In Valinor, I was beautiful. Entire songs were composed for me. My hair was compared to the light of Laurelin, to the wing of a dove, to flowers, to everything and anything. I had an endless supply of admirers, proper young elvish gentlemen who wrote dreadful poetry, and went into raptures over my every feature. I mock them now, but I cannot say I did not enjoy them at the time. Perhaps I even loved them, not as individuals, but as one being, a nervous, adoring creature, eternally bowing, mesmerized by my hair.

My tresses are tangled now, covered in ice and hail. The color is muted, no longer reflecting rays of light. There is no more flattery. On the ice, we are all the same. Every one of us walks hunched over. Faces are grey, clothing is grey, and hair is grey. There is no color. There are no differences, no advantages, and no disadvantages either. We are selfless now. We love freely. We give away food and warm clothing to those who need them more, and when that is gone, we give ourselves.

It is a leveler, the ice. I have become my people, and they have become me. The ice has taught me what beauty is.