Every Second Breath by IdleLeaves  

It happens - as always - with no semblance of warning. The ice groans, then shifts, and a channel of dark, swiftly-churning water cleaves open beneath their feet. Fingon stumbles, landing hard on one knee. He throws out an arm for his brother a heartbeat too late, and Turgon falls, plunging into the frigid sea.

Panic rises in Fingon's throat; he surges forward, shouting for help. Turgon splashes to the surface, his gloved hands clutching at the sharp edges of the ice in a desperate attempt to keep his head above water. Fingon catches him around the wrist and holds on as best he can; he curses as his grip begins to slip, and shouts again, blood pulsing in his ears loud enough to drown out any reply.

The ice cracks anew, then Finrod is there at Fingon's side. Together, they are only just able to pull Turgon from the sea, hauling him to safety as he coughs up salt water with every second breath.

Fingon drops to his knees in the crusted snow. His heart slows, bit by bit, but they cannot linger - a bitter wind from the north is rising, and their tents are clustered some distance away. Turgon is still gasping as Finrod helps him to his feet, arm around his shoulders to steady him. Fingon falls in beside them as they walk, his hand on Turgon's back.

By the time the tent flap closes behind them, Turgon is shuddering from head to foot. Even so, his sigh of relief is audible when he looks to his daughter and finds her, thankfully, still asleep under blankets and furs. He stays quiet, speaking little, while he sheds his wet cloak, finds dry clothing, and wrings the water from his hair as quickly and thoroughly as his shaking hands will allow.

Finrod lingers, his eyes clouded with concern, as he glances from Turgon to Fingon and back again.

"Thank you," Fingon says.

Finrod steps forward and hugs him, then Turgon. "Take care of yourselves," he says, before raising the hood of his cloak. A swift gust of wind sweeps into the tent as he departs.

Fingon risks a fire with what remains of the wood - the pale flames sputter, at first, then strengthen and spread. Turgon sinks down, still shivering, to lie at Idril's side. She stirs, but does not wake, when Fingon joins them, arranging the blankets to cover them all. The air starts to warm, and shadows rise and flicker on the tent's canvas walls.

Fingon doesn't intend to sleep - not with a fire burning - but he wakes, later, with a harsh cough and the rush of the dream-sea closing over his head. The fire is only embers, now, and a chill is creeping in; Fingon curls back under the blankets, calming himself with slow, even breaths as he reaches out a hand for reassurance.

Turgon is not there.

"Turukáno?" Fingon says into the stillness; he's up in an instant, boots on his feet and cloak fastened. The spot where Turgon had lain is empty, and the tent flap is unsecured, its drawstrings untied. Fingon pushes it aside and braces himself against the wind.

Outside, he finds a rare cloudless sky and the stars shining bright; he finds Turgon, as well, standing still and silent just beyond the tents, keeping his distance from the cleft in the ice. The thrum of worry in Fingon's veins fades but does not vanish.

Turgon doesn't move when Fingon approaches. "Itarillë?" he asks.

"Sleeping," says Fingon.

Turgon's response is no more than a slight nod. His hands are bare despite the cold; he runs his thumb over the gold band on his index finger, its delicate engraved leaves glinting in the starlight. Fingon lays a hand on his shoulder, and when Turgon turns his head his eyes are sharp with grief - renewed, now - and the guilt he carries.

It's not unexpected, yet the strength of it still hits Fingon like a blow to the chest. He wants, then, to grab Turgon by the arm and walk him away from the sea, back to what little warmth the tents provide - to settle him at his daughter's side and sit with him until he sleeps. Instead, he waits.

"I keep seeing-" Turgon begins, but stops with an unsteady sigh. He waits a long moment before speaking again. "If I'd been-"

"If you'd been there," Fingon interrupts, gentle and firm, "then we'd have lost you both." Turgon makes a soft, pained sound at the back of his throat. "Come," Fingon says, wrapping his fingers around Turgon's forearm. "Please."

"Soon," says Turgon, and does not follow.

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