#the one pulling him away is either Celegorm or Maglor btw

[mossy-thing]

@tathrin Here you go, I hope you find this as awful as you found the concept of it. I know I do.

TW for descriptions of violence (I mean, its the nirnaeth) and also vague mentions of Fingons body aka canon typical lack thereof and slight dissociation. Additionally, I can't stop describing noise.

The noise was nearly deafening. For the last hours (or days, Maedhros really was not sure), he had swung his sword nearly blindly, led along only by an endless sea of coloured blurs, screams and roars of agony, fury and fear threatening to pull him under and blinding his senses until he was trampled by his kinsmen, a fate he avoided reliant only on instinct as the battle went on and on.

He already dreaded the days after the battle, if there were to be those for him, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be, when his ears would refuse to work, creating a sensation like being deep underwater, and going over to a ringing that would last him for weeks.

But for now, he would not need to worry about after.

From the second Ulfang and his people had betrayed them on, everything had been a horrible, unforeseeable mess, a whirlwind of overwhelming heat and clashing metal Maedhros could not keep track of, and the best chance he had at surviving was to go on. He was sure that the sun had risen more than once since the battle had begun, and yet he had not seen the blue banners of Fingon at all.

Despite all the planning, they had completely lost control over the entire situation.

Something attacked him from his side, and he lifted his right arm just in time to catch the blow with the strapped on shield, throwing the creature back and plunging his long sword deep into their chest.

He growled as he twisted it, maybe to add a sound of his own to the cacophony of screams, and reveled in the pained gasp the orc gave as they died.

Another attack almost got to his neck, and his long braid swung around his head as he spun around to defend himself from the next enemy, and the next, and the next, copper strands sticky with blood, both black and red sticking to his forehead, and when he suddenly slipped, he could barely take a breath in before it was forced from his lungs by the impact.

The ground had turned from one resembling a dry desert to something like a swamp from one step to the other, and Maedhros struggled with all his might to get up, because he knew that if he let his aching limbs rest for just a second, he might never get up again.

He tried to find hold, and something crunched under his hand when he managed to push himself up, cutting his finger, and absentmindedly, he thought that he had better remember to clean that cut later. It would not serve him well to lose another hand.

His feet were slipping underneath him, adding a wet sound to the endless sea of noise, and for a moment, something about the colour of whatever made the ground so swamp-like tried to push through to him, but it was gone before he could grasp it.

A stray arrow flew straight at his head, and he dodged it just in time, causing his hand to slip and make him fall once more. At least the arrow had landed somewhere useful, he dimly thought as he watched it pierce an orcs eye, but he quickly gathered enough focus to stand up again, plunging his sword into the ground to push himself up on it.

His armor hung heavily on him, and for just a second, Maedhros' shallow breathing was a noise louder than the rest of the battle. He pulled his sword from the ground, from which it came free with a disgustingly wet squelching. Then he saw something that made his heart stop.

Trampled into the mud, barely recognisable, was a ripped banner. Blue, its colour might have once been, and Maedhros recognized it instantly.

More so, he recognized the golden ribbon sticking to it in a mixture of blood and black dirt, nearly artfully, and it came free together with two dark strands of hair when he bowed to pluck it away from the torn fabric.

Something in his mind refused to understand.

Surely this could not mean -

His breath came haltingly and shallow, and the noise around him was dying down in a way it had not for days. His fingers shook around the ribbon.

Shock, he thought like from very far away, I am in shock, but it did not matter. Nothing did.

Not the orcs, or the balrogs, or even his own people. All he could do was stare at the ribbon, remaining miraculously unharmed until he was pulled onto a horse, some nebulous voice he should recognize screaming his name and shaking his shoulder as a dragon roared behind them.

He barely heard it.