Heir of the Oath

[Elorendil]

This is the night. Tonight, we embark upon the path of our fathers. Tonight, we begin our journey across the Helcaraxë.

Our parents have forbade us to go, but they cannot prevent us from taking the Oath. All our lives, we have lived in the darkness of Valinor, but no more. We shall tread the same paths as our forebears. We will make the journey to Middle-earth, no matter what the cost. We must swear our allegiance to the High King.

Now is the time. This is the hour I follow the footsteps of my father, Makalaurë.

Silmelindë laid aside her journal and quill. She tucked them, along with a golden ink bottle, into a velvet handbag. She stood, taking one last look around her room. Excitement built within her as she fastened an exquisite cloak around her graceful neck. Starlight twinkled from within the jewels embroidered across the rich fabric.

The darkness of the Undying Lands had always weighed heavily upon her and so she felt no love for the place of her birth. Perhaps, if she had looked upon the Blessed Realm in its days of mirth and splendor, when the Two Trees still flowered, she would have felt differently. But, born in the blackness of Morgoth's attack, she had known only darkness and mourning. Thus, she had grown to hate the land of Valinor.

From the time she first heard of the Oath, a fire had been kindled in her heart. She felt a burning desire to take part in its fate, for the lies of Morgoth still lingered in the words spoken by Fëanáro. Like a phantom of malice, it poisoned the hearts of the youngest generation, magnifying their unrest and discontent. Her mother sought to quell it with the harsh truth, but to no avail. Silmelindë; knew her father had left in the name of glorious vengeance. He had determined to reclaim the light of the Silmarils, even at the cost of wife and child. Yet, the desire to know him burned in her heart like a flame and grew stronger with each passing thought. The fiery spirit of Fëanáro compelled her follow them into exile, brooking no refusal, but promising glory and vengance.

She shivered with barely contained fervor and quickly went to the window. A rope dangled outside, nearly touching the ground and awaiting her silent escape. It seemed to call to her to the freedom, glory and adventure that awaited. With one final glance about her room, Silmelindë slipped out the window and slid down the rope.

Stealing noiselessly to the stable, Silmelindë found her magnificent stallion dozing. She stepped into his stall and woke him with a gentle pat. Teleprokko shook his head and whickered softly, pushing his velvety-soft muzzle against her neck. The corners of Silmelindë's lips curved upward as she pushed him away gently. "Not now, my friend. I must away before mother discovers I have fled." She led him from the stall, pausing only to rummage in a large pile of straw. A moment later she produced a knapsack, half filled with provisions, and an ornately carved, wooden case containing a unique harp. Once outside the stable doors, she glanced around the courtyard to be sure she was not being watched, then strapped the luggage to her back. She leapt easily onto Telep's back, with a word she urged him into a quick trot.

When she reached the appointed meeting place, an old, stone bridge far from her home, she found the shadowy forms of two friends waiting for her. In the pitch blackness of the deep night, it took her a moment to discern which members of their group were there and who were missing. "Where are Tárawen and Tárato?" she asked. Concern laced her voice as she led her horse towards them.

"They have not yet arrived," answered the soft voice of Varderu, the youngest of their small company.

"Calm yourself, Silmelindë," soothed the deep, masculine voice of the tallest shadow. "They will come," it concluded.

"I will not be able to calm myself until we step onto the ice of the Helcaraxë without incident, Alcarincil," she replied curtly, "If we are caught-" Silmelindë stopped herself in midsentence. They would not be caught. She had planned too well and too long for them not to succeed.

Silmelindë was still scowling, when the sound of clattering hooves reached them. Tárawen and Tárato rode up out of the mists.
"We are sorry, Silmelindë. We were delayed. I think our parents suspect something," panted Tárawen, the younger of the twins.

Worry again creased Silmelindë's brow. "Then we must go now, before Manwë gets word of our leaving." I do not think that the Lord of the Valar would be pleased to know of our departure. He would try to dissuade us, but we cannot be swayed. We will not be swayed...

"Are you sure we should bring the horses, Silmelindë? How will they survive the Helcaraxë?" Varderu asked, uncertainty in his young voice.

"Yes, my friend," she assured him, "We need our horses. If we leave them behind, we will never make it North before we are caught. We have to take them. As long as our hearts are steady, they will follow us."

[Elorendil]

So this is the agony of the Helcaraxë. This is the suffering we have chosen to endure. We have been traveling for only two days and already our provisions are alarmingly low. I fear we will not have enough to reach the other side. We cannot rely on our miruvor for strength; it has frozen in our flasks and we are forced to drink the snow.

