Lay the Heart Bare, Leaf by Leaf by IdleLeaves

The wind does not cease. Even the ice stills, at times, and once in a great while the dark clouds will thin just enough for the stars to shine dimly through, but the cold wind from the north is ever-present.

Finrod and Fingon walk side by side, heads bowed, cloaks wrapped around them as securely as can be. The Ice had not brought them together, but it has cemented the bond, keeps them close when drifting from each other's sight could mean being claimed by the frigid sea without a chance for rescue.

Neither speaks. In the beginning, those first days on the Ice, words had been near-constant. Fingolfin and his sons and daughter – and Finarfin's children, too – had moved amongst their people speaking of courage, determination, and what awaits them after this crossing, but as time passed the words froze in their mouths. Now, their silent strength stands in place of speech, and helps the host carry itself forward despite the hardship, despite the loss.

It's past time to rest. Fingon leads Finrod to shelter, of a sort, in the shadow of a wide shard of ice extending up from the uneven ground, and unties the blankets he carries rolled under his pack. Blankets wrapped around them, they huddle together, sharing the last portion of dried fruit carried from home. After this, it is only waybread, and the fish they catch, on occasion, through cracks in the ice.

Finrod's head rests on Fingon's shoulder; Fingon's hand is as cold as his own when he clasps and holds it under their cloaks. The Ice groans alarmingly some distance away, but does not shudder beneath them. After a long moment, and with the hesitation of one who has been quiet too long, Fingon begins, softly, to sing. A song of the stars – the same ones kept from them, this night and so many others, by mists and cloud above.

He raises his voice to be heard above the wind, and another singer joins him. Then, another, and another yet. The song travels through the host, carried on a few strong voices; not many, but enough. It's a reminder, in a dark time, that hope is not lost – and neither are they.

Finrod does not sing, but he listens, holding Fingon's hand tightly in both of his own.

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In an instant, the ice gives way beneath their feet. There's no warning, no deep splintering groan that often comes before the fractures; it simply cracks like a tree split by an axe, exposing the frigid water below.

Elenwë falls.

Aredhel lunges for her, very nearly sending herself straight into the sea, as well. Behind her, fellow travellers have come to her aid, holding her tight around the legs so she can stretch closer to the edge, reaching down to where Elenwë desperately treads water just out of reach. Aredhel extends her arm as far as she can; it's not enough. Elenwë's fingers touch hers then slip free.

Elenwë! Aredhel shouts, out of frustration, out of fear. She's already lost a brother to this death-ice; she cannot, will not--

Elenwë grasps her hand, and this time holds on. Aredhel pulls with all the strength she can muster, and those behind her do the same, dragging her back from the edge; then, Elenwë lies gasping on the ice, trailing water and shivering so hard her teeth chatter.

There are dry clothes for her, from Aredhel's pack, but they both know this will not be enough - Elenwë's hair is soaked through, dripping around her face and starting to freeze. There's precious little wood remaining to them and a fire is ill-advised on unstable ice, but without the warmth she will not survive. They've lost so many to the cold, already, though not as many as have been carried off by the sea or caught under the ice when it breaks and heaves.

The air is damp with heavy mist; the fire will not light. Aredhel takes the tinder-box herself and tries, over and over, until the smallest curls of flame start to sputter and smoke. Fingon brings them a heavy cloak - his own - and they huddle beneath it, grateful that the wind has quieted for a time. Aredhel presses a kiss to Elenwë's cold lips, and does not protest when Elenwë's head falls onto her shoulder and stays there for a long while as the fire grows and warms. Fingon sits across from them, wordless, adding wood to the fire as needed and keeping a close watch on the ice beneath them.

Aredhel reaches out, after a time, and takes Elenwë's hands, holding them tight in her own. They are chilled, still, but no longer frozen; white, still, but no longer ice-blue. I'll be all right, love, Elenwë says, and Aredhel believes her.

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"Get out," Curufin snaps as he passes through the doorway. The healer retreats at once; Edrahil takes longer, distrust etched across his face as he exits, door open wide behind him. Curufin closes it with a thud, then turns to stand, arms crossed, at Finrod's bedside.

There's blood on the blankets. The bandages around Finrod's torso are clean, at least, but his face and chest are sweat-dampened and fever-flushed.

