Warnings: Unpleasant flashbacks.
Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien and I make no money from this.
Summary: The morning before and the evening after the sack of Doriath by the sons of Fëanor.
Snow lay thick underfoot. Dawn dreamt an hour into the future and it was still snowing, flakes tumbling crazily everywhere through a maze of winter-stripped branches glittering ice-white against the greying dark. His passing left no traces. The wind whipped snow through his eyes and burned on the edge of his breath.
He recalled saying: no need to worry yet. No one’s going anywhere till spring.
Now this. Attacked in a midwinter blizzard. What did wolves care for weather?
The bridge lay ahead, treacherous. Snowdrifts piled up against Menegroth’s black gates. He sprinted on through the blurring night.
The snow ceased to fall with the fading of what little daylight had lent its pallor to the dissipating banks of cloud. It lessened imperceptibly, the wind trailing away and the tumbling flakes dwindling into a gradual, drawn-out nothingness that left the evening clear and cold and sharp as glass.
As a shattered lantern. Erestor stared into the fire and saw burning tapestries. Smoke everywhere. Blood spurting hot across his face.
The blades in his hands. The madness, wolf-like. The deaths.
So easy. Elves died so easily.
He leaned forwards abruptly. Snow glistened against his fingers. It did not melt.