I started to wonder to myself: did Fingolfin ever find out about what happened to Aredhel? Did he ever hear anything at all from the family who had left his side to go to Gondolin? If so, I can't imagine it must have been pleasant for Fingolfin to hear that his daughter was missing, all things considered.

I own nothing.

They had vanished over rock and vale, out of sight and beyond recall. Turgon had taken his sister, his daughter, and the entirety of his host away from Vinyamar in Nevrast, and would not tell his father where he planned to go, only that he would build a city, and that it would be hidden from all eyes, Elven, Edain, and the eyes of the servants of Morgoth. Fingolfin had not heard from any of them in two hundred and sixty-six years. He had counted the years, every single one of them, waiting for some news, from Turgon, from Aredhel, even from little Idril (Though to be fair, Idril had been grown by the time they had left). It was all Fingolfin could do to remain at his post and not go searching for his two youngest surviving children, for his only granddaughter. His will was bent by his duty, and so he stayed in Hithlum.

But now, now he wished he had not done so.

Fingolfin had finally received word from Turgon, a short, scrawled letter, the letters almost shaky, a far cry from Turgon's usual neat script, and a far cry from the typical formality in which Turgon would write letters to his father. When he wrote me letters, Fingolfin reminded himself, and tried not to be too bitter. His bitterness quickly gave way when he read the words, and his blood ran cold.

Father,

Irissë is missing. She rode out from our home of Ondolindë some months ago, with three of the lords of my host at her side. In their travels, they were forced to pass through Nan Dungortheb, and there was Irissë separated from them. The three lords returned to Ondolindë, but there has been no sign of Irissë since they were sundered from her. It would be good news indeed for you to tell me that she reached you in Hithlum, but I fear that (here, 'she is lost to us' was scratched out, but still plainly visible, a sign of Turgon's distress indeed if he could not even bring himself to write a second draft) she has vanished.

Your son,

Turukáno

The messenger who had brought him this letter stood, staring apprehensively at the High King—as though he was afraid that Fingolfin would do as the servants of Morgoth and some of the crueler among the Edain were apt to do, and shoot the messenger who brought ill news. Fingolfin penned a response, a terse letter whose words he would not remember later, but that he suspected would do more harm than good for Turgon's troubled mind, thrust it into the messenger's hands, and retreated to his chambers without so much as a word to anyone, meeting the eyes of no one, and barely daring to breathe until he was alone.

So she was gone? So she had vanished? Where had she gone? Where was she? Was she alive or dead? If she was dead, had her death at least been quick? And if Aredhel lived still, then where was she?

Fingolfin had the image of his daughter in bondage in Angband, and his heart sickened. He recalled, too vividly, the day Fingon had brought his cousin Maedhros back to the Noldorin camp from Angband, missing his right hand, barely alive from his long months of torment, and Fingolfin did not know if his nephew would ever truly recover in the mind from his long travails on Thangorodrim. Fingolfin could not speak for how Aredhel would endure in such a situation. She was strong, yes. She had fought alongside her brothers when the situation demanded it, when they had first crossed over into Ennor and were ambushed by orcs, when Arakáno had…

And there it was.

Fingolfin thought he knew all there was of grief when Arakáno had died, so soon after setting foot on Ennor. He had died staring sightlessly up at the sky, neither seeing nor hearing his father who had run to his side. He had whispered something, but his mouth was full of blood and his voice too faint for Fingolfin to hear his last words. Then, Arakáno's body had died and his soul had slipped through Fingolfin's fingers like a pillar of smoke, ephemeral and lost.

He had lost his child the way his half-brother's nephews had lost their father, and perhaps that was why Fingolfin had found it in him to forgive Fëanor's sons, even if the likelihood of forgiving Fëanor himself seemed far more remote. Grief bound them together, he who had lost his youngest son, to these fatherless boys (For he still thought of them as boys, even knowing them to be grown Elves). Fingon and Aredhel had been ready to forgive them as well; Turgon had been less willing, remembering all too well the specter of his wife sinking beneath the surface of the ocean, and still feeling the loss of Arakáno all too keenly. He thought that we did not grieve any longer for our dead. How could he think that? How could he believe that we did not remember Arakáno, or Elenwë, or all the others? Your mind is unknown to me, my son, and now you write to me to tell me that your sister, my daughter, is missing.

