The black-clad host of Elves moved as quietly as they could through the deep winter snow. Their heavy armour prevented them from moving silently, but they knew that their approach would be marked long before they neared their destination, silent or not. The mood of the company was grim, but hope remained that King Dior would see sense; that when the Sons of Fëanor arrived at Menegroth the doors would be open, with the Silmaril awaiting them. The letters and warnings that Maedhros had sent were clear, yet the lack of response troubled Estarfin and all those who marched with Maedhros and the Lords of the Noldor.
The march through Doriath had been quiet, no Sindarin Elves waylaying or attempting to hinder the host. Finally, after their long march through the dark forests, they came within view of the great doors of Menegroth. Maedhros signalled a halt to the march, dismay and resignation written upon his face at seeing the closed gates before him, a great wooden portal barred with iron, painted with leaves and flowers. "My brothers and my kin. Long has been our journey from Tirion to reclaim that which is ours by right. Dior Eluchíl seeks to keep a Silmaril of my father from our hands, and this I can not allow. Will you suffer this?"
"No" the host roared in reply, Estarfin adding his voice to the denial.
"Yet we are not the savages that they believe we are. Shed no blood here, we come for the Silmaril, not to sack this city a second time." Maedhros' eyes lingered upon his brothers Celegorm and Curufin as he spoke the last words. With a curt gesture, Maedhros called his brothers to him, and together they strode across the bridge and hammered against the great doors, calling out for Dior to bring them the Silmaril, to return that which did not belong to him. No answer came from behind the doors, and after several minutes of trying, the brothers stalked back across the bridge, anger etched upon their fair faces. For a few moments Estarfin let himself hope that the quest would be abandoned, and that the Sons of Fëanor would depart in peace. Then Maedhros gave the order for a great tree to be felled, so that it could be used to batter down Dior's doors, and the hope died in Estarfin's heart.
As the battering ram was taking shape and being dragged before the doors, Estarfin watched Caranthir from a distance. His face was alight with anticipation, yet it was also tinged with apprehension. Estarfin felt no anticipation at the coming events, feeling a sense of dread flow over him as the first heavy blows of the ram fell against the doors of Menegroth. Estarfin made his way across the bridge with the vanguard of Caranthir's followers; all heavily armoured and armed with sword, spear, mace, hammer and axe. Bright shields were unveiled, and banners unfurled. After a few tense minutes of waiting, the sound of ripping wood tore through the otherwise still night air, as the great doors were forced free of their hinges and fell to the ground. All was quiet from within, and the host of the Noldor flowed through the door with the Sons of Fëanor ever at the forefront.
The host marched through the doors, and through the wide and bright corridor beyond. As they marched, Maedhros called out his challenge to Dior to return the Silmaril of Fëanor. The Elves looked in wonder upon the beauty of Menegroth, marred as it had been. Splendour abounded within the city, and the Noldor eyes grew bright as they marched past beautiful tapestries, paintings, chandeliers and jewels mounted into the walls, floors and ceilings. Estarfin expected the bright jewels to be crushed under the heavy footfalls of the armoured troops, but no scratches or imperfections appeared in them. The host passed through the wide and bright corridor, and saw that it opened out into some great gallery at the end. Maedhros marched through the great arch, and all followed him.
The open gallery would have taken their breath away with its glory and splendour, were it not for the Elves of Dior dressed for war and arrayed against them. Once again Maedhros held up his hand to halt those who followed him, and called to Dior, arrayed in his finery and watching them from atop a golden platform that overlooked the gallery. "Dior Eluchíl, return to us that which was forged by our father's hand, that was hallowed beyond the Sea in the uttermost West." Maedhros slowly drew his sword. "Return to us the Silmaril, or we will take it from you." Dior surveyed the great force of Noldor that was in battle formation across his wide gallery, and his face was dark. "Bloody Sons of a bloody father, you have no welcome or right to be within these halls. My family has suffered for that which you name, yet you claim it here? Depart now from Doriath forever, or face your deaths here." Maedhros said nothing more to the King, but raised his gleaming sword in his left hand. At that signal, his brothers, and all of their followers unsheathed their weapons. Across the great gallery, the Elves of Doriath, wearing their light leather and mail armour did likewise. Time seemed to stop, the moment stretched to an eternity, and then Maedhros swung his sword down.
The host of the Noldor charged across the jewelled floor towards their lightly-armoured foes, and Estarfin was with the vanguard of Caranthir, ready to fight and die for his Lord. His great spear shone red in the torch light of Menegroth, and his face was set in a snarl of fury. How dare they stand against Maedhros, true Lord of all Noldor. He would make these warriors see the error of their ways.
