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Fingon and the guard of the King were surrounded. Few of Fingon’s lords and their houses remained, Mithrond of the House of the Silver Tree, Anardil of the Rising Sun, and Alcarinon of the House of the Sickle of Doom. Carnedhros had escaped from the battle with Galadriel and Orchaldor was captured and taken to Angband. Hurin and Huor had retreated with the rearguard, sundered from Fingon entirely. The Eastern army was broken and Maedhros was forced to flee. The remaining Noldor of Barad Eithel were assailed by a tide of foes thrice greater than all the force that was left to them.
The monsters came in droves. The orcs shouted and screeched behind a wall of pikes, fearful of the bright blades of Fingon’s guard. The might of the host of the Noldor was great; their armor shone silver and their swords blazed blue as they slashed away at the monsters.
Hendolen, faithful banner-bearer of Fingon, kept crushing orcs under the weight of his iron, silver-studded club, now tainted with blood and soot. Alcarinon skewered three orcs with his spear as Anardil pierced a troll’s armor with three blazing white arrows. The might of the Noldor was not yet fettered, and the warriors of Fingon set alight the field of Anfauglith with the fire of their own spirits.
Then came the monsters from the North; snarling wargs and monstrous werewolves, which reared up and slashed at the elves with cruel claws, backed by trolls clad in spiked armor that sliced the air like the peaks of the Iron Mountains. Orc berserkers, wielding dual blades and square claymores came screeching and slashing atop monsters of ivory and bone in the likeness of the drakes that uttered ear-splitting roars.
The Noldor braced, the remnant of Fingon’s guard taking up shields and spears into a mighty phalanx. Their spears skewered the monsters through armor and thick scales, the archipelago of Noldor steel shining with light of the Valar through the filth of Morgoth. The remaining archers knocked their bows, losing white, shining arrow after white, shining arrow like the rains of a summer storm.
Then came the Boldogs, Umaiar that took the shape of orcs. They stood taller than the elves, eyes red as blood. Their coming was with a great smoke that hung in the air as a fearsome shadow that encircled Fingon’s guard. More fell riders strode in upon enormous animals with blood-stained teeth, lions and bears and buffalo, once proud beasts that roamed Ard-Galen, now slaves to the rot of Morgoth.
The orcs loosed black arrows on the elves. One struck the tallest point of Fingon’s helm as the phalanx was forced back from the onslaught.
The Boldogs were not strong enough to deter the elves, for though they wielded black maces and fell whips, they had not the strength to quell their light. For nigh 500 years the Noldor had not witnessed the light of Valinor, yet they still burned with the power of Elvenesse, now more than ever for the retreat of their remaining kindred and vengeance for their fallen comrades.
The elves pushed forward, and a sortie led by Alcarinon charged forth, slamming straight into the demons. The elves cried, “Aiya, Varda Elentari!” and the light of their weapons grew brighter, the spear points gleaming clean as they spilled the black blood of the orcs onto the ashen ground.
Fingon drew his greatsword Maicaril, glowing blue with a crystal-studded hilt, scintillating like silver rain, and charged with several of his best swordsmen, leaping clean over the protective phalanx.
The charge of Fingon was like the coming of Feanor upon the starlit shores of Mithrim, his hauberk gleaming bright and graceful silver with Maicaril outstretched, his helm flowed like sheets of rain.
The Boldogs shrieked and flailed, their hideous faces twisted with terror as the shining blades cut through the ranks of monsters. Their black axes bled red in the furnace of the flames behind but were drowned by the pale light of the elves ahead, who were fey as the Doom of Unnumbered Tears pressed on them. The archers of Anardil set another volley, killing several charging beasts as they showered glittering light upon the thralls of Morgoth.
Then, came the shadow. The scent of terror filling the air, as if the maw of the Earth had opened to reveal its depths. The Boldogs’ darkness was strengthened by something coming from behind them. The harsh chanting of the orcs deepened, their hideous beasts roared, and a booming horn blasted through the heavy air.
“Ta sin' autuva! This too shall pass!” cried Mithrond as he drew his spear and banner, pressing the assault against the forces of hell. The rest of the Noldor, with swords blazing blue fire, broke the league of the orcs like the coming of morning against the dark of night.
