The Maia kept careful watch, even in the quarters he shared with Satarno. The table in the center of the room was sharply divided between the two, with Mairon's maps and stacks of paper occupying one side, and Satarno's belongings taking up the other. Where he sat in a chair in front of the window, Mairon stared out at Taryamo's headquarters in the western mountain chain.

Satarno placed a hand on the back of his chair and leaned forward to follow his gaze. He smelled like rusted metal on top of layers of sweat, so Mairon knew the other Maia had been spending a lot of time in his forges.

"I think he said it as a bluff," Satarno told him. "He wants you to feel paranoid."

The Maia's eyes continued to follow Taryamo's men as they walked in and out of the massive doors where the Wargs were housed, leading the beasts with muzzles over their snouts.

Mairon grimaced. "I saw what he did to that foundation outside the throne room - I'd rather he didn't do the same to me. It's already taken the Orcs much time and energy to repair."

Satarno crossed his arms. "If he's so impulsive and hot-headed, what makes you think he has the intelligence to formulate an intricate plot for revenge?"

The other Maia flinched once Mairon shifted his head, the moon casting a spotlight on the bruise dominating his nose and upper lip. Before he could reply, however, a sharp knock came at the chamber door. Both Maiar jumped at the sudden sound, and with a mutual glance they decided that Satarno was to answer.

With his hand resting on the hilt of the dagger at his hip, he cautiously drew open the door, revealing the face of one of Melkor's messengers. He looked back at Mairon, who had turned in his chair to get a better look at the visitor.

"The lord has requested that Mairon join his company in the Great Hall," the messenger spoke, and without waiting for a reply he walked off.

"Good luck," Satarno told Mairon, as the latter went to obey the summons.


A grandiose table awaited him in the Great Hall, occupied by the most important captains and advisors. Melkor of course sat at the very head. Several attendants walked up and down the table, carrying trays of carrion, bread, and cheese, as well as goblets full of mead.

The company looked up and took in the new addition as he walked in.

"Late, as usual," Melkor said as a passing remark.

"You- " the Maia began, about to say "You only called me just now", but the resounding laughter drowned him out.

"Sit, so we can begin," the Vala ordered, serious once again.

The Maia did as he was told, finding a vacant seat near the middle and squeezing in between a Balrog and a Maiarin captain he hadn't met. He glanced at the faces around the table in hopes of discerning the purpose of this meeting. Before he could meet Taryamo's ice-cold stare, he redirected his eyes elsewhere.

Gothmog was the only one who hadn't laughed. He glared at Mairon with suspicion. "Why is he here?" he asked in a low voice, although everyone could hear him.

"He's a better spy than you are," Melkor shot back.

"Which I understand, as that does not fall under my specific duties," Gothmog brusquely reminded him.

To Mairon's surprise, the Vala responded with an amused semi-smile before leaning over to take a goblet from the tray going around. Why was Gothmog permitted to speak so arrogantly?

The attendant then walked down to the row to Mairon and offered him the same, strong beverage Melkor had made him drink. When he glanced up, everyone at the table was waiting expectantly for him to drink it.

Valarin drinks had always been taboo. It had become so ingrained in him, that he still hesitated before accepting the silver cup. Manwë's explanation had made sense, and he had followed it: "Do not drink Miruvórë brewed for the Valar. You will begin to have thoughts that go beyond your comprehension, and your desires will become insatiable. Melkor may offer this drink to you, and he will lie and say that we are withholding power for ourselves. Should you ever accidentally drink of it, you will know what I mean."

Indeed, because Melkor was the way he was, he did offer what was forbidden. This was partly due to his nature, and partly due to the sadistic pleasure he derived from watching the unfortunate Maiar suffer the side effects.

He braced himself before tipping the cup to drink of the brew. Like his prior experience, a hot fire engulfed every fiber of his being, and the room began to spin. He gripped the edge of the table, sweat pouring down his forehead. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Melkor watching him, hopefully, and he realized the Vala had given him this drink before to prepare him.

Do not humiliate me, his face seemed to be pleading. Pass the test. Or else.

Mairon could feel his eyebrows twitching, but the rest of his face was numb. Although the room was silent as everyone gauged his reaction, either his own thoughts or the ones of those around him became overpoweringly loud, screaming so loudly in his mind that he also wanted to scream in response. It felt like he was floating higher and higher, no longer seated with his feet firmly on the ground. No…he was above everything, flying freely… he could look down and observe everything… He was all-seeing, all-hearing, all-knowing… No, he was Eru himself!

