The Fall of Fingolfin - A poem of the fall of the High of the West

He looks upon the sky and heaven, and down to the land where the fires burn.
He witnesses his people dying, their cries ringing out, their prayers going unanswered.
Hatred burns in him, anger boils his blood, and his eyes change, his inner fire had been lit.

Those that knew him, fear to look upon him now, they see his rage.
Justice and vengeance, they wrestle in his mind, the pain his people endured, all for this, all for nothing.
For him, this flow of rage is unheard of, and his people weep to see him this way, they know what he will do, and their sorrow pours.

Light fails, the moon is black with blood, and he breaks.
Seeing the utter ruin of his people, the King rides.
He rides for vengeance, he rides for rage.

He mounts his horse, Rochallor and rides forth in despair.
His rage explodes like a volcano, his hatred boils, and his tears fall like rain.
Like a storm of power he rides past Dor-nu-Fauglith.
Like a Valar he tares to Angband.

Alone at the gates save Ringil his sword.
The high lord challenges doom.
He dares him, his horn like a thunderstorm; he crashed against the brazen doors.
"Morgoth! Lord of Slaves!" He calls fiercely like a blazing star.
King of Noldor, a lord of old, and here he fights to save his world.

Slowly and fearfully the Dark Lord appears.
His feet fall like thunderstorms and his breath like acid, blazing on his Iron crown glow the Silmarils.
Clad in black armor, the Dark Lords casts his shadow over the High King of the West.
Shield of Crystals, Mail of Silver the Elven King is fearless,

Shadows and darkness breaks and Morgoth draws forth Grond,
Hammer of the Underworld.

Their duel began
Morgoth swung Grond, to crush the King, like thunder, is rings.
But Fingolfin, like lightning darts away.
He slashes, Morgoth cries.
The thunder falls, and the lightning darts,
He slashes, Morgoth cries.
Again, the thunder of Grond falls, heavy and merciless, but the light of Fingolfin will not dim. He darts away.
Fire and smoke ushers from the dents in the land from which came of Grond's misses.
He slashes, Morgoth cries.
The forces of Angband cry in dismay, for their Lord and God is dying, their pain echoes across the land.
But Grond still flies through the air, smashes the ground and the Dark Lord suffers a slash, then heaving he lifts up his hammer and strikes again.
He darts. He slashes. Morgoth cries.
The thunder falls, and the lightning darts,
He slashes, Morgoth cries.
Panting, sweat, pain. The High King feels it, dragging him down, the pain of a futile battle, the pain of defeat, the pain of death.
What was once a Valar, strikes one last time.
The High King, darts one last time.
He slashes, one last time. Morgoth cries, one last time.

But the fuel of the Dark Lord continue,
Morgoth bore down his shield upon the Elf King.
Thrice it came. Thrice if crushed him to his knees.
Thrice he rose up, broken shield and battered helm.

The pits of Grond wait, and then they have him, the falling star, the King of old,
His sword falls from his hand, the shield crumbles, he falls backwards,
At the feet of the Dark Lord.

For what, for sorrow, to fight for so long, to battle against so much to finally die.
Justice is taken. Revenge is taken. He left, unable to fight the reality of the world.
To fight a hopeless war, to find Victory unachievable, defeat is unavoidable.
Prophecies and councils overall could not prepare, for the end. For death. For defeat.

The starlight is broken, what hope is crushed,
Morgoth set his foot upon the High Kings neck, to crush the life from the proudest King.
Fingolfin reached out, but no hand did he touch, no help was waiting, he was to die.
But; Whether strength or fortune; his hand found Ringil.
Summoning up the last strength, he took the last power that was left of his life and hewed the foot of Morgoth the Dark Lord.

Black blood gushed forth; smoking it filled the waiting pits of Grond.
Thus, destiny came to pass. The curse continued,
Fingolfin, High King of the West, died. Most proud and valiant of Elven Kings was dead.

But Morgoth was unfinished, he took the up the body of the King, and broke it.
Lifting it high he was to cast it to the dark pits of Angband where his soul would never find relief. Where it would be devoured by wolfs.
But from Crissaegrim he was spied by Thorondor; King of Eagles.
And rushing down, he scared the face of the Dark Lord and his Wings cast a wind about him like a force that only Morgoth could truly fear and understand.
And taking up the body of Fingolfin, the King of Eagles bore him away.
To a high mountain overlooking the realm of his son, and mightiest Kingdom of the Elves. He lay in rest. His spirit survives, the son of the High King, built a cairn over his father. And Fingon took lordship of the Noldor.
Great was their sorrow, and bitter was their defeat.

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