Then, a great drumming and many braying horns issued from the North. There came a great heat like a furnace, dry like the tinder of a drought-ridden forest. Black figures emerged from the dark shadowy ash, as fire wreathed all about the smoking battlefield. Armored, monstrous trolls appeared, with black demons flanking them, riding upon monstrous drakes the size of chariots. Wraiths appeared, bearing obsidian longswords, shrieking all the while as the demons of Angband set out for slaughter. Wolves followed the monsters in swarming packs, eager for fresh meat. The enemy assailed the garrison of Fingon, stopping it dead in its tracks.
Then, from behind the throng of foes appeared a shadow blacker than night that breathed with malice. Great shapes, thrice the height of the tallest elf, writhed as if the Shadow itself were assuming form. They had piercing eyes and flaming maces with great horned armor that pierced the smoky air as Thangorodrim pierced Menel. Two of them wielded maces and whips of red, streaming flame, their leader held a black axe. Of man-shape they were, but enormous as the hills of Dorthonion where fell Angrod and Aegnor in the Battle of Sudden Flame. Then with crackling bodies and deep growling, they assumed the form of the mighty demons of flame.
The Valaraukar, scourges of fire and terror, had come to finish the battle. Gothmog, the High Captain of Angband, Lord of the Balrogs, was come.
He had a guard of five, dark-eyed trolls who wielded massive spiked clubs, with armed Boldogs about him. Two other Balrogs flanked him, and they had come for Fingon’s lords. Darkness came over them, smothering black, roaring flames wreathing beneath their feet as the Boldogs and fiery wraiths of hell charged the elves.
The elves remained undaunted. There rose up a cry like the roaring of the great waves of Ulmo from the Lord of the Sickle, silver-haired Alcarinon.
“Valanon karanen! Firuvante!”
With all the forces he could muster, Alcarinon charged Gothmog. The light of the swords of the Noldor were not dulled, and their spirits unfettered, but they were now small against the terrible might of Gothmog. His demon trolls swung their clubs, shattering shields and felling the vanguard like trees while the Boldogs and wraiths clashed with the King in the rearguard. Alcarinon with all his valor gazed into Gothmog’s eyes and blew the shrill horn of Barad Eithel, the last time the horn of Fingolfin’s house was heard in those lands.
Gothmog engaged Alcarinon’s force. His shadowy wings were now full-spread before the banner-bearers of Fingon. He furiously swung the axe and mace until the shields were shaken and the spears splintered. Anardhil could only strike once, denting the Balrog’s breastplate with his mace before he was grabbed by the head and burned by its fiery hand. The writhing Alcarinon was hacked in half by two strikes from the fiery sword.
The phalanx of Fingon’s guard was utterly broken as the other Balrog pushed forth like the onset of a wildfire. The elves in its path were swallowed by the inferno. Fingon was protected by a fallen warrior’s shield, separated from the rest of his force with only his close guard about him.
Fingon cried aloud in dismay. He could not but watch as his lords were slain one by one.
The Balrogs and their lieutenants struck down on the Houses of the Silver Tree and the Sickle, the elves crying aloud as they were shrouded in darkness and pierced by flame. The light of their swords fettered out as their shields were broken and their helms were cloven. They were stuck by black arrows, by flaming swords, by the swing of great maces. Their light was dimming and the darkness was growing.
Even so, the lords of the Noldor remained valiant in desolation.
Mithrond pierced a troll’s armor clean through with his mighty halberd, penetrating the tough skin until blood came gushing out. With a shriek, the troll fell and crushed several fell beasts. A Balrog commanded a swarm of hideous shapes of shadow and fire that were loosed into the elves, overwhelming their forces until the monsters came forth and slaughtered them with tooth and claw. Mithrond was snatched by the jaws of one monster, and was thrown wailing into the jaws of another headfirst. The rest of the House of the Silver Tree followed their lord.
Hendolen, valiant banner-bearer of the High King, struggled against shrieking wraiths as Boldogs flanked him and his guard. The number of his arrows dwindling, he drew his axe and short-sword, and slew three mighty demons, and in a single, clean slice, destroyed four wraiths before his axe withered. When five more Boldogs came to overwhelm him, hacking away with their axes, Hendolen sliced one of its legs with his dagger. Shrieking, it fell back, as the other Boldogs leapt back from the elf’s retaliation. Then the second Balrog ensnared him with its fiery whip, flung him screaming in the air, and slammed him into the ground where the jaws of ravenous wolves were waiting.
