The inhabitants of Angband had been reduced to passive spectators under the dominion of the orb of Laurelin. It invigorated the Noldor, as well as the Sindar in Doriath. The hosts of Orcs that had kept Thingol beleaguered during the first battles with Fëanor were now fleeing to the stronghold of the north in great numbers.

The council of Angband was in disarray, at a loss for how to proceed. They had grown to rely too much on Orcs, creatures with little tolerance for the light. Mairon thought to introduce them to it gradually and build up their resistance, but the rest of the Maiar disagreed with him. They thought the Orcs should limit their endeavors to the night and remain hidden during the brightest hours. All this was decided without any input from Melkor himself, for the Vala was lost in a type of brooding that no one dared disturb him from.

At first, he had been content enough allowing his servants entry into Angband, but as more and more accepted the invitation and arrived at the front gates, he started looking displeased. His captains became anxious as the days passed and the Vala gave no verbal indication of the storm brewing within him; only his face betrayed the danger that was looming over everyone present.

A day came when the Orc captain, Boldog, entered the fortress with his great entourage, wearing an extravagant helmet and the best metal armor Orcs could produce. He made a show of bowing his head before Mairon when he crossed the latter's path.

Melkor's eyes skewed to the right while he observed.

"Who is this?" the Vala asked, breaking his own silence while simultaneously ushering in another one.

The Orc trembled at his voice, but he obliged the Vala, coming closer to kneel at his throne.

"I am General Boldog of the hosts of Beleriand, Lord Melkor the Great, Master of All. I was appointed by Lord Mairon."

"Lord Mairon appointed you?"

Boldog kept his head down, avoiding the eyes that contained the Void. "Yes."

The Maia tried to read his face, but the Vala dismissed the Orc and stared straight ahead, ignoring his probing gaze.

Melkor spoke no more. His council of captains continued meeting in his absence to discuss the issues at hand, but few offered any valid insights.

"It is the sun, I think. He believes Manwë has finally defeated him," suggested one of the former Maiar of Tulkas, now a war general.

Gothmog directed the council, standing at the head of the table where Melkor normally sat. "He does this every time. Yea, when they built the Lamps he sat in Utumno for so long without moving a muscle that we thought he had mineralized. A lot of the slaves tried escaping during that time. But no, he never admits defeat. He is always plotting his next move. "

Another of the Balrogs was shaking his head. "Not like this, captain. Ever since he brought back those Silmarils, the lord has been acting differently."

Gothmog scowled at him. "They are three gems. They have no power. You sound like a fool speaking such nonsense."

"Then why does he wear them in his crown, if they are so worthless?"

One of the Maiarin captains sprang to his feet and slammed his fists on the table. "Balrogs cannot run these meetings! All ye will do is fight and end up setting fire to the Great Hall."

"Oh, and let me guess: you should lead the meeting? Come up here, take my place," the Balrog captain invited in a cordial tone that held obvious falsity. "Come and stand beside me, friend," he bade, bringing his head closer to his adversary in order to intimidate him.

"Out of my face!" The Maia roughly shoved Gothmog's chest, and the rest of the council got up from their chairs and joined in. Mairon stayed sitting with his face resting in his hand, rolling his eyes. Several minutes passed with no sign of an end to the conflict, until Mairon ceased to be an observer any longer.

"ENOUGH!" he bellowed, and the other Maiar and the Balrogs froze in place. Gothmog's arm was wrapped around the Maiarin captain's neck, and the latter was beginning to turn blue.

"You call this a council? How worthless ye are at debating anything! The Noldor will attack any day, your lord is indisposed, yet all you are capable of is enacting violence on each other. If Melkor walked in now he would laugh at your incompetence, were it any other time. How can you call yourselves his most loyal servants, if you are helpless any time he is not there to instruct you?"

He wondered why they looked so fearful – and then realized no one in the room was watching him any longer. They were staring behind him.

Mairon did not turn around. He lowered his head and sank back into his chair. A shadow fell over him, and the table creaked from the weight of the Vala leaning on it.

