Mairon was more than happy to convert Orodreth's high-backed warden's chair into his personal throne. Not least was his pleasure in rewriting the tower's runes to bind it under his own spells, or in proclaiming himself master of the isle.

The banners of Minas Tirith were slashed down, and new banners wielding Angband's insignia unfurled upon the midnight-black tower. The lieutenant also added an emblem of his own, a sketch of his eye, red and flaming, arguably the aspect of his appearance his servants feared the most. Any exaggeration would just intertwine with reality.

Midway through the renovation, he remembered Melkor's order to notify him of his success. He sent a messenger with a detailed report of the battle and added a humble suggestion at the end, to appear as an afterthought.

"I still think we should have destroyed this horrible place," Taryamo grumbled. He stomped around the chamber that held Mairon's throne, knocking over Elven artwork wherever he found it.

The lieutenant smiled in bemusement of the huntsman, as if he spoke with the naivety of a child. "Is everything destroyed in your ideal vision of the world?"

"It was raised by Elves, Mairon. I want nothing to do with it. At least I still have standards, you know. I don't expect you to understand, since the power has clearly gone to your head."

"Tread carefully, Taryamo. These are my walls you speak within, and I do not turn a deaf ear to insults."

"Need I remind you that this tower is yours only if Melkor agrees?"

"I've made an argument he can't easily refute," Mairon replied confidently. He next turned his persuasive powers on Taryamo. "I take it you won't be residing here with us? That's unfortunate. I happened to notice an exceptional arena while you were busy desecrating the courtyard, and the finest stables east of the sea. What a shame that I'll just have to find another use for them…"

He watched the color leave the huntsman's face. "I never said that! We will remain here – for a time. It is only fair that we partake in the spoils, seeing as we delivered the tower out of its prior occupation."

From the windows overlooking the courtyard, the lieutenant could spy on the Maiar of Oromë congregating in their allotted spaces. They brought their hunting beasts into the stables and hung weapons from the rafters. Wargs overran the arena, snapping their jaws at any who dared challenge their claim to it. Mairon was pleased with the presence of Taryamo's people, for the isle was better guarded with them than without.

He heard claws scrape the stone tiles behind him. "I have not forgotten your reward, Draugluin," he called to the newest occupant of the chamber. "You shall have dominion over every creature I've bred in shadow."

"Very generous of you, my lord," the werewolf answered.

"I do not fail to reward those who aid me. Am I not a fair and just lord, Draugluin? Slow to anger, patient, accepting? Why would any rational creature refuse my authority?"

"They are not rational, my lord. If this has to do with the business with the Avari, you must recall that the Elves had long been ruled by a fool in strange clothing who rarely left his home. Surely, some form of insanity had seeped into their minds by the time you came along."

"I don't understand…"

"Because it is not worth your thought." Draugluin's attention turned to the far corner of the chamber. "I see that your messenger has returned with a response from the Master."

The Orc reached the top of the narrow staircase and knelt, holding the letter out to Mairon, who snatched it from his hands. His eyes pored eagerly over the text.

"What does it say?" Both Draugluin and the Orc messenger waited expectantly.

"Melkor has agreed to my proposition. He finds it advantageous that I remain here and guard the pass."

The lieutenant folded over the parchment, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Had Melkor's response been too eager? He had expected at least some resistance initially – he liked to think the Vala needed him in Angband. But afterward he scolded himself for harboring such a trivial thought.

"Then the tower is yours," Draugluin interpreted, his yellow eyes gleaming hopefully.

"So it would seem." Mairon set the letter on the Eldarin lord's desk. No doubt he would more deeply ponder the words later. It was not necessarily a given that Melkor himself had written the letter. He could have enlisted a scribe to compose it, and the meaning misconstrued in translation. Or perhaps Melkor had meant to unsettle his lieutenant, so he would forsake the tower. Or…

His head swam as he entertained each of the possibilities, until his thoughts tangled into a knot. He massaged his scalp to try to unjumble it.

"In my exploration of the isle, I found extensive underground dungeons where the Elves must have detained their prisoners. It looks to me like an excellent place to house your spies, my lord," Draugluin was saying while the Orc messenger gave audience, offering a thoughtful nod to his suggestion.