Then, the largest host of trolls and Boldogs surrounded Fingon and his guard with a renewed ferocity. When Mithrond fell, another elf took up his banner. Then another. Then another. Each of Fingolfin’s warriors fell as they kept the banner of Fingolfin erected. The trolls were imbued with Hellish strength and their maces were set aflame as the elves were crushed, burnt, and maimed to death. Even the strength of their shields and the power of their spirits would not be enough to resist the blight of the Balrogs and their captains. One by one, they fell to the enemy.
The banner remained tall and steady, even though each elf that held it fell.
The other Balrogs pushed their forces forward to pursue the fleeing foes to become fresh kill or thralls of Morgoth. Many monsters swallowed the warriors, many were slain lying on the ground, few were taken away in chains and whips. Fingon stretched out his arm to attempt to save one of his captains as he was dragged away, stretching his own arm out, begging his king to save him. Alas, Fingon failed, and he saw the last of his warriors pierced by a black arrow and died. At last, he realized that the designs of his and Maedhros’ had failed, and that he would never see his kinsman and dear friend again. He had hoped that Maedhros made it out safely.
At last, Fingon stood alone, with his guard dead about him, and Gothmog faced the High King.
He stood over Fingon like a tower, the darkness loomed about him like a stormcloud, a mane of fire streaming over his horned head. In his left hand, Gothmog wielded a great red mace with a fiery core, in his right, the black ax of Angband, the one that struck down Feanor himself, stained with the blood of countless others. It smoked in Gothmog’s hand, and the darkness grew about him. Embers flared from his nostrils, and he made not a single noise as he stared at Fingon through red eyes, filled with malice and hatred.
The High King remained undaunted, the rage and grief of a hundred thousand slain elves welling up inside him.
It was all in vain. The Doom of the Noldor was full-wrought.
However, one beacon of hope, if ever small, remained. Turgon’s kingdom of Gondolin. The secret city would be the last fortress against Morgoth, a haven for what remained of his people. His wise younger brother knew that a brazen fortress would not last as long as a stealthy stronghold. If Barad Eithel was no more, Gondolin would hold, at least long enough that hope may be renewed in the hearts of elves and men. A spark of hope was struck in the heart of Fingon that from his beloved brother the doom of Morgoth would come.
And from that spark, a great tempest of fire erupted within Fingon as his spirit had come forth, set alight with holy fire, and his eyes shone like the eyes of Eowne, white and blazing. His horn pierced the thick smog with the choir of a thousand voices.
“AURE ENTULUVA!”
He cried aloud and shone so brightly that the trolls and beasts leapt back in amaze at the power of the king. He swung Maicaril, which roared to life, slicing three Boldogs in one strike and piercing straight through the armor of the demon-troll guard. Gothmog’s guard was pushed back away from the freshly dead troops as Fingon sent several orc-captains flying with a lightning-fast spin. The sword’s light itself was a weapon, throwing back the demons, who swooned as if struck by a blow. Werewolves howled in fear and vampires fluttered away at the sheer wrath of Fingon the Valiant. His coming was like Eonwe the Fair, and his fell wrath stayed even Gothmog in sheer amaze.
Like Manwe’s banner-bearer, he took the fallen banner of Mithrond, the white visage of Telperion the Fair which remained unstained, and held it to the sky, its spear point piercing the black smoke, the emblem of Fingolfin shining bright against the dark sky, fluttering against the fell wind. Fingon held up his greatsword in his other hand, sheen white like Tilion in its fullness. The biting light of the sword stayed Gothmog, who paused to glare at the blade.
Fingon dared to look the demon in the eye, defiant in the face of certain doom. Gothmog paused, seemingly bemused by his foe’s sheer determination. Sensing the silence, Fingon let out an almighty shout, holding Maicaril up in the sky, challenging Gothmog just as his father challenged Morgoth.
“Come face thy master’s bane, O Lieutenant of Morgoth! For thee may yet slay me, but the House of Fingolfin shall live. From it shall spell your Doom, and the Doom of thy Master!”
And Gothmog accepted the challenge.
Elf and Balrog stood face-to-face, one valiant, one victorious.
Then, Gothmog hurled aloft his black axe and swung it towards the High King.
