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On the morning of the day Fingon was to die, the sun rose bright over a shining sea of metal.
Its rays caught and skittered as fishscales upon the armour of Morgoth’s armies; shifting, writhing, reforming as they pressed ever in, in, in. Muddied and bloodspattered, Arien’s holy light reached not the silver helms and breastplates of the elven-hosts.
Fingon’s blood sang with the glorious heat of battle. The sickening crunch of his sword sliding between armour-gap and ribcage; hot, vile blood across his face as he hewed head from shoulders; feet leaping over fallen friends he had not the luxury to mourn. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed their agony. The dawn-pale east showed yet no sign of his cousin’s hosts.
Fingon had defied fate before. He would do it again. He would.
He will come. He will come.
Another body fell beside him.
Aurë entuluva. He will come.
Written for SWG Instadrabbling 5/2/2026 for the prompt sea, rise, bright, fate.