Mairon glared at the Orc. "Why are you still here? You're dismissed."

He waited until the messenger skittered away to reply. "You may choose wherever in the tower you wish, Draugluin, permitted it is unoccupied."

"I shall go ahead and invite the others."

Under Draugluin's command, corrupt beasts from the outside poured into the watchtower and defiled its pristine chambers. Most changed their appearance in likeness of their new leader. At the werewolf's request, Mairon collected hröar of the fiercest specimens and wove new fëar within them. The isle soon crawled with hordes of undead wolves, and their howls ever rattled the clouded gray skies, sending a shiver down the spine of all who heard.

The most impressive specimen, however, Mairon set aside as a gift for Melkor, lest the Vala start to think him unappreciative. The Maia poured his greatest efforts into perfecting it. He imbued the hröa with a fëa darkly dense, heavy with dread – the foulest he could find among the servants of Melkor in his service. The result was a beast so monstrous ere it was full grown, with bristling black fur and smoldering red eyes, that a team of fifty Orcs had to lead it to Angband, and the entire number in their train certainly did not return.

Mairon waited hopefully for the Vala's positive response, but he was not idle. He always found more vile projects to undertake. The forests of Dorthonion contained large-winged bats, especially in the darkest of regions, and the idea occurred to him to incorporate the nocturnal bloodsuckers into his hosts. Deadliest among them was Thuringwethil, a spirit capable of alternating between a bat and a demoness of strikingly pale complexion. Mairon found great use for her as a messenger, and it was she who fluttered in the highest window of the tower with news that Melkor was satisfied with his gift.

"He is wont of keeping the beast at his feet as a pet, which he has fondly named Carcharoth," Thuringwethil related. Her black wings became the folded drapes of her gown and her ghastly face elongated as she transformed, although the fangs stayed protruding from her crimson lips. Strands of dark hair, fine as a spider's web, crept down from her head to wrap around her waist.

Mairon beamed. "He expressed no contempt towards me?"

The vampire shrugged, licking reddish residue off her fangs. "No more than usual."

She walked to the windowsill and turned around, allowing herself to fall backwards over the edge and be received by the night.

Mairon breathed a sigh of relief. Now that Melkor was placated, he could dabble undisturbed in the secluded tower. He completely immersed himself in his sorcery, so that when a visitor arrived on the isle without notice, he was puzzled and irked at the interruption, ere he discovered who it was.

A Maia in a hooded cloak pounded on the tower door. He called repeatedly for the master of the isle. "Come down, Mairon! I know you're in there!"

The lieutenant had been watching from a window, but at the visitor's bidding he descended the staircase and opened the door just wide enough to peer out. The two Maiar examined the other, one dressed in black robes and squinting with tired eyes, the second covering himself in layers of clothing, disguising all but the sorrow in his amber eyes. Mairon suspected they held tears.

He stepped out to join him on the portico. "Hello. Why do you regard me in such a way?"

Satarno smiled sadly. "I wanted to see you, one last time."

Mairon narrowed his eyes, not understanding. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm leaving."

"Leaving whe-" he started to ask, but his voice trailed off as the other Maia walked away. The lieutenant observed with horror that his face pointed westward. "Satarno! Don't you dare!"

Mairon chased after him. Already Satarno had crossed the bridge into lower Beleriand and was tromping through the wild plains between the Elven habitations in Doriath and the Falas.

He seized hold of his leg and wrestled Satarno to the ground, but the other Maia was relentless. Limbs tangled and blows were exchanged between the former friends, until Satarno managed to throw his attacker. He caught Mairon in the jaw, stunning him. The lieutenant toppled backwards in the grass with a pained groan.

He staggered back to his feet, holding his nose to quell the gushing blood. "You don't know what you're doing!" he warned.

Satarno's battered face was resolute. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

"You're not thinking clearly," Mairon insisted, "for you will immediately regret this. The Valar do not want you back, Satarno. I was there when you said it so much yourself. Return now, and you will spend the rest of your days as a slave at their mercy."

"It would be no less than I deserve," the Maia replied meekly.

Mairon glanced around, desperately searching for someone to agree with him, but they were all alone out here. "And I am the one who has changed? What happened to your dignity? You are no longer the Maia I once knew. He questioned. He had thoughts of his own. He was ambitious. Those were the attributes that made him a servant of Melkor."