"Send my spies back out," the voice of the dark lord said slowly and deliberately. "I don't care what it takes: threat of torture, threat of death. I will not be shut in here by Finwë's insidious spawn. I want them broken. I want them to suffer such pain and misery that they regret their very first breath in Aman. Exploit their every weakness. I want them to see my face every time they lie down to dream. Let it torture Fingolfin every day of the rest of his life until he begs to die. Fëanor's sons shall never feel the weight of my relentless hatred lifted from their shoulders. Let them become so wearied by it, so plagued, so weakened, that they cannot even bear another step."

It was an order, surely, but no one knew exactly how to follow it. Melkor did not give any further clarification. He turned and walked out, slamming the doors behind him.

The Maiarin captain fell to the ground, gasping for breath. Gothmog kicked him aside before retaking his place at the front of the table. He crossed his arms with a smug smile.

"I told you," the Balrog asserted. "Always plotting."


Mairon sat atop Muilë while he kept watch over Ard-Galen. What had previously been a barren, dry plain was now sprouting lush grass. He pulled the hood of his cloak down over his forehead and tried to stay in what little shade was available. On the contrary, his steed grazed happily, her skin prickling with pleasure under the warm rays of the sun.

"You like it, that abominable source of burning light?" he asked her in astonishment. "That makes you the only one out of all Melkor's servants."

She gave an obstinate toss of her head.

He tightened the reins between his thumb and forefinger. It was peaceful being out here, away from the fortress and the hordes holed up inside. At long last he could plan undisturbed how he would obey Melkor's bidding.

"I think I have some idea of what I have to do," he spoke aloud, but afterwards exhaled in frustration. "Everything is a test. And I do not always know the answer."

Muilë's ears perked. Mairon turned to gaze across the valley. A small troop of Elves was attempting to sneak undetected by the head of the River Sirion, ducking their heads to keep from being seen. Their nimble feet barely made a sound in the grass.

"Good job," he told the horse. He flattened against her back, so they wouldn't spot him. "That is Fingon," he whispered. "Why does he come in stealth and with so few to guard him? Let's follow at a distance."

They trailed the company all the way to the entrance of Angband. While the rest of his party stood guard, Fingon sprang up and seized a foothold into the face of the cliff. He began to ascend the sheer sides of Thangorodrim with a sword strapped to his back, making him shine in the sunlight.

When he finally returned to the group he was not alone, but accompanied by Maedhros, gripping the latter's shoulder to support him. The son of Fëanor cradled his arm, and at the end of the limb he was missing a hand.

"How heartwarming!" Mairon sarcastically gushed. "Someone came to his rescue, after all."

The two Noldor conversed in low voices, and the Maia lay perfectly still to listen. The clouds hovering over Ered Engrin masked the black horse and rider in shadow, concealing them from unsuspecting eyes.

"Do not speak so critically of yourself," Fingon told his cousin. "We were all misled in the heat of our quarrel with Melkor."

Maedhros paused his walk, earnestly setting his remaining hand on the other Noldo's arm. "No; I do mean this, and I plan to announce it as soon as we return to our people. I have erred in forsaking you to the Helcaraxë out of pride, and that is not honorable for the prince of the Noldor. We were the ones at fault, and so I relinquish the title from our house and pass it to yours."

Fingon was incredulous. "Would the rest of Fëanor's sons agree to such a thing?"

"We have always been divided in decision, but I am the eldest, and my decree shall overpower all dissension," Maedhros assured him.

When they crossed the threshold into the mountains of Hithlum, Mairon altered direction to go back the other way. Immediately, he returned to the Northern stronghold and descended to the throne room.

Gloomy silence dominated the atmosphere. Melkor read from an open text, with several more stacked beside him on the seat. Mairon recognized the seal on its cover, and he realized the Vala must have somehow successfully removed books from the archives of the Valar.

"My lord," the Maia gently prodded, hoping not to disturb him, "Maedhros has relinquished his title of lordship to the house of Fingolfin."

The Vala turned to the next page without looking up. "I specifically commanded you not to speak to him," he answered coldly.

"I did not," he promised. "He is gone from his prison atop Thangorodrim, for Fingon came to his rescue."

