This fic is where I write my annual Halloween related take on the Silmarillion. This chapter contains canonical character death, but is still meant to be humorous than angsty and gory.
Have a happy Halloween and a nice November.

"Give us the Silmarils, or we have no choice but to trick you to give it, and that means war."

"I am intrigued," Morgoth said slowly. "so I have to say no to your request and simple let you go. Because I really do want to know what your idea of a trick is."

"Just you wait..." Fingolfin gritted his teeth.

-end of chapter 2

Tricking showdown

He hadn't stopped for hours now and even as the Sun's flame set behind the mountains, he rode on like the wind over the plains. His eyes shone with a fierce flame, as if he was no longer Fingolfin but Fëanor instead — a prince with a spirit of fire. No doubt he was doing this in order to prove how he, too, was a son of Finwë and mighty without equal.

Finally Rochallor arrived by the terrible gates of the enemy. Fingolfin gave the steed a moment to catch it's breath while he observed his surroundings. He had not yet seen anybody approach him — he wondered whether the Orcish thralls had been too afraid to waylay him and Rochallor.

He rode on, now at a slower pace, but no less determined. He was not afraid although his heart beat slightly faster than usual. Before him stood the grand gates of Angband. Fingolfin remembered all too well the last time he had been here. Morgoth had made mockery of him and refused to listen to the words of the Noldor. Fingolfin gritted his teeth at the memory. This time he would not yield so easily.

Dust puffed beneath his heels when he jumped off Rochallor's back. With long strides he walked right up to the gate, his blue and silver cloak waving most impressively. Once at the gate he lifted up his glove clad hand and knocked.

Knock, knock, knock.

A short silence followed. But the High-King of Noldor refused to be left waiting. "Open the gate, you fiend! I am here to challenge you!"

"Who is it?" came the sole reply, a muffled voice from within the fort. It was the voice of the gatekeeper on duty.

"It is I, Fingolfin Nolofinwë Son of Finwë, High-King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth, Lord of Mithrim etc. etc. …"

"Fingolfin of the Noldor, yes. I know who you are. What is your business?"

"I am here to challenge your master and make a claim," said Fingolfin between clenched teeth. Who did they think they were, keeping him waiting like this?

"I shall ask my Master to see you. You may wait insi —"

"I'd rather for him to come out himself unless he is too much of a coward," replied Fingolfin with dignity, knowing that entering the stronghold of the enemy was never a wise thing to do.

"Very well…" said the voice. "I suppose I might ask Master…" Then a silence followed, indicating that the speaker had left its position by the gate and set out to fetch the Dark Lord.

Fingolfin shuffled where he stood. He touched the hilt of his sword, but hastily pulled his hand away. Not yet, he thought. He should first wait for what Morgoth would reply. Only then and only if the reply was negative, could Fingolfin perhaps take action.

At last, just as Fingolfin was starting to think no reply would ever come, the voice behind the gate sounded again.

"Fingolfin?" it asked.

"Yes?" Fingolfin frowned. Just how did Morgoth's thralls address the son of Finwë.

"I have spoken with my Master, Melkor the Creator of Arda," said the voice. "My Master will not meet you. But He thinks it admirable that you took the trouble to come here and bids you a safe return journey through the plains of Gasping Dust..."

"He dares not meet me and yet he calls himself the Creator of Arda," scoffed Fingolfin.

"I beg your pardon," said the voice, sounding a bit disgruntled, "but my Master is busy. He said that if you are here to get revenge on his nephews, or father, or brother, but you will get neither one or the other."

"He said that?" said Fingolfin.

"Yes, and He specified that if you are here for the Silmarils, you have come utterly in vain, because – and I quote – 'they were made by Fëanor anyway, and we are doing him a service by keeping them out of the hands of the brother he hated so much'."

"He did not really say that," said Fingolfin sceptically.

"Yes He did," insisted the voice.

Fingolfin gritted his teeth. He felt he was being laughed at. "Just who are you, gatekeeper?"

"I am not required to answer that question."

