A/N: A new chapter to read during the quarantine. :)

Mairon paid a visit to Angband's main healer, a former Maia of Estë who had joined Melkor, in his hovel on the westernmost arm of the mountains. The healer kept his tattered, gray hair under a green hood and beaded jewelry adorned his neck, decorated his thin arms. He had a mirror on his worktable, and when Mairon glanced there he saw the other's clouded left pupil reflected in the glass.

The healer stitched up the stab wound in his palm while the lieutenant gripped the armrest of his chair with his free hand. Bottled specimens lined the walls of the apothecary, containing medicinal plants, strange animals, and glowing powders. Mairon scanned the collection, reading the labels to distract himself from the pain. Two-headed salamander, sneezing powder, luminescent mushrooms…

"Are you sure you do not want to chew on this?" the Maia of Estë asked, dangling a handful of herbs in his face.

"I'm sure," Mairon told him. He clenched his teeth to keep from crying aloud as the needle pierced his palm again and sewed the skin closed.

"That is a nasty wound," the healer remarked. "You are lucky you did not lose a finger. Those are hard to grow back, you know."

His assistant came by to drop off a bucket of hot water. Once she noticed Mairon in the patient's chair, she set it hastily on the floor and spun on her heel for the door. The Maia of Estë pretended not to notice. He dipped a cloth in the bucket and carefully bandaged Mairon's hand.

"Finished," he announced, leaning back on his stool.

Mairon got to his feet and wordlessly dropped a gold bracelet into the other Maia's hand on the way out. The corridors held a great multitude of Maiar going about their daily tasks, but they paused whatever they did and retreated into shadowed corners, watching with fearful eyes as Mairon passed. The presiding guards stiffened if he merely glanced their way.

A memory flashed in his mind of Satarno also backing away from him, wielding the same expression, and emotions of sadness and anger mingled together in his chest. He put the image from his thoughts and turned a few more corners until he reached the watchtower. There he found Melkor absent from his post, so he assumed the Vala's place at the window.

The Noldor took shifts guarding the front, and the captain currently on watch during the dim morning hours in the land of Hithlum, closest to the tower, was the high king Fingolfin. He gazed ahead at the iron gates, his face stern and unreadable. Black waves of hair blew around his noble features. Suddenly, as if sensing that he was being monitored, the Noldo raised his eyes to the tower and squinted at its highest window.

He knew the Elf could not see him, of course - the windows from the outside were solid black – but he was staring at the exact spot where the Maia looked out.

"Making friends?"

Mairon's blood ran cold. He felt the familiar gust of cold air and knew Melkor was seated on the black couch behind him. The lieutenant was certain he had not been there when he came in. "How did you injure your hand?" he asked next, more seriously.

The Maia's mouth became dry, and he found it difficult to speak. "I, uh…"

There was still humor in the Vala's voice, however. "Was it your own undead creations? Or did one of the guards latch on as you were swinging him around?

"Go ahead, ask the question," the Vala urged when Mairon remained silent. "You've always been so inquisitive, but lately you're almost frozen in my presence. You're not afraid, are you, Mairon? Are you afraid of me?"

The Vala stared him down, his eyes hard and impenetrable as the black windows of the tower. He was a lot closer now, for in a blink's time he was no longer seated, but standing before the lieutenant.

Mairon did not reply with words. He bowed his head low to escape that prying gaze.

"Good answer!" Melkor laughed. "You want to know why I'm not worried. I have the greatest hosts of the Noldor at my door, fencing me in from every direction, and my own armies are terrified to even confront them. It sounds hopeless, doesn't it? I may as well just surrender. And then what? Let them kick me around, rip the Silmarils out of my crown? That's not going to bring back Fëanor, or Finwë. Only Mandos can do that, and he chooses not to. He hated them just as much."