Melkor narrowed his eyes, more out of surprise than anger. "He is rescued? I thought he would be dead by now. That is terrible news to hear. What of the divide? Why didn't Fingolfin's house abandon him to his fate?"

"Yes, that is what I am getting to. Maedhros did not consult his brothers. They are unaware of their loss of power." He gave Melkor a malicious smile. "It is treachery."

"Hmm…perhaps…" the dark lord said thoughtfully. "Yes, perhaps it is a good thing Maedhros lives."

"What next do you need of me?" Mairon asked eagerly.

"Nothing for now." The Vala waved him away, returning his attention to the stolen texts. "I will think on it. Go and join the other Maiar in preparing my armies."

He was confused by that response. Hadn't the Vala made it clear that he wanted to meddle in the affairs of the Noldor? Why then send him down to the pits to discipline the Orcs? Even the most dim-witted of the Maiar could oversee such a task.

Discouraged, he joined the captains gathered before their squadrons of Orcs, wielding whips and other devices of torture. When the Orcs noticed him, their subconscious memory instructed them to do their best to straighten into a line.

The Maiar picked up on the change in formation. Every helmet in the vicinity redirected towards him, and Mairon saw multiples of his own image staring back at him within the polished metal.

"What are you doing down here?" Taryamo asked him suspiciously. "Isn't this rather low for your station?"

"It is a job for all Maiarin captains, is it not?" he replied, hiding his agreement with the previous statement.

The Maia of Oromë snorted. He cracked his neck and brushed past him. "We'll see."

Taryamo paced before the lines of apprehensive soldiers, until without warning, he halted at the forefront. "About face!" he commanded them.

The ranks of Orcs snapped into action and collectively switched to the opposite direction. The Maia cast a smug glance to his left.

Mairon knew one of Taryamo's challenges well enough. With an irritable huff, he snatched a whip from another captain who offered it with a mocking smile. He then took a step forward to survey the ranks.

"Face!" he ordered, cracking the whip in the air.

The Orcs stiffened at the sound. Immediately, they shifted their bodies to face him.

"Divide!" Taryamo yelled, and the singular group broke apart into two separate factions.

Mairon strolled the aisle between the opposing sides. "At attention!"

The Orcs obediently squared their shoulders and lifted their chins. The ones who stayed slouching he caught with the whip, until all postures were corrected.

Taryamo raised his hands where they could see. Fire from the hanging torches reflected in his eyes and illuminated the sweat on his brow. "Arms!"

Spears and blades thrust upward, positioned at the mid line by the gnarled hands of the Orcs.

"Hold!" Mairon countered.

The soldiers reached behind them to draw their shields. They held the metal squares directly center and squatted on the ground to seek cover.

"Rally!" Taryamo bid next, and his forces began grunting and gnashing their teeth until the noise was almost deafening. The Maia of Oromë then signaled with his right hand, holding the whip aloft in his left. "Charge!"

Both Maiar leapt out of their way as the host of Orcs advanced, brandishing their scimitars and uttering battle cries. A slight smile grazed either Maia's face, but once he caught the other's eye, he resumed his stern composure.

Mairon called for the attention of the Orcs, presently engaged in a tussling match with each other. He waved his whip at the flag of Angband set on the floor of the chamber and walked towards it in reverse. "Fall back!"

The front line raised their shields and slowly stepped backward, allowing those behind them to turn and retreat before they did the same.

"Scatter!"

Without hesitation, the Orcs took off in different directions, remaining there in hiding until a command was issued to regroup at the center.

Back and forth, the captains took turns shouting orders at the Orc host, each voice following on the other. The two Maiar weaved a pattern between themselves as they continuously switched positions at the front.

The Maia of Aulë was dirty, tired, and grumpy from working in such cramped quarters. So when he noticed a spy in the corner of his vision trying to conceal himself in the mass of Orcs, he lost his patience. He stormed over to where the imposter was bent over to write something onto a scroll.

"What are you writing?!" he demanded the spy. He attempted to steal the parchment away, but the latter grabbed it back and vanished from the crowd before he could be questioned further.


The presence of the spy nagged at him. For hours he stared up at the ceiling, unable to find rest, contemplating possible reasons why Melkor would be keeping a careful watch over him.

