Brittle by talktob3cks

---

Chapter 1

---

Aredhel cursed, her frozen hands fumbling with the twine wrapped around her prey's hind feet. An unidentifiable rodent dangled from the string. The creature was barely bigger than Aredhel's arrowhead and it probably was not worth risking her life in this numbing cold, but they were always desperate for meat, even if it was scrawny.

If Aredhel was honest, the true reason she had gone hunting was because she had needed to. Tracking, searching, stalking, shooting, cleaning. These tasks were simple enough to keep her from thinking too hard but required enough skill so she did not think about other things. She could not afford to think right now. Her emotions would freeze her faster than the hateful winds of the Helcaraxe.

Her brother's tent was now within sight. Aredhel did not waste her breathe to sigh in relief, but slipped through the small opening. She threw off her gloves and her patchwork cloak, and quickly found the fire. They had all learned, mostly through experience, that it was necessary to regain warmth as efficiently as possible. She passed the rodent to someone and rubbed her hands together, wincing as feeling burned through her icy veins.

Aredhel searched the faces around her as her eyes adjusted to the firelight. The atmosphere within the tent was heavier and colder than the bitter landscape outside.

Five days ago things were different. Her brother's tent had been filled with warmth, but not from the meager fires they lit. Although they were frostbitten, hungry, and bitter at Feanor's betrayal, the elves who resided in Turgon's tent were warmed by the love which radiated from the prince's family. Turgon's wife, Elenwe was a gracious hostess, and their daughter, Idril, remained joyful and innocent.

Perhaps this explained why many of Fingolfin's nobles had claimed space amongst Turgon's ranks. They were drawn in like moths to a light. Aredhel preferred to stay with Turgon rather than her father. Her father's brooding did not facilitate Aredhel's refusal to ponder her own situation. Lord Glorfindel, who had left against his father's wishes, was one of the first to unfurl his blanket in a corner. Lord Ecthelion and his sister joined them after their father was lost in a storm. Others trickled in.

Unlike many noblewomen, Elenwe had refused to be separated from her husband, and so she left Valinor with her husband and little daughter. She had discovered more uses for caribou, muskrats, and fish than Aredhel knew was possible. She clothed them in garments sewn from various scraps of fur. She never blamed her husband for following Feanor, and she refrained from pointing out his folly. She simply took what she could scrounge from her surroundings and quietly toiled to create a comfortable environment. Even so, Aredhel knew that if it was not for Turgon and precious Idril, Elenwe would journey back across the Helcaraxe to return home.

That was before five days ago.

The ice rumbling beneath her feet jolted Aredhel out of her musings. The sound of ice was always there, whether a quiet groan or a loud, sharp crack. Now the sound mocked her, reminding her of grief, of cruelty, of the impermanence of life.

A quiet wail broke the uneasy silence. The pathetic noise broke Aredhel's heart. She carefully walked over wool and fur matts to reach the corner where her niece was huddled in a blanket. It was where she had been for the past five days. Different friends and family members had taken turns sitting with the girl. She had been hysterical for hours after she was pulled out of the water. The water her mother drowned in. Now, Idril sat in Hisiel's lap.

Aredhel knelt down and ran her hands through her niece's golden curls.

"How is she?" Aredhel inquired.

Hisiel looked down and gently wiped tears off her charge's face. "She's been quiet, my lady." Aredhel frowned. "This troubles me more than her weeping. Why isn't…" Hisiel bit her lip. The question was unfinished, but Aredhel knew what it was.

Why isn't her father here?

Aredhel shook her head. She looked at the suffering child and clenched her teeth. Fury burned hits way into her numb soul. This ends now.

She kissed Idril and stalked out of the tent, grabbing her cloak on the way. She was almost to Fingolfin's tent before she realized he had forgotten her gloves. She cursed but kept on. She burst through the entrance, her temper at its height.

"Where is Turgon?" she demanded, interrupting his fathers' discussion with an advisor.

Fingolfin turned to face his daughter. "He's not here," said the prince, without bothering to chide his daughter's manners.

"Obviously. I must find him. He is needed," she stated.

Fingolfin rested his hand on his daughter's face. She looked like her mother. Valar only knew where her temper came from.

