The Helcaraxë stretches before them, a wasteland of ice and deadly beauty. Fëanor stands at the vanguard of his people, his breath crystallizing in clouds before his face, his black hair whipped by winds sharp enough to cut exposed skin. Behind him, the Noldor struggle forward—proud elves unused to such bitter cold, their fine clothing now tattered and layered with whatever furs they've managed to acquire along the journey. They've been crossing this grinding ice for days that blur into one another, each step a battle against the elements, each mile paid for in suffering. The light of the Trees is a distant memory here, where darkness reigns save for the cold gleam of stars reflected on endless ice.
His hands are numb despite the leather gloves he wears, fingers stiff and unresponsive when he tries to flex them. Yet beneath his layers of clothing, pressed against his chest, he feels a warmth—the copper brooch that has become his most treasured possession, more precious than the crown he once wore, more valuable than the Silmarils themselves, though he would never admit this aloud.
"My lord," calls one of his sons—Maedhros, his voice recognizable even muffled by the scarf wrapped around his lower face. "The scouts report a less treacherous path to the east. The ice is more stable there."
Fëanor nods once, sharp and decisive. "Then east we shall go. Pass the word back through the line. No one strays from the path—the crevasses here swallow the unwary without warning."
Maedhros hesitates, something unspoken in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or the question he dares not voice: Was this journey worth what they've endured? What they've done?
Fëanor meets his son's gaze steadily, allowing no doubt to show on his features. He is Curufinwë Fëanáro, Spirit of Fire, leader of the Noldor in exile. His people look to him for strength, for certainty in the face of hardship. He cannot show them the weight that presses on his shoulders with each step, the burden of decision that grows heavier as the journey stretches on.
"Go," he says, gentler now. "Your brothers need your guidance further back in the column."
Maedhros inclines his head and turns away, moving with the careful precision they've all learned is necessary on the treacherous ice. Fëanor watches him go, pride mingling with a deep ache that never quite subsides. His sons follow him without question, bound by the oath they swore together, their faces illuminated by torchlight as they raised their swords to the night sky.
Would Mahtan approve of the men they've become under his guidance? The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. Fëanor pushes it aside as he has a thousand times before. What's done is done. The ships burn behind them, the bridges severed, the path forward the only one remaining.
He turns his attention back to the endless expanse of ice, calculating distances, estimating time, planning for contingencies. The leader cannot afford the luxury of regret or nostalgia. Yet as he walks, setting a pace the others can follow, his mind betrays him with flashes of memory—amber light on auburn hair, the scratch of beard against sensitive skin, strong hands guiding his own as they shape metal to their will.
The column moves slowly through the afternoon, if such distinctions of time still have meaning in this place of perpetual twilight. They navigate around towering sculptures of ice carved by wind and time, cross bridges of frozen water spanning abysses of unimaginable depth. The sounds of the ice surround them—cracking, groaning, shifting beneath their feet like some great beast stirring in troubled sleep.
When they finally stop to make camp for what passes as night in this realm of darkness, Fëanor oversees the establishment of shelters—tents fashioned from what materials they could carry, supplemented by walls of packed snow to break the relentless wind. He checks on the injured, consults with his captains, ensures that the meager supplies are distributed fairly. Only when these duties are complete does he allow himself a moment of solitude.
He walks away from the camp, not far enough to court danger but sufficient to find privacy. A ridge of ice shields him from view, creating the illusion of isolation in this crowded exodus. Here, finally, he can drop the mask of certainty that has become as much a part of him as his own skin.
Exhaustion floods him, a bone-deep weariness that no amount of rest seems to alleviate. He sinks onto a block of ice, unconcerned with the cold that seeps through his clothing. Physical discomfort is a distant concern compared to the weight of leadership, the knowledge of what lies ahead and what has been left behind.
In this moment of privacy, Fëanor allows his thoughts to turn to Mahtan—not in fleeting glimpses quickly suppressed, but in full, vivid recollection. He remembers their last night together with perfect clarity, every touch, every word, every tear shed between them. The memory burns bright against the desolate landscape surrounding him, a fire that neither ice nor distance can extinguish.
A sound draws his attention skyward—a collective gasp from the camp behind him, followed by exclamations of wonder. Fëanor rises, turning toward the eastern horizon where something impossible is occurring.
