Complete by Melesta

Until the Bitter End

Beleriand. After the Dagor Aglareb, Victory for the Noldor:

We met in the middle of a sea of corpses. I was still spitting orc blood and sweat as I saw them coming, and someone yelled, 'Victory!' We all echoed. And the word instantly lost meaning. I could barely hold on to my horse by midday as reports were exchanged, losses and gains summarized, horses distributed. My father's steady voice in the background, barking orders - the last strength sustaining me that morning.

And then I saw it for but a brief moment. The death of Findekáno and Matimo. The true birth of Fingon and Maedhros as they faced each other gripping the bloodied manes of their horses. Neither daring to urge a single step forward. Their bodies fierce and glorious. Strong and unbending. Like two of Nerdanel's marble statues. Their gaze blurring out the sea of sticky mesh formed by the piles of dissected bodies between them. Eyes fixated solely on each other. Longing. Craving. Desiring. Desire!

It pierced me stronger than the black arrow I had taken earlier. The desire of kinslayers. Alqualondë. The Ice. Elenwë. Arakáno. The grief and anger I had endured in silence since the day Fëanáro placed a blade on my father's throat. It came surging like the waves of orcs we had just slaughtered. Like a rambling earthquake opening small cracks all inside my body. Steady repulsion infiltrated every breath I inhaled. Liquid metal fused with my blood, stinging my eyes. I did not resist it. Letting it steep, it filled me not with fury but an iron determination.

And still, I could not despise them. Although it would be easier if I did so. For was I not the one to pray for his survival? For their unification? I remembered watching as the great eagle returned them from Thangorodrim. And I had felt hope. Foolish, cursed hope. The Valar had not forsaken us. At least not all of us. That same night I stood behind my brother as he refused to leave the scraps that had once been my cousin. The two neither dead nor alive clinging to each other. Whom had I fooled? All rightful hate and vengeance evaporated. Seeing them, I had seen myself clenching to the frozen corpse of my wife. I could not bear the idea of death. Not then.

Namo be damned! I caught a prayer escaping my heart. Well-formed words and a clear plea. Let him live. The One had heard me; I was more than certain when those grey eyes opened weeks later. I cursed myself but did not sway when I addressed him for the first time since Tirion:

'Hear me now Fëanorian. You are going to live. You must. For him.'

He did so. And here they were now. Alive and hungry amid interminable death. Spitting on the gates of Angband. And He hated them like he hates the light of Elentari's stars. As long as their love lived, there would be death. I knew what I must do.

Not so many summers later, I departed with my daughter and those who would follow me. Those who I foolishly believed I could save. I had left behind Fingon and Maedhros without a word. Fleeing from them, once again.

***

Gondolin. After the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears:

The one that Ulmo had sent stood before me in the grand hall of my city. The day had come to face my surrender. For this Man had not come for me. Not really. He came for the one I love the most and understood it was time for her own path. She had come of age in this cursed land. It would be for them, my children, to lead our people and those who were yet to come.

I could not afford to lead them myself. I stayed behind these walls to watch my sister die. I should have left. I had left these walls to watch my brother die. My brother, my King. I should have stayed behind. Leave, stay, it mattered not.

I walked to the top of my tower, welcoming the sunrise. Utterly, irrevocably alone. I looked up north beyond my white walls and tall mountains. As though answering to Ulmo or Morgoth, I whispered resolutely:

'No. I shall run no longer. Darkness claim me as it may. I am to remain in this city until the bitter end, if bitter it must be.'*

Chapter End Notes

*From the Silmarillion, "On the flight of the Noldor":
'Moreover Fingon and Turgon were bold and fiery of heart, and loath to abandon any task to which they had put their hands until the bitter end, if bitter it must be'.