A/N: I changed the title of this story! Why? This name came to me and I thought it would suit better. Please accept this peculiarity. :)

All was dimmed, and a never ending whirlwind of metal, flesh and blood. His ears could not keep to the sharp and chilling sounds of battle assailing his mind. Metal clattering, bending, burning. A horse and rider were speared before him, splattering warm blood over his eyes. He had lost his helm sometime earlier, barely avoiding his head being cloven in two by a wolfrider. And he had thought galvorn impenetrable. He blocked a large orc with his following breath, thrusting Anguirel deep between the weak points of its armor at the neck. Seeing the horrendous creatures for the first time had been a galling moment. He nearly faltered before the first fiend, but then, as a friendly tide on a treacherous sea, the thought of Idril filled his mind. And be it for good or ill, it brought forth enough strength to make a first kill for them all.

A dying horse whinnying frantically was being trampled by three others, and he fell from their path.

Idril.

Her eyes.

He turned and kicked an enemy in the middle before ducking to avoid a blade.

Her lips on his.

Fear, betrayal in her eyes.

Father. He was falling from the greatest of heights.

The silent fluttering of her dress when she fled from him.

Something fell heavily upon him. He was struggling for breath yet still fought and repelled his opponent, but then came another. And another. He felled two, but the third had kicked his legs from under him, and with Anguirel out of reach now the elf struggled on his knees against the grip of what he saw to be a goblin. He was thrust into the mire and barely rose to one knee when the blade was upon him.

Valar, may it be this day?

For one moment in the endless meandering of time, it all made sense. He ought to fall. It meant freedom. It meant seeing his parents again, perhaps some day. Peace. But the blinding light was not that of the call to Mandos, but of steel against steel.

Looking upward, he saw Mercion barring the attacking blade, his fair features stern beneath his helm even as Maeglin got to his feet. By a stroke of luck he caught sight of Anguirel and reached for the blade. He nodded to the golden haired elf briefly before he lost him in the contorting mass of warriors and horses, wargs and other creatures of the enemy. Whirling towards Turgon and regaining his senses he flung himself into the fray anew.

Too many seemed to fall around him. All were trampled together as sacrifices to an endless thirst. Elves, orcs, men, dwarves. What fate is this that curses us so? the thought speared his mind as he fought on, desperately searching for the bright mail and silver helm of Turgon among the mayhem.

All reeked of blood, fire and flesh, and his feet had many a time tread over fallen friend and foe alike.

There was nothing to prepare the host of Gondolin for the swift and merciless tide of war sweeping over them when they arrived. Though valiant and disciplined, many if not all hearts were filled with dread when they reached the host of Fingon, and saw the balance tilted to the designs of Morgoth. For treachery and cruelty, and an ill wont of fate led ones of the host of Fingon to break ranks, and fall deep into the center of the enemy host. And with little else to do and seeing his troops ill restrained, Fingon charged his full force into battle with disastrous results. The foe had fooled them. In the end Turgon had gotten through to them as they attempted a retreat from the gates of Angband. Four days the bloodshed raged, the forces of the Union having been separated and diminished through much foul play.

Four days, he thought grimly, parrying then slashing at an orcish chest. Four days of waiting and grueling observation. And now on the fifth day as the host of Gondolin attempted to aid the orderly retreat of Fingon, all was madness and chaos. Fire roared in the distance where a great dragon could be seen descending upon the hosts in the east. The heated ash rose up to them, and fell upon their lowered banners. Maeglin turned away, the image forever burned into his eyes. His arms ached, his head throbbed with the erratic hammering of his heart. He fought his way towards Turgon and reaching the king, set his blade against any who dared approach.

"Fingon has perished!" the hoarse cry was discerned across the field of battle, where from he could not tell.

Maeglin felt the tide turn clearly against their favor. Where are the Lords of the West? What has pride led us to?

Leaders of Men were speaking to the king, urging him towards a retreat. They hastily spoke to him of hope for both kindreds, and of rising stars. They would take the rearguard. Maeglin cleared the blood from his mouth, having been struck in the face by a particularly eager orc rider in assault, before he carved through his shoulder.

"What are we to do, lord?" he cried in the ear of Turgon when he reached the king.

"We attempt to escape. Gather formation!" the king yelled his command as Maeglin and the generals about him set to relay the order.

The war is lost, thought Maeglin grimly. He was afraid, not only for the king, but for his kin. For all the unmarred kindreds walking the world, taking part in this defeat. And for the shimmering city of untold beauty where a golden haired elf maid stood alone.

I love her.

She is my kin, and I love her.

What was worse, to fall hewed on a nameless barren field knowing she despised him, or to see her eyes now she knew the truth?

And so loath was the elf for either that he let fate decide, and the thought fled with the new rush of ire and fear pounding in his chest.

And ever they fell back, lining their retreat with many losses. The fifth day marked the end of it all.

He watched his uncle with his head in his hands, his armor covered in grime and blood. He stood alone in a brief moment of reprieve, facing his horse, turned from the eyes of many. Mourning for his brother. For Fingon had fallen on the field against the lord of Balrogs, and in a gruesome humiliating ending his body was destroyed. Their losses were higher than any had foretold, and all those who remained felt it; the failure of unity against the Shadow, as heartfelt as their ill conceived quest had been.

And now look at us. A king in tears, a hill of corpses, and hope diminished.

So many left behind.

Still they kept on, eyes lost but faces determined, steadily placing distance between themselves and their foe.

Maeglin turned his thoughts to the White City, but it kindled no hope nor joy. Not after what he had done. Not when his spirit was wearied with the curdling visions of war, and things he would never forget had tilted over an already crumbling inner balance. Still, beyond the mountains Gondolin the fair waited, and they had nowhere else to go.