Light blooms in the darkness, unlike anything they have seen since leaving Valinor. It is not the harsh, temporary flare of flames or lightning, but a steady, silver radiance that grows in intensity. As they watch in awe, a great orb rises above the distant mountains—perfect and round, casting a cool luminescence across the ice that transforms it from threatening shadow to glittering beauty.
"The moon," Fëanor whispers, the word strange on his tongue. "They have made a new light."
The Noldor emerge from their shelters, faces upturned to this miracle in the sky. For many, it is the first light they have seen since the Trees were destroyed, their journey having been conducted in star-speckled darkness. The silvery glow reveals their expressions—wonder, relief, a momentary respite from the grimness of their circumstances.
Fëanor stands apart, watching both the celestial phenomenon and his people's reaction to it. The moonlight bathes him in pale radiance, turning his black hair to midnight blue, highlighting the angles of his face now sharpened by hardship. In this new light, he allows himself to feel the full measure of what he has accomplished and what he has lost.
They have made it this far against all odds. They have crossed oceans, traversed wastelands, endured privations that would have broken lesser beings. Soon, they will reach Middle-earth, claim lands of their own, pursue their vengeance against Morgoth. The oath will be fulfilled, the Silmarils reclaimed, his father's murder avenged.
Yet at what cost? The ships that burned at Losgar, carrying with them any chance for those left behind to follow safely. The lives already lost to the perils of the journey. The sundering of families, friendships, loves.
Mahtan.
The name echoes in his mind, accompanied by a sharp pang that has nothing to do with physical cold. Fëanor's hand moves to his chest, pressing against the hidden pocket where the brooch rests against his heart. With careful movements, he extracts it, unwilling to expose it to the elements for long yet needing to see it in this new moonlight.
The copper gleams silvery in the pale radiance, the intertwined figures of wolf and phoenix casting delicate shadows across his palm. The amethyst captures the light, holding it within its purple depths before releasing it in subtle glimmers. It remains perfect despite the journey, protected by his constant care.
"It's us," Mahtan had said, and Fëanor feels the truth of those words more keenly now than ever. The wolf and the phoenix, separated by circumstance yet forever intertwined in spirit. He traces the outline of the metalwork with a gloved finger, remembering the hands that crafted it, the thought and love poured into every detail.
In this moment of unexpected beauty, beneath the first moon to grace the skies of Arda, Fëanor allows himself to think of Mahtan not with regret or guilt, but with pure, uncomplicated love. He imagines him in his forge in Valinor, perhaps looking up at this same moon, perhaps thinking of Fëanor as Fëanor thinks of him.
The distance between them seems both infinite and insignificant. Physical space cannot truly separate spirits bound as theirs are—by love, by craft, by the shared experiences etched into their very beings.
Fëanor closes his fingers around the brooch, feeling its edges press into his palm even through his glove. He raises his closed fist to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles as though they might convey the gesture across the impossible distance.
Then, in a movement both deliberate and spontaneous, he lifts his hand toward the moon and opens his fingers, blowing across his palm as though sending the kiss skyward. The gesture feels both foolish and essential, a private ritual that no one else would understand.
"My dark passion," he whispers to the night air, words immediately seized by the wind. "My wolf. My heart."
The brooch catches the moonlight one last time before Fëanor carefully returns it to its place against his chest. The brief exposure to the elements has left it cold against his skin, but it quickly warms again from his body heat—a small comfort in this land of ice.
He stands a moment longer, face lifted to the moon, allowing himself this brief interlude of vulnerability before the mask of leadership must be donned again. Tomorrow brings more ice, more challenges, more decisions that will shape the fate of his people. But tonight, for this one precious moment, he is simply Fëanáro, lover and beloved, sending his heart across the void to the one who holds it still.
With a deep breath that crystallizes before him, Fëanor turns back toward the camp. His people need him. The path ahead awaits. The oath demands fulfillment. He walks with renewed purpose, the weight of the brooch against his chest a reminder that he carries more than just the burden of leadership and vengeance.
He carries love, even here at the end of the world, even in the darkest and coldest of places. Like the phoenix emblazoned on Mahtan's gift, that love burns eternal, undimmed by distance, unquenched by ice, a flame that will guide him through whatever trials lie ahead.
This story is lovingly dedicated to my partner Andy, who is also my creative collaborator and muse, challenging me to keep growing as an artist, who currently lives 8000 miles away and 18 hours ahead in New Zealand - I am looking forward to us meeting face-to-face and finally holding you.
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