Title: Helcaraxë

Author: Khylea

Rating: PG for frightening images and sadness (character death-canon)

Characters: Turgon, Elenwë, Idril, Fingolfin

Archive: Feel free, just drop me a URL where I can visit it please sl_chester@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own these elves, no profit made.

Beta: Phyncke *hugs*

Summary: A beloved elf is lost during the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

Author's Notes: Many thanks to Phyncke, my First Age/Fingolfin expert. *hugs*

The elf shivered, pulling his fur-lined cloak tighter around his face as the wind whistled around him, picking up the loose snow and driving it into his skin. He whimpered softly and bowed his head more deeply, trying to stop the pain of what felt like a thousand tiny frozen needles being driven into his unprotected flesh. His feet were numb, his hands ached, he had long since given up hope of actually being able to see in the near white-out conditions and simply walked. It could not last forever he knew. The Helcaraxë was many months travel to cross, no one seemed to know exactly how many. He fought down the hysterical laughter that threatened to burst from his throat. Of course no one knew exactly how many....most sane elves crossed further south....in boats.....but that option was no longer open to them. He silently cursed Fëanor for his deeds, his pride, or perhaps just for being....he was no longer sure.

The quiet "ada?" that came from the young elf walking beside him made him realize his curse of Fëanor had not been entirely silent and he berated himself harshly. Mustering what he hoped passed for a genuine smile, he reached down and briefly squeezed his daughter's hand, heartened at least a little to feel some warmth underneath the warm deerskin mittens on her hands. Perhaps he would lose both of his feet....he sniffled and rubbed his now completely numb nose....and perhaps his nose and ears as well, to frostbite, but he was determined that his beloved daughter would arrive in Arda whole.

Another gust of wind nearly knocked the young elf off her feet and she quickly gripped her father's arm to keep from being blown away. He reached a hand down, grasping the back of her cloak, and once the gust died down, hoisted her into his arms. His wife stared at him disapprovingly as he struggled to continue walking forward with the additional weight of his daughter.

"She is too big for that now, Turgon," came the voice, barely able to be heard over the whistling winds.

"Do not lecture me, Elenwë," he snapped back, his legs beginning to burn with the extra strain of carrying a daughter who, though still many years from her majority, was nearly as tall as his wife.

"I can walk Ada," the young elf said softly, squirming enough that her father was forced to set her down. Idril looked up at her father first, then her mother, with a piercing gaze that had always unsettled Turgon. It had always seemed as if she was looking into him, or if he was completely honest with himself, through him, and at times did not like what she saw. He shook his head a little as she took his hand, then his wife's, and brought them together, waiting until they clasped each other's hands before moving her own away. "It is too far to walk to be angry with each other."

Elenwë blushed and looked down at their intertwined hands for a moment before squeezing Turgon's hand firmly, a gesture he returned. "Lectured by my own daughter," she said softly, smiling first at her daughter, then her husband. "What is this world coming to?"

Her smile melted her husband's heart, as it had always done, and the last traces of annoyance fell away. They both knew they were not really angry at each other. It was the exhaustion, the lack of food, the bitter cold, Fëanor and his followers perhaps....but not each other.

Turgon looked up when an elf approached him and tugged on his cloak. "My lord, your father requests your presence at the head of the column. There is some discussion as to which route to take."

Turgon nodded and squeezed his wife's hand one last time before bending down and enfolding his daughter in a snug embrace. "You are right, my child. We will argue no more." He stood and smiled at his wife. "I will be back shortly." She nodded, and taking her daughter's hand, continued slowly trudging along.

Fingolfin looked up as his son approached, doing his best to summon a tired smile, which the younger elf returned. The column had stopped when their leader did, allowing those who were trailing behind to catch up, to allow a few minutes of rest, or to partake of the meager food they had been able to bring with them or coax from the frozen ocean.

Turgon looked ahead to where his father pointed, seeing that their path was blocked by a sheer wall of ice several hundred feet high. "We must decide which path to take. Arda is that way," he said, pointing to a narrow pathway around the right side. "But the ice looks rougher that way. To the left is longer, but the ice appears safer."

Turgon nodded, looking back and forth between the two pathways. Which to choose? The longer, safer route would seem to be the obvious choice, but it was not as clear as it would seem. They had already lost many elves to the cold, to the cracks that appeared without warning in the shifting ice, and their supplies were running low. Dangerously low. Hunting had been thin lately. It would be only a matter of time until elves started dying from starvation and thirst. He forced down another hysterical laugh at that. Thirst....in the midst of all this ice....but it was frozen sea ice, too salty to be used for drinking. Their only usable drinking water had been when they were able to catch fresh snow or scrape it off the surface of the ice....but even large amounts of snow yielded little water.

He looked up at his father, seeing the expression that told him Fingolfin's mind had already been made up. He felt a brief moment of annoyance at that. If the decision was already made, why had he been consulted? *Because he recognizes you will someday lead these elves yourself and your father has never been one to miss an opportunity to teach, even to a son whose childhood was but a distant memory,* a small voice said in his mind.

