A/N I guess this is one of those challenge kind of stuff? Try to give the tale the glory it deserves? I just felt like writing this out, since I did it with Feanor, so why not Fingolfin.

I'll explain an odd detail at the bottom so not to spoil.

Eruhini = children of Eru.

Avatyarni, anonyna. = forgive me, my son.

No blue sky could be seen, the smell of green grass no longer present. The stench of dead and decaying bodies filled the air and littered the ground. Lingering smoke from the destruction of the fair plain still filtered through the atmosphere. Damage was done to even Barad Eithel from failed assault attempts.

The carnage was awful, and with this recent news of the others of his father's line and their own downfall, Fingolfin could bear it no longer.

Everything was lost.

The king said nothing to anyone, other than one command: "Saddle Rochallor, and bring me my armor."

None knew what their respected lord was going to do, but some of his closest advisors inferred the reasons, and they begged him not to throw his life away once they figured out what the king planned on doing. But he did not listen. Could they not see that sooner or later Barad Eithel would soon fall as well? He was not going to die without a fight; not like a slithering coward of defeat.

What broke Fingolfin out of his craze was when Fingon, his firstborn, limped in as the king's armor and various plates of protection were being placed on his being. Fingolfin wondered why Fingon looked terrified accompanied with heart-breaking bewilderment. Why his son was even out and about, for he had been wounded grievously, was beyond the father's knowledge.

"My lord, what do you do?" Fingon cried out and hastened to close the distance.

"What does it look like?" Fingolfin retorted in a bland voice. "Our line has been broken, our numbers diminished, and our kin scattered. We have no hope to recover from this loss."

"You go out in haste! Father, there is yet hope: we can rebuild, we can reform the line…" Fingon sputtered out desperately.

Fingolfin scoffed. "You have ever been my one to defy all odds and to hope against hope, my son. But it is not so this time." The gauntlets clanked together as they were fastened. The high king began to walk to the stables that were nearby. "We cannot come back from this."

Fingon with surprising strength pulled his father back, and Fingolfin almost wanted to shove him away, but he could not do that. Not to his firstborn.

Fingon had tears in his eyes. "I do not fear you enough like our kin from the other mother to let you do something akin to that of Fëanor. I love you too much to let you do this, for I will not be like they where they let their sire throw his life away."

Fingolfin's features softened and he cupped his son's face in his hands. He brushed a tear away with his thumb. But he hardened his heart. "Avatyarni, anonya." Fingolfin kissed the space between Fingon's brows before he withdrew forcefully and with a grim voice issued another command. "Restrain him."

With sorrowful eyes, the guards held back their prince. Fingon fought and his voice became louder as he begged the king not to go. Fingolfin tried not let the pleas reach him…he tried to tune them out as he mounted Rochallor and set his helm upon his head. He ignored them as he rode out of the ruined gates, ignored the scream of despair that issued forth from Fingon's lips.

Fingolfin pushed Rochallor more than he had ever forced upon before. It seemed Rochallor had been gifted with endurance and speed for this one purpose, and Fingolfin thanked whoever in the Timeless Halls would still listen to his damned soul. Whatever remaining orc in the field saw him let out a shriek of terror. Fingolfin thought there was a lingering balrog, and even the demon backed away (although it had no need to) at the brightness that radiated from his being.

Fingolfin did not know how long he had been riding, but Rochallor stumbled and let out his startled cry as he fell to the ground: the exertion finally having killed him. The high-king found himself lucky to not have sustained any serious wounds, although he grieved for the loss of his friend. Fingolfin arose to his feet and took input of his surroundings, before he steeled his resolve and started walking north, further into the wastelands.

He had once walked through these dark and evil-infested mountain ways centuries before…with a company glimmering in armor, the banners of his house hanging high on their posts. Soldiers as his guard…then Fingon's words came to mind, and Fingolfin felt brief discomfort as he thought about them.

He was doing exactly what his half-brother did at his last stand.

But Fingolfin had a reason this time…he must have. This time there was nothing left to defend, nothing left to fight for, unlike Fëanor: where he had everything still.

"I have held to my vow, brother," Fingolfin said to himself grimly. "And now, I am free of it."

The black gates of the fortress stood before the king, and Fingolfin held his horn in his hand. He encountered few orcs and other foul creatures on his trek here, and he found it odd. But it served to make his final stand ever easier. The few enemies he did see, he did not even have to draw Ringil. They all withered away from the sharpness of his eyes and his appearance that was akin to that of a star out of the sky.

