#helcaraxë

[serene-faerie]

I’ll be honest— I would probably have more respect for Fëanor and his sons if they’d chosen to cross the Helcaraxë on foot like Fingolfin, instead of slaughtering the Teleri and stealing their ships

Besides, if Morgoth and Fingolfin could do it, why not Fëanor? He could’ve easily crossed the Grinding Ice on pure spite alone

That would’ve been more epic and badass instead of literally committing the first mass slaughter in the world and then getting upset when people get upset with you for murdering their kindred

[thesilmarilliondrawn]

Meanwhile, Morgoth, having evaded capture by the Valar, reached the wastes of Araman. They hurried through this region and through the mists of the Oiomüre Morgoth and Ungoliant reached the Helcaraxë. There, the expanse between Araman and Middle Earth was covered in ice. Crossing it, Morgoth returned to Middle Earth.

The Silmarillion chapter IX "On the Flight of the Noldor"

[edennill]

Aredhel on the Ice - WIP

Close-up on face:

(to be quite honest I've almost given up on this one; I still hope to finish it one day, but it doesn't seem like it'll be soon, so I'm posting what I already have for now)

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

I just finished a re-read of Apsley Cherry-Garrard’s account of his time on the nightmarish Terra Nova Antarctic exploration, and it inspired me to look again at some helcaraxë art. I think Tolkien would have been aware of all of the most prominent Antarctic explorers, who were active when he was a young man and were very famous in their time, and I wonder how much he was thinking about their specific experiences as he worked on the story of the Noldor who were forced to cross the grinding ice.

Some of the real life accounts are truly horrifying and, of course, a bunch of them end with death. You’ve got people forced into unexpected terrain without access to proper supplies, trying to cross a hellish ice plain with a single axe, 15 meters of rope and boots with screws and nails pushed into the soles. 

You’ve got people trapped away from camp and racing against starvation to get back, starting out at full rations before cutting to half and then a quarter and eventually getting down to one biscuit per day per person, and even that is sometimes given up so that the weakest among them can have a little more and perhaps stave off disaster for a little bit longer.

You’ve got groups trudging across a mountainous ice field with snow blindness, hurricane force gales, every mile of forward progress requiring 3 miles of walking because they have to keep doubling back to help stragglers and retrieve supplies, but they’re still gamely trying to sing songs and hymns that can be heard above the screaming wind to remind themselves of better times and places.

You’ve got guys walking along one minute and the next they’ve vanished, swallowed up by a crevasse that didn’t even exist 10 seconds ago and now they’re broken and battered at the bottom of it.

You’ve got people having to hole up in tiny little snow caves to wait out storms that last for weeks on end, everyone so on top of each other that they all end up with dysentery and they can’t keep a fire going because the smoke chokes them, so they’re shivering so hard that their teeth break and every humid exhalation freezes immediately into a layer of rock hard ice on their clothes, gear, sleeping bags, skin.

You have injuries that no longer heal, frostbite that deprives people of the ability to walk, malnutrition that drains people of the energy to do anything at all, and so others are not just pushing forward with the weight of their own bodies and their own gear but the weight of the makeshift sledge that’s pulling their incapacitated friends because all the ponies and dogs have long since starved or been eaten.

You’ve got people who can see clearly that their dear friends’ refusal to abandon them despite their desperately poor condition is endangering the lives of others, and so one night they make their peace with death and quietly walk off into a blizzard on their own.

But despite all of that, some of them survived to tell the tales. They made discoveries. They pushed the limits of human knowledge and achievement. They went home to have families, or not. They became lifelong friends, or forever blamed each other for decisions that were made. They were endlessly proud of what they’d done, or regretted that they’d ever become involved. They went on to great historical acclaim or relative obscurity. They lived.

I don’t know. Feels relevant.  

