None Might Restrain Him
a double drabble for @tolkiengenweek also written for the 7/4/2026 SWG instadrabble prompt: Fall, Run, Silent, Hope
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The only sound in the silent halls was Fingon’s footsteps. He ran, skidding around corners, heart in his throat, desperate. Please still be here please don’t go—
In his hand he held the crown—it had been Finwë’s, then Fëanor’s, then Fingolfin’s, damaged and never repaired—the tarnishing as much a symbol as the crown itself. It had been left before his accustomed seat at the council table. The message was clear.
No, no nonono please please please—
He burst out of the doors into the frigid, smoke-tinged air, just in time to see Rochallor gallop past toward the gates. “No!” he cried. “Atya!”
It was too late. Fingolfin passed out of the gates in a clatter of hooves and a rush of wind. None could stay him or hope to catch him. Fingon stumbled off the last step. He didn’t know if he could not breathe because he was winded or because of the smoke in the air or because of the horrible, terrible, enormous wave of hopeless grief that washed over him.
Argon—dead. Turgon, Aredhel—gone. Fingolfin—gone.
The crown fell from his hand to clatter on the stones as he covered his face and wept.
