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The creaking ice makes no sound as Fingon slips away from the camp, quiet as a shadow. Most people are sleeping outside, silver-painted, unwilling to part from light. They are gathering strength for the last stretch of the journey, so Fingon passes amid them unnoticed even under the soft light.
He walks to a small frozen pool, the ice cover winking at him. He puts down his pack, sits on the edge and stares into the wide expanse of the Helcaraxë they will soon leave behind. He uncovers his head and lets his tightly bound hair loose. Then with the patience the Ice has taught him, he puts them in many braids. In his pack, he has all the ribbons and ornaments he has been able to save to this day. One by one, he winds the ribbons around his plaits, adornes them with the few pieces of golden jewelry he has.
When his braids are done, he takes his sword, taps the hilt against the ice over the pool and finds the weakest place. Unsheathing his sword, he plunges it into the ice, and it cracks and breaks. Fingon brings the sword down a few more times until the pool is covered in many fragmented ice pieces. He puts the sword away and begins to undress.
Slowly, keeping his breathing even, trying to soak up warmth from the moon rolling above him, from the inner fire of his fëa, from Middle-earth behind him, he removes layer after layer until he stands stark naked among ice and snow.
He takes a step to the pool, then another, gasps when he touches the water but does not stop, keeps walking forward. Soon the water is up to his knees, then to his waist, then to his neck. He takes a deep breath and sinks beneath the freezing water.
He closes his eyes, allows himself to simply exist for a moment in the dark - weightless, unburdened. He floats underwater, untwists his thoughts, leaves his ice to the Ice.
Then he emerges, renewed, hair dripping, the gold glistening in his locks. The jewelry clinks and sings an old song he has almost forgotten. He smiles, no longer cold. Content, he turns his back to the Helcaraxë. Ahead, three peaks shoot up to the stars.
There is still time until he must go back. Unhurriedly, he drifts along the broken shards of ice and gazes at Middle-earth. Behind him, the first sun flowers.
