It was over, Maedhros knew that.
It was over for Morgoth, for Sauron, and it was over for him. They had gone too far now, they had stolen from the Host of the Valar, from Arafinwë and Eönwë.
They had what they had fought for all this time, what they swore the Oath for, but it was all for naught. The Silmarils had rejected them.
Their father’s greatest creation was burning through his remaining hand.
But he could hardly feel it now, he had spent so many years lost inside his own mind that he rarely knew if what was going on around him was real or not. But he knew this was real. He had destroyed himself, yet could not bring himself to care.
He knew what he had to do. There was only one way out now. Maglor was gone, he did not know where. They had both run once they realised what was happening, just how wrong it had gone for them in the end. They should not have been surprised, when had anything gone right for them? The Nirthaeth, Doriath, Sirion… Maedhros had lost everyone, yet they still haunted him, as if they were really there.
Who was stood next to him at the edge of the crevice, judging him, as he never had before.
“You went too far Russandol, you cannot fight your way out of this one.”
“I suppose this is it then. You swore to the darkness, so you won’t see me again if you do this.”
There was no other way.
He turned to look at Fingon one last time, breaking what was left of his heart. “Can I have one last kiss before I go?”
Fingon gave him a sad smile in return, but did not come to him. “Oh Russo, you know I’m not really here, don’t you?”
No, he did not.
He did not know what was real any more. He did not know who he had become.
Fingon could not save him this time.