empty land by queerofthedagger  

The worst nights are those when rain comes down like a torrent, merciless and terrible. The tents turn into drums, then; beneath you, the ice groans, heaves, shudders.

Nothing but white and grey, before, behind, around you. The furs and leathers keep out the worst of the cold, but not the damp. It creeps into your bones, beneath your ribs, settles there alongside the betrayal that left you here.

You do not think of him, red-fire head tossed back on a white beach, crimson on his blade. On yours. On the shore, Findaráto, staring at you both as if he has never seen you before, eyes terrible in the dark.

Perhaps he had not. He refuses to share your tent, your space, your sorrow. Your fury.

You cannot blame him. Once, in gold-cast days of careless bliss, the three of you used to be—something. A triangular shape, always revolving around each other. Warm hands, late nights, a tangle of limbs in opulent beds. A reprieve, a stolen treasure, and you all thought, then, that it could always be like that; that one day, the world would bend to your folly, and all would be well.

What fools you had been.

Now, you rise with the dawn, coax a fire to life. The air tastes like rain, like death; it will freeze, later, turn the ground into even more of a treacherous beast.

You clean the fish that sprang the traps overnight. There are few, too few, as there always are. Your fingers hurt with cold, once you are done, and you add part of your own ration to Idril’s bowl.

No one ever asks, and you are glad for it. Penance takes many forms, Yavanna used to say. You are not sure penance is what you are doing; are not sure if it matters, really, what it is.

You rise, and become aware of another body in the cold with you. You need not turn, to recognise him, the burning brightness of his presence.

You would recognise him, always; always know where he is, in relation to you, know his steps along the lines beneath the Ice.

You cannot lose him too, no matter his rightful contempt.

“Findekáno,” he says, voice mild.

In the east, the light is changing; Varda’s creations fading, washed-out red replacing it.

“Ingoldo,” you return, a name like a wound. “It is early.”

The ice shifts. He comes to stand behind you, chest to back, and you clench your jaw. Feel it, through layers of clothes, heat that used to be a home.

One that you burnt to the ground, flames eating all that you were.

“It is,” he agrees, leans his forehead to your shoulder. “It is early, and I am tired. Are you not?”

There is no forgiveness in his tone, but you sway, lean into him. There is still blood on your hands—from the fish, from his kin, from the betrayal that left both of you scraped raw.

“I can’t—“ you start, almost choke on the words.

Findaráto sighs, his breath hot against your cheek. “A pink dawn. Hope, Nienna used to say; it comes in many forms. It will not come through self-flagellation.”

It is not that simple, you want to say, but you, too, are tired, so tired.

Findaráto steps away, takes your hand. “Come, sleep,” he says. “Let us be warm yet, for an hour or two. We will need to go on soon enough.”

Ever, it seems, you cannot bring yourself to deny them. You follow, and know that this, too, may yet come to condemn you.

Chapter End Notes

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