The gap closed between the two armies, and the sound of battle filled the gallery. Shouts and screams sounded from Elves on both sides, the sounds of weapons ringing as they struck armour and shields, the smell of sweat, fear and death. The lightly-armoured Sindar of Dior fell quickly to the superior armour and weapons of the Noldor, and soon the floor was slippery with Sindarin blood. Caranthir roared and pushed further into the wavering Sindar, Estarfin upon his right hand, trying to guard his Lord with his great shield. The warriors of Dior could not stand long against the savagery of Caranthir and his brothers, and the line of warriors holding the entrance to Menegroth broke in retreat. Many of those Elves were cut down as they tried to flee, Maedhros and Maglor calling for their warriors to cease now that the battle was won. Covered in blood, Maedhros once more looked to the golden platform, meaning to demand the surrender of Dior, but the King was no longer there. "Dior! This is your last chance. You have seen that you can not stand against the might of the Noldor. Bring me the Silmaril, now, and we will leave your city in peace. You have my word that no more Elven blood will be spilt. Dior! Answer me!"
The only answer that was received was a hail of arrows that thudded into the front line of the Noldor force, flying out of the darkness from the direction that the Sindarin Elves had retreated. The heavy armour and shields of the Noldor deflected most of the arrows, but along the front line several Elves fell to the ground, writhing in agony or still forever. A second wave of arrows, then a third flew from the darkness, felling more of the Noldor warriors. A sudden, terrible cry rent the air, and Estarfin whirled round to see Celegorm on his knees, the limp form of Curufin in his arms. A black arrow had pierced the gap between his gorget and pauldron, felling the proud Noldor prince almost instantly. Silence hovered over the Noldor host, and no more arrows flew from the darkness. A line had just been crossed, and Estarfin knew that this could only end in blood, and wept for that knowledge. During the silence, the remaining Sons of Fëanor had gathered around the still form of Curufin, tears upon all of their faces. After what seemed an age, Maedhros stood and strode to the wall, ripping one of the many flaming torches from the wall, and tossing it to a nearby Noldor warrior before drawing his sword. Taking one more look at the body of Curufin, he screamed for vengeance. "KILL THEM ALL! BURN IT TO THE GROUND!"
All semblance of restraint fell from the Noldor host. Many ran to the walls and pulled down torches of their own, other ran headlong into the darkness screaming curses at the Sindarin Elves. Estarfin charged with the rest of Caranthir's vanguard, although their Lord was no longer amongst them. Screams and shouts echoed from ahead of the Estarfin, as the first of the Noldor ran headlong into the wavering warriors of Dior, joyously slaughtering them all with wild swings of their great weapons. Estarfin soon slammed into a group of retreating Sindar dressed in green and gold. With a cry he thrust his spear through the leather armour of a tall Elf trying to flee, and then placing his steel boot upon his back, he twisted the spear and ripped it out. His companions tried to turn to fight off Estarfin, but he was fey with bloodlust and overwhelmed them quickly. The first was struck with the edge of his shield, littering the ground with blood and teeth, doubling up and coughing blood on the white stairs. The second fell with a ragged hole in his chest, adding to the river of blood already pouring down the stairs. Before he carried on, Estarfin ensured that the warrior he struck with his shield would not get up again.
Estarfin pressed on once more, his companions by his side. There was a savage joy upon their faces as they took revenge for the death of Curufin, killing any warrior of Dior that stood, ran or kneeled before them. Blood covered their black armour, but still they pushed on, looking to find their Lord Caranthir in the chaos. Estarfin could smell smoke, and knew that parts of Menegroth must already be burning. The sounds of women and children screaming in fear rang through the halls, but the warriors of Caranthir were only dimly aware of it, so intent were they in their slaughter. Estarfin saw another warrior dart out of a doorway just ahead, and hurled his spear at their fleeing back, pinning them to the wall. Laughing, Estarfin ran to retrieve his spear. He wrenched it from the wall, and saw the body of a beautiful Elf maiden fall to the floor, the light in her grey eyes extinguished forever. Realisation of what he had done, and was still doing hit Estarfin suddenly. He fell to his knees in grief at his actions, which saved his life. An axe whirled overhead, and embedded itself in the thick wooden doorframe behind Estarfin. Looking up, Estarfin saw a golden-haired Elf dressed in white and green charging towards him, grief clearly etched upon his fair face. Estarfin thought to let the Sindar claim his life during the long seconds he took to cross to Estarfin, but at the last moment he raised his spear with his boot behind it to steady it. The Elf ran straight into the spear, the point emerging from between his shoulder blades. As he began to slide down the wooden shaft, the Sindar Elf spat in Estarfin's face, and then died. Estarfin's company ran to him, and seeing that he was still intact pulled him to his feet. "We must find Lord Caranthir! Come Estarfin, this is no time to desert your Lord!" With that, Estarfin pulled his spear free from the body of the Elf, picked up his great shield, and charged into the smoky blackness with his kin.
