[Durelin]

Maegisil had made it back to the palace, and, coming to a halt at the foot of the huge stairway after crossing the courtyard, wished he had not ran so quickly. The pain in his stomach immediately caught up with him, and dizziness set in, and for a moment her swayed when he picked up his foot to take the first step. Suddenly he realized that he could not remember there being guards at the gates to the palace, and he turned to look. He did not trust himself; not only had the last few hours been a daze, but he had not been to certain of his sanity for some time now. Indeed he saw the gates flung open and no guards in sight, and as if that was not unwelcome enough, he saw a familiar form stalking toward him.

It was Angoroth, Sauron’s wretched emissary, emanating arrogance from upon his horrid mount. Maegisil was too dazed to move, or to even sneer at the approaching man as he wished to, though he tightened his grip on his sword. The creature of course had his guards with him, but the elf would not go down without a fight, and he hoped, even in his exhaustion, to take down a few of the wretched soldiers before falling himself. Much good it would do, though, to be valiant. He thought of his wife. She was alone. Fear pierced him in his heart, and tore through his stomach, making him want to empty its contents all over again. He had to get to Sairien. But if he ran, Angoroth would surely cut him down. What chance did he have, but to endure the creature’s presence?

The city was taken, there was no arguing that, there was no one to call for to aid him in killing the man right on the spot, and even though there were supposed to be reinforcements somewhere out there from Lindon, Maegisil doubted he would see them, or at least not alive. Killing the army’s leader was pointless, now. It would be a waste of time and a waste of his life. Ost-in-edhil already appeared to be ruins long destroyed, and repeatedly ransacked by those who lacked respect for the dead, though they too would one day join them. Thinking of the dead, and of his own death, he stared blankly at the approaching man, and did not change his expression even after the man addressed him.

“Ah, such a party has come to greet me, the dark one!” the creature said. Maegisil still could not find enough care to show Angoroth just what he thought of him. If the ghastly man wished to think that the elf was defeated, he could. Any elf would know better, excepting of course the might lord whom Maegisil guiltily wished was dead.

“You honor me well, with such invitations to your lands. I come to return the favor, dear elf! Now, kindly lead me to the Lord of the City. I have business with him.” Maegisil scowled. So Celebrimbor was not dead…yet. If he were, Angoroth would surely have known.

“Ha! A guest you are! And I treat my guests to the blade!” Maegisil found sickly humour in both Angoroth and his own words, and laughed. The disgust he felt, and the pain, the fear, and the way his mind had shut down to escape from it all was clear in his laughter.

“Do not make me slay you, elf. You are beneath my mission, and I only come to complete the circle, and bring the Oath to fruition.” The creature paused again, but Maegisil simply let his anger boil within him. He was not too sick with himself for it to be at all easy for him to speak. But the dark one soon continued.

“The ring, which I gave to you freely at the gates, is your salvation. It is the symbol of my protection. Do not throw it away.”

Maegisil’s rage exploded, his Elven pride taking over. No one, and certainly no servant of the Dark was his ‘protection,’ and he would treat no possession of a creature of Sauron with care, it was his to throw away as he willed, as was the creature’s life. “Nothing will save the city, and my people, but your death!” he practically wailed. He felt nothing in those words, they were empty cries of a disgruntled child, as that was what he had been reduced to, and his pride would not let him remain silent and endure the end with dignity.

The dark creature dismounted from his lofty position, though it made no difference to Maegisil if the man looked down upon him or not. But if the thing came at all close to spitting on the elf and what he stood for, he would be at his throat in a flash. Angoroth seemed to know this, and appeared to simply be amused by it. He stepped closer to the elf, who remained unflinching. “Abandon your duty to the city, for slaying me will do you no good. The orcs will consume your lord, your city, you…and your precious wife. Take my signet ring, and go with these soldiers of mine. They will escort you and your wife beyond the city, and into the woods. You may then do as you wish, but I advise you not to waste my freely given gift. The Creator will forgive you, for this destruction is not your doing.”

The Creator will forgive you… What did this monster know of forgiveness, much less of the almighty Ilúvatar? He could not speak as if he were one of the Children. He was a lowly man, and a servant to the servant of Morgoth. Though, for a moment, Maegisil wondered. Was he truly only a man? There was something in those eyes, in that demeanor, in his voice… The elf almost felt as if the man before him had weathered more years than even he. But no matter what Angoroth was, he had no respect from Maegisil.

The anger flared, and the elf’s knuckles turned white wrapped around his sword. But the pain flooded in, as a heavy rain after the lightening storm, and he found his knees weaken beneath his weight. He carried much upon his shoulders, and he was only now realizing how much. The city, his people… The orcs will consume your lord, your city… They already had. He had seen the destruction, and it was torment, that he had not the time or the peace to weep for it. Your precious wife… He talked of her as some thing. Maegisil snarled.

Sairien… He had to get back to her. He had promised. She was still alive. She had to be. She was safe... Suddenly he found himself on his knees. There were tears in his eyes. Was he truly kneeling to the man before him? No, it was simple exhaustion. O, but Angoroth seemed pleased by this. Maegisil wished he had the guts to rise up, and bring his sword up with him to slash the black-gutted man into pieces. But he did not. Fear had overcome him some time ago. He had disposed of the fear for his own life with the slow rising of the sun, but now he found any strength he had gleaned from the light of a new day ripped away by simple desires. His love for his wife, and his hatred for his lord. He finally had chosen between the two, after wasted years of devotion to a lord rather than the elf-woman he loved.

“I pray that Ilúvatar will forever curse me, as one of the House of Fëanor, for I make a pact with you, that I shall do as you say. This pact is as evil and cursed as the Oath that led this city to its destruction, but I am no lord. As for the lord of this city, he is yours. And indeed I beg you to kill him, so he and the Oath of Fëanor may no longer plague my people.”

He also prayed that he would be the last elf to kneel before any servant of Morgoth.

~*~*~

Maegisil abhorred the company of Angoroth’s guards, and he was made sick simply by being in his own skin. As he led the way to his house, the guards keeping apace with him, he looked over his shoulder with every other step, and his eyes darted around. Paranoia was creeping up on him. He now feared not only for his wife’s life, but also for how she would take what he had done. He wished she would hate him for it, but he hoped and prayed she would follow him out of the city. Even if she never spoke to him again, and left him as wretched as Celebrimbor, he wanted her alive. He needed her alive. He would never forgive himself if she did not make it out of the city, even after his cruel covenant.

It seemed the orcs had rushed to get to the palace and secure the entire city before completely ransacking every building. His home looked untouched, and he felt guilty for it. And he thought it a miracle when he found his wife safe, and for a moment he forgot his woes and smiled at her, embracing her. But she was stiff in his arms. She had seen Angoroth’s soldiers. Her rushed to explain, stuttering and stammering as he spoke, choking on his words and holding back tears. She looked at him blankly. Could her gaze have ever been so cruel as when she did not show what she was feeling? He did not feel as if he had explained anything before she put her hand to his mouth and silenced him.

“Lead on, my love.”

He almost smiled again, at hearing her voice, hearing her call him her love. Was any feeling only feigned in those words? He was afraid to find out. “We will gather the remaining survivors. Some have survived. Some must have escaped…” He was growing frantic in his voice. Again, his wife silenced him with her calming touch.

“Let us escape first, love, or we shall be no help to any others.”