A/N: So, this was a hard chapter to write. While I could picture some scenes perfectly, other's were like pulling teeth. But here it is. It was meant to be a small interlude from Maedhros' pov before continuing with Elarinya, but instead it became a full chapter. Oops.

Since I can't draw, I've made another moodboard. This time it's one for Fingon and Maedhros. You can find it on my Tumblr: WriterRose1998

And here's some clarification on the names if anyone needs it:

Maedhros: Russo - Russendol, Nelyo - Nelyafinwë, Maitimo.
Maglor: Káno - Kanafinwë, Laurë - Makalaurë
Fingon: Finno - Findecáno
Amras: Telufinwë
Celebrimbor: Tyelpe - Tyelperinquar
Caranthir: Moryo - Morifinwë
Turgon: Turvo/Turno - Turukáno
Morgoth: Melkor

The dragon's tail hit his brother's horse first.

Káno's horse screamed out in pain - the poor thing - and died quickly after the spiked appendage hit it.

To his great horror, Maedhros heard Glaurung let out a low laugh and smelled the sulfur in the air as that great maw opened to chuff out his vicious delight at the pain he'd brought.

Maglor set his jaw and thinking quickly, jumped off the dying gelding. He dove off to the side and barely managed to roll away in time. And with that he took the most dangerous and foolhardy part of the plan on his shoulders.

He went for the stomach.

A weak spot Maedhros' dwarf friend had shared with them, but one they hadn't been eager to use. The mouth and eyes were also vulnerable parts and with Princess Elarinya taking away the danger of dragonfire, a lot less perilous than actually daring to roll underneath a dragon.

"Where is he?" Glaurung snarled tail whipping away in agitation just before it would have hit Maedhros. "Where's the little mouse?"

The voice that he knew belonged to the young princess started another verse, but he could feel her fäe weakening. But that didn't make her plea any less strong. Glaurung might be speeding up again, but the Valar were still listening.

Greenery shot out of the muddy field, wrapping around the dragon's legs and stopping Glaurung from trampling over his brother as it kept the furious dragon in place.

Yavanna has come to lend her help.

Princess Elarinya had gone beyond and above these last few days, and Maedhros made a mental note to reward her handsomely for it all if they survived the day.

He needed to act now while her voice still held some power.

Maedhros whistled once, loud and sharp.

The dragon turned its head, anger and greed visible in Glaurung's golden eyes as they fell upon the Silmaril on his brow.

But it was too late.

"Káno, now!" He ordered as loud as possible, praying his brother could hear him. Maedhros jumped, using his long-suffering horse as a springboard. He jumped as high as he could.

And threw the mithril spear.

Silence fell around him as he landed in an easy crouch on the muddy ground, everyone seemingly watching as the spear glinted in the burning sun. It was like the fighting stopped for a moment as they watched the spear fly, everyone holding their breath.

As the spear flew through the air, Glaurung roared in pain as his vulnerable belly was pierced from underneath. He trashed, right into the path of Maedhros' own spear.

The dragon gave one last snarl, fire glowing in his throat as the razor sharp weapon pierced through his eye right into his brain.

Glaurung fell, with his teeth bared and a spear in the eye.

Dead.

The forces of Morgoth lost their leering grins, and the captains started barking orders for a retreat in Black Speech. The orcs growled and snapped, but most started running back behind their own lines.

His own people cheered and Maedhros spotted the pale head of Celegorm driving them up and hunting them down. Ambarussa were with Fingon's archers, shooting at the running orcs. He couldn't see Caranthir or Curufin anywhere, but he'd faith they had survived.

The dragon was dead. They'd done it.

"Káno!" Maedhros called, eyes wide with alarm as he realized he couldn't see him anywhere. His brother was somewhere underneath the dragon. "Maglor!"

He started forward, intent on lifting the dragon corpse himself if so necessary, when he heard the warg-ish growl. Behind him came the shouted warning of his second. "General!"

A stray warg carrying an overly cocky orc attempted to sneak up on him from behind, but Maedhros wasn't so distracted he lost his situational awareness. The darkness the foul things carried in their blood reeked.

