Another version of reality dominated the chamber of the dark lord. No sun, no stars, no moon. It was as if the beginning of Eä had not occurred in this isolated realm. Herein, Manwë had never become lord of the earth, and Melkor still held sway as the eldest Ainu. For endless hours Mairon paced the hall, peering upwards at the vaulted ceiling to search for an end that could not be fathomed. When he tired of that, he browsed the tomes in the Vala's collection. Most were stolen, clearly out of spite for the Valar than out of any interest in such topics, which Melkor surely did not have. He also searched for the Vala's ancient weapon, Grond, but it must have been kept somewhere secret.
An inky darkness pervaded the hall that made the ground appear to dip on a sudden, and he feared falling into a chasm. The sides of the chamber seemed to stretch further and further no matter how far he walked in one direction. When he finally reached a wall, he felt drawings inscribed on its surface. He tried tracing an outline, but the image followed no set pattern.
His dreams too were strange. Twisted visions of shadows and fire, malevolent eyes filled with an intense hatred: Gothmog's face glaring down at him.
But when he awoke, he was either alone in the spacious hall, or the attendants were close at hand. On this occasion, one was standing in front of him and watching his tortured expression.
"Are you in need of anything, lord?" he asked the lieutenant.
"Water! Bring me water!" he cried, clutching his hands to his chest. "The pain!" he spat through clenched teeth. His palms were burning, as if they were directly on fire.
"The water does not help, lord," the attendant told him knowingly. He looked hesitant to follow Mairon's order.
"Bring it, you fool!" the Maia urged.
A second later, a basin of water waited at his fingertips. As soon as he submerged his hands in the liquid, he pulled them out with a scream of agony.
The flesh on his palms was sizzling. The rest of the attendants came to observe the source of his pain, but the skin appeared untroubled on the surface. No redness, no sign of the burn that so vividly plagued him.
"Your palms are not blackened like the Master's," they stated matter-of-fact, "but you experience the pain and discomfort we have seen come from him."
One handed him a vial, and Mairon would have drank from it even if it was poison, so desperate was he to end the pain. The burning gradually began to subside. The Maia keeled over and kept his eyes on the floor.
"I never touched the Silmarils," Mairon spoke once he was able. "Why should I suffer as if I had?"
"The Master is capable of much," was all they told him.
The Maia fell slowly against the back of the chair, his chest still heaving from the ordeal. He began to recall his dreams. "When is Gothmog due to return?"
"We just received word that he is on his way here," they answered with some surprise. "How did you know?"
"The foresight of the Maiar. I have seen things that may or may not ever occur. The only mystery is which eventually becomes the future."
That's what he told them. But he suspected this room held much more energy than he could comprehend… Did this explain how Melkor knew so much?
"And Gothmog is not aware of the situation?" he inquired.
"No, lord. He does not know Melkor is away."
Mairon did not want to admit how much anxiety that gave him. He had to make himself look like a suitable replacement. Gothmog respected only one being, and Mairon could not expect obedience from the Balrog captain.
"Any news from the front?" he asked next, changing the subject in hopes no one picked up on his insecurity.
"Yes. The captains have filled their stations, and all is running smoothly." The servant paused, choosing his words carefully. "Only… only Taryamo does not fulfill his position. He continues to only train with his Wargs, and he and his followers refuse to move."
"Is he not aware that this is considered defiance towards Melkor?" Mairon wondered.
"He has been reminded many a time, my lord."
"Taryamo guards our most crucial front." He folded his hands in thought for a moment. "Replace him then. Send in someone beneath him."
"Someone…beneath him? You mean someone less capable?" they questioned.
"That is what I commanded. See to it."
Doubt clouded their eyes, and they were obviously second-guessing his judgement. He hoped his plan would work. He could not afford to lose Taryamo.
Mairon would have liked to witness that confrontation in person, but he had to remain in the throne room and await Gothmog. He sent each of his attendants on necessary errands about the fortress, while he himself ordered the chamber into an impressive display. As he was climbing the steps to the dais, he could not help but glance at the throne at its center. He walked slowly beside it, and unconsciously his arm stretched out to allow his fingers to lightly graze the cold, black stone.
Sit down, it seemed to whisper, tempting him with a voice as sweet as honey. Imagine the respect and power you would emanate seated on Melkor's throne…
"Your tricks are impressive," he told the throne. "They would prove ruinous to one less firm of mind than I."
Mairon strode past the seat of treachery and approached the giant backdrop of images. He glanced over the pictures that mirrored Vairë's tapestries, only instead of the bright colors and intricate lines, the artist of this masterpiece had blotted the details and smudged the expressions. The sky was a roiling, black abyss.
His eyes landed on a square of fabric depicting a grand fountain in an open-walled courtyard. Instead of water, flames spouted from its pools, while Elves wielding great swords looked on in fear-inspired wonder. He skipped far ahead in the timeline, inching closer to study a dark tower in a circle of rock walls.
A laugh sounded in his throat. Within the small, shimmering windows of the tower's exterior, there was an insignificant, withered figure. An old man? Perhaps men would come to serve Melkor, after all.
Yet there was something in the old man's eyes. Something very familiar that he could not pin down…
He dismissed the thought. How could such a random assortment of images represent the future? It was meant to be a perversion of the tapestries, nothing more. There was no such thing as a set destiny, as fate, he told himself once he'd retaken his seat. For all they knew, Mandos spoke his prophecies for attention.
"My lord," a voice interrupted, and his head swiveled towards the front hall, to the cluster of attendants waiting for him to notice their presence. "Gothmog has arrived."
