The Plague by WendWriter

Chapter 1

Written for the Archives of Excellence September Writing Challenge, Worst Enemies.

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In the corridors and halls of Angband, the whispers that usually permeated the place were more urgent and febrile than usual. The prevailing tale was that Morgoth was planning to wreak vengeance against the Elves and Men, and was pouring all his efforts into his latest plan. Orcs and monsters of every kind scattered in panic as a fearsome sight met their eyes - the Balrog Angwë, flanked by a pair of large, brutish Orcs, was proceeding with great speed to his master's office in the bowels of Angband.

The escorting Orcs were trying to make themselves look important by holding their heads up high and marching purposefully, but their efforts fell flat as Angwë hastened along, his great bulk filling the narrower corridors, pushing over everything in his path. They scrambled to keep up with him, all the while attempting to maintain what dignity they could; but in Angband, only the most senior officers of Morgoth were able to do so.

Angwë made his way into the room where his master waited for him, looming over the terrified Orcs who had come with him. The Balrog was in his usual form, a massive dark shadow of horror dragging darkness with it. It was ever Morgoth's custom to send Orcs to fetch his minions and bring them before him to remind them that he was their master indeed, and could give or take rank as he willed. Petty slights like this were used to test the hearts and minds of his followers. Those who proved to be dissatisfied with his methods were quickly brought to heel - or to their doom.

The Balrog walked into the presence of Morgoth and bowed, then stood silently waiting for his master to speak, for Morgoth would not tolerate anyone speaking without his permission. He often summoned his servants to his office and left them standing there for ages to test them. Any signs of impatience were punished, for Morgoth demanded total unquestioning obedience from all of his followers.

Morgoth turned his back as Angwë came in, and left him standing there for a while as he went through his cabinets reading through his records and pretending to examine a set of artefacts brought to him by an orc raiding party. Hours passed, and Angwë stood in his place like a statue, waiting to be acknowledged.

Finally, Morgoth looked up, tiring of his game. "Angwë," he said as he turned to his Balrog, "I have a task for thee. The shame of being bested by that woman Lúthien and her cohorts is ever before me. It taketh the full measure of my thought and filleth all my days with loathing and dread."

The Dark Lord paused for a moment, then slumped into the chair behind his desk. "It cannot be borne!" he roared, thumping the desk with the side of his mighty fist.

One of the Orcs fainted. The other one stood there gibbering in terror, too frightened to say or do anything. A long pause filled the room like smoke in a burning house. Morgoth flicked his fingers at the fallen orc, and the other orc dragged his comrade out of the room with all the speed he could muster.

Scowling, his red eyes narrowed and his harsh, grating voice dropped to an undertone, the Dark Lord continued, "I have a plan to wreak my vengeance upon them, and thou wilt be the bringer of doom upon mine enemies. For I will not have them laugh at me behind my back. They whisper about me, Angwë, even here in my domain, and say that I am weak and spent, like a Man in his dotage. They are turning against me - my servants - who used to hold me in such awe they dared not speak my name."

Angwë said nothing. He just stood there, unmoving and immovable. Morgoth found himself doubting whether the Balrog was even listening to him, but these days he found he doubted everything.

"I must regain control," said Morgoth in a commanding tone, "and have my will wrought upon this Middle-earth. Sauron cannot help me, he hideth in Taur-nu-Fuin licking his wounds. Thou shalt aid me in this endeavour, Angwë, to punish those responsible for the outrage against mine honour. I command thee to make a miasma that will cause sickness to arise in Men. If thou canst do some hurt to the Elves thereby, do so. But without Men to aid them, the Elves will soon lose their foothold on this land, and all hope will be gone for them. Canst thou do this?"

With a flick of his wings, Angwë spoke. "I shall do mine utmost to do thy will in this matter, O lord," he replied. "I know little of the workings of these things, but I have seen things that can poison..."

"No!" shouted Morgoth. "Not poison. This thing shall be done to make the sight of Men loathsome to the Elves, who like fair-seeming things. When they behold the foul appearance of their friends, they will turn from them in disgust, and hold them in contempt for evermore."

"Aye, lord," replied Angwë, with a bow.

