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Aredhel checked the thermometer again. No perceptible change. She sighed and dug through the several layers of furs until she could place the thermometer back under Fingon’s arm. He showed no awareness of her, and continued mumbling nonsense under his breath.
She settled back into her own ample cloaks. Being part of the royal family, she was comparatively well-off, and she only shivered a little every time that the icy breeze leaked through the gaps of their small hut. Other elves weren’t so lucky.
They were reaching the critical point in the healing process. Either Fingon’s temperature would begin to rise, or he would die. She knew better than to lay her own furs over him in an attempt to save him. The healers had already determined the number of fur layers at which point there was no added benefit to the cold-afflicted elf. A grim science. Moreover, everyone had learned the hard way that taking off your cloak to help someone else who would probably die anyway was a pointless death sentence for yourself.
The once prosperous estate of Fingolfin now had a rigorous and streamlined response to what they called “internal congealment.” In an environment of unceasing cold, to attribute death to cold was the same as saying that someone died of natural causes. They had begun to understand that the actual causes of death were hunger, exposure, and exhaustion.
Fingon was suffering from all three.
Aredhel had been instructed to pull her remaining family members away from the damage control they were running over the giant whale carcass that Fingon and his friends had dragged home so that the whole family could watch Fingon die, if need be.
Aredhel checked the thermometer again. Wonderful invention, this. A small vial that held liquid that would expand or contract based on the surrounding temperature. A Ñoldor craftsman (not a Feanorian, so to her cousins he might as well not exist) invented the things to help with food safety, and most Ñoldorin households had at least one. That turned out to be supremely useful when your entire country is exiled to a frozen wasteland and it becomes helpful to know whether someone is past the point of no return in freezing to death.
A slight change for the better, but by no means was he safe. Aredhel ground her teeth together and leaned on Fingon, unwilling to extract her hand from her furs to hold his.
Fingon, as usual, had become impatient and attempted to save the day. The icebound nation’s incredibly delicate balance of animal husbandry in order to supply food, fuel for lamps, and furs was derailed when a wasting disease had wiped out half of their flocks in the space of a few months. Doom had seemed so imminent as to make Mandos’ prophecy less of a prophecy and more of a short term weather prediction. That’s when Fingon had decided to go rogue and managed to kill one of the whales that had mocked them beneath the ice ever since their exile.
Succeeding in such a hunt was an incredible accomplishment that had taken several days with no food and caused him to somehow lose half his clothes. So, of course, when he stumbled into camp yesterday, even their father had thought Fingon dead for sure this time.
Aredhel’s people were saved, for now. If they could repopulate their herds by the time the whale carcass ran dry, they would be able to resume their snail’s pace across Helcaraxë toward warmth and new types of danger.
Fingon coughed. “Nnnnn…” His rambling had slowed, and in its place, he was dedicated to this sound. “Nnnnnnn. Nnn. Nnnnnnnnnnnn…”
Aredhel narrowed her eyes, already fearing what was coming. “Finno?”
“Neh…”
Aredhel considered kicking him through his blankets to shut him up and stop what she knew was coming. Her heart twisted brutally, just once, a spasm of pure rage.
It’s not like she was surprised. But it had been nice for the last several years for her to not have to hear Fingon say that motherfucker’s name even once. She didn’t want to hear it now.
Fingon shifted restlessly in his blankets and cast his gaze around, confused. “Nelyo?”
“Be quiet,” Aredhel snapped, vicious. Those sounds in that order turned her stomach.
Fingon flinched, and his eyes finally found her and saw her. “Iriss…?”
“He’s not here. He will never come for you. He does not care for you or for any of us. Do not say his name in my presence.” Her head is an angry animal trapped atop her motionless body.
Fingon’s eyebrows draw together, and he becomes smaller somehow. He was not well enough to hide the hurt that her words caused. She felt somewhat guilty, but she was honestly glad that for once, she had true power over her eldest brother rather than her every emotion or thought being dismissed with a fond pat on the head or shoulder.
“I hate him. You should hate him too,” she said, every syllable measured like a beat on a drum.
“I know,” Fingon slurred miserably, and turned over to hide his face flushing with shame. A sudden sleep, either real or feigned, prevented him from speaking further.
Aredhel checked the thermometer one more time. It’s warmer. Fingon is going to live.