He looked again at the two pathways, evaluating in his mind the pros and cons of each route. Which was better for his people? After a moment, he pointed to the right hand route. "We must reach Arda....some may be lost on the more dangerous route, but if we do not reach Arda soon, all will be lost from starvation and thirst."

Fingolfin nodded approvingly and lifting his head, bellowed to the column stopped behind him, awaiting his decision. "We go to the right! Arda is that way!" The elves began moving again and Fingolfin squeezed his son's shoulder for a moment before turning into the wind, bowing his head and continuing the long trudge across the ice.

Turgon debated with himself for only a moment before deciding to stay where he was and allow his wife and daughter to catch up to him, rather than re-tracing his steps and having to traverse the same span of ice three times. It was a decision he was to regret for the rest of his life....

He looked up in horror when he heard a groaning, followed shortly by a loud cracking that seemed to echo across the ice. For once the wind was silent, and his heart clenched in his chest as he heard a scream of terror. His fatigue forgotten, he raced over the ice with blinding speed. Though the scream had been in the distance, and could have been any number of elves, he knew....somehow he knew....it was his beloved Idril.

He skidded to a stop at the edge of a yawning precipice that had not been there just a minute before, his eyes widening in horror at what he saw. There, barely managing to cling to a shelf no wider than his thumb, were his wife and daughter. Throwing himself forward on his stomach, his own safety forgotten, he managed a tenuous grasp on each of their wrists. "HELP ME!" He screamed out, praying for someone, anyone, to be close enough to help.

"I AM COMING!" a voice returned from a distance, a voice that he recognized as his page....but a voice he also recognized was at too much of a distance. Idril had released her grip on the ice shelf and clung to her father's hand tightly with both of hers, and the added weight was dragging her father toward the precipice. His feet scrambled for purchase on the slick surface, but he realized with a dread certainty that he was about to be faced with the cruelest choice any husband and father could be faced with.

He could not save them both....

He could not save them both, and if he did not let go of one of them, all three of them would plunge to their deaths.

Hot tears ran down his cheeks as he prayed silently to any Vala who might be listening. Elenwë looked up at him, her eyes calm and resigned. "I love you, husband," she said softly, and with a sick dread in his stomach, Turgon realized he was not going to have to make the choice after all. Even now, he could feel Elenwë's grip on his hand loosening. He screamed out his denial, but all she did was smile. "For our daughter, my love," she whispered, deliberately releasing her grip on his hand. He was able to hold on for a few agonizing seconds before she was suddenly gone, plummeting into the depths of the crevice. He could not hear his own scream.

After that, he remembered little, barely aware of strong hands finally coming to his aid, grabbing his waist and dragging him back from the edge, other hands reaching down to hoist his daughter up beside him. Hands that had come just a few seconds too late.

Idril clung to her father, sobbing, too consumed by her own grief to notice her father's arms had not come around her like they usually did, to notice that he was not speaking the words of comfort he usually did when she was hurt and afraid. On the contrary, Turgon stared straight ahead, not noticing the tears flowing unabated down his cheeks, the ice melting underneath him, soaking his leggings, nor how the wind had picked up once again.

He was only vaguely aware of a commanding presence suddenly there beside him, pulling him and his daughter into a powerful embrace, saying the words of comfort he could not find for his daughter. "Ada...." he whispered, recognizing his father's scent, and clutched Fingolfin to him as if he were drowning.

The elder elf said nothing, for what could be said? Elenwë was not the first elf to perish on the crossing, and with a heavy heart, he knew she would not be the last either. He simply held his son and granddaughter, giving them what comfort he could from his touch.

"I cannot....cannot live without her...." Turgon choked out between sobs. "She was my world. I cannot go on without her."

Fingolfin pulled away enough so he could look into his son's eyes. "You can and you will, my son." He replied firmly but not unkindly, reaching up to gently turn Turgon's face so he could gaze into the lost, scared eyes of his daughter. "You are all she has now. You must go on....for her."

For the first time, Turgon's vision seemed to clear, and he became aware of a young elf sitting in the snow, shivering. As his vision clarified further, he realized who it was. Idril, his beloved daughter. For a long moment, he stared at her, then back at his father, then back to his daughter. She moved closer, taking his icy hand in hers and squeezing firmly. After a moment, he returned the gesture, thankful for the supportive arm his father still had around his shoulders.

With Fingolfin's help, he stood, hoisting Idril to her feet and gently brushing the snow off her backside. As he tightened her cloak more firmly around her shoulders, he brushed away the tears that threatened to fall once more. Later there would be a memorial for his wife, and for the other elves who had been lost in the crossing, but now was not the time. First they had to reach safety, then they could grieve their losses.

He bowed his head into the wind again, continuing on as he had for so long. One step, then one more, then one more. Idril's small hand in his urged him on, reminded him of what he was fighting for. Fingolfin stayed close to his son and granddaughter, fighting his own tears at the loss of his beloved daughter in law, but he could see his little speech had had the desired effect. There was a determined set to Turgon's jaw, a fire in his eyes, a surety to his step. Fingolfin pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and bowed his head into the wind. Turgon would go on....he would go on because he had to....because they all had to....

END