Heir of the Oath

[Elorendil]

I've been writing this story for some time at MERPG. I'd love some input, if anyone wants to PM it to me:D


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

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.

Silmelindё 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. Silmelindё 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, Silmelindё slipped out the window and slid down the rope.

Stealing noiselessly to the stable, Silmelindё 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 Silmelindё'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, Silmelindё," soothed the deep, masculine voice of the tallest shadow. "They will come," it concluded matter-of-factly.

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

Silmelindё 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 Silmelindё's brow. "Then we must go now, before Manwё 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, Silmelindё? 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."

[Elorendil]

I hope we reach the other side of this cruel, cold place soon. I do not know how much longer we can hold out. I have lost track of how long we have been wandering the Helcaraxë. I know it has been more than a week. Two, perhaps? Or maybe it has been three. The days have blurred together and each snow-covered hill now looks the same.

At least we have not lost any more of our company. I pray that Ilúvatar will sustain us until we reach the lands Fëanor spoke of. Our hunger torments us and our bodies are beginning to weaken. I would give anything for a bite of food, right now.

The ink keeps freezing to my quill and it is difficult to write. I managed to thaw the ink a little by carrying it in the inside pocket of my tunic, but it turns to ice as soon as

Silmelindë gave up in frustration. With a cry of anger, she hurled her quill across the icy plain as far as she could. Even though it had once again frozen solid and there was no danger of it leaking, she corked the small bottle of ink. She shoved it, along with her journal, into her almost empty pack. With a sigh, she got up and retrieved her quill from where it lay in the snow a few feet away. I may want to keep this. I will need it when we reach the Western Lands, she thought, stowing it in her pack, too.

She walked back to where Alcarincil and the twins lay upon the ice, exhausted. Silmelindë stooped and gently touched Alcarincil’s shoulder. Understanding without a single word it was time to move on, he pulled himself wearily to his feet and helped her rouse Tárato and Tárawen. After exchanging a few words, they set out once more to conquer the hilly landscape.

As they walked, a thing that had not happened since they first set foot on the Helcaraxë occurred: The ever-present cloud cover broke and the blinding light of the Sun shone down upon them. Slowly, Silmelindë lifted her head and took in the brilliant rays. Hope kindled once more in her heart. Surely, this is a sign from Ilúvatar, sent to bring us hope in our hour of need.

“Look!” Tárato cried with his first smile since Varderu’s death. He pointed to the plain that stretched out before them as far as their elven eyes could see. It glimmered in the light of the Sun, encouraging their weary souls with the ease of passage it seemed to promise. Great pillars of ice thrust up through the otherwise flat plain at odd angles. Some were as thick as a man’s waist and more than twice as tall as Alcarincil. They shimmered in the light of the Sun and cast long shadows on the snowy plane.

“Praise be to Ilúvatar! It is a sign!” Alcarincil said, a smile gracing his handsome face for the first time in days. He quickly lifted Silmelindë and Tárawen to their feet. “Come, let us hasten while the Sun still shines!”

Encouraged by this stroke of luck, Silmelindë hurried forward onto the snow-covered plain, followed closely by Alcarincil and Tárawen. Tárato brought up the rears so he could reach out to steady his sister if she slipped on the ice. Their progress proved to be much easier on the level ground and they made good time. As they threaded their way through the icy spikes, the only sounds to be heard were the crunching of snow and the occasional groans of the ice. They paused only briefly with each new moan, listening for the tell-tale shriek that always preceded a split. None came, so they continued on and the briskest pace they could manage.

The Sun was riding high in the sky as the last hill finally dropped out of sight and memory. Their steps began to lag as they again began to tire. Without warning, the ice gave an ear-splitting crack. An agonized cry Silmelindë recognozed as Tárato’s filled the air, matched by his sister’s scream.

Silmelindë whirled to see what foe had assailed them. She gave a sharp gasp as she saw a long, blood stained icicle that had erupted from the ice at an angle and now protruded from Tárato’s stomach. Tárawen stood beside him, sobbing as she clasped her brother’s clenched fist. Unspeakable pain was etched across his every feature. Blood ran onto the snow beneath his rigid back, tinting it dark red. A look of disbelief crossed his face as he looked at the icicle that now jutted from his midsection. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to his sister.

“Tárawen, I-“ Tárato gasped in a pained voice. Swallowing blood, he tried to choke back the cry of excruciating pain that rose on his lips. “I will not be swearing our allegiance to the High King with you.” He paused, gasping for air. “I am sorry, dear sister.”

“Tárato! No, you cannot die! I cannot do this on my own,. You cannot leave me here,” his younger twin wept, clinging to his broken body. Tears flowed down her cheeks in torrents and froze there.

“Yes, you can. You are strong. You will reach the Northern Lands and you shall take the Oath in my name.” Silmelindë could see Tárato was trying to hide his suffering and be strong for his sister, but the strain in his voice betrayed the agony he felt. Harsh coughing racked his body, making the icicle quiver. Blood splattered upon Tárawen's cloak, staining the silver fabric. His strength fading, Tárato gasped out his final words. “I go to the halls of Mandos. Remember me, dear sister, and be strong. I love you.”

