Azure skies, lit only by the stars of Elbereth, reflected the dark moods of those awaiting on the shore. Some sat alone, and others huddled together as all eyes kept watch across the water, to the shores on the other side, to a land they could almost touch but still remained so far away. So close… so far. A mist was rising up, and the air was dense and depressing. Artanis turned her head and asked her companion, “Can you still see the ships?”

”Aye,” answered Ecthelion, though his voice was so quiet it may well have been a breeze. He let out an impatient breath and tightened his hold on the hilt of his sword, which he had not taken his hand from after cleaning and sheathing it earlier.

Axes and swords were strewn on the grass, some dropped after only a single stroke. Many found they did not have the stomach for the sort of thing they had gotten themselves into; others pretended they did, but one look in their eyes told of sorrow and remorse for what had befallen their Telerin kin.

Awkward silence followed and all attention focused again upon the vessels anchored so far away. They bobbed lazily in the water, the cargo they had carried safely on the other side. “What are they waiting for?” murmured Elenwë. “The ships should have been sent back by now.” Her husband pulled her closer and placed his other arm around their daughter.

Averted gazes flickered over shoulders, to the paths the Teleri had taken in order to escape the wicked Noldorin blades. As of yet there was no sign of a counterattack, nor had any of the Valar come to give any further warnings. “Is there a signal we should be watching for?” questioned Argon. “Are we supposed to let them know to send the ships back to us?” None could answer him.

Austerely, Fingolfin shook his head when his son opened his mouth to speak again. Now was not the time to wonder about details. Mumblings within the host of what they should do were further favoring crawling back to the Valar or some other form of penance. “Friends, let us wait a little longer,” said Fingolfin. “Perhaps they were assailed by the forces of Morgoth and are guarding the ships.”

“Attacks we would see, but it appears they have made camp,” argued Angrod, but his elder brothers hushed him. His concerns were voiced further, privately to Aegnor, and to Argon, who was now pacing, breaking up the calm of their watch. The whispers traveled swiftly, to Fingolfin’s dismay.

As Fingolfin took measures to steady the company against the grievances of his brother’s sons, his three eldest children ventured to the end of one of the piers. Most of the docks were damaged or destroyed, the ropes cut to free the ships – no time to untie them. They ignored the bodies in the water, Turgon thankful he had left Idril on shore with his wife. At the end of the pier they stopped, and stared, and waited.

Aredhel lightly touched the shoulder of her eldest brother. “Are you sure they are going to come back for us?” It was a question in the minds of many, and Fingon only took a deep breath and did not answer.

Aquamarine highlights danced across the bloodied blue waters. Acquainted with the shoreline city, Artanis began to walk up the gentle rise to an area that would give a better view. She motioned for Ecthelion to follow, and he acquiesced with a frown. “This is not how I envisioned things to go,” he admitted once they were well away from the others.

Apprehensive and unable to put her own feelings into words, Artanis merely nodded in agreement. Once ardent about her ambitions to leave Valinor and become a great ruler in some eastern part of Arda, second thoughts about her recent actions plagued her mind.

Aoudads and goats bleated not very far from where the party was assembled; the light of Laurelin would just now be battling Telperion’s for brightness, if they did not lie in ruin. The sound of the awakening livestock brought unease to the Noldor.

Anticipation grew as the announcement came that someone had seen movement on one of the ships. All eyes focused once again upon swan-necked boats, hope renewed. “Can you see whom it is?” asked Aredhel of her brothers.

“Ambarto, I think,” answered Fingon. “Although... there is someone else, on the shore. It looks like Uncle Feanor, and our cousin Curufin. They have torches, but I see no beacon for them to light.” He gasped in horror as he realized what they meant to do. “They are burning the ships,” he said, the fear of betrayal became strong within him.

All assembled at Alqualonde appeared alarmed. Some saw the smoke first, and other the flames. Many rushed toward the water’s edge, and some even entered, shouting curses they had once reserved for Morgoth at the one they thought could deliver them from the evils they believed plagued them. The bodies of the slain bumped against their shins, yet went unnoticed as the shouting continued.

“Akin we are to him, and yet look what has happened! Traitors, all of them!” shouted Aegnor as Fingon and his siblings came to join their youngest brother on shore. Fingon ignored the outburst of his cousin and grabbed hold of Argon’s sleeve in order to steer him toward the small store house he had seen his father go into once the outcry came from their kinsmen.

Ajar was the door, but Turgon arrived at the entrance first and kicked it open anyhow. The others soon followed, with Aredhel having the sense to shut the door behind her. Fingolfin, who was steadying himself with one hand against a wall, looked up and shook his head. “This is a difficult situation your uncle has put us into.”

“Ai! The ships are burned, and you say ‘a difficult situation’?” Turgon looked for something else to kick and settled on a pile of rope. “Are we going to swim across the sea now? And when we get there, who is the greater enemy: Morgoth, or Feanor?”

“Ahead of us is great peril, but that was to be expected anyhow. Without ships, there is but one course before us,” said Fingolfin. “I have seen it in my dreams time and again, but now we must make the crossing of the Helcaraxe a reality.”

Aghast at the proposition, Aredhel pleaded with her father. “There must be another way. We can build ships of our own if we must, even if it takes years. The Helcaraxe is too dangerous.”

“After our actions here, I doubt we will be allowed the time it would take to build the ships we need. Even if the Valar gave us leave for such a task, the Teleri will not stand idly by as we take over their land, consume their supplies, and trespass upon the ground and water of where so many of them met their end.” Fingolfin looked up as the door was pushed open, and saw the contingent of his brother’s house at the door.

Aegnor spoke for them, perhaps to keep his angry older brother from ruining the alliance. “We wish for unity between us, Uncle. Where you go, we shall follow. In solidarity, to the end.”

Advice from Finrod followed. “There is restlessness among the others outside; whatever your decision, Uncle, make it swiftly. The ships are full aflame. A leader must emerge and take control; else, Morgoth has already won.”

Acceptance in the matter of the fleet being lost was bitter as Fingolfin came forth and rallied the Noldorin host. He did not speak as long or as passionately as his half-brother might have, but wisdom and truth were in his words and he convinced many of them to stay the course and come with him on the perilous adventure across the churning ice.

Absolute command was something he insisted upon, and some now turned away from their goal. Those with the determination, or at the very least, a stubborn attitude, pledged their allegiance to Fingolfin – at least, for now.

---

“Aah, so that is why you hate the snow,” said Eol in an understanding manner. Aredhel gave a curt nod before she retreated into the cave. The dark elf watched a handful of snowflakes drift to the ground. Another chapter of his wife’s previous life was explained, and yet he still wondered why she always wore white.