A Different Kind of Hell [ Silmarillion ] 3

Chapter 11: Diamond Skies

Year 1 of the First Age

HELCARAXË

He walked in silence. With his wrapped hands stuck inside the small pockets of his cloak, Finno tried, desperately, to coax some warmth back into them. Just behind and to the left, he could hear the solid, rhythmic footsteps of the lords of his house. No one spoke. There hadn't been much conversation for a while. Not since the ice had split.

Not since they'd lost Elenwë. Finno could feel the gaping hole in his chest left by her absence. Every time he looked in the eyes of his niece, he felt like he was watching the golden hair of Elenwë sinking beneath the waves again, and again, and again. Each time he looked at his brother, whose eyes had hardened and voice mostly faltered, Finno felt the punch in the gut he'd felt watching the burning ships on the horizon.

He wished his brother didn't know that same feeling. But Turvo did, and as Finno stood alone at the front of his host, staring out at the slowly upwards sloping ice ahead, he steeled himself to continue this arduous journey. Elenwë was gone. She was dead. But Eve, perhaps, was not. By some miracle, maybe she had remained safe with her brothers. And with that tiny ember of hope in his chest, he held up his hand to tell his people to wait.

The ice here looked different. It seemed somehow softer, and instead of jagged, massive shards that bobbed in the water, the incline remained smooth as far as he could see. The wind still roared in his ears. The mist still clouded his sight near the top of the ice ahead. With a deep breath, he stepped a few feet forward.

Nothing happened. The snow crunched beneath his boot. Finno's heart beat faster. He didn't know whether to be frightened of this change or excited. There had been so little change for so long. Finno took another few steps, dragging his exhausted body further up. It felt solid beneath his feet. He kept going.

When he move beyond the shrouding mist, Finno stopped breathing. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life as the Valacirca from the shores of Middle-Earth. Varda's stars illuminated the heavens like a million diamonds spilled across one of Eve's dark canvases. He turned and found another. Menelmacar. The swordsman of the sky greeted Finno as he stood, spellbound.

Finno dropped to his knees. He undid the wraps on his right hand and scooped away some of the snow. Desperation and hope fueled his movements. He ignored the pain shooting through him at the use of muscles he hadn't had the need for in what felt like an age. The snow stung. But when his fingernails dug into the packed dirt that began to mingle with the pure white blanket above it, he felt tears spring to his eyes.

With a handful of dirt in his hand, Finno turned towards the mountains on the now clear horizon. He shouted in joy and defiance. Releasing all of his anger and his frustration, he raised his dirt-filled hand to the rest of Middle-Earth and stood there, glaring, letting the loss and pain of all the days since the loss of the Trees overcome him at last. First as he had been of his people to the kinslaying, Finno again stood first upon solid ground East of the sea.

He didn't know how long he stood there. But when he heard boots upon the snow, he recognized his brother's gait. Finno didn't turn. He just continued to gaze upon the stars that hung over the mountains. Was this what his forefathers had felt and seen when they had woken? Excitement filled his chest again.

Turvo came to stand beside him. Finno still didn't turn to look at him. They just stood together, Finno moving his right hand still packed with dirt, over to him.

"Night is passing, Turvo." His voice came as a whisper. He didn't want to disturb the peace of this beautiful sight.

His brother took a deep breath. More footsteps could be heard behind them as their lords and the people of their host began to stream past them, others shouting for joy and still more breaking down in tears. At last, Turvo spoke.

"She would've loved this."

Finno turned to him. In the starlight, he could see the hardness in his brother's eyes. He remembered their losses again keenly. He remembered that while he still had hope for Eve, Turvo had none for his own wife. They were still alone here on this hither shore.

Standing like pillars of stone amidst the sea of people who hurried by them, down the hill further in, the brothers stood silent. Finno tried to count the stars. He tried to memorize the outline of the mountain range before them. He wondered if Eve was looking at those mountains.

A cry went up. Finno refocused, trying to hear what exactly was being said. But as he turned his attention away from his thoughts of his wife, he realized what had caused the disturbance. Finno felt his breath leave him again.

A great, silver ball, shining with the light of Telperion in the morning, began to rise in the sky. His eyes widened. He forgot the dirt in his hands, and it tumbled back to the earth it belonged to. He only had eyes for this strange, new light above the mountains.

A memory of ages past, the voice of his wife that in his isolation, Finno had nearly forgotten, whispered in his ear. "A moon is like a big silver glowing rock thing in the sky. It marks our night time, kind of like Telperion marks night here," she had said.

Was this what Eve had gazed upon every day in her old life? Finno watched it rise, slow, but steady. Perhaps they were not as alone as he had thought. Perhaps the Valar were with them still. Maybe they had not yet abandoned the elves so completely.

Maybe he would see her again. Maybe Eve Elmendë would have more to wonder about, and to teach him of this Moon. Finno didn't know. He just knew that he would find her, if she was out there. He would find her for himself, and for Turvo and Itarillë. He'd find her for Findo, and for Amarie who had had the foresight not to make the journey.

If he could find her, then perhaps those unnumbered tears that the prophecy had foretold could still be stalled. She would be hope. His hope, and the hope of the family that had so deeply fractured.