Fingon leapt.
The mace followed the axe.
The swing missed, and Fingon drove his sword into Gothmog’s leg.
Gothmog lifted his mace with a trembling rumble and swung it down again, dust spraying and a pit forming on the ashen ground.
Fingon dodged and retaliated with a swing of his sword on Gothmog’s mace-arm.
The Balrog snarled, and swung wildly with his axe. Its blade was larger than Fingon was tall, and it oozed malice, dripping with fresh blood. It shone dully in the fire that started to form from Gothmog’s rage.
Then Gothmog swung his axe back and forth, his mace burning the ground as it missed Fingon, who leapt deftly from the axe like his father against Grond. The mace swung sideways, Fingon ducked, He flipped back to narrowly avoid the axe that clove the ground. Then, Fingon rushed, sidestepped, stabbed the arm of Gothmog as he rent his axe from the ground.
A bellow and Gothmog attacked with his mace again.
Fingon then swung his sword one-handed, parrying the fiery mace twice with sickening clangs.
Gothmog was wide open, and another slash to the black arm with the sword and Gothmog’s mace was thrown out of his own hand.
Gothmog’s fire grew even greater now, and with the blunt side of his axe, he struck Fingon in the chest, sending him to the ground. Fingon, stunned, stakingly regained his footing.
An opening, Gothmog assayed to intimidate Fingon again, his wings of shadow vast and outstretched as his wrath grew with each passing second. He prepared to start a new assault, wielding the black axe with both hands.
Yet Fingon’s bright form remained, kneeling on the ground. His cape was tattered and his armor breaking. He gripped his banner, the standard of Fingolfin still proud and clean against the filth.
“You stand before Findekano, son of Amaire and Nolofinwe of the House of Finwe, and the High King of the Noldor! I have learned from those who sang the Great Song, and see past your emptiness! The Void awaits you and your master, brood of Moringotto! Bane of Curufinwe! Scourge of Angamandu! Come face the bite of Maicaril and the might of the Eldar!”
With this declaration, his light grew once again as he drew back up to his full height.
Gothmog did nothing but glare at the banner of his master’s accursed enemy.
Fingon leapt forth and drove his sword right onto the belly of the beast as lightning strikes steel, the light of his banner against Gothmog’s face.
Gothmog uttered a great roar with the heat of a hundred roaring fires. The shadow had in it a raging flame, and Gothmog then brought it forth, setting his gargantuan form alight and his axe ablaze. Fingon leapt from its onset and stood firm on the ground as the flaming wind seared the edges of his cape.
Fingon remained like a lone tree in the onset of a storm. He leapt back to avoid the raging fire as the demon drove forth with both weapons ready to swing.
Fingon saw the opening and drove his sword towards Gothmog, but Gothmog swung his axe. The blades met in a clash of fire. Maicaril broke off a mere piece of the black axe before it shattered.
Immediately, the malice took Fingon’s left arm. He stifled a scream as a burning pain shot up his veins and through his body, shredding his innards like knives. He stumbled back, his right hand still tight-gripped on the banner.
Gothmog perceived Fingon’s weakness. He swung the axe again, and Fingon leapt away from him. Fingon dodged the fatal blow, but the King stumbled to gain his footing. His body was growing weary, his limbs ached and he felt burns all over his being. His spirit burned steadfast, but it was not long before its housing would crumble.
Now, Fingon brought his banner forth, its spearpoint aiming right for the demon’s breast. When Gothmog swung from the side with the axe, Fingon with aching legs leapt clean above the burning axe, and thrust the banner’s spear right into the center of his chest.
A bright, golden flame erupted from the spearpoint, and Fingon drove it deep into Gothmog’s chest. The Balrog uttered an unholy, piercing scream that echoed across An-Fauglith. The monsters of Angband trembled in terror as their Captain was skewered by the High King of the Noldor, black blood spilling from the wound and onto the ground. Fingon, face wrenched in anger, drove the banner deeper into the Balrog. He ignored the searing pain of the Balrog’s fire and the sickly cunning of the malice enshrouding his hroa, which cried in pain, begging for the overpowering spirit of Fingon to relent before it was destroyed. Yet, the throes of vengeance coursed through his veins as the Balrog’s wound grew deeper, fiery cracks forming in the ashen skin like a crater. It erupted with sparks of flame from his core, and the stench of death and ash, bitter and sullen, filled the air.
