Bearer of Chiaroscuro by AdmirableMonster

angband: under (a leaden sky)

The rocks shifted beneath Mairon’s feet, and he tugged his cloak down to hide his face.  Above him, the sky was clogged with ash and dust, hiding the Sun, turning the always-dim light of day to a dark, almost impenetrable red.  He gritted his teeth and pressed a hand to his belly, a shudder running through him.  He had tried to change his shape to make it easier to leave.  It had not worked. 

If Melkor had been as he was of old, Mairon would never have escaped his notice this long.  He was a fool, he told himself.  If he could not change his shape, how could he make it to Gondolin before its fall?  Without wings, without the strong springing legs of a wolf—with only the cracked metal of his own broken form weighted down by two tiny leaden souls.  He would never make it.  But he could not help but try, any more than he could have stopped himself from following Melkor to begin with. (Or could he?  He had refused Him this, and yet a pair of powerless little Elves had put such chains upon him, and he still did not understand how.)

The pathway wound down steeply, and Mairon gritted his teeth, muttering imprecations beneath his breath.  His body was too heavy, too overset.  How could he even make it to the bottom?  He had to pause every few moments to catch his breath.

About a quarter of the way down, he found a heavy stave of wood, smoothed by wind and weather.  He did not know how it had come here, but he seized it gratefully.  Leaning upon it did not make his steps easy, but it made him feel as if they were possible.  He bit his lip.  Inside him, a fire raged.  He was going to fail—he knew he was going to fail—but he had to try.