Silmarillion Writers' Guild Most Sinister Villain

Warning: Due to the nature of this theme, this compilation contains dark content, which includes discussion of torture and sexual abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

Excerpt from "Atop Bald Mountain"

by Iavalir

Dearest Fingolfin,

This letter I write may never reach you, so far apart we are separated by the Sea. I know not when we may next see one another, or if the chance will ever arise for us.

You will undoubtly want to know why I remained in Aman when I had originally promised to join your people. You understand I was reluctant from the beginning, but as we are family it felt only appropriate to follow our half-brother Fëanor. Please understand that I did not turn back out of disloyalty to the family. I hold everyone dear to me, even with the strife we've shared with our half-brother in the past. It was not from cowardice either, though my actions may have appeared to you as such.

The reason why I ran was because of a prophecy revealed to me long ago that spoke of doom that will swallow the entire universe. The dire warnings of this prophecy had begun to unfold in Middle-earth the moment we sought revenge on Morgoth. This will require me to give a full account, for I am sure you wish to know. And so the remainder of my letter shall be an account of how I came by this terrible prophecy.

My tale begins on a hilltop where I sat one evening. I had come there to seek rest for my mind when suddenly before me appeared a being who took the shape of a female. Her chin was very pointy as were the ears but immediately I could sense she was no elf for I have never seen eyes as sharp as hers, blood red in color like lava. Her thick eyelashes were unnaturally long and black in color, and she wore a long robes dark as the night.

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Excerpt from "Time of Trial"

by Lyra

Mairon hesitated briefly, then decided to try. "If I might make another suggestion, my lord?"

"Speak."

"Perhaps it is time to set a sign – to discourage the traditionalist dissenters from further plots? I speak of a certain tree..."

"Fell the White Tree? Out of the question."

"Remember that the would-be assassin was discovered near that tree! It is a symbol dear to the Elf-lovers, you know that. Lord King, while you are afraid to fell the White Tree the so-called Faithful will believe that you are afraid of them. Show that it is not so!"

"I see your point, Zîgur, but it cannot be done. My ancestor prophesied that the line of Kings would come to an end when the Tree perished..."

"I know of that. But I also wonder. The White Tree-" he grimaced in distaste - "has not perished, and yet your line is lacking an heir. Now your queen is almost too old to bear children..." Mairon saw the king's fists tighten in anger, and hurried to continue. "But there are two readings for that prophesy. One – which you, Majesty, appear to believe in – is that the end of your line means the end of your house's reign. But may it not simply mean that there is no more need for heirs?" He saw confusion on the king's face, and pushed on. "Why would Ar-Pharazôn the Immortal need heirs?"

"Ar-Pharazôn the Immortal..." the king repeated, longing in his voice. Mairon nodded encouragingly.

"And why should Ar-Pharazôn the Immortal set store by the superstitions of Ar-Inziladûn the Foolish?"

"Why indeed," Ar-Pharazôn muttered. "And the tree is half-dead anyway..."

"It is that, too," Mairon agreed. He watched the king's inner struggle calmly – there was little doubt now that the king would follow his advice.

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Excerpt from "Elegy for Númenor"

by elfscribe

Mairon sat up, with a hand to his throat, hoping it was over, knowing that it probably was not. He felt a push against his arm and was relieved to see that the wolf cub was not seriously hurt. Unconsciously, he gathered the cub into the shelter of his arms, where the beast shivered and whined softly.

“It seems fond of you,” Melkor said pleasantly.

“I’m breeding them, my Lord, an army of ravening wolves to augment your forces. See how I think of you always? This one is the best of the lot so far. Very smart.” He knew he sounded proud. He couldn’t help it. He coughed again, trying to clear his crushed vocal chords, glad to be able to divert Melkor’s attention.

“It seems craven and overly affectionate. Hardly worthy of my army,” Melkor said.

“He’s still a baby. I assure you, this one will be as vicious as its sire, Draugluin.”

“It’s defective. Kill it,” Melkor said.

Mairon looked up at him, shocked. “But my Lord . . .”

“You said you’d do anything to prove your loyalty. So prove it. Do it now before I shred your flesh from your bones.”

Mairon cradled the trusting creature in his arms and felt a surge of desperation. For a moment he considered defying his terrible Master, even though he knew that the result would be hideously painful.

Melkor rose from the chair and went to the hearth, selecting one of Mairon’s roasting spits from the rack. “I wonder how long the thing would take to die if we roasted it over the hearth,” he said.

