Fingolfin hesitated, standing there before the immense doors that rose far above him.
Why? Why am I here? This is madness.
And it was madness, for once news came to Hithlum that Dorthonion was lost and the sons of Finarfin overthrown, and that the sons of Feanor were driven from their lands, Fingolfin jumped upon his horse and rode across Dor-nu-Fauglith alone. So crazed was he that none, Elf nor Orc, could stop him from approaching Angband. Thus, he made it across the scarred land and to the very entrance of the great fortress. And now he stood there in disbelief at the last moment.
How could I sacrifice myself when so many died for their King, for me?
Suddenly, in a rush, it all came back to him; he saw them. The countless souls lost having fought back against unending hordes. It wasn't the scenes of battle that effected him - he was no stranger to war - but the grim ways in which those fair men and women were cast down and hewn in the desolate wastes was almost too much to bear. Entire generations ended in the hopeless strife. Such was the ruin of the Noldor that a fire was stoked within him. He had to do something.
They may have died. But they will not have died in vein.
This fire burned hot with wrath that couldn't be ignored. At length, Fingolfin took up his horn and winded it so that the sound echoed across the unsurmountable peaks of Thangorodrim beyond. He called out for the keeper of the gates to come forth, should the Dark Lord show cowardice before his guards and captains. He was answered by what seemed like thunder and a blast of wind as the gates opened, scraping slowly against the rocks.
Before Fingolfin rose a mountain of black steel, clutching a sable shield and a mace as large as a tower.
Morgoth had come.