Haze

Canon-compliant.  Turgon watches his brother die.  The image sticks with him.  Quenya names used (Turgon = Turukáno, Fingon = Findekáno, Glorfindel = Laurefindil and Idril = Itarillë).  I did not make a Quenya translation of Ecthelion's name because I'm lazy and Tolkien never seemed to be able to decide what roots he used to create the name.  It was originally just derived from fountain (original, right, considering that Ecthelion is Lord of the House of the Fountain). Takes place between the years FA 472 and FA 510 starting at Nirnaeth Arnoediad and moving to Gondolin.  Somewhat introspective.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion (if I did, Fingon wouldn't have died obviously)

Pairings: none (one hinted sort of)

Characters: Turgon, Fingon, Ecthelion (mentions Balrogs, Glorfindel, Idril, Maeglin, Morgoth, Arien, Tilion, Varda and hints at Ulmo and Elenwë)

Warning: canon-compliant, canon character death, somewhat graphic description of Fingon's corpse, lots and lots of blood, unhealthy mental states, death, war, dorky allusion to the story "Breeze"

Song: Shutting Down Grace's Lab

Words: 1,266
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haze (noun): fine dust, smoke, or light vapor causing lack of transparency of the air; something suggesting atmospheric haze: vagueness of the mind or mental perception
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/haze

There were no words.  His mouth was dry, lips parched, tongue swollen.

It was as though he suddenly walked waist-deep in the languid heat of a dream--the atmosphere tangibly thick--his feet caught in invisible snares.  The corners of his world burned black with the smoke of charred bodies and the sudden stillness of falling darkness; the figures moving in the dance of life and death around him were blurred beyond vision, the clash of shield and blade and spear naught but a muted echo through the heavy pounding of his heart in his ears.

All his eyes could see was the mire of crimson spreading across deep blue, soaking into the glistening stars and sullying their purity.  Marked with the draining lifeblood of his brother's limp body, tangled and fallen, twisted unnaturally.

"Findekáno..."

Dark hair spilled around that beloved face.  Empty, dull eyes stared out at the fading light of the sky, the fading hope of their people.

And before he could stop himself, he looked upwards, to where the helm was cloven and gore peeked out along with a tide of red.  Blood.  So much blood.  It did not seem to stop, though its owner could not possibly have had more to give.  As a small ocean, it spread and mixed with muck and dust, spreading and spreading until Turukáno imagined that it would flood past his boots, rise up to his ankles, hot and fresh and bitter with iron.

Even to save his own life, he could not have moved.  No breath would come through his lips to fill his lungs with the smell of sweat and the putrid odor of eviscerated enemies and friends alike.  No thoughts would come upon his mind to steer him away from his horrified fascination with the image branded into his silvery orbs.

A hand on his arm, pulling, but not hard enough to cease his forward momentum, the urgent need to be at his brother's side.  Because Findekáno couldn't be dead!

"Findekáno!" The name burst forth as a cry, broken and shocked. "Káno!"

"My King, please, listen to me!"

He twisted until his wrist ached, until he was sure the iron grip on his arm would leave behind a marring of purple and black beneath his tunic.  But the manacle of fingers would not cease its imprisoning, the voice in his ear would not halt its hissing.

"Stop this!  Please, Turukáno, listen to me!"

The next he saw were blue eyes in a familiar, stern face.  Ecthelion, his most steadfastly loyal captain stood before him, took him by the shoulders and shook him until it rattled his bones. "We need to retreat."

No words.  He nodded, but could summon no further will to move.  The image of blood, the feeling of it sticky against his ankles, sliding thickly between his toes, would not cease.

The red haze had settled on his mind.

---

Even many days later, he could do naught but sit in shocked silence.  The black had retreated from the edges of his vision, and instead his eyes misted with the stained stars, ruined by the stomping of the enemies' heels and the bashing of their heavy maces, by the endless sea of death, blocking out all sound and sight from his frantically racing mind.

Because Findekáno was dead.

Findekáno was dead.