With those words, Tárato surrendered to the death he knew was inevitable. Caught in the final throes of death, his body began to convulse wildly. Alcarincil took Tárawen in his arms and drew her away from her twin. “No! Tárato!!!” she wailed, quickly trying to break free. With one last spasm, Tárato’s body went limp and his spirit fled.

[Elorendil]

Blessed be the name of Ilúvatar! It is over at last. We have left the horrors of the Grinding Ice behind us. The bitter winds and gnawing hunger are now no more than a memory.

Alcarincil was the first to see it; the end of our suffering. We had just conquered an incredibly steep and treacherous hill. No sooner had we reached the summit than we collapsed on the snowy hilltop, utterly exhausted. I did not think I had the strength to go any further. I was certain we would die in that accursed waste.

I was still lying there, fighting the urge to give in to my despair, when Alcarincil shouted, “Silmelindë, Tárawen, come and look!” There was so much excitement in his voice, I struggled to my feet once more to see the source of his exuberation.

What I saw stole my breath away. Only a league away the land was no longer covered in blinding, white snow. I could once again see the beautiful, brown soil! There were even little bits of grass and small, stunted shrubs on the horizon.

I was so exhilarated by the sight and so anxious to leave the agony of the Helcaraxë behind, I leapt to my feet and started to run down the hill. Unfortunately, this side of the hill was just as slippery as the first and I lost my footing and slid all the way down. I was so overjoyed that we had made it, I did not even care.

Now, we are sitting around a fire, two leagues from the nearest bit of snow and ice. It is by no means a blazing fire because there is so little fuel, but it is hot enough to cook the rabbit Alcarincil shot. That scrawny rabbit was the first sign of life we have seen since we entered into the agony of the Ice Desert and the first bite of food we have had for days. There was hardly any meat on it, but we shared the little that was there gladly. I have never tasted anything so delicious and satisfying in my life.

Silmelindë jumped as Alcarincil came up behind her and laid one hand on her shoulder. “I cannot believe you carried that all the way here,” he laughed. Silmelindë returned his smile as she gazed at his young face. It is good to hear him laugh, she reflected. The trek across the Grinding Ice taken a toll on all of their spirits. Especially Tárawen’s. The elder of the two twins, Tárawen had been very close to her brother. She rarely went anywhere or did anything without him. Watching her beloved brother's violent death had nearly crushed her spirit. It had taken much convincing to get here to leave Tárato’s limp body and go on.

Silmelindë returned her attention to the young elven lord before her. “It is not heavy to carry, so why should I have not brought it?” she retorted, hitting him playfully on the leg with the journal. A mischevious smile pulled at the corners of her shapely mouth. "Besides, what else would I write on? You?" Silmelindë seized his wrist and pulled him to the ground beside her. Alcarincil's clear laugh rang out across the plane as he dodged her attempt to scribble on his cheek.

Tárawen looked up from where she sat staring into the flickering flames. “Do you not think it is time to move on, Silmelindë?” she asked quietly. Her dark brown eyes watched them solemnly, her fair face making it evident that she shared none of the companions' relief. "Night will fall swiftly in but a few hours," she predicted.

Silmelindë's smile faded and she released Alcarincil’s wrist. She regarded Tárawen worriedly. Grief was still written all over the younger maiden's face. She had barely spoken two sentences since the death her beloved twin. Not that that was unusual: She and Tárato had always seemed to be of one mind, and Tárawen had always been content to let her brother speak for her. When she did speak, she had always sounded so carefree and happy, but now sadness pervaded her every word. Silmelindë had heard it said that elves could die of a broken heart, and, though she had never known one who did, she desperately hoped that would not be Tárawen's fate.

“You are right," she answered, at length. "We should continue while it is still day.” Silmelindë slipped her journal and quill back into her knapsack and tossed the bag over her shoulder, along with the wooden case that held her beloved instrument. Alcarancil and Tárawen followed suit and the trio set off once across the dusty landscape.

[Elorendil]

I thought we would find some of our kin quickly and easily when we arrived in these lands. We have been traveling for almost a week now, searching for those who came before. There are no signs of life, save the wild animals that roam these lands.

This land is far vaster than I had imagined. Two days ago we stood upon the summit of a mountain and looked out across a land so vast that it stretched beyond the limits of our eyes. If we looked behind us, we could still see the coast and the accursed Helcaraxë. It took us three days to cross that barren and dusty plane. If it took us that long to cover that much ground, how much longer will it take us to search out the High King in this seemingly endless land? How are we to ever find him and where do we start?

Light spilled over the horizon in such brilliant colors that Silmelindë paused in her writing to watch the sunrise. She had seen it a thousand times while growing up in Valinor, but it seemed so different here. The colors were so vivid and their hues, so varied. Perhaps the sunrise was every bit as vibrant in the Blessed Realm but, to Silmelindë, it had always been a reminder of the beauty lost when the Two Trees were destroyed.

