It liiiiives! I didn't totally forget about it! *cough* anyway, thank you to all the very kind people who'ce read and reviewed...now, on with the angst.
There was not properly a dusk, because there had never properly been a dawn. The ashy dark of the sky never changed, but the elves of Himring all felt that night was approaching–it was in the quickening of the marching feet, and the heavy inertia that rolled over their bodies and lithe Elven minds. Maedhros, dressed with splendid severity in black and white, watched from the walls as torches began to flicker in the hills.
He loved these hills as he loved nothing else. What terrible beauty in a white forsaken morning, what music in the howl of the winds–it hurt him more than he expected to see the bodies heaped beneath his keep lit by torches, and to hear the barely audible cackle of Orcish voices blown by the breeze. What a shame.
"Yes," he murmured, "a terrible, awful shame. These hills are covered in it."
He supposed it was his, and that now his men would have to fight for it. The shame of a son of Fëanor–what a banner to bear before you into battle!
Maedhros had washed the cut on his arm, but had not had the time to bandage it. Though he no longer wore mail, he had replaced his old string-bound gauntlet to stop the bleeding. He knew his men, especially Celeblas who hoped to be a hero, would find some symbolism in this.
He hoped they would tell him what it was. Perhaps he too could admire the wisdom in it.
"Lord Maedhros?" a voice by his ear said.
Celeblas looked even younger than usual–barely more than a child, with a round face topped by a cap of dark hair. His proportions still had not lengthened to their adult correctness, and he came up to perhaps the shoulders of Maedhros, who had always been tall. Maedhros felt a moment of pity, but quickly discarded it as useless for both the boy and himself.
"Again, Celeblas? Is there trouble in the kitchens?"
"No" Maedhros waited, patient, for the rest of the statement.
"I wanted to talk to you."
"Words of ill omen," Maedhros murmured, bot not loud enough for the other elf to hear. "Speak, but speak quickly. I need to ready the archers along the northern walls before the day is through."
Celeblas sat down, following his lord's gaze across the hills. Maedhros wondered how old he actually was.
"What was he like?" Celeblas asked at last.
"Who?"
"Fëanor. Your father. He was the greatest of all the Noldor."
Maedhros laughed. The noise was abruptly swallowed by the wind. "He was proud, arrogant, and self-centered beyond belief. He had reason to be, I suppose. He was brilliant."
Celeblas flinched back from the harshness is his lord's voice. After a moment that could easily have been an eternity, Maedhros continued.
"I loved him."
"Why?"
Another laugh, cold and flat. "He was my father."
Celeblas tilted his head slightly, and somehow managed to give the impression of studying Maedhros intently without actually looking at him. Maedhros was not sure how he did this, only that he found the feeling distinctly unpleasant. He disliked scrutiny of any sort.
"Why did you ask that?"
"I don't know."
The northern horizon was lit faintly red. If he closed his eyes, Maedhros could feel the heat of the flames of Morgoth on his faceimaginary, perhaps, but in times like these there was little to separate truth from imagination. He wondered if Fingon was alive in Hithlum, and if Celegorm and Curufin had made it safely to Nargothrond. He hoped so, of course, but what had he ever been able to do but hope?
Hope had killed Fëanor.
Maedhros, his son, did not trust it.
They would feast on bread and wine, don armor, and die defending the lands they had beautified.
The stump of Maedhros's right hand gave a sudden and unexpected throb. Maedhros heard someone yell and felt hands on his shoulders, but his sphere of consciousness seemed to be decreasing.