"He is grieving, Aredhel. We cannot begrudge him that right. Leave him be," the prince's statement was firm but gentle.

"It's Idril, Father," Aredhel's statement came out in a sob. "Turgon has not even looked at her since Elenwe drowned, and now…" she gasped, refusing to cry. "It's been five days. She needs her father. They need each other."

Fingolfin swept his hands over his face. Eventually he sighed and nodded. "My guess is he is with Fingon."

"Thank you Atar," Aredhel whispered. She turned to face the hike to Finrod's camp, where her truant brothers were most likely to be.

"Wait," Fingolfin called, "Take these." He reached into his cloak and pulled out his own gloves. Aredhel accepted them with a wan smile.

The cold after walking out of her father's cozy tent was shocking now that her temper had petered out. It was a long harsh trek to Finrod's camp. She walked back west, towards the end of the Noldor line.

She reached her cousins camp and paused outside the tent. Turgon, you had better be here! She could not bear the thought that her frozen hike could be in vain.

"Cousin," Finrod greeted Aredhel, as she ducked inside. "Join us," he gestured to a small fire. Aegnor was there, along with Fingon. Once again, Aredhel removed her gloves, her father's gloves, and rubbed her hands over the flames.

Aredhel had never been inside Finrod's tent before. She paused her mission to glance around. It was sparse. She looked at her cousins. They were dressed in shabby garments. Galadriel was never mistaken for a skilled seamstress. Her brothers had probably jury rigged their own cloaks together.

Finrod subconsciously touched his ring finger, the finger that no longer gleamed with a silver betrothal ring. Aredhel did not know why he had not returned to Valinor with his father. She doubted Finrod even knew. Overnight, he had become the leader of his father's house, and he looked lost in the role.

He also appeared frighteningly thin. Aredhel would try to hunt again, this time for her cousins. But not now. She had a different mission.

She nodded at her cousins then turned to her brother. "Fingon, where is Turgon? I need to speak with him."

"He's outside, on the edge of the camp," Fingon pointed toward the direction.

"Outside? Alone?" Aredhel stated. No one should stay outside unless they were walking. "You let him go?" she asked sharply. She was livid Fingon had been so irresponsible.

"It isn't as if I could stop him," Fingon defended himself. "Let him be, Aredhel. He doesn't want to talk."

"Idril needs to see him. I'm so worried about her."

Fingon looked down, thinking hard. He looked back up at Aredhel and nodded. "You need to go then. He's been out there for a while."

Aredhel gave her brother a wan smile and left the tent. She found Turgon exactly where she was told he would be. Turgon stood with his back to the relative warmth of the Noldorin camp. His posture radiated misery.

Aredhel quietly approach her brother. He did not acknowledge her. He did not acknowledge the freezing wind burning his skin.

"Turgon," Aredhel whispered gently. She almost succumbed to weeping after seeing her brother in such intense pain. He looked at her after she moved into his line of sight and touched his shoulder. "You need to come back. Idril needs you."

Turgon looked away and clenched his teeth. "I hate him," he spat, ignoring her statement. His bitter declaration surprised Aredhel. She realized he was speaking about Feanor. "He betrayed us. He is the reason my wife is dead. He and his sons can burn in Morgoth's dungeons and I would be pleased. I hate him, I hate all of them."

Aredhel closed her eyes. "I know," she agreed quietly. "But now is not the time to dwell on hatred and bitterness."

"What else is there to dwell on if not bitterness? There is nothing left besides hatred in my heart. Its warmth froze with Elenwe." He turned away from his sister.

Aredhel spoke to her brother's back, "What of Idril?" He did not reply. "Does she not hold a place in your heart? She needs your comfort."

Turgon whipped around to face his sister. "Comfort? How can I give her what I do not possess?" His laugh was part sob. "I cannot go to Idril. She looks like her mother. She is the image of what I lost. She does not deserve a father who cannot meet her eyes." Turgon shook his head and once again turned away.

Aredhel thought of the little golden-haired girl shivering in Hisiel's lap and became furious. She had meant to speak with Turgon gently, to empathize, and be comforting. Instead, she stood before him shaking with cold and fury. It took a moment for her to find her voice.