Satarno shut his eyes painfully at the last words. "I have seen enough, more than I want to. I cannot sit back and be a helpless spectator any longer."

The sky lightened above the two Maiar facing off in the field. For a time no one spoke, during which crickets chirped in the tall grass and a few birds twittered as they awakened. Seeing Satarno was not going to change his mind, Mairon ceased arguing.

"I offer you a choice. Forsake this foolhardy endeavor and be rewarded as a high lord of the Maiar, or, if you truly cannot bring yourself to see reason, return to Aman. I will ensure you are shielded from the eyes of Melkor, but from this moment on, you will be dead to me. Which do you decide?"

His response contained the same aching sorrow that permeated his being. "My friend, you already know my answer."

He last saw bitterness in Mairon's eyes before the latter disembodied. A black fog loomed over him, stretching east to west and north to south, temporarily blinding any who looked in that direction. Satarno noted the spirit was not black at its very core. Therein lay a patch of naked essence that was clear, where the pink-tinged sky shone through, and the edges shined like an untainted cloud in the pure air of Ilmen.

Satarno could not stay longer to grieve for it. He turned and raced across the fields below Ered Wethrin as if the Vala deep in his iron stronghold was fast on his heels instead. He dreaded the sight of Melkor's sentries waiting for him on the shore with heavy chains in hand, but his heart leapt when he found the beach devoid of persons. He collapsed into the sand and threw back his hood, letting his hair dance in the wind.

"If there is any good still residing in me, may pardon be granted in the West," he called to the unseen land beyond the tumbling waves.

Dawn was at hand. The red morning sun arose in the east, throwing its golden rays of light upon the reflective sea. Suddenly it seemed that a path lay before him, glowing atop the waves sparkling many colors. His fingertips ebbed away into minute particles in the salty air, followed by the rest of his being. On first glance, a lonely figure sat bowed before the water. By the second, he was gone.


The lieutenant returned to his tower and fastened the bolts of his chamber door, refusing to come out or let anyone in until he finished sulking over the matter. Had it been his own fault? Had he pushed Satarno away? His thoughts flashed back to the threat he made towards the Maia in the quarries. Once again he saw the fear in his eyes, the way he regarded the lieutenant as if he were an abomination…

Sever all ties, Melkor's voice interrupted. There are no allies in this world, Mairon.

No, Melkor was right. He had trusted Satarno unceasingly, and for what reason, exactly? He felt sick thinking of all the times he placed his fate in that treacherous Maia's hands. It was a weakness he had long failed to eradicate. But now he knew better. And he would never make the same mistake again.

As he was examining his swollen eye in the mirror, Thuringwethil flew in the open window with a scroll tucked in her claws. She hovered over the Maia and let it drop on his head.

Mairon scowled. "I suppose you think that's terribly funny." Laughter vibrated in her furry chest as she fled out the window again. If not for his injuries and foul mood, he would have plucked off her wings.

The lieutenant sat at Orodreth's desk and broke the scroll's seal, unraveling it top to bottom. He recognized the tight-spaced, wavy quality of the characters that denoted the writing as coming from Melkor.

The Vala had not failed to punish Men for aiding the Noldor in the previous battle – "How was any of this their business, after all?" his lord repeated multiple times throughout the letter. Mairon eagerly read on as Melkor described the measures he had taken to track down the traitorous houses and slay their members one by one. A select number of Easterlings he managed to convert to his cause, but the house of Bëor proved a constant nuisance to his plans. On that note, he gave Mairon his first task since the attack on Minas Tirith. Their leader, a man called Barahir, stalked the lands of Dorthonion with a group of companions, and Melkor desired that he should hunt down and kill him.

"It would be my pleasure," Mairon answered aloud, for he was still sore at the interference of the Men of Bëor in his attempt to capture Finrod.

"By the way…" the last part of the letter read, and a cold weight settled on Mairon's shoulders. "I did notice a great cloud southwest of the watchtower under your command. My view was briefly obstructed. I know of few others with power to do so. What have you to say about that?"

