lose track of what she was doing here, or even who she was. White hair hovered on the edges of her vision like a mirage, and she began to wonder if such a person as Tyelkormo ever existed in truth.

They marched to the end of the plain, where their chosen path rose over a difficult mountain crossing. Irissë remained the only one willing to speak to the birds and guide them onward. She did not enjoy this task; the act of simply putting one foot in front of the other had grown exhausting. She was ready to give up and lay down and tell the others to move on without her—when she finally found them.

Their tents, banners, and small palisade wall were not mistakable for the work of gray elves. No. It was undoubtedly the host of Fëanáro.

The Fëanorian camp had spotted their approach. Trumpets sounded, and the camp bustled with activity.

Nolofinwë looked grim at the sight. "We halt here," he ordered, his voice carrying to everyone. "Do not approach them."

"What?" Irissë sputtered, taken aback, as her father's words pierced through her chest. "They will have—food and medicine and horses and blankets—things we need—"

"Things they brought over on the ships," Turukáno interrupted, curling his lip. "How convenient. I shall not accept the smallest crumb of bread from them. But look! They flee our approach!"

Irissë stared, dismayed, as Fëanáro's host started to collapse their tents and pack up their things. A few of them began retreating further south. Not a single one came to greet Nolofinwë.

She tried to catch Findekáno's eye, but he was solemn and grim and would not look at her.

"No," Irissë declared, ire spreading through her. "I won't have it. We've been through too much to be divided now."

She darted forward without warning. Turukáno tried and failed to grab her arm, and then it was too late for anyone to catch her. She ignored the pains in her leg and the bruising of her lungs and she ran, hair and garments flying, as one with the winds and the spirits.

She was recognized; a figure was breaking away from the host of Fëanáro. Her heart knew him at once, and she flew faster. Then she was in his arms, spinning through the air, and grinning at a most familiar and most beloved face.

Irissë suddenly found she did not care a fig for the laws of Aman, here in these wild, brutal, and untamed lands. When Tyelkormo set her down on the ground, she threw her arms around him and planted her lips on his and dared the world to object.

The world did not have anything to say; no lightning struck them down and not even an angry Fëanáro came out to scream at her. When she pulled away, Tyelkormo looked dazed and a little awe-struck.

"Hi Irissë," he managed to say. "What are you doing here? What happened to you? You look a fright!"

"Oh, do shut up," she said, but she was still smiling. "I'm beyond weary. I believe I'm going to faint."

An alarmed look crossed his face and he tightened his grip around her waist. With a small, satisfied sigh, Irissë allowed all her aches and bruises to catch up to her, and passed out in her cousin's arms.

 

When she woke, she was cradled in something soft, a familiar smell of hearth and home around her. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, and she was looking at the single person most dear to her. Tyelkormo, his wild white hair and his sharp angles, his large hands that looked clumsy and rough in contrast to the true gentleness of his touch, the quirky sideways smile of his!

He was wringing out a cloth over a basin. She realized she was lying on a soft bed of feathers. It was a luxury she had not even been able to imagine on the ice. She was underneath a warm, soft blanket. Her leg was clean and bandaged. In silence, Tyelko leaned forward to dab the cloth on her face.

It was warm and wet, a soothing combination she had nearly forgotten could exist. His touch was tender and careful. She sighed again, deeply content for the first time in a long time.

"I have missed you," she murmured.

Perhaps not the best opening; he winced and withdrew his hand. The cloth came away bloody.

"I never blamed you for the business with the ships," she assured him. "And why am I still bleeding!"

"Perhaps it is because, according to your family, you ran straight from a battle into my arms," Tyelko said, with his funny little crooked smile that made her heart pound.

"Where are my family?" she asked. "Are they very angry?"

"I should say so. Your father yelled at me for what felt like hours," Tyelko said wryly. "He was mortified about the kissing. And he is angry about... everything else."

"Why yell at you for that?" Irissë asked crossly, as he rinsed off the cloth in the basin and wrung it out. "He should content himself yelling at your father."

A shadow crossed Tyelko's face. He brought the cloth back to Irissë's cheek, carefully wiping away more blood.

"My father is dead," he said. "He fell to the Valaraukar."

"Oh," Irissë said. She had no idea what to say. She had come here nurturing hate in her breast for the arrogance of her uncle, mingled with concern that he would try to forbid Tyelko from seeing her, after all that happened between the two families. It felt curiously anticlimactic to hear that he had fallen so quickly.

"Your own news I have heard," Tyelko added, dabbing the cloth on another cut on her cheek. "I am very sorry about your brother. And your sister by marriage."

Irissë made no reply. Her grief for the lost was frozen, forever, like the bodies left on the ice. She could not allow herself to think about it, or the cracks in the ice might be more than she could bear.

"My eldest brother is captive in Angband," Tyelko continued to speak, his voice flat and emotionless. "Makalaurë wears the crown of the High King of the Noldor. But he would not stay to face your father. I am the only one here with your lot."

"How brave of you," Irissë said dryly.

"You were hurt," Tyelko said simply, and despite her best efforts, she felt her heart begin to thaw.

"Where did your brothers go?"

"He and the others moved camp to the south side of the lake. Happily they did not take my things with them."

Irissë examined her surroundings once more. "Happy indeed! This is a hundred times nicer than anything we brought over the ice."

He winced again. She found it amusing that he seemed to find the ice a more sensitive subject than she did.

"I wish I had fought with my father about the ships," Tyelko said, nearly whispering. "I cannot even begin to ask for your forgiveness."

She caught his wrist as he tried to pull away. "I do not want you to beg for my forgiveness," she said, her breath coming fast and shallow. "I want you to kiss me, and tell me you love me, and promise not to leave me again."

"Gladly," Tyelko breathed. He ran a hand over her hair, gently caressing her scalp, and bent down to kiss her, soft and long and sweet.

"I love you," Tyelko murmured against her lips. "I will never leave you again."

She closed her eyes, and savored his touch. She drifted on a sea of contentment. She had no further ambition than to lie here forever and let her cousin take care of her.