“What is this ‘doom’ everyone keeps worrying about? Doom, schmoom, once in Middle-earth, the Valar cannot reach us. Some curse if you cannot find the ones that have been cursed. Besides, how much sense does it make to curse us if they love us, as they claim?” Turgon’s rant had begun before they began crossing the Helcaraxe, and promised to continue long after.
“Brother, why not pause and breathe or something?” suggested Fingon.
Turgon paused with a huff, one arm around his wife, his other hand holding his walking stick. “I suppose you believe in this stupid, idiotic curse,” he said as he took a step forward, slamming down his walking stick. Everyone stopped as the sound of cracking ice tore through the frigid air.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Turgon, Elenwe, Fingon