The Turning of Angwë by WendWriter

Chapter 1

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Angwë, a Maia, was a disciple of Aulë the Smith, a Vala. He was furious about the destruction of the great Lamps that had lit the world during the War of Powers, but his chief concern was ever that the work he had done in the making of the mountains would be utterly destroyed. This he could not, would not bear.

At the time of the Awakening of the Elves, while the only light came from the stars above, Angwë was roaming through the Red Mountains near Cuiviénen when he met Sauron, who greeted him in friendly fashion: "Hail, Angwë, well met!"

"Hail yourself, traitor! I should go for Tulkas forthwith!" Angwë was outraged at the rebel's apparently casual attitude. Tulkas the Wrestler, a Vala famed for his great strength, would soon show Sauron the error of his ways.

"Why do you greet your own brother in such a foul tone?" Sauron soothed. "I fail to see why there should be any enmity between us."

"Perhaps you would care to explain the destruction of the Lamps we both had a hand in making?" Angwë raged. "And you smile at me, you villain, as if you were innocent of any wrongdoing!"

"What need of silly trinkets do the Ainur have?" Sauron countered. "Were we not enlightened enough before this Middle Earth was made? Or do you deny that our great labours were not for our own benefit?"

"Your thoughts, Abhorred One," Angwë argued, "are no longer in sympathy with those of Eru our Creator. His Song is no longer found in your mouth. Therefore, do not insult us by calling yourself by that title."

"Aye," Sauron purred, "and there is the rub, my brother: we were supposed to be the greater of Ilúvatar's works, but lo! We are not even teachers, but servants to these... creatures, the Elves. I fail to see the point of all this running hither and thither in aid of them. May we not have our own desires?"

"We came because we loved the Children, did we not? We had a choice," Angwë retorted.

"Is that what you believe?" Sauron scoffed. "At the time of the Shaping of the world, I thought I would be a tutor to them, not a nursemaid!"

"And what would you teach them?" Angwë asked him.

"Knowledge, power, and the proper order of things. They are so foolish, Angwë. 'Tra la la lally' indeed!"

"I must admit that one makes me laugh," Angwë chuckled.

Sauron seethed in silence. He slipped away until an opportune time.

---

 

No tale tells exactly where it was that Aulë the Smith of the Valar fashioned the race of Dwarves. Angwë watched, as fond as an uncle, as the Dwarves began to make their mark on Arda. They made the most delicate jewellery, the strongest weapons, and their work with stone was unrivalled. Angwë laughed to himself when he thought of Sauron, who had joined the rebellion with Melkor who was now called Morgoth, for he saw that though many of the Children did indeed while their time away in the pursuit of pleasure and idle luxury, they still would work when they wanted to, and work well. Sauron had misunderstood: the Children were a part of Arda. Their work was to shape it in their way as the Ainur had done before them.

Angwë loved the Dwarves at first, for he had aided in their making, and it pleased him to see them walk upon the earth at last. He took great delight in their achievements at first, and gave them visions and dreams in which he taught them many secrets. However, there was one thing they did that eventually set him in enmity against them one day, and it was this: led by Durin the Deathless, their First Father, they came upon the lake they called Kheled-zâram, "Mirrormere," beneath the mountain Celebdil, and there began the delvings of the great realm of Khazad-dûm. Deep they dug, and greedily, for there they discovered mithril, a metal that was supple, light and stronger than steel. Now as they dug they shaped their tunnels until they became a great underground mansion, with beautifully worked pillars that stretched upwards for hundreds of feet, making vast halls that awed all who came to see them. Angwë was annoyed at this because Celebdil was the mountain he had made, and he held it dear to his heart.

Sauron, knowing this, approached him at this time and said to him, "Do you know that your little Dwarves have been carving up your mountain? Great treasure they have found there: mithril, I believe. I understand that it is greatly valued by the Elves, and they have placed a large order for it."

"I know what they are doing to my mountain," Angwë replied. "What of it?"

"Whatever are you going to do about it?" Sauron asked him in his most annoying, mocking tones.

Chapter 2

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Angwë, frightened of what he might do to the Dwarves in his anger, turned away from Sauron. His loyalty to Aulë stood in the way of his taking immediate action, though of course he would have to do something. That night, after spending some time in thought, he entered the dreams of a Dwarf he believed he could persuade to consider his point of view. After all, Sauron had been most successful in his efforts to recruit members to Melkor's cause by the use of fear, flattery and appeals to the emotions - why would this not work in the cause of good?

The Dwarf in question was called Adzarek, of the folk of Durin the Deathless of Khazad-dûm. Angwë appeared to him in his dream as Khaghar, a stout, bearded fellow not unlike himself. Khaghar had chestnut brown hair, and was dressed in royal blue with a great leather belt and a mithril helmet with gold trimming. The dream Angwë sent went thus: a voice speaking of the Beautiful Mountain, under which were rich lodes of mithril. Glittering jewels sparkled there too, and iron ore could also be found. However, Khaghar was displeased at what he deemed the desecration of the mountain, which was sacred to him. The natural caverns he had fashioned himself, and they were not in need of improvement. "Dig no more in my mountain," Khaghar warned, "or a great curse will fall upon you and your people, and they will suffer great misery for many generations. This doom is set and cannot be altered."

---

It was dark but not pitch black in Adzarek's bedroom, deep in the caverns of the Khazad-dûm. The Dwarves had set up systems of shafts and mirrors to reflect natural light from the sky above and the fires below, which meant that there was always some light to find their way by.

The sleeping Dwarf trembled. "My Lord," he called. "Lo! It is already too late, for behold, your mountain has already been mined by my people. We knew not of your ban until now. What can we do to atone for this?"

"You must stop the mining at once," Lord Khaghar replied. "There are other sites you can work. You may dwell in the mountain, but you must not continue the mining."

"My Lord," Adzarek quavered, "I fear they will refuse to listen to me. Give me aid, O Lord, to persuade them. I will need a sign."

Khaghar frowned, frightening the Dwarf. "Go!" he roared, "Am I not sending you?"

"O my Lord!" Adzarek quavered, "I will do what I can. Forgive me! Forgive me for doubting you. I know you will give me the strength to do what you have asked of me."

"I see your faith, little one," Khaghar soothed, "and acknowledge your obedience. You are forgiven. Now go, and waste no more time."

"Thank you, O Lord," Adzarek replied. When he woke up, he was soaked with cold sweat.

Adzarek got up and decided not to bathe immediately. They needed to see his distress, he reasoned. Khaghar himself had appeared to him in person! Usually, he would feel a rush of inspiration and credit it to Mahal, as Aulë was called by his people. Occasionally he would hear a voice in his dreams and reveries, which he had heard was that of Khaghar the servant of Mahal. The idea that a being of such importance was willing to stoop so low as to speak with him was too exciting to contain. He rushed to tell his father.

---

Halin was a specialist in construction. He oversaw the digging of new bords, ensuring that they were supported with pillars and timber props to hold up the roof. There was little he did not know about the load-bearing capacity of different kinds of rocks and the pressures they were able to take. Adzarek was one of his best apprentices, not only because he was his son, but because he was able to take what he learned from his father and to expand upon it. Both had a deep reverence for Khaghar, whom they held to be the Lord of Miners, and was second only to Mahal in their affections.

Halin was sleeping when Adzarek rushed in to his room. "Father!" he shouted as he burst through the door, "Lord Khaghar has appeared to me!"

His father continued to snore where he lay. As his son shouted, he snuffled in his sleep, then turned on his side.

"Father, wake up!" Adzarek grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

Halin woke up with a snort. "What is it? What is it?" he asked his son blearily, "what do you want? Nothing has collapsed, has it? I know I shored that bord up properly..."

"Father, Lord Khaghar just appeared to me! He says we must stop digging at once," Adzarek pleaded.

"What? Stop talking your nonsense, boy!" Halin snorted, displeased.

"But father, he said we must stop digging!"Adzarek insisted.

Halin lit the candle that stood beside his bed. "Sit down here and talk to me," he said.

Adzarek sat down. "Lord Khaghar just appeared to me," he repeated.

"I heard that, lad," his father replied. "Now what do you mean, we have to stop digging? Is there going to be an accident? An escape of foul air?"

"No, Father. He told me this mountain is sacred to him, and we have to stop digging. A terrible curse will fall upon us, he said. The doom is set and will surely come to pass if we continue to mine in the mountain," his son explained.

"Are you certain that is what he said, now, lad? He's the Lord of Miners. Why would he tell us to stop digging?" Halin asked blearily. He was tired and just wanted to go back to sleep. Why had his son felt such a pressing need to rush in jabbering about a vision at this hour? Foolish boy! If he could reassure the lad that it was only a dream, he could get back to his slumber. If he could reassure the lad... Halin snorted. He had seen Adzarek in this state before, and once the boy got something into his head that excited him thus, he was like a weak strata that just kept on collapsing no matter how well it was propped up. Halin was not in the mood for this, and wanted it over quickly.

"But father," Adzarek faltered, "that is what he said! We have to stop the mining because this mountain is sacred to him. We can live in it, he said, but there must be no more digging."

"Adzarek, my son, listen to me." Halin wanted to ensure he had his son's full attention. He placed a hand firmly on each of his shoulders and locked him in his gaze. "You have come here and disturbed my sleep to tell me that the Lord of Miners appeared to you, and told you to tell me to stop digging. Am I right?"

"Yes, father."

"He told you to tell me."

"No, father. He told me we have got to stop digging."

"He told you 'we' have got to stop digging or 'you' have got to stop digging?" Halin was having none of this. Surely his son had enjoyed too much ale the night before. He had always been fond of it. This would have to stop.

"'Dig no more in my mountain,' Lord Khaghar said, 'or a great curse will fall upon you and your people, and they will suffer great misery for many generations. This doom is set and cannot be altered.' That's exactly what he said to me, father."

Halin decided to be patient. Adzarek was a good lad, and he was very proud of him. He was a bit prone to dreaming, though, and maybe this strange behaviour was a result. "My son," he told him, "I am willing to be patient with you about this. Go on back to bed and we will say no more about it. Go back to sleep. If you still feel the same way about it tomorrow we will discuss it some more. Is that agreeable to you? You are much too excited now. We will discuss it when you have calmed down."

"Father, please," his son begged, "please understand me, this is important..."

"Adzarek," Halin warned, "if you do not show me respect by going back to bed as I have bidden you, I will drag you back there by your beard and lock you in! Is that what you want?"

"But father..."

Halin seized him by the beard.

"I will go back to bed, father," Adzarek wept bitterly, "and pray Lord Khaghar does not punish me for failing to convince you."

Halin sighed as he blew out the candle, lay down, and went straight back to sleep, muttering his exasperation into his bedclothes.

---

Adzarek left the room of his own accord and went back to bed. "O Lord Khaghar," he prayed, "I need a sign. If my own father will not believe me, who will? Help me!"

The young Dwarf cried himself to sleep, terrified of the doom that would surely fall upon his family and his folk if he could not stop the digging. His father never took him seriously, that was the problem. He dismissed him as a well-meaning but ultimately foolish dreamer, and that really hurt sometimes. He wanted nothing more than to make Halin proud of him, and though that sometimes did happen, sooner or later something would crop up to test his father's patience and he would be back at the beginning. It was like trying to make a bord that kept on collapsing, but had to be made because there was a rich vein of mithril to be mined.

As soon as Adzarek had drifted into his dreams again, Khaghar returned. It was easier this time, because the frightened Dwarf was focussed on him, hoping to see him again to get the help he needed to make his people listen.

"Adzarek," Khaghar called to him, "why are you weeping?"

"O my Lord," the wretched Dwarf cried, "I did what you told me, my Lord, but I could not persuade him. I tried, my Lord, I truly did."

"Whom did you try to persuade?" Khaghar asked firmly.

"My father, my Lord," Adzarek replied, greatly distressed. "I thought that if I could persuade him, I could persuade the rest of them."

"And why did you believe that?" Khaghar asked him.

"Because, my Lord," Adzarek sobbed, tears pouring down his bearded face, "he is the one who supervises the digging and the propping of the bords, the tunnels that we dig through... through... through your sacred mountain! O forgive me, Lord! I have failed you!"

"Adzarek," Khaghar told him resolutely, "listen to me. You must stop the digging. You must make them stop. You know what to do. Do not disappoint me."

When Khaghar left him, Adzarek knew exactly what to do. He wept harder then than he had ever done in his life, because of what he had been asked to do. It was impossible to persuade his people to listen to him by speaking to them because they simply would not take him seriously. His father, whose support he had hoped to enlist to bolster his message, had refused to pay attention to him. Once again, Adzarek had been dismissed. Talking to people would not work at all. There was another way, and he did not want to do it, but his father's reception of his message had left him with no other choice. Adzarek himself must be the sign. He had been told to stop the mining, and that was what he would do. Stop the mining.

There was one way to do it, and only one way. If he was caught before he had a chance to carry out his plan in full, he would have failed indeed. He had to do this, or the miseries that would befall his people would be as nothing beside it. Adzarek was aware that his family would suffer as a result of his actions, but that could not be helped. If his father had listened, the story would have turned out differently, but it was too late for that. Perhaps the sacrifice he was about to make would lessen the load, but he doubted it. Dwarves would speak of it for years, and might even consider what was intended as a noble act of sacrifice to be a great betrayal. They were miners, and to stop them from mining was to stop them being Dwarven.

Gathering what courage and resolve he could scrape together in his broken heart, Adzarek rose from his bed once more and made his way to the bord with the most props and pillars to make the greatest sacrifice a Dwarf could make. Taking a large hammer, he deliberately started to knock the the props down. Dust and debris started to fall around him, getting in his hair, beard and eyes. Coughing, he swung the hammer again and again at the stout wooden pillars. "I am the sign," he told himself, "I must do this to save my people."

Those were his final thoughts as the tunnel collapsed on top of him.

Chapter 3

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Angwë, in his guise as Khaghar Lord of Miners, strove time and again to contact Adzarek through his dreams that night, to find out what progress he was making, and what his intentions were. Desperation could cause a person to do something foolish. There were times that he almost connected, but he was thwarted by an appalling pain that shot through him every time he touched the Dwarf's mind. Adzarek appeared to be badly injured, and could not speak to him as he had done before. He needed to be able to concentrate, in a trance-like state he could achieve in his dreams. Angwë felt some responsibility for the Dwarf, and kept on trying. He found a secluded little grove and settled himself there for a while, attempting to compensate for Adzarek's present weakness. Finally, there was no need to try any more. The ghost of Adzarek appeared to him where he sat.

"What happened, little one?" he asked.

"I did as you bid me, my Lord Khaghar," the Dwarf replied.

"What did you do?" Angwë asked him gently. This Child of Aulë had died before his time. His master would be most upset. The soul of the Dwarf would of course go to Mandos, where Námo would guide him to the Halls of Aulë. There he would rest until he could be reincarnated. Angwë could not bear to face his master with the news that he had been involved, however indirectly, with the demise of one of his creatures.

"I did as you bid me, my Lord," quavered Adzarek. "I made the digging stop."

"And how did you do that, little one?" Angwë asked gently. Shame spread through him like a wildfire, eating at his confidence. When Aulë found out about this, Angwë would have to answer to him. What would he say? That the mountain he had made was so important he had felt the need to drive a Dwarf to desperation to carry out his orders? Angwë had never had authorization to give orders to the Dwarves. He was supposed to be their teacher, not their leader. Surely he would be punished for this!

"By breaking away the pillars and the timber props in the oldest mithril lode tunnel. My father Halin supervised the construction and placement of the props and pillars that prevented the roof collapsing. That one needed more than most because we had dug so much in that place, but there was little to hold the layers between the tunnels in place, and besides..." Adzarek trailed off.

"Are you telling me," Angwë asked him, "that you caused a collapse in one of the tunnels, and it is this that has caused your death?"

"Yes, my Lord," said Adzarek.

"Why did you do this?" Angwë asked patiently, though he knew perfectly well what the answer was. The Dwarf had felt there was no other option. Still, he wanted to hear Adzarek say it, to explain it in his own words. Perhaps what Angwë really wanted was an excuse to give his master.

"I did not have a sign to show them, so I myself became the sign, my Lord. I thought that if my father could see how seriously I was taking the vision you sent me, he would believe that you did indeed send me a message," Adzarek explained.

"I never meant for this to happen," Angwë wailed. How would apologising to this fellow solve the problem? He could not even go back to Aulë and ask him to put the Dwarf's soul back into his battered body. Whatever would he do? Could there be a way to conceal the situation? Aulë could not possibly know about it yet. If he could just keep the news quiet for a while - store the soul somewhere until it could perhaps go in a batch with the dead from a major accident or battle with the orcs, which were spreading south and west along the mountain range...

The reason that Adzarek's soul did not go straight to the halls of his fathers at Mandos was that there had been a psychic connection between himself and Angwë at the time of his death. It was currently being held in a field of power that emanated from the Maia's aura and bound it to him. Some considerable concentration was required to maintain this state of things - if at any time Angwë's concentration broke, Adzarek's soul would fly at once to the Halls of Mandos.

Angwë sat back, still holding the Dwarf ghost in his will, and thought about the situation. Clearly, it could not continue. He simply could not carry the Dwarf ghost around in his will, waiting for the right time to release him. He certainly had no intention of hiding himself and waiting for the right time. Whatever would he do?

The voice that had asked that last question came unbidden to him. Sauron had followed him.

Angwë was caught so entirely by surprise that his concentration broke and the soul flew free. Right into Sauron's hands. Sauron stood there, toying with the spirit, and smiled. As he held the Dwarf ghost, he showed him Angwë as he usually appeared. Adzarek panicked. "Lord Khaghar! Lord Khaghar! Save me! Help! Where is Lord Khaghar? Who is this? And who are you?"