Mairon grabbed the pup, and with one quick twist, snapped its neck, then tossed it to the floor. Carefully, he clasped his hands together to still their shaking.

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Excerpt from "A New Day"

by Oshun

"They told me they were cousins. They had come with Elu Thingol's troops when they met Morgoth's forces at Amon Ereb. The younger lad had been injured and his cousin had fallen back to help him. Both had been captured, when the Orcs overcame the stragglers, and brought to Angamando. Ai, Káno, they were gentle, refined, intelligent creatures. The older of them was a bard, had studied with Thingol's chief minstrel. I don't know how I could have survived without them. It was terrible after I lost them."

Maitimo stopped abruptly and shook his head, as though trying to remove the scene from his mind. It was obvious, however, to Findekáno, from both experience and intuition, that no tears would follow. Findekáno recalled that he had only seen Maitimo shed a tear once in sorrow as a youth at a grossly unfair accusation of disloyalty from Fëanáro. He had witnessed him fall into huge wracking sobs another time, not in sadness but in complete rage and frustration, during one of their last terrible rows in Formenos. He knew nothing like that would happen now. Findekáno leaned forward and enfolded him in his arms, stroking his hair, while planting soft kisses on his cheeks and forehead. "How did you lose them?"

"They were killed, of course. He had the tongue of the singer cut out before beheading him. Made me watch, of course. The other he simply turned over to his orcs and let them do with him whatever they wanted. I hope he didn't live long."

"I wish there was something I could do to make it better. To help you forget," Findekáno said. He pulled Maitimo into his arms.

"But, actually, I ought not forget. I owe it to them to remember."

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"Morgoth with Silmarili"

by Sirielle

Morgoth with Silmarili

Click the image for a full-sized view.

"The Power of Evil"

by Linda Hoyland

They think they have me captured, chained like some tame hound in its kennel.

Now they can rest easy. I, who brought darkness to their light, chaos to their order and discord to their harmony, am helpless. So they think. Fools!

Already, my disciple walks abroad, seeking to turn the hearts of Men and Elves to serve him.

And should he fall; another will rise then another and another until the breaking of the world.

I have a lure that few can resist. Freely, I grant it to my followers.

Evil is everlasting, ever present, you can never conquer me!

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Excerpt from "Dark Lands"

by Spiced Wine

The lamps of the room flickered and seemed to grow dim. There was nothing but the encroaching darkness to herald what arrived.

A woman stepped from the shadows. She was voluptuously beautiful and loathsome, luscious and rotten, skin white as chalk, eyes blacker than jet. Hair the colour of honey fell to her knees, and under the dead-white skin ran traceries of veins like ink.

Bloody Hells! Vanimórë thought inside the privacy of his mind as those fathomless eyes turned to him. It were as if he were observed by Night itself.

Her face as clean of expression as that of a corpse, her actions somehow horribly wrong... as if she were a puppet made of dead skin and bone, jerked by invisible strings.

Her nails suddenly flashed out, raking across his chest, leaving red trails of blood, and she raised her fingers and sucked them, tilting her head like a mantis. Her mouth parted over sharp teeth, something which was too unearthly to be a smile gaped, and she flung back her head in a dreadful parody of rapture.

"Who art thou?" Vanimórë murmured into the heavy air.

The woman did not reply. There was something older than Time in her, and blank as a stone wall. Slowly she backed from him into the web of shadows.

This was the Power he could not see, this was the thing which dwelt in on the Isle, and he had not the remotest idea of what it was. Her form was that of one who had chosen everything that made a female desirable, and yet chosen those parts from dead bodies. All that he sensed was an enormous, unassuagable...hunger.

Excerpt from "Hindsight"

by Russandol

‘I will send an envoy to your brothers with proof that you are our guest,’ he continued, undeterred by my apparent indifference. At his signal my sword was placed in his hands. He ran his fingers along the blade, dull and dark with the dry blood of his minions, and frowned in distaste when he noticed a deep dent. With a sigh he set the weapon aside. ‘If they make the right choices your kin need not worry about your safety.’

I deigned no answer to his contemptible reassurance, uttered in the same breath that sealed my captivity as the lever to force his demands upon my brothers.

‘Truly, from your insolence I can see that you fail to realise how precarious your position will be otherwise.’ His false affability had vanished in an instant, replaced by a tone that sent a chill down my spine.

