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A/N: Sorry, Maeglin lovers, sorry!
*
Great. What have I got myself into this time?
Normal Panic was to do great injustice to the situation. More like apocalyptic-Armageddon kind of Panic. Before she could open her mouth, Glorfindel and Ecthelion had both zipped off to guide their respective houses, Idril fled in her terror, and Tuor, fast though he was could not keep up with her, and lost her in the fray. Turgon left the halls, trying to do something, anything, that could possibly save his people from the coming doom. Ren was alone. The human knew that she could not stay still for long, she could smell the stench in the air and the scent of flame from afar drifting towards her. She was in the palace, no doubt a worthy targets of the minions of Angband. After a moments consideration, she lurched after Tuor and the wailing sounds of the seven year old Earendil.
Riiight. Leave a twelve year old in the midst of a whole battle against dragons and orcs and balrogs armed with what? A cynical attitude, that's what.
*
It basically ended up going in this train of thought, words and actions:
Ren: 'Tuor!'
Tuor: 'Idril!'
Idril: 'Earendil!'
Ren: 'Tuor!'
Tuor: 'Idril!'
Idril: 'Earendil!'
Following the strange, haunting echoes of the gloom of the castle and the pattering footfalls of those she was chasing, Ren dashed after them. Twisting corridors and turning hallways flew past her until they came to the exit of the palace, straight into the mess of the city. Ren had a hard time catching up, but when she did catching up was replaced with more of a ramming straight into a fuming block of very angry adan. Tuor was standing, fist clenched to his sides in white fury, as he spied Maeglin upon the walls of Gondolin with his wife and son. What Maeglin was doing upon those steps, to be precise, was... manhandling Idril, his hands upon both her and Earendil. Ren had to duck as Tuor drew his sword to avoid being beheaded as the man charged Maeglin, who responded to the challenge by unsheathing his own long knife. Ren ushered Idril and Earendil to her as they watched the two battle. Back and forth in the backdrop of raging fire and valour did they parry, neither gaining the upper hand. Ren was suddenly struck by inspiration. Withdrawing one of her penknives, she called out.
'Maeglin!'
On instinct, the elf turned and ducked as the small blade whistled, though amateurly thrown and unsure on its path, more or less towards him. The black haired son of Eol let his guard down for a split second. It was all the advantage Tuor needed. Maeglin dropped, thrown off the wall by the force of Tuor's attack and anger, and fell down the rocky slopes of Amon Gwareth.
Thud.
His body hit once against the wall-face of the slope. Earendil grimaced.
Thud.
Again, the body hit against the face of the slope. Idril grimaced.
Thud.
A third time, it hit against the slope and into the fire. Tuor and Ren both shrugged. As Tuor sheathed his sword and embraced his small family, Ren expressed sorrow on her face.
'No one deserves to die like that, but he brought it upon himself.'
After a bit and a run into the city, she could not help but comment offhandedly as Tuor gathered the remnant, unburnt bits of the population that were not fighting together.
'Waste of a good penknife.'