I own nothing.

He awoke with a start, in the darkness and the cold. The fire was burning low, and the omnipresent chill of the Grinding Ice crept in the tent, as it always did. Findekáno had been dreaming of fire, of wood burning, so he supposed that that must have accounted for why he didn't notice the cold until now. Across the fire, Arakáno was still sleeping—how warm must his dreams have been, not to notice the pervasive cold?

Findekáno sat up, wrapping his cloak, blanket, the ragged, lice-ridden elk pelt, and any other covering he could find about his shoulders. He stoked the fire, shivering, his teeth chattering and uncovered hand shaking.

Without Laurelin and Telperion, without their light, Findekáno's grasp of time was tenuous at best. It was the same for everyone. There was Rána, but he could not document the passage of time. There was no telling how long the Noldor had been on the Ice. There was also no telling how long the Host had been resting. All was quiet. Arakáno was still sleeping. So too were Turukáno, Irissë, Elenwë and Itarillë in their tent, Nolofinwë and Lalwen in theirs, Findaráto and his siblings in theirs. All was quiet for now, but the call to pack their things and start moving again could come at any time.

Findekáno was tired, but he did not think that he could sleep anymore. His weary bones, they ached, but his mind was locked in wakefulness; he could only chase sleep now, and never actually find it.

Flames rose in front of his eyes again, but they were not the flames of the fire before him. Cries went up, but they were not from any in the camp.

-0-0-0-

Forgiveness was a tricky thing. When he was a child, Findekáno had thought it simple. Someone would commit a wrong against another, but eventually, they would realize that they had done wrong; they would apologize, make amends, and all would be forgiven. As he grew, Findekáno began to realize that it was not so simple as that.

If someone's mother died, and their father remarried, how easy was it to forgive that? Was it something that even could be forgiven? Should it be the father held to blame, or the stepmother? Could possibly even the late mother be resented as well? And what would happen if the father and stepmother had children of their own? Should the child of the first marriage then blame his half-siblings as well, and curse their existence, knowing that it was only possible because his mother had died, and his father had not been faithful to her memory? This, Findekáno had learned, was not a simple thing.

A brother threatened his brother with death. The aggressor's malicious behavior had been escalating to this point for years, and he was punished with banishment from his home. However, their father took not the side of his son who had been threatened, but the side of his son who had been banished for threatening his brother with death. How was the brother who had been threatened supposed to forgive such an offense? And who was he supposed to be angrier with: the brother who had threatened him, or the father who had taken his father's side? This, Findekáno knew, was not a simple thing.

And there was a third scenario. A King, his sons, and their followers abandoned the King's brother, nieces, nephews and followers on the other side of the sea. They could not turn back and go home, and the only way to cross the sea now was to brave a bridge of Grinding Ice. The path was treacherous, and prone to breaking beneath their feet, giving way to ocean. There was very little to eat, and less all the time. Many had already starved, or drowned, or died of the cold and exhaustion. Many had already buried loved ones and friends. No one knew if they would survive the journey. Could they forgive?

This was not a simple thing. It was not simple at all.

They were moving again, and Findekáno was looking for his sister—easier said than done, he discovered. Nolofinwë and Lalwen were at the front of the Host—the former had Itarillë with him, as he often did. Arakáno was just behind their father. Normally, Irissë could be found with Turukáno and Elenwë, but not this time. There were so many Quendi, and Irissë had dark hair as most Noldor did; she wasn't exactly easy to pick out in a crowd.

Eventually, Findekáno found Irissë towards the back of Nolofinwë's host, closer to the head of Findaráto's, in fact. Angaráto caught his eye and tried to wave him over, but Findekáno shook his head and came to walk in step with his sister.

Irissë was so intent on moving forwards, trudging through the snow and braving the wind, that she did not notice Findekáno walking with her at first. After a few moments, though, she looked up. Her eyebrows quirked upwards, mouth tugging in what, in happier times, might have qualified as a smile. "Came to see me, have you?" Her brow furrowed. "Did Father send you to find me?"

"Yes to the first and no to the second. I was wondering where you were."

"Here, as you can see." Irissë had never been one for excessive pleasantries; at least that had not changed, out here. She pulled her green cloak, the hood and shoulders draped with animal fur, closer about herself. "Was there something you wanted to speak with me about?"

"Ah… Yes, actually."

Findekáno didn't elaborate immediately, and Irissë did not press. The wind was beating at them both, and she seemed to have barely the energy needed to keep going, and little to nothing left over for other considerations, like speech and conversation. Findekáno slid his arm about her shoulders, as much for his own sake as hers.

"I… I wished to know what you think of them, right now."

