Anger filled Thingol as he sat in his High Throne in Doriath,, none like he had ever felt before. It filled him, causing his very limbs to buzz with rage. But most of all, it blinded him.
"You ask for the Nauglamir? You dare ask for the Nauglamir?" he roared at the Dwarf, the Naugrim. The Stunted People. Still infuriated, he looked at him with distaste. The Naugrim lacked any grace nor agility like that of the Eldar, the Firstborn of Iluvatar. "You shall never even set eyes on the heirloom of my people!" Thingol stood, a towering and imposing figure on the small Dwarf. The King made sure the Dwarf was looking him right in the eye, "The Nauglamir is mine!" he hissed.
Thingol looked down, almost surprised to see the spear stabbed grotesquely in his stomach.. The Naugrim had exacted their revenge. He slumped down against the blood-stained wall, staring at his hands. What a petty, childish thing to die over, he thought. I am no better than little children, refusing to give their treasures of buttons and shells. He paused in thought, ashamed. I am diminished, he finished.
It was not like this in the beginning. Doriath had forged an alliance with the Dwarves of Belegost, the ones that had carved out Menegroth for him. In return, Thingol had presented them with many gifts, including the great pearl, Nimphelos. If they weren't friends, at least they weren't enemies.
Then the Black Darkness had come. Evil had seeped into Middle-Earth, bringing the Noldorin along with it. The Usurper attacked the lands of Beleriand. He had worked with the Naugrim, beating back the orcs. Thingol had been appalled to learn they were once Eldar. They were fallen now, the precise image of things that were once beautiful and whole, now destructed and broken. Sometimes, Thingol felt empathy for the orcs. They did not know what they fought for. They fought mindlessly because they were told. However, they were killing his people. And Thingol's sense of duty for Doriath was far greater than that of his small pity for the orcs.
He had seen too many of his kin die. Never before was death so harsh and unforgiving as that day, that day drenched with thick rain, the metallic smell of blood in the air. Elvish blood. The blood of his people. Thingol could still feel that blood on his hands, as if he were guilty of murder of every single Elf that had died that day. So he withdrew from the wars of the Noldor, leaving them to fend for themselves.
Thingol's attention snapped back to the present. There were fewer people in the throne room now, either slain or drawn elsewhere to the fight. He groaned, his head tilting backwards against the wall as he slumped, making stains on the beautiful marble walls. Every minute of his life, Thingol had fought for survival. The Noldorin were the gifted ones, the ones that had seen the light of the Valar, of Valinor.
Yet, he, like the Noldor, had failed in the face of temptations and wars. He was no better than them. It was a sobering thought, more so than watching the blood trickle out of his own body. In the end, Thingol had failed. He had failed his people, Melian, his children, as well as himself. It didn't matter, he thought grimly. It was all for naught. Everything he had done since the dawn of time was for naught.
Thingol could vaguely remember the days when he was Elwe Singollo, merely the leader of his people, journeying to Valinor. That was when things were simple; the only rule of life being "Follow the Valar." Now, Middle-Earth was a mess of deceits, treacheries and wars. How had it come to this? And Melian. She was right, as usual, The Nauglamir was not worth the lives of his kin, as beautiful as it was.
So as Elu Thingol's vision darkened, he said one last goodbye to his people, and finally, one fond farewell to Melian, voicing aloud his regrets and his anguishes. "Melian," he whispered, knowing she would never hear his last words to her. "Do you remember the trees in the forest of Nan Elmoth? They were so beautiful. The grass was like a velvet carpet underneath my feet, the sky a silky cushion above. But the most exquisite thing was the sound of the voice singing among the trees. It was as an elegant dove, serenading the sunrise." Tears found its way down his cheek, etching into his face. "You were so beautiful, Melian. So beautiful." Thingol closed his eyes. "I wish I could live that again. But, alas, it is not the wont of the stars."