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Fingon knew he was going to die.
All around him lay the faces of those who had trusted him to lead them to victory. Those he had known for centuries, fought beside, laughed with. There - a friend who had just welcomed a son into the world. There - an elleth whose partner had been blinded in the Bragollach. There -
He tore his eyes away. The time for mourning would come. Just not for him.
The ground had been dry, before their arrival. Great plumes of dust had been kicked up by their feet, blinding and choking them. No dust remained, only thick mud, wettened with blood.
He doubted any who survived would ever be clean again.
Suriel stumbled next to him, falling to her knees in the muck, yet somehow still keeping his banner up.
“Hold fast.” He said, helping her up through tears that blurred his eyes. “We shall see the dawn.”
Her eyes spoke the truth that they both knew, yet still she smiled, “Until the sun rises, my king.”
She lifted his banner higher, until the silver threads caught what scant light remained.
A rallying cry, a beacon to ally and enemy alike.
And one their foes responded to swiftly.
The orcs parted, and Fingon could almost hear the beat of the Song. The twist of cruelty and fire and treason.
Balrogs.
None had ever been slain.
They had burnt Dorthonion. Destroyed his cousins. Led Finrod into despair.
How fitting that he would die as Feanor did.
“Your kin have abandoned you, little king.” The balrog laughed, “You face death alone.”
Suriel beard her bloodstained teeth at it. “He is not alone.”
She planted herself in front of him. The last of his vanguard.
She knew as well as he that death was to be their reward.
A burst of flame. A cut off scream.
His banner fell, stained red, blackened with soot.
He forced himself not to look at Suriel next to it.
Despair would do him no good.
Fingon could not be taken as Maedhros was. It would break the Noldor, if their king was made hostage.
He raised his shield and screamed his defiance. Insult and threat spilled from his lips, all aimed to enrage the balrog.
And it worked.
A crack, a flash of white light, and then-
Pain seared through his veins. Fire and despair and loss. The scent of molten metal and burning flesh filled his senses.
Was this how Feanor felt?
He reached out.
It was the cruelest thing he had ever done. If he was but a fraction kinder he would have kept his fear and pain to himself.
But kind had never been used to describe him. Finrod had always been the kind one. Finrod had shielded himself.
He was not Finrod.
He reached out.
Towards Maedhros. Towards Turgon. Towards anyone who could listen. Towards anyone who might offer him kindness.
Fear and pain and desperation.
It was a relief when he heard the bell.