[melestasflight]

Aredhel and Ecthelion on the Helcaraxë for @march-of-the-noldor

His friend’s heartbeat drums against his ribs. Its rhythm hastens right before she asks, ‘Do you remember the day we sneaked into grandmother’s orchards and fell upon the bushes of chokeberries? I would march barefoot in the snow right now for a single berry.’ Ehtelë fails to recall the taste of the small fruits, although they used to be his favorite. A bitterness of hunger lingers on his tongue. But Írissë need not be burdened with this. ‘How could I forget?’ He smiles at the memory nonetheless. ‘Mother ensured I remember exactly what would happen the next time I decided to steal from Queen Indis’ gardens, be it with her kin or not.’  ‘Do you remember what happened after?’ ‘We shamelessly acted a belly ache to avoid supper, and Anairë saw right through us.’ ‘No, before that.’ Írissë’s heartbeat now clops like the hooves of galloping horses. He knows exactly what she’s asking. That moment he can envision as clearly as the shadows of the lard lamp dancing against the wall of their tent. The flames of their hearts were young, then, and the yearning pulsed through Ehtelë’s body. Not for love letters with feverish confessions nor for muffled whispers between the garden mazes. But touch he had craved, to hold a hand longer, for a kiss to linger. He remembers how he claimed Írissë’s berry-stained lips shyly and clumsily. His friend giving in to her own curiosity, savoring the trust between them before she ended the kiss and escaped, leaving him to chase after her through the woods. Írissë was and still is the faster runner between them. Her lips trace the line of his jaw with intent, and this is not a memory. ‘Írissë, what are you doing? You are so… I am not…’ Ehtelë’s meager protest dies as quickly as the mist of his exhale into the frosty air. Because Írissë’s breath is warm upon his collarbones, and how can anyone resist warmth in a place such as this?

Read the rest of Keep my heart warm while I’m gone on AO3 (M: 1,6k, warning for mourning rites and hunger on the Helcaraxë)

[formenos]

crossing the Helcaraxë is like grinding ice? You know what else is grinding? *points* carnifindo and forodion over there. We get it, your wives died in the ice yesterday, look, ioreth just died over there alright you’re being a bit loud. We’ll sing her a fourteen hour lament. What do you mean more noldo will die if we do that? exile yourself. die. die. I’m not a kinslayer but die. may námo cast you away from the halls of the dead. oh it’s because you have a sore throat from the ice? well that’s alrigh- oh curulambe just froze to death. Just another day on the bleeding Helcaraxë.

[katjaschmitt]

"Eisbruch" (literal translation: ice break) | The Elves cross the grinding ice of the Helcaraxë - abstract version

[theworldsoftolkein]

Crossing the Helcaraxë - by Jenny Dolfen

[eilinelsghost]

You know, just in case you too might need to psychologically drop yourself into the Helcaraxë for some reason...

[negreabsolut]

Mapa de relleu orogràfic de la Terra Mitjana durant la Primera Edat d'Arda, centrat en Belériand. Per Rinus' Art. [font]

[hewalksinstarlight]

Silmarillion AU: The Ballet

During the Long Night, Fëanor and Fingolfin led the Noldor out of Valinor, but their ships were too few. So it was agreed that Fëanor and his host would cross first, and send their ships back for Fingolfin. But when Fëanor reached the shores of Losgar, he ordered the ships burned, and Fingolfin was forced to lead his people across the grinding ice of the Helcaraxë, where they suffered great anguish from the cold and clinging mists.

Mikhail Lobukhin as Fëanor, Dex Van ter Meij as Fingolfin

[ladysternchen]

