lay Fingolfin; 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 gashed forth black and smoking and filled the pits of Grond.
Thus died Fingolfin,
Sam: The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say.
Beren: what the fuck is he talking about?
Turin: I don’t know. A bit of sport?
Fingolfin: I don’t mind describing fighting Morgoth as a bit of sport, honestly.
Beren: He’s also forgetting the romance part. Adventures always have some romance, don’t you all think?
Fandom: Silmarillion, © ALEF Club, Journey to The Middle-Earth Project
Feanor — The King. Fingolfin — Mara. Photo—ALES. Mua — The King. Workshop
This was a commission last year
I noticed so late… Fingolfin with Feanor’s lighting plate…
The Silmarillion aesthetic | F i n g o l f i n |
Time stands still
of all Noldor
A star in the night and a bearer of hope
He rides into his glorious battle alone
Farewell to the valiant warlord
Blind Guardian – Time Stands Still (At The Iron Hill)
art Silmarillion Heraldry by Aglargon
Now news came to Hithlum that Dorthonion was lost and the sons of Finarfin overthrown, and that the sons of Fëanor were driven from their lands. Then Fingolfin beheld the utter ruin of the Noldor, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses; and filled with wrath and despair he went to his room, ate half a box of cookies while crying, and took a four hour long depression nap.