Vengeance still burned hot within Mairon after he sent his ghastly creations on their mission. How would he prove to Melkor he was worthy, with such a heavy failure hanging over his head? And on top of that pressure, his nagging suspicions regarding Satarno could not be eased.
Was Satarno being led by emotion or logic? More importantly, what did he want? What had Melkor originally enticed him with that no longer seemed fulfilling? He imagined he used to know Satarno well, ages ago. If he held no loyalty towards anyone or anything now… he could behave recklessly. And reckless was dangerous.
He considered what had kept himself stimulated when he was discontent in Valinor, and he figured he could apply that same logic to Satarno. The Elves had first been introduced to conflict through Melkor's workings, and from then on, Mairon could begin crafting other things, like weapons, rather than jewels.
It might work for Satarno too. After all, he was a Maia of Aulë. They thought the same.
When he was finally able to track down that elusive Maia, he summoned him directly to the throne room. Mairon repeated his strategy over again in his mind while he listened for footsteps approaching in the hall.
Satarno entered cautiously, stealing glances around the chamber. When he noticed Mairon on the dais, he seemed to relax. He started to walk the long aisle leading to the axis mundi of the chamber, a wide-eyed wonder in his demeanor.
"So, it is true," he spoke up before he even reached the lieutenant. "Melkor is gone and he has left you in charge."
"Gone temporarily," Mairon corrected. "And you would have known if you had ever come down to see."
Satarno stared down at his hands. "I was, uh… busy."
Mairon scrutinized him for a long moment, before he recalled his initial purpose for holding the meeting.
"I have an important job for you," he told Satarno.
The other craftsman raised an eyebrow in question.
"We need a head of production, someone to oversee the forging of weapons and armor for our growing armies. Obviously, I thought of only one person who could accomplish this task in the right manner."
He was sure he detected a gleam of excitement in his friend's countenance.
"You are the presiding lord," Satarno humbly admitted. "I have no choice but to follow the order."
"I knew you'd accept," Mairon said with a smile. "I hereby give you authorization to access every forge and smithy in the fortress, and to run them how you see fit."
"If you truly mean this, I will begin work immediately," the other Maia swore.
"Then you had best begin," the lieutenant told him.
He felt better after that conversation - less paranoid, less unsure. If this kept Satarno occupied, he would not have to keep dwelling on the falsity lingering just behind that Maia's eyes.
Then, quite unexpectedly, Mairon received news that Melkor had sent a messenger in his place to check in at Angband. Lest the messenger report that the fortress was in shambles under his care, he tidied up the entrance hall and ensured all conflicts were swept out of sight. As he waited on their arrival, he detected a disturbance just outside the throne room. He groaned, steeling himself to go deal with it before the important visit, when a familiar sound made him freeze.
"Quit groveling!" he heard the Vala's muffled voice behind the doors say. "I'm trying to walk!"
Mairon was confused. Had Melkor sent a messenger, or had he decided to come himself? He hurried to smooth his hair and fix his appearance, straightening his posture to look more alert.
The heavy metal doors clanged open, and-
-a female servant came through instead. She had raven-dark hair that fell limp at her back and horns like a Balrog's poking out behind her Orcish ears. The ebony garments she wore contrasted her deathly pale skin.
Melkor was clearly not physically present, but the messenger possessed his black eyes and his masculine voice. A crowd of Orcs had gathered around the female Melkor, oohing and aahing.
"Are you attracted to me?" Melkor asked them, altering his voice to a higher pitch. "Who thinks I'm beautiful?"
His servants jumped up and down and raised their hands, unable to stop drooling over their master.
The Vala's tone deepened. "Get out," he growled, slamming the chamber doors shut.
"Hello, Mairon," he greeted, coming to stand before him with his hands folded behind his back. "I have just one question for you."
The color faded from the Maia's complexion, and he cleared his throat to keep his response steady. He knows. "It is good to see you, Lord Melkor."
The demoness was smiling, but he could tell it was false. "Why do you remain sitting? Do you not recognize your lord?"
Mairon slowly stood and climbed down the steps. He knelt on the hard floor, one arm supporting him and the other atop his bent knee. He anticipated the harsh blow that would strike at any second. He knows.