Arakáno was dead, and they had buried his body with honor. Fingolfin could and did visit his gravesite, not as frequently as he used to. His duties as High King kept him away, bound him to this place, but he went to his son's tomb, to think, to remember, to mourn and to value what he still had. But it would not be so with Aredhel. Aredhel was either alive, and missing or captured, and would be returned to him dead or maimed, or she was already dead, and Fingolfin would never know where her body lied.

His mind was inexorably drawn to the past, to the days before strife and death had found them in Valinor. Aredhel had always been a bright, lively child, often going on hunting trips with her cousin Celegorm. She was often in the company of Fëanor's sons, Celegorm's in particular, and if she wasn't at home and Fingolfin went looking for her, that was normally where he could find her. Fëanor tolerated her presence (and Fingon's, as he was also often in the presence of his cousins) with good grace. Fingolfin's half-brother had desired to have a daughter, and in the absence of one, was "determined to bring her over to my side," or so Fëanor had jokingly said. But those were the days before Morgoth was freed, and Fëanor began to look on his half-brother and his children with such distrust and disdain.

And of her siblings, Aredhel had always been closest to Turgon. Fingolfin rather thought that the two of them were much as he and Lalwen had been, thick as thieves. Aredhel had ever dwelled with her brother and his household, from the crossing of the Ice onwards. And now, under his watch and his protection, Aredhel had vanished, and only the carrion birds and the foul kin of Ungoliant would know where her body lied.

"Nolo? Nolofinwë?"

Suddenly, Lalwen was at his shoulder, brow furrowed. "Nolofinwë?" she asked sharply, frowning down at him with her honed instincts for her older brother's disquiet. "What's wrong?"

Wordlessly, Fingolfin handed her the letter Turgon had sent, not meeting his sister's piercing gaze. Lalwen read it over quickly, and swore loudly, crumpling the parchment in her hands. "That idiot," she whispered hoarsely, her voice cracking. Fingolfin did not know whether she was thinking of Turgon or Aredhel with that sentiment, but it did not matter. This whole tragedy was staffed with a cast of fools; the epithet 'idiot' could have applied to any of them. Fingolfin was then aware of Lalwen's warm, steady hand on his shoulder, though he was still quite preoccupied with the pattern of the wood grain of his desk. "Nolo?" she asked, more hesitant than he had heard her sound since he had come to her as they were leaving Tirion, to say that Anairë would not be joining them. "Are you alright?"

"No I am not alright!" Fingolfin burst out suddenly, his blood pounding in his ears and his heart in his throat. "I've lost my daughter! I hear not a word from Irissë nor from Turukáno for two hundred and sixty-six years of the Sun, and now, I hear word for the first time that they survived their journey from Vinyamar, only to learn that Irissë is missing, quite possibly dead! I do not know where she is! I do not know if she is living or dead! And I…" He looked up at her at, eyes alight with desperation, and Lalwen did not need to hear his words to know what went through his mind.

Lalwen smiled weakly, bent down and kissed the top of his head. "You are High King. You can not desert your post. But you can send messages to the other realms in Beleriand, and I can go out with a search party and search the land for her. We may not know where Turukáno chose to settle his people, but Nan Dungortheb is not so far Hithlum that it would be impossible for her to be somewhere in Hithlum. I can begin preparations now, if you like."

Fingolfin nodded, and Lalwen started briskly for the door. At the threshold, she paused, and turned back to him with a grim look on her face. "Findekáno needs to be told as well, for Irissë is his sister as well as she is Turukáno's. It would be better if it were you. We will find her, Nolo." With that, Lalwen was gone, and as good as her word, she was soon ready to leave with a search party.

They could search. But somehow, Fingolfin did not think that they would find Aredhel, his youngest surviving child, his only daughter, and when the long night came, he laid his head down in his hands and wept.

Irissë—Aredhel
Turukáno—Turgon
Arakáno—Argon (Argon's Quenya name is used in the narration because he died before he could choose a Sindarin name for himself; he was later called 'Argon' in the records, but I can't see Fingolfin thinking of him that way)
Nolo, Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Findekáno—Fingon

Ondolindë—Gondolin (in Quenya)
Nan Dungortheb—"Valley of dreadful death"; fun name.
Thangorodrim—"Mountains of tyranny"
Ennor—Middle Earth (in Sindarin)