Turgon woke with a start, realising he had been dreaming again while on his feet. Always a dangerous thing to do, but never more so than on the Ice. It could have been his death; he could have fallen into a crevice, or stepped onto one of the fatal thin spots, but as it was he had merely stumbled from fatigue.

I am not meant to die here, he thought. My task is not finished, and I will be allowed to live until it is.

He had dreamed that dream before, though this time it had been longer than ever, and more vivid. Feanor's wife Nerdanel had come, with many of those who had refused to leave Tirion, and even some of those who had returned with Finarfin. They had brought supplies, and warm furs, and above all, joy. For Elenwë had been with them, impossibly, but alive and well, and never more lovely and desirable. In his dream he had opened his arms and she had jumped from the cart she was traveling on, to hurry towards him with eyes that shone like the stars in her name.

But before they could even touch he woke up to the realisation that Elenwë was dead. All else was true. Nerdanel had indeed come with a large company, to bring succour and the happiness of reunion, and even the keen disappointment of Fingolfin and his children at the absence of Anairë was blunted by the joy of so many others. It was Fingolfin himself who suggested that, perhaps, the curse of Mandos was no more than words, and Turgon was among those who nodded.

Too soon, he discovered that at least some Valar do speak truly, and that their dooms are prophecies as well as judgments. Why had they decided to walk, in that fateful hour? He would never forget the loud crack when the ice broke under the feet of Elenwë and young Idril. Nor would he forget the cruel pain stabbing through his body when he cast himself into the cold sea in an attempt to save them. Afterwards, he had felt horribly guilty for being able to rescue only one of them and choosing his child, even though he knew Elenwë would have made the same choice.

The guilt was slowly replaced by another, insistent voice telling him that the real blame lay elsewhere. The dream remained a dream. There had been and would be no cart to bring Elenwë back to him, and even if she were granted life in Valinor, she would be out of reach. For he was exiled and cursed. And so, Turgon trudged on, more grimly than ever.

It was not long afterwards that the whispers began

At last, he could believe the rumour was true: that the end of the Helcaraxë was within sight. That it was not just more Ice deceiving their eyes with a promise of sturdy rocks or soft turf. It had too often done so during this horrible walk across a waste that was not merely a waste of lives but a waste of life itself. But this time, he did not hear the dissenting voices of those who warned that it was just a ray from one of the lamps or a glimmer of false hope playing tricks on them. And the voice crying 'Land!' was that of Fingolfin, who would never raise it without reason.

So the nightmare was almost over. Or so it was for many of them, but not for all, not for those who had lost too much, like he had. And all around them, it was still night.

Aredhel had been carrying Idril for the last few miles. More than a few, in fact, as he realised when he looked up and saw how much the stars had shifted. So he held out his arms, not wasting breath on speech for all they were Speakers, and took his daughter from her.

He thought she was asleep, but presently he heard her ask: 'Are we nearly there, then, father?'

'Yes,' he said, and as speaking to his child would never be a waste of breath he added: 'Over there, far ahead, past your grandfather's staff - that looks like a copse of trees. See?' And while he said it, he realised it was so.

She was silent for a while, but suddenly she asked: 'So what will you do when we get there?'

Idril was a remarkable child, wiser than her years, and obviously seeing more clearly. Any other child would have asked: 'What will we do?' What did she discern in him now?

'Fight the Enemy,' Turgon replied. 'Take revenge.' Beside him, he felt his sister turning her head towards him; she must have heard what he did not say.

They walked on, the land ahead becoming more clearly visible; rocks, bushes, trees. Bleak it seemed, but they were far north, and anything was better than the Ice. Then came the moment when his father let the trumpets sing to signal that his feet touched ground.

When the sound faded away, a profound silence descended upon all of them. All Arda seemed to hold its breath, for the wind decreased and died, and even the Ice behind them was muted; it stopped grinding and groaning and ringing ominously below their feet. Then, behind the rocks and the bushes and the trees a light rose that was neither star nor lamp nor a glimmer of false hope. It was round as a globe of fruit, silvery white as the light of Telperion and eerily beautiful.

The silence was broken by a swelling buzz breaking into song. Undoubtedly this was a sign that the Valar had not completely abandoned them. But Turgon knew that if it was a sign, it resembled a two-edged blade more than anything, for there were two sides to it. This new light was dim, compared to the radiance of the murdered Trees, and fickle, and its surface was marred as Arda.

When Isil, as the Noldor were calling the light, had described an arc though the sky and began to descend, they made their camp. After Turgon had put up their tent and Idril had softly sung herself to sleep, he and Aredhel sat down on surface whose chill seemed almost friendly after the Ice.

He took out his weapons, sword and daggers and bow, to inspect them under the face of Isil and whet them, if necessary. For a while, neither of them spoke, Aredhel watching him intently. He knew he had an ally in her, betrayed as she felt by Fëanor and his sons, and above all by Celegorm. But it would be best if some things were not mentioned aloud.

Finally, she said: 'You have set yourself a hard task, and you may be dooming yourself to death and darkness.'

'I know,' he replied. 'But you shall be as a mother to Idril if I should fail and fall.'

She smiled briefly, and without joy. 'When will you go?'

'As soon as we find out their whereabouts. Which will be soon enough. Father is as eager to confront them as any of us and has already sent out scouts. Nor do I think they will avoid us, knowing Feanor.'

Aredhel nodded. 'I think I will go and rest now.'

'Do so. I will join you shortly' Turgon picked up his sword, running a finger along the edge. Though a dagger was much easier to conceal, this was the weapon he would prefer to use when he killed the enemy called Feanor.

By: Finch