It's not real, the last sane part of him cut in. You're not in control.

His head was pounding as he opened his eyes that he was unaware had been closed. His shoulders heaved as he gasped for breath. The Great Hall returned, and the faces of those seated across from him were disappointed - they'd hoped he would make a fool of himself – but Melkor's expression - the one that mattered - was satisfied.

The Vala turned to address the entire company. "We are receiving a very special guest at any moment," he announced.

The Maiar at the table exchanged surprised glances.

"One of Fëanor's sons. I cannot recall his name at present." He looked to one of his Balrogs, who mouthed "Maedhros". "Yes, the eldest one has been captured. I've received word that our forces are bringing him now."

Gothmog leaned closer. "We get to torture him, lord?" he asked hopefully.

"You can do whatever you want to him. After he agrees to my terms."

The Vala's attendants had left the hall, but now they ducked back in to alert him of the embassy's return. "They are here, my lord."

Melkor stood up so abruptly that his cup tipped over and spilled on the floor. Everyone else imitated him, getting up from their seat and staying a few paces behind the Vala. They entered the main floor, already occupied by Orcs and lesser servants, and filled it with their number.

Two Balrogs burst through the doors, leading a tall, muscled figure. The Noldo's red hair was frayed and tangled, and his pale face was splattered with blood. He heaved and groaned, pulling hard on the arms of the Balrogs carrying him over to Melkor. Curses in the Quenya tongue flew from his lips, which the Orcs could not understand. They backed away as far as they could, frightened by his appearance.

The Vala received him with a wide grin. "Maedhros! Ye never told me in Valinor that you desired to visit my dwelling, yet here you are. Had I known then of your coming, I would have cleaned up a little."

The Noldo gave up his fight. His head was lowered almost to the floor as the Balrogs forced him to bow, and he spat blood at the Vala's feet.

"Nehtar," the Noldo growled, vehemence dripping from his voice.

Behind them, harsh whispers rose among the Orcs. "It means 'murderer'," one of the more educated explained to the rest.

"Oh, where are my manners?" Melkor said suddenly. He turned to Mairon and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You remember Mairon," he told Maedhros, "or Gorthaur, as your distant relatives in Doriath call him."

Mairon bowed his head in mock greeting. The Elf raised his head partly to see him, and his dark eyes widened in disbelief.

"And this is Gothmog," Melkor introduced, moving on to the Balrog, "captain of the hosts."

Gothmog folded his left arm in front of him, keeping his fiery whip in his right. "The pleasure is all mine."

"And…let's see…" The Vala gazed into the crowd. "No, I have more servants than Manwë; this shall take too long."

"Just kill me already," Maedhros impatiently urged. "Allow me to join my father in the Halls of Mandos."

Melkor's pleasant façade faded. "I thought you would be happy to see him dead? Hasn't he put you through enough pain?"

The Noldo started again with the slurs and curses towards the Vala. He punched and kicked at his Balrog captors.

"Let's skip the pleasantries, and get right to the point, shall we?" The Vala brought his shadowed face closer to Maedhros, who became frozen, helpless to look away. "Take your people and leave these lands. Go far from here and never return. I am the king of all things under this sky."

Maedhros glared at Melkor and the Silmarils in his crown with a deep-seated hatred.

The Vala deprived his eyes of the gems, turning his back on the Noldo. "What is there for you now, Maedhros son of insolent Fëanor? You've lost, and you always will lose to me."

"We will never leave. We swore an oath."

Melkor glanced at him in surprise, raising his brows. "An oath? And how is that stopping you? I break those all the time."

"Aye, because they require honor," he answered.

The Vala dismissed his words. "Not really. Your father loved three things, and three things only: 1, 2, 3." He counted each of the Silmarils on his forehead. "And they belong to me now."

Maedhros grated his teeth together, perhaps to keep himself from answering.

"If I were you," the Vala continued, ignoring his captive's growing rage, "I would accept my generous offer and leave this land peacefully, without further violence, hostility, or bloodshed."

The Elf was silent for a time, and when he finally spoke he was shaking his head in disgust. His laugh was dry and scornful. "You lie through your teeth with every word."

Without any observable change in composure, Melkor shifted his gaze to his messengers standing at the door. "Tell the princes of the Noldor that Maedhros will only be released if they agree to my terms," he commanded them.