Too restless to lie still any longer, he rose from the bed and prepared to leave his quarters. In the adjoining chamber, he caught a glimpse of Satarno's unconscious eyes gazing openly, lost in dreams.

He headed to the ground floor. The sun was a distant red orb setting in the West, and the Orcs were beginning to flock outside the fortress for their daily watch over the perimeter. The spies also forsake their shelter to spread into Beleriand, and he recognized his two aides in wolven shapes present among that number. Leaning against the stairwell, he watched with a sense of bitter longing as the thin rays of twilight illuminated the departed.

While he was absorbed in daydreaming, one of Melkor's envoys happened to sneak up, and the latter had come close in his approach by the time Mairon spun around. He drew a blade and lunged out against the possible assailant.

The messenger was unaffected by the knife pressed firmly at his throat. "You seem to be on-edge," he observed with a casual smile.

The Maia removed his weapon, wiping the blood that had spilled onto the sharp edge. "Just get to the point."

"Certainly. The dark lord has invited you to meet him in his throne room."

Mairon was glad to accept the invitation. He was desperate to discover what the Vala was thinking, especially why he was trying to push him away. As soon as he entered the long hall where Melkor sat waiting in his great chair, he initiated his questioning.

"My lord, why have you sent spies to watch me? Haven't I proven my loyalty at this point? I do not see-"

Melkor raised a hand to silence him. "Yes, it is all quite contrary to what you think, if you would allow me to speak."

The venom in his tone caused Mairon to shut his mouth.

"I have thought long, and in my thoughts - which are much more profound than yours - I have reached a verdict. You see, Taryamo is too… impulsive. He hardly thinks anything through. It is all very sloppy, and I cannot have that. But you… I always knew you had potential, Mairon. I do not waste my time trying to recruit weak Maiar, after all. You are not impulsive, and nothing you ever do goes uncalculated. You always end up doing what will benefit you - which I will admit was initially quite frustrating - but I realized it is akin to my own self. Your spirit almost aspires to be mine… and you do not question my judgement, but rather you accept it as your mission. In doing so, you have gone from one of the most insolent and insufferable of the Maiar of your order, to something much more admirable. That is why I have decided to make you lieutenant."

The room was spinning. His face blanched and his legs felt weak, as if they no longer possessed the strength to support him. Mairon fell on his hands and bowed his head at the base of the throne. A surge of sheer joy erupted from his core.

"You will not regret this, Lord Melkor," he swore, his lips twitching as they processed the intense emotion.

The Vala nodded. "I know."

He kept his expression humble while in Melkor's sight, but once his back was turned, an exuberant grin took control of his face, which was beaming with pride.

All traces of his prior exhaustion had fled. Now the energy inside him was too strong to be quelled, and it led him to do the most spontaneous thing he had perhaps ever done.

He ran through the rest of the fortress, ignoring the cries of rage of those he tore past. Leaving the courtyard and the main gates behind, he began to climb the steep mountains over-topping the stronghold. It was a dangerous endeavor indeed, for the rocks were slippery with ice, and the visibility poor due to the smoke spewing from its peaks.

But once he reached the halfway point, it seemed fruitless to turn around and give up, so he kept climbing. He only ceased his ascent after glancing down again to see he was higher than the mighty fortress. Above him he could hear the clanging of the empty chain in the wind.

The moon was beginning its descent by then, bathing Beleriand in its silvery light. Mairon looked out upon its lands, peering west to the valley of Hithlum, where the forces of the Noldor were gathering on the plain. The blue emblems painted on their shields were visible even at this distance, and there were surely more of them that he couldn't see.

"I am lieutenant of Angband!" he proclaimed, knowing the strong winds would simply drown out his voice. He extended his arms out to the side in an invitation to all opposition. The intense cold stung his face, but he laughed at the pain. "Build your armies, strengthen your defenses, but you will forever regret the day you challenge my authority!"

His hood flew off, exposing his hair and allowing the wind to whip it around. The lieutenant's eyes remained fixed on the army of the Eldar. A long shadow was forming over his malevolent grin, nurtured by the black clouds.


A/N: (This isn't the end :)