In the desolate white silence of the Helcaraxë, Fingon stood alone, his figure dark against the vast, bitter expanse of snow and ice. The icy wind whipped around him, tangling his dark hair into a long, restless banner that flared in the biting air. The cold bit into his hands, turning his fingers raw and numb, and yet he kept his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. Somewhere beyond the frigid sweep of the wasteland, he hoped, you moved through the perilous paths, searching for a way forward. His light, his star—he could scarcely bear the thought that you had ventured too far, swallowed by the endless, treacherous landscape.

A tense quiet had fallen over the camp behind him, the warriors worn and weary from the long, punishing journey over the Grinding Ice. His father’s people had come far, driven by a resolve that seemed to fade with each bitter night. Yet you had pressed forward with eager steps, undaunted by the frost or the darkness, given leave by Fingolfin to scout ahead. And though Fingon had tried to ignore it, something had gnawed at him since you left—a disquiet that only grew sharper as the hours bled into the endless gray of Helcaraxë’s twilight.

Then, through the curtain of snow, he saw a shape appear—small, yet growing closer with each stumbling step. His heart quickened, a fierce relief stirring him to life as he moved forward, cutting through the knee-deep drifts to meet you. Your cheeks were flushed red, your cloak damp and stiff with frost, and still you pressed on, calling out with news of a clearer path.

But Fingon could not let you finish; he clasped your cold, trembling hands between his, searching your face with an expression that softened in both relief and reproach. "You foolhardy soul," he murmured with a warmth that chased the sting from his words, "Must you always wander so far from my sight?"

For a moment, his grip tightened, as though he feared you might yet slip away again. "I would have found you, through all the snows of this wretched place," he added, his voice low.