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She does not know how much time has passed. There is no longer any knowledge of time, no reliable changing of the light of Telperion and Laurelin. She knows only the cold, the crunch of ice and snow beneath her feet and the warmth of Idril’s hand in hers, Turgon’s arm about her.
Her breath mists white in front of her, white like everything around them. Turgon is ahead now, speaking with his father. She is struck by visceral wonder at how Anairë could have left Fingolfin to make the journey to Endor alone. She could not have done so; the thought of it, of separation from Turgon, sends a shudder running through her that is not all from the bone-deep chill of the air. No, she cannot imagine how Anairë did it. She does not think she would have done so even if she had known what lay in wait for them, the Helcaraxë, the terrible cold and the deadly sharpness of the ice here. It is treacherous, not a single footstep can be trusted, and those in front go slowly, cautiously, creeping along. They have learned the early lessons of the ice well, and Elenwë knows them better than most. It was she who saved Turgon when the first split occurred, the ice grinding suddenly apart beneath their feet to leave a wide dark chasm of freezing water below.
Idril flexes her fingers in her hand, and Elenwë realises she has clenched up; it takes deliberate concentration to relax, to make her grip soothing again rather than painful.
But even as she thinks on this, even as she forces each muscle to release, there is a mutter sweeping up and down the host like wind in trees, and she looks up, looks up to where others are pointing (no one shouts now, speech is mostly done in whispers; they have learnt that lesson too). And there, in the sky, a light is rising. Pale, silvery, like the light of Telperion condensed, pressed into a flat disc and placed in the sky among the stars, outshining them all.
Her breath catches in her throat and she stares up, up into the sky and to the light, the first true light since the destructions of the Trees. She thinks perhaps she should be afraid, but all she can feel is the sudden lifting of her heart. She feels the smile pull her lips, twist them upwards as they have not for too long, and she looks to Turgon, only yards away, and he is smiling too, looking not to the light but to her.
‘Nana …’ Idril breathes beside her, and it is her daughter’s turn now to clutch, holding fiercely, and for once without fear.
And then there is the crack, a terrible sound that splits among them, and then a groaning, and the pillar, the tower of ice beside them, sways, slips across its foundations. A cry rings out, rippling away, and Elenwë knows already, can see the slow, dark arc of the ice as it falls towards her.
She moves, but it is too late, too late, and she can see the horror on Turgon’s face as he lunges towards her, pulled back in a second by Fingon and Fingolfin. There is only one thing she can do and she does it, flings Idril from her and towards Turgon, towards her husband who looks like the world is ending.
Even though she knows, she tries to run, of course she does, but there is no time, and she looks up, sees the dark shape, feels the cold –
The last thing she sees is the sky beyond, and in it the silver wheel that for a moment had brought her such hope.