Antipodean Writer: Fingolfin’s Fall: The Duel

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Fingolfin vs Melkor


Fingolfin stared upwards into the sky.
His breathing hard. Still, once again he’ll try
To strike his enemy down! Cold Ringil gleamed
Like blazing ice. But every movement seemed
To slow so that he moved as in a daze
And every thought was trapped inside a maze
Of unreality. The Dark Lord? Here?
Before the gates of Angband? And so near
The realm of pain and unrelenting ire
Against the Noldor? His twin eyes with fire
Burned fey in maddened wrath. His body slow
Seemed unable to leap aside and go
To safety. Then he stumbled. For the mace
Of Bauglir had rent chasms in that place:
Caused fire and smoke to ascend to the sky.
His steed, Rochallor whinnied. At the cry
Fingolfin risked a glance. His noble steed
Still faithful waited. He would never need
His services again! The horse should flee!
But Rochallor remained, for willingly
He’d hazard everything, if his king asked.
To ride to Angband he this day was tasked,
And he had done so. Now his life-long charge
Was ending, and the war-horse roamed at large.

A massive hill descended from the sky
Upon Fingolfin. Before he knew why
Or what it was, he slid into a pit
As Morgoth’s heel descends. So, this was it:
The end of his mad duel with the Dark Lord.
The High King struck a last blow with his sword
And hewed and thrust with every once of strength
Till at the last, forced down, lying at length
Upon the dust with no more room to squirm
Both hands on Ringil’s hilt still gripping firm
He forced deeper its blade as Morgoth screamed
And Angband’s hills resounded. Then it seemed
Before his life crushed out, Fingolfin heard
The voices of the Valar speak a word:
To say that he’d done well. Fingolfin sighed
And smiled. And then his mortal body died.

Morgoth the duel had won, though it had cost
Him more pain than Fingolfin – who had lost.
Seven painful wounds by Ringil still he feels.
His power no longer from such woundings heals.
And now he limped, was halt. The constant pain!
If such the price of winning – was it gain?

Shrugging such thoughts aside, the Dark Lord sought
The body of the foe he’d lately fought
And slain: to tear, and scatter it withal
Among his wolves. Before this could befall
The late High-King: claws slashed his face and marred
The Dark Lord’s features. Ever-after scarred
Was Morgoth’s visage from that fateful day
As Thronodor bore Fingolfin away.


This poem was first posted on Antipodean Writer.


One comment

  1. n1 bud (:
    good weekend o7

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