[Durelin]

The crashes and screams and the rumbles, both distant and not so, filled Maegisil's ears and drove him to feel the world was crumbling around him in fiery explosions. He still remembered the battles, fighting back the Shadow of Morgoth. He had been younger and had perceived war to be a glorious part of the nature of Middle-earth, the light fighting dark continually to the ultimate end of light's triumph. And the Elves would see that victory, the dominant race, the caretakers of Middle-earth, the Children of Ilúvatar. All that he had thought he now doubted. Here was that great race, trapped in their marvelous city, the dark army invading the peaceful darkness that they had been so used to knowing and loving.

Suddenly the crashes and rumbles stopped, and a great shout rose from the army spread wide upon the field so far away, and Maegisil watched as the masses began to rush toward the gate of the city, the sun rising red behind them. Had they broken through the walls already? He rushed back to the doors of the elf-lord's chambers, and drew his sword from where it hung on his hip. The two guards looked up, both wide-eyed, and hesitated. But Maegisil did not stop as he got closer, and they fled from being in his way. The counselor would think back and this moment and consider it more confusion than fear that drove the two away, but it was heard from the mouth of Gilduin that the look in Maegisil's eyes was indeed enough to move the Misty Mountains had they been in his way.

He pushed the doors open violently, and they slammed against the walls inside the room. Celebrimbor looked up at him, staring wildly. The Lord of Eregion looked even more bedraggled than he had the previous day: it seemed he had had a long night, even before the battle began. Maegisil took smug satisfaction from this. A sneer marked his face, his features burning of pure Elven rage. He could imagine the pathetic elf, standing where he had stood only moments before, looking out over the city through the darkness and watching the arrival of the army. And of course he would have done nothing; it was what he was best at.

The elf-lord, sitting in his great wooden chair as he had on so many more pleasant occasions, suddenly laughed. “Do you come to mock me once more, one last time before we all fall with this city?”

“I am not so resigned to my fate as you are, Celebrimbor.” Maegisil's eyes would have drilled holes in the elf-lord's head, had he not already bored holes in himself, leaving him mostly empty. The counselor did not recognize those eyes, except for maybe a fleeting wisp of something, some sign that the Celebrimbor he knew was still there behind some kind of grotesque mask. But Maegisil ignored this, and found it easy to forget all compassion when dealing with who he now considered a total stranger, and who he knew to be the destruction of his people.

“Well, you have some time before you must be.” This seemed to amuse the elf-lord.

“I do not care so much whether I live or die, but I will not watch my people slaughtered as you will. You have brought this upon them, you have condemned yourself as a traitor. And you have one last chance to redeem yourself.”

“And what do you suppose I should do, Counselor Maegisil?” Celebrimbor's tone was blatantly mocking. Maegisil gripped his sword tighter.

“You will come with me and help fight off the attackers.”

The Lord of the Mirdain erupted into laughter that chilled Maegisil to the bone. The feeling of disgust and the chilling knowledge of the presence of something unwanted was strong in his heart, and he felt similar to when the emissary from Sauron had been present in the same room. And Maegisil knew it was not simply his stench that lingered...

He stepped closer to the elf-lord, wishing he had the guts to use the sword in his hand. “Laugh until the Servant of Morgoth wipes the grin off your face. You have sealed the curse of the Oath of Fëanor, be proud of what your name will be remembered for.”

Maegisil left the lord in his sick laughter, and hurried out of the palace. None of the army had yet reached the inner parts of the city, but he knew it was only a matter of time, most likely a matter of hours. He ran through the streets, rushing back to the only place he knew to return to, the only place he knew would be there when everything else around him was falling apart. He had wasted so many years under the pretense of building a grand immortal city, and serving an elf who garbed himself in a similar disguise as a great lord. He had had a friend once, but the darkness had taken him, and so he could only go back to the one who he should have been with all along.

But then, his feet began to take him down a street that did not lead to his house. His mind caught up with them, but he did not stop. It was not time to go home yet. There was a battle. His mind was balancing on the edge of calm, ready to plunge into chaos in fear at any moment, and he was left to focus on one thing at a time lest it fall. He could not linger on thoughts of his wife. His people were dying... She would be there when he returned. When, he told himself. Not if. He heard another scream from somewhere still in the distance, and a shudder ran through his body. The sounds were only getting closer, and his shudders fewer. His hand wrapped itself tighter around his sword, and the mithril blade caught the light of the rising sun, blazing a red of fire and blood.