Fingolfin's doubts were practically confirmed. "Listen, I am here both for the Silmarils as symbols of the Noldor's power and to avenge my people's suffering," he said in a voice so regal that a gatekeeper of lesser might would have trembled. But the gatekeeper Fingolfin was facing was not of a lowly rank.

Still, Fingolfin did not truly care about the identity of the gatekeeper. Instead he was busy being offended by having been once again turned away from Morgoth's doors. The last time it had happened, the Elves had come under disguise and stealthed their way into the fallen Vala's lair, but this time even an open, honest request was dismissed like some common beggary. Thus, when the gatekeeper had turned him away, Fingolfin finally pulled out his sword. It was a mighty sword, strong and shining, and it could cut into iron. And so the Elf slammed the sword into the gate.

Cling cling cling.

A great ringing echoed as the sword was heaved into the gate. This was the payment for those who did not accept the challenges of the Noldor. Many times had Fingolfin warned that there would be consequences if a request went unheeded. This was the consequence, he thought. No treats could amend this hurt. And if honest councils would not work, tricks would have to do.

"What are you doing?" someone asked, and Fingolfin recognised it as the voice of the rude gatekeeper. But when he turned to look he saw Sauron standing before him.

"You," said Fingolfin. "You are the gatekeeper." Then he frowned upon the realisation: "You probably didn't even send my message to Morgoth. You simply answered what you yourself saw fit."

"I don't see how that is a problem," said Sauron calmly. "At least it was not a problem until you started banging the doors, waking my Master as he was resting."

He eyed the gate and the scratches and dents the Elven sword had made in its black surface. "Vandalism is not the answer."

"Tell that to your master who slew the Two Trees of Valinor," replied Fingolfin, but Sauron merely huffed and left him, his black cape swirling.

When Morgoth at last sufficed to come, clad in a black robe and his black crown decorated with the three Silmarils, he was faced by a fierce, proud Noldorin King and a dented gate.

"What is this supposed to mean?" growled Morgoth, sounding more bored than angry. His eyes flickered and he was rather terrible to behold as he towered in his full stature like an icy mountain.

"Because you did not accept my terms, you are in for the consequences," said Fingolfin, and his voice did not waver as he lift up his sword to point at the scratches on the door. "See that."

Morgoth bared his teeth in annoyance. But then a different kind of shine was lit in his eyes: he realised that the scratches on the door made out a crude drawing of a crowned person accompanied by signs that made out the words...

"'My name is Morgoth Lord of Slaves, and I do nothing but murder and steal', oh real mature, Nolofinwë," he growled. "You have taken after Fëanor, you insolent bastard."

"Do not call me a bastard," said Fingolfin furiously, not lowering his gaze. "Morgoth, I am tired of you – of your warring, your lies, your putrid winds that come all the way to Mithrim. Frankly, I am tired of you, so I wanted to challenge you to a duel, but you did not come out like the coward you are." He swung his sword just to show that he was ready to fight.

"I am out now," shrugged Morgoth. "But you won't like me when I'm out, Fingolfin."

"Oh, I am frightened," mocked Fingolfin. "I promised that you would eventually have to face the wrath of the Noldor. Had you given us what we asked for, we might have left you alone. This day it has been exactly 455 years since we first knocked on your gate, so it's about time I knock your head. With my sword!"

His sword swung again, and this time it was aimed at Morgoth. But Morgoth had not left his castle with nothing more than a robe and a crown. Under his robe he had hid a grotesque mace. That he now used to block the Noldo's attack.

A horrific duel ensued, a duel well known and recorded. It resulted in one death, one injury, and foul pits right outside of the main gate – all equally permanent. The day came to be remembered each year as the day of the fallen king whose hallowed armour and sword could for many years (courtesy of Turgon and Thorondor) be seen at a museum in Gondolin. Indeed, Fingolfin was a warrior worthy to be called a hallow.

But the memory of the events lived on also in Angband and, although nobody spoke of it, the death day of the noble High-King came to be remembered as the day when Morgoth chose tricks instead of treats. In later days it became a popular fable of the dangers of not choosing the treats option.

...and this is how Fingolfin was the cause for All Hallow's Eve being the day of trick-or-treating.