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The light failed; but the darkness that followed was more than loss of light. In that hour was made a darkness that seems not lack, but a thing with being of its own. It was indeed made by malice out of light, and it had power to pierce the eye and enter the heart and mind and strangle the very will.
The Silmarillion, The Darkening of Valinor
The sky was dark. Everything was drowned in darkness but for small dots of light wandering in the streets far, far below. The Mindon Eldaliéva was a thin shape, who seemed to be just a bit clearer than the sky.
Arafinwë walked hurriedly through the various corridors, arm full of loads of papers, reports of what was needed where, what needed repairs, the state of the city, in never-ending cycle. Each passing days (or what they called such now) came with the discovery of a new issue he hadn’t thought about, or one that he’d took for granted until now.
Nothing was granted, he ought to remember this by now.
The core of the problem was, they were too few. Two hundred, maybe three came back with him, and there was those who had not left at all, another hundred, maybe.
Tirion may have been small at a time, but now it was built for at least a dozen hundreds of them. They were just too few.
Arafinwë almost tripped in his robes, but caught himself just in time.
The air was cold.
He walked on, until he reached the door of his father’s office (Not his. Never his.), opened it with a foot, and dumped the papers on the table. He took a shaky breath. When he exhaled, his breath misted in front of him.
The High-King’s office had seldom been used as one, even at Tirion’s noontide. Most of the important decision were taken in court or during the councils, and Finwë had always preferred to work elsewhere anyway. But outside of work, the office was comfortable and welcoming, and calm above all, far from the shrieking of (beloved) nephews and nieces. He’d often retreated there before, hiding from pesky siblings or too loud children (It had not really been Makalaurë’s fault. But he had been very, very noisy. Arafinwë had thought he’d turn mad before Fëanáro and Nerdanel’s departure). The office was perhaps one of the only things he had missed about Tirion, apart from his family.
Now it was just cold and dusty. Arafinwë had touched almost nothing of it, only moving the table and clearing it so he could work there. The room was bathed in darkness, obscuring the shelves and the adorned roof. Arafinwë had lit one small fëanorian lamp, and hung it to the unused chandelier of the roof. It cast a white orb of cold light in the darkness. Oh that light could mean warmth. It only got colder and colder as time passed.
A frigid breeze made the small lamp sway, and Arafinwë shivered. He turned around, and could distinguish that the doors to the balcony had been opened, by the wind, no doubt. No wonder he was cold. Arafinwë took the lamp to light his way, and walked to them. He stared a few moments at the darkened sky that the stars had yet to pierce, and sighed.
He suddenly felt something cold on his hand, and withdrew it swiftly. There was a damp spot on the back of it. Strange.
He walked outside on the balcony.
Was it raining ? He hadn’t heard anything.
His eyes caught something shiny. A pristine white dot was slowly spiraling in the light of the lamp. And then another. And another. And another.
It was snowing.
It was snowing, in Tirion. Blessed Tirion with mild weather, that the cold never touched.
His breath was misting in front of him. He looked at the snowflakes, falling from the sky without the slightest sound. He was cold. His shoulders were slowly capped with snow, and he had some in his hair.
He slept uneasily this night, dreams of roaring winds and cracking ice. The sound of it -low, guttural noises that seemed to come from the very earth- stayed with him when he woke up, teeth clacking, wondering what it was he’d saw.
The world had been blanketed in silence while he slept. All noises were muffled.
And there was suddenly whole new problems coming, much more dire than what they had ever saw before, and on in particular : food shortage was looming above them all. The crops that had tentatively tried to grow in the dark would be frozen by now, ans as few as they were, what they had would not be enough
Nothing would be enough, least of all him who already felt as if the tips of his fingers had turn to ice. Their folk might be a resistant one against the cold, but no living being could live on nothing and expect to survive.
He rubbed his knuckles and balled them in fists to delay the cold, just a little. He had things to do.
When I was young, Indis once said, we would huddle in tents to ward the cold off. Never leave anyone alone, that was the rule ! We had a few very harsh winters, and when we woke up we would see that the whole fabric of the tent was covered in frost, when it wasn’t snow !
Oh how innocent it seemed when told in the light of Laurelin ! No more than an adventure.
How terrible it was to be faced with your childhood tales, only to realize there was more to it.
Arafinwë put the thickest robes he had on, and walked to the council room where there would no doubt already be people.
He was not mistaken. When he opened the door, all heads turned to him, and he was assailed with dozens of questions and worries.
He raised a hand to ask for silence.
“Ladies and Lords”, he said in what he mentally labelled as the Finwë-voice. “It has not escaped to you, I would hope, that we cross difficult times.” He breathed, and continued, “The temperatures keep dropping drastically, and frost has settled. We cannot hope to continue as we did until now. The palace stands mostly empty, and many will suffer from the cold in Tirion and further. I bid convey this message to the inhabitants of the city and its outskirst : I open the doors of the palace to all who need it. They may come and settle here, for I foresee this winter to be long.”
That is when things seriously begin.
Arafinwë welcomes himself each of the newcomers, mark down their names and give them their share of covers, the location of their chamber, a few candles, and one or two small fëanorian lamps depending of how many they are. (Where are his exiled siblings, right now ? What are they doing ? Are they hungry, like him ? Are they cold ?)
The palace is crowded, and the corridors populated by footsteps and whispers. Everything they have they store as the most precious things, be it wood for fire, fabric for cloaks, and most importantly food. They cannot afford to waste a single crumb of it.
They settle. The palace of Tirion becomes a small candle flame in an ocean of darkness, on which smaller lights slowly navigate.
They slept in the palace during the ‘night’ and tried to run what remained of the city trough the ‘day’. Arafinwë still wondered how they managed to rise and work when nothing told them this darkness would ever end.
Liar. He knows why they do it. Because they must, exactly like him. No one is waiting to replace any of them if they falter.
No one is waiting to replace him when he falters in the light fog of exhaustion that has dug its claws in his shoulders since he turned back from Araman.
And so he goes on.