‘Your life here may yet be bearable, Nelyafinwë, provided your brothers desist from their harassment and accept my lordship. Endórë is large enough for all of us, and we can all share in its bounty. Under my rule.’

I hoped that Macalaurë would not be swayed on my behalf, while I swallowed the urge to weep at the doom that awaited me in his black hands if my brethren forsook me.

My obstinate silence irked him. The beasts around me growled at their master’s growing displeasure but he raised his hand and absolute silence ensued.

‘So arrogant, so stubborn,’ Moringotto laughed coldly. ‘Though these attributes seem ingrained in the spawn of Finwë and may have once served you well in Tirion, they are ill-fitting in a thrall.’

I still refused to speak.

‘You will cower before me like your grandsire did,’ he snarled.

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Excerpt from "Beyond the Galvorn Door"

by Fiondil

They found Cassalcarin deep in the bowels of Menegroth and even these battle-hardened warriors were sickened by what they saw. The rape of Doriath had been glorious and they had sated themselves on the terror of those who fled before them, all deserving of death for denying their lords the Silmaril that rightfully belonged to them. They had shown no mercy, but what they discovered afterwards gave even them pause. They fled, never knowing that in the fleeing lay their salvation.

When the survivors of Doriath’s destruction found him sometime later their rage knew no bounds. The horror of finding this Noldo surrounded by the eviscerated corpses of their children as he greedily drank their blood was such that all reason fled.

Cassalcarin himself was past caring or knowing what he was doing, lost in the dark pleasure of his bloodlust. He had gotten a taste of blood during the First Kinslaying as he followed Lord Celegorm and the other Fëanárioni into exile. He had sworn no Oath but he had given them his allegiance. He had willingly slain the Teleri in Alqualondë and the rush that he had felt the first time he tasted someone else’s blood on his lips had driven him near to frenzy.

Over the centuries, though, he had managed to curb his appetite, contenting himself with the blood of the occasional deer or wolf, or sometimes the children of the Secondborn. But when he entered Doriath behind Lord Celegorm....

They took him and they killed him, but the dying was slow and exquisite in pain. He screamed and screamed, not really understanding what was happening or even why. He had felt so good before as the warm blood had coursed down his throat....

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Excerpt from "The Dark of Night"

by Ellie

All too soon, the ground was littered with the bodies of soldiers, some with swords, some with daggers, some who never even managed to draw a weapon...

Drawing his sword against he knew not what, Glorfindel stood in challenge in the middle of the camp. Putting forth all of his power, his eyes blazed as the brilliant light of his powerful fëa cast outward, illuminating the entire area. The few warriors near him who still stood, brandished their weapons, their faces determined masks of abject terror in the odd light. A few fired arrows, but to no visible effect.

What command was he to give them? Were the shadows even solid?

Moments later, the shadows completed their vicious assault and vanished up the trees. Glorfindel turned his head, following their progress up into the branches until they disappeared into the darkness of the night.

No wonder the trees gave the menace that name, he thought.

After a couple of minutes of silence and no discernable movement from the foe, Glorfindel relaxed his stance, allowing his light to fade to a more normal radiance. Turning to his remaining guard, he said, "Go help the wounded and then…"

Suddenly, shadows descended all around him like a cloud of blackness, obscuring his surroundings. Unbelievable pain seared through him eliciting screams the likes of which had never before escaped his lips, not even when he had faced the balrog at his death. Many sets of dull yellow eyes met his gaze as fangs like knives bore into his chest and stabbed his back. He felt as if he were pierced to the core as the strength of life seeped forth from his fëa. When he was finally released, he collapsed to the ground, hollow and empty, a mere shell of what he had been.

Excerpt from "Melkor"

by Angelica

When my Siblings cast me into the Void – oh, so many millennia ago - they thought that that would be the end of me. My works would be undone. Angband would be destroyed to its foundations. My creatures would be wiped out of the surface of Arda. They thought they could then resume their silly endeavors, their puny concerns, their mindless ruling over mindless beings. Of course they were wrong.

As my time approaches again and I prepare to leave these prisons where I have waited for so many Ages, I know what I will find outside. And it is not a world that will be foreign to me. The Firstborn were too weak to fight for what they had been led to believe was theirs and they cowered back to Aman to slouch like fawning servants, slobbering pets at the feet of my Brothers and Sisters. I despise them all.