He twisted around with a snarl of his own, and pulled his sword out from its sheath. He disarmed the Orc at the same time a wave of arrows rapidly found a home in the two cowards, protecting him. His second, a fierce elleth named Varyallë, saluted him.

Maedhros nodded back, a proud gleam in his eyes. Then he turned back to the matter of his brother. He could feel his fäe, faint like a musical note in the air. He was alive, and close.

"Laurë!"

"Here, Nelyo." A voice came from nearby the fallen dragon, rough with pain and exhaustion. "Cease your yelling, brother. I'm here."

Maedhros felt his knees wobble in relief. "Makalaurë. Praise the Valar."

His baby brother was laying on his side, close to the still very warm dragon corpse but not in any way underneath the beast. Not crushed. Not dead. Maglor had managed to roll away in time, thankfully in the right direction.

But he hadn't come away without injuries.

His arm hung limply at his side, and Maedhros winced in sympathy. That was his harp arm.

"Káno, can you walk?" He asked softly, bending down to help him stand upright. His poor brother looked awful, covered in mud and other unspeakable things. And underneath it all he could spot the beginning of what looked to be a truly spectacular bruise.

Maglor sighed, sounding as old as Eru himself. "Perhaps."

"I can't believe we actually did it." Maedhros stated blandly as he supported his brother to where his people were waiting to escort them to the healing tents. "We killed a dragon."

Limping towards their side of the field, he couldn't help but be amazed. Gothmog had been defeated, the dragon was dead and even if it was only a temporary reprieve, the orcs had retreated. It was day four of the battle, and Maedhros thought he might get to survive it after all.

Káno snorted, "From kinslayers to dragonslayers. We are coming up in the world."

Maedhros chuckled tiredly, lips quirking with amusement. He'd tried so hard to make up for his sins since leaving Aman with his brothers and father, but that was a title he'd always carry. It was only what he deserved after all.

"Ammë would be so proud of you, Nelyo." His little brother said suddenly, face serious.

Maedhros blinked against the stinging in his eyes as his mind and heart reached for the mother they'd chosen to leave behind as they followed their father. Their poor Ammë, who'd no idea what had become of her husband and sons. Who'd no idea what monsters their oath had made them.

"And our father?"

Maglor laughs. "Who knows what he's thinking? But he loved us, Nelyo. No matter what else, he always loved us."

Fëanor had loved them. That much was true. They had a wonderful childhood with parents who adored them. But his coldness towards his half-brothers through Indis had soured something inside his father. Fëanor had every right to be angry with his father for his desire to remarry, though personally Maedhros always found the sentiment a tad childish.

Miriel had chosen to depart of her own free will, and had given her blessing to her husband to remarry their shared friend, even knowing what it meant for her.

Fëanor had never accepted it.

And so he'd never accepted his stepmother, half brothers and half sisters. The half part had always been very much emphasized in their home, which had made Maedhros' close relationship with his cousin Fingon an often discussed topic.

He hadn't cared. Next to Maglor, Fingon had been his best friend. He even liked his uncle, often working side by side in Finwë's court. Then his father was banished and everything changed.

Obsession and paranoia grew inside his father, and though Finwë tried to temper it with his love and wish for peace in his household, it had been for naught.

Melkor stole the Silmarils, murdered Finwë in his own home and so his father changed again. Rage had colored every action afterwards, something the sons of Fëanor shared. It had been the beginning of the end.

The elf who was willing to leave their dear mother behind and ordered them to take that damnable oath to recover the Silmarils was not his father. Not truly.

They had taken the oath of their own free will, true. But that didn't mean they would have taken it if it hadn't been their lord-father asking.

He'd been their father and future king. Finwë's firstborn and heir-apparent.

They'd all owed Fëanor their obedience and their father, in his raging fury, had known it. Used it.

Used them.

Made them into kinslayers on those bloody beaches of Alquelondë. Made Maedhros choose between leaving their mother behind or looking after his little brothers. Between rightful vengeance with his brothers and the peaceful life in Valinor without them.

Maedhros hadn't taken long to make that decision.

His brothers meant everything to him. He'd helped his parents raise them, being so much older than them as he was. And while he knew them leaving broke their mother's heart, Nerdanel understood who her husband was.

