He has not slept for an entire month now.
True, he does not have to sleep, but he wants to. He wants to fall back into oblivion, lock himself away, do anything that might save him in the coming battle.
It is so near now. Melkor can taste the light – not blood, never blood, they bled liquid light – on the tip of his tongue, can feel their pale skin tearing under his strikes. Gazing eastward, he sighs and subconsciously taps a rhythm on the handle of his hammer. A trembling horn sounds, and he pales beneath his skin. His brother is ready; it will begin soon.
------
Manwë sighs, and it is like a great gale over the seas. He walks back and forth on the sand, worried, tired, and sad. One hand rests on the hilt of his jewelled sword – how long it has been since he had last borne one? - and the other hangs at his side, limp and dejected.
He knows all of his brother's tricks, or hopes he does, and also knows that many will fail to avail him. However, this is little comfort. How can anyone, even the Windlord himself, assure themselves about the battle of battles, the final struggle for Arda, the outcome of which dangles from the tip of a quill?
------
At the sound of the horn, Manwë raises his head and turns towards the expanse of cracked land, which once contained an ocean that touched the very shores of Valinor, where he now stands.
To the east, over Middle-earth, a shadow rises slowly into the dark sky, where the stars are shining black. They are ready also.
Manwë draws the sapphire-studded blade from its sheath. At the same time, his brother raises his coal-black hammer, its blunt edges clear against the sky.
"For Light!" Manwë cries, and his voice is as sharp as his blade, all traces of doubt gone.
Eerily and at the exact same instant, Melkor shouts: "for Darkness!" in a terrible tone, harsh and formidable.
Together, the brothers look over to Middle-earth, and see the shadow – a hideous pink-violet in colour – lift, revealing thousands upon thousands of female figures; Elf, Man, Hobbit, Dragon, and many more races never before seen in Arda. Each is, even from such a distance, stunningly, perfectly, disgustingly beautiful.
Nodding at each other, the brothers charge with their combined armies.
The Dagor Dagorath is come.