The Helcaraxë; an ice queen moves in the darkness. Aredhel. Indomitable, at one with the white and cold she is lit by the ethereal sky. Strange colours and lights wheel overhead, scattered lines of unearthly green and blue, soft reds, pinks; every colour you could dream of twists it’s way across the horizon. The skies too are in turmoil.

Speaking a word here and there, moving through the huddled crowds that are scattered across the ice plains she brings her own warmth to them. A train of ladies follows her, distributing swathes of material. He watches as the fine silks and velvets pass from hand to hand, wrapped around young and old like simple blankets. A flash of butter yellow catches his eye and then it is gone lost amongst the populace; wistfully he smiles, reminded of the balmy evenings of days long past.

Before he realises she is standing before him. Broken from thought he is uncomfortable and awkward in his surprise. Stamping his feet, supposedly against the cold, he tries to find his voice.

“Good evening my Lord, do you require an extra blanket?” there is a soft smile upon her face, wind stirs the fur of her hood, the fine hairs caress her cheek. Mentally his fingertips follow their course.

“No my Lady, I think my own shall suffice. Though take care not to give too much, what if you should need more protection from the cold?”

“I shall share your blanket,”

He chokes on the shock. Realising what she has said a gloved hand flies to her mouth, a cross between a gasp of shock and muffled laughter follows. Serene again she straightens herself but her eyes sparkle with mirth as she baits him,

“Yes. I shall use your blanket and then you shall sing to me, as you did on the beaches.”

As she drifts away he hopes it is too cold to blush. Not daring to watch her go he buries face in his furs, glad Ecthelion is nowhere in sight or earshot.

At least the thought would warm him, if naught else.

Muffled funerary tolls roll out along the beaches. Even so far from the Havens the harbour bells still reach them, sounding through the wrathful crashing of the waves. Perhaps Ossë called them up himself from dark and watery depths. Glorfindel’s stomach curls at the thought.

His limbs are heavy, tired and aching, stiff with crusting blood and salt. And then there is the matter of the sand, wet and coarse and everywhere. In his hair, his boots, his skin. But these are trivial. He must find her first, put his mind to rest.

Once their folly had been realised they had retreated in the confusion; horrified, terrified and ungainly. Friend and foe had blurred, bodies fell in all directions and the sea rolled with bloody corpses. They had regrouped, as far as possible from the havens, made camp, and then stumbled to the formality of travel and warfare. Captains, lords, men he had seen to. But he had not seen her.

Roving restlessly along the shoreline he eventually saw her, standing like a pale sentinel in the sea. Water had soaked up her skirts, sweeping upwards almost to her waist. Furrows of concern mark his bloodstained brow.

“My Lady,” he rests a hand on her shoulder, she is shaking, silently weeping.

“Can you smell the smoke? They are burning them Glorfindel. The sea will not take any more of their bodies, it is full to the brim….What have we done?” her voice is hoarse and choked. 

“It was not we,” he said carefully, before he could finish she bitterly cut him off,

“Yes and they left us! I know.”

With difficulty Glorfindel tried for diplomacy, “I am sure they had their reasons… You will be able to ask once we reach them”

Clearly she is too preoccupied to hear the tightness to his voice, as her reply comes in a wild flurry, delirious and high.

“Once we reach them? And how are we to get there? Swim? Over the ice?!”

“Hush, not now, those are questions for another day” he soothes, wondering just when that day will be and who will have the answers, “You need rest.” 

Before she could resist he gatherers her into his arms, carrying her like a child. Dripping wet he deposits her outside of the tent emblazoned with her heraldry, firmly pointing her inside.

“I shall keep guard,” he says as she passes mournfully in to her waiting maids.

He stands with folded arms, listening to the bustle from within and then the frustrated tossing and turning of one searching sleep that will not come. Hesitantly and quietly he begins to sing, mumbling and off key. An old lullaby, the strangest thing to come to him now… But then there is silence from inside, at least a small sense of peace. Slowly smiling to himself he continues.

She catches his eye again, as he knows she shouldn’t. But there is just something different, an aspect he cannot put a finger upon. It is not as if he has never seen the Lady Aredhel before… he has served her brother many a year now, watching her grow up in the background until the little girl who used to braid his hair became the woman who wildly led hunts.

Then again it was not as if the Lady Aredhel had ever worn yellow or gold before. Perhaps that was it. But then why should she now? The questions plague him, he is caught in uncertainty – a rare thing. Golden yellow is the colour of his house. That is one certainty he does have.

Soft light gently fades outside, casting a warm aura in the pillared hall. Barely conscious of himself, he tilts his head on the side, considering her as she flits and dances about the hall. Dark hair is bound and braided with golden filigree, her narrow waist is girdled with a creamy yellow.

A polite cough startles him from a reverie he had been caught in unawares. Ecthelion stands beside him, an irritating smile of knowing amusement gracing his usually solemn features. Glorfindel ignores it. Or at least tries to for several minutes.

