And in the winter night sky
Ships are sailing
Looking down on the bright blue city lights
They were standing back to back in all of his dreams.
The face was blurry.
But there was no mistaking his hair.
"Coppertop!" he could hear himself whisper.
'Don't call me that,' would come the immediate reply that haunted his childhood.
But it never came.
He was never there.
The flames from Losgar always haunted his dreams. And Fëanor, the evil, evil uncle he was.
But Fëanor had been killed. Maedhros had been imprisoned.
Fingon had made it his goal to rescue him, his best friend and mentor.
He remembered the snow, the frozen emptiness of the Grinding Ice. It drove him on, the eternal chill down his backside.
He shivered.
On what might as well have been the other side of the world, Russandol shivered alongside him, as a ghastly wind ripped the warmth from the world.