There was no longer any joy upon Estarfin's face as they pressed through the halls and corridors, living quarters and kitchens. The words of Maedhros stayed with them, and they suffered none to live. None were spared; no survivors were left once Estarfin's band of killers had passed through. He had shut out the pleading, the screaming, and the crying. Suddenly they came upon a great chamber, more highly decorated than any they had already seen. Bodies of Noldor and Sindarin were strewn across the floor, the aftermath of a great battle. Estarfin cried aloud, tears running down his face as he saw the body of Caranthir before a great carved throne. Sprinting over the corpses, Estarfin dropped to his knees in front of Caranthir, his tears falling onto his dark hair. Caranthir stirred suddenly, a little life still left in his body. He opened his eyes, and looked upon Estarfin. His voice was barely audible but Estarfin knelt as close to Caranthir as he could. "Wasted. Tell.. Maedhros. It's gone. Celegorm.." With that he pointed across the throne room to another pile of bodies. Estarfin dismissed one of his followers to go and look whilst he remained with his dying Lord. Tears washed some of the blood and soot from the face of Caranthir, his own, and those of Estarfin as well. Caranthir tried to speak again, but only gurgling noises emerged from his mouth, and then he was still. Estarfin's cry of loss was matched across the room, as the body of Celegorm was discovered, lying under the body of Dior Eluchíl. The sense of loss that ran through the Noldor in the room was overwhelming. They dropped their weapons, and flung themselves to the floor in grief. Estarfin and him company stood watch over the bodies of their Lords, and waited for the end.
Eventually, the sounds of battle began to die away, and more and more Noldor entered the throne room, before adding their own grief to those already assembled. Eventually, the remaining Sons of Fëanor entered the room, surrounded by those few of their personal guard that still remained. They were covered in blood, and the evidence of a hundred wounds. Maedhros supported Maglor, and Amrod and Amras walked with blank eyes, all trace of joy gone from their visages. The Sons saw the bodies of Caranthir and Celegorm with their warriors surrounding them in an honour guard. Maedhros and Maglor rushed to Caranthir, Amrod and Amras to Celegorm. Estarfin stood aside, and allowed the Princes to kneel in his place, cradling their brother's head and weeping their own tears of loss.
When Estarfin could bear the grief no longer, he kneeled next to Maedhros, and spoke quietly to him. “Lord Maedhros, I...” Estarfin's words were cut off by the lightning-quick back-hand from Maedhros' gauntlet. Suddenly on his back with blood in his mouth, Estarfin looked to his Lord.
“Hold your tongue, we must grieve, and then we must find that which we came for.”
“But my Lord, your brother spoke to me before he passed. Tell Maedhros, wasted. It's gone.” Estarfin tried to speak further, but the armoured boot of Maedhros was suddenly upon his throat, pinning him down. Estarfin struggled, trying to remove the crushing pressure from his throat. Screaming in rage and frustration, Maedhros released Estarfin and stalked to the body of his brother Celegorm. Estarfin's companions helped him to his feet, handing him back his spear and shield.
Maedhros was mourning over the body of Celegorm, grief and rage upon his face. Maglor walked to him, but stopped at the body of Dior. “Brothers.” Maedhros, Amrod and Amras turned at the sound of his voice and walked to him. Looking down at the body of the King, Maedhros quickly dropped to his knees. Not in grief though, he was searching the King for any sign of the Silmaril. Eventually frustrated by his search he stood. “Caranthir spoke true, it is gone. All this, wasted.” He gestured around the room at that. “Burn it. Burn it all.”
Maglor laid a hand upon his shoulder “Maedhros, the women and children that survived must surely have fled to the lowest levels. We can not....” Maedhros brushed his hand away, turning to face his three remaining brothers. Maglor was wearing a deeply pained expression, imploring Maedhros not to commit this act of evil. Amrod and Amras shrugged, clearly caring nothing for the fate of those that remained. “So be it “declared Maedhros. He spoke aloud, addressing all of the Noldor assembled. “Bring my brothers, they will receive proper burial. Take anything from our fallen enemy that you desire. Then, burn this place until there is naught but ash.”
Estarfin gestured to his companions, the vanguard of Caranthir. “Help me to bear our Lord in honour from these doomed halls.” Kneeling at his side, Estarfin's eyes fell upon a beautiful circlet of gold, set with a great green gem. Taking it from the brow of the dead Sindar, he placed it upon his own head, and then slid his shield under the limp form of Caranthir. His companions did likewise, and soon a bier was formed from four shields. They bore Caranthir slowly from the throne room, and carried him through the scenes of carnage and slaughter. Eventually they made their way to the entrance gallery, and looked once more upon the beauty of the hall that soon would be lost forever. Estarfin wept as he surveyed the room, seeing the beauty of Menegroth contrasted with the scenes of death everywhere. He spoke once “It has passed from the high and the beautiful to darkness and ruin.” Then, the shield-bearers turned and marched through the wide corridor, out of the destroyed gates, and across the bridge. The heat of flames and the stench of smoke followed them out as the fires caught hold. The sounds of muffled screams followed the Noldor into the night, but Estarfin told himself that it was just the wind, just the wind in the trees.
