(FA 5; February 14)

I stand before the walls of Angband. I do not understand why I am there; do I not reside in Tirion? Why have the plains changed? I do not understand—and then Maitimo appears before me, sad and forlorn. He is shackled on the wrists, and one of them is severely mauled. It was the left wrist, from where I stood, but his right. His appearance was altered from the noble and tall Elf that I had known before. He was weaker now, and his back slumped with the effort of standing up.

"Mai—Maedhros," I say slowly, slipping on the first syllable. After all, was it not him who requested I call him by his Sindarin name?

Maitimo shakes his head.

I try again. "Nelyafinwë." It was my awkward attempt of being polite, since I knew we probably weren't on the best terms, enough to call each other by an amilessë. "Nelyo."

He raises a hand to gesture that I am wrong, or perhaps I was completely wrong in my idea of what he wanted answered. I feel frustration building up, and with that comes surprise. Middle-earth has changed me truly; I had great patience, but now, I am getting flustered at the simplest things!

"Maitimo, what is it?" I ask him.

Maitimo smiles, but he does not speak. Instead, he takes from his sleeve the glinting silver handle of a brass knife and holds it before me. His stone grey eyes are miserable with what seems to be his endless internal torture. And I now know what he is asking of me.

"I can't."

He walks towards me, trying to close the distance, but the shackles on his ankles hold him back. He settles for raising his arm slightly further, causing the knife to move closer to me.

"You ask of me an impossible task," I try to tell him, definite in my decision not to become the ultimate Kinslayer.

Maitimo shakes his head—wrong answer again, I suppose.

"Please—Maitimo—Russandol, you know I cannot do this to you."

And then, Maitimo's voice returns to him, and he speaks. "You will not bring to me sanctuary from this rotting hell I am confined in?"

His words sting; I always wished for him the best, but my actions seemed to go against it, when he put it that way. I clench my fists and adamantly shake my head, knowing that I would never, ever willingly hurt my own beloved half-cousin. "I will never harm you."

Instantaneously after I say that, Maitimo's eyes start to smolder and burn, and his hair is now as red as the fire of Fëanor's spirit—all-consuming, chaotic, incinerating, devouring. His gaze could raze a land of stone, and people with their hearts of wind. Suddenly, I am sent flying back into the grass of Ard-galen. It is a major contrast from where I had been previously standing; on dead land. On the land before Angband, of course. As I look up at Maitimo, holding my jaw, I abruptly realise three things.

He has struck me.

From where I lie awkwardly, it is as if Maitimo represents the whole of Angband, standing before it as a symbol. He is no longer Maitimo, Russandol, or even Nelyafinwë. He is Maedhros, son of Fëanor.

He is no longer my friend.

(FA 5; February 15)

That's where I woke up, in a cold sweat. I was in the ditch I dug yesterday, comically splayed out as I struggled to right myself. Eventually, I stood upright and stumbled away from the ditch. I was so stricken that I could not even maneuver efficiently.

I calmed down, trying to recall what had happened.

So there it is, above; the first part of my two journal entries today. My odd dream. I don't think I've ever had such a ridiculously far-flung dream like this. I never did take my dreams seriously, and I wasn't about to start now, but there was something about it that drew on my sixth sense. I sure wish I had an explanation now—it would rid me of unnecessary musings that I would never forget.

I faintly wondered how Maitimo was doing, and if his condition was even worse than what I pictured in my dream; shackled on every visibly elongated limb, excluding the neck. When I had read over the entry of the dream, I felt anger at how Maitimo was chained to Angband...

...and yes, he was chained to Angband itself, doomed never to leave unless he could drag the entire Iron Mountains to Himring.

I've started to move again. The tall grass won't be able to conceal me much longer, as the stalks are growing shorter and scarcer as I near Angband. Already, the ground is half barren, and small insects and bugs scuttle towards the areas of abundant grass. I would have sketched the land, but lead makes a better utensil than a quill on battered parchment, yellowed with age and crinkled. I have no lead. I am running out of pages, because I never expected my journal entry to be so long.

Oh, and Angband, despite popular belief, is not a wasteland of noxious fumes and sludges of trash.

It is actually, as I have done extensive research (surely, you did not think I would go rushing to save Maitimo without my brain?), a fortress beneath the cliffs of Thangorodrim. Thangorodrim itself is what many people believe to be the ultimate location, but it is not so. So, when I stood before the three volcanic pikes, I was stupefied. The ominous atmosphere caused it to become much more darker than it actually was, and the sky formed a swirl of red and grey, as if it were some sick, twisted entrance to a whole other dimension, beyond the bounds of Middle-earth and Valinor. The Void, perhaps.

And then I saw him, and my heart wrenched painfully.

There hung my cousin, my dear Maitimo, by his right wrist, and nothing else, on the upper cliff of the middle peak. His head was lowered in defeat, and his body, dressed in rags (of his former uniform attire), was battered and bruised. His feet dangled in the sky as wind cruelly blew enough to shift his position every two seconds.

"MAEDHROS!" I shouted.

Perhaps that wasn't the smartest idea I'd ever executed.

No time to sig