A Terrible End by StarSpray

Chapter 1

Menegroth burned. Smoke filled the halls and twisting corridors, thick and acrid. There was nowhere for it to go, and so it just stayed there, choking and obscuring. As Dior and a company of his soldiers strode toward the Great Hall the smoke parted and swirled around them, like an army of ghosts. Dior gritted his teeth and determinedly did not listen to the crying out of the stones all around him. Menegroth itself was protesting the blood spilled on her stones—so much blood and so soon after the last attack. It felt as though the whole hillside was quivering, preparing to collapse on top of all of them just to make it stop.

Elsewhere in the caves—it was impossible to tell where because of the echoing way that sounds traveled—Dior heard a voice ring out, thrumming with power. Maglor Fëanorion was here. He wondered, in a distant sort of way, what would happen should he and Maglor meet. Maglor was the greatest singer of the Noldor and had had years uncounted to hone his craft. But what Dior lacked in skill he thought perhaps he made up for in the raw power that flowed in his veins, the legacy of Melian and of Lúthien.

He hoped it would not come to that. Now it was just a matter of buying time. Nimloth was gone with the children and the Silmaril, and Galadriel and Celeborn and others with them—as many as they could gather and send out the secret ways. He had kissed them all knowing it was for the last time; he would not leave the caves tonight. His family would find their way out of Doriath and down Sirion to the Sea, and hopefully to Círdan.

As a child, Dior had dreamed often of the sea, of starlight on foamy waves and the fresh salt smell of the wind off the water. Then he had come to Doriath and the dreams had faded away, and he had nearly forgotten them—until the Silmaril came, and the news of his parents' death. With the Silmaril had come the dreams again, and it was then that Dior had begun to understand. That Silmaril was part of a larger story. Something bigger than his parents, bigger than Doriath, or the Sons of Fëanor, no matter how stern the words of Maedhros.

He gripped his sword and set his jaw and stepped into the Great Hall. It had been unclear, before, where all of the smoke was coming from. There was little enough to burn inside the caves. Here it was clear: Melian's tapestries had been set ablaze. The work of years uncounted was crumbling into ash in a matter of minutes. The fountains were choked with it, and with the blood of those who had already fallen. Chaos reigned, the noise of battle echoing throughout the cavernous hall and making it seem like there were more soldiers than there really were. The soldiers who had come in with Dior did not hesitate, charging forward to help those already there, who were being slowly beaten back. Dior remained where he was, scanning the hall, smoke stinging his eyes.

He saw Celegorm just after Celegorm saw him. He had lost his helmet, and his silver hair spilled over his shoulders, loosed from braids, tangled and sticky with blood. His teeth were bared, his eyes flashing. Like wild animal, Dior thought as he raised his sword just in time to parry Celegorm's first wild strike. "Where is it?" Celegorm demanded. It was a snarl more than a sentence. "Where is the Silmaril? What—have—you—done—with—it?" Each word was punctuated with another blow, sparks flying each time their swords met. Dior had no choice but to retreat, but he turned aside from the narrow corridor so they were moving along the wall. The tapestries here had not yet been set afire. They depicted scenes of joy and celebrations, bonfires along the Esgalduin and the stars overhead stitched with silver thread.

"It is not here," Dior said through gritted teeth. He lunged forward, finding an open place in Celegorm's armor and at the same time receiving a blow across his shoulder, hard enough to crack bone. He fumbled with his sword, transferring it to his left hand as he dodged out of the way of another swing. "It is gone and you will not find it!" He swung his own sword, and Celegorm was not expecting it—he thrust deep into unguarded flesh, the blade scraping along bone. They were so close now that Dior could feel Celegorm's breath on his face. He could see the shock in his eyes. "You should not have tried to kill my parents," Dior hissed before yanking his blade back out, blood spraying across the tapestry and staining the silver-threaded stars.

Celegorm fell to his knees, but even mortally wounded he was quick and strong, and a dagger sank deep into Dior's thigh. He felt it hit the vessel there, blood pouring out along with the blade as Celegorm pulled it free, his teeth bared and bloody. "You should have given us the Silmaril," he gasped, the force and snarl gone from his voice.

Someone shouted across the Hall, though whether they were calling for Dior or for Celegorm, Dior could not hear. He fell to his knees, and then slumped against the wall. There was a roaring in his ears, a roaring like the sea. Somewhere in the distance, far from Menegroth, like the clear ringing of a bell, he could hear someone calling to him. Dior leaned his head back against the soft silk of the tapestry (beneath the smoke and the blood he caught the faintest scent of niphredil) and closed his eyes.