Sorrow Beyond Song by AndrethS@elind3791  

Sorrow Beyond Song

  Fingon stood by the window of the fortress, gazing out. Another messenger had come, and like every one before, he had brought naught but news of further death and destruction. What hope did the Noldor have now, after the fire and flame that Morgoth had sent from Thangorodrim? Their realms were destroyed, and some of their most valiant slain. Angrod, Aegnor, Hador, and countless others unnamed…their four hundred years of peace had availed little. 

 But as grievous as this was, something else weighed on Fingon’s mind: his father had been silent. He had seen Fingolfin endure in silence before: in Valinor, when Feanor unsheathed his sword and threatened him – even when the ships burned at Losgar, he had stood grim and silent, watching the red glow against the sky. At times his silence could even be encouraging, a steady, faithful strength, as when Turgon lost Elenwe to the ice, and Argon was slain by the orcs in that first battle. But now…Fingon’s hand tightened on his arm. Now it was different, for a wrath and despair was growing in Fingolfin’s eyes, such as his son had never seen before. Everything had grown too quiet. 

 But later he wished it had remained that way, for at dinner his father was absent. After dinner, as he was studying some maps in his room, the door banged back and Orodreth ran in, breathless and fearful. After the battle and the fall of his father Angrod, Orodreth had come to Hithlum, to stay for a while until heading south to join his uncle Finrod in Nargothrond. 

 “Fingon!” Orodreth cried, “Your father –“ 

 He was out of breath, but even so, Fingon waited for no more. A deadly chill settled over his heart and he ran out, Orodreth on his heels. When he reached the courtyard, he saw his father there, dressed in his silver armor, with his blue shield upon Rochallor’s saddle, and his long sword Ringil at his side. But Fingon noticed only his father’s eyes, alight with a deadly light he had never seen – no, he had seen it. He had seen the same light in the eyes of Orome himself, as he rode after Morgoth when the Trees were destroyed. 

 “Father!” Fingon cried, “Where are you going?”

 Fingolfin stopped, but not even the sight of his son could stop him now. No, he was doing it for Fingon, for Turgon, for Orodreth, for all those who had perished in the flames, for all who had died because of Morgoth. Fingolfin swung upon his mighty white steed, and gathered up his reins. 

 “Do not look for my return,” he said, “but keep your hope, if any hope remains to you. Morgoth sent against us fire, but he shall now feel our fire!”

 With these words, Fingolfin turned Rochallor, crying aloud to him, and the mighty stallion leaped forward, and sped out of the courtyard. Though his guards cried after him, no one could stay him. All eyes watched until the High King was out of sight, and Fingon watched for as long as the white figure gleamed in the dying sun. 

 Every day, when not attending to his duties, Fingon watched for the return of Fingolfin, but he never came. But finally, one day, Orodreth again came to find him, and his face was grave. 

 “What is it?” Fingon laid down the sword that he was sharpening. 

 “Come with me.” This was all Orodreth would say. 

 Fingon followed Orodreth out to a field near the fortress, and saw two guards there, one kneeling in the tall grass. With a cry Fingon sprang forward, for he saw that it was Rochallor, wounded and bleeding. 

 “He has been attacked by those devilish hounds of Morgoth,” one of the guards said. 

 Fingon threw himself in the grass beside the horse, and the mighty stallion raised his head a little and nuzzled his hand. “And my father?” Fingon managed at last. 

 But the guard did not answer. Fingon stroked Rochallor, whispering, “I wish you could bring me tidings of him, Greatheart. But do not worry, I will take care of you.”

 But at the mention of his master, Rochallor gave a little cry, and then he stilled. “Rochallor!” Fingon cried, his hand clenching on the mane, tears streaming down his face. 

 “He was wounded badly, my lord,” the guard said, knowing it would offer little comfort. “But he is at peace.”

 “He did not die because of his wounds,” Fingon replied, his voice barely steady. “He died of a broken heart.”

 But before he could realize fully what this meant for himself, one of the guards roused him by a sharp exclamation. 

 “My, lord, look!”

 Fingon looked up, and then leapt to his feet. A mighty eagle was circling in the sky – but not just any eagle. It was Thorondor himself, king of the eagles of Manwe, who had come in answer to the prayer of Fingon when he rescued Maedhros. The majestic bird alighted not far, and Fingon came closer and bowed. 

 “I bring thee tidings of thy father, son of Fingolfin,” Thorondor spoke. 

 “What has happened to him?” Fingon asked. “For his steed came back, wounded, and has even now just died.”

 “Yea, he is dead,” Thorondor replied, “but never before has the like passed, nor shall it again. For behold! Thy father went to the doors of Angband, and knocking upon them, challenged the Great Foe to single combat. And Morgoth came, and so they fought, Black Shadow against White Light. And though thy father fell, he wounded Morgoth with seven wounds, and marred him so that hereafter he shall always limp. Thy father’s body I bore away, and took to the city of thy brother Turgon. From thence I come, to give thee these tidings. Word from thy brother I also bring, of his love and sorrow, but also this: he says to salute thee, for thou art now High King of the Noldor!”

 Fingon and those that were by stood silent in amazement, but at that time Fingon’s grief was little assuaged, even by his father’s valiant stand and noble end. “High King of the Noldor I may be,” he said, “but I do not take the crown in joy. Alas for this evil! Alas that my father is dead!”

 And he wept, and Thorondor looked on him in pity. “Little comfort this may be to thee, but the orcs can make no boast of that duel. And Fingolfin Finwe’s son was prouder and more valiant than any of his brothers, and so great was his end that many songs shall be made in remembrance of him! And I, like thy brother, say to thee: hail, Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor!”

 With these words, he raised his mighty wings and soared into the sky. But Fingon, with the aid of Orodreth and the guards, buried faithful Rochallor, and then returned to the fortress. There, they told the tale of Thorondor, and all the people were stricken with grief. For Fingolfin was beloved by all, and the death of their king after the death of so many others was a heavy blow. 

 That night, Fingon in his room went to the hearth, where his harp stood. It had been made in Valinor, and carried across the Grinding Ice; it had been a gift from his mother, and he always thought of her, now more than ever. He ran his fingers over the finely-carven wood, though it had become worn. He had also carried that harp with him when he had gone to Angband to search for Maedhros. There, in darkness and utter despair he had found the courage and defiance to sing a song of hope – why could he think of no fitting lament to sing for his own father? For a long time, Fingon paced around his room, trying to find the words. But then he had to realize the truth: the sorrow was just too deep, and not even the passage of time would alleviate it. He could sing no song, but perhaps other, finer, minstrels could find the proper words. 

 But it was not to be: though the orcs did not boast of the duel, the Elves could not sing of it. Neither Finrod Felugand, who first enchanted men by his song and then contested with Sauron in songs of power, nor golden-voiced Maglor who surpassed all others in skill, could sing of it. Not even when all was lost and Morgoth thrown down, and he wandered by the sea, singing his sorrowful Noldolante, could Maglor sing of it. It was both a triumph and a defeat, and the Elves lost and suffered much else, but the fall of Fingolfin was a sorrow beyond song.