Dashing over the dusty plain
The High King rode! Fey eyes insane
Burnt like twin stars. The goblins flee
Afraid to face a foe like he!
Mounted on his royal horse
Rochallor, Angband is his course.
For all is lost. His warriors dead.
His allies too have copiously bled
Upon the field. They only live
Who fled the rout. What can he give
When already he’s given all?
His final task: to fight and fall!
The orcs feared he was Oromë
Riding for vengeance that same day
Finarfin’s sons were overthrown,
Hithlum was lost, Dorthonion
Was made a wilderness.
Unmatched the High King took the lead
Across the Gasping Dust like wind.
He had no thought he must rescind
Folly and live. His wrathful eye
Grew from despair. To fight! Then die!
Alone he came to Angband’s gates.
Alone he smites them. Reverberates
The thudding sound of his sword hilt.
His horn resounds! The fortress built
By chain-gang slaves now hears the cry
Of Fingolfin: “Ho craven! Try
A duel with me! Bauglir abhorred!
Too coward to come cross my sword
And fight! Who makes his carrion-slaves
Do all his heavy work! Who braves
No danger as he down-cowers
Safe under mountain roots. Whose towers
Are strong and rise into the sky.
But do you dare my sword-blade try?
Ho! Lord of slaves! Craven black-heart!
Come forth and let our dueling start!”
Morgoth, displeased, heard every word.
Unwilling to be thought dastard –
For he was proud. None mocks his name!
Morgoth, unwilling, slowly came.
From underneath the ground his tread
Made thunders roll. Inured to dread,
Yet unafraid, the High King waits
Till Morgoth issues from the gates
One final time ‘neath open sky.
The duel begins. And one shall die.
This poem was first posted on Antipodean Writer.