Alone he stood, clad in blue armor like the robes of Manwë. His sword Ringil that glittered like ice was in his right hand. And his great steed Rochallor bore him up to the very gates of Angband, the Hells of Iron.
Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, had rode alone through hundreds of hostile miles in the land of Dor Daedeloth, but none had hindered him, for in his rage he was as Oromë come to Beleriand. And now he had reached his goal. The three towers of Thangorodrim above the massive complex of Angband, where black doors stood twenty feet high.
Fingolfin spurred Rochallor forward, and Fingolfin smote Angband's doors with Ringil that glittered like ice. He dropped the horse's reins, leaving his left hand free. "Morgoth! Come out and fight me, if you dare!"
His voice echoed until the land was silent. The multitude of Orcs silently watching him waited, as did Fingolfin. He finally realized that Morgoth wasn't going to answer. Rochallor whinnied nervously as a few bold Orcs began to creep forward. He reached down and patted the horse's neck with his free hand.
"Morgoth! Are you afeared to fight me? I am an Elf; what can I do to you? Craven, I name you! Let all from Belegost to the Halls of Mandos hear this! Lord of Slaves and Craven!"
He took hold of the reins once more and wheeled Rochallor around. He made to ride away from Angband, but a great noise stopped him. A grating sound, like a thousand swords being drawn. Fingolfin turned in the saddle, as the ground shook.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.
It was Morgoth.
His head scraped the top of the doorframe, and the three Silmarils gleamed from his brow. His eyes were cold and dark, as was his spiked, twisted armor. A great hammer, as long as Fingolfin was tall, was in his hands. His being was awe-inspiring and terrifying. Fingolfin steeled his nerves and wheeled Rochallor around again. The horse trotted forward.
"You are a fool, Nolofinwë. I will crush you like a gnat." Morgoth hissed. His voice was like a snake, hard and grating, rough and raspy.
"Indeed." Fingolfin replied, spilling off his silver helmet. His raven hair fell free. "But, as we both know, gnats can be a problem." He flung it at Morgoth.
His helm caught the Dark Lord a glancing blow on the cheek-bone, barely enough to startle him, but it was all Fingolfin needed. Rochallor galloped forward, and Fingolfin gripped Ringil with both hands, steering with his knees. He swung the blade, putting all his strength behind it, and it cut through Morgoth's armor and bit into his calf. Morgoth roared, and Fingolfin wrenched Ringil free. Black blood poured down his leg, and the ground sizzled. Ringil remained unharmed, thankfully. Fingolfin wheeled Rochallor around.
"Yah!" he shouted, raising Ringil high. The weak sunlight caught the sword and it gleamed brightly.
Morgoth's hammer caught Rochallor squarely in the side. Suddenly, Fingolfin was flying, free of the stirrups and saddle. He landed in a heap, and coughed up a small bit of blood. He was lucky to be alive. He reached for Ringil, but Morgoth's iron boot hit him in the ribs. There was two loud cracks, and Fingolfin screamed in pain.
He finally saw Ringil, lying by Rochallor's body. He half-crawled, half-walked to it, while Morgoth watched in amusement. Fingolfin grabbed the sword and murmured a prayer to Oromë for his horse. Then he turned to Morgoth. There was no emotion in his eyes anymore. Before there had been rage, and adrenaline from the fight. Now there was nothing. Morgoth was not even a living being to Fingolfin anymore. He raised Ringil, and charged.
Morgoth swung his hammer, creating a small crater in the ground, but Fingolfin dodged the blow and leaped high, Ringil impaling Morgoth's stomach. Before the Uvala could throw him off, Fingolfin scrambled up Morgoth's body and stabbed his back. The very tip of Ringil protruded out of Morgoth's chest. The Uvala roared, and Fingolfin nearly fell off. He reached out and grabbed a spike protruding from Morgoth's armor. He swung forward, and slashed Ringil across Morgoth's face.
Fingoldin tried to escape again, but Morgoth grabbed him and hurled him bodily away. Fingolfin slammed into the rocks. This time there were four loud cracks, and when he tried to move his left arm, he couldn't without screaming. But somehow, he stood again. It was obvious now that he was going to die.
Findekáno, Turukáno, Irissë, I am sorry.
And then Morgoth was on him, and they were fighting again. Fingolfin managed to wound Morgoth four more times, but his blows were becoming slower as he rapidly tired. Morgoth's hammer had created a myriad of holes in the ground, and as Fingolfin leaped back from the latest devastating hammer blow, he tripped and fell. Morgoth pressed a foot on Fingolfin's body.
The weight was like a small hill, and Fingolfin writhed, trying desperately to get free. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to wait in the cold dark of Mandos. He screamed and hacked at Morgoth's foot with Ringil. Morgpth roared and swung with the hammer. Fingolfin's last thought was of his children, and then everything was black.
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Turgon was used to seeing the Great Eagles of Manwë in the Echoriath, but now four approached him, and one looked oddly lumpy. When they landed, he recognized Thorondor and his two nephews, Gawihir and Landroval. The fourth he didn't know.
But it was he who laid down a body, snapped in two. Pallid, grey-skinned, and still bleeding from where he had been torn open at the waist. Turgon could see internal organs and bone. The figure's left arm bent at an odd angle, and his two legs had bent backwards while bone broke through the skin. Turgon turned away, and fought down the bile in his throat.
Thorondor's amber eyes stared at Turgon dolefully. "Look at the face, Turukáno."
Already fearing what he might see, Turgon pushed aside a few ragged locks of black hair. A handsome face, high cheekbones, a small scar on the left cheek...
"Father." Turgon choked out, and suddenly everything was blurry. He was crying.
One by one, the other eagles began to leave. At last only Thorondor was left. "Nolofinwë died a hero. He will be remembered until the end of Arda."
And then he was gone too.
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The Elves make no song of that day. Nor do the Orcs boast of it. And Morgoth walked on a limp until the end of his days. He never again passed the gates of Angband.