Only Almost
Maedhros's stomach crashed against his ribs and sloshed around his heart like flotsam in the bottom of a leaky boat. His stallion's hooves thudded against the cowed grass pulsing a rhythm against his forehead and behind his eyes. The pain and the guilt and the shock of deception were loud in his ears crashing like cymbals and screeching like badly tuned fiddles. The calvary cantered on and Maedhros wished he could breathe. It was all his fault. He should have known. He should have been sure. He should have recognized the lies weaving around his ears.
The guilt aggrandized on his shoulders as the company crested the ridge and the field of battle spilled out in front of him. On his left, Amrod choked a gasp. On his right Maglor hummed a note discordant and somber, dismay and regret and desperation rolled into one. In the vanguard behind him, Celegorm cursed vociferously.
Maedhros's heart stopped beating. The forces of the free people - their relatives, their friends, their people - were strewn across the field of battle like debris from a shipwreck. It was too late. Maedhros had been deceived and Morgoth had won. The corps was broken like dropped porcelain, burnt like spring wildflowers in a summer sun, tattered as crudely as their banners.
Maedhros gasped a breath that burned all the way down. He scoured the standards snapping in the dry, dead wind for some catalog of the cataclysm. A shade of a smirk tipped one corner of his lips when he saw Turgon's banners, returned from long disappearance, an outpost of silver and blue speckled with the gold and green and white of the Lords under him amid a swath of crawling black and red. A finger of warning slithered down Maedhros's spine. Turgon would surely have flown to Fingon's side after so many years apart, but Fingon's standard was absent.
Maedhros's brothers and their contingents were waiting for his command shifting erratically behind him. There was nothing he could order them to do that would change anything. His eyes caught one banner flapping in the wind, burning from its pole even as it flew, the standard of the house of Fingolfin, separated from Turgon's people by a swarming wedge of Morgoth's spawn.
Maedhros's heart stopped again. There it was, a tiny blur of blue and gold cornered by the bonfire forms of balrogs.
"Fingon," Maedhros swore the name between clenched teeth. The battle was too far gone for any strategy except attack. He raised his sword and charged, the companies of his brothers thundering behind him.
He barreled onward sword shining, eyes burning, heart focused beyond the line of orcs forming to face them. He crashed into them like a boulder falling from a cliff face wild and granite and unrelenting. The line was feeble and surprised and too busy scrabbling with Amrod and Amras who appeared behind Maedhros like bedrock from a catapult to chase after Maedhros when he clawed his way through, bent low over his stallion's neck, streaking through the seared no man's land like a shooting star. The heat pushed against Maedhros like a wave breaking stronger and hotter with each stride length forward.
A warg stood over a mess of armor in Maedhros's path snapping its jaws and yowling in triumph. Maedhros was on top of it before it could tear itself away from bloodlust long enough to turn and face him. He cleaved its head from its body and dropped from the saddle. He scooped the keening swordsman from the mire and delicately draped him boneless over the back of his horse. Maedhros recognized him as one of Finrod's captains from an age ago. He ground out a command, "Back," and did not look behind him as his warhorse headed toward the nearest semi-safety as it had been trained to do. He had eyes only for the struggle ahead of him, for Fingon fighting a wildfire with a bucket and a dry well.
He ground in a breath of impossibly dry air and ran on. An orc jerked into his path with a growl. Maedhros growled back, louder, fiercer, and drove his sword through the orc's skull before its scimitar could come down. Black blood splattered through the slit in Maedhros's helmet, warm and thick, with a smell like mud dredged from the bottom of a swamp. Maedhros growled again and barreled on.
There was nothing left now of Fingolfin's blue banner but an empty pole, flecks of ash and snowflakes of burned cloth dropping to the ground like corrupted raindrops, taking instead of giving. The incubus of Fingon burning, crumpled, ruined, flickered and flared behind Maedhros's eyes as he pressed on batting aside blows and blades like nats. Maedhros's heart jumped into his throat as Fingon ducked a blow. The flaming cudgel crashed down where he'd been standing an instant before throwing up dirt and rocks and puffs of burning grass.
The other balrog swung at Fingon with an enormous ax, purple and orange flames dancing along the rock razor silver edge and across the molten scrollwork illuminating the colossal black head. Horror rolled through Maedhros at the sight of that ax, acid on his tongue and wobbly around his knees. He forced his eyes upward to the balrog's face, eyes like molten rubies, circlet of barbed steel crowning its head. He ripped his gaze back to Fingon, close enough now to see the beads of sweat rolling down Fingon's nose, glimmering like silmarils in the flames. Maedhros ran on and swore to himself that Gothmog, high-captain of Angband, who smote his father into the dust, would not slay another king of the Noldor.