Who she'd raised her sons to be.

But Maedhros wasn't sure if she could understand what making the oath made them. Or what her husband had become.

Fëanáro. Fëanor. Atar.

Atya.

Atar, who then died a fiery death at the hands of Gothmog and his fellows, protecting his sons until the last. Leaving his sons alone in a new world. Kinslayers and boatburners, left alone to shoulder the oath they'd sworn. Despite the fact Maedhros hadn't joined in with burning the boats like the rest of his family, he was still surprised that Fingon had forgiven him for it all.

After all, it was the result of those actions that had forced Fingon and their kin to cross the icy wastes of the Helcaraxë.

Turgon had lost his wife there, and there had been so many other losses that could have been avoided if only Fëanor had listened to Maedros' pleas to return the boats.

(But the greatest horror would always be how they'd almost killed Telufinwë in their paranoia. Thankfully the youngest of the twins had woken just in time to escape the burning boat, but it could have easily been different.)

"Go to the healing tents, Káno." Maedhros ordered gently, eyeing the arm hanging limply alongst Maglor's side. "Take care of that arm."

They'd almost reached the lines now. Only a little bit further to go and his brother's wounds could be taken care of by the healers. Then Maedhros could go search out his other brothers, and check up on how they were doing.

Maglor hummed, a musical little sound that always lightened his spirit. "I will. I should also check on the Princess."

He stiffened, head snapping to where he thought the singing had been coming from before. Maedhros noticed for the first time that the singing had stopped, and he couldn't see her sitting up in the tree anymore.

"Russo!" A very familiar voice called, distracting him from his worry. "Russo!"

Finno. Maedhros turned, ignoring the fondly exasperated noise Káno made, and there he was.

Astride on his pale gray steed, Fingon made a welcome sight to the tired general.

"Fingon." He breathed, eyes drinking him in. He was alright. A bit sooty and bruised, but alright.

It had been one of the scariest moments in his life to watch his beloved cousin being surrounded by all those balrogs. And then Gothmog had joined the fight.

Ai Elbereth, he'd feared the worst then.

But he'd survived.

Maedhros didn't know how, but his Finno had made it out. Wounded the Lord of the Balrogs and sent him back to whatever hole he'd crawled out of. He'd made it out.

Fingon jumped off his horse, his braided hair still as neat as when Maedhros helped him with it.

"Russo!" He exclaimed again, face pale. "You-"

He smiled, eyes not leaving those pale gray eyes. "I'm fine, Finno. We made it."

Fingon smiled sunnily, a breathtaking expression full of joy. He stepped towards him, and then they were finally embracing.

"I'm so glad." He breathed into his side, careful not to dislodge where Maedhros was supporting the injured Maglor. "So very glad."

Maedhros closed his eyes, and for a second just breathed in the familiar scent of frost and wildflowers. Their fäe brushed against each other, careful and hesitant but still determinately checking if the other was truly alright.

He hadn't ever acted upon the feelings he had for his half cousin, but as Finno tucked his head under his chin, fitting perfectly, Maedhros thought that maybe, maybe-

Maglor rolled his eyes, sounding bemused. "Greetings, cousin. As you see, I also survived the dragon."

Fingon flushed, stepping away from him. And as he gave an exasperated Maglor a careful hug of his own, Maedhros noticed that Turgon and another ellon had accompanied him.

"Cousin." He nodded.

Turgon nodded back, ignoring Maglor. Fingon's younger brother could tolerate Maedhros, but he still held a lot of anger towards the rest of his brothers. And he flat out hated Fëanor and all he stood for.

Because of Fëanor ordering the burning of the boats, Idril had become motherless.

And that he could not forgive.

"Maitimo." Turgon nodded back, before turning to introduce the golden-haired ellon at his side. "This is Glorfindel, Lord of House of the Golden Flower. Glorfindel, this is my eldest cousin and the General of my brother's armies, Maedhros Fëanorion."

"Well met, General." Glorfindel stated calmly, but his eyes were cautious. Hard.

He did not like them, that much was obvious.

Well, Maedhros didn't care. Most of the Noldor that crossed the Helcaraxë had very little reason to care about the Fëanorions and Glorfindel had helped his most cherished cousin. "Well met, my Lord. You have my gratitude for your timely arrival. You and your friend saved the High King with your brave actions."