A Choice

Turukáno pulled the fastenings of his cloak more tightly around his neck, trying to shut the freezing cold out, but with very little success. Their journey was as hard as it had been from the beginning, and he regretted now more than ever that he had chosen to follow his father, siblings and cousins on this horrible walk through ice and snow. A day or so ago,  however, things had taken a turn for the worse, for fog, thick, white fog had descended upon them, and the mist carried frost’s stinging chill into every cleft in the fabric, biting at exposed skin. In addition to this, it obscured almost everything, making it easy to lose the throng and wander off, unaware of even doing so. Nevertheless, he could hear children laughing, among them clearly his own daughter. It was strange, hearing her so clearly but not seeing her, everyone around him obscured by the fog. Then a figure loomed out of the whiteness, and by her golden hair he her to be his wife. Elenwë smiled at him. “I’ll go and look for her, before they get lost. But I’m glad the children have a little fun at least.” Turukáno laid an arm around his wife, clumsy due to the thick furs they were both wrapped in, answering her smile. After a moment, however, she ducked out form under his arm and started to walk away into the whiteness, and she had not been gone for long ere he heard a sob, a noise which made him tense. He listened hard, trying his best to discern what was happening, deprived of sight as he was, but then he heard Elenwë chuckle softly, telling Itarillë that she should perhaps not climb to heights she was scared of. Turukáno relaxed inwardly. He knew what their daughter must have done- she had climbed onto one of the great spikes that were created everywhere by the floating ice, pushed up by unseen currents and instantly frozen in place. Snow often covered these spikes, making them wonderful slides. The children could seldom resist, and if there was any energy to spare left in the adults, neither could they. Reasons for merriment were so very scarce these days.  He had just started to walk towards them, guided by their voices, when he heard a sound that made his very blood freeze in his veins- a lout cracking and fell rumbling, followed by Elenwë’s yell of fear and Itarillë’s pitiful screaming. He ran, blindly, until he was brought to a sudden halt. The furling mists had hidden the water’s edge from his sight until the very  last moment, and he skidded to a halt at the very brink of the ice, where it had broken open, and the sea beneath was frothing and steaming as if it were boiling. Turukáno new better, though. Warmer the water might be than the ice, but it was still freezingly cold. He heard his own cries for help, sounding shrill and unlike his own. And then he saw them, Elenwë with her arms around Itarillë, both barely afloat, whilst all around them, sharp edges of ice emerged from the waters they had previously sunken into, like fell sea-monsters closing in on their prey. He only took the time to rip the fur covering him off so that he may be able to swim, then jumped headlong into the waters, wanting to cover as much space above them as he could, as he knew that the cold water would numb his limbs within heartbeats. Plunging into the icy darkness was like jumping into a sea of red-hot needles, piercing his very skin. Had his head not been submerged in water, he would have yelled in pain, a pain that only intensified as numbness started to spread from his face and fingertips, all feeling being replaced by a dull, crushing pain. When he reached the surface again, he drew a breath that took the burning pain of cold to his lungs as well, but he did not care, for he saw that his wife and daughter were only feet away from him now, almost within reach. He also heard voices, which meant that the others had not only heard his calls, but had followed them here to help.  And then he reached them, Elenwë barely holding the child above the water, frost already covering her golden tresses. Turukáno wrapped his numb arms around them, trying to recall the movement legs made to tread water, for he could no longer feel his own, but it was no good. They could not hold Itarillë above the water like that. “Ta..ke her.” Elenwë whispered through lips that were frozen together. “I can… h…hold ou…t f…for a bit.” Turukáno did as she told him without a second thought, trying his best to hold his daughter’s body to his own without letting her slip, and swam. The ice was near, and despite his blurry vision he could make out Laurefindil kneeling at the water’s edge, with his arms outstretched. Turukáno’s heart leapt with joy- Laurefindil would take good care of his niece while he, Turukáno, swam back for Elenwë. But then he looked down onto his daughter’s face, and all joy and hope left him. Itarillë was white as the snow-covered ice all around them, and still, and her eyes were closed. She is dead, was the only thought he was capable of thinking, the pain of it almost choking him. Laurefindil, too, wept as Tutukáno finally reached him so he could grasp for Itarillë. “Turu…” But he did not wait, not even to hear what his brother-in-law had to say. As soon as he saw that Laurefindil had a tight hold on Itarillë’s little body, he turned back, only to see nothing but ice. It was closing in nightmarishly around him, white and menacing, and Elenwë was nowhere to be seen. He called her desperately, even though his feeble voice could surely not be heard over the howling wind that had replaced the mist now. Turukáno drew as much air as he could into his lungs and plunged under the water again, determined to find his wife, for he could not lose them both. He realised soon, however, that this was futile. He could not see beneath the ice, nor feel, and as he decided to give into the suffocating cold and exhaled, a great peace came over him, and a joy. He would be with his loved ones again in a moment. He must only endure the pain and fear a little longer, and then step before great Námo. He cared not what punishment the Vala would bestow upon him, he would be with his wife and daughter there in Mandos, and that was all that felt of any importance. Lights shimmered before his eyes as the dark waters seemed to whirl around him. He could not resist the urge to inhale any longer.