The Secondborn, on the other hand, I can see they are my disciples though they may not have heard my name. I just have to look at what they have done to Arda and everywhere I find my traces: the seas have been poisoned - and what has Ulmo, my dear brother, done to undo the harm? The forests burnt, uprooted, devastated and the animals killed for nothing, or for men's own base enjoyment - fair Yavanna, I do not see your protecting hand. But it is what Mortals have done to themselves where I see my lingering power more clearly. What atrocity have they not committed? What killing is beyond their capacity? What weapon of destruction have they not invented? What is the need to give life back to Balrogs when Mortals have acquired the ability to destroy themselves with the power of the stars?

Another battle draws near. I can feel the fabric of the universe that holds me trapped thinning. Soon I will be free again. Soon I will fight for my ultimate victory. But, do I need to? Isn't Arda Marred as it is enough evidence of my success?

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Excerpt from "Earthblood"

by Spiced Wine

A woman walked toward him. She was looking into the north and the wind lifted her hair. Although it was dark, her face shone with internal radiance

The wind blasted her with a smell of rotten ice and something cracked into the ground – Melkor descending like the Hammer of the Underworld, a mighty black flame smashing the earth.

They faced one another and he spoke. The Goddess answered. Their language was like the flash of lightning strikes. She spread one hand palm-out before him in a gesture of denial. He caught it and dragged her toward him, darkness covering her like a thundercloud.

Vanimórë knew this was a vision. He could not have survived such a collision of powers. Even in this dream-state he felt it as if he stood in the center of a firestorm. They used words like weapons, in that crackling, impossible language that he could not understand. But was it a battle? It seemed to him, when he saw the Mother emerge from the whirling pillar of Melkor's shadow, that she taunted him – and that she did not fear.

A great dagger rose, black, flame-shaped. It came down like hatred manifest.

Time flashed by, and he saw images in frozen moments: Melkor's statue rearing over the stone, the outraged fertility of the land screaming into desert save where the Mother's blood had fallen. Even as a woman is fertile, these places remained so in a land blasted by her death; the oases about Sud Sicanna, and Earthwell.

Vanimórë pushed himself from the alter-stone. Behind him the statue loomed like a weight.

Melkor had sought to murder the Earth.

Excerpt from "Wars of the Valar"

by Fiondil

Námo started screaming as the memory bloomed full-blown in his mind and he felt his hröa retching, convulsing against the chains that held him in place against the stalagmite. With a single thought, Melkor released his bonds and in spite of Námo’s attempts to escape his embrace, he cradled the younger Ayanuz against him.

“Shhh. Now, now, Little One,” Melkor whispered, his voice dark with a desire that was nameless even to him, but Námo responded to it with a shudder and fell to weeping as Melkor continued to hold him, stroking him. “Hush now,” he crooned. “There’s no need for tears, my love. It’s over with and now it’s just the two of us. Shhh.”

Námo continued weeping, cradled in Melkor’s arms, unable to stop and hating himself as he clutched desperately at his tormentor, sick at the thought that he could even want to seek comfort from him, yet the terror he was feeling allowed him no other choice. After a while, though, his weeping stilled. It dawned on him that he was no longer bound, though he was too weak even to think of disincarnating. Indeed, he suspected that if he even tried Melkor would simply disincarnate as well and overpower him. That thought kept him where he was, his head nestled in the crook of Melkor’s arm while the Fallen One continued to rock him gently.

“Are you ready to give me what I want?” Melkor asked, leaning down and planting a kiss on Námo’s cheek.

Námo shuddered and instinctively shied away from the kiss but he only found himself nestling deeper into Melkor’s embrace and that sickened him even more. “Wh-what do you want?” he whispered, soul-weary to the point of not caring anymore.

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“About what?” Námo asked, feeling confused.

“About the real purpose of those two star-beacons,” Melkor answered.

“Star beacons? Why...”

Melkor drew back his hand and with a swift motion slapped Námo in the face, the sting of it shocking the younger Ayannuz to stunned silence.

“No, best beloved,” Melkor said, and the use of Atar’s name for him on the Fallen One’s lips made Námo’s skin crawl. “I will not tolerate lies or prevarications from you. I want the truth... or I will send for Rushurithir again and this time I won’t stop him, even if you beg me to.”

