The wind blew cold and shrill, seeking out the gaps between them no matter how small they might be. Whistling shrilly, it sometimes seemed as though the sound, rising, falling, and dying, then rising again, would drive them all mad. They stayed close together, and not just for warmth – crevasses opened wide right before your feet, here, and if anyone were lost their cries would be lost as well. Those who wandered off in the blinding snow and wind had to be left for dead.

There seemed to be no end to the wastes.

It wasn't nightfall; still hours yet. But they were stopped anyway, and he knew why, they all knew why. Fingolfin's bellow carried even through the wind. "Arákano!" and the empty silence was colder than the wind.

There was no point in trying to understand, it seemed, no point and no answer, either. Thinking about it too much only made him angry, and while that might have heated his congealing blood at least a little it wouldn't be worth the consequences. He breathed in and out, slowly, nose stinging for the too cold air, even with most of his face inside his shirt. He'd never been so cold before. Hadn't known there was cold like this that settled deep into his bones. Some were fighting to erect shelters against the wind and storm, but the wind was picking up to a howl.

"Arákano!"

He knew already; it was audible in his voice. Angrod looked away, and realized that through the swirling flakes of icy snow whisked up by the wind, he could see a figure set apart from the others, and squinting recognized who it was. Unfolding himself, he crossed the ice on light feet and crouched beside his cousin. Fingon's braid was rimed with ice and snow, the golden braid of ribbon only visible as a frozen line. He seemed very far away.

"Findekáno?"

He didn't look up, but blinked once, shedding the white flakes from his lashes. They barely seemed to melt on his face. "Angamaitë." Simple recognition, nothing more. "Arákano!" Fingolfin's voice was less…less, this time, fading, waiting. Angrod had watched an elf lie down in the snow, complaining of exhaustion, and tried to pull him back up only to find him dead weight. A few minutes was enough to bring death, here, if one were just the slightest bit tired, or careless, or confused; and it was all too easy to lose your way in the whiteness. Then it would be simply wandering in circles until the cold ended it.

"I am sorry," he said, finally, because it was true, even if he was all too aware of how woefully inadequate it was. Fingon inclined his head, slightly, perhaps simply acknowledging that he understood. The wind died down a little, to a slow and persistent whistling moan.

"We knew that not all of us would cross Helcaraxë safely." Yes, but, Angrod wanted to object, but if this was Fingon's way of coping with what could not be coped with, it couldn't be his business to argue with it.

Unless.

He picked up a handful of snow, clenched his hand, looked at the shape his hand had made. "I thought snow was a good idea when there wasn't so much of it. Could do with some fire now, hm?"

"Not the ones seen across the water." Fingon's voice was strangely neutral; not quite flat, but simply – empty.

No way to understand. And what if one tried? Angrod understood, suddenly, that it was possible he was the lucky one, for having learned how to let things go. He inched a little closer and realized, suddenly, that Fingolfin was no longer calling. Angrod had never thought he would have to watch anyone die.

A hand fell on his shoulder and Angrod looked up, startled. Fingolfin's expression was unreadable, eyes slightly red, but that might have been from the wind and ice stinging his face.

"Rest, Angamaitë," he said, in his startlingly deep and quiet voice. "We move on early tomorrow." He nodded and stood, again feeling as his body exposed itself to the winds the rush of icy cold straight into his flesh. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see Fingolfin's arm around his son, and hear him talking in a low voice, and did not try to listen.

**

They came down from the ice without the death of any more princes, but the change in all of them was palpable. It was, perhaps, most obvious in Fingolfin, who had been stern before but was sterner now, almost to the point of harshness, but all of them carried the ice in their eyes. A little harder, a little stronger, a little colder, Helcaraxë had, like the tempering in a forge, beaten them all into a slightly different form.

And Fingon stayed quiet, or nearly silent, even as they watched their first sunrise in months and Angrod could have laughed to feel the warmth on his face. Fingon seemed always far away, somewhere far beyond where he was standing.

As they crossed the plains and moved north, though, toward where the others would have landed, he seemed to intensify, becoming more and more focused and intent, almost maniacally sometimes, and Angrod caught him not sleeping and wondered if he could make a shrewd guess at why Fingon wanted to reach their cousins so quickly, and wondered if it would help. When they reached the camps, though, everything had gone wrong, and Maedhros was already gone.

He wasn't with Fingon when he heard the word, but as soon as he did he went looking. He wasn't so hard to find, though he had managed to get himself alone, and it seemed almost familiar, except that there was no snow, no wind, and the sun was warm on his back as he sat down next to his cousin, legs stretched out, and looked out at the horizon, the sea which stretched on into a blurry line where Valinor was hidden. It occurred to him suddenly that he wouldn't see it again, but he didn't let the melancholy that thought encouraged overwhelm him.