There was something in the bow Angwë made that raised suspicion in Morgoth's mind. Was he taking this seriously, or was the Balrog merely pretending to be obedient to his lord's will? The idea! Fury seized the Dark Lord like a choke-chain. "Angwë," he asked in a low growl, "how dost thou intend to proceed?"

The Balrog looked straight at him and answered, "I shall go and observe them, my lord, and see what maketh them ill, then I shall multiply the strength of that agent, whatever it may be, and pour it forth upon them in foul vapours that shall issue forth from this place. Thy name shall be dread among them once more."

Morgoth held his servant's gaze for a moment, weighing his apparent loyalty. No-one had spoken ill of Angwë, who was always in his workshop devising weapons and working for the glory of his master. Still, Angwë's desire for the mountain he had made still lingered in his heart, and while the promise of having it returned to him one day had kept him loyal thus far, the failure to fulfil it might make the Balrog reconsider his position - and possibly rebel. 'All of them desert me, for their hearts are full of wickedness and envy,' he mused. 'They wish for things they have no right to desire, and must needs be restrained from their depredations.'

As he eyed his servant, Morgoth sank into a self-pitying reverie in which all the events of the ages played out. The frown on his hideous battle-scarred face deepened, tugging at the never-healing burns on his forehead. Pain shot through his head, and he moved to wrench his iron crown from his head. It was too heavy, a burden that kept him in a cage of pain that weighed him down and made each day more awful than the one before.

The Silmarils that remained were still burning him, their holy power working through the metal of the crown, but he would not give them up because of what he had endured to get them. Everyone wanted to steal them, and for that reason he could not give them up, however much they hurt him. He had seen how the others - those ingrates! - looked at them, desiring them for themselves. Well they could look if they wanted to, but he would never give them up. Never! They had cost him too much to be simply cast aside.

The Dark Lord held Manwë, the leader of the Valar, responsible for this. Had he not placed a curse on them so that only Fëanor, who had made them, could have them and hold them without being burned? That Elf had felt the heat of Morgoth's wrath for that, and paid for his crime in full, but now his sons wanted their father's jewels, and would not end their efforts to take them from him. They had gone to everyone who would listen to their complaints and convinced them to join in league against him. Over and over again they had kept up their wailing and gnashing of teeth about how he had wronged them, and done everything they could to make trouble for him. Could they not just go and make more jewels? Why did they have to take his? What had Fëanor endured for them? He was unworthy of them. He deserved to have them taken from him. Fëanor and all of his minions deserved to be punished for all they had done to Morgoth, and the Dark Lord knew just how to do it. He turned to Angwë, who was still standing there waiting to be dismissed.

"Go, Angwë - be thou the architect of my vengeance. Bring a plague upon them all. Slay them with the breath of Angband!" he ordered.

"I will, my lord," replied the Balrog. He bowed and took his leave.

Morgoth smiled. He had many enemies, but they would surely be fewer in number when his plans had come to pass. And after the plague, there were dragons and other monsters to unleash upon Middle-earth. He would be the master of all the world, and everyone who had ever crossed him would be made to pay for it.

Chapter 2

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Deep in the bowels of Angband, Angwë sat in his workshop and considered the task he had been given. He had made many things for his lord, including the Brood Fungus, which enabled Orcs to breed quickly, but he had never made anything that could make people ill in large numbers. Morgoth was clearly talking about a plague, and although Angwë was aware that plagues of various descriptions had issued forth from Angband before, he had never had any part in making them, and had no idea where to start.

He knew there was no point in going to his master and asking for help with this project. Morgoth was so contrary these days that Angwë was loth to tell him anything that was not about the success of his ventures. The Balrog remembered the friction that had arisen between himself and Sauron when he had mooted the Brood Fungus as a method of getting the Orcs to breed. No, there was no point in asking for his brother's help with this.

It occurred to Angwë to give some more thought to Sauron when he remembered why his brother was not engaged in the making of the plague - he was in Taur-nu-fuin licking his wounds and recovering from his encounter with Lúthien and Huan. Sauron was in deep disgrace at the moment, and would surely be willing to share his secrets if there was a chance of winning favour with their master again. With that in mind, Angwë made his way to Taur-nu-fuin as quickly as he could.

