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The grinding of the ice would not let her sleep.
It cracked and groaned and snapped, and even if she hadn’t been so cold, she never could have slept. Rising, she wrapped her arms around herself and pulled her blankets more closely around her shoulders, trying to conserve warmth. The wind never seemed to stop blowing, tugging at her hair, shaping it into icicled points frozen to her clothes.
There would never be any warmth, any sun, again.
She gritted her teeth and wished her cousins joy of their damnation. She already knew well that she would never occupy any hell that they were banished to.
Never again would she trust any of that brood.
“Artanis?”
She turned, startled, but it was only Findekáno. His lips had a bluish tinge to them, hair more white than black. If they didn’t escape this wasteland soon even more would die. Galadriel wanted to weep, but there was no more moisture left for tears.
“Artanis, what are you doing? Did something happen?” He approached her, eyes slits against the icy wind. “Did you – see something?”
See something, she thought bitterly. As I did not see them burning the ships. As I did not see treachery. As I did not see wickedness and sedition. “No, I saw nothing.”
“You should be sleeping.” The wind had slowed down, and he didn’t have to shout to be heard, standing next to her.
“The ice kept me awake. So should you.” Fingon shrugged, though she could see the flat, frozen look in his eyes that had never been there before.
“Father told me he heard howling. I told him I would watch tonight. For wolves, on the ice.”
Wolves. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Fingon looked sideways at her in alarm. “Artanis? What’s - don’t be afraid. I haven’t heard any sign of them. And if I did…” He let the end of that sentence hang. She envied him, almost, that he had some way to expel his anger. And she could not. She had to keep it within where it felt like it would eat her inside out.
“Are you cold?” He asked, when she didn’t answer, and because it was easy, she said, “Yes.” He put his arms around her and held her tightly, rubbing her shoulders, and even if her cheek pressed against the frozen fabric of his tunic was cold, she wanted the contact more than any warmth.
“Please,” she whispered, hoarsely. The wind was picking up again, but it would blow her words to him. “Be careful.” Even if we escape this. So much death. For ever and ever and ever.
“I will,” he mouthed, but she didn’t hear it. He shook his head and turned his back into the wind, arm still around her shoulders, saying something that she couldn’t hear over the sudden howling gust. He pulled her behind a small shelf of ice, dragged his shield from his back and braced it on his arm. The wind was nearly cut entirely, and she huddled in the shelter of his arm, unsure if she wanted to escape the wind or the visions tugging at her consciousness.
Galadriel watched the muscles in Fingon’s shoulders work to keep the shield upright. “Is that better?” he panted, and she nodded and lifted both her arms, shifted to brace her back against his chest and support the shield with her own strength as well.
“Thank you.” He sounded surprised, and she just nodded, listening to the wind howl its way down into whistling again. They lowered the shield slowly. “This can’t go on much farther,” Fingon said, but she could hear the weariness in his voice and knew that he hardly believed his own words. “We’ll come out of it soon.”
“We will,” she agreed, because it was the only thing she could do. All things, all disasters, could come true without her, or Fingon, or others. There was nothing to assure her that anyone would live, except her brother, and his days were numbered as well…
Despair threatened to overwhelm her, and she turned desperately to Fingon. “Hold me.”
He blinked, though it seemed that his eyelashes were nearly frozen together. “—I beg your pardon, Artanis?”
“Hold me,” she said again, more desperately. “I can’t – I feel as thought I’m about to fly apart.” And if she cried, the tears would only freeze on her cheeks.
“What happened,” he asked, sounding uncertain as her brave cousin never sounded uncertain, and she shuddered. She could see him staring up at the sky, eyes glazing and lying in a pool of blood. She could see the blood his blade would spill, could feel all the bitterness and rage pouring down upon her.
“Please, Findekáno.” If I let myself cry now I will never stop, like Nienna. Weep forever without ceasing.
His warm arms encircled her. “Shhh – Artanis, it will be all right,” he said, though he sounded strained and fearful himself. “We will make it through this. All of us. I am sure of it.” How can you be when I am not, she thought, but didn’t ask, turning her face against his chest.
“Just keep talking,” she said, quietly. “I need to keep it at bay.”
“Keep what at bay?”
“Please,” she said, again, feeling weak and fragile, and he bent his head over hers as the wind began to pick up again.
“All right,” he said, and softly, “I hope – I hope that Arakáno didn’t suffer. I hope that he is all right, whatever – and Ireth, as well, she has never been anywhere like this – none of us have, I don’t think I shall ever be cold again when we descend again, not now that I know what it truly is- Artanis, will you be all right?”
“I want to understand,” she whispered. “I don’t think I ever will. Why did everything go wrong, Findekáno?”
“It’s not wrong yet,” Fingon said, fiercely. “Not yet. Not until we are dead, and I intend to survive this. We are not beaten so easily.”
“Not so easily,” she whispered, almost fearful, and shook her head. “Then what else can they summon against us?”
“Speak not so,” Fingon murmured, and his hand rested on her frozen hair. “We are strong, and we are faultless. There is no punishment that we can have earned.”
Then why are we being punished, she wanted to ask, but did not quite dare.