Stream of Clashing Ice by Himring

Stream of Clashing Ice

This is set in the early years of Arnor, after the Downfall of Numenor but before the re-emergence of Sauron.

The story features a recurring original animal character, but can probably be read on its own. More on the previous appearance of this OC in the end notes.

‘You stole from the wrong people this time, didn’t you?’ commented Maglor with a sigh.

The fox who was most definitely not his steady companion and friend looked stressed. Fox would not willingly have led his pursuers in Maglor’s direction, Maglor was certain, and, if they were now both in trouble, it was because Fox’s vulpine skills had been outmatched in more than one way.

‘I know,’ said Maglor. ‘Lean times.’ He touched his own stomach briefly. ‘But I am not tangling with Gil-galad’s hunters over this. I am afraid it will have to be the river ice, for us both. It should still hold; it seemed firm enough yesterday.’

It was early spring. The season meant scarcity of food for an elf wandering along the seashore and for a fox who, for reasons entirely his own, insisted on staying in his vicinity. The season also meant that ice that had been firm enough yesterday was not guaranteed to be firm enough today.

Before the impasse they currently found themselves in, Maglor had not intended to risk the crossing of the Lune here. He had been planning to find a safer place further upriver. If Gil-galad’s hunters had had any way of guessing who it was that they had succeeded cornering together with their original quarry, they might perhaps have backed off and let him escape unseen. Or perhaps they would have been even more eager to lay hands on him—so long after the First Age, there was no telling, really, how those old grievances might play out.

‘Let’s go,’ Maglor told Fox. ‘We need to be so far out by the time they arrive that they will be content to remain on shore and not to follow farther.’

In the river shallows, the ice was unquestionably solid and walking was safe. Fox minced along, expressing his distaste for freezing paws, but moving ahead fast enough. Maglor also felt the chill strike up through his boots. He pulled up his hood. His cloak was shabby and ragged enough, he hoped, to make him resemble any other vagabond, at a distance.

Soon enough they reached the area in the middle, where the ice was more uneven, with occasional trapped air bubbles, sharp re-frozen edges, and dark cross currents underneath. They had to slow down.  Fox lifted his front paw and set it down softly, carefully, before shifting his weight onto it. Maglor, alongside him, but not too close, inched his boot forward.

Time passed in intense concentration, as they cautiously moved farther across the Lune. Eventually, several voices started shouting on the shore they had left. Maglor did not so much as turn his head. He had no attention to spare for what those voices might be saying. All that mattered was that the owners of those voices stayed where they were and the ice behind them remained stable. He did not think, going by the sounds, that the hunters had even tried firing arrows after them. That was all to the good, because he was beginning to suspect that the ice was not quite as strong, out here, as it had looked the day before, and he could not afford distractions.

In the corner of his eye, Fox was still setting down his paws with the same care, steadily, testing the ice each time. In an obscure, out-of-the-way corner of Maglor’s brain, a musical phrase or two began forming along with the rhythm of those paws… They were now more than halfway across. The other shore looked almost within reach.

There came a sudden rumble from upriver. All thoughts of music flew out of Maglor’s head. He hesitated for a split second, then threw himself forward, abandoning caution. Beside him, Fox transformed into a red streak.

They did manage to get a deal closer to land without stumbling too much, before the big wave rushed downriver, in an avalanche of broken ice floes, interspersed with occasional fragments of branches and shattered tree trunks. Long cracks ran before, ahead of the main impact. Maglor and Fox were not close enough. The splintering ice gave, first under Maglor, then under Fox. They landed flailing in freezing water. Maglor sputtered, but managed to start swimming despite the shock of the cold that threatened to paralyze his limbs. Fox was before him, paddling for his life, but beginning to slow. Maglor caught up with him and grabbed him before he could sink.

He was not entirely sure how they made it out, those last few feet to the shore, but they did: soaking wet, exhausted, chilled to the bone, and bleeding where the ice had cut them. Behind them, the Lune roared, slow to subside. Fox looked like a drowned rat, his beautifully soigné red fur in dripping dirty strands. Maglor gave a kind of croaking laugh, more of relief than anything else, thinking he must look just as pathetic. Fox, whose sense of dignity had already suffered badly over the last hours, gave him a look of deep disgust. Maglor grabbed him by the scruff again, in case he was tempted to do something stupid and slink away to nurse his pride.

‘No time for dignity, right now,’ he told Fox apologetically. ‘We are dangerously wet and cold. We must stay together, build a nest, get as warm as we can to prevent frostbite. I can try to sing us warmer.’

They made a shallow burrow in an earthen hollow at the foot of a bush nearby and curled up together. Maglor, holding Fox as closely wrapped in arms and cloak as Fox would let him, finally remembered the hunters on the other shore and wondered whether they had watched him founder. He wondered whether they had recognized him and whether there might have been followers of Fingolfin among them who had crossed the Helcaraxe and who thought he deserved a death that would have so closely mirrored Elenwe’s.

Fox’s presence meant that he did not need to worry so much about what fate he might deserve, right now. He did not doubt, somehow, that that was precisely one of the reasons why Fox stayed around, to distract him from thoughts like this. He felt Fox breathing, life, brief as it was, flaring stubbornly within him. Gently, Maglor began humming, trying to pool shared warmth in and around them. Above, the brief daylight swiftly faded and the wind whistled coldly along the shore.

Chapter End Notes

For the story of how Maglor was originally joined by Fox, see Motley Crew.

(This fox is not "Fox" because Maglor has no imagination, but because to allow himself to be named by Maglor would suggest that he has allowed Maglor to tame him, which he most certainly has not!)