"You found a beautiful place."

"I do not wish company, Angamaitë."

"That probably means you need it." He picked a flower from the hill and twirled it between his fingers. "You don't think it's beautiful?"

"It doesn't matter if I think it is beautiful." Still carefully, utterly neutral. "I do not need company, only the room to think."

"You've been thinking too much lately. You'll hurt yourself." That got him to look round, eyes narrowing, and Angrod looked back at him placidly. "Or else what have you been doing when you get that distant expression? Why don't you talk to me about what you're thinking? Sometimes it helps sort things out."

The annoyance flickered for a moment, warring with very slight amusement. "—don't. I have nothing to say. Do you share all your thoughts with someone else?"

"Of course not. Only when there's something important in them."

"And you'd say that there's something important in them?"

"Yes."

Fingon stopped, just looking at him with eyes that were still almost completely ice, not yet melted from the warmth in this new land. Angrod looked back calmly, refusing to give an inch, waiting. His cousin looked away first. "Do you never want to know – why?"

"Of course I want to know. I just don't know that there's an answer. And I suspect that the one I'd get would not be happy to be asked." There was a silence, and Fingon shifted, slightly. Angrod could see a frown, but for the shadows and the way his head was bent, nothing more of his expression.

Angrod hesitated, then shrugged, slightly. "Sometimes people do unexpected things. Even those we think we know best. If being Artanis's brother has taught me anything, it's that not everything can be predicted."

Fingon's hand clenched once. "He betrayed us. Me. My brother is dead because of him." The words were flat, bleak, and obviously an attempt at conviction.

"Try again."

"What are you saying?" His cousin snapped; braid swinging as he turned his head too quickly.

"That it doesn't work that way." He picked another flower, toyed with the two of them together. "And you won't make it just by saying it really hard." Angrod looked down at his flowers. "You can be angry at someone and still care about them, can't you?"

"—no," said Fingon, shortly, jerking to his feet and pacing away.

"So you don't want to help him. All right, then I suppose you don't have a problem."

"I don't," Fingon snapped. "There is no problem. I told you I do not need company. I am angry and would rather expend that energy where it can't be felt rather than at anyone else."

"What are you angry about?"

"Everything. All of it." He paced more, anxiously. "About his betrayal, about this whole – thing…"

"Anything else?"

"No. Nothing else." It was said so defiantly that it was clearly a lie, and Angrod didn't bother to say anything, but only waited, trying to be as patient as he could be. Of course, it was possible that he simply wouldn't say anything, but he doubted it.

Fingon's voice was sullen, resentful. "He's not here."

"No," Angrod agreed, wondering if he pressed the stems of the flowers back together, if they would stay together this time. "No, he's not." There was another silence, and Fingon fidgeted uncomfortably. Progress. And really he wasn't so bad as some people.

"He should be. I need to speak to him. How can I understand otherwise?"

"I thought you'd made up your mind. You hate him or something."

"I don't – I do, but he has explaining to do, and I will know why-"

"Why does the why matter?"

"Because it does."

"That's articulate," Angrod said, deadpan, and Fingon wheeled on him, eyes and voice suddenly fiery.

"How can he have got himself captured? How could he be so stupid to walk right into a trap and why has no one done anything about it? I have hardly heard one word, one word all this time, and how long has it been? Does no one care what he is no doubt suffering, alone, without any hope or encouragement-"

"You don't care," Angrod said, neutrally, and Fingon nearly seemed to snarl at him.

"Dammit, I do, you know I do, and I can't, do you know how hard this is?"

Yes, he didn't say. "No. I don't see the problem." He left his eyes wide and innocent. "You have a friend, yes? And you need to talk to him. But he's away. If you really want to talk what do you do?" He trusted his cousin to have the right answer, and a slow light of comprehension began to dawn in his eyes. "There," he said, quietly. "You don't need to tell me anything. I'd have to mention it to someone else and they might not like the idea very much."

"Angamaitë-"

"Don't thank me." Smiles were always easy, when you knew how to make them, and Angrod sometimes though he did nothing better. "Just bring him back." If I know him it probably wasn't his idea anyway.

Fingon reached out and clasped his shoulder, eyes finally alive again. "Thank you," he said solemnly, anyway, and then turned to stride away. Angrod watched him go, twisting the two flowers around each other.

If only his own moral dilemmas could be solved so easily, but talking to himself was never productive. He stood and wandered off to go looking for Artanis.