Fingon grappled with Gothmog, a sword in each hand, thrusts, cuts, and parrys dancing against mighty ax swings. The blows flew so fast that Maedhros could only keep them straight after a lifetime of sparring with Fingon. The second balrog, awaiting Gothmog's victory at Fingon's back, made a noise of impatience Maedhros had heard from Caranthir a thousand times and raised its whip. Maedhros threw himself forward and thrust his shield upward. He braced himself against the ground, feet steady on uneven ground, muscles taunt and ready, prepared to react. He had one moment of pure relief that Fingon's skull would not be sundered this instant, arms bound to his side with a cord of braided flame while Gothmog's ax crashed down, and the balrog's whip snapped directly on the enormous star of Fёanor Curufin had seen fit to emblazon on his shield. The tail of flame rebounded off the shield with a crack and the blow was so savage Maedhros felt every scale of his armor tremble and vibrate like dry leaves in a puff of autumn wind. He turned his head slightly to see Fingon parry Gothmog's ax swing with blades crossed just above the crown of his head, the hard edge of the enormous ax an inch from his forehead, flames licking out and lighting across the blood coating his swords, flames of blue and green, tinged yellow illuminating the gold ribbons twisted into Fingon's helmetless war braids.
Maedhros drug his attention back to the balrog in front of him hissing and spitting like an over boiling pot, flinging droplets of fire sizzling into the air around them, a physical release of fury. Maedhros brought his shield lower and raised his sword, shimmering black with the blood of orcs he had already slain. The balrog snapped its whip and hefted its cudgel. Maedhros let the whip glance off his shield and as the balrog's other arm came down, cudgel aimed to catch Maedhros's ribs and bust them to splinters, he stepped forward and hoisted his sword upwards. Every bit of force the balrog used to swing the cudgel lent Maedhros the strength to slice off its arm. Liquid fire gushed from the stump and the dead arm flamed as it hit the ground. The balrog threw back its head and bellowed vehemently. Gothmog took up the cry and the scales of Maedhros's armor quivered against each other once again. Maedhros raised his shield against the splatter of fire and wedged himself back to back with Fingon. The balrog raised its whip and Maedhros felt Fingon stumble against his back. Fear gripped his heart like iron bands. Maedhros grit his teeth. He would not let Fingon fall.
Maedhros adjusted his shield, tightened his grip on his sword, and rushed the balrog before the whip could thrash down. He plunged into the heart of the balrog's defenses while flames from the stump of the balrog's arm dripped down on him and sizzled against his helmet, his shoulder plates, the scale armor ever vigilante across his back. Maedhros launched himself into the air with the determination of rock plummeting toward the ground and crashed into the balrog's chest with every ounce of strength he could muster.
The force of a fully armed Feanorian knocking into its chest did not unbalance the balrog the way it would down any other enemy. Maedhros wedged his boots into seams in the balrog's armor and ferociously, desperately, reclaimed his equilibrium from the feeling of jumping straight into a rock. Maedhros searched the balrog's leathery armor through sweat-stung eyes as his shield began to yield into the pulse of the balrog's forge fire skin. He saw the gap in the armor shell where two plates did not meet perfectly at the same time his peripheral warned him of a large black arm moving rapidly toward his head. He plunged his sword straight and true, past leathery armor, charcoal-crusted skin, glowing muscle, and black bone into the smoldering heart. Molten core oozed out in aftershocks of heat around the hilt of Maedhros's sword. He let go, pulled a dagger from his boot, and cut his right arm free of his buckling shield before the balrog recognized the double-edged hole in his heart.
Maedhros pushed backwards and fell away, dagger tucked between his teeth, pulling his sword with him. He rolled up and out of his fall away from the fire gushing from the hole in the balrog's chest and skidded through the ash to Fingon's side.
Gothmog bore down over Fingon, ax flickering in one hand and whip flashing in the other. One of Fingon's razor edged-blades was chipped and his war braids spilled across his shoulders, a poor excuse for a helmet.
Maedhros wedged himself on Fingon's left, blinked sweat out of his burning eyes, and bellowed a war cry tinged red with the memory of Fёanor burning to ash. He would not let Fingon fall.
Gothmog grunted and Maedhros growled and waved his sword in the air. Gothmog's whip wrist twitched and Maedhros and Fingon dove apart, rolling away from the lightning fire whip trail. Gothmog turned slightly and focused on Fingon, the air around him growing brighter with anger. Fingon beat his swords together, "Go ahead and try you overgrown tinderbox!"
Maedhros rushed forward silently, ducking carefully under the slack whip. He pelted forward focusing all his effort on the point of his sword. He skewered Gothmog in the thigh, as high as he could reach without sacrificing leverage, sword slipping between a crevice of leathery armored skin. Gothmog roared and Maedhros pushed harder, twisting his sword deeper, drawing on his lingering anger at Fёanor for binding his sons to an oath and then getting himself fried almost immediately for strength, an old wound hacked open by Gothmog's first swing at Fingon. Sweat dripped down his forehead and ran a river down each arm.
