NORTH MITHRIM

Idril's family at the time they were settling down in North Mithrim, after crossing the Ice. Eight drabbles, Idril's POV. (She refers to Finarfin's children as her uncles and aunt as well.)

I. North Mithrim.

It was long before I was able to wake up and feel not the need to weep at the sight of a roof and walls around me, and birds on trees across the window.

The cruelty and despair of the Helcaraxë had cast a dark veil upon memories of light and happiness, until we were numb. Then, the light of Anor, the works of Yavanna and Elbereth’s stars brought us back some comfort and sense of pride.

A carved chair or an ornate tool left behind by our kin would remind us of those who had moved south.

Exiles, too.

ºAnor: the sun

II. Grandfather.  

“Finrod says Anor goes back to Valinor every night, to tell Manwë and Varda how we’re faring. Is that true, Grandfather?”

Busy as he was, he always found time to spend with me in the evenings, to talk about our things, or go for an adventurous stroll full of discoveries, like we used to do in Tirion.

Only it was Aredhel's voice to call us in for dinner, instead of Grandmother’s. He missed her dearly, though he never told us. He was the one everybody turned to for strength, and all I wanted was to comfort him in some way.

III. The Vala.

Back in Tirion, I used to think that Fingon was a Vala.

Tall and mighty, he was always gentle with the little ones; he wielded his sword gracefully and glared at the elflings that played tricks with my plaits in a most menacing manner.

"I know you're a Vala, Uncle, but your secret's safe with me."

“I’ll be a Vala for you, child,” he had promised, half seriously.

Even now, as I see him working restlessly, that grim look upon his eyes, sadness and guilt carved on his fair face, I can’t help but smile.

“You’re still my Vala, Uncle.”

IV. Finrod.

Finrod always reminded me of my Ammë. Not only because of his fair mane, which he carelessly tied back in a loose tail. He, too, was patient, caring and loving. I felt safe by his side.

He could mend broken toys, and bring laughter out of tears, and tell stories and sing beautiful songs…He’d carve figurines in the ice; when the moon first came he invented a tale about Tilion. We still sing the verses he made up for Anor…

Atar was happier when Finrod was around, like everybody else.

And I wondered where he hid to do his crying.

V. I Wendiº (The maidens)

Atar used to frown when I said I admired my aunts: tall and beautiful, skilled and determined, good riders and proven hunters.

He’d roll his eyes, too, when I asked for siblings I could order around like Galadriel and Aredhel did.

Atar claimed that my aunts were reckless and stubborn, and that no daughter of his would ever be caught in such companies as they kept…

He must have changed his mind, though, for now he encourages me to follow them around the encampment, bringing help and comfort to those who have less than I do, or have lost more.

VI. I Torni  (The brethren)

"Please, don't tell your Atar I let you ride my horse, Idril, or I'm done!" 

Aegnor knows how much I love riding, and so he indulges me as often as he can.

He’s the uncle I see as a brother, the most optimistic and energetic of “the brethren”, as Grandfather affectionately calls Finarfin’s younger sons.

Angrod and Oropher are different, sterner, as most of us are since the Ice. Yet the three of them can be found wherever there’s hard work to do, always ready to give a hand, or a smile, to help dispel a passing cloud of despair.

VII. Atar.  (Turgon)

He’s called “The Wise”, and for most of my life I’ve turned to him when I’ve needed answers: Why birds can fly while I cannot, which is the best tool for carving limestone, why the Trees never sleep, why Fëanáro always looks angry, why some words sound better than others, where do my dreams come from…

I still burn with questions, but now I’m old enough to know that not even the very wise know all endsº, so I don’t ask him why we’re here, why Ammë died and where has she gone, or if we’ll ever meet her again.

Atar: Quenya, for “Father”

º purposely borrowed from FOTR, “The shadow from the past” cause it sprang to my keyboard and it seemed so in place.

VIII. Ammë.

She was home to me. The cold began after she was gone.

She was tall and blond, sweet and caring; her smile could dispel every cloud, her eyes shone with the mingled light of the Trees.

When she danced, Nessa would stop to watch her. When she sang, Estë was reminded of Melian, a Maia who once taught the birds in her gardens…

When she spoke to me, I felt that Manwë himself could be no wiser. Atar and I felt happy and complete when she was with us.

She was home to me. I began to forget after she was gone. 

Ammë: Quenya for Mother