A Different Kind of Hell [ Silmarillion ] 3

Chapter Eight: Treachery of Fire

HELCARAXË

Finno found his nose hurt more than anything else. The wind buffeted them even harder than usual as his host huddled together on the ice sheets. He'd given his scarf to a mother of twins an hour ago, and though he didn't regret his choice, his face hadn't stopped stinging since.

The giggling of a little girl caused him to look up from where he'd been huddling in on himself near the remains of a fire that they'd attempted but failed to keep going. He locked gazes with his niece. He couldn't see anything of Itarillë but her beautiful grey eyes and wisps of her golden hair that had escaped the confines of the various scarves her parents had wrapped around her. Elenwë had her tucked under an arm on the other side of the charred, damp firewood.

Finno forced a smile. "What is it?"

"You look funny. Your nose is red," she said. Then she giggled again.

Even amidst the cold and the loneliness of Eve's absence, Finno couldn't stop from giving her a small laugh as well. He didn't doubt that most of his face had reddened from the exposure.

"I look funny?"

"Yes."

Elenwë couldn't help but laugh as well. Finno looked up at her. She smiled. It was small, but genuine. It felt like forever that they'd been crossing this ice, and in the time it had taken, his anger had cooled a bit. He owed a lot of it to Elenwë, and to Turvo and Findo. Nelyo might have forgotten what it meant to be family, but the other two houses had not.

"Well, I am glad you think it," Finno joked. He looked up as boots crunched on the snow nearby, and found his brother coming back to them. "How are they?" he asked, standing. His legs ached.

"Arakáno begged me to let him join us," Turvo said. But he forced himself to flash them all a tiny smile. "Apparently Irí is becoming unbearable."

"You know how she gets."

Finno stepped a few feet from the remains of the fire with Turvo. He noticed that a large group from their host had managed to huddle close enough together to block the wind and get quite a large fire going not too far away. A bit of jealousy but also relief flooded him. At least some had luck out here where the ice seemed to groan like their bones.

"Did our father say anything about the scouts he sent out?"

Turvo shook his head. "They have yet to return. He cautions us, though. The ice is treacherous."

"Much is treacherous in the world now. People and places."

"Indeed." Turvo let the silence stretch between them. There were few voices, only the howls of wind and the groaning and creaking of the ice at their feet. "Still, he is correct. We must proceed with caution. Findaráto and Artanis had a bit of trouble the day before yesterday in this area from the wind, as we have now."

Finno nodded. He looked around again, taking in the greyscale world that hardly seemed to change no matter how far they marched. Always it looked the same. White snow and ice, black waters, grey clouded skies. He had never expected to miss light so much. He had never expected to miss the stars.

The groaning of the ice and howling winds wore thin on his patience. He scanned the horizon. Most of his people had scattered themselves around the largest ice sheet in the area, a surprisingly large and flat one that offered little shelter from the wind. Nearby the group of thirty continued to warm themselves, while Elenwë and Itaril huddled together where he'd left them among only a few other women.

"Well, let us get back to them then, if there is so little news to act on." Finno looked back at Turvo. "Hopefully the scouts will soon return."

They rejoined the small group. He lingered a bit a few strides away, pausing to allow himself a few moments to mourn for Eve and for his grandfather. He believed she still lived. He had to. Something told Finno, perhaps only wishful thinking, that he would know if she perished.

He opened his eyes when he heard small footsteps approaching. Itarillë moved his way. She didn't stop until she'd wrapped her small arms around his waist. Finno's breath hitched for a moment. Then he knelt down.

"I'm sorry she's not here," Itaril said.

Finno forced himself to smile. Even a small one, to comfort her. "As am I, Itaril. But we will find her." He grabbed her hands and kissed them. "And when we do, I'm sure she will have many tales to tell us."

She smiled back. Before she could respond, Finno heard two noises, almost simultaneous. The first was a crack and a tear like the splitting of a tree during a lightning strike. The other was a massive splash. Then, immediately after, screams. He grabbed his niece out of instinct.

Screams continued to fill the air, chaos descending on the host. He hoisted Itaril up off the ice and her arms wrapped around his neck. Then he saw what had caused the first sound. The ice sheet had split.

Finno couldn't see anything, with elven men and women scrambling away from the ever widening gash in the ice. But as the crowd parted, he understood the second noise. At least a score of elves thrashed in the freezing, black waves. Their many layers of clothing pulled them down. The waves grabbed them like hands, turning white from the cresting and struggles. But then he saw a flash of gold.

He dashed forward. Itaril screamed. The ice continued to creak and groan, shifting with the strain of the weight of the elves on the edges. He nearly slipped. But he kept going. Elenwë had fallen in, and he couldn't find his brother.

"No!"

That was Turvo's voice. He was alive. Finno looked around, but the faces blurred. The wind caused him to squint, turning away. He ducked to protect Itaril even as the girl continued to scream in his ear.

"Get her back! Get away!"

Turvo appeared in front of him. Water logged and face pale, he pushed Finno away. Tendrils of shattered ice sped towards them and Finno realized the elves in the water had all disappeared. The ones on the side scattered. Screams and sobs and the crying of children became lost on the wind.

Itarillë continued screaming for her mother. But Finno understood his brother, even as Turvo turned back to look at the settling black waves. They had lost Elenwë. They would not lose her daughter.

He turned and ran. The life of Itarillë outweighed grief. She kicked at him, crying, but he did not release her. Finno had to trust Turvo would follow.

A group of grief stricken elves had halted not too far back. Finno joined them. He saw a few familiar faces, lords of Turvo's house, including Laurefindil the golden haired. They locked eyes. Finno saw his own horror reflected in Laurefindil's fair face.

"Take her," Finno said. Itaril had quieted down, as had most of the elves, even the children. He handed her over to Laurefindil. "Keep her safe."

Finno turned back to the gaping black wound in the split ice sheet. Several small pockets of silent elves stood along both edges. He moved to the ones on his side. He needed to find his brother. He had to find Turvo.

It didn't take long. The man stood alone, like a tall pillar of dark stone amidst the cold. Silence had descended on the world. Even the winds had quieted. No more groaning, not even weeping. All he heard as he came to stand level with Turukáno was the gentle lapping of waves against ice.

"Is she safe?"

Finno glanced up at his brother's small voice. He assured him Laurefindil had his daughter. Then he hesitated. "What happened?"

It took a moment for his brother to find his voice. But when he did, it came deep and scathing. "Fire is treacherous."

Finno felt shivers creep down his spine. Fire. How could they have been so stupid? But as Turvo turned and walked away, leaving Finno to stare in horror at the place where Elenwë had been swallowed up by the waves, he felt hatred creeping back in. Fire was treacherous. Always.

The House of Fëanáro had yet another name to answer for when they arrived.