He read the Maia's face. "What?" he asked. "Is that not assuring enough for you?" With a wave of his hand, the Vala unlocked and opened a creaky door disguised in the unassuming wall near the couch. It reminded Mairon of the hidden door he had found while digging under the Iron Mountains, and he wondered how many more existed, unknown. "Let me show you something," Melkor invited.

Mairon watched his lord's cape vanish over the threshold of the door, as if he were sucked in by the inky darkness within. He followed to find himself at the top of a twisting staircase that wound in endless circles into the earth. A bright fiery glow arose from the stair's well and emitted an intense heat. Mairon pulled back, his face already sweating, but Melkor appeared unbothered. He did not wait for the lieutenant to keep up. He descended the stairs at a brisk pace, his footsteps echoing off stony walls.

Nevertheless, Mairon remained right behind the Vala. The wary part of him disliked the uncomfortable heat and the flames licking the edges of the steps, but its alter-ego – curiosity – won over. In that moment, Mairon realized that he would probably follow Melkor anywhere, and where that would lead him, he could not yet say.

At last, Melkor reached the bottom. A large brazier was on display at the base of the stairs on the landing, which must have given off the fire and heat noticeable hundreds of floors above.

"They have to stay warm," Melkor explained, anticipating the question.

"They?" Mairon asked. "Who are 'they'?"

The Vala didn't answer. He and Mairon walked down another set of stairs and entered a kind of workshop. Furnaces surrounded an open space, loosely based on Mairon's design for the forges beneath Thangorodrim, and each grate was left open to allow flames to issue into the room. A large pit took up the very center, and Mairon moved closer to cast a glance within. Lava hissed and bubbled as a scaly tail breached the surface before submerging again.

Melkor joined him at the side of the pit. A snake-like head surfaced and regarded the Vala with curious, reptilian eyes, lifting its long neck to get a better view. He stroked its steaming scales with his thumb. "I call them 'Fire Wyrms'."

Mairon shook his head in disbelief. "How did you create them, my lord?"

Melkor glared. "I'm not disclosing my entire method. Let's just say I bred regular Wyrms to be heat-tolerant."

The Maia studied the Wyrm with interest, analyzing every feature of the new creature, until confusion gave way in his expression. "Forgive me, but what do these offer to our plight against the Noldor?"

Melkor rolled his eyes, inhaling a sigh of annoyance. "They are not yet full-grown, Mairon. My creatures are designed to grow to monstrous size. We have only to hold off the Elves a little longer, until the Fire Wyrms are ready to be unleashed. I should cast you in the pit just for doubting me."

Believing that, the lieutenant put distance between himself, the Vala and the lava pit.

Melkor scratched the Fire Wyrm under its chin in a rare show of affection. "You won't disappoint me, will you, Glaurung?"

His creation chirped a response, which Melkor strangely seemed to understand and find satisfactory.


Every seat in the meeting hall was filled with Angband's most prominent, each anticipating the arrival of its dark lord. Balrogs tapped their long claws on the table, and warlords rolled their shoulders to relieve the burden of heavy armor, anxiously passing time.

Melkor granted himself a dramatic entrance. The doors to the hall blew open and the Vala swept in, letting his eyes linger one at a time on the captains in attendance. He was concealing a smug smile.

"Do not fear, your god has not deserted you. I care for all my vassals," he proclaimed. "Even the Orcs." Those Orcs that had sneaked into the meeting hall grinned at his words, unable to contain their excitement at having been mentioned.

Across the table, Gothmog waited with detached suspicion. He rubbed a cloth on the blade of his sword, buffing the metal until it gleamed.

Melkor did not pay any heed to the mixed responses of his captains. He paced the room, hands behind his back, patiently letting the tension build to a climax. Glances went around the table to ascertain what each person knew, in order to piece together what such a meeting was about. Mairon did not betray his thoughts, keeping his gaze on Melkor instead.

The Vala took a deep breath, stringing his audience along a bit longer. "I'm sure you are itching to go to war," he said finally.

"That is the only solution," Gothmog replied, lifting his fiery eyes.

