Chapter Text
They’d lost.
Fingon stopped and let his sword fall. There was no position left to hold, no higher ground to find, no sense in running. The battle was lost. The army he'd arrived with was broken; most of them were dead. His mouth was bloody -- most of him was bloody -- and it was getting harder to breathe as the air grew thick with flames and smoke around him. He would be dead soon, too.
It had been a good plan. It had been Maedhros' plan. Maedhros, who had overcome impossible odds before, every time before -- Maedhros, who had endured everything and held fast. His husband, bulwark of the north, their general.
Maedhros hadn’t arrived.
He didn’t fully believe it, even now. Maedhros will come, his heart insisted. Have faith. But when he looked at the bodies that had been his soldiers -- at Morgoth’s captain approaching through the flames -- his spirit failed him.
“Get out of here,” he commanded to the herald at his side. He pulled off his helm and dropped it to the ground. She stared at him, cradling her shattered right arm to her chest and weeping silently. Her tears ran red down her bloody cheeks. “Go!” he snapped, when she made no move to turn.
“My lord --”
“That is an order, captain.”
She shuddered and nodded once before turning and fleeing. Fingon didn’t watch her go. Ahead of him, approaching through the storm of the battle, was a pillar of flame and darkness, thirty feet tall and crackling like an electric storm. Gothmog was drawing closer, his army was dead, and Maedhros hadn’t come.
I’m coming, Maedhros said fiercely, defiant against the growing despair in Fingon’s mind. Fall back and hold the line for as long as you can. I’ll find you.
It’s over, Fingon thought. We failed.
I’ll find you! Maedhros insisted. But Maedhros was in the heart of his own battle -- Fingon could see it raging in the distance, storm clouds made of dragons and battle lines of smoke and fire. Maedhros had done many impossible things these past five hundred years. Fingon believed in him like he believed that the sun would rise each day. But Maedhros was too far away. Have faith, his foolish heart insisted.
What could faith do against a balrog?
I love you, Fingon thought, because he could not bring himself to say goodbye just yet. He heard Maedhros’ scream in his mind -- RUN, DAMN YOU! -- but Fingon ignored him. He took his sword in hand again and steadied himself, setting his feet and drawing in one deep breath, then another, as he watched Gothmog approach.
The earth shook with each step the balrog captain took. The spread of his wings filled the entire horizon. Fingon held his ground and raised his sword. “These lands belong to the free people of Middle Earth,” he said. His voice was hoarse from the smoke and weak from exhaustion. It cracked as he spoke. The air shimmered with heat. “Your master will not hold this field."
When Gothmog smiled, open flames licked out of his mouth. His sword was twice as long again as Fingon was tall. “Little elf-king,” he said, in a voice like the grinding of stone beneath the earth. “You are my prize today.”
“I am King of the Noldor on Middle Earth,” Fingon answered. His sword felt like lead in his arms. His voice sounded impossibly small. “Son of Fingolfin the King, grandson of Finwë the High King. Husband of Maedhros Unbowed.” He forced his lips into a snarl. “You win nothing today. My family has defied you since this age began, and we defy you now."
Gothmog laughed and raised his sword. Fingon gritted his teeth and threw himself forward.
He fought like a wild animal in a snare, beyond exhaustion or pain or reason. Duck, parry, twist out of the way before Gothmog's blow could land. Stagger up, swing, duck again. Every muscle in his body trembled. His sword was singing like a live thing in his hands, but it wasn't enough. Gothmog's reach was too long; the air around him was too dense with smoke and fire. Fingon fought until he couldn't and then gave ground until he fell. He was panting -- every breath he drew in was fire in his lungs -- and as he collapsed to the ground his fingers, spasming, lost their grip on his sword. It dropped into the mud.
Gothmog drew closer, and laid the tip of his blade against Fingon's throat.
"I will bring my lord your head on a spear," the balrog said. The air trembled when he spoke. Fingon, unable to see through the blood and the sweat and the smoke, closed his eyes. He heard Gothmog hiss. "Look at me, little king."
But Fingon's spirit was already far away. In his mind he was standing on a hill of sweet-smelling summer grass, watching with a soaring heart as Maedhros rode towards him, his long red hair flying back in the wind. Maedhros drew closer -- there was the flash of his smile -- and then the vision shifted and changed. They were in a cabin by the lake at midnight; from all around them came the sound of whirring crickets and night birds. Maedhros was reaching for him, his smile shy and his bare skin fair and gleaming in the moonlight. "Look at me!" Gothmog commanded again. Though Fingon's body recoiled from the heat of Gothmog's sword against his throat, in his spirit he was reaching back for his husband. Goodbye, sweetheart.
And then, loud as a peal of thunder, Gothmog screamed.
Fingon's eyes shot open, the vision breaking and his fëa crashing back into his body. Gothmog had raised his sword and staggered back -- and there, standing behind him, was Fingon's young herald, a bloody pike in her left hand. As Gothmog roared she let the pike drop -- it dripped black ichor that burned when it hit the ground -- and took a few stumbling steps back. Fingon saw her eyes dart to him, wide and terrified. The next moment Gothmog's sword came down, heavy as an axe, and in a single stroke he cleaved her head from her body.
Gothmog spat something in the black tongue and trod her corpse into the mud. Fingon cursed and scrambled backwards. He clawed for his sword, though his hands were too numb and his arms too weak to lift it.
I'm sorry, he thought -- to his herald or to Maedhros or to their army that he'd led to the slaughter, he didn't know. Any of them, all of them. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…
Gothmog had left her body broken and bloody on the ground and was stalking closer again, limping as he approached. Fingon tried again to close his hands around the hilt of his sword and screamed when his fingers wouldn't obey. He could feel his bones grinding together under his skin.
Fin. Maedhros' voice was like a cool rain in his mind -- Fingon clung to him desperately, dragging Maedhros' fëa as tightly to him as he could. I'm here. Try again.
Fingon sobbed. Blood dripped into his eyes and mixed with his tears, coloring everything red. He was going to die. Maedhros wasn’t coming and he was going to die like a dog in the mud, too weak even to get to his feet or hold his blade. I can’t. Russo, I can't.
You can. Maedhros’ voice was adamant. Pick up your sword, Fin. Helpless to obey Maedhros, helpless to do otherwise, Fingon reached out again. This time his fingers curled when they met the hilt of the sword. He drew it clumsily towards himself, panting from the pain. Beloved, Maedhros said, and he wrapped his soul around Fingon like armor as Fingon struggled to his knees.
Above him, Gothmog laughed.
From the darkness a tongue of flame lashed out, as thick as Fingon’s arm and dripping with fire. It coiled twice around his forearms and wrists, hot enough to strip the muscle from his skin, hot enough his flesh bubbled and melted beneath his ruined armor.
Fingon screamed.
He screamed and screamed and screamed as his bones and skin burned. He collapsed on his side on the ground when the whip released him, choking on his own breath as he stared at the bloody, smoking ruin of his arms. The ground trembled as Gothmog approached.
Underneath the pain Maedhros was still there, battering his way through to curl himself around Fingon’s spirit and shield him as best he could. I love you, Maedhros said, cradling him. I love you, I love you. Fingon closed his eyes as Gothmog drew to a stop in front of him. He was dying. Maedhros, together with him in his heart, would feel Gothmog’s blow land.
I love-- Maedhros began again. With the last of his strength Fingon pushed him out; when Fingon died he was alone, his body cloven from neck to hip where it lay, crushed and broken, on the ground.