Frozen Skies (read on AO3)
Fingolfin's most beloved childhood memories are those of snow;
There was something magical in the way the snowflakes sailed down onto the ground, covering the lands he so much loved under a thick white blanket, pure and unspoiled.
and then the Grinding Ice happens.
Characters: Fingolfin, Manwë, Manwë & Fingolfin, rated T+, Gen
Written for @officialtolkiensecretsanta 2018 for @thulimo - HAPPY HOLIDAYS ! I hope you enjoy this combination of your two faves.
*
‘O!’ Ñolofinwë pressed his small hands and nose to the windows and stared out at the white world with giant grey eyes. There was something magical in the way the snowflakes sailed down onto the ground, covering the lands he so much loved under a thick white blanket, pure and unspoilt.
Soon however, he became restless and, dressed in several layers of thick wool, had finally been allowed to go outside. He was not seen back inside again for many hours, his father’s words of warning lost in the joy he felt. He loved to race through the fresh, powdery snow at an alarming pace, so fast that his tiny footsteps sparked small blizzards wherever he went. The snowfall invited him to dance and so he did, ruining the innocence of the layer of snow by clumsy footsteps, and when he did not dance he slid down the small hill of snow he had just built with his own bare hands.
He raced, and laughed, and watched how white crystal danced through the air, sparkling like diamonds as the weak light of the trees lost itself in them; he watched them melt upon his skin, and tried to catch them with his mouth, successfully ignoring the cold seeping into his bones for the sake of joy. Ñolofinwë sank onto his knees and let himself fall back into the snow with outstretched arms, flapping them like wings. When later he looked at his artwork, it resembled the Elder King; his hand flew to his mouth and then he giggled, ignoring his father’s call once more.
*
Tales among the Elves tell that Manwë and his kin were indifferent to ice and fire and did not feel heat nor cold; rumors told even more: that their hearts were made of ice.
Clad in silver robes that danced about his body in the blowing winds and without a crown, Manwë stood on the grand terrace of Ilmarin, hands pressed to the marble balustrade. The cold crisp air blowing from the north was like a slap to Manwë’s face. Snowflakes danced around him, and the cold transformed his breath into silver clouds. Winter had come early this year, with its snowfall heavier than ever so that not even the birds circled around Taniquetil as they usually did. Manwë’s gaze turned north-east, towards the frozen desert where dark clouds gathered on the sky and winter lived forever with its icy guts and howling winds. Whispers danced through the clouds whilst strange voices sang, accompanied by dreadful hissings from those lost on the ice. The lands in the far north were not meant for wanderers, yet now they were wandered by many, sent forth by open rebellion and evil deeds. There was no lust for revenge in Manwë’s heart, though he had been told otherwise by the one whose flame had sparked it all. Manwë could not deny that Fëanáro’s words had grieved his heart, yet a greater grief brought the fate that lay before those fighting against the hostile desert of ice. He felt a chill deep in his bones and his face grew pale, his cheeks drenched in flowing tears because despite all rumors: he cared – for the world itself and all those who wandered it.
*
The white was everywhere; around Ñolofinwë and below him, and above him, slowly seeping into his very soul. On the Grinding Ice the love of his childhood has turned into his worst enemy, even if the snow here was entirely different to that he had loved so much. Instead of light powder it was crunching beneath his boots, brittle like frozen water and sharp, transforming the landscape into threatening beauty. A break in the clouds brought no hint of pity as the winds still raced across the land, its teeth biting right into the skin. The frost crept through the soles of his boots, the woolen socks and nibbled at his toes. Ñolofinwë and all his followers were becoming one with the hostile lands; icicles hung from their noses and their dark brows had long transformed into white bars from the frost. Blue marks covered his own hands and face, his own children had told him that; that his skin had long turned into scrawny leather he had noticed himself.
The threats on the ice were many – and omnipresent.
Dehydration. Frostbite. Starvation.
Death.
One way or another, it was inevitable.
Most of the time, Ñolofinwë had shoved his fingers up under his armpits, knowing they would be the next limbs his body would sacrifice to stay alive; one ear was already lost to the ever howling winds, the one that had been adorned with many rings and jewels.
Life on the ice was frustrating; he knew they had gone in a circle yet again when, having wandered for several hours, he came across their own tracks in the snow. Every breath felt as if there were ice shards in his lungs. They all felt it, the youngest most of all and all knew that soon the exhaustion would take its toll. They kept walking, knowing if they stopped they all were sentenced to death in the hell of white and blue.
Ñolofinwë would gladly sacrifice his own life if it meant the rest survived.
His children.
His followers.
His hopes and dreams of a better world.
Without knowing exactly what he did he gripped the front of Findekáno’s jacket and shook him until he blinked his eyes open and in returned cupped his father’s jaw as if he wished to say ‘I am alive’.
Sometimes, he heard voices, scattered from the frozen walls of rock around them, and sometimes he saw figures a few steps in front of him, illusions of better days and when at last they set foot on firm ground again, he still saw the figures in his dreams.
It was not anything in particular that woke Manwë from his nap; a noise outside the window perhaps, or a fleeting dream, already slipped and faded, carried away by the blowing winds. White crystal danced through the air, accompanied by a dazzling rainbow far away upon the sea.
“I have never quite come to terms with the capacity of kin to unleash terrible and unspeakable cruelty on kin,” Ñolofinwë said without turning away from the window, and each word felt like a stab into Manwë’s heart.
*
It was the snow that brought forth memories Ñolofinwë was not able to forget and the trauma that could not be healed. He knew from Ñolofinwë himself that over the years, the pain had disappeared and yet it was still present below the surface, he just was not aware of it constantly anymore. Once it had become evident that memory and grief ran too deep to be ever cured, Ñolofinwë had been released from the Halls of Awaiting by Manwë’s bidding. He had valiantly sacrificed his life for a better world, just as he had wished, and had repented all his crimes for thousands of years. Though it had sounded strange to Námo, at the end he had agreed to have his soul released into the world, still marred in the way Ñolofinwë had wished it, with countless scars and a missing ear. .
Conscious of his guilt, the words seemed to dry upon Manwë lips, yet he answered, “With all my heart I wished the uproar had never happened; brothers against brothers, kin against kin, with the sound of the breaking sea raging like thunder,” Manwë paused, then said. “I wish I could have saved you from the hardship on the ice.”
Fingolfin turned around. “Strangely, I do believe you.”
A hundred years had passed until Ñolofinwë was named a constant guest upon Taniquetil, the palace at the center of the world where earth, sea and sky united; Ñolofinwë came hither, whether being invited or not, and each time he did, Manwë’s heart leapt in delight. Curiosity and common interest had led to the most unusual form of friendship, unthinkable in Ñolofinwë’s busy first life. But now, at least for the while to Manwë he appeared content, the days of excessive anger and strive and rebellion long gone by.
*
