It would be more appropriate if the skies burst open and rained out all the sorrow of the world. But the sky remained cloudless and the moon shone on. Fingon stared up at the night sky as he waited for the orcs below to pass by before he moved on in his search of Maedhros. It was different to see the moon through all the layers of smoke, but some still managed to creep through. The smoke wasn't natural. It was a device of Morgoth and though he was grateful for the cover it brought, it was not natural mist and it felt…wrong somehow. It was his…tenth? night in Thangorodrim (sp? Too lazy to go and check) and there was no sign of Maedhros anywhere. He prayed he wouldn't have to remain here for much longer, but something told him that the opposite would be true. But he wasn't going to back out now. Quite frankly, he couldn't. He was capable of turning back, but he wouldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't turn back and tell Maglor "Oh, I was going to free Maitimo but then I chickened out. Sorry" and keep living knowing just how close he had been. So he gritted his teeth and waited for the orcs to pass.