Surrounded by his host, Fingolfin squatted on a boulder high on the hill that overlooked the pale beach and beyond that the heaving pewter sea. Wisps of the freezing mists still remained in the dells and hollows in the dunes, but the dense fog that had plagued them some hours earlier had been blown from this place by the harsh winds from the north. It was bitterly and unfamiliarly cold here, and beneath him he could see his people huddled together in groups for warmth as well as companionship.

They had gathered what thick cloaks and hoods they could find, but yet his people were not prepared for such misery. The thick fogs that came with every turn of tide found their way through even the warmest furs or the most closely woven cloth, drenching their garments and chilling their hearts. None had yet lit a fire for their grief and despair at the sight of flames over the Strait was yet too near, and all knew from whence the charred timbers that had been washed up on the unsullied shore had come.

Little was visible through the mists that hung over the sea, save for a few white shadows looming from the water a little way from the shore. The ice of the Helcaraxë extended far down the chill waters from the North, and even here the pale sand was sprinkled with thick frost and a dusting of snow. Although greenery was scarce this far north, in the shelter of this boulder some fragile plants still grew.

One small lonely flower still remained, its bloom a brilliant white against the dark shadow of the rock. Its stem had become bent through battling the wind and sleet, and a fur of thin shards of ice feathered its pointed leaves. He did not know how it had come to be in this hopeless and hostile place, but he somehow knew that it was not intended to be there. A seed perhaps, carried unwillingly on some ill wind, not knowing where it would land, but having little to do but grow nevertheless.

"Atar," Fingolfin looked up to find his eldest son towering above him, and from his expression obviously not considering this a suitable time for admiring flowers.

"My son." Fingolfin too got to his feet, meeting Fingon eye-to-eye. Icy though the waters of the straits were, his son's hands and face were wet and chapped from the relentless wind. Much blood had been spilt at Alqualondë and the memories did not lie easily on their hearts, least of all on Fingon. Fingon the valiant, for he had fought well.

"What say you?" Fingon spoke solemnly, and suddenly looking around him, Fingolfin found that many of his cousins and kin had gathered close by. His sons, and those of his brother who would not forsake their own blood even against the wisdom of their father, and with them their sister, Galadriel.

"I see but one road." Fingolfin sighed deeply, for while he had only marched against his better judgement, he dearly wished to meet with Fëanor again. "Unless we walk the pathless miles across the grinding ice."

Although his voice had been but quiet, the entire host seemed to fall silent at this pronouncement. For words carried far over the chill air, and few had spoken since they had first seen the distant flames.

"But we cannot now go back." Fingon declared. The wind had whipped a few dark strands of hair free from the furs of his hood and they blew now in the wind, dancing amidst the first flakes of falling snow. "We cannot forsake our kin."

Fingolfin did not speak, but turned to the east, following the gazes of those of his people that remained. The bloody stain had diminished now from the clouds over Endor, but a thick spiral of black smoke remained.

"We cannot turn back." Turgon echoed, moving to stand beside his brother and cousins. "We have walked willingly to this path, and it is not my desire to leave it until we see it end, however bitter it may be. I shall not return in shame, as a child chastened."

"I have no desire to turn back without seeing those lands we seek," Angrod spoke quietly, his resolve tinged with regret. "For even should we obtain the pardon of the Valar, little love shall we gain from our kin. We cannot pass back along this road. We can not change what has been done."

"We have done things that we should have not." Finrod spoke sorrowfully, and bowed his head to the frozen earth, and Fingolfin suspected then that while his loyalty lay with those that he called his brothers, his heart lay with his father. Finarfin had spoken wisely when he had warned them to pause before causing wounds that would not heal. Both his and his brother's sons protested with vigour against such comment though, perhaps fearing to admit the truth in their companion's words lest it should make their guilt and regret more obvious. And for the first time the voices of the sons of Fingolfin and Finarfin rose together in anger and malice.

"We have little choice." Galadriel's voice quietened the strife amongst her cousins and as they turned to her, she cast back her hood, letting her hair be whipped golden and wild in the wind. She stood tall before them, face grave though her voice was soft. "We can return as a race diminished, a straggle to be shamed and judged for seeking our own freedom. Or we can continue onwards towards the expanse of the lands unguarded, and taste for the first time the joys of a life unrestrained. I wish to taste this forbidden freedom however bitter it may be, for I would rather live and die wandering free under the starlight of Cuiviénen than spend many Ages here in sorrow and regret. I will not sit here in my grief, seeking no revenge over those that have brought sorrow to my people. I do not fear Morgoth, and I will not sit idle waiting for him to return. My heart is yet young, and the fire of my spirit undimmed. I shall reclaim that which, by right, is mine."

The remnant of the Noldor looked at her, their spirits rising and the fire in their hearts regaining vigour. Although the skies were grey and starless, Galadriel's hair held the memory of the light of Laurelin, and in seeing it their hopes were revived. They had taken this path by choice, against the will of those that would enslave them, and they would not turn back while they still had strength left. Their voices rose in agreement and support, and beautiful though the tongue of the Firstborn was, the lonely shore seemed to be filled with a loud and clamorous music of many hundreds of voices speaking of their discontent and mistreatment and desire for revenge and power.

"So it shall be." Fingolfin declared at last, his deep voice ringing clear over the assembled elves. "We shall continue onwards, wherever the road may lead."