"Do not taunt him, Sauron!" Angwë pleaded. "Let him go! See, he is terrified, and besides, I always thought your especial hatred was for Elves."

"It is," Sauron agreed, "but I am not being hateful to this Child of Aulë."

"Then why are you showing him something he fears?" Angwë demanded.

"I am not. I am showing him you, Angwë. He sees you as you usually appear among us," Sauron smirked.

"Adzarek, listen to me," Angwë told him, "do not be afraid. I am Khaghar, Lord of Miners."

"Lord of... ha ha ha!" Sauron laughed. He clutched the soul more tightly in his fist. "Lord of Miners! Oh, you have been busy, brother mine. So what is it you do for them, then, show them how to dig? Surely it is simply a matter of shoving a tool into some rock with great force. How much skill does that entail?"

"More than you would know! There are the weight-bearing capacities of different rock types to consider, breaking points..." Angwë lectured.

"Do not bore me with the details, brother, I am weary of them already," Sauron scoffed. "What use is this fellow to you now that he is dead? And why do you cling to him so tightly? Are you afraid perhaps that Aulë will find out? That, I believe, is your current predicament. However did it happen? Was it something to do with that little mountain of yours?"

Angwë was furious. Sauron was working on his weakness like a maggot burrowing into infected flesh. Well, he was having none of it! "Sauron, this matter is none of your concern!" he told him, his voice firm.

"Lord Khaghar," Adzarek pleaded, "please ask Sauron to release me. I will take responsibility for my death. It was my decision to knock the props down, after all."

Sauron laughed again. "Oh look, Khaghar - is it Khaghar now? He's praying to you. Come now and release him. This, I believe, will be his second sacrifice for you this night."

"I will take what is mine, the wages I have earned by my deeds," Angwë said. "Let him go."

"Are you sure that is what you want, brother?" Sauron asked, feigning concern.

"I am sure," Angwë replied quietly. At least he was not going to compound his error by allowing Sauron to capture this poor soul.

"It's just," Sauron turned slightly aside as if trying to make his mind up, "that I am not sure if I wish to relinquish him at this time."

"Let him go," Angwë demanded, "right now, or there will be trouble."

"Oh really?" Sauron asked him. "What sort of trouble?"

"This sort of trouble," Angwë said, pulling back his arm to strike a blow. Then something caught his eye.

For the past seven days, a new bright light had been shining in the sky. Ithil, it was called by the Elves, who were glad of the fact that it frightened the orcs. It arose in the East, and set in the West at regular intervals. The Dwarves were also pleased with this light since it helped to protect them as well, but they did not notice it much because they mostly lived underground. However, this new, brighter light had arrived, and it so surprised Sauron, he lost his concentration and Adzarek was released. At once his soul was snatched into the halls of his fathers at Mandos. Angwë stood staring at the new light for a long time.

It was some time before he noticed that Sauron had fled. Due to his connection with Adzarek, he was aware that he had escaped, and was glad. He bathed himself in the light for a while, enjoying its warmth. Then he sat down again and thought. Adzarek had died because he had tried to obey him by attempting to stop the dwarves from digging in his mountain. He regretted this, but found that he still loved the thing he had made and desired to protect it, so he got up and went to see what was happening at Khazad-dûm for himself.

While he was certain he would not be pleased by what he found there, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when he finally arrived.

Chapter 4

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Angwë raced to Khazad-dûm as quickly as he could. Though he knew Adzarek was dead, he believed that he could in some way not only atone for what he had done, but also protect his own mountain from further "improvements" by the Dwarves. He had no bodily form at that time - it was quicker to travel without it. When he appeared to Adzarek, he had projected an image of himself to him. When he had decided to attack Sauron he had gathered atoms together in his will, and prepared to send a burst of energy at him in the same way as a man would when pulling back his arm to punch an opponent.

When he arrived at Khazad-dûm he saw for himself that the Dwarves had been busy indeed. He entered by way of the West-gate, and there he saw in person how they had carved the great caverns, altering the water courses of the underground rivers in order to create living space for themselves. He beheld the great pillars they had shaped from the living rock, and though he grudgingly admitted to himself that they were beautiful and impressive, he felt slighted by the fact that the Dwarves did not appear to appreciate the beautiful work he had originally done himself. He believed himself to have created a gorgeous garden of stone, equally as deserving of conservation and careful attention as any garden of the Elves. He continued further inside, until he discovered the place where Adzarek had fallen.

He found it by following the Dwarves, who were jabbering away about the great accident that had taken place in the Ancient Gallery. It had needed to be specially shored up by Halin because years of chipping away at it, though it had been carefully done, had created fractures in the rock around the vein of mithril they had been mining. This was very dangerous, because the particular tunnel that had needed the special shoring up was three feet underneath another tunnel that had been excavated following another vein of mithril, which was five feet under yet another tunnel associated with the same vein. Angwë had designed these mithril layers to support the main structure of that particular part of the mountain, as above these three tunnels was a massive layer of iron ore, and over that the rock was very dense and heavy. The Dwarves should have backfilled it, but they knew they had not yet extracted all the mithril there, and had been attempting to work out a safe way of doing so.

Angwë was furious at the greed of these creatures. They risked bringing a substantial portion of the mountain down on top of themselves, which would, of course, destroy all of those pretty pillars they were so satisfied with. This could theoretically cause a massive disaster; a rock slide that would shave a fair few feet off the height of the mountain, which would crash into the lake, which would cause a great flood and mudslide right down the foothills and into the Celebrant River, polluting it. The solution was backfilling each of those three tunnels before it was too late. The problem was getting them to see that. Hovering at the end of the Ancient Gallery, he listened to what the Dwarves were saying to each other.

A great crowd of Dwarves were in a long line, digging carefully through the rubble, trying to understand what had happened. Halin was there, and he was hysterical because he feared that his son, who had been missing for two weeks now, was under the rubble. He also felt intense guilt both for the way he had treated Adzarek the last time he had spoken to him, and for the fact that this tunnel had collapsed. "I have told you over and over again," he was wailing at the foreman, "I have no idea why this tunnel collapsed. It was properly shored up and has been fine for the last sixty years. The wood was sound and dry. I cannot understand why it gave way like that."

Halin slumped to the floor. He had already given up all hope of finding Adzarek alive. In fact, there was a smell in the air that told him that his son was most definitely dead, but he wanted, needed to see him, even a part of him, so he could actually accept that he was gone from his life and he would see him no more. Then a young dwarf in protective clothing approached them. "Halin," he said gravely, "we found this."

"This" was a large hammer. It was largely intact, but it was chipped and the handle was badly scored by the impact of the falling rocks.

"Oh, no, Lord Khaghar forbid!" Halin screamed. "My son would not do such a thing! I will not accept it!"

Another Dwarf appeared, an appalling stench wafting in behind him. "We have found Adzarek," he said gently.

Angwë moved into the tunnel, where Dwarves were shifting the debris very carefully. It was now apparent why it had taken two weeks to get to this point. All three tunnels had collapsed as he would have predicted, but in doing so they had exposed and provided the mithril that the Dwarves had been trying to find a safe way to get at. This new space no longer needed shoring up because the layer of iron ore above had not fractured. While the mithril had indeed served its weight-bearing purpose, it was redundant because the rest of the mountain had been built so sturdily. This did not appease Angwë, though. The fact that a greater disaster could have happened because of these creatures' greed for wealth annoyed him. He refused to risk more damage being done to his mountain. They had to stop the mining at once!

He considered his position for a moment. He had already tried using a Dwarf as a prophet, to speak on his behalf. This had failed spectacularly because the Dwarf in question had been young and a bit too impressionable. He had panicked and, in doing so, had made things worse. Angwë toyed for a moment with the idea of appearing right then and there in person to the Dwarves. This could easily create another panic, and he was already in serious trouble with Aulë his master for his part in the death of Adzarek. Precipitating a stampede among the Dwarves would probably kill more of them, compounding his error. Driving the Dwarves out, then setting himself up as a lord in Khazad-dûm would put him on the level of Melkor and Sauron, who had set up their own realms on Middle Earth and were attempting to expand them. Still, this was the mountain he had made and he was being forced, he felt, to make a stark choice: either let it go and leave it to the Dwarves to shape according to their needs and desires, or reclaim it for himself, which would put him in enmity with all of the Valar. Neither of these was particularly desirable. What could he do?

As he pondered these things, a stretcher was brought and Adzarek was carried out. Halin followed it, wailing for his son. Angwë followed them to see what would happen. There was a possibility that Halin would remember the prophesy of Adzarek.

The bearers brought the stretcher to a chamber where the dead were usually treated prior to burial. They had rubbed a strong smelling paste under their nostrils to mask the stench, which was now very strong. Adzarek's face was discoloured and his body was grotesquely bloated. The burial masters had dealt with mining accident victims before, and had a procedure for dealing with these. They filled a large tub with cold water and put ammonia, vinegar and a strong salt solution into it. Then they added pine tar and extracts from various plants and placed Adzarek inside. While he was soaking, they removed his clothes. These were immediately burnt. When he had been in there for two days they removed his entrails, washed them, filled them with an antiseptic paste and put them in a cloth bag in a clay pot full of salt and sand. Fragrant herbs were added. Meanwhile, they emptied the tub and removed and washed the body. They cleaned that tub while Adzarek was put in another, similar tub. First they put a layer of rock salt down. Then they put the body in a shroud and covered it with more salt with fragrant herbs added. This had the effect of drying out the body and making it smell better. Two days later, they took the body out, washed it again and put the entrails back in, reconnecting them and stitching back the belly. Adzarek was now ready for his funeral.

Angwë was fascinated. He had never witnessed Dwarven burial rites before. He continued to observe as Adzarek's body was dressed in his finest clothes by his parents. He was, at this time, wearing a silver mask thoughtfully provided by the burial masters, who had painted the body with a sweet-smelling paste and bandaged it all over before permitting this. They had refused outright to allow them to see their son beforehand.

---

When Halin and Blís, Adzarek's parents, were ready, they stepped back from the body and each of them lovingly kissed the burial mask. Then they gently lifted their broken son onto an elaborate bier and carried it to the Chamber of Tombs, which was deep inside the cave complex, away from the mine workings. Halin's family had a private crypt, and there they took their son.

Silence reigned supreme throughout Khazad-dûm as Halin and Blís carried their son's bier to his final resting place in the Chamber of Tombs. Dwarves bowed respectfully, some touching their foreheads with two fingers of their right hands as Adzarek's parents carried him past. As a mark of respect, all work was suspended that day as Halin buried his son.

The corporate show of sympathy was lost on Halin as he made his way along, the weight of the bier jolting his arms and shoulders with each step, on a journey that seemed to take forever. Anger at his son's actions warred with grief at the loss of his child and shame at the way he had treated him the last time he saw him. Adzarek had so believed in his vision, he was willing to give his life to prove it was true. He had insisted that Lord Khaghar told him to tell his people to stop mining in Khazad-dûm, and Halin had not wanted to believe him because that would have meant telling the people to stop digging for the mithril they craved. This would have lost him all the credibility and respect he had worked so hard to build, and he simply could not afford it.

Now the circumstances of Adzarek's death were damaging his reputation anyway. Clinging to his status had not availed him, and he had lost his son, to boot. He wanted to rail at the injustice of it all, but he might lose any sympathy his people might be feeling for him. Now was a time for ceremony and ritual, with everything, including the expression of his feelings, in its proper place. The sooner the torture of the rituals and the funeral meals and visitations were over with, Halin concluded, the better. Then he would be able to work his way through his complicated emotions in peace.

The closest friends and family members crowded the Chamber of Tombs, where the Master of Tombs presided. He was dressed all in black and wore a wooden burial mask that covered his beard as well. The mask was very plain, to show sympathy with even the poorest of his people. On his hands were gloves that looked like burial bandages. There were similar wrappings around his neck. This was to show sympathy with those who could not lay their dead out looking like they were merely asleep, but had to hide appalling injuries or worse. He smelt of the antiseptic preservatives used on the dead. Sweet-smelling wood mixed with certain herbs burned in special receptacles on either side of him. As soon as Adzarek's parents, sorrowfully carrying their load, were directly in front of him, the service began.

"Whom have ye brought here?" The Master of Tombs intoned.

"Adzarek son of Halin," Halin replied.

"How did he die?" the Master asked, according to the usual formula.

Halin hesitated. He could not bring himself to lie to the Master of Tombs at his son's funeral. All eyes were upon him. Rumours had been buzzing around Khazad-dûm that Adzarek had contrived the accident that had killed him by knocking down the support beams. Halin could sense the people straining to hear what he would say, and the tension he felt became unbearable.

"I am not sure," he said at last. "We found him buried under a pile of rubble in the Ancient Gallery, which had apparently collapsed. A large hammer was found nearby. No-one can be certain of exactly what happened there," he added defensively.

A sussuration of whispers went around the Chamber but convention had been satisfied, so the Master directed the parents to lay the bier down on a stone catafalque that had been constructed for the purpose. The Master then stepped aside and invited Halin to come and stand beside him, facing the crowd, to give an account of his son's life. His wife Blís added her thoughts, and the Master commended the soul of Adzarek to the care of Mahal, Maker of the Khazâd people, in his Halls. The body was lifted respectfully from the catafalque and placed in the crypt. Then the crowd, including the parents, adjourned to Halin's quarters for the funerary meal. The Master disrobed and washed in his private room in the Chamber of Tombs, and changed into festive garb. Dwarven funerals were usually a celebration of the deceased's life, at which the family were comforted with the Dwarven belief that the soul would one day be reborn.

---

Angwë followed the procession to Halin's quarters to observe the funerary meal. Halin sat beside his wife Blís at his table, with Adzarek's empty seat unfilled beside them. Friends served the meal, and those who were not seated at the table, which had room for six at most, stood around eating from plates which they filled from platters that had been left on every available surface. The wake spilled out into the main communal corridor, and spare tables had been set up there to hold food and drink for those who had come to sympathise. They had brought all of the food and drink - the grieving parents were not supposed to provide a thing for the wake. Angwë circulated, an invisible presence among them, listening in to their conversations. There was much being made of the apparent madness of Adzarek by some while others defended him, proclaiming him a hero who had tried to save them all from a worse disaster by correcting the angle of the support beams with the hammer he had wielded.

"Nonetheless," declared one stout fellow, "Khaghar Lord of Miners knows what happened, and he will bring it out into the open sooner or later, mark my words."

"Hear, hear," others assented, and the conversation returned to the comfort they could offer the grieving couple on the death of their only son.

Khaghar Lord of Miners, who was usually known as Angwë, considered this. This could be the opportunity he had been hoping for - the opportunity to persuade the Dwarves to stop mining his mountain. He approached Halin, who was snuffling softly into his beard, holding the hammer that had been found near his son's body. He whispered this thought to his mind: "Remember the prophesy of Adzarek, who came to you in the middle of the night to tell you of the dream Khaghar sent him."

Halin looked up, startled.

The voice whispered in his thoughts again: "Remember why you spoke to him that way."

Halin was trying to block that memory, but Angwë was pushing it as hard as he could. While he felt bad about compounding the Dwarf's grief, it was important to him to get him to remember the prophesy in order that he might repeat it to the assembly. He battered the Dwarf's consciousness again.

"Father, please," Adzarek begged, "please understand me, this is important..."

"Adzarek," Halin warned, "if you do not show me respect by going back to bed as I have bidden you, I will drag you back there by your beard and lock you in! Is that what you want?"

"But father..."

Halin wept. He sobbed desperately, wiping his face with his beard.

Angwë had to harden his heart to continue. This was getting to him, causing him to feel the same guilt and shame that Halin was. By hardening his heart and focussing on what he wanted - the cessation of the mining, he was able to shut out the emotions that made him want to scuttle off back to the Mansions of Aulë in Valinor and beg pardon of his master. He sent his thoughts to Halin: "What did he want you to understand?"

"Lord Khaghar!" Halin shouted unexpectedly.

Everyone looked at him.

"Lord Khaghar appeared to him! That's what he said! Something about stopping the digging in this mountain, it's sacred to Lord Khaghar because he himself made it. We have to stop right now or a great curse will fall upon us! That's what he said! That's what he was trying to tell me, and I wouldn't listen. I ordered him back to his room. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! And now the curse has fallen, and all because I wouldn't listen! He could not persuade me and was punished for it! We have to stop the digging! Promise me you'll dig no more," he pleaded, looking desperately around him.

Silence descended on the room like a cave-in. Palpable tension expanded from Halin, enveloping everyone in the room until every fibre of every being was stilled. Halin knew he had just committed a heinous blasphemy, as far as the others were concerned. His breathing rate sped up; he was gasping like a fish.

One by one, the people in the room began to leave, until Halin was alone with his wife. Blís held his hand. "The warmth of their love grows weak," she said, "and their hearts begin to turn against you. 'Twas in the moment of your grief that you spoke thus, and you should speak of it no more, or you may well find that their comfort will grow cold."

"'I will go back to bed, father, and pray Lord Khaghar does not punish me for failing to convince you,'" Halin quoted. "Those were the last words I heard our son say. Should I just pretend I never heard them? They will haunt my waking hours for the rest of my life!"

"Perhaps our people will consider this," Blís said patiently, "but do not be surprised if they reject this prophesy, and you along with it. More mithril they have found where the Ancient Gallery once was, and they will take this as a sign that our son was mistaken and his words should be ignored. May Mahal have mercy upon us if Khaghar will not," she added piously.

