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The practice blades clank once, twice. His next parry is dodged, he blocks a nasty feint, avoids being tripped, blocks again, once, twice, again and again.
Caranthir takes a step back. “'Twould seem that you have trained, brother,” he assesses. He starts with a flurry of attacks even before he finishes the sentence, coming in faster and faster.
And faster and faster, Maedhros blocks, dodges and parries.
Light on their feet, they move across the practice hall – the hall every inch of which has been bathed in Maedhros's sweat and blood, as he spared himself nothing. No strain, no pain, no bruises could stop him. Every single move was performed over and over until it became ingrained in the muscles in no less than perfection.
And that perfection came to be through his imperfection.
There is no denying it: Thangorodrim had changed him That which had brought him to his lowest point, the ultimate test of his strength which had left him a hairsplit from an empty, broken shell at the bottom of a pit too deep and dark to ever crawl from, had also given him a measure of himself. He crept out of the depth, by tooth and nail, on elbows and knees, until he finally stood straight, and looking back, fully realized what he could achieve if he put his mind to it.
Such determination, such dedication, is a first for him. In that, he differed from his brothers: no domain, no mastery was truly his. He has simply been the eldest and tallest brother who sings no better or worse than anyone else, his craftsmanship is reliable but not unique, he is a skilled hunter but does not find fulfillment in riding through the woods nor does he know the first and last about birds and beasts. Facing Caranthir, he doesn't even truly enjoy the fight the way his brother does – with wild passion and rush of blood equaling his skill, which make him a formidable opponent.
Yet, gone are the days when every single strike of Caranthir's blade was but a new bruise as the clumsy left hand was too slow, too inept or too weak. No longer does Caranthir need to hold back, nor can he: his face flushed, his eyes burning with rage at being pushed backwards, yet his grimace still one of fierce joy.
Maedhros's eyes also burn but the fire is a cold one: this is his domain, his mastery. Not losing himself in the heat of the fight but using his will, focused and unrelenting, to push himself to his utmost, to achieve and end.
That end comes when Caranthir finds himself against a wall, with Maedhros's blade at his throat. Never a graceful loser, he curses angrily and swats the blade away, but as he catches his breath, he starts to laugh. “You have indeed trained very well, brother!”
Exhausted more than he cares to show, Maedhros flashes a sidelong smile. “Oh, I have, brother – but you seem to have grown complacent and slow. The life amongst the riches does not suit you - “ he dodges the blade tossed at him - “and your middle part seems -”
With a roar, Caranthir lunges at him and they end up tumbling on the floor. Maedhros decides to grant him this victory and allows himself to be pinned, and takes back all the teasing until Caranthir is finally appeased and stretches on his back next to Maedhros, laughing.
After a while, his wild brother turns his head to Maedhros, with a gleam in his eye. “You owe me a revenge. A sword and shield, or a dagger?”
Maedhros's left shoulder aches more than he would like, but he needs to find his limits, to push himself further. “Sword and dagger for you. I'll tie up a buckler. I have a little surprise for you.”
A wolfish grin his reply, they both spring up to their feet to assume the dance anew.
*********
Dagor Aglareb was but a children's game. A small trial, an act of premature spite on Morgoth's part. He can see it clearly now, and the truth of Fingolfin's words.
And his own failure, for which he must amend, and not fail again.
Urged forward, Caradhroch's steel-shod hooves beat into the Orcs, and Maedhros strikes down a captain who braves to meet his sword. In the red light of the burning woods, the eyes of Orcs glow red as far as he can see through the air filled with smoke, and his despair only fuels his hatred. He fights for every inch of the ground, raising his sword again and again, because there are no more options left. There is no time for regret or fear, for exhaustion or pain, there is an army to be stopped, and pushing himself to the utmost limits is not a matter of self-satisfaction but survival – not only his own but those fighting under his command, his people at the fortress, and countless others relying that Maedhros Fëanorion is holding the eastern March against Morgoth.
Not. Let. Morgoth. Through.
His brothers. Fingon. The other kin. All those of whose fates he knows nothing, and he must not give in to despair.
Not. Let. Morgoth. Through.
All his training, all his sweat, were but a prelude leading to this ultimate test. Orcs possess no skill, only numbers, and numbers are deadly only if one cannot hold out.
And Maedhros knows that he will fight not till the last breath but till the last twitch of a muscle torn to shreds.
Not. Let. Morgoth . Through.