"I'm not so sure that it was just us who came to help." Glorfindel said abruptly. "There was this voice in the air as we fought. Just for a few moments, and suddenly the Enemy slowed down."

Fingon nodded, and Maedhros shot him a look. "Elarinya?"

"Yes," He agreed, ignoring the confusion of his brother and his Lord. "It must have been."

Melian was famous for her scrying ability, and apparently she'd taught her daughter the same skills. Gods, they really would have been lost without the young elleth, and that realization sat poorly. Because he could see what would have happened without her timely warnings.

Her vision had been Valar-sent, but it only drove home that they'd been on a path that would've spelled their doom. Adding that it was an elfling not even out of her first century who'd been shown those horrible things only made his heart break even more.

Children were to be cherished.

Maedhros loved children. He'd been very involved in the raising of his own hellion brothers, and every child - born into his family or not - was a new delight. They were supposed to be safe. Yet the young princess was here, on the battlefields. She'd saved their lives, saved it thrice over.

But at what cost?

Fingon, who could read him like a book, brushed his hand against Maedhros' in understanding. "Then we owe her an ever bigger debt."

Glorfindel hummed thoughtfully, "Does this mysterious elleth mayhaps have purple eyes?"

His brother tilted his head in surprise and winced in pain, "How did you guess?"

"I think I saw her watching us. Silver of hair and with eyes like the purest amethyst? I thought I was mistaken at first, but if she was scrying…" The golden-haired elf trailed off, turning to look at a rapidly paling Maglor. "Perhaps we should move this conversation to the healing tents?"

Maedhros raised a brow in surprise, startled by the consideration for his brother. "I was making my way there now."

"Perhaps it might be better if you allow Aegon here to take Laurë to the tents." Fingon suggested as he watched the other end of the field where the orcs were gathering again. "I think they are planning something."

He waved someone forward and an elf came forward, bowing eagerly. "My king?"

Glorfindel and Maedhros made an identical sound of amusement, and shared a startled look.

Maglor chuckled, and took his good arm off Maedhros' shoulders. "Well met, Aegon. I would appreciate it deeply if you could escort me to the healing tents."

Like many before him, the soldier wasn't - despite his initial dislike - capable of refusing the most polite of his brothers. He flushed, and awkwardly offered his shoulder for Maglor to lean on.

"Give my greetings to Ecthelion?" Glorfindel asked, meeting Maglor's eyes.

Káno nodded, "Of course."

Then - after shooting Maedhros a look that said he better be careful now that he would be without Maglor there to look out for him - he gracefully accepted the help offered by Aegon. Maedhros was watching his brother limp off the battlefield, feeling a familiar fondness rise up.

Which reminded him that he had five other troublesome brothers who he needed to check up on.

"Have you seen my other brothers?" He asked, meeting Finno's bright eyes.

Fingon nodded, the gold woven through his braids gleaming in the midday sun. "I did. They are all fine, I promise. Though Moryo has been brought to the healers with a concussion and flesh wound, and your nephew Tyelpe has broken his leg, they are all safe."

"Thank the Valar." Maedhros breathed, relief sinking deep into his bones. "I should go find them."

"Yes, of course." Finno nodded, very familiar with Maedhros' tendency to mother his long-suffering brothers. "I'll accompany you. I think I spotted some of your hellions near King Thingol's banners."

Turvo cleared his throat and pointed at something behind Maedhros' back. "I think we have a bigger issue."

The Enemy had regrouped.

Their people started taking notice, and a tense air returned to the forces. Maedhros opened his mouth to call for a reforming of the lines when Darkness spread over Arda. He looked up to the sky, confused.

The sun was slowly disappearing beneath a moving darkness, as if something was eclipsing over it. Covering it.

"What kind of unnatural magic is this?" Finno breathed, horrified. Maedhros stepped closer, letting their arms brush.

"Morgoth." Glorfindel stated grimly.

They all tensed, waiting for the next horror to be unleashed. Instead it was like Arda itself was holding her breath when a dark figure appeared on the other side of the field, two shining jewels on his brow.

