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Nelyafinwe could no longer stand fire. He hated it. He hated fire because it was everything he lost, the warmth, light and hope. He hated it because it was everything he was, everything he would be. Death and Destruction. Everything good lost in a flurry of heat, passion and red. Red like his robes, red like his hair, red like the blood that dripped from his name.
He has hated fire since Losgar, the fire lighting up the cold dark shores like cursed rays from dead trees. Bright under the shadow of Endor. As he watched the flames rise through dark clouds and pierce through stormy seas like the silmarils piercing through the iron-wrought crown of the dark.. The smell of blood that he would never forget, the smell of flesh. The red flames on white ships. The splatters of red blood on white shores.
On the other side of the sea, Fingon watches the red flames and black smoke rise.
He hates the heat and fire of Angband. The flames that lick the walls, decieving Maedhros’ straind and broken mind, the flames that burn inside Sauron’s eyes, the flames that burn his skin. He hates the flames that burn so close to gold, gold ribbons lighting the dark walls. And so he weeps when he is alone. He is past longing, death would be too kind to him. Too kind for someone who has committed such atrocities. A kinslayer. Murderer. It is the thought of the ones he loves despising him that keeps him going. He longs for ice. Ice that would staunch the burning in his mind, his fear, in his very being. Maedhros hates fire as he hangs against cold stone. The last fruit of Laurelin burning at his carved and ruined skin, the shadow of Angband sheathing him in a cloud of black, hiding him from salvation. But Maedhros hates the fire that burns within him. He begs for it to snuff out. His voice choked and hoarse, like a dead man. His tears dry up like his last sliver of hope.
He becomes ever-cold. The shadows that flicker in the firelight remind him too much of silky words hidden in the dark. So he lets it burn out. And watches the embers die on white wood. Red flames on white ash. Fire. He should have froze. Should have become a symbol of pain. He should have been the one to drown in icy water, cold and dark like the shores he sailed to. Maedhros should have froze. Should have froze with the dead, those who Maedhros never knew, their pain strung together in song, a symphony of sorrow. Something Maedhros has heard to much of. And he weeps. His tears falling like rain and snow. Covering their legacy in blood and fire.
He watches the sparks fly from under the helms of his friends, hears their song end. He watches the dragons roar with red. Watches his friends die. Watches as Findekano is consumed by the fire that burned so deeply in Maedhros. And so he is alone again. His screams echo against the wind, his fea screaming against his body, the oath tainting the final part of him. This time there is no Finno to save him against the wrath of his mind. Because Finno is dead. He feels his bond break. He feels his world break. The last good thing, untainted by his oath, his sins, the last piece of him that had hope extinguished. And so he weeps. He weeps for all of them, the saint always goes before the sinner.
He thinks of all of them. The deaths he caused. The singing of his blade as it slid through silken skin. White cities burning red with his fire. The fire that burns all of them. How it held them in its devouring arms, slowly suffocating them with black smoke until they were consumed in fires never-ending hunger. The flames from Thangoridium, Angrod, Aegnor, Andreth. The Nirneath Arnodiad, Findekano. The flames in Doriath. Tyelko, Moryo, Curvo. The Dragonfire in Gondolin. Turukano, Laurefindele, Ecthelion. And finally Sirion. Ambarussa. The younger fall before the elder. His brothers. Tyelko, Moryo, Curvo, Pityo, Telvo - because that is how he remembers them, his brothers, untouched by the death and pain and fire of endor. Tears unnumbered he sheds.
I’m sorry, the words stung like fire and ice on Maedhros' lips. Words he said, no screamed, far too often. Words he clung to like a prayer as if it would save him from the eternal damnation he would face for his sins. Clutching the silmaril tightly with his left hand he stepped over the crack in the earth and felt the stinging heat of the fire that consumed him. The gold ribbon tied to his stump fluttered and frayed in the heat. And so Nelyafinwe known as Maedhros died. All he saw was Fingon. The image of the one he loved so dearly. The one who he killed. And so the eldest son of Feanor was consumed by the fire. The fire that brought him to Endor. The fire that would return him home. Quelled only by a flame that burned brighter than himself.
And his song ends. It is a song of love, death, tears, victories, defeat and death