Irissë looked at him uncomprehendingly. "Who exactly, Finno?"

"Our cousins."

After that, no further elaboration was needed. Findekáno's bleak tone, and the way he did not mention them by name, that must have told Irissë all she needed to know. Not Arafinwë's children, marching and suffering by their sides on the Ice. Fëanáro's children, who had crossed the sea without having to endure such hardships, and had abandoned them all to the Grinding Ice.

She stiffened, her expression growing markedly more guarded. It would have to be, for anyone who had been known to often be in the company of Fëanáro's sons. Findekáno knew that expression, and the feelings that went along with it, knew them both all too well. "What about them?" Irissë asked cautiously.

That caution seemed alien, at least coming from her. But they had both learned what a lack of caution could bring them, so to Findekáno, it was not strange, not anymore. "I…" Findekáno stopped, an acrid, bitter taste on his tongue. The words had stayed stopped up inside of him for so long. It was difficult to let go of them. Even more difficult to admit to having them. "…I didn't expect it, you know," he said softly, looking away from her. "I wasn't expecting them to leave us here."

"None of us were," Irissë pointed out awkwardly.

Findekáno dredged up a twitching smile that was only a little bitter. "Except maybe Turukáno." Turukáno had, even in the days before Fëanáro grew harsh and foreboding and tensions among the Noldor rose, never been a friend of their half-cousins. He had not actively disliked them, but neither had he been interested in pursuing friendship with them. And once tensions had erupted, once Fëanáro had been exiled to Formenos, Turukáno discarded whatever trust he had in their kin. It wouldn't surprise Findekáno if his brother had been expecting some sort of treachery.

But Irissë shook her head choppily. "No. No, I'm sure he wasn't. He was just as taken aback as the rest of us."

"Ah." Irissë knew Turukáno better than Findekáno did. He could only assume that she was correct, at that.

This has and hasn't gone the way he wanted it to; Findekáno wasn't sure how to lead the conversation back to where he'd originally intended it to go. He didn't really want to talk about it, not at all, but it had to be said. The words would not leave him alone, and he suspected that his sister, alone of all people, might understand why he felt the way he did. There was no one else to confide in. The only one Findekáno had ever regularly confided in was on the other side of the sea. So, how to say the words?

A hand, gloved in leather and shaking slightly despite that, lit upon his arm. Irissë was staring up into his face, mouth stretched too-thin, eyes gleaming too-bright. "I know…" She paused to mouth the words she wanted to say, before finding it in her to say them aloud. "I know that this…" Findekáno wondered if what she wanted to say was 'betrayal' "…abandonment hurt you. You and Maitimo…"

That was like Irissë, familiar and thus safe. When someone was hurting, she wanted to comfort them, but was uncomfortable and thus stumbled over her words. Findekáno had never understood precisely why she was uncomfortable, had never asked. It had never seemed important. "Yes, me and Maitimo." What was she going to say next? That I loved—no, love—him, in a way that is frowned upon in our society for more than one reason? That this betrayal, burning the ships and leaving us to brave the Ice, was to me more than simply a betrayal of the Noldor left behind? That it was a betrayal of myself personally?

And what of you? Was this not a personal betrayal to you as well, sister?

"Sister… You and Tyelkormo…"

Irissë's face contorted, just as Findekáno suspected it would, and he winced (not merely from the cold), suddenly wishing he hadn't brought it up. But what she said was not what he expected; he'd been expecting a swift defense, or a sharp demand that he not address such a subject. Instead…

"Findekáno." Her voice was too-measured, too-cool, congealing like ice on a corpse's skin. "What exactly does everyone think of the nature of my relationship with Tyelkormo?"

He stared at her, taken aback. "So, you are not…"

She scowled darkly, realizing what he had thought. "No, no we are not. Findaráto seems to think so as well, though; he recently tried to have a very similar conversation with me."

Irissë and Tyelkormo had been friends as long as they were alive; Findaráto, of an age with them, just a year younger than Irissë, had been the perfect third part of their trio. Once Arafinwë had returned from Alqualondë with his wife and tiny son in tow, the three of them seemed inseparable. Irissë and Findaráto were and remained the wanderers of the family, always desiring to see new lands. Tyelkormo, though more a hunter than a wanderer himself, was more than happy to explore, and the personalities of the three cousins meshed quite well.

As they grew older, Findaráto, though still their close friend, did not cleave to Tyelkormo and Irissë as much as he had. Once he had been a small child in a strange city, and he was thankful for the friendship of kin close to him in age. But then, he was grown, and confident, a prince of the Noldor. He grew closer to his brothers and sister, to Turukáno, to Curufinwë—and it was in fact Findaráto's friendship with Curufinwë that ensured enduring friendship with Irissë and Tyelkormo.