Maedhros paled, recognizing the figure.

He'd chosen the look of an elf this time, the same one he'd liked to wear back in Aman. The same one he'd worn as he murdered Finwë. An uncommonly tall ellon with long black hair and deadly pale skin stood before them, wearing spike-covered black armor.

Finwë's murderer. Fëanor's end. Fingolfin's killer.

His captor. His tormentor. His greatest enemy.

"Reform the lines!" Fingon, Maedhros and Turgon barked out as one. Their armies, well trained as they were, set aside their weariness and fright, and swiftly obeyed. Their captains repeated the orders given, and everyone quickly got into place.

Ready.

Morgoth took his time. He walked slowly towards the middle of the field, his forces waiting at the other side. Maedhros frowned, uneasy.

"What is he doing?" Turgon muttered.

Glorfindel, standing at the other side of the king of Gondolin, narrowed his eyes. "Something unwise, we can only hope."

The copper-haired elf snorted, derisive. "Nothing he does is unwise. But, Fingon, do you see?"

"He's limping." Finno breathed, awed.

Maedhros hummed, face not showing any of the savage satisfaction he was feeling. Fingolfin had done it. He'd actually delivered permanent injury on Morgoth Bauglir. Seven strikes he'd brought upon the Dark Lord, and the fact that even one of them had some permanence was a Valar blessed miracle.

"Atya actually did it." Turvo added, for once sounding younger than his many years.

Then Morgoth stopped in the middle of the field and opened his traitorous mouth.

"My poor pet," Melkor said, tone warm and full sincerity as he spoke. "It's been too long. How weary you appear. Do they not know how to care for you?"

Those dark eyes met his, and Maedhros fortified his mind.

He fought to keep his face impassive, to not flinch in the face of his tormentor. He buried the shame at the sound of that dreaded term of endearment for all to hear. He buried the memories that threatened to overwhelm his rational mind.

Of the horrors that Morgoth and his ilk inflicted upon him.

Finno, next to him, radiated with protective anger. He'd been there in the aftermath, and more than that, Fingon had been the one to save him. Cut off his hand and took him away from that icy cliffside where Melkor had left him to rot, hanging from a shackle by his wrist.

"Come back to me, my pet." The Dark Lord continued, appearance changing subtly. His hair turned dark brown and his eyes into a familiar bright shade. Fingon's breath hitched, and Maedhros knew he'd spotted it too. "I will be a good master to you, pretty one. Kneel before me, and return to your master's merciful embrace."

Maedhros held back his disgusted shudder, feeling the trauma creep up on him. "Never."

His snarl was echoed by his companions, from Finno to the newly met Glorfindel. Warmth spread through his hröa to his fëa as he felt their determination and support.

"Pity." Melkor murmured, eyes scanning over their group and the army ready behind them. "I missed having your company. Ah well, I do enjoy breaking the stubborn ones."

"You tried and failed for thirty years already." Maedhros pointed out, keeping his voice as annoyingly reasonable as possible. "I am stronger than you, Betrayer."

(In the distance he heard his brothers call out. Amrad and Amros, cheering loudly at his rebuke, encouraging and proud.

"Keep your filthy forked tongue away from my brother!" Came Celegorm's response, snarling like a furious wolf.

Curufin's cultured voice came from the eastern flank, cool and dark. "If you ever put your hands on any of my brothers again-")

It was only because they were paying such close attention that they saw the brief flash of anger flicker over his face. Tension rose, and the Dark Lord let go of his attempt to lure him in by taking on Finno's appearance. His face grew cold, and danger flashed in those dark, almost black eyes.

Fingon tensed at his side, and Maedhros felt him move. His hand shot out, halting him in his tracks.

"Don't you dare." He hissed, drawing the attention of Turgon and Glorfindel.

"Like father, like son." Melkor chuckled, bringing chills to all who heard him. "Will you not let him go, Nelyafinwë?"

"I must." Fingon stated, jaw set. He never looked more like his father, and it broke his heart. "Let me do this, Russo."

Turgon sneered with eyes narrowed. But Maedhros saw the fear he tried to hide, the fear they shared. Fingolfin had died facing Morgoth. They couldn't let Fingon do the same.

