Disclaimer: I do not own anything; it all belongs to the great JRR Tolkien.
Memories
Mud. Blood. Pain. Death. Screaming, dying, men surrounded Fingon; the harsh clash of steel was the music these men would die hearing. The battle had been raging for days; and eternity for the elven king. His arms ached from swinging his heavy sword. He was filthy from foul orc blood. It seemed to seep into his skin. He shuddered, he would never get clean of it. Forcefully, he wrenched his mind back to the present.
He was in bad situation. Cut off from the rest of the army, his royal guard were the only people left around him, and they were gradually dying. All seemed bleak, and escape seemed a slim chance.
Suddenly, the situation worsened. A nerve-grating roar shook the ground. Gothmog had arrived, bringing with him two other balrogs. Even the stoic guards of Fingon let out cries of despair. There was no overcoming three balrogs, especially if Gothmog led them. Gothmog who slew Feanor, the most gifted of the Noldor.
Fingon's fighting acquired a desperate edge. If only he could kill Gothmog, then he would not have died in vain, for die he will. With his guard dead around him, Fingon fought on, his gleaming sword a single flash of white flame surrounded the sullen red of the balrogs. Fingon charged Gothmog, nimbly dodging his heavier opponent, and leaped into the air, shouting a battle cry, his sword thrust to pierce the armor of Gothmog.
Suddenly, Fingon's flight was stopped as a flaming pain wrapped around him and smashed him to the mud churned ground. . Fingon screamed with fury, agony, and frustration. Another balrog had caught him with a fiery lash, and it was truly over.
Looking up, Fingon saw the sneering face of Gothmog, his black axe covered in dripping red flame, raised above his head.
Time slowed and Fingon remembered.
He remembered the trees. Laurelin's soft golden radiance that emanated from gilt edged leaves. Teleperion's sharper, cooler light came from its silver spangled leaves. He remembered the feeling of wonder and awe as the soft glow mingled together, leaving a shining trail on his skin. He would stand there for hours, simply letting the soft light caress his skin.
He remembered Meadhros. Flaming red hair, bright as new copper, pale flawless skin, and wild grey eyes, all full of light and life. Meadhros made him feel alive, his life burned so brightly with in him, it was almost a flame. He remembered the way Meadhros had cried his name. It was a harsh gasp deep in his throat, sweat adding an extra sheen to his pale skin.
He remembered when this flame of life was extinguished. Years of Morgoth's torments had slowly beaten it out of him. He remembered seeing that gaunt frame wracked with pain. The name Meadhros 1 now seemed to only be a cruel irony. Years of torture had left his limbs twisted and broken, his once smooth skin criss-crossed with angry red slashes and ropy scars. It had broken Fingon's heart to hear his cousin's desperate pleas to end his life. But what had seared into Fingon's mind was cutting through the wrist. Feeling the bone give way, hearing his cousin's anguished screams, and seeing the bright red blood blossoming from the severed wrist, had been permanently stamped into Fingon's memory. He remembered cradling that wasted body, his own tears mixing with Meadhros's blood.
He remembered the stars. Soft points of light, their cold silver glitter lighting to soft velvet black of the night. He remembered the sheer wonder of that light.
The memories were coming faster now, just points and images.
A laughing face. The deep cool green of the sea. The verdant warmth of the Hill of Tuna. The sun's golden rays.
With a sob, Fingon cruelly ripped from his reminiscence. Gothmog leered down at him, laughing at the fallen elven king.
Fingon closed his eyes.
The axe fell.
-end-
A/N: 1:Meadhros means "well-made", so it is all ironic because he has been horribly tortured and no longer "well-formed"
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-Lady Kementari