Elenwë had not thought that there could be warmth on the Ice, had barely even remembered that there was such a thing -- perhaps, indeed, those golden days under the light of Laurelin had been but a dream, and a fading one at that. Even the stars here were shrouded and cold, and too far away for their light to reach those on the groaning ice.
And yet, somehow, warmth remained.
Aredhel had caught her shuddering with cold in the corner of the tent she shared with Turgon and had knelt beside her without a word, throwing her cloak over Elenwë's shoulders and drawing her close. Elenwë had hesitated, then leaned in, drawn by the fluttering warmth of her sister-in-law's heart, the heat that sank in through layers of clothing to her own pale skin.
"You need to take better care of yourself," Aredhel whispered into her hair, and Elenwë closed her eyes and focused on how nice that felt, how very odd it felt to not be cold anymore -- or, at the very least, to have the chill that lingered in her bones driven so deep she could barely feel it.
"It's too cold," she replied, lips barely moving, and: "I'm so tired, Iressë." She felt Aredhel tense, but couldn't bring herself to worry -- it was so nice and warm here, in her arms.
"Stay right here," Aredhel murmured, and Elenwë nodded, wishing she could.