Angwë had heard enough. He intruded on the couple's grief no more. Indeed, he took no further interest in Halin and his wife. Angwë made another trip to the Ancient Gallery. The Dwarf woman had spoken truly - great piles of mithril ore had been exposed and much had already been carted away. There was no possibility of stopping the mining by means of sending prophetic visions to chosen people. If he wanted to stop the desecration of his mountain, he would have to do something more obvious. The question facing him was, did he want to be sundered from his master Aulë and the other Valar forever? Would he be willing to do the work of Melkor in order to be allowed to achieve his desires? Could he really associate himself with evil, with all that would entail, and all for the sake of his mountain? As he pondered this, he noticed how the Dwarves had effectively erased his handiwork to exalt their own. That was what moved him to make his decision. Aulë clearly had no interest in what was important to him. He was Angwë's master, expecting him to be but an obedient empty vessel, willing to be filled with desire to do his master's will. But what about his own will? What about that? Angwë's decision was made: from this point on, he would do what he wanted, not what he was told.

He made his way to Angband to seek out his brother Sauron and his master Morgoth. He would agree to do Morgoth's will, whatever that might entail, on condition that he would be allowed the lordship of Khazad-dûm. Since Morgoth would one day rule all the world, surely it was not much to ask.

Chapter 5

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Angwë made his way to Angband. He knew it was somewhere north of where he was, and that all he had to do to find it was to keep heading north and follow any trail of destruction he should find on the way. He did not rush, but took his time in his journey. Therefore he had time to notice the Men, the Second-born, who had made their appearance on Middle Earth.

They looked to be similar to the Elves in many ways, but as he drifted by in his disembodied state, he was able to listen in to their conversations and see a little of their lifestyles. They had already heard of the Dwarves and the Elves. Indeed, they had already been befriended by Finrod Felagund, and could speak Sindarin fluently. They used it not only to speak with the Elves, he discovered, but also to exclude others when desiring to keep a conversation private. Sometimes Angwë felt a bit guilty for eavesdropping in this way, but when he considered the other things he believed himself to be culpable of, he decided it was just a little matter and would most likely not be noticed anyway. He dwelt unseen among Men for some years, learning their language and customs, and seeking information he could use for his own benefit. This he would use when treating with Sauron and Melkor, as he did not want to simply become a puppet for them.

It was as the first generation of Men that Angwë had been watching began to succumb to old age, he decided to move on. He had heard rumours that there had been some fighting to the west, quite close to where he was in East Beleriand. Orcs, it seemed, had been breeding and had started to penetrate deep into territories held by the Elves of various tribes. This was causing them to unite in their efforts to drive this menace away from their lands, and Angwë realised this could only mean trouble. Having spent so much time with Dwarves and Men, Angwë knew first hand of their capabilities. Given that Dwarves and Elves were freely sharing their knowledge and technologies with Men, it was only a matter of time before they would be able to lay siege to Angband itself. If this should happen, he reminded himself, there would be no aid to ask for from Sauron or Melkor, as they would be too preoccupied with their own concerns to trouble themselves about him or his mountain.

He made his decision: it was time for him to leave. As quickly as he could, he sought out the bands of Orcs and worked his way to Angband through them. As he arrived in the foothills of the Iron Mountains, he beheld the desolation and trembled. Was this the fate he had chosen? To house with the freaks and monsters Melkor and Sauron had created and there await his doom? No, he reminded himself, he was going to use the two most evil beings he knew to aid him in the regaining of control over the mountain he had made. This would, of course, involve his taking part in deplorable acts on the way, but that could not be helped. There was no way anyone else would help him, after all.

Resolutely he marched up the rocky path to the gates, which at this point were ajar as Orcs and other creatures scurried to and fro under the cover of the darkness provided by Ered Engrin as it spewed forth smoke and ash in the throes of its fury. Clouds of ash and smoke circled above it, and streams of lava constantly flowed down its flanks. He hesitated for a moment. Was there definitely no way to be reconciled with his master Aulë? After all, when Melkor had "repented," he had been welcomed back in Valinor. As he considered his position, he remembered that Aulë had created the Dwarves that had so angered him, and that he had made them to be miners. He had even permitted Angwë to style himself Khaghar, Lord of Miners, to help keep them safe in the mines. There was no way Aulë would ever permit Angwë to prevent the Dwarves from digging wherever they pleased in search of treasure. Angwë knew that the idea that anyone could own the mountain he had made seemed foolish to Aulë, who gave freely of his own inventions. Clearly, he expected his disciple to feel the same way. Well, Angwë was having none of it. He had made that mountain, and it was his and his alone. Gathering his courage, Angwë entered the gates of Angband.

---

 

Sauron stood brooding at the gates of Angband watching the Orcs and other monsters as they came and went. The reports he had received of the changes to the world disturbed him, and he was concerned that the reign of his master Morgoth might be threatened by the advent of the new lights, the Sun and Moon. What next? Would the Valar return and fight them again? What would they do this time? If only more Maiar would join them!

He thought of Angwë. He had tried so hard to persuade him to abandon whatever fealty he felt towards Aulë and the other Valar by prodding at his insecurities! Angwë cared more for the mountain he had made than anything else. Sauron hoped that if he kept reminding him that the Valar cared nothing for Angwë's sense of entitlement and ownership of it, and believed the Dwarves had a right to go mining there if they so desired, sooner or later he would come to Angband seeking aid. Thus far his brother had proved to be very stubborn, but he had sensed his frustration at his failure to control the Dwarves and make them stop mining there when he was holding the spirit of Adzarek captive. One more push ought to do it, but it had to be done at the right time, or he would fail again.

Of course, if Angwë should succeed in driving them out by himself, all his efforts would come to naught, but Sauron had ways of ensuring that the Dwarves truly believed in their right to go mining where they would. If Angwë ever found out about this, there would be trouble, but Sauron was subtle and knew how to cover his tracks.

A shout from the guards at the gates caught his attention, and Sauron went over to see what the matter was. He was not surprised to see who was there, demanding to be taken to the lord of the realm.

"I have come to see Morgoth," said Angwë belligerently, as the guards refused him entry.

"Angwë, my brother!" Sauron trilled. "Welcome to Angband! So what has finally brought you here? Have those pestilential Dwarves finally destroyed that mountain you worked so hard at building?" He turned to the guards. "Let him in."

"Do not mock me, Sauron!" Angwë snarled, making his way towards his brother. "I am filled with a fell wrath, and will smite you if I am further provoked."

"My brother, I am sorry. Not till now have I realised how much that mountain meant to you. What has brought you here?" Sauron asked solicitously as he led his brother into the main hallway.

"I appeared to one of them in a dream," Angwë explained in calmer tones, walking alongside him, "and he tried to obey me but ended up making things worse. I wandered in East Beleriand, seeking this place, but slowly. As I made my way, I discovered the Second-born, who are even now abroad and in contact with the Elves and the Dwarves. They are in league with each other and there is talk of joining with the folk of Fingolfin brother of Fëanor in order to oppose you. Those who did not make the Great journey to Valinor are being allowed to believe that Fëanor and his people have come here to protect them from you."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sauron asked, trying not to sound too anxious. The thought of a united assault was terrifying. While neither he nor Morgoth could be actually killed, they could be dealt serious blows that could either seriously limit them or even imprison them in a kind of living death that both of them feared greatly. Sauron had no desire to share such a fate with his master.

"I thought to join with you, though I opposed you before," Angwë told him, "because I am now in opposition to Aulë who was my master, but is not any more."

"This is because it is as I had told you," Sauron said gently, trying not to gloat overmuch, "Your efforts were for the Dwarves, not for yourself. You had no will of your own, you were but a servant, a mockery of what you could have been."

"I can see that now," Angwë agreed, "when will I be brought before Morgoth?"

"I need to persuade him." Sauron explained, "He will not agree to meet you until you have proved both your worth and your loyalty. There are some tests you will face first. I will help you where I can. First of all, when you speak to him, you must use the Archaic form, and wait until he has spoken to you first. He will not tolerate any modernisms. He insists on being addressed in this way at all times. Now come with me, I must bring you to the Chamber of Awaiting. Since our Lord expects obedience, you must wait there until he calls for you, even if it is for a thousand years."

---

The corridors of Angband were dark, gloomy and stank of damp, blood and sweat. Muffled cries, screams and roars could be heard faintly echoing in the distance. Smoke from the torches and lamps that stood on shelves and in brackets filled the stale air as Sauron led his brother to the Chamber of Awaiting and locked the door. Angwë started when he did this, but remembered that this was a test of obedience. To attempt to escape or to shout until he got an answer was to prove himself impatient, mistrusting and ultimately untrustworthy. He bit back any comments he might have made and waited upon his new master's pleasure.

It was during the one hundred and fiftieth year of his waiting that Angwë was finally brought to meet his new master. Remembering what his brother Sauron had told him, he waited for Morgoth to speak first.

"I greet thee, Angwë," Morgoth began, "and welcome thee to Angband, which thy brother Sauron long held in keeping for me. Thou hast passed the first test, seeking not to be released until it should please me to do so."

Angwë was silent. This was the first time he had beheld Morgoth since he saw him in Valinor before the War of the Powers, and he now looked very different. Then, he was huge and powerful, and beautiful to look upon. Now he was hunched and withered, a shadow of what he had been before, and terrible to look upon. Shock and horror overwhelmed Angwë as he gazed upon his new master, trying to find a reason not to turn tail and run. How could he serve a master who was evidently so twisted up with rage and hatred he appeared to be torturing himself? He was wearing a crown with three bright jewels on, and it appeared to be burning his forehead. Why did he not just take it off instead of humiliating himself by visibly suffering in front of his minions? Angwë tried not to stare, or to make his discomfort too obvious.

"I give thee leave to speak," Morgoth said, "and thou shalt ask me two questions, and one boon shall be granted unto thee. Choose thou wisely and well, or thou might yet displease me."

"My Lord," Angwë faltered, unwilling to incur his new master's wrath, "I perceive that thou hast suffered great pains in the undertaking of thine efforts, for behold, thou hast sustained burns to thy forehead where the Silmarils rest upon it on thy crown. Thy hands are burned also and heal not. Wherefore dost thou remain in such torment?"

"Thou knowest well that I desired these jewels since Fëanor the Elvensmith first wrought them in Valinor," Morgoth replied, "but it seemeth that thou knowest not why. Is this thy true intent, to discover the meaning of my desire and the torment I must endure even as I wear the Silmarils upon my brow?"

"It is," Angwë confirmed.

"Then I shall tell thee," Morgoth replied. "Long have I desired to attain the power of the One Who wields the Secret Fire that giveth life to all things that live. This Secret Fire, or a part thereof I believe to have been caught up in some fashion in these jewels. I have not discovered how to break them, and I fear losing the power held within them if I should attempt this. I have seen that great fortune attendeth those who hold these jewels, but there is a great curse upon them also. The curse upon them is twofold: that laid first by Manwë forbids me or any of my servants to lay our hands upon them; the second is that the sons of Fëanor and all who took his Oath will pursue unto death or their own destruction any who should withhold the Silmarils from them. If I should relinquish them mine own work may well be undone, for they sustain those things that grow of the power of Eru, and these I need for the feeding of mine own creatures."

"My Lord, by your leave I will ask my next question," Angwë said, emboldened by the favour he had apparently just won. "My Lord, canst thou bring forth life on thine own, without aid from Eru?"

"Long have I sought to do so," Morgoth replied, "but I have been hindered by the fact that this is only enabled when I give of myself. It is meet that I should have this power, for I was the first of the Ainur, the strongest of the Valar, and I arose in might. However, Eru has kept unto Himself the ability to create life and sustain it without diminishing Himself in any way. He alloweth Aulë to bring forth his unlovely folk to tear down that which thou thyself hath built, and hath sanctified them that they might live and make their mark, yea, ever do they profit from thy works; yet I may not do likewise! Aulë was ever jealous of me, and ever sought to lift himself up in the eyes of the One while I was cast down. Therefore I brake the Great Lamps that he made, and brought Ungoliant to feast upon the Two Trees, that his light would be undone and his prestige diminished thereby. But behold, he and his helpers have brought forth new torments - these bright lights that burn, the Sun and Moon, and lo! He is not content, for he ever seeketh to undo what I have done, and will allow me no peace to build a realm of mine own."

The bitterness in Morgoth's voice found a haven in Angwë's heart, for Angwë knew what it was to be denied that which he desired for the sake of lesser beings. He spoke again, and this time it was to ask for the promised boon. "O Lord, may I ask thee now for the boon that thou hast promised me?"

"Thou mayest," Morgoth replied.

"Give unto me my mountain, Celebdil, that I built with mine own hands. Give me leave and the aid I need to drive out the Dwarves that infest it that I may have it as a realm of mine own. Promise me this and verily I will serve thee, and be a true vassal unto thee until the ending of the world," Angwë begged.

"I will do for thee as thou askest of me," Morgoth replied, "But first thou shalt do all I shall require of thee, and if thy heart should grow faint at the prospect of the commands I will give thee, then all is forfeit and all thy striving and thine efforts will have been in vain."

Morgoth got up and stood before Angwë. Stretching forth his hands, he placed them on either side of Angwë's head, forcing him to take the shape he desired him to have. Singing a song of great power, he cast a spell that wove a form around the shape. Fiery and dark it was, harnessing the latent power Angwë possessed, but turning it to his own advantage. By imprisoning Angwë in this shape he was able to control him more fully by giving him cause to fear personal harm, thus making him dependent on him for safety. Long was his labour, and when he was finished, he led Angwë to a small pond so he could view his own reflection. A great mountainous monster he saw, with powerful arms and cloven hooves where his feet once were. On his head were great horns, and from his back wings had sprouted. Morgoth spoke more words of power, and Angwë involuntarily flicked out his hand. A great many-thonged whip of fire appeared in it, and in his other there was a mighty sword. Angwë grinned and roared. He was a Balrog.

"Now have I given thee a part of what thou desirest," Morgoth said, "now shalt thou make payment in full ere I release thee to do thine own will."

Chapter 6

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Morgoth's plan for Angwë was not simply to transform him into a Balrog and let him loose upon his enemies. He had to be fully prepared for the work he had planned for him, and this took time. In the process of transforming him, Morgoth had actually joined with him in spirit - he had effectively "married" him. The result was that he could connect on a spiritual level with his master, and fully belong to him and to no other. Indeed, there was so much of Morgoth in Angwë now that one could even argue that this new being was more of a child of the twain than a person who had merely been corrupted by him. Of course, there was a price for the Tyrant to pay - every time he did this thing, he diminished himself and thus became weaker. The stolen Silmarils, he had discovered, imparted no healing or any good thing to him, and did not aid him in his quest to rule over flesh and spirit. However, they did exude a certain virtue where living things grew, so he did receive some benefit from them.

Morgoth had many Balrogs. He needed them precisely because he had weakened himself in their transformation. By giving of himself, he had gained control over them and was one in mind with them, and he could use these extensions of himself to gain more power and control for himself. For this reason, he never turned down an opportunity to make another one, whatever the cost to himself.

While Angwë now looked like a Balrog and had a portion of his master's soul within him, he still retained enough of himself and his old ideas to be able to will and act on his own behalf. Morgoth knew this, and had a plan for dealing with it. Contrary to the ideas and opinions of many, he did not seek at any point to break the will of his Balrog, but to use it to his own ends. Therefore, he called Angwë to follow him and do certain deeds, ostensibly to prove his loyalty to him, but actually to compound and confirm the idea that had been planted in Angwë's mind the day Adzarek son of Halin died that he could never go back to Aulë and beg pardon for what he had done. Therefore, Angwë would believe that his only hope of security lay behind the towering walls of Angband.

Angwë had not yet truly known the piercing, soul-rending horror of real fear, and he would not truly belong to Morgoth until he did. For Morgoth alone of all the Ainur knew fear, and the horror of being so securely confined he could do nothing he wanted, and relied on others for his needs to be met. Angwë had been afraid; for his mountain and the damage it was suffering at the hands of the Dwarves, and of the consequences of the death of Adzarek; but he had never experienced fear the way that Morgoth had. Angwë had to be made to feel that fear to complete his bond with Morgoth.

Accordingly, Morgoth took Angwë deeper into Angband's pits than he had ever been before. "Today," he announced, "I will show thee a great secret: thou shalt see the creation of the Orcs, and thou shalt be a helpmate unto me in the making thereof."

---

Angwë dutifully followed his master down the steps to the pits, and as he did so, the fire he was wreathed with died down, until he was naught but a shadow of darkness, dragging darkness with him wherever he went. There was now no sword or whip - they had died down with the fire. He felt powerful, and full of rage and bile. Angwë was aware of his new connection to Morgoth, and while part of him rebelled, appalled at the notion that he could be so completely owned by another being, overall he understood that this was the price he had to pay if he was ever going to stand a chance of getting that which he craved: the return of ownership of Celebdil, the mountain he had made, to himself. Of course, there was no guarantee he would achieve that, but for the moment, the promise was enough.

They arrived in a large chamber. In the chamber, a number of Elves were chained to the wall. "Master, I crave leave to ask thee a question," Angwë said, his curiosity piqued.

"Thou mayest," Morgoth replied.

"For how long have these people been chained here?" Angwë asked him. Having Morgoth as a part of him meant that any desire or thought that he might have entertained along the lines of attempting to free these unfortunates was crushed before it took wing, though in a hidden corner of his mind, he felt some pity for them.

"For an hundred years," Morgoth replied, "They did strive to find a means of entering my stronghold, but mine Orcs took them alive as I bade them, and brought them unto me. Behold how I have starved them nigh unto death, but kept them alive by mine arts, so that they crave sustenance: any that I would provide them with."

So speaking, he took some foul flesh from a large wooden platter brought in by Sauron, and put it into a cauldron with a little salt and put it on the fire that perpetually burned in that place. As the stench of the cooking flesh began to permeate the room, he brought the cauldron within arm's length of the Elves. They were skeletal, desperately hungry and reached out as far as they could stretch for the cauldron. As they did so, Sauron unchained them, and they fell upon the flesh like animals. Morgoth turned to Angwë. "Behold their great hunger," he gloated, "so great is it that they knowingly feed on the flesh of their friends that besiege us even now outside the gates. I will continue to build on this foundation until they hold that they can never return to their own folk. On that day, they will begin to be mine."

