the ice in the paragon by queerofthedagger  

Turgon

Ever Turukáno has been restless—a strange, bristling unease, an impatience for change.

In truth, Turukáno is eager to leave Tirion. Had joined his brother in his urging, and found the ever-same readiness on Elenwë’s face.

The ice seems a canvas. Seems a threat, and Turukáno thrills at it, sees it mirrored in the brimming line of his daughter’s shoulders.

“She is strong,” Elenwë says, smiling, that last night. “Even if we shall not make it, she would.”

“Do not talk so,” Turukáno laughs, kisses her. All will be well, he thinks. All will be well, and new, and marvellous.

The day Elenwë falls through the ice is a day like any other.

The day the world breaks is a day like any other.

The day Turukáno learns of stillness—

They let her sink. It is a kindness, he knows, and yet he fights Findekáno’s hold on him with all his might, fights to hurt, until his daughter’s screams freeze him solid.

Turukáno does not thaw again. Learns of hollowness, then, of how to sink. Of how to hold Itarillë to his chest, without any other urge encroaching on their two-ness.

Turukáno learns of absence, and does not surface again.

Where things used to split into movement and stillness, into plans and idleness, they now split into safe and unsafe.

They leave the Ice behind, and yet, ever it follows; it morphs; it manifests in mountains and raging seas, in fell beasts and ruinous battles.

Itarillë chafes against his hold, and deep down, in some drowned and buried part of himself, Turukáno knows that she cannot breathe.

So, he moves. So, he builds. So, they step onto new land, and he refuses to let them, too, turn into a relic, fossilized in burial mounds until the breaking of the world.