His clothes are tattered, torn, and covered in dirt.
He keeps walking.
His legs burn, and the threadbare shoes that cover his feet no longer keep the winds biting chill away.
He keeps walking.
His stomach rumbles and roars in a mockery of a song but he takes no notice.
He's still walking when his lungs burn and the sound of birds and the leaves under his feet fade to nothing. He keeps walking even as the ground below him turns to rock and ice, as air grows colder and snow falls from the sky.
There are mountains of glaciers in front of him now, and the frozen rivers beside him have fallen silent. The harsh wind kisses his cheeks reminiscent of the the way his father used to. Hard, and fast, leaving flushed cheeks in its wake.
The tears on his face turn to ice and he stops.
And laughs.
'It's funny,' he muses, hysterical laughter fading into a grim smile, 'Funny that the last Son of Fire will perish in a place of frozen water and grinding ice.'
Perhaps this is how it should've been. Perhaps he should have died on the Helcaraxë with Elenwë and so many others. Perhaps he was never meant to have come this far.
Perhaps…
(There are voices in the wind now, singing to him, urging him to find them and come home. And as the world closes in around him and the blood freezes in his veins he can make out six blazing figures in the distance.
'Come home,' They whisper, their voices washing over his mind like a kiss, 'Come.'
He goes.)