Fingolfin steeled himself and blew his horn loud and clear for all to hear. Nothing happened, and he called out in a rage-filled voice. "Come out and meet me, you adversary of the Eruhíni! Come and meet your foe face to face instead of letting your worms do your work for you!"

Still nothing, and with a growl of frustration he proceeded to knock on the metallic doors, but with a loud creak, one of the gates opened slowly. Fingolfin could not believe his fortune, but then, for the first time since he went on his suicide mission, he felt fear.

The king ran inside to what was a large barren courtyard of black rock and gravel. The heat of the area spread across the metal of his armor, and beneath the chainmail and plating, the elf began to perspire. He did not let this discomfort get to him however, and he moved closer to the doors that led to the bowels of Angband.

Fingolfin stopped midway, and he again called in a loud voice. "Here I stand unhindered before thy gates, blackheart, and the lord of slaves and of demons does not come out to meet his foe and defend his keep. He instead sends out worms and fire to do his bidding, and he becomes therefore craven when challenged. Come forth, Bauglir, and meet thy doom!"

Again there was a long pause, and when Fingolfin in his own admitted madness proceeded to storm the doors himself, he felt a rumble in the earth. The fear briefly intensifying, the elf stepped back to where he was as the shakings grew greater and louder.

When his enemy came forth, Fingolfin had to suppress a gasp as every bone in his body, perhaps even his soul, froze. It was colder than the Helcaraxë, deeper than the deepest caves he had delved.

It was Evil at its purest, unrestrained form, incarnate.

Fingolfin could see the small remains of what remained of Melkor's former beauty and glory before it became twisted, and even as twisted as it was, it was a dark beauty that no elf, dwarf, nor man could fathom. The Silmarils shone in the crown atop the twisted Vala's brow, and his soulless eyes shone in darkness like the Void itself. His armor was pitch black and his hammer was massive. The best words Fingolfin could use to describe the children of Eru's adversary, if he ever saw anyone again, would be a ghoulish elf.

Fingolfin knew he had paled and shook ever so slightly at the sight. His madness had fled from his soul, but it was too late to turn back now. 'Blessed All-Father, if I can have any mercy for my stupid mistake in coming here, please be with me, because I cannot face this enemy on my own.'

"Bold words for one of your stature and status," Morgoth spoke in his dark voice. "A king with no land, no people, nor wealth to his name. To come here with none to protect him." He smiled cruelly. "So much like your brother: a worthless fool who does not know when he has met his match."

"I…" Fingolfin gulped and tried to keep the quivering from his voice. "You have indeed robbed me of all I had and all that I cared for, but I will not go down willingly. I will not be the slave that you sought to make of my brother."

Morgoth laughed and the mountains rumbled in response. "Arrogant and presumptuous as your whole lot. And no need to thank me for tainting the world with such a fine trait, by the way: starting with your ancestors upon the shores of the great lake, so distrusting that your father's own sire refused to take the Great Journey with them. That mistake the Noldor made of mistrusting of my ken even in the slightest was brought to Valinor long ago, and thus history repeated itself with Fëanor, and now you." He lifted Grond. "And thus, you stand like a fallen star from the heavens, and so you shall be taken to the consuming black hole that awaits you!"

Fingolfin's eyes widened at this brief historical account and he had to leap for all his life's worth as the Vala swung the head of Grond into the earth. The king's heart went up into his throat as a great chasm formed where he once stood. Glowing embers from magma and lava below floated up into the thick atmosphere in addition to the gush of smoke that made the air dirtier, and Fingolfin had to leap once more from the descending hammer.

Every dodge he made, it served to make Morgoth more irritated. "You are nimble; far nimbler than your sire. He stood no chance against me before the doors of Formenos!"

Fingolfin's heart lightened upon a stroke of luck, as much as it could in this situation that was bound to have a bleak end. Grond had snagged against in an outcrop of rock, making the Vala have to bend down in order to lift it in the air again. In a streak of insane courage, Fingolfin darted up his foe and struck Morgoth thrice where his armor was weakest with Ringil. The elf withdrew, and his ears rung harshly in response to the shrieks of anguish the Vala let out in response to the wounds. Fingolfin panicked when he soon discovered that he had been made deaf, and he could feel fluid spilling out onto his neck.

But he was not at the end of his endurance.

Although deaf, Fingolfin continued the deadly dance of dodging every strike of the hammer, and given Morgoth's visage, the Vala was nothing short of feeling murderous rage as Fingolfin evaded every attack. The king managed to get four more strikes in.

And that was when things began to turn against him.