"As for you…" he told the Eldarin prince. At his bidding, the Balrogs carried Maedhros behind the Vala as he started to walk purposely toward the stairs, dragging the Noldo up each individual step.

The crowd in the hall tried following, but being too many to fit side by side on the stairwell, most were forced to remain. At last, one of the Maiar who had gone with Melkor and the Balrogs came running down the stairs, out of breath.

"Outside!" he shouted at them. "Outside! Go, go, go!"

Maiarin captains and Orcs alike swarmed to the front of the fortress, bumping and shoving against each other to see what was happening. Confusion settled over the faces of those around him, and Mairon could hear voices in his ear questioning what they were supposed to be looking at.

"There!" came a shout, and amidst the crowd a single hand pointed to the highest peak of Thangorodrim. Thousands of eyes zeroed in on top of the mountain, where the Balrogs were just fiery smudges against the summit. Maedhros was being secured to the top by his wrist, and once the chain was firmly attached, he swayed back and forth with nothing underneath to support him.

Melkor had climbed up halfway to observe. "How does it feel?" he yelled to Maedhros. "Tight? Too loose? Don't worry, it won't ever come off."

The Orcs had erupted into laughter at the sight of the Elf lord dangling precariously from Thangorodrim, and they began to howl once the Balrogs gave Maedhros a shove that earned a fearful cry from the Elf.

"Look out there," Melkor told Maedhros, pointing at the lands of Beleriand spread out below them. "Do you see your brothers and the rest of your people deserting you?"

Clouds drifted apart in the sky above the mountain, and moonlight poured onto the plain and fell slanted against the slopes of Ered Engrin. Melkor ducked out of its path, hiding himself in a pocket of darkness. He clambered down until he was visible to those gathered on the plain, and cheers and applause broke free of the previously attentive crowd.

"Enjoy your stay at Angband," the Vala bade Maedhros darkly, raising his arm towards him in a brief wave.


Once Melkor had gone, some of the more ambitious archers began shooting arrows to the top, hoping to reach the Noldorin prince. Maedhros swung from his fixed position to avoid the closer shots, and he uttered a shout of pain as an arrow pierced his shoulder.

"Don't kill him just yet!" a few of the captains rebuked the archers.

When he figured the Vala must have by now returned to the main floor of the fortress, Mairon went back inside, where he found Melkor on his throne gazing smugly at the reflection of the Silmarils in a hand mirror.

"My lord," Mairon interrupted, "allow me to interrogate Maedhros. I may be able to glean information from him that will prove useful: the location of their hide-outs, plans for battle-"

Melkor frowned. "No, he is not allowed to speak with anyone."

"But he is at our mercy now. He must tell us everything he knows," the Maia insisted.

The Vala set down his mirror. "Were you not witness to what just occurred? He refused anything that would have helped him. Sense does not operate in them the same way it does in us, Mairon."

The Maia humbly lowered his eyes to the obsidian floor. "The Noldor will not leave. They may not come to rescue Maedhros, but they will not forsake these lands either. You most certainly know this."

Melkor released an annoyed sigh. "Then I will make them leave." His throne made a screeching noise as the Vala leaned in, digging his nails into the stone. "I'll kill all of them if I have to. Do not underestimate me, Maia. Do you plan on keeping your position as my number one spy and most trusted informant?"

Mairon immediately bowed his head again. "Yes, my lord."

The Vala laughed loudly at that, the anger draining from his face. For the first time, Mairon noticed that Melkor was…comfortable? in his presence. His coal-black eyes held their usual disgruntlement, but it was somehow more tolerant, more at ease, just as the Vala behaved in the Great Hall towards Gothmog.

Mairon had felt satisfaction swell inside him once the Vala referred to him as his "most trusted informant", but until then he realized he had never believed that Melkor was fully capable of trust. Now he wasn't as certain.

Yet the Vala's sudden transformation disappeared even faster than it had come, and the Maia started to think it might have been his imagination. Hoarse cries and screams rose up in a great crescendo from outside the fortress, and a stampede of servants frantically cramming back in was making the foundations tremble.

Melkor jumped to his feet in distress, his face paling with fear. "What's going on? What's happening?"

The first Maiar to enter the chamber were in a state of shock. "My lord—there…there's another one! Another light in the sky!"

The Vala's eyebrows sank. "Is it a gold orb this time?"

"Yes! How did you know? Did you already know of this, my lord?"

