"And so there came to pass the last and cruellest of the slayings of Elf by Elf; and that was the third of the great wrongs achieved by the accursed oath."
Maglor
And then there was … tumult.
The memories were hazy. Maglor wondered if it was some hitherto-unknown-to-him method of self-defense put up by his own mind. He remembered the heat. Hundreds of Feanorian soldiers pressed together, sweltering in the humidity. The plunk of arrows from above bouncing uselessly off the turtle's shell of wrought-metal shields, and the occasional soft wet sound of an arrow that managed to slip through.
The town's gate had let out a reverberating groan each time it crashed against the soldiers' battering ram. Then there were snaps and the sound of splintering as the wood gave way. Screams too, though Maglor had trouble determining whose.
As he and his soldiers clamored through the newly gaping maw leading into the small town, their mission kept repeating in his mind. Find Elwing. Find the Silmaril.
"Every house, do you hear me?"
Maglor panted under the weight of his armor. His arms felt heavy at his sides but conversely burned with impatience, swinging his sword into a scything arc almost of their own accord. The Sindarin soldier in front of him fell against the blade before he could even raise his bow.
The elf crumpled to the ground surprisingly gently; to the eye of Maglor the bard, like a flower after frost. As he stepped over the body a flicker of surprise passed through Maglor at the stature of his vanquished opponent; surprisingly delicate for a soldier.
Around him in the town square, the battle raged on.