"Master," Angwë started, but Morgoth cut him off.

"I have fed them thus these long years, and have chained them in strange shapes until they have gone mad. I have kept from them a view of the stars they love, and woven a net of despair in their hearts. I have poisoned them and given them the cure as hope faded for them that they might survive. I have locked them up, a score at a time in a cell built to hold but two, and thrown them small scraps to cause them to fight. By these means I have made them into creatures of mine own. More shalt thou make for me, using spies caught trying to spy upon us or runaways taken by those loyal to me. Sauron thy brother will help thee."

Sauron grinned wolfishly, obviously approving of the transformation Angwë had undergone. "It is good to be in league with you again, brother," he said.

Chapter 7

I wanted to explain that scene in which the Uruk emerged from the dirt at Orthanc in The Fellowship of the Ring. I had a great deal of fun reinventing biology!

Read Chapter 7

Angwë looked upon the wretched Elves that were, by now, little more than zombies. Though they had no true life any more, their transformation was not yet complete. The usual transformation period was one hundred and fifty years, because the process had to be slow enough to break the Elves' spirits without sending them to Mandos. They had to be encouraged to want to survive, so hope was never utterly stolen from them - they were allowed to dream of freedom in spite of their despair. It was by encouraging their natural self-preservation and competitive instincts that Morgoth had been able to twist them. Even as the near-Wraith creatures they now were, they had enough of their own wills to keep themselves alive and striving. Morgoth had usually made them one by one from those poor unfortunates he had managed to capture alive, but now he had a new order: to get the Orcs to breed.

There had been many failed experiments involving the torment and abuse of captured females from the races of both Men and Elves. These had failed for two reasons: first of all, in most cases the damage done by the abuse was so severe the women simply could not carry any sort of child to term even if enspelled; the other was that Elves in particular had the ability to choose when a child would be conceived. There was also the problem of disease, malnutrition and the effects of the poison/antidote regime: none of the Orcs was actually healthy enough to produce offspring. Now Morgoth could not end any of the processes he usually used as this would prevent the folk he had taken prisoner from becoming Orcs in the first place. Nonetheless, he needed an army to break the siege, which by this time had been in place for over nearly three hundred years. He was growing impatient, but so engaged was he with his other policies that he had delegated the breeding programme to Sauron and Angwë. Actually, the truth was, he could not bring himself to ever admit to failure - it was easier to have someone else to blame it on.

Angwë had hidden a small part of himself under layers of hatred and resentment against his former master Aulë and his Dwarves, using a mental process not unlike the physical one he had employed when building the mountain Celebdil. This was the only part of him that had not been subsumed by Morgoth when he had entered into the spiritual embrace that had joined him with him the day he became a balrog. He had done this to ensure that Morgoth would keep his part of the bargain, which was to let him go at a certain time in order to reclaim Celebdil from the Dwarves, who were even now mining it. He was afraid to let it manifest itself at any time while he yet dwelt with Morgoth in Angband, because his union with him would then grow deeper, strangling his own ideas and desires, leaving him as but a vessel for his lord to pour himself inside at will. The rest of him was like a child created by this union, and lived to serve his master. However, even this had a will to act of its own accord, which enabled him to do a spot of lateral thinking. This, he hoped, would provide him with the leverage he needed to free himself from Morgoth and this hateful place once and for all.

After some considerable time had passed in which he exhausted all the possibilities he could, Angwë conceived an idea that offered the solution that had eluded Morgoth for so long. Ever so often, Orcs would pour forth under cover of darkness to capture Elves (and occasionally Men) for their master. Angwë went out one night, scouting with an Orc patrol in order to see if he could find something to support his theory. It ran thus: if the Orcs could not breed of themselves because they had to be enspelled to have any semblance of life after all the damage that had been done to them, then something would have to be found that would thrive in a shattered, poisoned wasteland and blended with them. It was so simple a plan that only a genius could have thought of it. He therefore scoured the Ard-Galen plains, searching among the unburied Orcs' corpses, looking for some kind of fungus he could use. It was the custom of the enemy at that time to pile up the corpses of the Orcs and burn them, and it was here that Angwë searched for what he hoped to find. He used a spear he had found on the battlefield to poke and prod around the site until he believed he had found what he sought.

It turned out to be nothing, just a rotten piece of wood. He was still excited though, and determined to test his theory. He returned to the fortress and went deep inside until he arrived at the midden, where the refuse and the dead were dumped. Now the midden was adjacent to the furnaces where the tools and weapons of Angband were wrought, and the heat thereof was fierce. He poked about with the spear there, digging deep in places, until he found the thing he had so diligently sought. Digging carefully around it, he brought forth a strange, rotund, ugly bulging fungus, which throve there amongst the filth and fumes. The fact that it was to be found underground excited him the most, because it gave him the idea he needed for the life cycle he would need to set in motion in order for the Orcs to breed of themselves unaided. He dug up a few more samples and brought them to his brother Sauron.

"Brother," he announced gleefully, "behold! I have found that which our master has required for the breeding of his Orcs."

"What is this?" Sauron asked, curious.

"It is fungus, brother," Angwë explained, "from the midden by the main furnaces."

"And why," asked Sauron, "have you brought it to me? How can it be used?"

Angwë could barely suppress his excitement. "We shall feed it to them, brother, as it begins to spore. We shall..."

"What good is it, brother," Sauron interrupted him, "to feed them the very thing we use to poison them to make Orcs of them when this very process is what renders them unable to breed?"

"Allow me to continue, Sauron!" Angwë shouted. "I perceive that your vile cruelties have failed to produce that which our master desires! Give me leave, then, to do his will!"

"What is the meaning of this?" Morgoth rasped, his voice booming as he entered the chamber. Angwë and Sauron went as quiet as two naughty boys caught with the evidence of a stolen pie still smeared on their faces.

"My Lord," Angwë hastened to answer him, "I believe I have found a solution to thy problem."

"And what is that?" Morgoth moved closer to him to look at the curious objects he held in his hands. They looked familiar to him.

"My Lord," Angwë continued, "This is the fungus you usually use when making Orcs..."

"It is not," Morgoth contradicted him, "though it seemeth to be like it."

"My Lord," Angwë smiled, "behold! I took this from beneath the midden where the dead and refuse of this place are put, and I crave leave to apply mine idea: that by blending the Orcs with this fungus in a spell that only thou canst cast by means of the Silmarils, thou shalt have the means of the breeding thereof."

Morgoth gave some thought to this before making his reply. He had been applying himself to the preparations for a battle that would break the Siege of Angband once and for all. If Angwë's idea had any merit at all, it would be very useful indeed. He made his decision. "Go thou and essay this new plan. Mayhap it will provide the means for the breeding of mine Orcs after all."

---

Angwë grinned like an athlete receiving a gold medal and went to seize an Orc. He brought him before Morgoth and stood him before him. He checked the fungus to see if it was shedding spores - the state he needed it to be in for his plan to work. The spores were to act as a fertilizer in the cycle he wanted to set in motion. The fungus was not yet ripe, and would most likely not be for some time yet. Unfazed, Angwë held it up to Morgoth. "My Lord, now is the hour thou hast awaited. Put forth thy powers with the aid of the Silmarils and bring this fungus unto ripeness."

Morgoth was unsure at that point as to how this plan would work, but since, as he had heard Angwë point out to his brother, Sauron's methods were producing no results worth mentioning, he decided to attempt it. He concentrated on the fungus, singing songs of power, willing it to grow to a state of ripeness. Since his desire was for a living thing to grow, the Silmarils glowed brightly and the fungus swelled until a whitish powder began to form on it. Angwë then took the fungus and crushed it. Then he ordered the Orc to eat it. When he had done so, Angwë locked him in a cell near the furnaces. When the Orc had fouled in the straw Angwë carefully gathered it, bringing the Orc, his master and his brother with him, and buried it in a pile of warm slag. He bade his master to sing again, and to will the fungal spores to act upon the cells shed by the Orc as he defecated. As Morgoth sang, the Silmarils glowed and the spores went to work. Morgoth, as he sang, speeded up the process he was setting in motion. Therefore, it was not long until they all saw movement in the pile before them, and finally an arm was thrust out. Angwë and Sauron joined in, calling forth the Orc that was struggling for life in the dirt. Eventually, just as the song was ending, the Orc stood up. Morgoth was delighted, and he laughed. He had finally achieved what he had wanted from the beginning: a way of getting Orcs to reproduce.

Angwë showed the Orc where to locate the fungus, which was now enspelled to act as a fertillizer, and taught him to discriminate between one fungus and another. The new breeding process was repeated many times, until a mighty army was created. The "Brood Fungus" was carefully tended by dedicated Orcs, whose job it was to ensure a ready supply at all times. Now that the process was able to take place of itself, it was discovered that Orcs bred in this fashion took about two years to gestate in the warm slag until they were born full-grown. They would then live for about one hundred and fifty years. Sauron was displeased with his brother over this, and a rivalry sprang up between them after that, for he was jealous of his brother's position as the new favourite.

---

Morgoth was delighted with Angwë's breakthrough, and began the planning of a great battle to end the siege on his realm once and for all. He called Angwë, Sauron and his chief officers to a private chamber to discuss this. "Sauron," he said, "I shall loose the dragon Glaurung on mine enemies at the gates, to spew forth fire upon them. As they flee in panic, thou shalt lead the first wave against them. Angwë will follow with a contingent of balrogs and annihilate any who survive the first assault."

This plan seemed good to them all, and when it was carried out, met with greater success than they had imagined. They poured forth from the gates of Angband like a mudslide down a steep mountainside and overwhelmed their enemies, who fled in panic before the flames and the terror of the dragon, who disported himself among them like a hungry cat in a room full of mice. Morgoth gloated as wave after wave of Orcs, balrogs, trolls and other monsters laid waste to their enemies' battle lines, destroying all before them. Flags and banners disappeared in the distance, fallen underneath an overwhelming flood of dust, smoke and the dead and dying. The screams and shouts of battle were music to his ears, and the horrors unfolding before him like a well-choreographed dance. Grinning with pleasure, he sat back and waited for his troops to return, and when they did, he was pleased to discover that many of his chief enemies had been slain.

"My lord," called Angwë as he returned to his master, "I have captured this Man. He is Húrin, an ally of Turgon of Gondolin. We found him alone, surrounded by a great pile of Orc corpses that he had slain himself, with this," he said, handing a two-handed axe to Morgoth. Great notches had been chipped from its blade, and it had clearly been put to good use. "What shall we do with him, my lord? What is thy will?"

"Take him to the pits," Morgoth ordered. He had special plans for this fellow.

Húrin spat contemptuously. "I will tell thee nothing!" he declared. "No matter what foul things thou dost to me!"

Morgoth grinned hugely. "We shall see about that, frail Man!"

---

Húrin sat chained to a wall in a stinking, filthy cell, bewailing his fate to himself. Pain shot through every joint. They creaked and cracked whenever he moved. Often, he thought of his family, and how much he missed them. If he could only see them - have just one glimpse and know what fate had befallen them! He missed his children, his wife and his home, and knew that they would never be together as a family again. Grief welled up in his heart, and despair held in him a tight grip, squeezing hope from every pore.

As he sat there suffering, Húrin knew that Morgoth was suffering too. It gave him some cold comfort to consider that merely sitting there in a state of horror and grief while refusing to give in to his enemy's demands was making Morgoth look weak in front of his minions. It was the knowledge of this fact, which grew more apparent every day, that gave him the strength to continue to defy the Dark Lord. Gritting his teeth, he decided to continue with his strategy. If he kept it up for long enough, he would win by default. Morgoth would have to give up sooner or later, and Húrin would be freed - most likely by death. Grief overwhelmed him from time to time, but his resolve never wavered. It was the only thing he had left.

---

Frustration reigned in Morgoth's heart as he sat in his private audience chamber, considering his options. Húrin had suffered more than he had ever seen anyone endure, yet he continued to defy him. Was he mad? All he had to do was surrender, but he refused. "If I could just destroy his will and force him to submit to me!" he raged, pounding his fist on a table. "But he refuseth utterly to even speak to me!"

Angwë and Sauron stood before him, silent in contemplation.

Morgoth turned to Angwë. "This stubborn man doth refuse to answer yea or nay to all of my entreaties," he complained, "though his body be racked and burned and his soul tormented beyond anything I have essayed before. How then shall I deal with him?"

"My Lord," Angwë replied, "set him free."

Sauron stared at his brother in horror. "What foolishness he prates!" he cried. "Thou hast not asked me for mine own advice, my Lord."

"And what would thou suggest?" Morgoth asked him.

"I would discover the whereabouts of his family," Sauron began, before Angwë cut him off.

"My Lord," he argued, "threats and promises have not worked heretofore. My suggestion is, let him go unharmed, and with a guard of honour. Surely thou knowest of the distrust this would engender among his people?"

Sauron jumped like a schoolboy with his hand up in class, knowing the answer. "Wilt thou not curse him?" he asked.

"I will do both," Morgoth said, as an evil smile spread across his battle-ravaged face.

Chapter 8

Read Chapter 8

Angwë and Sauron looked at each other, trying to work out what would happen to Húrin when their master cursed the Man, then released him. Due to their efforts over but one year, his hair and beard had gone snowy white and sparse, and his oft-broken legs could barely support him. Morgoth looked at the man where he sat chained in his lonely cell and made a decision. "Angwë," he said, "take this Man upstairs to the highest peak of Thangorodrim and there bind him to a stone seat with a spell. I will weave the spell of doom upon him. His fate will be so dreadful, the horror of it will stain his name like blood on a warrior's garments."

Angwë nodded his compliance, carrying Húrin up the stairs, who shuddered visibly in the arms of the balrog, his deep-lined face contorted in horror at the touch of the evil creature.

Morgoth himself followed them with Sauron trailing behind. When all was ready, Morgoth wove a powerful spell of great evil. It was similar in part to the one he had sung in the turning of Angwë into a balrog, but the difference was this: Húrin would be bound to Morgoth for as long as he lived, seeing through his eyes yet having no power to affect things around him. The spell would cause his body to remain in a state of suspended animation, frozen to the chair but his mind would be alert with the awareness that Morgoth had. Grinning, Morgoth left him sitting there, looking lost and frightened, but still defiant. He had much to do.

---

In his private audience chamber, Morgoth discussed his war plans with his lieutenants Angwë and Sauron. "The Elves and their allies are rebuilding their shattered realms. We must be ready to meet them with greater strength than before," he announced. "More Orcs must be bred to counter any host that comes against us, lest we find ourselves besieged again. To thou, Angwë, I give the task of increasing mine host and the arming thereof, for I will have dominion over Middle-earth. Build siege engines and devise new weapons for me, for I intend to make war upon Elves and Men before they can regain their strength."

Angwë bowed respectfully as he took his leave.

Morgoth turned to Sauron. "Go thou and ensure that my borders are kept safe. Take a census of mine host and tell me the number thereof, and their kinds. See what can be done to make them greater and more terrible. It is my desire that the mere thought of them will terrify my foes, turning their bones to jelly and their blood to water. Send out spies and tell them to find out what strength our enemies have and where they are, so that, when we next make war on them, we will be prepared. Then go to the lands of the Southrons and Easterlings, and persuade them to join us if thou canst. And send for Artíre the Watcher. I wish to speak with him."

Sauron bowed to his master and left the room.

A short while later, Artíre entered the room. A Maia who was usually invisible to all but his fellow Maiar and other spirit creatures since he never took a solid form, Artíre was adept at sowing discord, causing people to mistrust one another and creating panic. Morgoth found him very useful, and had long had him in his employ.

"Artíre," Morgoth ordered, "go thou to Doriath and seek out Túrin son of Húrin, for his mother has sent him there to be fostered by Thingol king of the Elves. Set enmity between him and his Elven protectors, and do what thou canst to bring about his demise."

Artíre bowed and left at once, leaving his master alone.

Morgoth sat at the table, brooding. Something about one of his servants had come to his attention: while he, Morgoth, had been depleting himself in his efforts to subvert all of Eä and to bring it under his sole control, Sauron had allowed himself to be pulled along in his wake but made no real sacrifice. Morgoth had been dimly aware of it, to be sure, but it was becoming an issue now because the time would soon arrive when he would be surpassed in strength and ability by Sauron, and this he would not tolerate. In fact, as Morgoth considered this, he became bitter. In the past, he had not felt threatened by Sauron because he had proved himself faithful in every way. However, the possibility that Sauron was simply biding his time until he could one day supplant his master could not be ignored. If Sauron could be induced to give of himself in some way, perhaps in the creation of new monsters, that would make him a little weaker, an no longer a threat to his master. Angwë was not a consideration. He and Sauron were rivals for Morgoth's favour as it was, and keeping them apart would prevent them from joining forces.

---

In his seat on the mountaintop, Húrin sat and saw through Morgoth's eyes the stirring of pride in his son Túrin, knowing what was likely to happen as a result. He saw his wife driven from her home by his enemies and his people destroyed.

Sometimes, there were unexpected victories, which gave him hope that he might yet see the destruction of Morgoth and the end of the doom laid upon him. Húrin laughed out loud when Beren and Lúthien came to Angband and stole a Silmaril from Morgoth's iron crown. The idea that Morgoth could be so humiliated made his suffering almost worthwhile, as he was able to feel the burning shame that filled the Dark Lord.