The lieutenant dipped his quill in an inkwell and composed a response, agreeing to the task and making up some lie about the Elves of the Falas planning to attack Angband from the western pass, that he had meant to disorient their path until they returned in a state of confusion to their seaside dwellings.

He melted a wax seal upon the letter and walked to the window. Thuringwethil navigated the narrow bridges of the tower, no doubt driven by some sinister purpose. He brought back his arm and heaved the scroll at its intended victim. She cried out as the message slapped her upside the head, but Mairon quickly shut the glass panels and went down to the courtyard. Sulking would have to wait, at least for now, while he had more important duties vying for his attention.

Outside the stables, Taryamo garbed his Warg's legs in spiked sets of armor. He stood up and dusted off his knees, turning to see Mairon waiting behind him, holding Muilë's lead rope. "Can I do somethin' for ya?"

The lieutenant wore a tight-lipped smile. "Melkor requested that I take you with me. He's ordered that I go hunt down some outlaws in the forest land east of here."

When the Maia looked at him funny, Mairon continued, "Melkor has ordered it. You cannot refuse."

Taryamo started laughing, well-aware that the lieutenant was using his own words from long ago against him, and that they held the same falsity. He regarded Mairon with respect before placing two fingers into his mouth to whistle for his hunters. "Lead the way, lord, and we shall do well to follow."

Mairon stepped onto the stirrup and swung his leg over his horse. He left Draugluin in command of the isle, while he and the hunters rode single file into the rugged hill country of Dorthonion. The lieutenant explained their assignment on the road.

"We are tasked with tracking down a man named Barahir and any close to him. Have you ever come across tracks belonging to Men, Taryamo?"

"Have I ever! The prints are heavy, not light like those of Elves. They leave deep impressions in the soil. I don't even have to use powders to find them half the time."

The party of Maiar passed over a mountainous ridge overlooking the dale where Mairon's old occupation was, now under the influence of the cult. Crows and ravens perched on creeping branches, shadowy figures swayed in between the pine trees, whispers beckoned from dark caves.

Taryamo observed atop his steed. "When did this land become so gloomy? If I didn't know any better, I'd assume we were walking through a forest in the Halls of Mandos."

Without warning his group stopped, and Mairon circled back to find the hunters gathered around multiple sets of tracks in the damp soil. He jumped down from his saddle and joined in, crouching to analyze the footprints. One set was hardly noticeable, the surrounding earth barely disturbed, and it passed over the deeper tracks as if to disguise the former. The second set must have belonged to a heavier being, for they were fully formed and quite apparent, like the prints Taryamo had alluded to.

"Men and Elves," Mairon perceived.

Taryamo collected a few grains of dirt to examine. "Aye. They are fairly recent, too."

"I wonder which we shall come across?"

In the dense woods not far from where the Maiar conversed, a twig snapped, followed by a soft intake of breath. Taryamo's head shot up and his eyes widened in alarm. "Hear that?" he whispered.

But Mairon was faster. He dragged the Elf out of the trees and into the clearing by his hair, a cold blade pressed against his neck. The Noldorin spy glared at his captors at the same time as his eyes plotted escape. "Those tracks were fresher than we thought," the Maia remarked to the hunters.

"Ha ha! Got 'em!" Taryamo jeered, grinning wickedly at the Noldo.

Mairon kept a tight grip on the Elf. He remembered how slippery they could be. "Do you know of a man named Barahir?" he questioned.

"I've never heard that name in my life," the Noldo swore.

"I find that hard to believe. His name is supposedly renowned throughout Dorthonion, and here you are, in Dorthonion."

His captive quit struggling. He squinted upon the lieutenant, as if he were trying to place him. "You seem familiar…"

The Maia waited to be recognized as the prominent smith of Aulë, but the Noldo curled his lip in a sneer. "Yes. Sauron."

He was ill-prepared to be called such a hateful title. "I'm afraid your memory has failed you. That is not my name."

"It is now," his captive informed him. "You are renowned across Middle-earth by that name."

The Maia tensed in anger. "I think you would be better off as an Orc, Elf. You would not insult your superiors, nor have the nerve to speak so rashly," Sauron spoke, tracing the cruel edge of the knife over his graceful features.


Here lies the end of Part 1, the corruption of Sauron. Thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed this story over the years, and I appreciate every view and favorite! :)