Who: Fingolfin & OTA What: The High King of the Noldor has arrived. Where: In the fields --> the city --> Vinyamar When: High noon. Warnings | Status: Mentions of war, blood, death | complete
But at the last the King grew weary, and Morgoth bore down his shield upon him. Thrice he was crushed to his knees, and thrice arose again and bore up his broken shield and stricken helm. But the earth was all rent and pitted about him, and he stumbled and fell backward before the feet of Morgoth; and Morgoth set his left foot upon his neck, and the weight of it was like a fallen hill. Yet with his last and desperate stroke Fingolfin hewed the foot with Ringil, and the blood gushed forth black and smoking and filled the pits of Grond.
Sunlight flooded over Fingolfin's face, warm, and welcoming. Fingolfin could smell the grass, distinctive against the backdrop of the Morgoth's black blood that had stained him, but lacking the grotesque edge of Orcs, goblins and Balrogs. There was an absence of jeers, of cries, and of the sound of thunder as Morgoth smote the land and rented the earth with the pits of Grond. He didn't want to open his eyes, but when he inhaled a breath to ease his lungs the pain in his chest lessened and he coughed it out again. Grey eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head against the glare of the sunlight, reaching up weakly with a gloved hand to pull his stricken helm from his dark head. He let it tumble aside, his raven hair spilling out over his shoulders, stained with blood where his helm had failed to protect him fully.
Then he pushed himself to sitting, his chainmail croaking, his dented armor groaning. He touched his throat gingerly, where the foot of Morgoth had laid with the weight of the hills upon him; it was bruised and painful, and his breathing came slowly, shallowly. Weary, but finding solace in death, Fingolfin pushed himself to his feet and looked about himself. This was not at all what he had imagined the realm of the dead to be. Where were the Halls? Where was Mandos to greet him?
His long cloak fell over his shoulders when he stooped to lift his stricken shield and helm from the grassy earth. His sword too, he recovered, glittering like crystals in the summer light. He sheathed it, wondering at what earthly possessions followed elves and Men to their deaths. How strange! Grey eyes bearing the weight of more than three millenniums worth of knowledge swept the land, seeing far afield and alighting upon a fallen city of the likes of which he had never seen before.
And though he was weary down to his core with the fight, he set forth alone, approaching the city on heavy feet, but standing tall and proud. He was a soldier and a king and he walked as one who has come home, victorious at last. Victorious even in death. His bearing was lordly, his stance of a practiced soldier, and a long reigning king. Though he wore dented armor, bore wounds of his own, and was stained with the blood of his enemy there was no show of fear in his eyes, no show of shame for his exhaustion.
He was home. Five hundred years, and the sweet land finally greeted him.