Author's Note:
The second Kinslaying is not spoken about in great detail so I have taken liberties. I also reaslise that I have played heavily on the already existing "hate" between the Sinda of Doraith and the Noldor of Feanor's Sons/forces. I realise too that I have perhaps portrayed the Sinda here a little weak in comparison. The Noldor Elves were the greater Elves in some respected, not only in craft but probably in martial skill too. Along side this we have that the Sons of Feanor are tyrannical in their want for the Silmaril, and I like to believe this fed into their forces (what forces they had at the kinslaying at Doraith isn't exactly told either) giving them this almost impossible power in battle.
Bodies lay across the bridge over the Esgalduin River. The second Kinslaying had began. Mithaeglir's mouth lay agape, his fist trembled about the hilt of his blade. The Noldor halted and the battle lines parted, between them the production of battle and hate. Such malicious hate and greed. Arrows protruded from the still forms of his comrades and kinsmen, their long shafts casting a shadow in the dying light. Those that fell from the bridge, their weapons and armour reflecting the light like coins in a wishing well, where soon swept away by the slow summer current. Noldor and Sindar lay slain across the bridge, broken helms and wrecked blades scattered across the stone. Beyond the bridge stood the Noldorian force, it's end seemed no where near, perhaps a trick of the dark forest beyond or from the exertion of battle. Their commander, sat atop a white steed, approached the bridge and his warriors made way in unison under an unspoken command.
"Lay down your weapons, Grey Elves! This is slaughter and we find no joy in it. You know why we have come!" Thus spoke Maedhros, sword undrawn, both hands about his steed's reins.
"Your words fall upon deaf ears, Maedhros! Our weapons will remain in our hands even as we slay dead upon the ground of our home." Oropher called, cupping a hand to his mouth. He bore no helm and blood trickled from a wound on his brow that matted his gold hair to his scalp. Oropher lead the defenders back several paces to the narrowest point of the bridge. He turned to his kinsmen. "Do not fear. Their numbers are meaningless here. We hold here untill the King says otherwise. Mithaeglir, Mithgalad with me to the front!" The Noldor commander had given a curt command and retired to the rear of his forces, where a group of nobles stood - the rest of Feanors Sons. The Noldor cried out in Quenya and renewed their assault. Mithaeglir crouched low behind his shield, sword poised to strike, he looked left and saw Oropher, to his right smiled his twin brother Mithgalad.
"Worry not brother! On the morrow we will be walking the Marches of Doraith!"
Then it came. At first it was an almighty crash of steel upon steel with a great shove, but quickly it settled to a weight leant upon his shield. Mithaeglir tried to prise his pinned arm free so that he might attack his foe. The light caught his eye, a blade was being brought down upon his head, he struggled to free his arm. The enemy's blade clattered to the floor in the blink of an eye. Oropher smacked the blade out of the enemy's hands and swing his deft blade around and caught the Noldo beneath the arm pit. Mithaeglir felt the weight release from his shield and body, bringing his sword out to deal a blow to an oncoming enemy. Left and right the push and shove moved to and fro. The narrow bridge meant the Noldor could not use their weapons, but their blood was up, fed by propaganda and the lust of their commanders of the Jewel of Feanor. They were battle hardened too, they carried better weapons and equipment. The glory days of the Hidden Kingdom of Doraith was long gone, the realm had only been refounded but a short time ago when Dior, Thingol's Heir, come to a shattered and disparate realm destrroyed by the Dwarves.
Slowly the defenders gave ground. It was inevitable. The enemy had to climb over their fallen and that of the defenders to get at the lines of the Sindar. Almost as soon as Mithaeglir realised his kinsmen were losing ground he realised they were off the bridge and before the gate. There lay open ground between the bridge and the gate, save for some trees left and right of the gate, but beyond those trees was sheer cliffs that fell into the river below. It did not matter, all the Noldor needed was a little room so that their numbers may be more effective. Oropher looked behind at the rear ranks, seeing the faces of his warriors meet him he made a decision.
"First three ranks stay! All others form up at the gate! Go! Now!" As one the Grey Elves retreated and formed before the gate of Menegroth. All save for the first three ranks that still fought against the Noldor onslaught. "On my order, kinsmen, each line will run back. Rear rank shall go first. Open the gates when you are there! Go, now! Be swift!"