"Much better," Melkor said, appeased. "Now you may sit."
Unsure if that was a real command, the Maia carefully sat back down, watching the Vala's expression for warning signs.
The demoness was grinning at the burn that had swelled above his brow. "How is Gothmog? Does he miss me?"
"He goes about his own business," Mairon grumbled.
"Orc production is going on at fast rates," the Vala neutrally observed. He was still smiling in a way that made his Maia uncomfortable.
Why did Melkor have to drag this out? Why couldn't he just punish him now? The sooner he did, the sooner Mairon could try to atone for it.
"I thought it best we be prepared for any siege," he gave as an excuse. "As I'm sure my lord is aware, the Noldor are attempting to cut us off at every possible route."
"You're right. I am aware."
Fear was making the Maia talk, probably more than he ought. "I sent out most of the Orcs from the fortress to address the threat of the Sindar."
Melkor gave a vague nod, scanning the empty throne room. "I've noticed."
The lieutenant searched the table beside his chair for the scroll holding his list of tasks. He knocked over an empty chalice and wells of ink in his haste. "In response, I've expanded our territory by sending our captains to drive the Eldarin forces south. Angrod and Aegnor have established residence in Dorthonion, so I've sent Tarcaraumo to limit their excursions into Angband. To combat the Noldor from the west lands, Taryamo keeps watch with his company of-"
A smirk fell over the Vala's face. A second later, he began twitching, at the same time as his black pupils glitched back and forth between the crimson color of the host.
Mairon paused. He lifted his eye a fraction above the parchment he was reading. "My lord?"
"Continue. This form has some… quirks."
"-and at the frontline I've maintained Vórindo as overseer. Within the fortress, Satarno will assume the role of head of production, and he will-"
The Vala regained control over his vassal, and he immediately turned her head to the lieutenant. "Satarno? Do not trust Satarno. Why do you think I have never placed him in a position of power? Regardless of what they say, I am not so blind to what happens beneath me. Satarno has a shifty character. I picked up on his remorse as soon as he forsook Almaren for these dark and vastly unknown lands."
Mairon must have let some part of his façade slip, because a predatory grin leered across the demoness' face, like she was a spider that had just watched a fly stumble into her web.
"Do you care for that Maia?" Melkor wondered.
"No," Mairon answered quickly. "It is merely preference for one of my order."
"Not every Maia of Aulë is like you; they oft prove more of a hindrance than any real use to me. No, I will not permit it. Remove him from that position at once."
"Yes, master," the Maia replied, hiding his disappointment. He sought a way to redeem himself. "I have added creatures of my own creation to your legions, my lord. Some of them were spies, and some were fëar I took from the shadow realm, inhabiting the undead corpses of monstrous beasts."
Melkor blinked. "And where did you learn that?" Yet before the lieutenant could respond, he interrupted. "Never mind, it does not matter. I am impressed."
The Maia breathed a subtle sigh of relief. He preferred to end this confrontation with Melkor relatively pleased, instead of the alternative.
Once he was to depart, the Vala's host turned a grayish shade, and the demoness cracked into pieces and collapsed in a pile of ash on the floor. The ash then transformed into hundreds of small, black spiders that scampered into the darkest corners of the chamber.
Mairon was relieved he had not been reprimanded, yet he realized he was still afraid, not for himself, but for Satarno. What would Melkor do if he suspected Satarno was not loyal? Would the craftsman become no more than a lifeless puppet, as he had done to Langon? How powerful was Melkor? Was he capable of reducing a Maia of Satarno's status to basically nothing?
Mairon hoped to avoid him and let the problem go away on its own, but it was not to be so.
"Lord Mairon, Satarno wishes to speak with you," announced a guard at the door, less than a few moments following.
Reluctantly, the lieutenant granted him entry. He avoided the other Maia's eager stare, pretending to seem occupied with some intricate problem written on the scroll in his hand.
"It is as you requested," Satarno announced. "I have the forges operating at full capacity, the casts are ready to be filled, and the ores are being smelted as we speak."
