Noble Hearts
The air, damp with mist, was quickly becoming the worst enemy of those who defended Himring. This late at night, when the moon was only a swollen blotch behind the clouds, the mist made it impossible to see-black ash swirled imperceptibly, coating armor and hair and the once fair faces of corpses fallen below the walls.
Maedhros son of Fëanor stood beside the gates. His armor was sodden and flecked with ash and gore, but he didn't seem to notice; nor did he notice the cold of the wind, which blew ever from the North. His left gauntlet was wrapped in string, and through slashes in the leather the stern glitter of mail could be seen. The wingéd sun on his surcoat was obscured by blood and black ash.
"Do you see them?" he called to the sentry at the gate. One of the elves who had fallen against the walls stirred and groaned, a lonely sound in an otherwise silent night.
The chink of mail. The sentry was nodding.
"Yes, lord. Still far away, but they move through the Marches like monkeys."
Maedhros sighed and put a hand up to his eyes, leaving black smudges on his temples. "So it's not over yet."
"Will it ever be?" one of the soldiers left alive muttered.
Maedhros stretched, winced. The slash in his gauntlet had gone through to his arm, it seemed. Not bleeding much, though. Could have been much worse.
He didn't like the quiet here. Usually, the aftermath of a battle was noisy-it was then that people found the time to scream, to weep, and to live again. There should have been relief.
But they had nearly died here, in the sudden unleashing of Angband. Rumor was that Celegorm and Curufin had lost the Pass of Aglon. They said the Sons of Fëanor were doomed, and gentle Maedhros would not be able to hold out against the storm. They said Maglor was dead and his halls were fallen.
They said this as they dragged their wounded into the fortress and buried the dead in mass graves. The Siege of Angband was broken. The Lords of Beleriand were broken. There was nothing left.
Maedhros wondered how on earth he could get them to fight.
"Lord Maedhros! Something's coming!"
There was the groan and the creak of five hundred arrows put to five hundred bows. Maedhros leaned down and looked over the walls.
A single figure approached over the hills, cloaked in blue. He was hunched low over the neck of his horse, and he carried no banner or flag. One of the elves behind Maedhros gave a soft moan and drew the arrow back further.
Maedhros narrowed his eyes and bent forward. It was impossible to see anything in this mist.and, for some reason, his head felt light as air. Someone put a hand on his arm and drew him back.
"Probably best not to lean out too far, my lord. You don't look like you feel very well."
"I am fine."
Maedhros supposed the person must have gone away, because after one clap on the shoulder there was no more movement. He squinted, but still could not see. Blue cloak. That was all. And the horse was a fine dapple grey.
"I don't think it's an orc," he said at last, though he was not at all sure. It was too late and too misty and the air was far too close. His stomach heaved unpleasantly. "Open the gates. If Morgoth has sent a scout, there are five hundred of us and one of him."
The call, echoed back into the fortress below and the white halls that had once stood so beautiful: "Unbar the gates! Let him through, Lord Maedhros's orders!"
There were murmurs from the ranks of elves with arrows at their bows, but Maedhros ignored them. Slowly, carefully, he climbed down the nearest ladder. Walked towards the gates.
"Perhaps you should wait until he's been examined, lord?" The sentry was leaning into the keep now, watching Maedhros. Maedhros shook his head and unsheathed his sword, a gesture that made his arm begin throbbing again.
"Celeblas, I want to know if my family is alive. Don't blame me for that."
"No one's blaming you, lord."
Off in the distance, far to the North, a rumble of marching feet began. Morgoth's second batch of orcs was still a good distance away, but there wouldn't be much time to prepare. The noise broke the silence, and somehow Maedhros was glad of it. Now, at least, the danger was real.
He took a few steps outside of the gates. The area around the base of the keep was blackened and stained with blood. There were corpses piled high here, elves and orcs mostly, and they were beginning to stink. Maedhros tried not to think about having to clean all this up.if, indeed, he ever had to worry about it.
The rider dismounted, a slow, slithering dismount that said he was either badly injured or unused to riding. Closer, now. Maedhros got a brief glimpse of a white face under the hood, a curl of black hair. Eyes mellowed by the sight of the Trees in full beauty.
"It's an elf," he called up. He was not sure if he actually called, or if it was his imagination. No one responded.
The figure stumbled forward a few steps, halted. He seemed to be looking up at the walls.
"They won't hurt you," Maedhros said.
The cloaked face of the rider swiveled around, stopped in his direction.
"I am Maedhros, son of Fëanor, who some call Russandol. If you can, please." Maedhros paused, composed himself. "Please tell us some news of the outside world. This is the first lull in the fighting we've had for days."
The elf stumbled forward another few steps. Maedhros took his arm and helped him into the keep. He was trembling, and Maedhros suspected the blockiness of his figure was due mostly to bandages.
"Angrod is dead. Aegnor is dead. Orodreth lost his lands, and Fingolfin keeps Hithlum at great loss."
"And what of Fingon? Does my cousin live?"
"I know not."
"And the sons of Fëanor?"
"Curufin and Celegorm fled to Nargothrond. Their lands are overrun and the Pass is taken."
"What of the rest?"
"Amrod and Amras retreat. Caranthir holds Thargelion, but he will soon be attacked. They took-oh, Eru, Maedhros, they took the Gap. My people- "
Maedhros's stomach knotted again, and suddenly all the ash in the air welled up to choke him. Knowing what he would find, he pushed back the other elf's hood.
Alone and defeated, Maglor son of Fëanor collapsed at the threshold of his brother's fortress.