"No, brother. Maitimo is right, Findecáno. Listen to him." He said quietly, turning to his brother with a desperate kind of anger. "Atar died facing Melkor. We can't lose you too."

"Turno-"

Glorfindel cleared his throat, looking a bit uncomfortable. "If I may, my king, I don't think this is the moment for single combat. We know the Enemy isn't one to keep his word, and there are many of his allies here."

"The Valar have helped us much today." Maedhros added, eyes meeting Finno's. "But I do not believe they will help us with this."

"No mortal blade can kill a Vala." Turvo said. "We cannot defeat him, but maybe we can delay him."

Silence fell, and Maedhros' mind raced. Melkor was waiting for their next move. He'd almost feel the malicious amusement of the Dark Lord as he watched them, and it only reminded him of the years he'd spent as his prisoner.

"I'll go." Glorfindel said, blue eyes shining with determination.

Thunder rumbled, and the great war hammer Grond appeared in the hand of Melkor. "I'm getting tired of waiting, pet. What will you do? Who will you see die next?"

It was those words that distracted Maedhros and the others enough that Fingon could step forward, out of Maedhros' reach.

"I, Findecáno, son of Fingolfin and High King of the Noldor, challenge you to single combat!" He called, voice strong and sure. Maedhros cursed, Turgon and Glorfindel echoing it with great feeling. But there was nothing they could do about it, the challenge had been made. The die was cast.

Melkor smirked, triumph lighting his face. "Accepted."

Fingon walked to the middle of the field, a few feet away from Morgoth and got in position. Maedhros closed his eyes, and sent up a short prayer.

Please let him come out of this alive.

And then the fight began. Thunder rumbled eagerly and lightning flashed as Morgoth swung his hammer. But Fingon was prepared. He swiftly moved out of the way, sword flashing.

"One." Maedhros murmured as he saw the hit strike true. Turgon's breath hitched, and he felt a stab of regret. The fight was an eerie echo of the fight between Fingolfin and Morgoth, something they'd all witnessed.

Morgoth hissed in fury, and stomped the ground hard enough that the earth raptured. Fingon stumbled, and only just managed to avoid the black hammer. It glanced off his side, surely leaving an impressive bruise instead of the crushed bones it could have left.

Finno jumped on a rock, and slashed again.

"Two." Turgon breathed out, stunned.

Melkor laughed low in his throat, a fire burning in his black eyes. "You can't survive this, little elf. I am the greatest of the Ainur. The first born of Eru Ilúvatar himself. If he could not stop me, what hope do you think to have?"

In his distraction, Fingon managed to land another hit.

"Three." Maedhros and Glorfindel counted, sharing a quick look.

Then Morgoth landed his first true hit on Fingon. He struck lightning fast, hitting Finno full in the chest with his hammer. There was no defending against such strength, and Fingon flew a few feet through the air before landing painfully on his arm.

"Get up, Finno." Maedhros prayed. "Get up!"

Morgoth approached the motionless Fingon, his tread slow and arrogant. The Silmarils glowed, and Maedhros never hated the sight of them more.

"Are you done, little elf?" He mused, smirk audible.

Maedhros cursed, fäe flaring. "Finno, get up! Now!"

And with the encouragement of his loved ones and people, the High King of the Noldor got up again, hand clenched around the pommel of his sword. There was a big indent in his breastplate where the hammer had hit, and Maedhros sucked in a breath.

Their people cheered as the king stood once again.

But Maedhros knew it was for naught. Melkor was unstoppable, and Finno, his Finno, would die. And he would have to stand there and watch it happen.

No.

No, he would not.

Determination filled him, and Maedhros took a deep breath. Eyes closing, he gathered his fäe and started humming the melody of a song he'd long since forgotten. A prayer, not unlike the one Maglor had helped the little princess compose.

Melkor - thankfully - didn't notice. But those standing at Maedhros' side did, cousin Turgon and his lord stiffening as they registered the unsettling sounds of the language he started singing in. Voice deep and soulful, he poured his soul into the words and melody.

He sang in Valarin, the language of the Valar, taught to him by Fëanor. He quietly sang his plea to the Ainur who'd doomed him and his people, and he offered an exchange.