Fingon yelled, words lost in Maedhros's battle fuzzy ears, tone alone signaling instinct. Maedhros ripped his sword loose with a spray of fiery blood and weaved away from Gothmog's ax swing. When he came up for air, Fingon grinned at him, blood from a split lip caked between his teeth. Maedhros started forward again, readying himself for another pass. "Where is your helmet?!" he panted with as much breath as he could muster.
Fingon sidestepped a swing of the fiery whip. He stumbled and dropped to one knee, head bent, war braids pooling around his blood-stained shoulder plates.
Maedhros forced himself to look away. He could not keep Fingon safe by staring.
Gothmog limped toward Fingon, fire dribblings from his leg.
Maedhros crept forward and plunged his sword into the unarmored back of Gothmog's knee. He thrust his weight behind it, ignoring the spray of liquid fire, trusting his brother's forge skill to keep him from burning to a crisp. Gothmog jerked and tried to stomp him into the mud with his other foot. Maedhros clung to his sword, pushing deeper, legs locked, lip split, ears ringing in time with the wavering heat rolling off the balrog. He shoved the sword sideways and ignored the unpleasant vibrations running up his elbows as it grated against bone. Maedhros prayed that his sword would not melt and pushed harder ignoring Gothmog's attempts to knock him aside while defending an attack from Fingon. Maedhros's sword gave way suddenly and he yelled a warning to Fingon. Maedhros dropped to the ground as Gothmog stumbled forward and fell, leg severed at the knee. Gothmog flailed and Maedhros curled tighter, arms around his head. The whip grazed his thigh sending sparks scattering and scoring a blacked line across the plate mail. Curufin's craftsmanship held firm and one corner of Maedhros's mouth turned up.
The whip snaked past him again and Gothmog wailed. It took every bit of willpower Maedhros had not to rip his helmet from his head and mash his ears closed. The ground shook with the roar of Gothmog and fear tore a scream from Maedhros's throat "Fingon!"
Gothmog's bellow sputtered to silence. The whip snaked over Maedhros's head and he rolled in the other direction, closer to the balrog's heaving body, closer to Fingon.
"Fingon!"
Maedhros pushed himself to his feet, staggering against the waves of heat rolling off Gothmog's body.
"Fingon!" Maedhros gasped another breath of painfully hot air and wobbled toward the immense head.
"It's alright Mae," Fingon panted, pulling his swords back from hacking off Gothmog's head and straightening up into Maedhros's line of sight. His blades' edges shone red with the heat and fire dripped from the tips. Fingon staggered back a step, arms drooping like icicle-laden branches.
Maedhros strode forward and pulled Fingon back from the radiating head of the body. He ignored the clammer of battle coming from the next rise in favor of scrutinizing Fingon's eyes. Soot and mud and blood and bruises chased across Fingon's face like retreating enemies, and a burn on his cheekbone stood like a sentry under his eye.
"We did it," Fingon whispered, words running together with dripping exhaustion like wet paint.
Maedhros looked up at the ashes falling from the sky like snowflakes, gray smudges against the black of crisped grass, at the wrecks of flesh and armor strewn across the ground, at the pieces of shattered swords and snapped arrows mixed with friends and allies and enemies and crushed Fingon to his chest grinding their dented armor together.
"Where is your helmet?" he hissed, warm breath puffing against Fingon's ear.
Fingon sighed into a clump of Maedhros's war braids escaped from under his helmet, "At least I was on time for the assault."
Maedhros's arms tightened around Fingon like a blanket on a cold night, "I almost lost you, you idiot!"
Fingon blew a puff of air and rested his cheek against Maedhros's scored shoulder plate, "mmm it's nice being your idiot."
Maedhros heaved a sigh, rested his chin on the top of Fingon's head, and let the pure relief that Fingon was safe, tucked under his arm where no one could cut him in half without hacking through him first wash away the grief and the rage and the guilt that had been hidden in a broken corner of his heart since Fёanor's death.
Fingon gave a small snort, "Curufin is going to have your head for banging up his nice armor like this."
Maedhros huffed, "He'll get over it."
A bellow rang out over the hill that sounded distinctly like the noise Celegorm had made the last time he stubbed his toe.
Fingon straightened with a grimace. "There's another one of your idiots - ahem- brothers in trouble."
Maedhros pulled back and grinned, blood slipping from a crack in his lip. "They are the trouble."
Fingon panted a ghost of a laugh as he turned towards the ridge and Maedhros fell into place at Fingon's left shoulder. They walked slowly through Fingon's guard, hacked into ash at the bottom of the hill and Maedhros tightened his bracers with his teeth as Fingon whispered their names. He would not let their sacrifice vanish into the meaningless waste of battle. He would not let Fingon fall.