There were no more places to jump to, and with so much fire and smoke in the air, Fingolfin began to struggle to breathe and the heat trapped in his armor made him sweat and dehydrated to the point of making his limbs ache. His arms trembled as he struggled to keep his sword and shield up, and the shining light that he had arrived with was all but gone.

Even though Fingolfin could not hear, he could hear Morgoth speak to his mind, and the Vala's voice was full of bitterness and hate that Fingolfin's soul wanted to flee in terror from it. "I have had enough of this."

Fingolfin lifted his shield up as Morgoth pressed his own shield down upon the elf-king. Fingolfin felt pain as his bones were crushed before he was flat on his back, but he stood up again, panting as he did so. Morgoth repeated the motion again, and once more Fingolfin was on his feet after being slammed to the earth. A third time…and Fingolfin had trouble getting up again. He fell down multiple times before he stood shakily. He looked up at the face of a smirking Morgoth as the Vala waited for Fingolfin to finally cave in.

The despair crept back into Fingolfin's being, and being drained of all reserves, he fell back and did not attempt to get up again. But the elf would get no reprieve, and he gasped and his eyes widened as Morgoth stepped on his neck: crushing his windpipe, and he writhed desperately to get even a morsel of the foul air.

The voice started speaking to him again. "You think yourself valiant. You are weak and mortal in soul like all you created beings. You will be destroyed and cast into the abyss with no hope of ever seeing the light of Eru again."

Fingolfin knew the end was nigh as his vision began to darken and his body felt numb and heavy, but in one last act of defiance, he lifted Ringil up again and slashed it deeply into his enemy's foot.

Fingolfin cringed as hot blood sprayed against his face and burnt parts of it, but he was too far gone, and his arm dropped limply back to the ground. He still could not breathe, as his windpipe had been crushed beyond repair. His eyes began to close as his heart quickened in fear greater than he ever felt before welled up in his chest: the fear of eternal death. 'Please forgive me…'

The enemy stared at the body of his foe, his existence trembling although it was never shown outward. Sauron had peeped out of a rock he hid behind, but even the lieutenant was speechless. It was all silent save for the spouts of fire coming from the pits that Grond made.

Then all the hatred that was beyond understanding for lesser creations fueled Morgoth and he picked the body up and broke the fragile bones in his hands. He turned to enter the hell pits once more when the screech of an eagle filled the air. Before Morgoth could react, there were talons dug into his face with no sign of letting up, and he yelled in pain some more.

Sauron leaped up to defend his master, but another eagle swooped down and pinned the lieutenant to the ground.

Thorondor flapped his mighty wings and wormed the dead elf's body out of the adversary's hands. 'They have never belonged to you, and those who resist you we shall save.' A being spoke in a bold proclamation to the enemy before Thorondor let go and flew away.

Morgoth pawed at the bleeding marks and fell to his knees, he then turned when he heard whimpering. WHIMPERING from his best and most powerful servant! But then he saw the reason for the sound and he yelled in outrage.

Námo stood looking rather angry himself, but he was shrouded in the protective light that Morgoth had no hopes of penetrating.

"So, you have come to block me from my desires again, by taking away every prize that is rightfully mine?" Morgoth growled in a strained voice. The wounds hurt badly. He then laughed. "But they all come so willingly into my grasp. They must obviously love me to come visit me in my dark halls!"

"I am not here to converse with you, Bauglir," Námo answered darkly and closed the distance. He grabbed the enemy by the cloth surrounding his neck, and Morgoth tried not to moan as the pure, brilliant light was so close and burned his physical body. Even though the Silmarils were with him twenty-four seven, this was far worse. "Though these wounds are inflicted by those of the mortal world, they will last as long as you live, as a reminder that your dominion will not endure." Námo pushed the enemy to the ground and withdrew. "The time is not yet at hand for your judgment, but it will be soon."

Morgoth had curled in on himself in response to the light that flooded into his darkness. It hurt, and he wanted it out. Therefore he did not see Námo disappear, and neither the fact that Sauron was trying to comfort himself by rocking back and forth in response to the Doomsman's: the messenger of Eru's arrival.

Turgon stood on the precipice with shock and grief all over his features as he stared across the ruined field that was Ard-Galen. A few of his lords stood behind him as they too observed the damage. The king of Gondolin did not dare imagine what became of his kin…if all they had worked for was now lost.

The sight of the giant eagles caught his attention and he took a step forward in anticipation. Thorondor landed onto the large clearing, and he gently dropped a body onto the soft grass. Penlod ran up to the body and he left out a gasp of shock and horror once he recognized the ruined figure.