Their help for the Silmarils.

A strong breeze blew through the field, bringing the clean scent of the sea. The darkness before the sun disappeared, and warm light caressed their skin.

Fingon managed to get another hit in, this time slashing at the left wrist of the Ainu in a move that Maedhros bet was intentional. Morgoth snarled, and a bolt of lightning slammed in the ground where Finno had just stood.

The Dark Lord's wrist hung limply, not cut off completely but definitely injured.

"You!" He snarled, fury exploding all around him. The orc flinched back, and their own forces hunkered down, shields raising. "Curse you and your house!"

Fingon spat out a glob of blood. "You might kill me. You might even win today. You might win the battle, but you shall never win this war."

Their people cheered, spears and swords slamming on shields to convey their agreement. The sound was deafening and pride filled him. Fingon's shoulders straightened, and his beloved cousin motioned for Morgoth to continue.

"The Valar can't help you!" Melkor said, conviction audible. "I am the greatest. I am immortal."

Sword and hammer met with a blinding force, sending a shockwave of power through the field. The sword, forged by Fëanor himself, crumbled.

But Fingon wasn't done yet.

He unsheathed the hidden dagger from his side, and slid it right between the plates of Morgoth's armor into his soft belly. Morgoth roared, an inhuman sounding sound. He roared his rage and pain, and backhanded the dark-haired elf. Hard.

Fingon flew through the air and landed a few feet away. Maedhros made to step forward, but Turgon stopped him.

"Wait, Maedhros." He urged, looking pale. "What is that?"

He pointed upward, and then he saw it too.

Another shape covered the sun, this one much more familiar to Maedhros. Fingon had saved him all those years ago, but he had help. A caw came from far above, and Morgoth scowled.

Thorondor, King of the Eagles of Manwë, had come.

He swept down to the battlefield, claws extended. Morgoth attempted to swing his hammer up to hit the enormous bird, but it was too late. The wicked looking claws enclosed around the greatest of the Ainur, and picked him up like he was a misbehaving child. Or chick, in this case.

"It's been a long time, eldest of the House of Fëanor." Golden eyes met his, and the eagle inclined his head. "Your bargain has been accepted."

Orcs and Wargs fled, disappearing into Morgoth's dark lands.

"I'll keep my word." Maedhros swore, eyes going from where Fingon lay to the ancient eyes of the Great Eagle.

Thorondor hummed, eyes piercing. "So you will."

And with that the Great Eagle flared his wings and rose into the air, claws tightly secured around a furious Melkor. The Dark Lord was completely immobilized, arms and legs tightly pressed together. He opened his mouth, ready to curse them all, but nothing came out.

He raged then, as the Eagle flew them over the field. He raged and the crown upon his brow, the crown with the Silmarils fell off, hitting the dirt.

Maedhros stared, dumbfounded.

While he froze, Fingon stood with great difficulty. He walked over to where the crown lay in the mud and picked it up. The light of the Two Trees inside the jewels shone brightly, and Maedhros stared harder.

He was beautiful.

Covered in mud and blood, Maedhros thought his cousin never looked better.

He was alive.

They all were.

Finno stood there, staring down at the crown in his hands. Then he set his jaw and began prying out the precious stones with his own hands. They fell easily into his palm, as if they knew they were in good hands now.

Maedhros approached slowly, Turgon and Glorfindel following. He was vaguely aware of some of his brothers coming near as well, though he didn't look. All his focus was on his king.

"Finno." He breathed, awed. "You did it."

"We did it. Together." Fingon murmured, pressing the two Silmarils in Maedhros' shaking hands. " For you, beloved. May they finally bring you the peace you so deserve. My Russo."

Maedhros barely felt the Oath break as the jewels flared with a breathtaking light. Barely heard the victorious roars of his brothers as the stranglehold that was the oath released its hold on their fäe.

All he could see was Fingon.

Fingon, who was bleeding heavily. Fingon, who had fought Morgoth for him, and won. Fingon, who was turning a worrying shade of white.

Fingon, who'd just called him beloved.

And then fainted.

A/N: Let me know your thoughts?

Translations:

Ammë: Mom
Atar/Atya: Dad

Aman: Valinor