Curufin is seething. "Idiot," he says, and waits until Finrod's eyes flicker open, soft and hazy. "Idiot," Curufin repeats. "Riding out alone - alone, in winter, with reports of orcs at every-" He breaks off with a huff. "You are fortunate - very fortunate - that you didn't get yourself killed," he continues.

It takes Curufin a moment to realise that the quiet, choked sound Finrod makes is a laugh. It's followed quickly by a cough when he tries to speak, then a hushed, trembling inhale. Curufin sighs, and sits carefully on the edge of the bed; he grabs the cup of water on Finrod's bedside table, and slides his hand under Finrod's head to help him take a few small sips.

"Are you done?" Finrod rasps.

"No," says Curufin. "Why would you-" he begins, but stops as he finds his fury fading into nothing more than a simmering exasperation.

"Had to get your attention somehow," Finrod says, with a miserable excuse for a smile. His eyes drift closed, then open for a heartbeat before closing again.

"Pain?" Curufin asks.

"Tolerable," says Finrod.

"Liar," says Curufin. He takes a fresh cloth from the pile on the bedside table and submerges it in a basin of cool water, wringing it out before laying it across Finrod's too-warm forehead.

"Thank you," Finrod says, and reaches for Curufin's hand.

"Shut up," says Curufin, threading their fingers together.

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Maglor does not run from the sight of a white ship, newly-anchored in the harbour. Instead, he turns - calm on the surface, heart in his throat - and retreats into the dawn-mist with swift, controlled steps across the shore, hands curled into fists to keep them from shaking.

He walks until the curve of the shore folds in on itself - until smoke-grey rock gives way to rippling sand. Then, he wades into the winter sea, raises his eyes to stars he cannot see, and screams. A frigid rush of wind rips the words from his mouth and carries them off, unheard.

Maglor's strength falters; he sinks to his knees in the icy surf. He hasn't cried in years, yet there are tears on his face, clinging to his eyelashes and sliding over his cheeks. He breaks into a sweat as pain abruptly kindles in his palm; his hand aches, and he plunges it into the water, holding it there until it numbs and he can rest it, again, in his lap.

Soft footfalls disturb the sand behind him. Maglor knows, without even casting a glance over his shoulder, that it is Finrod who has found him. He kneels beside Maglor with a gasp, the shallow remnant of a cold wave splashing against him.

Finrod does not speak, but takes Maglor's hand, holding it palm-up in his own. His fingers trace ancient injury - not the ever-present burn, but the musician's calluses that have never healed, even if Maglor can no longer remember when he last held a harp.

Maglor's tears begin anew; Finrod releases his hand, then, and gathers Maglor into the familiar warmth of his arms, steady and silent, until Maglor is able to withdraw, to straighten his back and wipe his eyes.

"Come home," Finrod says, voice gentler than Maglor deserves.

"I cannot," Maglor chokes out, and bows his head.

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The steep, narrow stairs creak softly as Maglor descends below decks, passing between rows of bunks to a darkened corner. Curufin is exactly where Maglor left him: lying on his side with Maglor's cloak folded under his head, boots discarded on the floor.

"Fuck off," Curufin says without opening his eyes.

"No," says Maglor, and sits on the edge of the bunk.

Maglor had hoped to find Curufin more alert, but he's still pale in the lamp-light, his face damp with sweat; he's been sick and miserable since they'd sailed out of the harbour into the dark, angry sea. The ships had all begun to pitch and roll with the waves and swells, and Maglor had gone to - and stayed at - Curufin's side, holding his hair back every time he leaned over the deck rail.

"Feeling any better?" Maglor asks, and holds out a waterskin.

"Clearly not," says Curufin, but takes it. He sits up just enough to drink slowly, one small sip at a time, until he stops with a quiet, disgusted sound and hands the waterskin back to Maglor. The ship tilts to one side before righting itself, and Curufin exhales a careful breath.

Before Curufin can lie down again, Maglor shakes out his cloak and sets it aside with the waterskin. He removes his boots and climbs into Curufin's bunk, settling in with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him. "Come here," he says, and waits to hear fuck off a second time.

"I'm not a child," Curufin says, instead.

"I know. Come here," Maglor repeats, but Curufin does not immediately relent. It takes a long moment before he rubs a hand over his face and moves to lie with his head in Maglor's lap. "Sleep, if you can," Maglor says, laying a hand on Curufin's shoulder, "and please don't throw up on me."

Curufin makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh. "I make no promises," he says, then closes his eyes as the ship rocks gently back and forth.

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