"About that…" Mairon started in a low murmur, refusing to give his full attention. "I've decided against appointing you to that position. You would be more useful elsewhere, preparing our armies for battle or in plans for war. Besides, it is a task more fitting for the Orcs, as they can only wield their own clumsy swords and are incapable of using our superior weaponry. It would be a waste of time and resources."
Satarno glared at the empty air around him. "Melkor has been here, hasn't he? I recognize the chill that lingers in this space…"
"He might still be, for all we know," Mairon said in firm warning.
"I am not surprised, then, that your mind has magically changed."
Mairon tilted his head and squinted at him. "Why do you not express fear towards your lord?"
"Most certainly I am afraid!" Satarno gave an empty laugh. "Why else would I still be here? Do you think my only ambition is to quarry rocks from the desolate mountainside? Every breath I've drawn for the past thousands of years has been in fear. The only skill I've picked up in these walls is thick skin, the only art I've perfected is self-preservation!"
A flame ignited in Mairon's eyes, and his cheeks flushed. He rose in anger, and he saw Satarno flinch; the other Maia became unsteady, and he looked uncertain of his prior words. An unpleasant feeling stirred inside the lieutenant.
"Where you see only fear and self-preservation, I see opportunity," Mairon explained. "If every stone mason was afraid of the ominous, towering mountain, there would be no great halls, no impenetrable fortresses, no palaces of gold. If the Valar were so against having Melkor in the world, they never would have released him in the first place. They stole his works for their own, they denied him everything he was due, and why? All out of anger and jealousy, which they assign to him!"
"Is that how you think?" Satarno asked in sickened disbelief, but his voice sounded tired. "No, I cannot argue with one who is so comfortable being groomed under that Vala's black wings."
"And what does that mean?!" Mairon shouted after him. His voice bounced off the chamber doors as they closed, his demand unanswered.
He was shaking with anger as he slumped into his chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a throne room attendant stooped over in its dark robe, watching with detached interest.
"Eavesdropping is hardly a redeeming quality," the Maia snapped at him.
"I do nothing of the sort, lord," he replied. "If I reported every ill thing said of Melkor by his vassals, I would be long dead."
The lieutenant sat in silence, absorbed in thought. "You have no close confidants, do you?" he asked the attendant after a time.
"No lord," the other said. "To tell you the truth, I do not know what that is."
Thunderstorms shook upper Beleriand the following weeks. The pillars in the throne room trembled in their foundations at the heart of the earth. Filth from the mountain tops ran off in turrets, and the ground around the fortress became swollen and perilous.
Mud squelched and sucked at the lieutenant's feet as he surveyed the main courtyard, where lines of Orcs were undergoing drills at the behest of their captains.
"The good thing about this weather is that the Noldor will not dare attempt a siege in it," Vórindo told him. He raised his whip to lash the sluggish Orcs falling behind. "We have the advantage now."
A group of Orcs had just climbed an obstacle, but now they leapt down in a hurry as a bolt of lightning struck the metal spikes atop a nearby building.
"Erect more of those roofs," Mairon ordered the commanding officers. "We cannot afford to lose any Orcs."
Refusing to rely on the words of his messengers alone, the Maia sought the site of the battle to witness the carnage for himself. He came to the southern border of Nan Dungortheb, where the foothills of the mountains dipped into foggy plains that breached the woodland realm.
He stepped around the bloody piles of weapons and the corpses of Orcs, many lacking heads and appendages. The remaining faces were still contorted with a lust for battle.
On the edge of the woodland, where the trees were sparse, he finally stopped. Raindrops hit the top of his head and slid off the front of his hood. Through the constant downpour, he gazed at the mound of earth fully exposed to the elements. Without expression, he drew the sword at his side and lowered the gleaming metal until the tip rested against the grave.
"I'm sorry," he uttered in a hollow voice. The blade struck the soft dirt, and he held it there like it was a death blow, before prying the sword from the mound. The Maia held it up to the overcast sky, gazing at his reflection in the blade. The hilt was emitting heat in his hand.
As he watched, the image of his own face became disfigured by another, one more beastly and malformed. The yellow eyes opened in a pale visage, the only clarity in a fuzzy image with wispy edges.