She viciously pushed her brother. "You selfish, pathetic, idiot! This isn't about you!" she shouted. Turgon stumbled backward, shocked and silent. "She's dying!" Aredhel choked. She knew she was being cruel, but Turgon needed to hear the truth. "She's fading away. She needs you there. Go to her," she whispered, gently touching his cheek. "Go to your daughter."

Turgon turned away from his enraged sister. He stood silent and still.

Aredhel was about to yell at him again, perhaps drag him back by his pointed ear, but she stopped.

She moved to stand beside her brother. One tear trickled down his frostbitten cheek, and his brittle façade shattered like ice. Turgon collapsed onto the frozen ground, sobbing. Aredhel sank to her knees. She held her brother as he wept. Betrayal, despair, grief, fear, bitterness, and guilt poured through his tears and from his heart.

When Turgon's brokenhearted crying ceased, and his tears had frozen, Aredhel lifted her brother to his feet. Their eyes met, and Turgon drew a shivering breath. He silently nodded. Relieved, Aredhel led her brother to the front of the Noldor camp.

The journey back was tedious. Aredhel silently gripped her brother's cold hand as they walked. By the time her nose, feet, and hands were numb, the siblings sighted Turgon's tent.

Fingolfin was standing outside, gazing through the fog, looking for them. Turgon stopped in front of his father.

"I cannot do this," he whispered. Aredhel opened her mouth to counter him, but Fingolfin silenced her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Turgon clarified, "I am not certain I can love her as I should. My heart is frozen." He took a panicky step back. "Idril should not have to suffer her father's coldness."

Fingolfin leapt forward and crushed his son in a fierce hug. He stepped back and looked at Turgon. "Go inside," he ordered.

Turgon closed his eyes and braced himself before entering the tent. Aredhel followed him. She nearly ran into him when he stopped just inside. Her eyes followed his gaze to Idril.

Idril was curled up with Glorfindel this time, in the same corner of the tent. The golden-haired elf lord hummed a lullaby to the shivering child. His eyes widened when he noticed Turgon. Turgon stayed across the room, frozen.

"Turgon?" Aredhel prompted.

Turgon closed his eyes. Aredhel gripped his arm and willed peace to flow through him.

He opened his eyes and a tear trickled down past his determination to not cry again. "She looks like Elenwe," Turgon spoke to his sister. He slowly approached his daughter.

Idril opened her eyes when she heard her father's quiet voice. He knelt down next to her and she threw herself into his arms. Glorfindel moved away discreetly.

Turgon clutched the girl, stroking her hair, and whispering quiet words of comfort.

Aredhel absconded into the frozen darkness outside. Revealing her emotions made her uncomfortable, and she refused to cry in front of a room full of family, royalty, and nobles. She shivered alone, the steady flow of her tears preventing them from freezing on her cheek. The ice shifted and threw her to her knees.

The thoughts she had evaded crashed upon her. She was drowning, flailing helplessly in bitter, cold grief.

More than the Trees of the Valar, he was her light. When they were young, they would escape their respective homes and meet in the forest. He taught her how to track rabbits and to speak to birds.

One day, amidst oaths of revenge, treachery, and death, she made her own secret vow. She would follow him, across the ocean, through the wilderness of Middle Earth, leaving behind family, friends, and home.

A few days later, he was gone. He left her to the mercy of the Helcaraxe.

A warm touch pulled her out of the cold depth of her memories. Her father knelt beside her and wrapped her in a cloak. She cried, on her father's shoulder, like she had not done since she was a young child. He held her and patted her back until she stopped.

Aredhel's voice was muffled and raw, "I can't do this, Atar. Nothing remains untouched by grief. What will happen to us?" After centuries of asserting her independence, Aredhel was hungry for her father's strength.

Fingolfin was quiet for a moment. "You are right, daughter. All lands are marred with grief. However, love still grows, perhaps, the greater." He stood up, pulling Aredhel up after. Grasping her hands, he touched his forehead to hers and hers. "We will survive this."

Aredhel felt a spark. Deep in her soul, a pinpoint of light, like a star partly shrouded by mist, stubbornly ignited in the darkness. Perhaps, there was hope left.