DISCLAIMER: Simply borrowing Maitimo/Russandol (Maedhros) from J.R.R. Tolkien for the time being.

Rated T for angst because c'mon, it's those dreadful years on Thangorodrim. I wrote this a couple of months back, forgot about it, brought it back again, and lightly edited and added a few things. Complete for now, but if you really want me to, I might continue.

Who's Who & What's What - Quenya to Sindarin

Moringotto - Morgoth

Nolofinwe - Fingolfin

Findekano - Fingon

A mahta tenna qualmë - Fight to the death


He just was.

He didn't bother thinking anymore, because it was always about the pain.

Pain.

It was everywhere. Sometimes he had even wondered if he had become pain - then discarded the thought. That was ridiculous. But his broken body was a pure channel of it - a pure channel of pain, suspended in midair, thrashed about by the wind, beaten against sharp black rock.

Nothing had been left unscathed. His spirit. His mind. His heart. His body. He almost felt as if Moringotto had laid waste to them. But he was still alive… Why was he still alive? In front of Moringotto he had felt so naked, so exposed, even though he had cried, "A mahta tenna qualmë" seemingly a thousand times. The dark visions and memories that had been stirred up in his mind exhausted him, haunted him relentlessly.

Strife. Silmarils. Oath. Fire. Ships.

Darkness. Everlasting Darkness.

Ice. Endless Ice. Death. Fire.

Darkness. Fire. Death.

But now, all that was left was just him, his brokenness, the hell-wrought iron, and the cold rock.

He had lost count of time long ago, but there were things that had happened that somewhat reminded him that there was a living world out there. There had been darkness at first. There had always been darkness for as long as he could remember. Black clouds blocked the sky night and day.

But then there had been silver. It was a faint light that just managed to pierce the darkness. The light was silver, like Telperion's, but… different, and yet the same. And silver trumpets. They echoed through the Mountains and reached his ears, and part of him knew - they had come.

Nolofinwe. Findekano.

He had called, and somewhere within him there had been wind that stirred up the dying embers and caused a spark, a flicker, though the fire was long cold.

Louder and louder he had shouted, but his lungs had begun to hurt more than ever and his parched throat had pleaded for him to stop, told him that it was no use. They would never hear him, a voice said. And even if they did, they would never listen. They would never come to his aid. After all, he had made them cross the Ice, he hadn't stopped his father from burning the ships. And then the sounds faded and inside there was only ashes. Dead ashes. Cold ashes.

The echoes of his cry bounced off the rocks, repeating his cry in mockery.

Nolo… fin… we… Nolo… Fin… kano… Fin… nolo… fin… fin…

You are hopeless, it said. Pathetic. Useless. Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

If it took away the pain, that's what he wanted to be. He was almost numb with it. Every time he moved - he never really did of his own accord - he could feel bone against bone as his shoulder was jostled. All he felt was pain.

But he didn't care much. He told himself it was what he deserved, although part of him wanted to slip away, to escape, to die.

He didn't bother to see anymore. Or hear. Or smell, or touch, or speak.

He didn't even think after a while.

Because those were the things one did in a living world. A clean world. A bright world.

But his world was a dead world.