Pre-fic A/N: I'm alive! Just that I don't have much time for fanfics anymore D: Anyway. I really don't know what to do about my old story(ies) anymore. They don't seem so good... haha. And I can't find the inspiration to continue Turn Around. For now. I HAD to write this (if even in my phone notes haha) because I kept listening to Blind Guardian's song Time Stands Still (At The Iron Hill) which is basically a song about Fingolfin's challenge with Morgoth.
Quenya:
"Findekáno" = "Fingon" || "namárië" = "farewell"
"Moringotto" = "Morgoth" || "nátyë manë" = "[you] be good"
"Ata" = "father" || "a tíra" = "be careful"
"yonya" = "my son" || "melin le" = "I love you"
Bearer Of Hope
Cold misty air hung about the campsite as dawn began to break. They had been pushed back far yesterday, suffering heavy losses from many fronts, and their people were tired of making war upon the enemy; it all seemed useless and futile to do so. But here they stood, preparing again for a new day of battle. Already the Elves were calling it the Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame, for the fires of Morgoth had quickly spread from Angband, breaking the Long Peace and the Elven guard set around the dark fortress. Exhausted from fighting and convinced to sleep last night by his father, Fingon folded out the entrance to his tent and grimly walked out in full gear. He was not surprised to see his father already outside.
Fingolfin was speaking with one of his chieftains. He looked angry and sorrowful, and like he himself had not slept that night. The chieftain turned to look as Fingon approached. Fingolfin also turned, and his face darkened.
"Yonya," Fingolfin said as he released a heavy grip on his golden sword-hilt. His face did not seem as relieved, in fact, he looked almost too tense.
There was something about the way Fingolfin spoke that made Fingon wary of his father. "Ata? What is wrong?" he said, almost in alarm, furrowing his brows.
Fingolfin glanced at the chieftain, then at his son, and then he spoke. "Yonya, all hope is lost."
Fingon quickly moved his head to one side in disapproval, but said nothing as his father continued: "I will challenge Moringotto to single battle, between us two only. If I succeed and triumph over him, then that is good, but if not, then woe to the Noldor who must continue this fell war." He did not sound like himself, nearly too bitter for recognition, and his heart pounded furiously in his chest as his son stared at him in horror.
"Ata! Do not say that," Fingon said, trying to control his desperation and anger. "There is hope still. We may yet push our forces forward today, break through the ranks of the enemy. It will not be wise to challenge Moringotto to single combat. He is too strong for that. And we need our High King." Fingon could feel his face begin to heat and his eyes begin to sting.
"They have you. I am tired. And I can no longer see hope in our people. I will do my best, then, to end this war, be it the last thing I do, but I no longer want this," Fingolfin said, although he could hardly meet his son's distraught eyes.
Fingon swallowed. "I have no more counsel for you, Ata, that I have not already given. But by sheer emotion I will yet try to discourage you." He stared Fingolfin hard in the eye, already beginning to choke. "A-ata, please, do not go… We do not want to lose you. And if you still will not listen, I will say this for myself and for our people: I do not know if I am capable of leading the Noldor as you have, Ata, so well and so strong."
Fingolfin looked grieved by Fingon's words indeed, but still he shook his head. "I would apologize, yonya, but it may be better for our people to have a new King. I am becoming restless. Already you are convinced that my decision is unwise. What more if I live through this, what more unwise actions might I choose? And yonya, I know; I am absolutely certain that you are very much capable of handling the kingship over the Noldor. I trust you with this; you will make a fine High King." To this Fingon did not know what to answer, so he simply walked up to Fingolfin and embraced his father. Now did tears begin to slide down his face.
"Y-you have truly grieved me, Ata, yet now I know that I cannot dissuade you from this. I will ride with you, at the least."
"No," Fingolfin said firmly. "I shall fight alone, so shall I ride alone. Do not endanger yourself needlessly, yonya. Stay." He took his openly weeping son in his arms, almost beginning to weep himself, but in his pride he did not allow it. "Namárië, yonya. Nátyë manë."
Fingon nodded, letting his hands slide from his father as Fingolfin walked away to the makeshift stables, calling for Rochallor his mighty steed that would bear him to Angband alone.
oOo
When Fingon lost sight of his father in the morning mist, he reflected on their conversation, as he tried still to staunch his tears. He was convinced that Fingolfin would not have decided on so terrible an action if he could have done otherwise. Yet his heart was heavy, and at last he strode into the stables, angry and confused and distraught, just as Fingolfin was preparing to leave.
"Namárië, Ata," Fingon said, blinking hard, and he stared up into his father's dark eyes.
Fingolfin, sitting on the back of mighty Rochallor, wearing his helm and gripping his banners, looked down at his son once more. "A tíra, Findekáno. Melin le, yonya."
Fingon stepped aside and followed the horse out as Rochallor gave a loud neigh and walked forward, exiting the stable. He followed his valiant father to the edge of the camp, where Fingolfin raised his hand, and said, "I made this decision, and do not regret my choice. Now I shall ride onward alone."
The Orcs and Elves alike, fighting the bitter battle outside of the safely guarded Elven camp, were surprised by the sudden appearance of the High King, alone with no guard, chin up and a determined expression on his face.
"Whither do you ride, Lord High King?" one of the Elves asked amidst the noises of the warring soldiers.
All seemed to anticipate his response. "I ride to Moringotto, to whom I now challenge to fight alone." Fingolfin adjusted his grip on his glorious blue-and-silver banners.
"My lord, you cannot! You will surely be slain," exclaimed the same Elf who had asked the question, a horrified look on his face, echoing the thoughts on everybody's mind.
"Then slain I will be!" shouted Fingolfin. "I can no longer endure this! Moringotto, I dare you! Come out and fight me!" The Orcs seemed to ripple words among themselves, and they parted, opening a clear path in front of the High King. From their faces alone you could see that they dared Fingolfin to go on the path. Rochallor took a few steps forward, and then Fingolfin reassured him and Rochallor began a slow-paced gallop.
"Praise our king!" yelled the said Elf after a moment of stunned silence, raising his weaponry up high, an air of defiance about him. By now Rochallor was going on a terrifyingly fast run, and a few moments later, the bitter fighting seemed to resume (if ever it had even paused), but the Elves were now angry for the desperation of Fingolfin their King, and they fought with renewed strength and valor.
Fingon watched his father ride until his keen Elven eyes could see him no more, and then he leapt into battle, cursing Morgoth and taking up the call of the Elves.
"Praise our king!"
Post-fic A/N: Aaand, I know it's weird that time seemed to stand still NOT AT THE IRON HILL but when Fingolfin rode out of camp. Augh.
I'm probably going to write more chapters for this, maybe not going into the battle anymore, but I'll definitely write about Thorondor bringing Fingolfin's body to Turgon. :D Pfffffffft.