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Through it all, Fingolfin felt no fear. He stepped back, tripped in the scored earth and the hammer of the Underworld, called Grond, came down.

It broke his arm. He heard, oddly clear, the bone snap, the shield crack. The pain blotted out sight for a moment, blasting him from head to heel. He gathered himself to his feet. The ground looked as if it had been turned under some great plow, and he staggered again, regaining balance so that next sweep of Grond shrieked down his cloven shield.

Red agony burst through his skull and Fingolfin felt himself falling. There was a shadow over him, and under it there was no light but his eyes.

Something came down on his chest. Air burst with bubbles of blood from his lips as his ribs cracked under Morgoth’s foot. There was no air to breathe, his heart was faltering, his lungs crippled.

But at the last there was clarity. His mind was scoured clean. He raised his sword arm and as it came down, in the final stroke, he seemed to see and feel close at his side, his half-brother. And then Fëanor’s eyes were all he could see, diamonds in the last darkness.

Ñolofinwë. Sorrow in the word, and love, and pride.

Ringil sheered into Morgoth’s armoured foot, and blood poured forth in a hot, poisonous gush.

Fingolfin fell back, agony a vise about him. He tried to reach out to the one whom had never truly left him, who seemed so close now, at the end.

Fëanor, he thought.

And died. ~

Magnificat of the Damned. Book I. Starfall.
Art by Eventrue. Click-through.

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