Mairon tried going out to see what all the fuss was about, but the crowds coming the opposite way blocked him from exiting. He was almost knocked over several times by the waves of Orcs pushing and shoving everyone in their path.

When he finally fought his way into the entrance hall, he was able to look over the heads of the servants still flooding in, and through the open doors golden light poured in. The light of Laurelin – now in the sky! The grass on the plain outside was a bright green, the sky was…blue, as blue as Manwë's robes—

His view came to an end as he was trampled by more Orcs running in to escape the new light, and regardless of how harshly he struck any who came near him, they continued stumbling around in a blind panic.

A few collapsed on the floor of the hall, shielding their eyes. "It burns!" they shrieked. "Destroy it, Master! Kill it!"

Melkor stood on his dais above the hordes of frantic Orcs. He looked confused, helpless almost. He glanced at his captains, at his Balrogs, at Mairon, but they were all speechless.

The hesitation rendering him immobile only lasted for a few seconds. He raised his hand and cleared his throat, silencing the coalescence of excited voices and terrified screams.

"Get down to the forges!" his voice thundered. "Create smoke as black as night, drive it away!"

"It is harming the Orcs!" Taryamo announced. He nudged one that was cowering with the toe of his boot. The rest of the captains also began kicking the Orcs to rouse them.

The Vala was still shouting orders over the mass hysteria. "Get to the forges! How many times do I have to say it!? Where are my smiths?"

"Here, my lord!" Satarno answered from the crowd. He threw open the doors to the forges and ushered in the Maiar skilled in craft, as well as the Orcs who had gotten by unscathed. Mairon came running to their aid so that he might escape the chaos above.

All their fuel reserves were promptly fed to the furnaces. Smoke billowed from the chimneys and soot all but completely blotted out the floor. The Orcs slipped multiple times in their haste to fill the fires, leaving the Maiar to form a line handing off bundles of wood to make it to the furnaces. Their efforts must have eventually paid off. The rapid shouting upstairs had begun to subside and return to its normal volume. The Maiar of Aulë emerged from the forges, streaked with ash and sweat and gratefully breathing in fresh air.

The crowds had cleared enough to allow the halls to be traversed again. At the front, the iron doors were closed, and no light filtered through the windows. Darkness had re-established itself in the foyer.

At the far end, Melkor was hunched over in his chair, concealing his face. When he glanced up at their entry, he appeared exhausted.

He was muttering under his breath. "Some of my servants just passed through these doors that I haven't seen since before my imprisonment in Mandos… Figures they only come back when they need something…"

"Your spies all came in from outside, too, my lord," Gothmog informed him.

The Vala's eyes narrowed. "What! They have strict orders to remain where I've placed them! Send them back out!"

"I tried. They are too fearful of the light."

"So, what?" he asked, throwing his hands in the air. "We are all just going to hide in here together until the light goes away, supposing it ever does?"

Mairon spoke up. "My lord, I feel these lights are meant to emulate the Two Trees, and thus also its patterns. If that is the case, the silver orb shall return in a day's time, replacing the gold one."

"I hate both of them."

A loud pounding came at the gates of Angband. Melkor let out a frustrated groan, holding his head with both hands as if to relieve a migraine.

"Go away!" he yelled. "I owe you nothing! Stay out there and burn like the traitors you are!"

To their shock, a trumpet blared right outside, and a sharp, clear voice rang:

"Tyrant Morgoth, behold: Lord Fingolfin of the Noldor and the great people of his house have arrived from the West to challenge you!"

As the herald spoke, Melkor and all his captains made eye contact, sharing equal expressions of alarm.

"Block the doors!" the Vala ordered, motioning between his servants and the entrance. "We cannot afford a battle! Not with the hosts in such disarray."

The Balrogs lumbered over and with their great strength held fast the doors to keep the Noldor from entering; but as the seconds passed, and no other sound came from the gates, they withdrew and peered outside to the courtyard.

"What do you see?" Melkor asked them, gnawing at his fingernails.

"The army is retreating," Gothmog reported with much surprise. "Perhaps they are going to regroup and return alongside Fëanor's forces."

"Or perhaps they had a change of heart," Melkor said, earning him a doubtful squint from Gothmog.

The Vala got down from his throne and descended many stairs before coming to join them in the center of the hall. He placed his hands at his hips and gave a permitting nod to the stronghold's entrance. "Okay, you may open the gates for the rest of my servants to enter. I have need of them now."