 

---

High in the mountains where the river Sirion was just beginning to spread stood a high tower. While it had some vestiges of Elven craft about it, the place was unmistakeably evil. A pall of terror hung over it, and the creatures that dwelt there were all fell and cruel, feeding on the misery of others. The vegetation that sprang up around the place was twisted and poisonous, and smelt foul.

The tower stood among the ruins of an Elven city which had been partially rebuilt in a brutally functional style, which is to say that the builders had cobbled together the shelters they needed by patching up the original buildings and shoving lean-to sheds against those. At this point, the river was fast-flowing in a gorge, and the island on which it stood was a pinnacle of rock that the Elves had built on and around.

Angwë looked upon all this with a critical eye. 'The harmony of the Elves' work has been marred, and for no better reason than spite. These buildings will not last, for the builders have given no thought to keeping out the elements that could warp the wood or dissolve the tiles they are using. But I did not come to aid with the improvement of this place,' he thought. The mountains around him prodded his heart with a pang for Celebdil, the mountain he had made. Angwë pushed the thought down. He knew what the price of rebellion was.

Making his way deep into the forest, Angwë searched until he found a place of rank and rotten vegetation, where evil dwelt in the brooding darkness. There he remembered how he had first sought his brother out, seeking his aid.

A voice pulled him out of his reverie. "Hail, Angwë, what news from Angband?"

"I seek the wisdom of my brother for an endeavour our lord Morgoth has entrusted to me," replied Angwë, anxious to ensure his brother's co-operation.

"Indeed, and what can Sauron do for you that you cannot do for yourself?" asked the Maia, who stood glaring insolently at Angwë.

"You are his servant, are you not?" said Angwë. This upstart was determined to ruin his chances of success, probably for the sake of some petty point-scoring exercise.

"I am Rautanor," replied the upstart, whose arrogance lost none of its quality when Angwë flared his wings, a tactic that usually frightened other beings. "And when you work for Sauron, you quickly learn what is to be feared, and what is not."

"Indeed," said Angwë, his tone even. "And where were you on the night my brother came to grief? You seem unscathed."

"I was attending to the prisoners," Rautanor answered, discomfited.

"I heard you had a taste for Elves," said Angwë, pressing home his advantage. If he could convince Rautanor that it was in his best interests to co-operate, the Plotter might prove useful instead of continuing to be a hindrance.

"My tastes are none of your concern," retorted Rautanor, who had clearly begun to lose his composure.

"Even when they endanger my brother and his position in Morgoth's court?" asked Angwë, as he moved closer to Rautanor with his wings spread. Fire crackled along his body, sparking here and there. He appeared to be about to explode.

"What is that to you, when you are his rival?" squeaked Rautanor. He had begun to back away from Angwë, and was looking around in desperation.

"How can anyone who has been defeated by an Elf-maid and her dog be a rival to me?" roared Angwë.

Rautanor's stupid statement brought out the Balrog's innate hatred of the ridiculous. As a builder, Angwë worked with absolute standards at all times. The mental gymnastics performed by the rebel Maiar, and indeed by Morgoth himself, as they bent the truth into strange shapes often irked him, though he rarely expressed this. Besides, he had only agreed to work for Morgoth so he could reclaim his mountain from the Dwarves, and intended to collect on his promise as soon as he could.

"If you require Lord Sauron's aid," said Rautanor, pulling himself up to his full height, "you will have to learn some manners, Angwë, else you shall be sent away with nothing."

"I will not tolerate this disrespect, Rautanor," said Angwë, "and my brother will be most displeased when he discovers that you are thwarting his recovery. Or do you think he trusts you in every matter?"

Rautanor hesitated. "I will ask him if he wishes to see you, Angwë, and will honour his decision. Wait here."

Rautanor the Plotter scuttled inside the tower, leaving Angwë outside on the bridge. A while later, he returned. "Sauron wants to see you," he said in a cold, tight voice.

In a cavern beneath the tower, Sauron sat in a corner. A torch burned in a sconce nearby, throwing dancing shadows against the dark, dank walls. Angwë entered the room, followed by Rautanor, who stood by the door as if waiting for a signal from his master.

