I own nothing.

Along with him, she'd called for Illinya, who'd practically been raring at the bit for another hunting trip, Sirilë, Thinyo, Astaron, and Mirildis. At the sound of Lady Irissë's voice, bidding him to join the hunting party, Laurefindil sprang to his feet, barely hearing Ektelion's protests at his disrupting the blankets—Ektelion was still recovering from a close encounter with the snow and wanted to keep warm as best he could. Wanting to keep him warm too, Laurefindil smiled apologetically at his friend, but soon was off.

"What game are we hunting this time, my Lady?"

"Anything we see," came the terse reply. "I don't care how small it is, or how meager its flesh. Caribou to rat, anything we find will feed someone. The Lord Arakáno led the last hunting party. He said that he had spotted caribou tracks about three miles to the east—" they had been staying on the western banks of the Ice, so that if schools of fish swam by, they could have them for their supper too "—so we will be heading that way in search of them."

That was the plan, anyways. They would hopefully find caribou, and even if they didn't, they would at least find something they could catch and eat. At this juncture, Laurefindil would have been content if they had found a scrawny, undersized hare, if it had meant that he would have had one mouthful of its flesh to eat.

Sometimes, that bothered him. Laurefindil had never eaten meat in Aman. He was very much his mother's child, and his mother had always abhorred the idea of slaying a creature to eat its flesh. She had been content with sweet fruit, crisp vegetables and warm, baked bread; so too had Laurefindil. For the first few days out on the Ice, when he had thought that surely this journey wouldn't last too long, surely it couldn't be that long of a walk if they could see the smoke and flames of the burning swan-ships, he had refused to eat any meat, instead accepting only rations of the fast-dwindling supplies of bread and dried fruit. When that had run out, and all that was left was cured meat and whatever the hunting parties brought back, for two, maybe three days, Laurefindil had simply refused to eat. They would surely reach the other side of the sea soon, and surely on those shores there would be something there that he could eat.

The days wore on and on (well, so Laurefindil thought; without either Laurelin or Telperion, it was impossible to tell the passage of hours), and the host of the Noldor did not reach the banks of the other side of the sea. Weak from hunger, that same hunger making him considerably less choosy about where his meals were coming from, Laurefindil finally began accepting the small portions of meat handed out as rations, much to the relief of the Elf who handed them out, who later confided in him that he had thought that Laurefindil was purposely starving himself. Laurefindil looked down at the portion of salted fish he'd been given, and hoped that the fish it had come from would forgive him for eating it.

It tasted foul, and in Laurefindil's opinion, the flesh of beasts still tasted foul to his tongue. There was always the aftertaste of blood, even when the cooks insisted that they had cooked all the blood out of it. But he could not refuse it. However abhorrent the taste of cooked flesh was Laurefindil's palate, worse still was the specter of starving to death for refusing to eat it. They had already lost enough Elves that way, and Laurefindil had watched them die, watched their skin grow as thin as paper, their eyes grow dull, and eventually the way they would just lie down and die, too weak to carry on. That was how he had first found Ektelion, when they had met, not so long ago. That was not how Laurefindil desired to die.

However, there was nothing to be found this time. Not caribou, not bear, not marten, nor even hare nor rat. They found the caribou tracks that Arakáno had mentioned earlier, but the tracks were already mostly obscured by snow flurries and the herd, whether it had been there earlier or not, had clearly long since moved on.

There's nothing to be found here, Laurefindil thought, staring at Lady Irissë's back as she stood atop a boulder, her bow at her side, arrow in hand, ready to shoot at anything on the horizon that moved. We'd be better off returning to camp, regrouping, and heading off in a different direction. Maybe we'd just be better going back to camp, and waiting for news from another hunting party.

