Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board. Ships burning seemingly destroyed those hopes and dreams.

In the frigid darkness and oppressive fog, one figure trudged on, silent as the grave. His eyes stayed focused on the bright star that guided them. When others asked of him in weary despair, “Tancol?” he merely pointed up into the heavens, then drew up his cloak around him again, shadowing his face with his hood.

Beside him during most of the journey was his father, and he made up for every word that his son left unsaid. “And you were expecting a betrothal?! From him? That traitorous cousin – you would have married him?” Fingolfin sneered, drawing the fur of his mantle closer to his chin. “He would have used you – he did use you! And he, son of the King now – he will be expected to produce an heir. Even if you stayed with him, he could never be monogamous with you,” argued Fingolfin to the continued silence of his son. “He never loved you.”

Years later, Fingon wondered how he managed to survive the Helcaraxë; he supposed it was so that he had the opportunity to prove his father wrong.