The Ice is long and lonely, and dark. The only light comes from their lanterns and fires, sad little pinpricks trying to stay warm and lively in the cold gloom, and the stars. Aracáno is starting to hate the stars, those reminders of how his life used to be a day? a month? a year? ago, before they set out on this journey to Endórë.
Some were starting to call it a hopeless journey, had been calling it a hopeless journey for a while. Aracáno has always stubbornly refused to lose hope, but that was becoming steadily harder as time went on. It is cold, always cold, and the fires they light melt the ice around them until everyone trying to sit around the meager warmth is soaked in frigid water, and no matter how far they walk there is still more ice ahead.
The host is preparing to move again—they stopped to rest for what would have been a night, but everything was night now—as Aracáno stands at the edge of the ring of firelight, facing into the darkened West. He can see his shadow stretching before him, distorted and elongated on the jagged ice.
"Aracáno..."
He does not need to turn to know that Irissë is standing behind him, but he does anyway, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly in an expression inherited very obviously from his father.
"You should not wander alone," she admonishes with a hint of her usual tartness in her voice. "We are about to leave, you know. It would not do to leave you behind, Arto."
They used to make jokes when they were young, that someone might get left behind if they did not hurry or keep up with the group. Out here, it was no joke. If one fell asleep in the snowdrifts and did not wake up, and no one noticed, they may well be left behind.
He studies his sister. She is pale—paler than she normally is—and thin, her hair losing its usual bright luster, instead falling limply around her face. The white dresses she likes to wear are covered by cloaks and blankets and robes, in all range of colors—no one can worry about fashion at this point; everything is about staying warm, and staying together. She looks almost fragile, really, though her eyes are still bright and sharp.
"Come on, Arto," she says again, but this time her voice is softer, more gentle, as she holds out a gloved hand.
He takes it, turns and walks back toward the main camp with her.
He never looks West again. There is no hope there.
They have been trudging along in the snow for hours now. It is quiet; everyone saves their energy for walking, not much for speaking save hushed words of comfort to the children. Aracáno and Irissë are still walking hand in hand, Turukáno with his family a short ways ahead of them, and Findekáno at the head of the host with their father. Step, step, step, really that is the extent of anyone's thoughts by then, just keep moving forward in the blind hope that maybe the next hill they crest will be the last, and they will see Endórë stretching out in front of them, and it will be warm and solid ground and Moringotto or no at least they can trust the earth beneath their feet.
Step, step, step, step.
Crack.
And suddenly, to Aracáno's horror, he sees Turukáno and Elenwë and Itarillë in the water below. No, no, no, not them, he thinks, finding himself frozen, rooted to the ice. Itarillë lets out a piteous cry, and suddenly Aracáno finds himself able to move again, looking fleetingly at first his father, then at Findekáno, then to Irissë next to him.
"What do we do?" he asks her frantically, wishing he knew. "What do we do?"
"Rope," she answers tersely, and they both start digging through their packs, fingers fumbling clumsily in the cold as they look for the essential item.
"Here!" Irissë cries triumphantly, producing a coil of rope. Aracáno grabs it, starts running toward the edge, and is bodily seized by his father.
"Stop! Stop, Aracáno," he commands. Aracáno can sense the urgency in his voice—obviously, it is urgent—but why does he have to stop? His brother and his brother's family are in the water! They will die!
"The ice is thin there. You will fall too, if you get too close."
Ñolofinwë takes the rope from Aracáno, calling to Findekáno to do something, and leaves him standing there, shivering and with tears freezing on his cheeks. But Atar will take care of it, they will all be fine...
Itarillë huddles in her father's lap as Findekáno drapes another blanket around both of them. Turukáno has a haunted look in his eyes, numbly holdiing his daughter close as she weeps. He hasn't wept. Not yet, anyway. Aracáno knows the tears will come later, the tears and the anger. Wordlessly, he goes to sit next to his elder brother, wrapping his arms around him and leaning against his shoulder.
Turno is still shivering, and Aracáno hugs him more tightly. Irissë enters the tent with two steaming mugs, and kneels next to them. Findekáno continues softly stroking Turukáno's damp hair and murmuring soothing words, empty words.
Irissë holds one mug to Itarillë's lips, kissing the top of the girl's head, and hands Turukáno the other. None of them know what to say, how to express any of the emotion they feel at the moment. Elenwë's loss is already making itself keenly felt; she has always been the one who could cheer them up when times were bleak. But now she is gone, and the grief threatens to swallow the family.
As if sensing that exact thought, Findekáno says firmly, "We will get through this."
Aracáno sincerely wants to blindly trust his brother's words as he once did.
But nothing is as it used to be, not anymore.
"I-I'm the one responsible for it," Findekáno says, his voice shaking audibly.
"No, you're not. It's not your fault," Aracáno murmurs, quiet. They are all quiet, sitting huddled in their tent in a mixture of grief and shock, save for Itarillë's slight whimpers. It is as if no one could quite wrap their mind around Elenwë's loss, even days afterwards, and Findekáno keeps blaming himself. This might have been the third or fourth time he had said something of the sort.
"But it is," Findekáno insists, and might have continued when something in his youngest sibling snaps.
"Fine, then, yes, it is your fault! Have some more blood on your hands, another death you could have prevented, if you hadn't been so insistent on leaving or had been faster to get to the edge, whatever. Does that make you happy now?" Aracáno is breathing hard, his face streaked with tears threatening to freeze on his skin.
Findekáno flinches as if he had been struck, his already pale face seeming to lose any color left. "Arno," he starts, using the childish nickname, perhaps in an attempt to mollify the younger, "I… I didn't—"
"Don't," says Aracáno. "Just don't. You're not helping anyone."
Irissë clears her throat pointedly as she wrapped Itarillë and Turukáno in another blanket. "Neither are you, Aracáno."
"And having him—" he gestures irritably at Findekáno "—mope around assigning blame to himself does?"
"I didn't say that," sighs Irissë. They all fell silent again.
After a few moments, Findekáno tries again, "Aracáno, please, just—"
Aracáno stands in a flurry of blankets and furs and flees the tent, leaving a hurt, tense silence in his wake.
"I want to go home," Itarillë whimpers softly, tears streaking her face. "I want to go home."