"My lord." The voice came from afar, drowned out by merciless waves crashing on harsh cliffs. "You see me. I can… see you."
Dark and cold, the voice was, like a deep hole underground. "I have seen this place before, master. I've been here before, I think. In my dreams… No… a long time ago, it must have been…"
"Rest with assurance, Boldog, your death was not in vain. You have not failed. You have served your master well- depart knowing he will not forget."
The image closed its eyes as if in sleep, and a contented smile touched its lips. Like a candle extinguishing in the wind, the Orc vanished in a puff of smoke.
The Maia was left staring at himself- the vision had gone. He lifted his cloak to sheathe the sword. All alone he stood in the soggy field, dampened by the rain and numbed by the cold.
A creeping mist spread out from the fog at his back, morphing as it approached, until it manifested as an onyx-black cat of monstrous proportion.
"You summoned me, master?" the beast spoke.
"Yes. Observe this land," the lieutenant bid, stretching out his arm to the barren plain and the oppressive mountains looming beyond. "Do you know it well?"
The cat's slitted pupils dilated and expanded as they absorbed their surroundings. "I do, master. Why do you ask me this?"
"I place it in your keeping. You are tasked with its guarding, to ensure no similar desecration happens here again. Are you fit for the task, Tevildo, lord of cats?"
The feline bowed his head. "It is already done."
On the eve of Melkor's return, Mairon felt disappointment as well as relief. Disappointment in that he no longer held command, but a relief in knowing that Melkor would be in charge if any other misfortune befell.
All his captains, attendants, servants, and Balrogs gathered in the throne room to welcome the dark lord. His spies had by now informed him of all that occurred in his absence, so Mairon stood nearby and waited for the inevitable.
"My lord, you have heard of the battle then-" he tried casually bringing up, but the Vala cut him off.
"Yes, I knew, but it is a lot easier to watch you punish yourself than to make any effort on my part to do so. I could tell by the look on your face that you were extremely tortured, and my not saying anything just made it worse." Melkor leaned back into the throne that had sat vacant for months. "Besides, I am not angry."
Mairon frowned, suspicious of that answer.
"You succeeded in evicting the Orcs from the fortress- the rest of my captains failed at that endeavor. They had grown soft, and the sun was too much for their dark-adjusted eyes. It is not your fault they perished. It is their own."
The Maia stayed staring at the floor and blinked, hardly accepting the words as they settled.
Before it became too awkward, Melkor broke the silence. "Orcs are dispensable. No use mourning their deaths."
"Master, tell us about the Men," a captain inquired. "What are they like?"
"Weak. Naïve. Gullible. Nothing like Elves."
Gothmog snorted. "Why would we want them as our servants if they're weak?"
"Because as soon as the Elves get to them…" The Vala shuddered at the thought. "No, we can't let that happen. They will pick up their worst traits: stubbornness, pride, greed, -"
"How do we do that? Kill all of them?" one of the Balrogs asked a bit too eagerly.
"No. We are going to raid the remaining Elves that live nearby. The Avari, dark Elves who never saw Aman. They are no insolent Noldor, but they constitute a threat nonetheless. I will send forces to eradicate their villages as soon as I am rested."
"Kill them?" Mairon blurted out, unable to help himself.
Melkor rolled his eyes. "Mairon needs to stop entertaining the notion that Elves can be converted. I spent an entire age attempting it. If it was possible, I would know."
No, you spent an entire age after the Silmarils, Mairon thought, but he made no further comment.
He assumed he had distanced himself from the Avari when he deserted them. Knowing they would meet such an unnecessary fate, however, gnawed at him. And then too did his hatred for Thû. The wizard still deserved to suffer for the malicious spell he'd placed on him.
He dreamed of Melkor picking up his armies and throwing them into the sea, then his own fortress, and finally his servants. Mairon woke up with a sense of dread, staring out the window at the full moon looming in the west. Instead of silver it was red, as if it had been dipped in a sea of blood.
He knew what he had to do. Melkor may be a Vala and all the wiser, but Mairon noticed things he did not. Little things, insignificant things. Things Melkor refused to believe served any use to him.
He would go back.