Irissë and Tyelkormo, on the other hand, stayed as close as they had been in their earliest childhood. Even the tensions between their fathers did not seem enough to tear them apart. They were the closest of friends. Findekáno had thought them lovers as well, or at least wishing to be—after all, they wouldn't the only cousins in the family who were pursuing such a relationship, or trying to, in defiance of convention. Findaráto apparently had too. Somehow, Findekáno doubted that they had been the only ones.

"We were never anything more than friends," Irissë was saying with startling finality and stiffness. "There was nothing between us." She did not say that they were also cousins and it would be unnatural for them to wed, and for that, Findekáno was grateful.

And suddenly, Findekáno was remembering a visit to Formenos. He and Irissë, along with Findaráto and Artanis, they had come at Nerdanel's side to bear witness to Curufinwë's wedding to his wife Telpalma. Tyelkormo had been overjoyed to see Irissë appear outside of his father's home in exile, beating out even the joy he expressed to see his mother again. The cousins had reunited in happiness, but Fëanáro's behavior had been unwelcoming enough that Irissë refused to ever visit Formenos again. Whatever love, familial it seemed, she bore her cousin was not enough to overcome the unease that Fëanáro had ignited in her with his behavior.

"Ah… Forgive me, sister." He didn't know what else to say. "I did not know."

"Of course you didn't." Her tone was especially bitter. "You never asked." None of you ever did, she seemed to say.

They trudged on, leaning into each other's sides, trying and failing to ward off the cold that way. The wind howled in Findekáno's ears, blowing the snow up and about, and the snow that came down from the sky never seemed to land. The Quendi all around them seemed less real than a wavering person in a tapestry being blown about by the wind.

There was still the question.

Findekáno was less confident in it than he had been before, now knowing that there was, in Irissë's estimation, "nothing between her and Tyelkormo." But she was still the only one he could ask. She was still the only one of their siblings who had been in close friendship with any of Fëanáro's sons. Findaráto would have been understanding—Findekáno knew that much—but Findaráto was just that, incredibly understanding. That wasn't what Findekáno wanted. He wanted someone who felt the betrayal like a raw, open wound. He wanted someone who could feel their heartbeat sliding out in the blood.

"Irissë… If you saw Tyelkormo again… If you saw any of them again, do you think you could forgive them for this?"

There was that cautious, guarded look again, Irissë wondering if maybe this was a trap of some sort, and Findekáno wanting to scream that talking about their cousins shouldn't be able to be interpreted of a trap of any stripe. "I… I'm not sure, brother." This, from Irissë, who in Aman had almost always been content to live and let live as regards to grievances against her, so long as a sincere apology was tendered. She looked around at the Quendi struggling to march alongside them. Stumbling, faltering, some with tears frozen on their faces. Some lying down in the snow, unnoticed even by those who tripped over them. "I am really not sure. And you?"

It was not the reassuring 'yes' he'd hoped for. "I…" Findekáno stopped himself on words he wasn't even sure of. "…The same as you, sister."

He remembered things as they had been before the Darkening, before unrest befell upon the Noldor. He had been happy. They had been happy, even if there could be no openness to Findekáno's feels, and the way Maitimo acted sometimes left him unsure of precisely what his cousin's feelings were. Then, came the unrest. In Formenos, Findekáno had begged Maitimo to come back with him to Tirion, seeing him pale and strained, and Maitimo had refused. Then, came the Darkening, and a spire of flames and smoke rising up from the other side of the sea. Like a premature funeral pyre for the Noldor waiting in Araman, it was, and for all Findekáno knew, Maitimo had participated in the ship-burning himself.

The image of a smiling face superimposed itself on all of that.

Findekáno hoped that he would be able to forgive Maitimo, if he ever saw him again. If he wasn't able to forgive, he wasn't sure what he would be left with, and didn't particularly want to know.

Findekáno—Fingon
Arakáno—Argon
Turukáno—Turgon
Irissë—Aredhel
Itarillë—Idril
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Findaráto—Finrod
Angaráto—Angrod
Arafinwë—Finarfin
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Maitimo—Maedhros
Tyelkormo—Celegorm
Curufinwë—Curufin
Artanis—Galadriel

Rána—the Exilic name for the Moon, signifying 'The Wanderer' (Quenya)
Quendi—Elves (singular: Quendë) (Quenya)

Note: I'm pretty sure that Fingon and Aredhel are the only ones, out of all of Fingolfin and Finarfin's kids, who were mentioned as being in close friendship with any of their half-cousins. It sort of makes me wonder if the ship-burning at Losgar didn't hit them a bit harder than it did the others.