The thought drives him beyond any effort that he has ever made. His eyes burn with pale cold fire: he may win or die here, but not be taken alive again, and before it comes to dying, he will make a swathe in the enemy hosts.
Many swathes.
Die , his eyes command the Orcs even before his blade can reach them, die, beasts! a nd then he is upon them, his blade and the spiked shield tied to his right arm wreaking havoc. He towers above the Orcs, tall on a tall horse, both protected by mail, seemingly impervious to wounds, and he spreads terror.
Die, beasts!
And the Orcs, brave only in numbers, suddenly find their numbers insufficient. They start breaking and fleeing his portion of the battlefield, and he keeps urging Caradhroch forward, into the thickest of the fight, followed by the Elven warriors drawing their resolve from his.
Not. Let. Morgoth. Through!
Yet, there is still something that scares the Orcs more than Maedhros does: a Balrog. Around the fiery demon, the minor beasts driven by its whip gather and form for a counter-attack.
That must not be allowed.
Shouting his battle cry, Maedhros challenges the dark figure emanating flame, and the Balrog responds, raising its mace high. The Orcs scuttle from its way as with a roaring laughter of contempt, it moves forward to punish the insolence.
Maedhros jumps from the saddle before the Balrog's flames can extend to the horse, all too familiar with such tricks. He evades the thong and mace, dealing a strike whenever an opening presents itself, but mainly, he bids his time.
And as the whip descends in the right direction, he comes in.
The fiery thong is all too familiar, as well, the way it sears skin while clinging to the body as if possessing substance, and he still bears those marks. As the whip descends, he drops the hilt and catches the thong. The gauntlet heats immediately but the padding protects him from the worst and then, as predicted, comes a sharp pull. With it, Maedhros leaps, and joining his strength with that of the demon, drives the spike in the centre of his shield into its chest.
The Balrog topples like an overturned furnace, flames pouring out of the beastly nostrils and mouth, and from the wound; the shied is heating up to a blaze. With a tug at the straps, Maedhros sheds it easily as he rolls away from the flames, protecting his visor with his forearm.
His dagger is already drawn as he quickly rises.
“Tell Morgoth that Maedhros sends his regards,” he gasps as he drives the blade into a fiery eye and jumps away, escaping the flames as well as the mace swung at him with the demon's last effort.
Straightening, he forces his knees not to tremble, and ignoring the burns, retrieves his sword. Then he slowly turns around, to face the Orcs taken aback by their commander's fall. His mail is covered in their dark blood, scorched by the Balrog's fire, and his eyes shine with deadly light.
Face me and die, or flee and die, those eyes foretell.
The Orcs choose the latter.
Someone brings him Caradhroch and mounting, Maedhros leads the pursuit, dealing the blows with deadly precision. Nonetheless, he orders retreat soon: they have bought sufficient time for the defenders of Himring to catch a breath and reinforce the gate.
Maedhros is the last to pass through the gateway. Willing himself not to stagger, he inspects the gate and the battlement; only after that he allows himself the precious hours of rest between the assaults and treating the burns.
Himring Hill must not fall. He will not let Morgoth through.
********
They approach through the woods, like wolves on a moonless night. No proud standards, no badges of the many-pointed star, their mail let to fade, covered with furs.
Like Gaurwaith from the woods - and like true Gaurwaith, they converge on their unsuspecting prey.
Raising his hand, Maedhros stops the host. Turning, one last time he glances at those who still follow the sons of Fëanor: like their swords and armour, even their eyes seem dimmed to him.
No spirit lights his own eyes, either: these are no Orcs they approach to fight, these are kin. Those they used to call 'Moriquendi', and throw the name at them as an insult, though who is truly of the dark now, after this night?
Nossenahtari .
Kinslayers.
A second time, despite all that he had hoped for.
Like a noose around his neck, the oath has dragged him here, into this dark winter night, and choking, he had lost the will to resist.
He had lost the will, and thus allowed Celegorm's hand to pull the rope.
Does he even still lead?
Bitterly, it occurs to him that were he to order to put the attack on hold, his leadership would not stand the test.
Sensing hesitation, Celegorm moves forward, with a silent challenge. His eyes do possess some light – a sickly, feverish glow, which pains Maedhros to see, but he has long given up any hope, nor does he find it in himself to try any more.
No stars shine through the clouds when he gives the signal. If he cannot stop their evil, nothing will be won by postponing it. They will achieve what they have come for, or they will die; one way or the other, this will be an end.
An end in which the vessel of his spirit might break, and unite with his heart that broke in Nirnaeth.