I own nothing.

"Well, I think we are now certain that the orb in the sky is not going to fall out of it onto our heads any time soon."

Nolofinwë snorts. Lalwen wasn't attempting humor, and she won't laugh herself. All the laughter has been stolen straight out of her mouth. But it's so much of a relief that her brother can do something so normal as show amusement (in whatever tone) at anything that she doesn't mark it strange. Lalwen pins down the tent flap and comes to huddle by the fire.

There is indeed a white orb that hovers in the sky over the Eldalië crossing the Helcaraxë. Well, 'orb' might not be the best word with which to describe it. The white orb was indeed perfectly round when it first appeared over their heads. But it soon began to wane, to a crescent, then to a sliver, then to nothingness. Many had despaired, but in time, it reappeared in the sky, waxing to a round, fat orb once again.

There are those who are frankly transfixed with the orb. They claim that its light, faint though it is, is reminiscent of the light of Telperion, and Lalwen supposes that to many, this is enough to beatify the orb.

But the fact remains that the white orb casts a light too dim to light their steps, and there are still those, many, in fact, who set their feet on the ice and drown. To Lalwen, the orb does not present enough benefits to recommend itself. Nolofinwë is not overly enamored with the orb, either. He rarely pays it any mind, and does not speak of it often as he leads their people across the Ice.

Nolofinwë himself does not sit by the fire. In the tent, the largest one among the Host (and thus probably also the draftiest), Nolofinwë is usually found at the table, making records, reading reports, and, Lalwen can only assume, pondering the future. He starts to look entirely too much like Fëanáro when he does that, and she can't say that she likes it.

"Lalwen…"

Lalwen looks up from the fire when she hears her brother call her name. Nolofinwë rubs his forehead wearily, looking gaunt and tired—the same as the rest of the Host, really. "How are things looking, out there?"

She hesitates before answer, "Much the same, I think." There's not wood to spare for funeral pyres. The terrain is either ice, or consisting of just a thin layer of soil before hitting rock; either way, none of the Eldalië are willing to dig and risk destabilizing the ground on which they stand. As such, they have lately been consigning the dead to the depths of the ocean. Lord Ulmo and his Maiar, they do not reject the corpses, but Lalwen won't be surprised if they start soon. They disposed of four corpses that way, just now.

"So, Lalwen…" Nolofinwë's mouth is twisted in a half-hearted caricature of a smile, his eyes drooping, though not, she thinks, from lethargy. "…All this talk over the orb the Eldalië speak of, how it resembles Telperion. Do you think there will come an orb in the sky resembling Laurelin?"

It would be impossible not to know what he means by that. The white orb, reminiscent of Telperion, does not cast light enough to banish darkness, but then, Telperion never gave off light so strong as Laurelin. The Eldalië, the Falmari especially, tended to prize Telperion over Laurelin, as it was easier to see the stars under his light, but imagine it, an orb with the fiery golden light of Laurelin hanging in the sky. It could even be enough to give the world proper light once more, and banish this unnatural darkness.

But will that even happen?

Lalwen clambers up from her sitting place, and leans over the table to kiss the top of her brother's head, saying nothing. She's not optimistic, herself. After everything that's happened, after everything the Noldor have done, they shouldn't expect the Valar to do them any favors. And if this white orb is supposed to be one, they shouldn't expect any more.

Nolofinwë—Fingolfin
Fëanáro—Fëanor

Eldalië—'The Elven-folk', a term used to refer to Elves in general
Falmari—those among the Teleri who completed the journey to Aman; the name is derived from the Quenya falma, '[crested] wave.'