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Fingon had not expected to wake up this side of the Sea. The Balrogs had seemed very - final.
Unless Mandos’s Halls were far more like a forest than he had been led to believe, however, wake up in Beleriand he had.
Not unscathed, judging by the strangely distant maw of pain looming over him, but alive.
He did his best to smile winningly up at the rather scruffy Man washing his wounds. He wanted to ask if they had won, but the fact that said rather scruffy Man was the only one trying to heal him answered the question fairly plainly.
“Well met,” he rasped instead.
“Well met,” the Man replied - in distinctly Feanorian Quenya, which was a good reminder that Fingon’s use of Sindarin had slipped.
“Might I know my savior’s name?” he asked.
The Man hesitated for a moment.
“Call me Strider.”