With a sigh, Silmelindë closed her journal and went to join Alcarincil and Tárawen at the campfire. Alcarincil offered her a piece of meat, which she accepted gladly. She stared at the fire as she chewed thoughtfully, pondering their next move.

"Well, Silmelindë, where are we to go, now that we are on the other side of the mountain?” Alcarincil asked, breaking her train of thought. “Do you have any idea where Fëanáro set up his kingdom?"

Silmelindë hesitated. Should she admit that they were lost in a strange land so vast they had hardly any hope of finding what they searched for? She knew the truth would come out eventually, but her pride held her back from admitting it. She was saved from having to answer by the sound of hooves echoing across the plane. The trio looked up from their breakfast to see a group of five riders galloping towards them. “At last!” Silmelindë exclaimed, leaping to her feet, “It is our kin!”

The sunlight caught their silver mail shirts with a dazzling display of light that made Silmelindë blink. They were all dressed in simple tunics of various hues of green, paired with tall boots and tan leggings. Swords were girt at their side and several also carried a bow and arrows on their back.

“Hail, friends!” Silmelindë called as the group drew nearer. The riders continued towards them at the without showing any signs of slowing. A feeling of uncertainty began to gnaw at Silmelindë. It solidified into a hard ball of fear as the leader drew his sword and the others followed suit. They thundered nearer until, a mere three feet away, the leader abruptly pulled up his mount.

“Who are you and what business have you in the land of the King?” he demanded, brandishing his sword threateningly.

The King? Then these are his lands. What luck! Relief flooded through Silmelindë even as she nervously eyed the menacing swords pointed at her. She drew a deep breath to steady her nerves before answering. “I am Silmelindë, of the house of Finwë. These are my friends, Alcarincil and Tárawen. We have journeyed hence from Valinor that we might swear our allegiance to the High King.”

The elf who had addressed her before raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “From Valinor, you say? How did you cross the sundering sea? Surely not on a ship of the Teleri.”

Silmelindë brushed back a strand of dark hair as she answered, “Nay, my lord, we came here not by ship. We crossed the Helcaraxë and came into these lands by that route.”

The riders before them exchanged dubious glances. “You crossed the Grinding Ice?” one asked doubtfully.

She nodded. “I and four of my friends set out across the Ice planes some weeks ago. Alas, only three of us set foot on these lands, for the Ice was more treacherous than we had imagined. Varderu was swallowed by the Ice. Tárato we lost on the plane of icicles. We three would continue on our journey to the throne of Fëanáro and pledge our lives to him, but we do not know the way. Where has the High King set up his domain?”

“Fëanáro?” asked the leader in surprise. “But that is not possible. He was slain in Dagor-nuin-Giliath shortly after he arrived in these lands.”

Tárawen gave a small gasp from behind her as Silmelindë stared at him, speechless. The High King? Dead? How can this be? she wondered in shock. Ignoring the swords that still menaced them, Alcarincil moved to put a steadying hand on her shoulder as she reeled at this news. Have we suffered and watched our friends die for nothing? She stared at the ground as a single tear collected in the corner of her eye and threatened to spill over.

Seeing their dismay, the elf before them spoke again, more softly now. “I am Finrod, son of Finarfin. The sons of Fëanáro now dwell in the east. You will find them about 150 leagues from here, as the bird flies." He paused for a moment, considering their small group. "Perhaps," he suggested, "It would be best if you came with us to High King Fingolfin's stronghold, ere you set out for their lands. You have walked a long and difficult road and you are tired, and it is farther still to the realm of our kin. In Barad Eithel you will find rest and much knowledge of these lands. There, you can learn of all that has happened since we left the shores of Valinor. Come, ride behind us."

Finrod held out one hand, offering to help her up behind him. Silmelindë blinked back her tears and looked at the hand extended to her. Should they go with him? He is right; we do need rest. The weariness and grief of our journey still lies heavily upon us. Especially on Tárawen. Perhaps it would do her good to have a place to rest. And there is much, it seems, that we do not know about these lands. It would be wise to learn all that we can before going any further. She shot a questioningly glance at Alcarincil, who shrugged slightly and nodded.

Making up her mind, Silmelindë accepted his outstretched hand. "Thank you, my lord," she murmured gratefully as she settled in behind him. Alcarincil and Tárawen follow suit, leaping up behind two of the other riders. Finrod turned his stallion back in the direction they had come and urged him into a gallop, headed for the land of the King.

[Wraithguard]

I get to ruin a perfectly clean thread. Sorry but I have to say that I am more than impressed. Your story isn't not good. Ok I am being cruel. Excellent job. Pity it's a bit short (you made me cry by ending it). We have something in common: Insanity.

[Elorendil]

What? I'm not done with the story! I just decided to change the ending of that particular post. There's plenty more to come, I just have to find time to sit down and write out the next post. Thank you very much for the compliment!