But that was wrong.  His brother could not be dead.  Yet each stuttered breath only confirmed the nightmare that was his miniscule reality.  Every "my King" spoken from unfamiliar lips was as a spear would be to his heart, piercing his brittle shield of ice.  Cracking.  Shattering.

The days passed without notice.  He could not remember what had happened after the battle, only that he was once again in the Hidden City, in his tower, in the safe haven protected from the evil sight of Morgoth Bauglir.  But even then, all he could do was sit on his balcony and stare, unstirred by the breeze caressing his cheek with soothingly familiar fingertips, unmoved by the heavy rain that battered down upon the earth and soaked him to the bone, leaving chills in its wake and warning in his heart.

All he could see were those eyes losing their light.  All he could feel was the overwhelming despair, the crushing defeat of their armies and their strength and their pride.  The spirit of their people had been ravaged beyond recovery.

All he could think of was his brother's last smile of greeting, the hand clapping on his shoulder, the joy at reunion after so long apart.  That was gone, an ephemeral moment carried on the wind as a dandelion seed, lost in the archives of time as though it had never existed.  Findekáno was dead.  Dead.  Gone.  Defiled and destroyed and desecrated in the copper of his own blood and the mire of his spilled brains and the tangle of his fractured bones.

The image of twisted limbs in golden armor would not depart.  The glimpse of vibrant red rent with shards of white and the mess of intestines spilled upon the earth would not leave his dreams.

There was so much blood.  So much it would never go away.

And alone, in his tower, Turukáno sat.  The High King of the Noldor.

Hollow words for a hollow title.  For the spirit of their people was fading into oblivion.

And he could only sit and watch.

---

Sometimes he wondered if they realized--valiant Ecthelion and loyal Laurefindil and sweet Itarillë and his dark nephew Maeglin.  He wondered if they noticed how he would stare off into the distance beyond the constraints of this mortal realm whenever duty was not calling him to block all else from his cluttered, broken thoughts.

He wondered if they could see past the feigned smile and the stern voice of their cold-hearted monarch, hiding behind his own spread wings of false glory.

He wondered...

Because at night, he could not close his eyes for the fear of seeing the empty gaze of the lost hope of their cursed people staring accusingly up at him from his brother's slack face.

Because the few hours he allowed himself the catharsis of sleep, it was inevitably blanketed in an ocean of jeering and the screams of the dying, heralding the arrival of that familiar wave of hot, wet, thick liquid swirling around his feet and upwards, until it swallowed him entirely, until he was drowning in spilled loyalty and broken dreams.

Because the words "my King" still made bile rise in the back of his throat.  Still made his hands fist, white-knuckled and trembling.  Still made him want to scream and rage and weep.

Perhaps it was his personal punishment, his portion of the unnumbered tears, his purgatory.

Because even now, with the Nirnaeth Arnoediad many years behind him, the red veil of his brother's blood never lifted.  Arien had never risen on the endless night that had blotted out all of Varda's stars and the vessel of Tilion's might.

A crimson haze shadowed his dreams.  It embodied his nightmares.  It ruled his world.  It was so deeply entrenched into his being that it would never go away.

It would be the harbinger of his people's demise.  And his own downfall.

And Turukáno did not even care.  He was blinded to all but empty blue eyes and translucent memories of sunlight on a cloven helm and red stars in a sea of death.
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I don't know about you, but it would take me a long time to get over watching one of my siblings being viciously killed and torn apart.  Turgon only lived for 38 years after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and that isn't too long for an elf.  Also, can't blame the guy for not jumping with joy at being king because his brother's dead.  In any case, I was originally tempted to write this story about Maedhros, because knowing him he'd be feeling guilty about the whole mess and blame everything on himself, but then I decided that Turgon had equal dibs on the post-Fingon's-death angst.

As I've been listening to the Avatar Soundtrack like a dork all day (because it's pretty) I also have a song from that for this: Shutting Down Grace's Lab.  Doesn't sound like it should be all that angsty, but it is, trust me.  Gives me shivers just listening to it.

And just become I can, here's some Fingon death scene love: The Death of Fingon by =Gold-Seven (no helm, but that can be forgiven).  Not too gory or anything, I promise.