"So," said Sauron, "you have come to gloat, brother?"

Angwë regarded his brother, noting how low he had fallen. Sauron usually wore a fair Elven form when not garbed as a wolf. Now he looked like a shrivelled old man, bent and frail with the weight of years of care.

"Well? Do you like what you see?" asked Sauron, his tone sharp.

"I know how to make it better, brother," Angwë replied, "but first I must curry favour with Morgoth. If you help me to do this, I will ask him to use his Silmarils to aid you."

"I could ask him to use his Silmarils to aid me," retorted Sauron. "I do not need your charity."

"Then why have you not done so?" asked Angwë. "Are you not his chief lieutenant?"

Sauron turned away. "I am not sure where I am with our master," he said quietly.

Angwë stood in silence for a while, then said, "If you aid me in my endeavour, I will surely give you the credit for what we achieve."

Sauron turned and looked at his brother. "What is it you want from me?"

"I have been told to make a plague to unleash on Middle-earth," replied Angwë. "I know you have learned how to do this."

"I have indeed," replied Sauron. "It is quite similar to that Brood Fungus of yours in the way it works. The plague is made of tiny living creatures that are similar to the spores you use."

"Help me, Sauron," said Angwë, moving towards his brother as if to embrace him.

"Give me your word you will tell our master this was my work," said Sauron.

"You have it," said Angwë.

"Then I will help you. Rautanor, prepare my workshop!"

Chapter 3

The events described here are my version of the story of the theft of the Silmaril from Morgoth's crown in Artíre's Revenge.

"Plague motes" refers to the bacteria Angwë intends to use, and the plague itself is Bubonic plague.

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The workshop was a large and surprisingly airy place. There was a forge in one corner, and at the other end of the room was a worktop surrounded by shelves of bottles, jars and canisters of foul-smelling concoctions of various kinds. There was an alembic nearby on a tripod over a firepit which was currently not lit. Angwë wondered what Sauron distilled in it, and if the plague would be made using something connected with the apparatus.

Books and scrolls lined the walls on sturdy shelves; implements and instruments of every description hung on hooks or were kept in labelled boxes. Sauron made his way to the back of the room on the other side of the worktop where all the chemicals were stored. "Rautanor," he ordered, "fetch me the water-borne plague."

"Why is it water-borne?" asked Angwë.

"Because we need a way to dispense it," replied Sauron.

"But what if our allies drink it?" Angwë persisted.

"They are easily replaced," said Sauron. "Why are you so concerned about them, brother?"

"I just want to make sure the people we intend to hurt are affected by this," explained Angwë.

"Indeed, and how would you disperse it?" Sauron asked, glaring at him.

"I do not yet know how this works," answerered Angwë. "If you explain it, I will think of an effective way to make sure it spreads properly."

Sauron stood with his hands on his hips as he faced the massive Balrog. "You are but a builder, Angwë," he stated. "You have no appreciation of the subtleties of the knowledge I have spent ages pursuing."

"Then you will have to teach me that, too," said Angwë.

Sauron sighed. "Very well. This is the nature of the plague: look upon the contents of this shallow jar," he said, holding up a small vessel with the lid removed.

"I see nothing but a noxious substance there," said Angwë.

"Look closer," said Sauron, his tone like a teacher telling off a recalcitrant pupil.

Angwë peered at the jar, but could see nothing beyond the brownish jelly-like substance inside it. "I cannot see what you are trying to show me," he said, annoyance in his voice.

"Look into the very heart of it," insisted Sauron. "I want you to look until you can see the very atoms it is made of."

Angwë gazed upon the jar, analyzing each molecule of the contents thereof with his consciousness. "I see it!" he cried. "Tiny little creatures milling about. They split and grow, split and grow."

"That," said Sauron with a flourish, "is the plague."

"How did you make it?" asked Angwë.

"These tiny creatures live among us, helping to complete the cycle of life. They break down the rotting flesh of the dead - they are the rot! I altered them by the force of my will to make them cause illness and death among Men," crowed Sauron, clearly exulting in his wickedness.

"Would the rot not make people ill if you cast these creatures among them?" asked Angwë. The idea was a clever one - to use creatures so tiny that they could not be seen by the naked eye to wreak destruction.

