Ygrain33

"Degnir nos!" "Dagnerchoth !" In the din of the battle, shouts and screams, these words always come through crystal clear. Kinslayers. Despite all the hopes, all the beliefs that he had held, this is what he is now: Nossenahtar At . Kinslayer Twice. Maedhros used to believe that losing his right hand, the hand that had slain, had been his atonement, and that his left hand would only be used against the servants of Morgoth. That very belief had driven him into reclaiming and surpassing his previous skill, and that skill, so painstakingly honed, now brings death and ruin to kin again. Yet, skill or no, Menegroth is a bloodbath. Had its strength not been broken by the Naugrim, its maze of caverns and hallways would become a deathtrap. The fighting is spilling back and forth, on the polished floors slippery with blood and strewn with bodies, through lofty halls and winding passages, lamplit or drowned in the dark, through shouts, screams, weeping, moaning and gasps, and the curses, the

The practice blades clank once, twice. His next parry is dodged, he blocks a nasty feint, avoids being tripped, blocks again, once, twice, again and again. Caranthir takes a step back. "'Twould seem that you have trained, brother," he assesses. He starts with a flurry of attacks even before he finishes the sentence, coming in faster and faster. And faster and faster, Maedhros blocks, dodges and parries. Light on their feet, they move across the practice hall – the hall every inch of which has been bathed in Maedhros's sweat and blood, as he spared himself nothing. No strain, no pain, no bruises could stop him. Every single move was performed over and over until it became ingrained in the muscles in no less than perfection. And that perfection came to be through his imperfection. There is no denying it: Thangorodrim had changed him That which had brought him to his lowest point, the ultimate test of his strength which had left him a hairsplit from an empty, broken shell at the bottom of