Fingon Character Bio

 The wind that morning smelled of dust and ash. It was time for war. This was to be the last and greatest of our battles, or so I dared to hope. Even before it began, I think I knew it would end in immeasurable destruction.

For years I had dreamed of this day. The day we would finally march against Morgoth together, united. Elves, Men, and Dwarves, bound together by their warrior spirit, and awakened by fury. The banners of the Houses of Fingolfin and Fëanor flutter side by side, or so I thought. We were utterly ambushed. There was no sight of Maedhros. Just hordes of hideous and bloodthirsty Orcs and Balrogs.

Húrin was there though, fierce and mighty, and Huor as well, young and proud. They stood at my side like the sons I never had. The trumpets of Hithlum rang clear across the plain, and we advanced further, carving out a path through the endless amounts of Orcs, each more hideous and twisted than the last.

At first, victory seemed within reach. The vanguard of Morgoth’s armies was broken by our assault. I saw his orcs scatter, and for a heartbeat, I believed the Enemy could lose. But Morgoth is patient, and lies are his greatest weapons. Of course it was not over. His treachery came in the form of Uldor, false ally of the East, who turned his men against Maedhros at the height of the charge. The right flank was under siege, and the tide turned.

The air grew thick with ash and screams. Horns were lost beneath the thunder of drums. I watched as the hopes of centuries crumbled and rotted to nothingness. Yet I would not flee. My father’s blood burned in me. Fingolfin who once faced Morgoth alone at Angband’s gates. I could not do less.

We were driven back. My guard was gone, my banner torn. Húrin and Huor still stood beside me, holding the rearguard as the enemy pushed in. Trolls and Balrogs came like a storm, and fire lit the sky red. It was then that I saw Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, advancing through the smoke. His whip cracking, his eyes burning with malice and rage. I raised my sword and charged toward my doom.

We met in the ruins of the field. My shield shattered, my armor burned, but I did not yield. Every swing was for my father, for my people, for my allies, for the dream that we could make a brighter future. I remember the pain, sudden and seething, as the whip caught me and the fire closed in. But even as I fell, I heard Húrin’s voice above the chaos, crying my name, unbroken.

That was my last memory. It was not defeat, not despair, but the courage of those who would not abandon hope even when hope was lost.

They say Húrin fought on, standing alone above a mound of the dead, until he was captured, not slain and cursed to watch the doom of his house. I was luckier. I died free.

The Nirnaeth Arnoediad was my demise, yet also our greatest defiance. Let the world remember that we did not die quietly into the void. We sent a message.

I was Fingon, High King of the Noldor, who fell before Angband’s gates with his face to the foe and his heart unbroken.