Mairon sat up at once. Had he really spent all that time talking to a chair and critiquing art? This room was driving him mad.
He tried to keep his fear from showing. "Let him in."
In an instant, the girthy captain threw open the doors with his Balrog entourage. The pillars in the hall lit up in yellow one by one as the fiery Maiar drew near.
Gothmog wasn't bothering to look ahead. He was already delivering his report. "My lord, my forces could not discover any threat to-"
He halted in his tracks. His gaze swept over the empty throne, then to Mairon, then back again. Confusion flitted across his face before rage settled; a pure, unadulterated rage.
"Where is Melkor?" His eyes narrowed. "You!" He lunged at the other Maia, his whip at the ready. "I'll destroy you!"
Mairon raised a hand to shield himself from the captain. The Vala's attendants tried to jump in and delay his wrath, but he brushed them aside like they were mere insects.
"Wait!" they begged him. "Melkor has placed him in charge!"
Gothmog growled. "I don't believe that for a second."
Mairon stood up, adjusting his posture so as to make himself appear larger. "It is true." His voice echoed through the chamber, causing even Gothmog to stiffen at his words. "Lord Melkor left in haste. He had no time to wait for your input, as Men have awoken in the East."
"This is all lies," the Balrog grumbled. "Although how you managed to deceive Melkor's own attendants is unknown to me."
"You may believe whatever version you want," Mairon told him. "But that may turn ill for you once Melkor returns and finds you have doubted his decision."
"I do doubt it. And I don't like it. If I were not so exhausted from undergoing a fruitless mission, I would leave more than a meager scratch on our new lieutenant."
Mairon had settled back into his chair. He smiled curtly. "Now then, let's get back to what you were about to say before the interruption… what was it you were trying to tell me?"
Gothmog rolled his eyes and turned the other way with his Balrogs close behind, muttering profanities under his breath.
Shortly after Gothmog's departure, as Mairon was recovering from his close scrape, he received the attendant sent to displace Taryamo. As if the imaginary burns on his palms were not enough, he now had a very real welt over his left eyebrow, where the Balrog's whip had grazed him. Melkor would know what it was immediately, and no doubt find it highly amusing.
The attendant bowed his head. "Lord Mairon, Taryamo requested I take a message to you."
"Speak," the Maia permitted.
"He is enraged that you would attempt to replace him with a captain who is so inexperienced. Offended, he might say. This is the worst move you could have played against him, more so than stealing his position. No one is better suited to guard the western front than he. The captain you selected cannot even stay on a Warg for more than a league, for Eru's sake. Taryamo has killed more Noldor than the feats of the Orcs combined-"
"Then he has disobeyed my orders, and has taken up residence on the west front?" Mairon broke in.
"Correct, lord. How shall we respond?"
"No need to. Everything is as it should be."
He was feeling quite optimistic, until another messenger requested his audience with news from Beleriand.
"My tidings are not good, lord," he warned, and Mairon's spirits dropped at his tone. "The Orcs sent to assail Thingol have been caught in the middle of Noldorin forces. From the west and the east they were besieged, and in their flight to Angband all have been slain."
He was biding his time to reach the end of the tale. Mairon steeled himself, gripping the sides of the chair until his knuckles paled.
"Boldog fought relentlessly til the last. Many Elves were slain at the end of his sword. When Thingol wounded him mortally, and he could go on no more, the other Orcs raised his body as a beacon, and no Noldo dared come forth… They have built a mound to house him."
Mairon rose slowly from the chair, trying to shake the wave of dizziness descending over him.
"There will never be another like him," he said quietly.
"I don't think so, either, lord," the messenger replied. "What are your orders?"
The Maia laughed bitterly. "What can be done? Our armies are decimated, as you have said."
"But we are not closed in, not yet. Perhaps the watches you have set around the perimeter will hold them off-"
"I am aware of the situation!" he thundered, causing the messenger to back away. "Return to your duties. Leave me!"
Once alone, he crumpled to the hard, uninviting floor, and held his face in his hands. How could he have failed already? And why had Melkor abandoned his fortress when he was needed most?
Do not show weakness. Everyone is watching you, assessing you. They will remember this.
Obedient to the rational voice, he rubbed his head and tried to think clearly, with less panic.
Act just as I would… you will find that it is impossible to go wrong… another voice then said, not his own.
After he succeeded in shoving aside his other emotions, a dark anger began bubbling to the surface. How dare they! It was enough that they slaughter every Orc, but his best? The one he himself had appointed? His most loyal captain? Vengeful, conniving thoughts absorbed the last of his worry.
He immediately summoned his spies to him. As many as he could track down he called to the depths of Angband, ghastly shapes gathering around his throne in a circle of sinister intention.
The Maia held their audience, surrounded by the living darkness of the throne room. His face was a ghastly pale in the dim light of the braziers. "No more hiding in the shadows. Now is the time you must claim Beleriand as your own. Fence in the Noldor and Sindar, make them afraid to take a step without the light of the sun. Bring foul creatures to me, the most fear-invoking you come across. They will be of use to their rightful master."
Birds of prey, wolves, and giant cats they captured and took back to the Maia, and he removed their fëar and replaced them with those of the spies in animal shape. The largest specimens were especially sought, great wolves and fell cats with pupils red and fangs razor-sharp. Their fur was jet-black, bristled to intimidate. A thick, shadowy smoke puffed out of their snouts. Mairon spoke the enchanted words to steal fëar from the realm of the dead, and these he twisted into horrors, terrifying to behold and even worse to meet in combat.
They dispersed from the fortress, and the Maia sent them on hidden paths to instill fear in the hearts of the Elves.