Melkor slowly turned towards the Balrog, feigning surprise. "You seem certain of that and yet, I do not recall saying it. Hmmm. Surely, you do not claim to know more than I?"

Gothmog looked away once more, focusing on the sword laid before him.

"Thanks to my ingenuity, war will be unnecessary," the Vala continued, unruffled.

An upset spread throughout the hall, filled with much gasping and groaning, and the war chiefs threw down their swords in disbelief.

Melkor was too pleased with himself to care. "I have created the ultimate weapon. A weapon so uncontestable, so deadly, and so sinister, that all of you are useless to me in comparison."

That got their attention. The captains ceased their protests and sat up straight with their wide, panicked eyes fixed upon Melkor.

"What is the weapon, my lord?" Gothmog whispered fearfully.

"And what fun would it be for me, if I told you?" the Vala shot back. "Perhaps if you had not doubted your lord, if you had not arrogantly assumed you knew best in these matters, I might appease your curiosity. I suppose that is too much to ask from my loyal advisors."

Melkor took his leave before he could be questioned further. The chamber became a center of chaos as the captains quarreled and fought over the news they'd been given, and Mairon used the panic to slip away and join the Vala in the adjoining hall.

Flickering candles in the iron chandelairs cast both Ainur in an eerie light. "Go inform the rest of the Maiar what I have decided," Melkor instructed.

Mairon offered obeisance, and then he and Melkor split up farther down the hall, the Vala going left and the lieutenant right. The latter called the Maiar to a meeting, and the Maiar came – partly out of fear of him, he observed, since they maintained a cautious distance— workmen of all professions crowded into Angband's interior courts to hearken to the order.

"I've brought a message for you from the lord Melkor," Mairon announced, standing atop the highest step, impeccably presentable with combed, sleek hair, a spotless black tunic, and polished leather boots. "In his boundless wisdom, he has afforded us a solution to the Noldor – a great weapon, he calls it, and we are to hold off our offence until it is ready to be unleashed."

"What is the weapon?" asked a foot soldier in the front row. Those around him expressed agreement, giving similar inquiries.

"I am not at liberty to say," Mairon answered quickly to shut them down. "In the meantime, he has requested that all ventures outside the fortress be limited, to conserve men and resources. The Elves are to believe they have the upper hand and shall be given no reason to think otherwise. Keep only to the locations where you've been appointed. If you fail to comply, you will have the wrath of Melkor and the powers of Angband at your door, against which I'm certain there can be no recovery."

"Is that really what you want, lord Mairon?" Satarno spoke, raising his voice loud enough to be heard. The lieutenant glanced over, noticing the malicious spark in the other Maia's eyes. "To be alone, to be isolated? Seems like it would get lonely."

Mairon met his glare, clenching his jaw so hard the muscles twitched.

Another craftsman flashed him a quizzical look. "We've fifty thousand Orcs to keep us company, Satarno."

"No, he's got a point," said another, a fissure of worry bridging the gap between his brows. "Orcs are hardly any company at all."

"It is Melkor's order, so it will be followed regardless of what you want," Mairon snapped. "No further discussion on this matter." With a flick of his cape, he strode out of the chamber, drawing the meeting to an abrupt close.

Later on, the lieutenant sat in the empty throne room, lost in thought while he awaited his spies from Beleriand. The overwhelming silence stifled whatever productivity he might have had.

Is that really what you want, lord Mairon?

Drops of groundwater trickled from the cavernous ceiling, running off the columns into shallow pools on the polished floors – immaculate floors, now that the throne room attendants had little else to do.

To be alone?

The Maia turned sideways to view the seat above his. Melkor was frequently absent, hard at work in the Fire Wyrm nurseries. As his gaze shifted, Mairon's attention was drawn to a flicker of color, so out of place among the rest of the dark décor. He rose and ascended the steps to a corner of the hall that had escaped his notice before, where to his surprise, a mural had been chiseled into the rocky surface.