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Excerpt from "The Making of Werewolves"

by IgnobleBard

The song was magnetic, with intricate shadings of meaning, and the singer imbued each word with the power of his malevolent heart. Unto the singer were dreadful spirits drawn, from deep, shadowy places beneath the earth and sleepless, corrupted souls. Gathered and bound within a brazier of selenium and tin, in readiness for their dark awakening.

Sauron caused a net of strong weave to be fashioned and again hunters were sent forth. A great howling went up, growing ever closer, and the hunters returned at last with two wolves of deadly cunning and ferocity.

The great beasts lunged and snapped at the ropes that bound them but they could not free themselves. Sauron smiled to see their fury, for it would work well to his advantage. He had the wolves secured within the hall where the brazier stood, and Orcs taunted the beasts to madness as Sauron pressed the white-hot brands into their flesh. The wolves howled and shrieked but then, within their eyes, was a dire flame kindled, and it grew in awareness and fealty to the evil bent of its master.

The wolves rose up, casting off the nets that bound them, and fell upon the Orcs and slew them. Yet at Sauron's feet they fawned like cubs, the malice within their spirits an extension of their master's hand. Sauron loosed them again into the forest and bade them return with others of their kind. The werewolves ran silently into the grey mists and in the fullness of time returned with a great number of beasts like unto themselves.

Of these, Sauron chose the strongest to be his lieutenants in the guarding of his fortress upon Tol Sirion, the most cunning to work their dark ways within the forests, slaying and spreading their contagion to fairer beasts, children of Nessa, who yet dwelt there.

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Excerpt from "Hindsight"

by Russandol

‘No. Not again…‘

I will never forget his smirk at my defeat, or the shame of hearing myself sobbing like a child at his feet.

‘You have a choice, Nelyafinwë: you can serve me as one of the Eldar or as a beast robbed of will and memory.’ He waved in the direction of the Orcs that patiently awaited his next command. My heart sank, unable to discard the whispered rumours of unspeakable horror, of those who had been lost in the shadows in the hills above Cuiviénen, taken by the Hunter.

‘What shall it be? Is it truly your wish to go back to the pit?’ His voice was smooth and kind, as if offering me a dainty. I stood undecided, blinking in the brightness of the Jewels. I hated my helplessness; I despised my inability to master my terror of being buried alive, of suffering a fate worse than death. I hung my head in surrender.

I was carried through a maze of corridors to a wide chamber. At his command several men and women of my kindred, beautiful, naked and with vacant eyes that chilled the blood in my veins stripped me from the filthy rags which barely covered my broken, aching body. They bathed and anointed me with oils, and combed the snarls out of what little remained of my hair. He watched hungrily.

Can I bear to remember the rest? How, at first, his soft fingers slowly covered my skin with trails of tantalising fire; how despite all my efforts I felt my flesh stir at his touch, to my utter shame; how I fought my restraints until I bled; how he forced his lust upon me at last, while I wept in helpless rage. How he revelled in my unwilling submission, in the searing pain of his brutal assault on my body.

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Excerpt from "Weapons of the Gods"

by Spiced Wine

“We can destroy them. Forever. Unto their very souls.” Námo's eyes shone like marsh-fire in sockets of bone.

“If we let them in.”

“We are stronger. They will be our weapons.”

“Are we stronger than her?” Corpse-pale Varda asked.

“One she cowered in Avathar,” Manwë mused upon it. “Melkor used her.”

“And we could not see through her Unlight,” Varda reminded him, icicle-sharp.

“That will not matter once she is imprisoned within my halls,” Námo said.

“And he?” Manwë wondered.

Námo looked scornful. “He is not so strong as his master.”

“Then why do we need him?”

“Because he knows his bastard son better than any-one.”

“And when we have Vanimórë?”

“We give him to her. What Sauron wants matters naught. We give them all to her.”

Varda raised a hand. “This will not go uncontested. Thou art no longer keeper of the Halls of Waiting.”

“But I will be,” Námo smiled like the avatar of death. “And the rebels will not know, until it is too late. Unlight will devour them. Forever.”

“Thou canst not trust either of them,” Varda warned. “Sauron least of all.”

“Of course not. But he wants something we have: A prison that not even a God can escape from...”

~~~

Ungoliant. Elgalad could not believe it. They let Ungoliant into Aman.

They have let them both in, Dana told him, Ungoliant and Sauron. Varda, Námo, and Manwë want the House of Finwë, and all those who have defied them. Sauron has played on their obsessive hate like a master-harpist. For he wants only one thing: his son.

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