They would have kept her from seeing her mother. It is not a sight for a child to see, they said, and they are right. But there are no children on the ice. She may be young, but she has grown up quickly. She deserves to see.

She is quiet when I put her down in front of the body. She simply stares. I do too. The corpse is stiff and frozen, covered with frost. The eyes, looking straight ahead, have begun to freeze over. It is a horrifying sight. They seem almost as if they are empty, yet at the same time, as if all the knowledge in the world is contained in them. Itarillë begins to wail now, a high, keening sound that echoes in the stark landscape.

"When we are off the ice, you can pick some flowers for her," I say gently, trying to offer comfort to her, and to myself. She looks up at me, eyes wide, tears dripping down her face, making little hollows in the ice beneath our feet.

"I do not remember what flowers look like, Auntie," she says softly. I try to summon a description, but to my horror, I can barely recall flowers, so plentiful in Valinor. All I can remember is ice.