He saw clouds, gray in a thunderstorm, except where a single beam of light shone through. The edges of the clouds melted under a crown of fire that shone like one of the Lamps, or even as the sun. A mountain of ice that reminded Mairon of Taniquetil reached the clouds from a turbulent sea, and a pair of eyes as bright as dawn, as powerful and intense as the strongest flame, held the witnessing world a willing captive.

Footsteps scraped the staircase, causing an echo that could be heard from all corners of the vast chamber. The Maia spun to see an attendant standing a few yards away, carrying a tray with cups of mead.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" he asked the lieutenant, his own eyes on the mural. "Although you probably knew that, being a master craftsman."

"Aye, it is," he replied. He rubbed his thumb against the pigment on the wall and studied it closely.

"It is only a reproduction," the attendant informed him, setting the cups onto a nearby table and folding the tray under his arm. "The original was in Utumna, so unfortunately it was destroyed during the great wars along with everything else."

"I wish I could have seen it," he murmured.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the long-awaited spies. Mairon eagerly went to meet them, and the attendant hurried on to resume his duties, leaving the mural in its lonely, half-forgotten corner.

Among their number, the Maia recognized blueish fur indicative of his most-trusted spy, Draugluin. He began as a spirit corrupted by Melkor, but under Mairon's influence had taken on a much larger, menacing shape, to fit in with the rest of the undead fëar bound within enchanted corpses. It was a substantial difference when compared to the unassuming wolfen form he formerly used, one of two Mairon had first persuaded to serve him in the shadowed forests of Dorthonion.

As the spies related their findings, the lieutenant circled areas on a map, also marking regions he suspected to be inhabited. There was reason to believe Finrod had another fortress under his control, in addition to the Sirion watchtower, as well as Turgon, son of Fingolfin. No news of the latter had been received in a suspicious amount of time.

"Another thing, lord," Draugluin added, causing Mairon to glance up from his charts. "We arrived upon a most curious scene. Many of Melkor's captains were raising quite a commotion outside the barracks. I'd imagine it is still going on."

He thanked them for the information and went with haste to oversee the situation. Sure enough, the sounds of a tussle found him before he even reached the barracks. A group of captains had succumbed to a bout of madness, exchanging blows with imagined enemies and even inflicting damage upon themselves in the confusion. The lieutenant felt a wave of disgust as he observed one of the Maiar trip and fall atop his own sword.

"Melkor has no need us anymore!" wailed one, whom Mairon recalled from the meeting hall. "This is all your fault!" he growled, turning on his fellow captain with a brandished war axe. "If you hadn't displeased him so many times!"

"My fault?" the other cried indignantly. "If you hadn't lost to the Noldor time and time again—"

"Without the Master I am nothing!" a third wept. "I can't go back, the Valar will never take me back! I'm done, I'm DONE!"

"Pull yourself together!" Mairon chastised, slapping him across the face. The captain slumped to the ground and curled into a ball, rubbing the welt forming on his cheek. The lieutenant turned aside to address the entire group. "You call yourselves captains?! I'd have mistaken you for pathetic, sniveling slaves! Not even Orcs grovel so." He took a whip from his belt and stretched the lash until it was taut. "If you choose to be Orcs, I'll have no choice but to treat you as such."

The fallen Maia raised a hand to shield himself, but Mairon stepped away and cracked the whip on the next fellow, also bemoaning his fate. The latter screamed as the leather stripped away his skin. The rest wailed louder in witness, and the lieutenant moved onto each, laying down the whip until the shouts faded to muffled cries and those faded to muted whimpers.

"Now rise," he commanded, standing alone amidst crumpled bodies.

Obediently, using the walls as support, they struggled to their feet, the pain temporarily forgotten.

Crimson flashed in his narrowed eyes. The corner of his lip curled in a sneer. "Return to your hosts, see if they have an ounce of respect left for you. Perhaps you should try learning from the Orcs instead, in case you should need to take their place. Go!"