"Oh merciful Ilúvatar, have mercy on us," the loremaster said sorrowfully.

Two other sensitive souls began to weep, and Ecthelion and Glorfindel began singing a lament. Turgon with numb feet walked to the body and fell to his knees. He found it hard to believe his eyes as he held the body in his arms. There his father was: dead, burnt and limbs twisted. And his face was not peaceful. The high king's last moments in life were in torment.

Turgon lifted his head and saw Thorondor in his angelic form. The Maia stood there with sorrow on his expression as well, but the message he was sending to the king with golden eyes was that of a little disappointment. 'You could have prevented this.'

And Turgon felt guilty and he let out a choked sob. He could have prevented this…if he had come out of hiding with his army at his heels. "I am sorry, my father and king," he wept. "I am sorry."

A month later…

Maedhros and Maglor with a small entourage slowly rode toward Barad Eithel. They knew of the destruction upon their kin and that their defense line was completely eradicated. They also knew of Fingolfin's death and have heard rumors of what happened that caused his demise. They felt grief over their uncle's departure as well as some admiration, and were going to see the damage for themselves now that most of their own problems had been dealt with.

Maedhros had to see how Fingon was holding up.

Repairs were in progress, and a random elf looked at the elder son of Fëanor silently and motioned with a hand for him to follow. Maedhros looked at Maglor and the black-head nodded and proceeded to seek out information while Maedhros comforted a family member. He and the servant walked toward the garden, and the elf left, leaving Maedhros gaping at Fingon who was in a fetal position on a green mound surrounded by water.

Síwen, Fingon's wife, was kneeling next to him and she turned her head to the elder son of Feanor, and she let out a sigh of relief and of sadness. She stood to her feet and approached. "I am glad you could come," the elf-maid said softly.

"How long has he been like this?" Maedhros questioned fearfully.

"Ever since Fingolfin basically abandoned him at the very gates of this settlement," Síwen said dully. "He is not fading from heartbreak, otherwise he would be dead by now…unless the process is very slow." She lowered her head. "…It cannot go on forever, because…now he is the high-king, and must pick up the crown and mantle at some point in the future."

Maedhros nodded and glanced back at his cousin. He slowly walked to the mound and knelt down next to the prostrate figure. Laying a hand on Fingon's shoulder he shook him gently. "Findë," he called softly.

Fingon did not respond to the proddings at first, but after a few shakes and calls with his pet name, the eldest son of Fingolfin slowly sat up, perhaps for the first time in a month. He stared at nothing, and for a long time, said naught. But he broke the silence eventually. "I now know what you must have felt when your sire turned to ash in your hands." He said in a raspy voice: cracked from disuse or incessant weeping.

Maedhros stayed silent but maintained the physical contact.

"I now know what it feels like to watch the single most important person in your life lose themselves to insanity; watch them forget all that still love them and those who would help them through tough times." Fingon turned to his cousin finally, eyes glistening, and his voice began to break again. "I now know that we truly are damned; destined to fail to pay for our rebellion."

Maedhros nearly fell over as Fingon pressed himself into the redhead's shoulder and sobbed his heart out once more. Maedhros wrapped his handless arm around the other elf and pressed a hand into the unkempt hair. The eldest son of Fëanor felt a few tears fall out of his own eyes as he did what did best: by simply being there.

A/N Namo at Angband...so why could he not just beat Morgoth to a pulp and take the Silmarils, and avoid all the destruction of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the War of Wrath brought? You can call this detail as being a little experimental, so it may or may not reoccur in the future. In my "Burning Fire, Burning Sorrow" with expanding on Feanor's death: Namo was only there to get the soul/life record and get the heck out of there after doing so.

I might also add that the Valar were a bit more involved in the happenings of the world, and if Namo is essentially the Doomsman (second to Manwe maybe), he has a job to do with pronouncing fate and warnings, even to the enemy.

But why could he not just take the Silmarils and be done with it? The Song and the Discord. They have to tough it out because if it doesn't happen now, then at some point down the line of history it will have to happen. It would be easy to just stab Morgoth and take the shinies and New Arda happens, but that would be disrespecting the elves' and men's freedom of choice, and that choice is: We don't want the Valar's help. With actions come consequences, and as a result of Feanor's rebellion and those who followed, the consequences are less than favorable, instead of hanging out in Valinor and let the Valar deal with it.

But the main thing of why Namo just doesn't put an end to this is the Song mainly...and that's my reasoning of why I put it there. Again, just experimental, and maybe not well executed. :l