However, such victories were always short-lived. Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears followed soon afterwards, and began the destruction of the realms of the Elves. Retaliating for Húrin's gloating, Morgoth showed him the loss of his friends and their agony as they lay dying from horrible wounds, surrounded by monsters who tormented them for as long as they could. Húrin grieved for this, and as he saw the rise of Haudh-en-Ndengin, the Hill of Slain, which was built of the dead Elves and Men that fell on the plain of Ard Galen. It stood right in front of the main gates at Angband. Húrin saw all this from his stone seat, and was so frozen by the spell that held him he could not even weep.

---

Drifting invisibly near the outer edge of the woods at Doriath, Artíre looked out for the young Man. He knew him when he saw him, for he looked like his father. Was Húrin proud of his son? More than likely, for he could see him, but through Morgoth's eyes. This view would be tainted, of course, but if Artíre knew anything at all about Men, it was this: they would cling to hope where they could find it, however marred it was. Fathers, he had learned long ago, loved their children even if they were vexed with them. Morgoth would never be able to destroy Húrin's love for his son, but Artíre knew he would try to do so, nonetheless.

---

Húrin saw through Morgoth's eyes how his son and heir went on to make an enemy of a counsellor of Thingol, Saeros, and slay him during an argument that got out of hand. Túrin then killed the two best friends he had among the Elves, mistaking them for Orcs come to torment him. Húrin sat mute in helpless grief as he watched the destruction of Nargothrond and its people. He saw Túrin fall in love with his own sister, marry her and make her pregnant, thinking they were unrelated. When Túrin slew Glaurung the Dragon, it was no comfort to his father at all. The victory was empty for him because Glaurung told Túrin of his error before he died, and Túrin's horror was so great he fell on his own sword. When his sister found out, she threw herself off a cliff. Anything Túrin achieved dissolved in bitterness and ashes, breaking his father's spirit as much as his body.

---

When the Elf-realm of Nargothrond fell and Túrin was dead, Artíre returned to Angband to report to his master Morgoth. He went at once to the throne room, where Morgoth was holding court surrounded by his lieutenants and servants, who waited silently to be called forward to speak to their lord.

"Twenty eight years have passed since I ordered Húrin bound to his seat," said Morgoth, looking pleased with himself. "It is time to release him."

"Will Men not feel some pity for him?" Artíre asked.

Morgoth grinned an evil grin, beaming his wickedness around the audience chamber. "I have yet some plans for him ere I release him from my grasp. Easterlings I have chosen as an honour guard. Rich clothes and a fine horse to ride upon will be provided for my guest, and all will know that he is held in high esteem in Angband."

"Great is thy cunning, my lord," said Artíre in awed tones.

Morgoth smiled and turned to his lieutenants. "Sauron, how do thine endeavours fare?"

Sauron moved forward with a swagger in his step. "My lord," he announced, "I have worked long and hard in the improvement of thy Dragons, and I believe that, with thine aid, we may produce a Dragon that breathes fire and can fly. Trolls and Werewolves are increasing in number."

Morgoth nodded his approval. He already knew the figures, which Sauron regularly reported, and was pleased with his progress. "Angwë," he said, "what of thy labour on the weapons I instructed thee to make?"

"My lord," Angwë told him, "the tests on the siege engines are going well. I have fashioned a battering ram and a device that can shoot many arrows at once. Moreover, the weapons and gear for Húrin and his honour guard are ready."

"Good," said Morgoth. "Thou and thy fellow servants have done well. Go now and fetch our guest, that we may send him away with gifts fit for a friend of Morgoth. I will not have it said among Elves and Men that my hospitality hath been found wanting."

Smiling, Angwë bowed to his master and went to fetch Húrin, the Easterlings and all the gear he had made for them.

Morgoth looked around the room and gauged the mood of his followers. They were jubilant and full of pride in their own and their lord's achievements. If he sent them out to battle then and there, it was more likely than not they would win outright. There was more to be done, though, for Morgoth's plans for Middle-earth to be fulfilled.

Chapter 9

Any questions you may have about Sauron's feud with Artíre the Watcher or the incident in which Beren came to steal the Silmaril are answered in Artíre's Choice , Artíre's Revenge and Lords and Lordship . Basically, Sauron felt threatened by Artíre's neutral stance and forced him to take sides with Morgoth. The Watcher was annoyed about this...

Read Chapter 9

The work in Angband continued apace as Morgoth and his forces prepared for the battles they would need to win if they were going to take over Middle-earth. Everyone worked hard, playing their parts and doing their duty for their lord, proud of what they had already achieved.

In his workshop near the main furnaces, Angwë brooded as he worked in his Dark form. 'I am estranged from the Valar, and only held in regard by creatures I despise. I have permitted myself to be made into a Balrog, but have I gained? Nothing! What a fool I have been! I have been deceived for too long. Well, if Morgoth will not give me my dues, I shall take what is mine whether he approves or not!'

Angwë lifted his hammer up over his head, bashed the support strut he was making a bit too hard, and it broke. "This is my existence!" he roared. "Everything I put my hand to is either wrenched from my grasp, or I end up breaking it! Why can I keep nothing I make? Why must it always end in misery?" The Balrog threw his hammer down in disgust and stormed out of the workshop.

Orcs scurried away at his approach. They were accustomed to his moods, but he had been ferocious lately, flying into rages for no apparent reason. One of them went to fetch Sauron, hoping he would be able to calm Angwë down, or at least get to the bottom of his upset. The Balrog had killed a dozen of them in a single month, and they were in terror of him. Even the mention of his name made them shudder.

Angwë was sitting miserably on the slag heap near the main furnace when Sauron found him. "What ails you, brother?" he asked.

"Why should I tell you anything?" Angwë replied in a surly tone. "Are you not responsible for this?"

Sauron sat down beside his brother. "I have no idea what you mean, Angwë," he soothed.

"You do not know?" asked Angwë, resentment hardening each syllable as he looked away from his brother, unwilling to make eye contact with him.

"Angwë," said Sauron, sincerity shot through his words, "if I knew how to help you, I would. Are you not my brother?"

"Sauron," Angwë replied, turning to look him in the eye, "you betrayed me!"

Sauron stood up and walked away, then stopped and turned. "How can you possibly say I have betrayed you?" he asked, clearly outraged.

"I gave up everything to serve Morgoth," Angwë retorted, "in the hope of getting his help to drive the Dwarves out of my mountain Celebdil. So far I have received nothing even close to this. It has become Khazad-dûm, a great mine and realm of Dwarves. I want revenge on the hairy little beasts for their destruction of my caverns and chambers by their greedy mining!"

Picking up a piece of slag, Angwë flung it against the wall, where it shattered.

Remaining in his position, Sauron folded his arms and faced his brother. "Do you honestly believe I lied to you by persuading you to join us?" he asked. "We have been under siege by our enemies, beset on every side, and your one concern, all along, was for a big rock? Angwë, understand this: your concerns are merely for your vanity project, which you were only enabled to do because of our master's endeavours in wresting Middle-earth from those who would fetter us and make us thralls to the Elves and their friends. There are greater and more important things to consider than Celebdil and your feud with the Dwarves. I would remind you, brother, that the mithril you put in there in the making thereof is used by them to make weapons to attack us with. If I were to remind our lord of this, he might not be as favourable towards you as he has been so far."

Angwë flared up, his whip sprouting from his left hand, his sword from the right as he stood to confront Sauron. "Are you threatening me, Sauron?" he asked, cracking his flaming whip.

"Yes indeed," Sauron replied, his voice calm and cold. "If you persist in thinking only of yourself and not of the greater good, I shall have no other choice."

"Is that so, brother mine?" Angwë roared, fury burning in his eyes as hot as the flames he was wreathed with. "Was the greater good on your mind, Sauron, when you tried to drag me into your feud with Artíre the Watcher?"

"Who are you to speak of the greater good, Angwë," snarled Sauron, "when your selfish desire to stay neutral has left me diminished and our master humiliated? I was fighting for him. Where were you when our enemies came to plunder and destroy us? Artíre made a name for himself that day, but I have heard nothing of your deeds."

"I played my part," said Angwë, "but those of us with nothing to prove do not tend to make an impression, for we feel no need to draw attention to ourselves."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sauron asked, irritation in his voice.

"It means I fought as fiercely as I was expected to, and therefore nobody noticed anything extraordinary about my conduct when the Eagles came," the Balrog explained. The whip and sword melted away, retracting into his hands. "There is no profit in starting a feud with me, Sauron. One should be enough for you. What do you want of me?"

Sauron sighed. "Your rages are becoming more frequent and destructive. I understand you are frustrated because you have not yet received that which you desire, and have an idea that may win you some favour with our lord, if you are willing to consider it."

"You have my attention," Angwë replied, after a short pause. He was suspicious of Sauron's motives, since turning to him and Morgoth for help had got him nowhere nearer to reclaiming his mountain than his previous efforts had.

"If you could find a way to recover the stolen Silmaril from the Elves," ventured Sauron, "I am sure Lord Morgoth would be pleased to oblige you with anything your heart desired. Including the return of Celebdil to your control."

Angwë reached for the proffered lifeline, and seized it. "If I do this, he will give me my dues?" he asked hesitantly.

"He will be so grateful," said Sauron, "I am sure he would find it hard to refuse you anything you asked of him."

"Then I shall do it," Angwë told him with conviction. It was no guarantee, but was close enough to one to be worthwhile. It was bad enough that Sauron was aware of his weakness, and Angwë wanted no-one else to know how jealous he was for his mountain. He would have to carry out his plan by himself.

---

Appearing to the Man in a dream, Angwë wore the guise of Húrin's friend Finrod as he told him to go to Nargothrond, which had been sacked by the forces of Morgoth, for there was something of interest there. "Go, Húrin," Angwë told the Man, "for you were ever my friend, and I know how much you have suffered. I want to give you something that will benefit you, and it is waiting for you there, for none of Morgoth's people has touched it. They have no idea it is there."

Húrin twitched in his sleep, mumbling incoherently. "What is it, Finrod? You have not told me what it is," he replied.

"You will know it when you see it, my friend," said Angwë, smiling benevolently. Why could Men not just accept what they were told? Must they always ask questions? Anxious to avoid more of them, he slipped out of the Man's mind. Morgoth had taught him long ago that the best way to get a Man or Elf to destroy himself was to pique his curiosity, then leave him to get on with the business of self-destruction with minimal interference.

The next day, Húrin left his camp at once and went to Nargothrond. There he found the Nauglamir, a famous necklace made by the Dwarves. Húrin knew at once that this was the item Finrod had promised him, and brought it to Thingol king of Doriath.

Regularly popping into Húrin's dreams, Angwë was delighted when Húrin left the Nauglamir at Doriath, for he knew the king also had the Silmaril, and would want to display it in the most suitable setting: the Nauglamir. While Angwë knew well that the Elf-smiths of Doriath were perfectly proficient, he also knew the pride of Elves was as great, if not greater, than the pride of Men. It seemed reasonable to Angwë to assume that Thingol would engage the makers of the fabulous necklace to add the Silmaril to it.

Though he could not reach Thingol in his dreams, Angwë could still reach the Dwarves in theirs. Prodding at their natural mistrust of strangers, he appeared to them as Khaghar Lord of Miners, and warned them to beware of the Elvenking of Doriath, who would steal what was rightfully theirs if he could. "Trust not the king of the Elves when he bargains with you, but take what is due you whether he permits it or not," he told them. "There is a jewel, bright and beautiful, that he will withhold from you if he can. Do not let him keep it from you, for it is my gift to you, and you are entitled to it."

The plan worked better than he could have imagined. The Dwarves turned against the Elves, and they attacked and killed Thingol in a dispute over payment for their work in mounting the Silmaril in the Nauglamir. Grinning with glee, the Balrog followed their progress in their dreams as they fled the scene of their crime. However, word came to Angwë later that Beren, the Man who had stolen the Silmaril from Morgoth's crown, fought and killed the Dwarves, then gave the jewel to his wife Lúthien, Thingol's daughter. Disappointed, his hopes dashed, Angwë rushed out of his workshop in a towering rage, flared up, and roared his fury all around the pits of Angband for a week.

---

Bowing as he entered Sauron's office, where the Deceiver was checking the records to ensure they were up to date, an Orc announced his presence. Morgoth's forces had been in many battles, and there had been some losses, including Dragons, Trolls and Balrogs. These were nigh impossible to replace, and Sauron knew Morgoth would need to be aware of the numbers of his hosts of Orcs and monsters before he considered going into battle again. "Yes?" he asked the Orc.

The Orc lifted his ugly head. "Sir, Lord Angwë is upset again," he said diplomatically.

"What is wrong with him this time?" Sauron asked, irritation making him slam the sheaf of papers onto his desk.

"I do not know, sir," replied the Orc, who seemed anxious to get out of there. He twitched and gasped, looking nervously around, wringing his gnarled hands.

"Very well," sighed Sauron, "I shall attend to him." This was ridiculous! Had he not offered his brother an opportunity to gain Morgoth's favour, and thereby regain his precious mountain? What was wrong with the Balrog this time? Seething with resentment at Angwë's apparent desire to embarrass him all over Middle-earth, Sauron followed the trail of destruction that was no doubt the result of Angwë's most recent tantrum. He found his brother inside the main chamber of Thangorodrim's highest peak, crouching on a ledge with his huge arms wrapped around his legs, still aflame with fury.

"Angwë, what ails you this time?" asked Sauron, approaching his brother with caution. It was best to keep one's distance from an angry Balrog.

Angwë snorted and said nothing.

"Angwë, if you do not tell me, how can I help you?" Sauron asked, inching closer, but making sure of the exits. If his brother attacked him, he might not be able to recover.

Sauron was still weak after his diminishing when Beren came to steal the Silmaril. A Maia could not die as other creatures did, but if they were embodied and their body was destroyed, they could be diminished. This had happened to Sauron, who could not afford to have it happen again. Fear gripped his heart as he moved closer to his brother. Sauron was much more afraid of what Morgoth could do to him, and was anxious to calm Angwë down before their master could ask questions about Angwë's conduct and the reasons for his rages.

The Balrog sat and stewed for a while, then said, "Sauron, why have you come here? Do you wish to torment me further? Are you not satisfied with having made a fool of me?"

Moving closer, Sauron replied, "I do not understand, brother. Why are you accusing me thus?"

"Did you not say, brother," Angwë snarled, "that if I recovered the Silmaril for our master, he would be delighted and would find it hard to refuse me my mountain?"

Sauron stopped dead in his tracks. He knew the story of the attack on Doriath, and had been quick to capitalize on it, urging Morgoth to take what advantage he could of the situation. Had Angwë been responsible for this? "Angwë," he said, afraid of what the answer might be, "tell me what you did."

The Balrog sat in silence for a while as his flames died down and went out. The whip and sword had long retreated into his hands. He had been feeding on the energy of the volcano to remain aflame. "I am so frustrated I know not where to begin," he confessed. Sighing, he continued, "I persuaded Húrin to go to Nargothrond, for I knew there was a treasure he could offer to the Elvenking Thingol of Doriath, who had fostered his son. I knew what Thingol would do with it."

"What are you talking about?" asked Sauron, intrigued. How did Angwë persuade anyone to do anything for him? Did his brother have an ability he had not spoken of? Could this be useful to their master?

Angwë fell silent. Clearly he believed he had already said too much. His surly attitude filled the chamber, making Sauron twitch with discomfort.

"Angwë, will you not tell me what the treasure was? Surely the Silmaril was not housed at Nargothrond?" Sauron questioned.

"The Silmaril was at Doriath, you fool!" Angwë snapped. "I know what you want, Sauron, and I will give it to you - a chance to report me to Morgoth and have me imprisoned or sent on a mission I am bound to fail to humiliate me. Then he will have the excuse he requires not to give me what he promised me. Oh wait - have you not done that already?"

Sauron's curiosity overcame his fear. Angwë had calmed down, his fury abating to irritation. A few harsh words could not harm him, so he went to sit beside his brother. "Angwë, tell me what happened," he insisted.

The Balrog sighed. "I sent our former guest to Doriath with the Nauglamir, a necklace made by the Dwarves. I knew Thingol would ask them to set the Silmaril in it. I entered their dreams as Khaghar and told them to beware of Thingol, that he would withhold the Silmaril from them. It worked. They went to Doriath and slew Thingol, stealing the Silmaril, which they claimed was theirs."

"You can enter people's dreams?" asked Sauron. "Why did you not tell us about this?" If Angwë was withholding this information, what else was he hiding?

"You already knew!" snapped Angwë.

"I knew you could do it before you were transformed," replied Sauron. "I had no idea you retained the ability. Did you enter Húrin's dreams?"

"Yes," Angwë sighed. "It was possible because enspelling anyone creates a connection to them. I could enter the dreams of the Dwarves because I had aided Aulë in their making. I entered the Man's dreams and told him to go to Nargothrond. He chose to go to Doriath himself, and by entering his dreams, I was able to discover what he was doing. He thought I was his friend Finrod."

"And your plan failed," said Sauron, drawing the obvious conclusion, "because Beren, who brought Huan here to diminish me so he could steal the Silmaril, attacked the Dwarves and took the jewel from them. I presume he gave it to that Elf-maid of his."

"That he did," agreed Angwë. "Now it is beyond our reach, for I cannot enter the dreams of anyone who could get near to it. When Morgoth finds out, he will be furious."

"I think not," replied Sauron, a grin spreading across his face. A plan was forming in his mind. "There are others who desire the jewel, Angwë. I think we ought to let them know that it is in the hands of Thingol's daughter, and that the protective spells that used to encompass Doriath are no longer in force because Melian the Maia, wife of Thingol, was so terribly distressed by her husband's death she fled to Valinor. She was the one who kept us out with her magic, and now she is gone, we can enter at will. Now we have not the strength to go openly against them, but I am sure you are aware of the principle that the enemy of our enemy is our friend."