He ought to have said it aloud. Though he would swear that the Ice had robbed him of most of his words, and even before then he was trying to be better about it, Laurefindil was often told that he was entirely too talkative for his own good. He was often told that he went on and on and on once he got started on a subject. Ektelion certainly seemed to think so, though he and the Elves who set up campfires near the ones the two of them shared were significantly more tolerant of it, even seeming to enjoy it from time to time, than other had been in the past. It occurred to Laurefindil that he ought not to have been tongue-tied at the sight of her, especially since all he could see of Lady Irissë was her long, dark green cloak and her white skirt blowing back and forth in the wind, her shoulders straight, but he was.

The moment passed, too soon or too slow, and Lady Irissë clambered down from the boulder. Hunger touched her too, and she could not slide down the easy grace she'd once had. All of the Elves with her knew that she would have refused a helping hand, would have taken even the sight of it as an affront to her pride. They stood in silence, making no remark on her clumsiness. Such had become the norm for the Elves wandering down the path of the Ice. They simply pretended not to see it.

"We'll return to camp." Her voice was still strong and clear, but there was a flat note to it, like a harp left long out of tune, and she began to walk back towards the encampment without another word, or even meeting eyes with her fellow hunters.

We will simply find something the next time we go out, Laurefindil thought to himself as he fell in line, either confident or trying to tell himself that he was confident, and doing his best to ignore his slightly faltering step. The only sound to break the silence as they walked, slow, bedraggled procession that they were, was the howling of the unbroken wind over their heads. The wailing wind had been the Noldorin Elves' constant companion since venturing out onto the Grinding Ice, as had the snow that was now blowing in their eyes—the distant glimmer of the campfires was their only compass, their only surety that they were even walking in the right direction.

Once they reached the encampment, as footsore and weary as they ever were, the hunting party slowly dispersed. The others went back to their campfires, to their meager, battered tents. Illinya's shoulders sagged with disappointment. If there was one thing the Grinding Ice had done, Laurefindil realized, it had effectively torn down all barriers of class and wealth. He was nobly-born; so was Ektelion, and most of the other Elves who had been on Lady Irissë's hunting party. However, out here, there was no more distinction between noble and common. Noble and common Elves alike were cold and went hungry. It did not matter how rich you had been in Valinor; now, out here, your clothes were shabby and your scalp almost certainly riddled with lice—they had picked it up from the game they brought back, from the unsanitary conditions and the close quarters.

Those with tents had them because they had been prudent enough to bring them, or kind enough to think to lend shelter to others, not because they had had great wealth or stature in Valinor. Those with furs in any capacity, as blankets, or lining or trimming to their clothes, had them not because they were nobly-born, but because they had killed the animal the fur came from, or been the recipient of their pelts. Though titles and honorifics were still used, though due deference was given to the ruling class in that respect, Elves of different classes mingled amongst themselves and made fast friends thanks to hardship. The Ice did not recognize noble blood. The wind and the cold and the hunger did not distinguish between the flesh it ravaged. It no longer made any sense for the owners of that flesh to do the same.

In the midst of these contemplations, Laurefindil heard his stomach growl, and he paused for a moment, amazed to realize that this could still happen, that he could even subconsciously still differentiate between different degrees of hunger. He thought he'd lost that long ago.

A scarf flapping in the wind caught his eye, and Laurefindil turned. When out in the open, Lady Irissë wore her cloak hood up, and a scarf mostly obscuring her face wrapped about her head beneath it. She had cast down her cloak hood to remove her scarf, which was now billowing about in the bitter wind, and her long dark hair, always coarse and wild, but now badly-tangled from untold lengths of time wandering without the amenities of home, blew about her face and her tall, once-lithe, but now just desperately thin form.

Laurefindil remembered vividly the day he had come into Turukáno's service. He had sworn his loyalty to Turukáno first, had sworn to protect Lady Elenwë and little Lady Itarillë as the wife and daughter of his liege-lord, but he had also been bid to swear to Lady Irissë as well. Loyalty to her after Turukáno, and to protect her as he would Lady Elenwë and Lady Itarillë.