The next thing he knew was the sound of many frantic voices. He heard what they were saying, yet could not grasp their meaning.  “We need to get all garments off him before they freeze to his skin, or he is lost!” “Here, wrap him in my mantle.” “Rub his body, gently, but firmly.” Turukáno opened his eyes by a fraction, and saw his father’s face swim in and out of focus. “Don’t give up, little one, keep fighting. Oh my sweet boy, don’t leave me. Remember what your mother said when she bade us farewell? I shall be comforted to know that Turukáno is coming with you, for within him lives stronger than in our other children my wisdom… She is right, as she always is. We shall all be lost without you. Hold on…” Turukáno did not hear any more of what was spoken. Stars now gleamed overhead, cold and distant. “Elenwë…” he whispered with numb lips, then darkness engulfed him.

Turukáno came to once again to the sound of voices around him, and searing pain throughout his body. Slowly, memory returned to him of what had happened- he had lost his wife and daughter. The freezing waters and merciless ice had taken them, would have claimed him, too, had not someone pulled him out. One part of his mind was angry about that, but he knew full well that they had only acted out of love, so how could he scorn them for it? It did not truly matter after all, for he would go anyway, and soon. The thought soothed him greatly, and he began to assess his surroundings. He was naked, yes, they had said they would strip him of his clothes so that they would not freeze to him. He also felt rough fur against his skin, and smelled woodfire. That indeed surprised him, as they carried what little fuel they had with them, and therefore hardly ever lit fires. A faint feeling of guilt slunk into his conscience. If they wasted firewood on him, his death would be even more bitter for that. Now he also understood, by the muffled sound of the wind, that they had built a makeshift tent to keep the cold out as best they could.  He also became aware that someone sat beside him, someone who constantly stroked his shoulder. With the uttermost effort, he opened his eyes to look straight into the blue eyes of his cousin and best friend. “Ingoldo…” he muttered tonelessly. Findaráto almost cried, which again made Turukáno feel a tweak of guilt, even more so as Findaráto reached for his hand and pressed it ever so gently. Turukáno still winced, as his fingers felt stiff and very painful still. Yet the pain did not matter, he only wanted to make his friend understand while the still could, while there was still a spark of life in him. “I need to follow.” he breathed, and this time, Findaráto truly wept. Turukáno closed his eyes to the sight, unable to bear it. His cousin shook him frantically, calling him, and when he gave no answer, Turukáno felt Findaráto lay his head upon his chest, yet was already past truly caring. “His heartbeat is fading.”  He heard the despair in his Findaráto’s voice and felt sorry for him, for him and the other’s who now gathered around them. They all loved him, he knew, and had done far too much to try and save him, and he wished he could at least to thank them and bid them farewell, but he could not muster the strength. “I have feared that.” he now heard his father’s grave voice. “Alas, that this grief shall know no ending. But we must not hinder his passing, not even with our pleas. He has been tormented enough.” “Poor little one.” “Bring her here, so she might see him one more time while he is still alive.” The words drifted by Turukáno’s thoughts like running water, but as a cold drift told him that someone had entered the tent, he again opened his eyes almost against his will. Findekáno now knelt beside his head. “Come up a little.” his brother said gently, reaching under his shoulders to lift him up a bit, so that he came to rest propped up against his elder brother in almost a sitting position. And there, in Laurefindil’s arms, he saw Itarillë. Turukáno smiled.  “Have you come to get me, my sweet?” he asked hoarsely, not truly noting the looks of terror that passed between his family surrounding him. Itarillë gazed at him out of fearful eyes, clutching her uncle’s mantle tightly. Then Findaráto suddenly gasped, falling to his knees before Turukáno and taking his face in both hands, forcing him to look at him. “Turvo, have you… did you think Itarillë perished as well as Elenwë?” He shook him slightly. “Your daughter lives, Turukáno. You saved her life, almost giving your own, don’t you recall? We brought her here to say farewell, but… she needs you.” Turukáno just stared at his cousin blankly, then looked back at Laurefindil, who nodded with tears in his eyes, now at last setting the child down beside her father. “Are you going after Amil, Attu?” Itarillë asked timidly. Her sorrow stirred something in Turukáno’s wounded soul like nothing else had. “My heart wants to… but you don’t want me to?” he answered, his voice still hardly audible. Itarillë shook her head frantically, flinging herself at him. He dragged his arms up to embrace her, held the small sobbing body pressed against his chest, and there, finally, he wholly understood that his daughter was alive, that he could not possibly abandon her after she had already lost her mother. “Then I won’t. I won’t leave you.” Turukáno whispered.  Itarillë looked up at him with tears glittering on her cheeks. “You promise you won’t die?” He shook his head. “But you look so tired.” she wailed, again pressing her face to his chest. “That I am, my sweet. But I will be alright.” Turukáno raised gaze and found Laurefindil, who also stroked Itarillë’s hair gently, smiling  at him.  “Elenwë would be so proud of you.” Laurefindil said softly “And so am I!”