"But Sauron," said Angwë, hope raising the tone of his voice, "the Noldor Elves who might attack them hate us too. Would they not prefer to side with them now and deal with the issue of the Silmaril later?"

Sauron's grin spread wider as he looked his brother in the eye. "Not if I have anything to do with it."

Chapter 10

Lonnath is the name I gave to the town at the Havens of Sirion where Elwing and Eärendil lived. Details of my version of events there are in my story Stolen.

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In the throne room of Angband, Morgoth sat in darkness and fumed. Everything he put his hands to was going wrong. It was easier to blame his underlings than accepting responsibility for his failures. Glaring at a spy who had returned from the frontiers, he received his report.

"My lord, I have bad news," said the Orc, who cowered before his master.

"What is it?" snarled Morgoth, and leaned forward to terrify him more. It was the only thing he was going to succeed in that day.

"S-sir, there was a survivor from Doriath," the Orc replied, trembling violently.

"Many survived the slaughter at Doriath!" Morgoth shouted.

The Orc went quiet, too frightened to say anything else.

"Is this a game to thee? Must I bring forth each answer from thee by force?" Morgoth roared.

"P-please, sir," the Orc stammered, "I went out to spy on 'em and this is all I know. Dior had a daughter, Elwing, and she just married Eärendil son of Tuor. His mother is Idril daughter of Turgon of Gondolin. They have the Silmaril, sir."

Morgoth sat back and considered this. Scions of two Elf kingdoms he had ordered the destruction of still lived and defied him. "Where do they live?" he asked in calmer tones.

"In Sirion, my lord, in the Havens. Lonnath," replied the Orc, growing braver.

"Go," said Morgoth. Magnanimity spread across his face and poured out in his words. "Thou hast done well." The Dark Lord scanned the room and sought Artíre the Watcher. "Artíre," he said to the rebel Maia, "I have work for thee."

Obligingly, Artíre stepped forward. "Dost thou desire the Kinslayers to work for thee again?" he asked.

"Indeed I do," replied Morgoth, pleased with this servant who could anticipate his desires. "Tell them their jewel is in the hands of Elwing daughter of Dior. Remind them of their guilt, their shame and their Oath. Prod them where they are most tender, and lead them to Lonnath."

Artíre bowed as he left the room.

Morgoth sat back and grinned. The Kinslayers had served him well before, though they were his enemies. Now in their desire to fulfill their Oath to their father to retrieve the Silmaril, they would serve Morgoth again by attacking Elwing. The irony tickled him, and his laughter rang out around the throne room.

---

Sauron hastened to his master's side, carrying a bag of items to ease Morgoth's discomfort. Years of diminishing himself to make Balrogs and other monsters had weakened him, and his wounds no longer healed. The wounds he had received when Angband was last under siege had never healed, and he still walked with a limp. Furthermore, while he had previously had the ability to take on and shed his physical form at will, he was now trapped in his hurting body, and no spell of any devising could reverse his decline.

Entering Morgoth's private chambers, Sauron was distressed to see the pain his master was in. That could so easily happen to him if he was not careful. "Master, here I am," he said, squeezing sincerity into every syllable.

Morgoth crouched in a corner, hugging his legs. His crown burned his head, but he would not take it off. The last person to suggest he should had been flayed alive. Sauron tried not to look at it while he knelt beside his lord. "I have flayed some Elves just this morn for thee," he soothed. "Their skin is more robust than that of Men, and I have fresh blood and morsels of flesh here."

"I thank thee, Sauron," Morgoth replied. "My pain easeth when I hear thy footsteps echo in the corridors when thou comest unto me."

"It is my pleasure to serve thee, master," said Sauron, wincing as he applied the salve he had enspelled, bandaging his master's wounds with the skin he had taken from the Elves. "I wish there was a way to ease thy discomfort forever!"

"When my Silmaril is restored unto me," Morgoth answered, "my healing will begin."

Sauron did not reply to that, knowing the truth: touching the Silmarils burned the likes of Morgoth and his minions. Letting his master delude himself was an act of cruelty, but what could he do? He needed to have something to hope for, or he would slip into despair, and what would happen then? He was half mad as it was. The thought of preventing Morgoth from ever getting hold of the Silmaril was far from Sauron's mind, however. If it took root, and he followed his inclinations, they would all be finished. Was it not this kind of division that was destroying the Elves? Let them go down to dust and ashes with nothing to show for it! Greater beings than them would soon rule Middle-earth, and they would be forgotten.

---

In his workshop, Angwë was busy devising a new battering ram when Sauron entered. "Brother," he said, "I bring tidings of great danger."

"Hail, Sauron," Angwë replied. "Your news is not new to me," he shrugged. Must Sauron always interrupt him at crucial moments?

"What do you mean?" Sauron asked, putting a hand on Angwë's shoulder. "And look at me when I am speaking to you!"

Angwë turned around, flinging the ram onto the floor. "I will have to start again because of you, Sauron!" he roared. "Why have you come here to tell me what I already know?"

"What do you know?" asked Sauron. "How could you possibly know?"

"I know Eärendil son of Tuor sailed away with Elwing and the Silmaril to Valinor, and that the Valar are coming to make war on us. This is why I am making this," he told him, pointing to the floor. "I have to start again, now. You should not interrupt me when I am at this stage!"

"How did you know this?" asked Sauron. "I only just found out myself!"

"I was outside, receiving a load of iron ore, when Artíre returned from his mission," said Angwë. "He told me to get ready for war. The Elves are preparing to meet the Valar when they arrive with their host, then they will all attack us. We must prepare ourselves."

"Did he say when?" asked Sauron, furious that the Watcher had told Angwë about this first.

"He knows not," replied Angwë. "Nonetheless, forewarned is forearmed, so I am making siege engines and rams to assault their strongholds when they arrive. I do not think it would be wise to simply sit here and wait for them to besiege us again."

"Then I shall leave you to get on with your work," said Sauron, obviously trying to recover his sense of superiority.

Angwë snorted as he picked up the ram and broke it up to melt it. The Watcher's tidings troubled him, but he preferred to throw than to catch. When the Valar came to Middle-earth, he would be waiting for them.

It did not occur to him to even consider the implications for Celebdil, for his mountain was the last thing on his mind when his survival was at stake.

Chapter 11

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It was a particularly dark and gloomy day when Morgoth, Sauron, Angwë and Artíre took counsel together at Angband. Misery permeated the atmosphere, bitterly spiced with a horrible sensation that something had gone completely wrong. Sitting uncomfortably in Morgoth's private reception room, they discussed the events at Lonnath in Sirion and the ramifications of the loss of the Silmaril. They had come so close to retrieving it for their master, but it had been snatched from their grasp. Morgoth wanted answers.

"Ye have all failed me," Morgoth spat his Maiar servants. "Whence has the stolen Silmaril been taken? Surely ye know! Ye have all utterly failed me!"

"My Lord," Sauron tried to reason, "we yet have the twain, they are still in thy crown."

"Aye," Morgoth countered, "and a pretty sight they be, but Maedhros our chief enemy considereth even now how to wrest them from me. He believeth in his heart that I am grown dotard, and ye are but clowns that serve to amuse me. And so ye are! Behold, ye have indeed rid me of the Elvenkings Fingon, Thingol and Turgon, but their seed doth endure. Their line continueth! I forsee that they shall eventually precipitate our doom, yea, even to the death of deaths!"

Silence filled the room like cold water poured into a goblet.

Angwë spoke up, "My Lord, what preparations can we make for our defense? For lo! I perceive thou seeth rightly indeed, and we must make ready for the assaults of our foes. Ever have I seen that the Silmarils would be our bane..."

Sauron gasped in horror and slapped him hard. "You dare to speak ill of them?" he asked incredulously.

"Let him speak," Morgoth said, surprising them all, "for though he speaketh from the trouble of his heart he speaketh aright. Verily the light that shineth so fair from them deriveth from the light of the Two Trees of the Valar. I had hoped to discover therein the secret of the Flame Imperishable from which all life taketh its existence. Think ye that I take pleasure in all of this? I have ruined all that was made by the Valar because I hated them. Envious I was of the favour they had received of the One while I myself was forbidden the rule of a realm of mine own. Fain would I have made objects and people of wondrous beauty, but this was denied me; so I worked to the despite of them all, yea, even of mine own brethren, who now seek to enchain me again."

"My Lord," Artíre asked, "could it be that we may use the Silmarils that remaineth to entrap those who seek them? Behold, all who look upon them are caught up in their spell, and desire them even unto their own doom. Behold, brother hath turned against brother and contendeth with him for the sake of these. Therefore could we make murderers of any, be they ever so virtuous. Send me, and I will whisper unto them of the Oath of Fëanor and the consequences thereof."

Morgoth considered this. Though their plans had ultimately led to little more than a series of burial mounds and burnt-out city ruins, the one thing they had been successful in was the subversion of proper relationships. Using pride, greed and guilt, they had brought all Elvendom to its knees. The only followings with any power now were those of Maedhros at Himring and of Círdan at the Isle of Balar. These had been sundered by the recent Kinslaying at Lonnath, by the Mouths of Sirion. "Our hope, then," he said quietly, "is in despair. They will not unite now, not even to defend themselves from us. Let the Orcs breed, and Dragons and Balrogs alike prepare for war. Let the Valar come if they will. We will be waiting for them, and together we will bring destruction to this Middle Earth."

---

Some time later, Artíre rushed into the throne room at Angband, anxious to bring a report to his master.

"Hail, Artíre. What news?" asked Morgoth, leaning forward. He needed good news, and at the moment, it was scarce.

"I bring grim tidings, my lord," replied the Watcher. "I know where the stolen Silmaril is now."

Morgoth sighed, shaking his scarred head. "It is in the hands of the Valar, Artíre. I could have told thee so. Did Elwing not leap from the cliff with it in her grasp? Ulmo, who hath rule of the sea, loveth the Elves and looketh ever to their welfare. Didst thou not tell me of the rumour that the Peredhel did fly like an albatross into the arms of her husband Eärendil? They bore it to Valinor. For this deed, it may well be that they will be permitted to dwell on some isle near the sacred shores, never permitted to set foot there. Such is the fate of those who serve the Valar and do their will!"

"Nay, my lord," said Artíre. "Go out and look to the skies. There wilt thou see the Silmaril, for it has been set there as a star that moveth Westwards every night."

Morgoth stood up. "Prepare ye for battle. They are coming. Artíre, call the Spiders from their hiding places and send them into the forests to harry my foes. Whisper unto mine enemies and turn them against each other to prevent them from uniting against me. Remind them of the Oath of Fëanor, the keeping of which hath ever brought more benefit to us than it ever did to them."

The Watcher bowed and left the room.

The Dark Lord turned to Angwë. "Call the Trolls, Orcs and Goblins. Send them into the hills and help them to dig traps and build walls. Arm them well and lead them into battle. Go forth and engage in battle with the forces of the Valar, sending Easterlings against Men, Orcs against Elves and Spiders at them all. I will aid ye by causing Ered Engrin to spew fire and smoke, making a roof of smoke and ash that will permit mine host to fare forth in the hours of daylight."

The Balrog bowed and left the room, obeying his lord.

Morgoth called Sauron. "Bring forth thy Werewolves and my Balrogs. Thou wilt keep this stronghold against our foes, and supply mine host with all they shall require. I shall wear down mine enemies in a war of attrition which will last for many lifetimes of Men."

---

In Beleriand, the once fair lands suffered much as war wreaked its havoc upon it. The formerly verdant fields were striated with defensive trenches and pits. Long scratches were gouged into them by huge wheeled catapults and other assault machines as they were dragged along. Earthen and stone ramparts were raised to protect troops from both sides, and bodies and wreckage lay littering the once fair meadows.

Great hosts of Elves and Men fought for many years against the forces of Morgoth, heartened by the presence of Eonwë, herald of the Valar. Even the Kinslayers did their share, heeding not the whispers of Artíre, whose voice grew ever more strident as he reminded them of their Oath.

"Elwing took but one Silmaril with her when she leapt into the sea," the Watcher reminded them. "The two that remain are in the crown of Morgoth. If a Man and an Elf-maid could so easily break into Angband to steal them, what keeps you from doing the same?"

"We will go to that thieving monster when we have aided those we have done so much to harm," Maedhros replied in thought, believing it was his own guilt he addressed.

"Murderer!" Artíre accused. "You slaughtered babes in arms in the name of the Oath! Have you no shame for the evil deeds you did? Know you not that any of those people you now try to aid will turn on you and slay you if they see you?"

"Morgoth is a monster and a maker of monsters," Maedhros replied, "and we are also monsters of his making. Let him take his share of the blame for what we have done. Had he not stolen the Silmarili, there would have been no Oath, and we would have our father and our home in Valinor still."

Frustrated, Artíre knocked on the door of Maglor's heart, hoping for success there. "Your brother's resolve to keep the Oath grows weak," he insinuated, hoping to break their bond by fomenting discord.

"'Tis in the keeping of the Oath that we have both grown weak," Maglor replied gloomily. "No-one will receive us with honour any more. Were it not for the Oath, we would have friends in every town and village on Middle-earth. As it is, we are hated by some and despised by all."

"Morgoth may receive you yet as friends, since you have none among your own kind," Artíre suggested, hoping to win them over. "If you relinquish all hope of regaining the jewels, you will find a warm welcome in Angband."

"Aye," replied Maglor, "in the fires of Ered Engrin! We have done enough to anger him as much as anyone, and I will never believe the word of the one who bears the most responsibility for the troubles we have endured for so long! Did he not kill our father and our father's father? Why would he spare us? If redemption can be won by daring deeds, we shall earn as much as we can in the hope of being permitted to be numbered at least among the lowest of the Elves."

Artíre went away, discouraged. Every argument he advanced was trumped by the reasoning of the sons of Fëanor. 'Hope and despair war with equal strength within them, and this makes them fell indeed on the battlefield,' he complained to himself. 'If my efforts go awry with them, I shall go to those people whose grudge against the Kinslayers has not diminished, though ages have passed since those fell deeds were done.'

In the ear of Gil-galad, High King of the Elves, the Watcher whispered, "The forces of Morgoth close in on every side. If you do justice on the sons of Fëanor, giving them what their deeds deserve, the Elves will rally more swiftly to your flag."

"I need them on my side, for they are fierce in battle," Gil-galad replied, thinking he addressed his inner self. "Besides, Eonwë, herald of the Valar, is here. I dare not do anything that might make him think badly of me. It is the Valar who will judge the Kinslayers. It is not for me to do, whatever my rank among Elves."

"But what of your obligations to the Elves who were harmed by them? If they are slain by the forces of Morgoth, would that be justice?" Artíre pleaded.

The Watcher was getting desperate now, for being ignored was making him irrelevant in the war. If he could no longer persuade Men and Elves, what good was he to his master, except as a spy or another soldier? His reputation would suffer and he would lose his standing at Angband. The idea that he would be perceived as a failed troublemaker was not one that sat well with him. He must succeed, but how? If he could only turn Gil-galad against the Kinslayers so that he would not merely tolerate them but actively seek him out to attack them, Morgoth would win a great victory by default. There would certainly be fewer enemies to contend with the Dark Lord.

"Let justice attend to itself," Gil-galad replied. "I have many battles to fight ere mere justice can be considered at all. The needs of the moment far outweigh the considerations of even the most worthy of causes."

Giving up on the High King, Artíre sought out other Elves, hoping to find even one who might see things the way he wanted, but without success. The presence of a common enemy put all vendettas aside, with no hope of prosecution until the war against Morgoth had been decisively won. "Curse Elves and Men and all their virtues!" Artíre roared into the night. "Are there none who value furious vengeance over the common good?"

No-one answered, and any who heard the Watcher mistook him for a blast of wind or a roll of thunder. It was this, more than anything else, that annoyed the Watcher. The best he could do, in the end, was encourage the Orcs and other monsters to fight to the utmost of their abilities. In that, at least, he did not fail, though he dared not return to Morgoth.

---

In the hills and mountains, Angwë's efforts bore some fruit, but he was frustrated by the fact that few people fell into his traps and that none of them would go to the mountains when there were enemies enough on the plains. He had to move down there, away from places of relative safety, to engage them. Moreover, the weapons provided by the Valar were superior to his, inscribed with runes of protection for Elves and Men, but with doom for their enemies. Sometimes one thrust of a sword or a spear was enough to destroy even a Balrog. Many of them perished, and Angwë began to know fear as Morgoth knew it.

He dared not think of his mountain. Indeed, it had mostly slipped his mind. Morgoth rode his heart and soul like a Man riding a horse, turning him this way and that, according to his will. Angwë's thoughts were no longer his own, and the more desperate Morgoth became, the more Angwë felt it. He held his lines as best he could, but the Host of the Valar overcame him at last, and he was forced to retreat.

To Angband he went, with the vanguard of Morgoth's forces, to shore up the defences there in case of a siege. When he arrived, all was in chaos.

Making his way to the throne room, Angwë presented himself to his lord.

"Hail, Angwë, what news?" Morgoth asked, clearly desperate to hear something to lift his despair.

"My lord," said Angwë, "I dread to tell thee, but the news is fell. The forces of the Valar and their allies have overrun Beleriand, and most of thy Balrogs, Spiders, Trolls and other monsters have been slain. We have retreated here, the better to defend thee. They are coming!"

"All is not yet lost," replied Morgoth, a wicked grin spreading over his haggard, scarred face. "I have a new weapon, a new monster not seen before in Middle-earth. Let them come, for when they arrive, we will be waiting for them. Have you any word of Artíre?"