She had been tall and proud, clothed in white and silver. Her black hair, thick and bushy, hung loose about her shoulders, tumbling down her back. Her eyes, silver-blue, had shone brightly and there was a smile hovering on her candid, straightforward face. Color shone in her pale cheeks. Laurefindil had taken one look at her and thought her so steadfast and lovely to look on that surely she would never need anyone's protection. Still, he had sworn as much readily and gladly. They had spoken few words since then; Lady Irissë found her friends among her own kin and seemed to feel no need to look elsewhere. All the same, never had Laurefindil forgotten the warmth rising through his chest, burning his neck and face, as she had smiled down at him and said And gladly do I accept it.

Now, she was still tall, and there was yet a proud dignity about Finwë's granddaughter. However, she was otherwise entirely different. Her dress hung loosely about her shoulders and hips; it might have even been the same one she'd worn that day (though given that Irissë always wore white, and seemed to favor dresses of the same fabric and roughly the same cut, who could tell?), but it was now threadbare and worn, a thin garment shielding an even thinner body, too big for its wearer, and you could scarcely tell that the skirt had once been white for the dirt and blood caked on its folds. Her hair was unkempt and dirty, though thanks to its color this could not be as readily spotted in her as it could in Lady Elenwë, or Lady Itarillë, or Laurefindil himself, he had to ruefully acknowledge. Her cheeks were hollow, any trace of color gone from them. Her skin looked like a bleached canvas stretched too tight about its frame.

Worst of all, however, was that she did not stand straight anymore. Silhouetted against the darkness, against the faint light of Rána and the stars, her back and shoulders were not straight as they had been the day they had first met, or even as they had been when she stood upon the boulder not so long ago, surveying the ice-world before her. She stood hunched, back bowed, black hair billowing about her face, looking frail and thin, beaten down by the wind and the cold and the snow. Tired she seemed, sapped of all her strength, ready to fall.

But then, their eyes locked and Irissë realized that she was being watched. She straightened, but the look that passed between them (her eyes were dull with hunger too, Laurefindil was noticing now, and he wondered if this was how he looked to her) was one of somber understanding. The cold took everything from you, your strength and courage, your surety and peace of mind, until all you were left with was the worries in your heart and the uncertainty of your fate, trying its best to crush you in its grip. All you could do to combat that was to tell yourself that you would live.

In a visible struggle, Irissë forced a semblance of the strength she projected to the others back to her face, and nodded, eyes veiled (Or perhaps it was just the film of starvation). "Go," she murmured, staring past him to the cluster of campfires.

He wondered why she did not return to her brother's tent, where there would be a fire waiting for her, and likely greater warmth than she could get from sitting by any fire out in the open. He thought for a moment to make certain that she was well and would remain so, as that was the oath he had taken to her and the inclination of his own heart. He wondered why once again he could say nothing at all, when usually there was no lack of words upon his tongue.

Laurefindil bowed stiffly, and went back to his campfire.

"I was beginning to think you'd been swallowed whole by the storm," Ektelion remarked as Laurefindil settled down beside him, taking the blanket that was his and wrapping it about his shoulders above his cloak. "Or perhaps that you'd just been eaten by a bear."

Laurefindil laughed, his melancholic mood forgotten. "No such luck. I think that any bear would find me a poor meal by this point."

They were all hungry, and hunger to Laurefindil seemed as an affliction boring down past his bones into his marrow. Ektelion's face seemed gray still, and Laurefindil would have liked to have found something to bring back, if only to give him something to eat. The Ice could break apart beneath them at any moment, and they could drown in the frigid waters. Irissë was haggard and bowed with many cares. But she was lovely still, and somehow, Laurefindil could not yet despair.

Irissë—Aredhel
Laurefindil—Glorfindel
Ektelion—Ecthelion
Arakáno—Argon

Rána—the name given by the Noldor for the Moon