"Men have a habit of washing with soap," replied Sauron. "This ruins the creatures and keeps Men healthy."

"So you put it in the water," said Angwë.

"It is the only way I can think of to make sure they catch it," Sauron told him. "They drink the water and fall ill."

"What if something - or someone - was to carry it among Men, passing it to each of them in turn?" asked Angwë.

"Once they get it from the water, they spread it around as they nurse each other," said Sauron. "It amuses me that their love and kindness contributes so much to their destruction. What value do these qualities have if they make people weak and expose them to evil?"

"Yes," Angwë argued, "but what if our allies get it?"

"They are easy enough to replace," answered Sauron.

"Are you sure about that?" asked Angwë. "Orcs are prone to disease, and though they are easy to replace, we do need to keep a certain number of them around."

Sauron stepped back and regarded his brother. "What did you have in mind?"

"I need to take a closer look at these plague creatures," the Balrog replied.

Sauron let Angwë examine the jar for as long as he wished. Eventually, Angwë said, "Brother, I have got the measure of these plague motes, and have thought of a way to direct them at our enemies while protecting our allies."

Sauron seemed impressed. "Tell me what your plan is."

"I need someone to test it on," replied Angwë. "Like the Brood Fungus, it has a life cycle and can reproduce itself. The trouble with the plagues you and Morgoth create is that you forget that the motes are living creatures. I can use this."

"What do you mean?" asked Sauron, his wizened brow furrowing with anger. "You knew nothing of this until I let you examine it and now you are insulting myself and our lord!"

"And now that I do I see things that have not occurred to you because they have no value for you," retorted Angwë. "Why are you so defensive about this?"

Rautanor, who had been standing to one side observing the exchange between the brothers, stepped forward. "Sauron," he asked, "what would you like me to do?"

Both Sauron and Angwë looked at him. Sauron looked back at Angwë. "What more do you require of me?" he asked.

"Someone to test this on," replied Angwë, "some rats and fleas."

"My prisoners were released by that Elf-woman," said Sauron. "But at Angband there is always someone in chains."

"Then we shall go there," said Angwë.

Sauron looked around warily. "I cannot go looking like this," he declared. "What will people think? They will see what I have become, and I cannot bear the thought of that."

"Then you will have to drop your hame," said Angwë. "Why be embodied at all?"

"Because," replied Sauron, drawing himself up to his full height, "I have no desire to be mistaken for Artíre the Watcher!"

"Aye," Rautanor added. "That sneaking usurper crept in here to destroy my master, aiding that Elf-woman Lúthien.* She could not possibly have managed such a feat by herself!"

"Why have you just changed the subject? I did not come here to discuss your quarrels with other Maiar, and do not wish to be drawn into your intrigues, Sauron," said Angwë, his patience stretching thin, "I have heard the rumours going back and forth. But Artíre is in favour with our master so if you wish to conduct a feud with him, you will not have Morgoth's blessing to do so - and I have no intention of displeasing our master."

"So you will not aid me against him," said Sauron, "though you know what he has done to me."

The look of bitter betrayal on Sauron's face as he glared at his brother was so comical Angwë found it hard to take the Deceiver seriously. "I know about the feud and the rumours," the Balrog replied, "but nothing of a plot against you, Sauron. I know little of the Watcher and his doings, and have no interest in your problems with him. Besides, if there was any truth in the tales, would he not have finished you off when he had the chance?"

Sauron turned away.

"Well?" asked Angwë.

An awkward silence filled the room.

"He does not know how," conceded Rautanor.

"This feud of yours seems to be a rather one-sided affair," observed Angwë, "since he can but weaken you for a short time, while you can destroy him if you can find him. His only advantage appears to be that he is good at hiding. He is not known for any feats of magic or skill at making things."

"Why do you not care for Sauron?" whined Rautanor.

Angwë turned and faced the Maiar, flaring his wings and glowing dangerously. "I came here to get the help I need to obey our master, and you have tried to inveigle me into taking part in some pointless feud. I will not be distracted from my task. Your problems are your own; and from what I understand, they are of your own making. If you will not aid me, I shall leave this place and find a way to make this plague by myself."

