This originally was more comprehensible on Microsoft Word but it turned out weird when I put it on here. Fingolfin's thoughts are Italic bold, and the stuff that isn't his thoughts I put in ordinary text.
Fingolfin
Darkness, cold.
So it surrounds me.
I laugh. The black hills echo with my voice.
Let it come, I do not fear it. Let Him come forth to meet me, High King of the Noldor. Let Him, foul bane of all that is fair, master of night, abandon His tower. Let Him dare to fight.
My people are scattered, for evil has spread throughout our land. His dread armies of shadow are the cause of this darkness.
Now He must answer.
A boom resonates against the heavy gates of Angband.
Thoom, thoom, thoom
Someone beats hard upon them.
Thoom, thoom
A high, clear voice rises above the quarrels of the orcs. Its strength and boldness startles the creatures, causing them to wonder. Someone calls upon the Dark Lord. Summons Him from his evil throne.
Morgoth rises, he knows the one who speaks, he knows who smites upon his gates in anger.
Though he fears him, the Dark One answers. He will fight him, the bright-eyed Elf with the moonlit sword. Morgoth steps out to meet this fey foe. The Dark One trembles at the Elf-lord's cries.
But He hardens, knowing the king cannot match him in magic. Let him be crushed under the weight of Grond!
The rocks resound with the clashing of steel. The Dark Lord towers, looming over the king, rending the ground with every stroke of his black mace. The hills shake in their roots. The Noldorin king jumps aside, and the foul weapon rends the ground where he stood moments before.
The shouts and cries of the combatants sound throughout Angband, echoing in the mountains black against the starlit sky. More so do the orcs hear their Master's groans. Seven times the king's blue lit blade wounds him. The stars shudder as Morgoth's screams reach to the heavens. The Dark One howls in rage, Grond smashes toward the King of the Noldor.
The king is weary and worn. He leaps away, but deep are the furrows and ditches about him.
He stumbles, his blue shield falls from his weary hands. He lies clutching his Elven-blade, helm battered, staring up in defiance at the Dark Lord.
Morgoth laughs. The Noldorin king is helpless before him. He presses his armoured foot upon his foe's white throat, slowly forcing the life from the king's broken body. He sees his foe's face, pale in the moonlight. The eyes, grey as the winter sea, gaze deep into the blackness of his own. Hate, anger, despair. The fell Elven-lord glares at him. He can do nothing.
Darkness, cold.
I laughed at such. As I lie here now, I can no longer mock them; but I gaze in complete hatred of Morgoth. Yes, the darkness, the cold, and death are his advocates. My people are scattered, and I have failed them. My blade lies limp in my dying hand.
But he will not kill me. Not yet. Not before I have scarred him, given him one last wound.
With a terrible effort I swing my sword down. The Elven-steel bites deep into the Dark Lord's cruel limb. Black blood spills out onto my bare hand, burning the flesh. A moan escapes my lips.
The Dark One's final screams shake the cliffs. He lets all his malice and pain into deadly power, forcing the remainder of life from his foe.
The king is broken beneath him, crushed under Morgoth's heavy foot. The Dark Lord cries out, an insane laugh leaps from his throat. All in Angband know who is the victor in this battle.
Darkness, cold.
My eyes darken. The world has grown black. Shadows cover the land, and my sight is clouded. My faint ragged breath slips between my bruised lips.
I have failed them, the Noldor, my people.
I am done. Ruined.
The end has come.
Darkness, cold.
Death.