Then, a whining crack of flame from behind. Before he could react, a whip came crackling, twisting as it lashed around his neck.
Fingon reeled as the breath was driven out of him. The whip was alight, and his neck burned as he struggled to escape. Thousands of barbs sliced through the armor on his neck, burning his skin. He could see through his periphery another Balrog. The demon held Fingon by the throat with its whip as if he were an unruly beast.
Gothmog took a step back, spewing fire from his nostrils and mouth as he pulled the spearpoint embedded deep in his breast. Another Balrog was close behind him, and his third-in-command kept the High King in place. He paused a moment as Fingon struggled, staring as the elf wriggled like a worm, a tiny glimmer of satisfaction in his empty eyes.
He walked slowly to the King, who was choking helplessly on the whip. Fingon’s eyes rolled back as he grew light-headed from the lack of air to his head. His struggle grew weaker and weaker, the rest of his body quickly crumbling, unable to keep up with his desperate spirit screaming to maintain. Yet, through the searing pain, he struggled to his feet, trembling before the black foes before him.
Then, he saw it. The glittering streets of Tirion, its towers and its statues, encrusted with diamonds, lit by blue-white lamps. The sweet smell of lavender and vast golden fields of heather bathed in white light. The smiling faces of his father, his brother, his sister, his mother.
His body grew limp and his hand started to slump to the ground.
“Aure Entuluva...”
Gothmog lifted his axe, and hewed Fingon’s head.
The white helm that he wore split as a piercing white flame sprung as the axe met it, lighting the field once more. Shards of the helm hit Gothmog in the eye, yet he remained affixed on his vengeance. The axe split his skull, and red blood gushed forth spraying.
Thus fell the High King of the Noldor. The flower of the Eldar withered, and Fingon’s bright spirit left his body, borne to the shores of the evening by the winds of Manwe. He would face the Valar’s judgment, see the spirits of his kin in the halls of waiting. He would wait to see Turgon, and even longer before to see his mother again. But all he could see now was his own slaying, and he witnessed it with horror.
Fingon’s body crumbled and fell, now empty and dead, and Gothmog withdrew his axe from Fingon’s head.
But the demons of Morgoth were not finished. The two other balrogs came before the body with maces aloft. Gothmog threw Fingon’s banner over the dead body. He lifted his mace up, and down it swung, slamming into the body, shattering Fingon’s shoulder plates. The other two Balrogs followed suit, repeatedly crushing the body with their maces. The armor and mail broke. Then the maces met flesh, broke skin, crushed bone, blood oozing from newly formed crevices. Fingon’s body was contorted beyond recognition, a mess of blood, innards, steel, and robe, blood dripping from the ribs that pierced through the broken skin, the arms and legs twisted in their vambraces with joints jutting out of jeweled mail. Yet the Balrogs beat it into the dust, pushing it deeper as Gothmog trod Fingon’s banner, once blue and silver, into the mire of his blood.
Then, a horn sounded from the South. Gothmog left Fingon’s body and lumbered towards the Fen of Serech.
Giant dragons crawled over the burning field, with wolves and orcs at their heels. Evil monsters and spirits roared and screeched with triumph as their lord, Gothmog, arrived from the Fen.
Hurin hung suspended in the air by a chain wielded by Gothmog. He was brought to the hill of the slain. The stench of rot stung his eyes as it permeated through all of An-Fauglith. The once-valiant warriors, noble Noldor, Sindar, Men, and Dwarves were nothing but carrion, rotting piles of mangled flesh and bone. Even those of the treacherous Easterling house were piled in there, alongside their faithful brothers. Flies buzzed all around the hill as carrion-birds screeched overhead, eagerly awaiting the feast but awaiting in fear of Gothmog. His eyes watered as he retched from the funk of death. No tomb nor pyre was set for the bodies of Morgoth’s enemies. They were simply there to rot, an affront against the Valar and Illuvatar.
In there was Fingon his lord, Huor his brother, and so many others.
At the very precipice, he saw a bloodstained, dirty banner, so mired with dirt and blood that it lay limp against the ash-stained sky. The rotting head of Gelmir was placed on the spearpoint. Through the muck, only a peek of the silver flower of Fingon.