The woman walking beside me murmurs to herself. Mercy, mercy, mercy, she says quietly, mercy, mercy, mercy. There is a certain rhythm to it. Mercy, mercy, mercy, she beseeches the emptiness. I do not know her. Perhaps she has lost someone too. Mercy, mercy, mercy, she repeats. I can not bring myself to ask. I do not want to hear of any more death and suffering.

Mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy. I do not know who she asks. The Valar, who we have forsaken, us, who march beside her without asking, the ice itself? Mercy, mercy, mercy, she says still. Her voice is becoming hoarse. It is either faith or foolishness that makes her repeat it, over and over again. Or perhaps they are the same. I would not know.

Yet I do know that it is in vain. There is no mercy. Not here.