“My pardons friend, you have me at a disadvantage - is there something I should find amusing? Does the Lady Aredhel wear the colours of a new suitor that I have not yet been informed of?”

“Oh you are an idiot… perhaps you should ask her yourself” his friend nods beyond him in reference. As Glorfindel turns to see, her eyes pin him to the spot, escape is inevitable even if he wished it. Baring down upon him with a wide smile she could not have been more dangerously inviting. Unnaturally his innards seem to jump at her approaching presence.

“Lords Ecthelion, Glorfindel, you are both looking well,”

“Thank you my Lady, you are looking radiant as always, but especially in such bright raiment” ever the courtier Ecthelion has no issue with his words, yet Glorfindel finds he can only stand mute and tongue tied as her eyes slowly sweep over him.

“Too kind Ecthelion, too kind!” she replies, “I almost wore flowers too… what would you think, Glorfindel, to golden flowers entwined about me?”

Ecthelion must have swallowed his wine incorrectly; he was coughing and spluttering into his glass as Glorfindel felt his face flush with warmth.

“And speaking of flowers, would you honour me with a dance Lord Glorfindel? I did not know the flowers of your house could be so inclined to grow on the walls and in the shade…”

Several thousand possibilities and emotions were clamouring to fill his mind at her question. Shock. Fulfilment. Humility. Duty. Bliss. Awkwardness. Elation. Caution. Wonder. Propriety.

“I… I do not think that would be wise my Lady…I fear I may have drunk too much, my clumsy feet would only shame you,” the worlds come even clumsier and he finds he cannot look her in the eyes.

She looks down her nose at him, clearly disappointed.

“Well then my Lords I will take my leave of you, be sure to enjoy your evening,” her frosty withdrawal is worse than seeing her quickly find the third son of Fëanor to dance with.

“She was serious you know.” Recovered, Ecthelion rests a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Glorfindel’s jaw clenches in indecision. But was she? Was he?

Thanks to Aearwen for spotting some terrible errors in this one!

Trembling on unsteady legs he shoulders his way through the crowds, not daring, not hoping to believe what the people are whispering. But there she is, at her brother’s side once more. And all the rumours are true.
The hum of the crowd falls away as he gazes at her, but the years will not, nor what has happened in them. He knows he does not even have to ask as she sees him. The pained question is clear.

Her mouth opens to speak, but he finds that he cannot bear to hear her - in case he wakes to find it a dream, or in case the reality breaks him. Turning he wanders numbly back through the excitement, neither caring nor knowing where he is heading.

Time passes in an unknown blur, he sits in his gardens, high and far above the city where the noise and celebrations cannot reach him. Yet even these quiet realms and swaying blossoms cannot calm him. Mentally he makes his excuses; he would not want to intrude upon the family reunion, he would not want to burden her after such a journey, he would not want to overwhelm the child with yet another new face. They sound hollow, even in his ears.

The child. Dark and solemn. Clenching his fists he is sickened, filled with a horrid and unjust jealousy that the child should have been fair… should have been his.

His head is spinning when the messenger appears, flustered and pale faced, muttering from the shelter of a marble archway.
“What is it?” he snaps, in no mood for patience or courtesy.
“S-sorry my Lord, you are sent for, it is the Lady Aredhel, she is, I mean he has,” the messenger takes a deep breath, “Her husband, he followed them here…he has…he struck her with a poisoned javelin…”

Although the messenger’s mouth continues to move Glorfindel cannot hear him as he brushes past, legs and body moving with mechanical purpose. Though the walk is long it seems to take no time at all. Raised voices and frantic bustling reach him before he has even entered the presence chamber. But it is her voice that sounds above it all.

The doors to the private rooms are flung open, cruelly inviting him in.
He steels his face and arms self with courage. Entering the bedchamber he tries to look everywhere but at her; Turgon sits at the bedside, kneeling at its foot Idril is quietly sobbing and the son, pale and unsteady, hovers near her head. And that is when his eyes are drawn inevitably to her… the sight is like a blow to the chest.

Writhing, she moans in agony, gasping for breath and clutching at the crumpled sheets. Healers rush past, a flurry of blurred white. His head pounds; heavy and numb.
It is only the pain that is pin sharp. And her cries, ringing in his ears.

Tight jawed, Turgon motions him in to sit at the remaining empty chair. Unsteadily he lurches toward it, unable to tear his gaze away. As he sits the details are thrown into focus; beads of sweat trickle off her brow, sticking sleek strands hair to her head.
Cold horror grips him, as her body is wracked with frantic spasms.

Instinctively he clasps her trembling hand, swallowing the lump in his throat as her eyes flicker towards him.
“Forgive me?” the frail voice rasps. A silent tear escapes with his reply.
“Always my Lady.”

Thanks to all those at the Hall of Fire for their suggestions/advice throughout. Thanks also to any readers and to those who have reviewed to let me know what they think of this!