The snow has not stopped since we first set foot in this accursed place. We have had no glimpse of Sun or Moon since we met at the old bridge. A steady wind blows from the north, sending the snow swirling about us like water flows around rocks. I have never known such cold. The sensation is foreign to me and I long for the comforting warmth of a fire.

The going was not as difficult while the horses were with us, but now they are gone. They are lost in the blinding snow and we can do nothing save leaving them for dead. Telep slipped on the ice, yesterday. I was thrown clear, but he skidded down a long slope. My heart leapt to my throat as I watched him careen into a boulder at the bottom of the incline. He managed to struggle to his feet and I thought he was uninjured, until I saw his leg. His canon bone had snapped in two and one jagged end of it had pierced through his skin. There was so much blood that and I knew that anything I could do would only prolong his suffering. My only choice was to end it altogether.
My beautiful, faithful companion. He followed me willingly; trusting me completely to bring him safely through. To what end? What reward did his trust earn him? Death upon a cold, desolate desert of ice. Ilúvatar, forgive me for bringing death to so noble and steadfast creature. Spare me from the responsibility of the death of another!

Without the horses, without food and without warmth our spirits are low. Already, there is talk of turning back. Varderu doubts that we will be able to cross the Ice and his desire is to return to Valmar. Tárato is on the verge of agreeing with him. I would not be concerned for the two of them, but if Tárato is swayed, then Tárawen will follow him.

I know that Varderu will keep to the path we have chosen as long as I remain steadfast to my purpose, but if they choose to leave together...
I could not stand the humiliation of having to stand before Lord Manwë and ask his pardon; it would be more than I could bear. I would rather die, here, in this frozen wasteland, than to admit defeat. It is almost enough to make me laugh; even if I did wish to go back, I could not. I do not know in what direction home lies.

It is time to move on. We must move on. I fear if we stay long in one place, we will never find the strength to move on again. The sooner we reach the Eastern lands Fëanáro spoke of, the sooner we shall free ourselves of the horror of this place.

Silmelindë gazed at the dying fire they had built from wood brought by Alcarincil. He was occupied with the fire, trying to thaw a bottle of miruvor.
"Is it working, Alcarincil? Can we drink any of the miruvor, yet?" she asked hopefully.

Alcarincil looked up from tiny flames and shook his head desparingly. "No, and I do not think it will work. Every time I place a flask near the fire, the extremes of temperature make it crack. Now we only have two phials left."

"Leave it, then," she instructed with a sigh. "We must keep going."

Varderu looked up from his seat beside the waning fire, a look of foreboding in his gray eyes. "Silmelindë, we will never survive this place. We must turn back, before it is too late," he pleaded, voice filled with doubt and fear.

"No, Varderu." Silmelindë replied with certainty. "We cannot go back, not now. We made a pact with each other. We shall swear our allegiance to High King Fëanáro together. We cannot go back on our word. We must continue."

Reluctantly, the small group of elves stood and set out across the seemingly endless plains of the Helcaraxë. Abruptly the gentle snowfall changed to a heavy mix of snow and sleet, almost as if the Valar had decreed they could go no further in their quest. Silmelindë pulled her cloak more tightly around herself, trying to shield her pale skin from the stinging ice pellets.

They had been walking for less than an hour when the ice began to groan and squeal in protest. Beneath their feet, it shifted and rumbled ominously. Alarmed, the group scattered as the ice gave way and opened into a yawning abyss. Silmelindë watched in horror as Varderu unsteadily tried to stay on his feet. His foot caught on a chunk of ice that had been displaced by the upheaval. Thrown off-balance on the slick surface, he teetered upon the edge of the precipice, then plummeted into the void with a scream of terror.

"Varderu!" the elves cried in unison. A harsh curse escaped Alcarincil's lips. Silmelindë stared at the empty space where her friend had just stood, disbelieving. No! This cannot be happening. It is not supposed to be this way, she thought in desperation. Everything was going dreadfully wrong. First our horses, now Varderu. Why is this happening to us? Guilt and shame washed over her like a tidal wave. I should not have made him continue. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. I should have let him turn back when he wanted to. Now, his death is upon my head. He is dead, because of me. A single tear froze upon her cheek as she fell to her knees in the snow and ice, overwhelmed by grief and regret.

Alcarincil moved to stand beside her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I should not have asked him to come," she whispered sorrowfully.

"He wanted to come, Silme. It was his choice. He knew the risks. He knew what might happen and-" Alcarincil's voice caught in his throat. He shook his head mournfully and squeezed her shoulder gently. "Come. We cannot linger here. Now we know, there truly is no going back. We must not dishonor his memory in such a way."