The air, damp with mist, was quickly becoming the worst enemy of those who defended Himring. This late at night, when the moon was only a swollen blotch behind the clouds, the mist made it impossible to see-black ash swirled imperceptibly, coating armor and hair and the once fair faces of corpses fallen below the walls.
Maedhros son of Fëanor stood beside the gates. His armor was sodden and flecked with ash and gore, but he didn't seem to notice; nor did he notice the cold of the wind, which blew ever from the North. His left gauntlet was wrapped in string, and through slashes in the leather the stern glitter of mail could be seen. The wingéd sun on his surcoat was obscured by blood and black ash.
"Do you see them?" he called to the sentry at the gate. One of the elves who had fallen against the walls stirred and groaned, a lonely sound in an otherwise silent night.
The chink of mail. The sentry was nodding.
"Yes, lord. Still far away, but they move through the Marches like monkeys."
Maedhros sighed and put a hand up to his eyes, leaving black smudges on his temples. "So it's not over yet."
"Will it ever be?" one of the soldiers left alive muttered.
Maedhros stretched, winced. The slash in his gauntlet had gone through to his arm, it seemed. Not bleeding much, though. Could have been much worse.
He didn't like the quiet here. Usually, the aftermath of a battle was noisy-it was then that people found the time to scream, to weep, and to live again. There should have been relief.
But they had nearly died here, in the sudden unleashing of Angband. Rumor was that Celegorm and Curufin had lost the Pass of Aglon. They said the Sons of Fëanor were doomed, and gentle Maedhros would not be able to hold out against the storm. They said Maglor was dead and his halls were fallen.
They said this as they dragged their wounded into the fortress and buried the dead in mass graves. The Siege of Angband was broken. The Lords of Beleriand were broken. There was nothing left.
Maedhros wondered how on earth he could get them to fight.
"Lord Maedhros! Something's coming!"
There was the groan and the creak of five hundred arrows put to five hundred bows. Maedhros leaned down and looked over the walls.
A single figure approached over the hills, cloaked in blue. He was hunched low over the neck of his horse, and he carried no banner or flag. One of the elves behind Maedhros gave a soft moan and drew the arrow back further.
Maedhros narrowed his eyes and bent forward. It was impossible to see anything in this mist.and, for some reason, his head felt light as air. Someone put a hand on his arm and drew him back.
"Probably best not to lean out too far, my lord. You don't look like you feel very well."
"I am fine."
Maedhros supposed the person must have gone away, because after one clap on the shoulder there was no more movement. He squinted, but still could not see. Blue cloak. That was all. And the horse was a fine dapple grey.
"I don't think it's an orc," he said at last, though he was not at all sure. It was too late and too misty and the air was far too close. His stomach heaved unpleasantly. "Open the gates. If Morgoth has sent a scout, there are five hundred of us and one of him."
The call, echoed back into the fortress below and the white halls that had once stood so beautiful: "Unbar the gates! Let him through, Lord Maedhros's orders!"
There were murmurs from the ranks of elves with arrows at their bows, but Maedhros ignored them. Slowly, carefully, he climbed down the nearest ladder. Walked towards the gates.
"Perhaps you should wait until he's been examined, lord?" The sentry was leaning into the keep now, watching Maedhros. Maedhros shook his head and unsheathed his sword, a gesture that made his arm begin throbbing again.
"Celeblas, I want to know if my family is alive. Don't blame me for that."
"No one's blaming you, lord."
Off in the distance, far to the North, a rumble of marching feet began. Morgoth's second batch of orcs was still a good distance away, but there wouldn't be much time to prepare. The noise broke the silence, and somehow Maedhros was glad of it. Now, at least, the danger was real.
He took a few steps outside of the gates. The area around the base of the keep was blackened and stained with blood. There were corpses piled high here, elves and orcs mostly, and they were beginning to stink. Maedhros tried not to think about having to clean all this up.if, indeed, he ever had to worry about it.
The rider dismounted, a slow, slithering dismount that said he was either badly injured or unused to riding. Closer, now. Maedhros got a brief glimpse of a white face under the hood, a curl of black hair. Eyes mellowed by the sight of the Trees in full beauty.
"It's an elf," he called up. He was not sure if he actually called, or if it was his imagination. No one responded.
The figure stumbled forward a few steps, halted. He seemed to be looking up at the walls.
"They won't hurt you," Maedhros said.
The cloaked face of the rider swiveled around, stopped in his direction.
"I am Maedhros, son of Fëanor, who some call Russandol. If you can, please." Maedhros paused, composed himself. "Please tell us some news of the outside world. This is the first lull in the fighting we've had for days."
The elf stumbled forward another few steps. Maedhros took his arm and helped him into the keep. He was trembling, and Maedhros suspected the blockiness of his figure was due mostly to bandages.
"Angrod is dead. Aegnor is dead. Orodreth lost his lands, and Fingolfin keeps Hithlum at great loss."
"And what of Fingon? Does my cousin live?"
"I know not."
"And the sons of Fëanor?"
"Curufin and Celegorm fled to Nargothrond. Their lands are overrun and the Pass is taken."
"What of the rest?"
"Amrod and Amras retreat. Caranthir holds Thargelion, but he will soon be attacked. They took-oh, Eru, Maedhros, they took the Gap. My people- "
Maedhros's stomach knotted again, and suddenly all the ash in the air welled up to choke him. Knowing what he would find, he pushed back the other elf's hood.
Alone and defeated, Maglor son of Fëanor collapsed at the threshold of his brother's fortress.