the ice in the paragon by queerofthedagger  

Fingolfin

It is his children who urge the leaving. It is Nolofinwë who makes the choice. Who sets foot on the Ice, the smoke of his brother’s betrayal still hanging in the air, and leads his people into ruin.

It is his children who urge to follow, but it is Nolofinwë who leads. It is no selfless act; not once does he try to turn it into such a bold-faced claim.

His brothers have abandoned him once more. Once more, Nolofinwë plunges after Fëanáro, hand to open flame, rather than turn home, turn to peace, turn back, turn back, turn back.

Surrounded by freezing white, Nolofinwë learns of regret. Of patience, and humility, of what it means to bear the crown.

His people die, and suffer, and curse his brother’s name. Nolofinwë did this. No father, no brother, no children; just me.

Those who survive do so by cutting parts of themselves off; their innocence, sacrificed to the altar of devouring hunger. Their faith, drowned alongside their children. Their fingers, toes, limbs, coin the Ice demands in exchange for passage.

Those who survive do so in despite; they do not know yet that that will be true, for centuries to come.

The Ice has been a patient teacher—of despair. Of wrath. Of how little room there is for error.

And yet, with solid ground beneath his feet once more, Nolofinwë cannot help the relief. The wonder, at this new land. The terrible, treacherous hope. For should there not be reward, after endurance, at the end of it all? For should there not be an end?

Oh, how Nolofinwë learns that there is not. The blood of his youngest child still dries on his hands when Makalaurë stares at him, eyes hollow. Says, dead; he is dead, dead, dead and gone.