[azaisya]

Day 2 (Traveling to Middle Earth | The Helcaraxë | Bonds Broken, Bonds Made) for @glorfindelweek !!

This is so so headcanon heavy but tl;dr I like to headcanon a) Idril as the equivalent of 10-12ish at the start of the Helcaraxë and Glorfindel being only a little older than her, b) Glorfindel as Idril's first cousin, on her mother's side, and c) them being more or less friendly before the Helcaraxë but growing very very close during the march!

They're just two kids watching out for each other when the adults are busy with important adult things

[edennill]

I just remembered that time I was skiing, and it was piercing cold, and miserable, and I was writing Helcaraxë fanfic in my head all the time. Looking back, it must have been pretty bad xd

[tamilhobbit]

Glorfindel Week, Day 2: Travelling to Middle-Earth | The Helcaraxë | Bonds Broken, Bonds Made

I chose to do the crossing of the Helcaraxë, and the moment when the Moon rises for the first time. I also added the flower of Telperion so that the Moon wouldn't just be a white circle, heh.

The black cracks on their path are crevasses; I don't think it was very clear. The first three Elves from left to right are Egalmoth, Glorfindel, and Ecthelion. A short way ahead of them are little Idril, Turgon, Aredhel, Fingolfin, and Fingon. (There's a tiny dab of gold in Fingon's hair, for his famous gold-braided hairstyle. I should have left Aredhel's cloak white, but I wanted the Elves to stand out against the landscape. Also it'd be a stupid idea to wear white on the Helcaraxë, so let's pretend someone chucked a blue cloak on her. 😜)

Argon is lagging behind with Galadriel and the rest, I guess - I know my Ñolofinwean family tree, I just couldn't be arsed drawing them all and this is Glorfindel Week. 😜

(The whole sky is inky black IRL, my phone just takes crappy photos. 😫)

@glorfindelweek

[gwaedhannen]

Preamble: the state of Beleriand after the First Battle

Ah fuck guess I'm writing this now. Bullet-point style because all the best AUs use it (yes I'm talking about @thelordofgifs's The Fairest Stars) and definitely not because I'm lazy.