"No, my lord," Angwë told him, "but I doubt he has fallen. Our enemies have grown more virtuous in the presence of the Eonwë, herald of the Valar. Methinks they mean to impress him in the hope of bringing more of the divine ones hither. The Watcher's mission to turn the Elves against each other has failed, so he spends his time turning Orcs and others towards thee and to the battles they must fight if they are even to survive this war. Those efforts are indeed meeting with success. Those commanders and others he hath encountered speak of inspiration to a greater commitment to thee."

"It is well," said Morgoth, "that Artíre doth make some contribution to the war, when his other efforts availeth him not. Would that others of my commanders and soldiers could bend their thoughts to the benefit of my cause as he hath done. Go now and see what thou canst do to build up mine host, for our enemies draw near to the gates, and the siege will soon begin."

Bowing as he left the room, Angwë went throughout the stronghold, taking an inventory of all the troops and equipment he could in order to develop a strategy for the defence of Morgoth's realm.

There was no provision for the healing of the wounded, the weakest simply went to the wall because they had always been easy to replace. Now this was causing a problem because, while Men and Elves had healing tents to tend to the wounded and aid their recovery for their return to the battlefield, Angband had not. Therefore, when they lost Orcs or Balrogs, they had to breed more. Morgoth was already too depleted to be willing to risk creating more Balrogs. Besides, there were no longer any Maiar on Middle Earth who might be willing to join the losing side. Orcs were their only hope now. They took two years to breed, but that was two years they no longer had.

Deep in the bowels of the stronghold, Angwë discovered Morgoth's new weapon. The Dragons he had seen before were great Worms with mighty scales and iron teeth and claws. They could breathe fire, but they could not fly. Morgoth, by dint of continual experimentation, had finally created the apex of his ingenuity: the flying Dragon. Ancalagon the Black would take wing at the opportune time, break the siege and clear the way for his fellow flying Dragons to rout the enemy once and for all.

Back in the throne room, Angwë reported to Morgoth. "My lord," he said, "the situation is grim, but we can hold out for some time. Orcs we have, but are fewer in number than we need. Two years we need to breed each one, and I fear that time may not be enough to build the strength we need. The Winged Dragons are a great boon, and may yet prove our salvation. I ask that thou wouldst consider this request: we need to make provision for healing the wounded, that they may be returned to the battlefield instead of being left to die."

"Do what thou wilt," replied Morgoth, "for I am making thee commander of the outer defences. Sauron I need to aid me in the making of more monsters, and in improving those I have. Do thine office well, and I will reward thee."

---

Choking on the dust and ash outside the gates of Angband, the Host of the Valar took their positions. Already they had seen things that were so foul and ugly, they would never forget them. Vile deeds had been done to those who did not die straight away on the battlefields of Beleriand, and the vast majority of the Host had come not just to put an end to the oppression of Morgoth, but to avenge themselves and their friends. It had to end, once and for all in a final, decisive victory; and if Morgoth would not repent, he would have to be punished. Few of the people surrounding the realm of the Dark Lord had his welfare at heart. Most of them wanted him to refuse any offer of redemption so he would be cast into the Void forever, and they would never have to deal with him again. Some of them remembered how he had smiled at them when feigning friendship when he dwelt in Valinor, and would never be able to trust him even if he truly repented.

Eonwë made his way to the gates and shouted, "Melkor, now called Morgoth, come forth! Come hither and surrender, that justice may be done upon you! Great is the evil you have done. Come forth now or you shall surely fall in ruin with all you have made."

The parapets appeared to leer at him, sticking up like teeth in an old pervert's mouth. Eonwë shuddered. The purity and light of Valinor had not prepared him for the experiences he had suffered. Horrible sights afflicted his memories daily, tumbling through his consciousness like a rock rolling down a mountainside, dragging others with it. The sooner this was over, the better.

Morgoth answered him not, but Sauron came up and stood on a platform above the main gates. "Who are you to oppose the strongest of the Valar? A mere herald? Or have you been promoted, Eonwë?"

"Sauron!" shouted Eonwë. "Is this the best you can do? Of all the great deeds you planned to do, the magic you declared you would impress us all with, the best you can manage is the torture and murder of innocents using the twisted wreckage of the Firstborn? What profit is there in that? Come, now. Surrender to us, and you will receive mercy."

Sauron laughed. "I have a gift for you, Eonwë," he said. "Stretch out your hands to receive it!" With that, he threw open the gates, releasing the Dragons. Ancalagon the Black rose up behind him, flapping huge feathery wings.

Screaming in terror, the Host scattered to the four winds as the Dragons wreaked havoc among them, breathing torrents of fire upon them. They curled like parchment in the heat of the flames, overwhelmed with pain.

Then Angwë blew a trumpet and led out all his strength. Balrogs, Orcs and Spiders there were, mingled with those of the Easterlings who had survived the Battle of Sirion. Angwë flared up, flames bursting forth, his wings spreading out. His whip sprang from one hand, and his sword from another, and he launched into battle with Eonwë himself. He flapped his wings, trying to fly, but found that he could only jump. The wings made him look fearsome though, and he used them to that effect.

"Angwë! Surely this is Angwë before me?" Eonwë shouted.

Angwë stopped in his tracks.

"Angwë!" Eonwë repeated. "What fell fate has brought you to this pass? I never took you for a thrall of Melkor."

Angwë faltered. Morgoth reared inside him, taking over, and he lunged at his former fellow.

"Angwë!" Eonwë cried, understanding. Now he himself understood the implacable hatred Elves and Men had for Morgoth, for he was no longer a mere witness. Morgoth was his enemy too, now, for Angwë had been a friend. "Fight him! Why should you perish with him?"

Angwë fought on. He and Eonwë continued thus until suddenly, a great crash was heard. They both looked around, momentarily stunned. Ancalagon the Black had fallen, driven into the ground by Vingilot, the ship of Eärendil, which soared above them. The light of the Silmaril shone forth from it, bringing hope to those survivors who had escaped the flames of the dragons.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Eonwë lunged at Angwë with his shield, knocking the Balrog over and pinning him to the ground. Focussing all his strength, Eonwë bent all his thought on the towering walls in front of him, and the whole roof of Angband was laid in ruin and the mountains were levelled.

At that moment, Morgoth, who was further weakened by the loss of every Balrog that was slain, lost his grip on Angwë. Eonwë saw the fell light in his friend's eyes go out, and the sword and whip melted away, though the Balrog form remained.

"Angwë!" Eonwë said again as he helped his former friend to his feet, "Now you are free. Come and beg pardon of Aulë your master. Surely you were cozened and had little choice in this matter."

But Angwë was silent, even as Sauron surrendered, standing beside his brother. "You must go now to Valinor for judgement," said Eonwë. "Repent and bow before them, and they will surely show you mercy."

Eonwë then set about the digging up of the pits, layer by layer, until they found Morgoth, who was cowering in the deepest one. Tulkas the Wrestler, champion of the Valar, came then and pulled off his iron crown. He twisted it into a collar and ripped out the Silmarils. Then he brought forth a huge chain and wrapped it tightly around Morgoth while Eonwë vengefully hewed his feet at the ankles. Tulkas dragged him away to Valinor, where, this time, there was no mercy. Morgoth was cast into the Void at once.

---

As he watched his master being dragged screaming away wrapped in chains, Sauron looked at Angwë and said, "All the work of two Ages is being dismantled. I will have to either give up the dreams of lordship I have cherished and submit to a servitude I cannot bear, or flee into the East with whoever will come with me. Will you come?"

"No," said Angwë. "The last time I agreed to join you, I was turned into a Balrog and used to do foul deeds, believing that this would lead to the return of my mountain, Celebdil, to my control. I got nothing but pain and servitude for my troubles, and have been so corrupted by the service of Morgoth I know not what to say to my former fellows in Valinor. I will never be able to look them in the eye again. I know I do not deserve to be forgiven, nor do I believe I will be. Besides, I still feel anger towards them for forbidding me the enjoyment of that which I made with my own skill. If Aulë can have his Dwarves hallowed and given life of their own, why can Angwë not have and keep his mountain?"

"That is reason enough to join me, Angwë," said Sauron. "Together, we could wreak revenge on our enemies."

"I have no desire for vengeance," Angwë replied. "There is no profit in it. I want Celebdil, and I shall have it. This time, I will not be thwarted. Farewell, and think not of me when you have a plan to do harm in this world, Sauron, for I will not take part in your schemes again. You betrayed me once, and that is enough. You are my brother only in name."

With that, Angwë left Sauron and went to his mountain, which he meant to reclaim, however marred it was now. No-one had ever listened to him or taken an interest in what he wanted. Only when they wanted something from him did they seek him out, and Angwë was determined that he would never be used like that again. He walked from the battlefield, glad that nobody noticed he had not gone to Valinor as he was expected to.

Chapter 12

Read Chapter 12

Angwë hid in the shadows, a hunted thing. He wanted to return to Celebdil, the mountain he had made. Celebdil. Celebdil. It was like a chant, a song of power that kept him going. Moving from shadow to shadow, skirting the various armies and patrols that stood between him and his goal, he was afraid, terribly afraid.

Memories rushed in an unwanted torrent through his head, tormenting him with accusations of complicity in terrible acts of cruelty.

The instruments he had made to torture Húrin with; the weaving of the spell to lock him into the seat at Thangorodrim; and the making of the weapons and armour to send him tottering away on twisted, oft-broken legs battered an invasive tattoo on Angwë's conscience.

Húrin's croaking voice clutched at his heart, "Is that the best you can do, foul monster of Morgoth, or is there some viler act of cruelty you can devise to make me scream the louder for your pleasure? Do you dance when I sing for you?"

"I do what I must," Angwë replied aloud, as if his memory was real. "I only made the..." he trailed off. It was a paltry excuse, and he knew it.

The weapons and machines used to attack the Elves and their friends had been made by Angwë's hands.

What would Aulë his master have said if he had seen them? "Why did you make these things, knowing the use they would be put to, Angwë?"

"I did not force them to use them! Surely we are responsible for our own choices and actions and not those of others, whatever is put in our way," Angwë whispered, but he did not believe a word of it.

He knew what his former master's response would have been. "Why did you make those choices and actions so easy for them?"

"Because," Angwë answered the imaginary Aulë, "I craved my mountain, and believed that if I obeyed Morgoth, I would be rewarded by being given Celebdil as a realm of my own."

Deep in his heart, Angwë knew he deserved to be cast into the Void with Morgoth, and to be separated from all he knew and loved forever. Had he not been warned that his lust for his mountain would come to this? Another memory floated into his consciousness like a feather blown on a breeze.

In the Ring of Doom at Valinor, Angwë was on trial on charges of desertion and treason against the Valar. Arguments had been made for and against him. Finally, judgement was pronounced:

"Angwë... The penalty for such vanity will surely be paid, not only by you but by any who seek to claim any part of creation in Eä, and call it his own. This doom I pronounce: you must relinquish all claim or title you believe you have to any piece of land in Arda, or your own lust will consume you. "

As the memory bit into his heart, Angwë recoiled. 'I will not own these charges,' he thought. 'Let those who make them look to themselves before they blame me for anything. I go now to Celebdil, for which I have suffered so much.'

---

Heading eastwards towards the mountains, Artíre complained to himself as he went looking for a place to hide, 'This is the second time I have had to flee from former comrades. Why could I not have been left to pursue and report on drama without being forced to take sides?'

The fact that he had chosen Morgoth's because it offered more scope for excitement was not one the Watcher wished to face. 'Sauron has so much to answer for!' he wailed. 'If he had not enticed me to lie to the Elves, I would not have been inveigled into his schemes.'

Artíre had never had a mentor or master among the Valar. He had nominally served Manwë king of the Valar, but was never particularly loyal to him. 'I will not return to Valinor and beg pardon of Manwë,' he thought. 'I would rather be counted among the rebels than conform to his standards of purity and light. The life of the Valar is to give and to serve, and that I will not do, for there is neither profit nor entertainment in that for me.'

---

As he fled south, Sauron searched for evil creatures he could take into his service. Monstrous Spiders had once lived in the lands he was travelling through, and with them he could set up another realm if Orcs could not be found.

He remembered how Morgoth was dragged in shame from the deepest pit of Angband, quaking with fear and begging not to be chained again; the screams as his former master's feet were hewn off to prevent any further attack or attempt to escape. A great chain was brought forth, the iron crown was unceremoniously ripped from Morgoth's head and made into a collar, the Silmarils torn out. He would forever recall how the dreaded chain was attached to the collar and Morgoth was dragged on his belly like a snake, howling in anguish all the way to Valinor as his stronghold was torn down to its very roots.

"I will not permit myself to be so humiliated," Sauron said to himself. "I will not hide in a place from which I cannot escape, and I will make the Elves pay for their role in aiding the destruction of my lord's realm."

---

The foothills of the Misty Mountains were verdant and beautiful. As Angwë travelled through them, love for his mountain, which he could see in the distance, rekindled to its former passion. He knew Dwarves dwelt there, and had, most likely, done more damage to the caverns and cave systems he had so carefully wrought. While, as a Balrog, he could easily terrify the Dwarves into leaving, he knew he would need Orcs to help maintain his realm. Angwë started searching for them in the hope of finding a group who had the Brood Fungus they would require in order to breed. All of those creatures who were naturally drawn to Morgoth were too focussed on the here and now to join a new dark lord, though. Here, they risked detection and destruction by the Elves and the forces of light. Now they needed to keep on moving until they were far from their enemies.

As time went by, the effects of having been in Morgoth's service began to wear off. For an Age he had been as a child of himself and Morgoth, his true personality and attitudes buried. Now that Morgoth was gone, layers and layers of influence and memory sloughed off his heart like the skin of a shedding snake. He realised for the first time how vile, filthy and violated he felt. Like a prostitute whose pimp has died he felt empty and alone, wanting, needing the presence of his master while resenting him for making him feel this way. There would always be a part of him that clove to Morgoth, and for that very reason he hated him. He also hated his brother Sauron, whose taunting had brought him to this pass. And where was Sauron now? Skulking in the wastes of the East, no doubt. How he despised him now. He remembered how he had met Sauron in Middle Earth, and threatened to go and get Tulkas the Wrestler, champion of the Valar, to arrest him.

"Tra la la lally indeed," Sauron had sneered at him.

"I have been no better than Sauron this past age,"Angwë sighed, "and that is why I hate him so much, for there was a time when I was."

As time went on, Angwë found his thoughts and feelings spinning and twisting like a dandelion seed in the wind. One moment he would wish to be back in Angband with the people he had known and worked with for so long, the next, he was furious with Sauron and Morgoth for making a Balrog of him and inducing him to do the most appalling things for no personal benefit.

'Oh, Sauron,' he wept in thought, 'we are brothers and you betrayed me. You let Morgoth lock me up for one hundred and fifty years to prove I would be obedient to him in everything - this was the exact amount of time Morgoth usually took to make an Orc of an Elf! Was this a joke or a test?'

He tried to imagine Sauron's answer. "You complain, brother, that we made you do the most appalling things. You did those appalling things of your own volition. If I remember aright, you found the Brood Fungus that allowed us to make more Orcs more quickly. Hardly the act of one who was appalled. Your chief complaint, though, is that you derived no benefit from it. Was being made a lieutenant of Morgoth entrusted with his deepest secrets and access to his person at will not enough? Oh, yes, you wanted that huge rock of yours as a realm of your own. It was not ours to give you, Angwë. You only came to us because you, a Maia, were too fearful to take it back yourself. You wanted us to do it for you."

"That is a lie!" Angwë roared, though there was no-one to hear him. "If I had attacked the Dwarves and driven them from Celebdil, my master Aulë the Smith would have been angry. I feared a Vala more powerful than Morgoth! I asked you to help because I could not contend with a Vala by myself."

A small voice of reason spoke up in his mind. "Could you not go back to Valinor and accept whatever punishment they give you? Surely it is better than being dragged back?"

"No," Angwë replied to it. "They will accuse me of blaming others for my actions, and tell me I had no share in a world I helped to build. I will go to Celebdil and hide myself away there. If the Dwarves are permitted to continue their destructions of my work, no-one will realize I am there."

Thinking these things, Angwë made his way to the Misty mountains. He went East, ever Eastwards, until he arrived in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. At this point, he was in his usual Dark form; a great cloud of darkness, dragging darkness with it. As he approached the higher ground, he felt the strangest sensation. As one of the builders of this particular range, Angwë knew that something cataclysmic was happening. He could feel the very foundations of the earth groan in travail beneath him, as strata of different rocks and magma masses moved against each other. These very forces he himself had called upon when building in this place. He had stretched forth his will, called magma and basalt up from beneath the ground, and pushed and pulled them into the desired shapes. The weather of the world he had used to continually renew and reshape his work in a natural cycle.

Memories of building in the earliest days of existence came flooding back, and for the first time in many Ages he felt pure, innocent. He stretched forth his will and tried to perceive the nature of these events and form a plan to deal with them. Deep below him, something slid into place. A feeling spread through him, a sensation of loss and great mourning. Something had changed, and was lost and gone forever. Middle-earth would never be the same again. Now it was a real place in which the immutable laws of gravity and physics held sway. Magic was fading, and the waning of the Elves was beginning. Eventually they would be gone, the Dwarves would be gone, and Men would remain.

---

Near a huge dark forest, Artíre the Watcher stood warily. There was something among the trees that terrified him. Not knowing what is was that put such a stern warning in his heart was the worst thing about it. Curiosity made him want to go in and find out what it was, but the pressing need to find a place to hide was ever in his mind, tapping away like a woodpecker on a tree. As he skirted the forest and made his way towards the Misty Mountains, he became aware of the approach of a familiar presence.

"Hail, Artíre, what news?" asked Angwë.

"There is something in here, Angwë, and I know not what it is," the Watcher replied. "I am pleased to see you have escaped the clutches of the Valar. Have you found a place to hide from them?"

"I know of a place we both can go to," Angwë told him, "but we have to gain entry first."

