It was a rest period, and Turukáno had sought a quiet place out of the wind where he could be alone. In the early days they had been afraid to stay still for long, seeking safety in motion, but after a time they gained a sense for the Ice’s moods, for its sure places and those that were traps set for the unwary. When it gleamed with a faint green shimmer in the occasional starlight and there was no vibration beneath their feet, it was safe to pause a while and share a few mouthfuls of what remained from their rations.

Írissë was seeing to Itarillë as she had since It happened. His sister was not the most maternal of women, but a good aunt, and Itarillë adored her with the practicality of the young who understand when not to impose. Someone always brought him food; often it was Artafinde or Artanis, whoever had time, otherwise they left him alone. They had stayed with him to begin with, afraid of… what? That his raging grief would drive him into the depths after her, that he would run wild across the Ice screaming her name? No one ever died of grief, he felt like shouting at them, though he could understand dying of guilt.

Guilt yes. Guilt ate at him in his waking hours and haunted his dreams. He had been so proud of her, his Vanyarin wife who had needed no urging to join her fate with his in this crossing. Elenwë it was who had strengthened his resolve, lying in their bed when the world was quiet and dark, talking about the rights and wrongs of it, to go or to stay. She alone of the women of the House of Finwë had stood firm and proud at her man’s side, ready to leave with him and seek broader lands and high adventure across the short expanse of the Sea.

She had found high adventure of a sort and a broad land too – how wide was her new home, the Sea, how far had it carried her body? He shuddered and drew his cloak tighter about him, listening to the uncanny creak and groan of the Ice, the high-pitched grinding, sliding sounds that were near to them but not yet amongst them. When it grew louder they would pick up their packs and move on, ever onwards, ever eastwards, or so Atar swore. He was of no mind to query or dispute direction with his father; he went where he was led, walking alone with an empty space beside him.

It would be so easy to join her. One false step, one deliberately accidental oversight; that was all it would take. Had he any certainty that he would be allowed to see her again after that… He wondered how Mandos was, what her punishment had been for loving him enough to follow him. Remembering the terrifying form of the Doomsman with his strange, echoing voice and thinking of her in that being’s care chilled him, he had to shut his eyes against the rush of tears. He wondered how he could have any tears left after all he had shed since It happened. He would be walking along, one foot after the other, his mind as white and empty as the snow that came in stinging drifts, and realise that somehow he was crying again and hadn’t even noticed.

A sound reached him through the nearby ebb and flow of voices, a young girl’s laugh, sparkling diamond bright in this dark land. The sound was cut abruptly as though someone had clapped a hand over her mouth. He knew his daughter’s laugh and knew also that the hand was her own, for how dare she find humour in anything when her mother was – gone – and her father was….

What was her father now, he wondered? Quiet, self-contained, regretful, guilty, alone… utterly alone, or so it seemed. He had loved Elenwë from the day he met her, had fought long and hard to win her for his wife and gain acceptance from her haughty family to whom even royal blood barely excused his Noldor lineage. He had not fought alone, for she had been his strength, the certain voice that found the core of the argument while he tried to see all sides, anxious to have everything done as it should be.

And now she was gone, she who had been all high courage and laughter, and her daughter now feared it was unseemly to laugh and he had sealed himself off from them all like something trapped within the Ice itself – they had seen such things in the early days, unwary animals that had ventured too far and whom the Helcaraxë had first devoured and then later spat back up. After the first such discovery, fearless Artanis had nightmares. Was he becoming that, a thing of nightmares? A sad, unforgiving man with ice where his soul had been, trapped forever within the green-white of the Helcaraxë.

Turukáno thought about that for a while, his eyes on the shadowy path that led back to where the Ice gnashed and growled and water churned, where guilt and pain ended. He imagined standing on the very edge of one of those crevices, breathing in the sharp air, looking through the mist for a last glimpse of Varda’s lanterns, then stepping forward onto nothingness… He stood with his eyes closed, shuddering at the horror, his hands balled into fists. Finally, drawing in a deep, shaking breath, he let go the darkness and prepared to rejoin his family.

He would mourn Elenwë all the days of his life and could do so more appropriately later, but right now there were others who had lost wives, husbands, children even. His blood did not set him apart nor make his grief more precious, more deeply felt. While his father, brother and cousins carried the responsibility of leading the people, he could help those who lacked the rank or extended family to indulge their pain while they grieved. And Itarillë needed a father, one who would not make her feel she should forever quell her laughter in his hearing.

On his way back, something caught his eye. Just for a moment some strange juxtaposition of ice peaks and faint starlight caught the jagged white shards and a rainbow flashed before his eyes, there and then gone. He stood quite still, turning his head this way and that, trying to recreate it, but it did not return. Earlier he would have despaired but this time his lips almost found a smile. He knew Elenwë would have looked for a way to say farewell for now and to remind him to stand tall, believe in himself, have courage. And she had always loved rainbows. Her message was clear: there was still beauty, still hope, still work to be done. It was time to get on with life.

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