Quick synopsis of the First Battle in Y.T. 1497:

Morgoth upon his return sends two orc-hosts through the northern passes, the west-host down Sirion and Narog and the east down Celon and Gelion.

The east-host is beaten by Thingol and the Laiquendi, but the Laiquendi take heavy losses, and their king Denethor and his kin are all slain on Amon Ereb before Thingol can reinforce them.

The dwarves of Mount Dolmed deal with the surviving orcs.

The west-host cuts Thingol off from Círdan, and the Falathrim are driven back to Eglarest and Brithombar and besieged.

The aftermath:

Thingol pulls his people into Neldoreth and Region, and Melian raises the Girdle. Doriath is founded.

The surviving Laiquendi either scatter into Ossiriand or join with Thingol's people.

Orcs have the run of West Beleriand.

Eglarest and Brithombar are besieged until Fëanáro's host arrives and the siege is called off to go deal with them (and they're destroyed by Tyelkormo's forces).

...But in this universe, Fëanáro and the rest of the Noldor are still on the Helcaraxë for another 25 solar years.

Now we're getting into conjecture:

In canon, Eglarest and Brithombar are besieged and destroyed a year after the Nírnaeth, thanks to Morgoth's siege engineers. This is despite the elves of Nargothrond helping to rebuild the cities during the Long Peace, and the Falathrim's reinforcement by survivors of the battle and the fall of Hithlum. Only a few survivors escape with Círdan to Balar and the mouths of Sirion. Three fleeing ships also sail far further south and found Edhellond near where Dol Amroth will eventually be. The rest of the Havens' inhabitants are killed or captured.

It's still Y.T. 1497. Morgoth hasn't had centuries to innovate his siege technology, but Círdan's cities also haven't been rebuilt with Noldor walls.

The Grey Annals says Fëanáro's host arrives some seven solar years after Melian raises the Girdle.

(Yes if we go by the usual "1 tree year = 9.582 solar years" then it could've been upwards of 25 solar years since the Darkening in 1495 before the landing at Losgar.)

(I hate Tolkien's timelines sometimes.)

Círdan holds out for over a decade. The orcs can't completely starve them thanks to the ocean, but repeated assaults on the walls wear down the defenders, and there's only so much fish and seaweed.

Meanwhile, the Northern Sindar of Mithrim and Nevrast are constantly harassed by the rest of Morgoth's west-host. Círdan sends ships north to evacuate those he can, but he only has so many ships and men.

The orcs have them cut off from Doriath, but they're not living this far away from Menegroth because they like Thingol's rule. They theoretically acknowledge him as king but realistically mostly ignore him.

(Any claims that Thingol hates them due to closeness to Angband and rumors they sometimes serve as Morgoth's spies are unfounded exaggerations.)

And while normally he'd ignore them in turn, they're still his people in some form or another.

Thingol sends what sorties he can to harry the west-host, but Doriath's forces are still exhausted from the First Battle and much of the kingdom's resources are tied up in getting the many refugees settled.

It also doesn't help that Melian warns him that should he die, her grief will not allow her to stay on the continent and maintain the Girdle.

One of his chief vassals is dead, and the other is besieged. His lands are being ravaged. But he can't leave his borders, because he isn't willing to risk himself (and therefore the Girdle) falling and exposing the main part of his people to attack.

So he throws himself into making sure his people are as happy as can be and entrusts the war to his captains.

So that's the state of things for the next 15 solar years. Orcs gradually hunt down the remaining wandering Sindar who don't find shelter in Doriath or some hidden refuge. Mithrim and Nevrast slowly depopulate from the Falathrim's evacuation missions, orcs, and what few refugees can sneak by Morgoth's forces to Doriath. Thingol holds lavish banquets and listens to Beleg and Mablung's reports while everyone else sleeps off the wine. He doesn't permit himself time to cry.

Midway through Y.T. 1498, Brithombar falls.

(to be continued eventually)