"I will help you if I can," Artíre replied, "but I know not what I can do. Something has changed. I can feel magic leaching from this world, and the fact that I cannot go to the one I left behind frightens me. I will have to take a solid form or I may fade and be gone forever."

"I want to stay in this one," said Angwë. "Celebdil anchors me here, and if I fade, I fade."

"Is that where we are going?" asked Artíre. "Are we going to hide among the Dwarves?"

"Yes," Angwë replied. "We need a diversion to gain entry, and then we shall go to the deepest parts and hide there. The living Dwarves will cover us, for it is well-known that I loathe the changes they have made with their delvings."

"That," Artíre told him with a grin, "is an excellent plan."

When they arrived at Kheled-zaram, the Mirrormere, Angwë told him what he wanted of him. "Go now, enter the water of the lake and there transform yourself into a mighty monster. Drag unwary Dwarves to their deaths! In that way, I shall be avenged, and the search for missing friends will cause the gates to be opened that I may go inside."

"I will," replied Artíre, "after darkness has fallen. Eagles fly above us, and I fear being seen if I step out from among the shadows."

Later on that evening, a Dwarf brought his pony to the lake to drink.

Artíre waited for the creatures to get near enough, then he pounced, sending his many tentacles to wrap around them.

As the dwarf and pony both screamed and struggled with all their might, people began to leave the comparative safety of the mine to see what was going on.

Artíre's attack was so swift that none of them realised exactly what had happened; all they knew was that a Dwarf and his pit pony had by some means fallen into the lake and were drowning. Pitiful streams of bubbles rose, slowly becoming sparse, as the life left the two living things. The bodies were never found, and the lake was considered haunted ever after.

In the melee, Angwë slipped unnoticed intro the mine. As soon as he was inside, he looked around him and saw those pillars that had so offended before. They were huge, and there were now more of them than ever. He went down to the deepest part of the cavern system, seeking no contact with anyone, and there he laid himself down to wait out the centuries.

---

Deep in the mere, Artíre settled down to bide his time. He decided he would keep the monster form. It was a good shape to wear while hiding at the bottom of a deep lake, and served him well for many, many years.

Slowly, the connection between Middle-earth and Valinor waned. A point would eventually be reached where the two worlds would be sundered forever. As this was happening, Arda fell deeper under the rule of the laws of physics while magic faded and became little more than a shadow of what it had been. This was affecting Artíre because he was losing the ability to take shape at will. He was getting stuck in his monster form, and this inability to build a body by the power of his will or slough it off meant that if anything happened to his body, he could die, or at least be reduced to a mere spirit of malice that gnawed itself in the shadows. As this knowledge crept into his consciousness, he began to feel fear. He remained in the lake, unwilling to expose himself to the possibility of coming to harm.

---

The Dwarves continued to mine the mountain, but Angwë no longer cared. In fact, he had moved so far and so deep he actually ended up under Caradhras. There, at the very root of the mountain, he made himself a den and settled down to slumber the ages away.

"So," he wept to himself, "it has come to this: in the place I desired as a realm of my own, I hide like a thief, hoping the owners of the house do not notice he is there! But I am the builder of this house! This is so unfair, and I have no-one to go to who will take my part. All of them will say Celebdil is naught but 'a huge rock,' and that I love it more than I should. Is it strange for a father to love his child, as my former master Aulë loved the Dwarves he made? They delve in my mountain, bringing to ruin every effort I made."

Mired in self-pity, Angwë looked through a rose-hued lens at his part in the building of the Misty Mountains, the construction of Celebdil and the things he had done to get the Dwarves to stop mining in his mountain. Conveniently, he forgot that he had expended every effort he had made to gain control of Celebdil trying to get other people to do it for him.

"So be it," Angwë complained, "that which I intended to be my home shall serve as my tomb. I shall seal myself in here for all eternity!"

Though his body and heart were locked up tight, sometimes Angwë felt his brother Sauron tugging at his consciousness, particularly when the Deceiver wanted him to aid him in some scheme against Elves or Men. Furious at Sauron, and blaming him for his predicament, Angwë refused to answer his summonses.

"I will not aid you, Sauron, false brother that you are!" Angwë roared in thought. "If I come, will Eonwë not return to bring us both to justice? My sense of justice does forbode it, and overwhelming guilt and shame agree. Begone, and trouble me no more!"

"Coward!" Sauron's voice called in his mind.

"Fool!"Angwë responded. "Ask Artíre, if you want help, and see if the drama you provide is enough to make him leave his lake for you!"

There was no response to that. There never was. The feud between Sauron and Artíre was never resolved, and never would be. Forcing him to take sides against the Valar when he desired to be neutral had turned the Watcher against the Deceiver forever.

---

It was in the Third Age that something happened that brought an end to the relative peace Angwë had experienced. It was Durin IV, king of the realm, who was responsible. He stood outside the main gallery that led into the cavern complex that housed Angwë. Gathered around him were his chief miners and engineers, and various attendants. "My fellow Dwarves," he said grandly, "we are gathered here this day to celebrate the delvings of the roots of Caradhras. At this point I acknowledge Halin son of Gombur, whom we all agree is Halin the Prop Master reborn from ancient days, who was responsible for the magnificent Pillars of the Great Halls of the Dwarrowdelf, among other things; it is he who has brought us safely to this point without bringing our home down on top of us."

Halin bowed, first to his king, then to the rest. They all applauded him.

Durin continued. "My fellow Dwarves, I gladly receive from Halin's hands this mithril pick to begin the excavation of this new tunnel. Great wealth awaits us!"

Everyone applauded as the king ceremonially chipped away at the wall for a moment. He stepped to one side. Other miners took his place and worked away as the king and his attendants went to eat from the buffet that had been set up nearby. Durin gave the mithril pick to an attendant - it was solely meant for ceremonial use.

---

Angwë was not certain at first as to what it was that had disturbed him. There was something like a scratching sound. More than a sound, it was a sensation of something approaching, encroaching on his space. Angwë laboriously unfolded himself from the crouching position he had remained in for millennia. He felt stiff and sluggish, wanting to stretch, but he didn't have much space where he was. The Balrog needed to be ready for whatever it was that was coming for him. As he became more aware, he stretched forth his consciousness to determine what it was that was out there. Something was coming, but he did not feel an urgent threat. Whatever it was, it was familiar. It felt familiar. What could it be? Behind him, the wall began to crumble, then it fell.

An iron pick slammed into his back. Angwë spun, roaring his fury, lashing out as hard as he could. He hit rock. The punch knocked away the last barrier between himself and whatever had hurt him, and he smashed his way free. Angwë burst into flame, his whip and sword suddenly sprouted from his hands. His wings flared out on either side and he roared again, cracking his whip.

The Dwarves in the tunnel died instantly. Durin and his attendants rushed out to see what was happening.

Angwë set about them in a frenzy of rage and all of them died, except one who had prudently hidden under a pile of debris. As Angwë chased his tormentors away, this fellow had the presence of mind to stealthily make his way out of that place and up to the higher levels to raise the alarm.

More Dwarves came down to investigate, but only found dead bodies and no sign of anything else. They removed the bodies, cleaned up the mess and abandoned the mine.

A year or so later, Náin son of Durin arrived, determined to discover what had happened to his father. He searched the mine all the way through until he found Angwë, who chased him down and killed him.

Angwë ranged through Khazad-dûm, killing at will until it was completely devoid of Dwarves. Those he did not kill fled far away, and when the realm was empty, Orcs entered in. It was then that Khazad-dûm became known to all as Moria the Black Pit.

---

Angwë found a cavern to rest in big enough to be comfortable, but near to where the Orcs and the Goblins who followed them dwelt. He needed to be able to keep in touch with his guards in case of any trouble.

"How can I slumber," he complained to himself, "knowing that the Dwarves will return, whatever I do to keep them out? They think Celebdil is their own because they have made their mark in it. Their obsession may mirror mine in some ways, but I feel more rivalry than kinship with them!"

A tap on his consciousness caught his attention. "Do not let anyone realize there are Maiar here, particularly a Balrog," warned Artíre. "Some Elven warrior, wishing to make a name for himself, might draw unwanted attention to us."

"Aye," replied Angwë, "but I need you more than ever to help me fend them off, for they come to disturb me, however deep into the caverns I go. They dig, hacking at the rocks until they break my skin, then when I roar at them, they complain as if I were the one in the wrong!"

"That I will not argue with," replied the Watcher, "but nonetheless I deem it wiser to remain a nameless terror than to give them a word to call us by. Once they know what we are, they will know what to do. Keeping them in a state of confusion regarding our nature is the best course. Let the terror of Moria and the darkness therein keep them away."

"Will you help to drive them out when they come?" asked Angwë.

"I will do what I must to keep the peace we have when they are not here," Artíre replied, "but no more."

---

Years passed; years upon years. Every once in a while, Dwarves would come and Angwë and Artíre would work with the Orcs and Goblins to drive them away. It was relatively soon after the last incursion that Gandalf led the Fellowship of the Ring to Moria.

Artíre was the first to notice the Fellowship. "Angwë," he called to the Balrog, "look to your defences. A group of travellers approaches. There are Men, Elves and Dwarves... there is something strange about these people. I fear there is a Maia among them."

"How many are there? Is Eonwë among them?" Angwë asked.

"I know not," replied the Watcher. "I sense a great danger, the hand of destiny sits our shoulders. None of them is what they seem."

"Do what you can," Angwë said, "but do not move unless provoked."

The Watcher waited, and as he floated just beneath the surface of the pool, a rock hit him near his eye. Then another one. The water slowed the descent of the rocks so they did not hurt him, but Artíre was having none of this. He could hear a voice saying, "Do not disturb the water."

There was something about the owner of that voice that puzzled Artíre. The person seemed to be a Man, but had an Elven quality he could not quite place. Rising up to take a closer look, the Watcher became aware of a powerful pull on his consciousness. The sensation was so strong it was physical. Something familiar called to him. Sauron!

How Artíre hated the smooth voice that sounded like honey dripping off a spoon; it lulled the unwary into a false sense of security, then snapped the trap shut! He could feel Sauron's presence nearby. Apparently, the Deceiver was possessing this small creature that walked along the shore of the lake. Artíre had diminished Sauron before, and would do so again. He sensed that, if he could achieve this, Sauron's strength would be utterly spent and only a weak wisp of malevolence would remain - a memory, and little else.

The Watcher lifted some of his tentacles, snaked them towards the small creature Sauron inhabited, and grabbed him around the ankle.

"Help!" cried the small creature.

"Frodo!" the strange Man called, and hacked off one of the Watcher's appendages.

Another Man chopped off another one.

Artíre cried out in agony and dropped Frodo.

As he reared up out of the lake to exact revenge, this Man cried, "Legolas!" and an Elf shot him in the eye.

"Curse you, Elf!" Artíre roared, and lashed out at him.

Legolas fired arrow after arrow at him.

Furious, Artíre climbed up out of his lake, determined to destroy his tormentors. He succeeded only in bringing down a ton of rocks on top of himself and wrecking the doorway they had escaped through.

---

Deep in the bowels of the mine, Angwë felt a stab of sympathetic pain as Artíre fell beneath the weight of the rockfall. Fear squeezed him in an icy grip, and the Balrog felt real fear for the first time since the fall of Morgoth. Had the Watcher survived in some way? Could Artíre still help him? Whoever had the strength to slay the Watcher could also slay him!

Artíre had perished in a rockfall. The slayers had wrecked a part of his mountain! The Balrog wondered if they had perished with his former comrade. It was possible. Fury warred with terror in his heart, and Angwë struggled to contain the overwhelming feelings that engulfed his being. He needed to keep a clear head. Angwë stretched forth his consciousness to touch the minds of the Orcs and Goblins that served him, hungry for news of the intruders and to discover their intentions.

Some time later, word came to him that there had been a massive rockfall by the West Gate, which no-one could have survived. Angwë was satisfied with this until a massive racket echoed throughout the silent mines. Something clattered loudly down an old shaft, battering and clanging as it fell. "Go," he told his Orcs, "and find out what the cause of this noise is. The intruders you insisted were dead have gained entry to this place, perhaps to bring the Dwarves back to slaughter us all. Capture them alive if you can. I have plans for them."

---

With a rumble of drums, the Orcs and Goblins called their fellows to the fray, bringing a chained Cave Troll with them. Smashing down a broken door, they attacked the small group of people who waited in there, Angwë's orders ringing in their ragged ears.

The thud of arrows thumping into their bodies demonstrated a capacity for resistance they had not expected from so small a group. Even close up, in hand-to-hand combat, the strangers were able to hold their own. When the first sortie fell with the Cave Troll, they had to reconsider their options. A second wave rushed in as the strangers fled, and quickly surrounded them.

The strangers raised their weapons, ready to fight to the last, but their master's orders had been very firm: "Seize and hold the strangers. Do not slay them until I tell you."

Always they had heard their master's orders in their minds. He was a distant reality in their lives, and there were places in Moria where they feared to tread. They had never actually seen the Dark Terror of Moria, and never wanted to. As they stood facing their enemies, every instinct screaming at them to kill them, a faraway roar held them where they stood. It sounded again, louder this time.

They did not stay to see what would happen. Shinning up the massive pillars surrounding them, they fled before their master arrived.

---

Something called to Angwë, a mellifluous sensation of being stroked that left a bitter tang in his mind.

Sauron! What was Sauron doing here? "Begone!" he roared. "You have caused me enough trouble, now you come to disturb me after all these years!"

Something else impinged on his thoughts. Something that unsettled him: he could sense the presence of another Maia, maybe two. It was a trap! Fury flared him up and spread his wings. His sword sprang from his right hand and his whip from his left. "So!" Angwë roared. "Have you come to destroy me as you did Artíre? Come and fight, then, if you think you can! Fight!"

The Balrog was aware of his enemies fleeing in the face of his onslaught. Heartened, he advanced upon them, cracking his whip. As his enemies came into view, Angwë noticed they were fleeing towards a narrow stone bridge. If they escaped, they might bring others.

Putting forth his consciousness, Angwë concentrated on pulling down the brick walls on which the stairs were built. Those people were strong, but he had a weapon as great as the ones in his hands: fear. If he could terrify them, they would crumble before him like stale bread. Elves, Men and their Maiar friends might not be afraid of him, but a long drop might do the trick...

Approaching the bridge, Angwë saw the Elf, some Men and some smaller people make their way across. Barring his way, one of the Maiar, who looked like an old Man, shouted, "You cannot pass!"

Angwë cracked his whip contemptuously. "Who are you?" he sniffed.

"Go back to the shadows!" the Maia replied, slamming his staff into the middle of the bridge.

"Where is Sauron?" Angwë asked in thought. "Have you taken him prisoner? I can sense him. He is being carried away."

"You shall not pass!" the Maia before him insisted.

"Gandalf!" a small voice cried in consternation.

Angwë brought his sword down on a dome shield of power as he tried to cleave Gandalf in two, then cracked his whip.

Gandalf struck the bridge with his staff.

The part of the bridge on which Angwë stood collapsed, and he fell down into the chasm it had spanned. As he tumbled he lashed out with the whip, caught Gandalf by the ankle, and pulled as hard as he could.

Gandalf struggled to pull himself back up, and lost his grip on the smooth rock. "Run, you fools," he hissed to his friends. Then he fell.

---

Angwë's wings were useless. Morgoth had always been more interested in the look of a thing than in whether or not it actually worked. Angwë could flap his wings, but he could not fly. He could jump a good height, but he could not hold himself up in the air. But by spreading his wings at this point, he could slow his descent and give himself a reasonable chance of survival when he hit the bottom.

Gandalf tumbled after him with a determined expression on his wrinkled old face. Retrieving his sword as it fell beside him, he struck Angwë with it, over and over again.

Angwë swatted him, but to no avail.

Down down down they tumbled, falling further and further, into the deepest place in the cavern system. They crashed at last into an underground lake. The freezing water doused Angwë's fires, and he became a thing of slime instead.

Gandalf still struck out at him with all the strength he had. All over Khazad-dûm they fought, evenly matched, until they arrived at the stairway of Zirak-zigil, and fought their way up it step by step. Eventually, they arrived at the very peak of Celebdil and continued the fight there, as bitter winds blew snow in their faces.

Finally, Gandalf recognised his adversary as Angwë. "What have you done, you fool?" he asked him. "I never took you for a follower of Morgoth."

"You know nothing about me, old man," Angwë replied, "and it is not your place to judge me. I am no-one's thrall now, nor will I ever be one again."

"I know that you are wicked," Gandalf replied, "and I am come to bring your reign of terror to an end. Submit to me and to my sword and I will set you free."

"Submit to what?" Angwë replied. "Do you really believe that what you offer me is mercy? Each time I submitted to those people who claimed overlordship of me, they demanded my obedience and gave me nothing for it. Now you call me wicked and say I must submit to you so I can be a thrall again. Nothing I have made may I keep for myself! Nothing! I must either be a slave to someone and get nothing for it, or be punished for refusing!"

"Will you admit to none of the atrocities of which you are guilty?" Gandalf asked.

"So you, who fights so bravely in battle, are innocent?" Angwë countered, contempt frosting his words. "Have you, wielding that sword, committed no atrocities of your own? Do we not all have a right to life, Gandalf? Yet you slay us so easily, you hypocrite!"

"Do you really believe that?" Gandalf retorted.

"I know not what I believe," said Angwë wearily, and shrugged.

Gandalf thrust his sword into Angwë's heart.

The Balrog roared and tumbled backwards down the mountainside. His body broke on the rocks below.

Gandalf dropped where he stood on the snowy peak. His eyes fluttered shut as darkness took him. A bitter wind howled around him, as if mourning the scene on the top of Celebdil, the mountain Angwë made.

The End.