Mithaeglir slew another enemy, as his brother blocked a spear with his sheild. Another stepped in front of Mithaeglir, he bore an all silver axe that shone brilliantly in the sunlight, he bore a deep blue cloak about his shaulders. He stood before Mithaeglir and rose his axe above his head. "Second line, go!" Oropher commanded. The battle lines had seperated a little, the battle was fought as smaller duels now, the Noldor wishing not push their advantage for now. Oropher engaged several enemies with a small group of defenders. Mithgalad's back was to the cliffs facing three Noldor, was being pushed and harried but his skill with a blade was enough to deter his enemies for now. The axe-wielding Noldor brought the axe down upon the shield of Mithaeglir who instinctively jabbeded his blade up and caught the arm of the attack who dropped his body. Mithaeglir threw his shield arm out, the wind being forced from the Noldo's chest he stumbled. Space grew between the two as the fight raged on about them. The Noldo said something in Quenya, Mithaeglir stood stall and ignored the cursed language. Suddenly the Noldo charged in a frenzied manner, that only a Noldor could posses of the Elves, and tackled Mithaeglir to the ground. His blade shot out from his hand, his enemy was atop him bringing down his great axe with an unelvish snarl. A shaft of shadow was cast all of a sudden over Mithaeglir's eyes and the Noldo shivered and twitched, gasping for air as he keeled over. An arrow struck him in the chest. Mithaeglir looked back towards the gates of home, and their stood his king, surrounded by bowmen who now shot into the Noldor ranks who cowered behind their shields.
"Come now, Mithaeglir! Swiftly! Back to the gates!" Oropher helped his comrade up and they, along with Mithgalad made for the gates of Menegroth.
Their enemy's gleaming blades came down swiftly upon his companions as Mithaeglir paced back in unison with his brother, Mithgalad, and the rest of the guard. The low setting sun's rays leaped in through the broken doors, that once stood strong and barred now lying smote and ruined. Maedhros stepped over the still form of one of the Doraithrim defenders. He was the tallest, and oldest, of his brothers and thus of any of their warriors they had brought to the siege of Menegroth. From his head he lifted his helm, dark red locks fell about his shoulders.
"Your people are dying, Dior Eluchíl. Your warriors are no match for us. We have breached the gate of Menegroth. Give us the jewel!" Maedhros's voice was commanding, a voice that lured whoever heard it to obey. But not the Sinda of Doraith.
A hand touched Mithaeglir's shoulder and he stepped aside to allow his King through. Dior Eluchíl son of Beren a Man, Luthien an Elf, grandchild of Elu Thingol eldest of the Sinda Elves and Melian a Maia of the Valar. The proudest lineage of any in Beleraind and it showed. His face was striking with piercing blue eyes set above high cheekbones. Dark braided locks framed his head, laying atop broad shoulders. Like some with such lineage, an aura surrounded him. He was Man, Elf and Maia all in one form. He stared at Maedhros, eldest of the Sons of Feanor.
"Menegroth, the City of a Thousand Caves. We are in a Mountain, Maedhros, there are a hundred tunnels in every direction! You think we cannot escape? We know our home better than you know yourselves, Sons of Feanor! The Valar have forsaken you." The son of Thingol called, a wry smile on his face.
Maehdros, too, carried a smile. "We care not of the Valar nor of Valinor no longer. We are here for the jewel, Dior heir of the Dwarf-slain Thingol, you will give it to us. One way or another the Oath will be fulfilled. You shall decide weather you live or die to see it fulfilled!"
"They have stolen what is ours! They must die!" Snarled one of the Noldo warriors and as he stepped forward, it was clear he was no foot-soldier. It was Caranthir the Dark. He, unlike his brother, bore dark hair and an even darker countenance that clung to him like a shroud. "Slay all those that would disrepsect the House of Feanor!" Turning to the Noldorin warriors he cried; "Froth! Slay the Doraith-".
"Still your tongue brother, lest I still it for you!" Maehdros snarled before turning back to his prey, his eyes setting upon the Nauglamír. "Give us the necklace, Son of Beren. Give us what was stolen from us. Give us what our Oath tasks us to retrieve. You will not be harmed, your people will be untouched and we will leave. You have my word."
"Your word is meaningless here. I would sooner trust the same Dwarves that slew my grandfather than trust the word of a son of Feanor. Trustless I name you. Gutless I name you. Cowards I name you. You wish for your fathers jewel? I am Dior, son of Beren Erchamion who stole the jewel from Morgoth's crown! I am Dior, heir of Thingol, eldest of the Sinda, King of Beleraind and defier of the Noldor." Dior seemed to have grown to the eyes of those around him, it seemd to Mithaeglir that a crown of silver sat upon his brow, that a mantle of star light shone about him as he drew his blade."Sons of Doraith! Sindar! These so called High Elves wish to slay your King, slay you and your people as they did the Teleri! Kinslayers are at your sheilds, what would you do?" As one the Sindar replied "Fight! Fight! Fight!" each with a chant of sword upon sheild.