"Y-yes, lord," they hiccupped, lowering their eyes to hurry past.

Mairon wiped the blood off the length of the whip. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and his vision was blurry. When did he last feel such a way? The first battle of Beleriand – he remembered it had seemed as though someone else inhabited his body. Someone who craved the rivers of blood, the screams, the fear and hopelessness in tragically beautiful gray eyes.

His armored gauntlet suspended in the river, streams of red flowing in the current. An apprentice staring with shame and regret at the twisted, corrupted metal melting in the furnace.

What have I done?

The four words came as echoes in a deep well, falling and falling, farther and farther down. And he let them.


When Melkor revealed that he had managed to instruct the Fire Wyrms in speech, Mairon could not help but imagine the Vala's voice issuing from the maw of those terrible creatures, and he shuddered.

Not that he could validate such a claim. Melkor let none near his creations, and he never released them from the fiery heart of the fortress. Only the soot in his black hair and the sweat on his pallid face proved their continued existence. A mischievous, scheming gleam in his eyes grew brighter by the day, kindled by the same fire that nurtured the Wyrms as they grew and developed.

The mass chaos that ensued following Melkor's announcement had nearly been quelled, although some jealousy must have remained, Mairon realized later. The day remained quiet into the afternoon, peaceful in the sense that all obeyed the order to remain inside the fortress, and no riots or quarrels had yet broken out.

It was too easy, Mairon thought to himself. He did not trust it.

His fears were confirmed in the early evening, when the very foundations of the fortress began to quake, like something deep underneath were stretching to take up the available space. The lieutenant sprang to his feet, his eyes fixed on the crack splitting the ceiling over his head.

A pile of swords and shields tumbled onto the floor, clinking and clanking along with the vibrations. The Orcs fell flat on their faces and covered their heads, the daft creatures actually remembering what to do in the event of an earthquake.

He did not have time to be pleased. As he opened his mouth to order them, a loud creaking came from the entrance of the fortress. The doors groaned from the massive force pushing against their sturdy metal hinges, until at last they gave way. Bloodcurdling screams of terror rang in the courts, in the halls, echoing deep down in the pits.

Mairon dashed towards the entrance, heedlessly shoving all those who stood in his way. But he slowed to a halt when he saw the courtyard in disarray, the burnt fragments that remained of the doors, broken glass scattered across tapestries ripped to shreds.

Some disgruntled captain had released it, and now red, yellow, and orange consumed the green plains of Ard-galen. Smoke blotted out whatever sunlight remained. Thousands of running feet kicked up dust, filling his nostrils. He choked on his own orders, pointing through a haze of dust and smoke. An Orc elbowed him in the face, and as he went to take revenge, he found it futile – the Orc was crushed beneath a clawed foot.

Looped chains missed their target, again and again. It was too fast, too strong. Too many Orcs had died, now lying in awkward embraces with the corpses of Elves. They must retreat. He did not know if he said the command out loud, or if anyone had even heard him, but they must have shared the same thought.

The remaining armies of Angband ran across the desolated plain, abandoning the giant chains they'd carried in hopes of capturing it. Footsteps thundered in the carnage behind them, but Mairon glanced back only once, and he had a fleeting view of white horses and blue plumed helmets before flames rained down.

Shards of black glass fell from a high tower, sparkling like diamonds in the dense smoke. Through the broken window, Melkor's face glowered, a glare so vicious and deadly that it made the Orcs swoon. His entire body quaked with rage – a rage hotter than the fire devastating northern Beleriand.

Glaurung raised his head, stretching his golden neck until the Wyrm's ruby red eyes were at the same level as the dark lord in the tower. Teeth as sharp as daggers came together in a smug grin. He was proud to the point of obliviousness.

"Father, I have not disappointed you," said the voice within Glaurung, more dreadful to hear than anything that could ever be imagined.