Stone did not suit him, but it did not make his features any less intimidating. Fingon looked up, examining the carving of his half-uncle. Did they intend him to look peaceful, at ease with his sword braced on the ground in front of him? It was not a posture he could recall ever seeing from Fëanor. And with that helm, his sword ought to have been extended—pointed out at the statue next to him, truly.
Fingon’s eyes flickered down the row, and with hesitant steps he made his way over to the next.
It was an impressive likeness.
Stone suited him better than his brother, and so did the posture of peaceful contemplation. Fingon found himself smiling, though it was a sad, wistful smile. The blue banner behind the statue was familiar; the emblem had once surrounded Fingon in his home, after all.
Of course, he had seen his father in flesh and blood on the other side of the sea, before he had departed in secrecy, so there was no reason to speak fondly to his replica here in the halls of Rivendell. But it was oddly comforting to see him. (It should not have been; he stood here in stone because he died and departed these shores.)
It crossed Fingon’s mind that there were figures missing—but Maedhros and Maglor had never been true High Kings, had they?
It was a long moment before Fingon could force himself to walk further. He knew who stood in the alcove next; he’d passed already, though he’d never been able to look for longer than a second.
Two steps further.
Fingon the Valiant. 455 - 472.
He no longer wore his hair in so many braids, but he had to admire the craftsman who had captured their detail so finely where they spilled over his stone shoulders. He looked very stern, he thought. Angry, almost, though maybe it was meant to represent determination.
There were footsteps coming down the hall, and Fingon tore his gaze away from himself. "They were too forgiving on my nose, don’t you think?"