A low growl rumbled round the room. Rautanor appeared to melt, shifting like soft toffee into another shape. His face stretched, pointing, and his mouth spread into an evil grin. Thick wiry fur sprouted from his hands and face as his body contorted. In the blink of an eye, a great Werewolf stood snarling at Angwë, ready to do battle with him.

Bursting into flame, Angwë flicked his right hand, and a sword sprang forth as if it had always been there. In his left hand, a whip flipped out and cracked on the floor right in front of Sauron. Angwë roared his challenge, and Rautanor howled with rage as he prepared to pounce at Angwë's throat.

"Stop this!" shouted Sauron. "Is it not bad enough that we are beset with enemies? Why must we fight amongst ourselves?"

The other two Maiar looked at Sauron. It would be so easy to pounce on him now that he was weak, but Sauron held his ground and faced the combatants. Rautanor morphed, returning to his usual Man-like shape. Angwë's fires went out and his weapons receded.

"That is better," Sauron said, fuming.

The chemicals in the jars and other vessels were steaming and some of the contents were overflowing. The fire beneath the alembic was blazing away, and the worktop was scorched.

"See what you have done! I will aid you, Angwë, but I want you to help restore me to what I was before. This is the price of my aid!" said Sauron.

"I will do what I can," replied Angwë, "and no more."

Sauron sighed.

Rautanor rushed around the room putting out the small fires that had broken out and cleaning up the mess from the chemical spills.

Sauron turned to his brother. "I will find other work for my aide to do," he said. "I do not want our squabbles to become any greater than what they are."

"Neither do I," replied Angwë. "Let us put aside our differences, then."

"Very well," said Sauron. "I shall drop my hame and go unclad to Angband, but when I am there I will need a body if I am going to help you."

"You shall have everything you need, brother," Angwë replied.

"Then let us go," said Sauron, and prepared to leave.

Angwë grinned. Plans for the plague were taking shape already, and though he did not fully understand the nature of the plague motes, he knew enough to put his plan to deadly effect.

Chapter 4

Information about the plague flea's life cycle came from http://www.insecta-inspecta.com/fleas/bdeath/Flea.html

Canon and my fanon collide here. Maiar are spirit beings and don't need to have bodies. My idea is that making a body for themselves requires a certain amount of concentration to hold it together. To keep it together requires them to be bound to it. If the body is killed, then, the Maia would lose the portion of his being that was used to bind him to the body. If the process is repeated, the Maia would become diminished and end up being much weaker than before. To regain that strength, he would need to absorb power or energy from someone or something else. This explains the state Sauron is in, and why he can't just make the plague himself like he did before.

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As they made their way to Angband, Angwë, Sauron and Rautanor stayed close together not because they were afraid of being attacked, but to conceal the extent of Sauron's diminishing from the other servants of Morgoth. Sauron's enemies were legion, and he knew that the slightest sign of weakness would be laughed about all over the evil realm.

When they arrived, Angwë ushered them quickly inside and brought them to his workshop. There he assembled all the equipment he needed to start work on the plague at once. Sauron set up the bowls and vessels while Rautanor assisted him. Angwë went looking for motes similar to the ones he had seen at Taur-nu-Fuin, and brought back some that looked promising. He gave the samples to Sauron, who put them into different bowls according to their types.

"I cannot transform these by the power of my will as I am now," said Sauron, "and Rautanor does not understand these matters. You said you have the knowledge to do this, Angwë."

Angwë took one of the bowls and gazed at it, allowing his consciousness to sink into it. He could feel the motes as if he had shrunk right down and was among them. They looked like veined purple bean pods to him.

"Those ones cause illness in Men, but are not as effective at killing them as the ones I developed," said Sauron.

"I shall attempt to transform them," said Angwë, and he concentrated on the contents of the bowl, trying to understand the nature of the motes.

He could see that they grew in the guts of living creatures. What he wanted was for them to hunger for the flesh of Men, but since they lived in the guts of carrion eaters, he knew that putting them into the wells and rivers that Men drew their supplies from was the only way to make sure Men received them. The idea he had conceived in Taur-nu-fuin was to capture some small creatures and infect them with the disease. However, there was a risk that the infected rats he intended to use would die before they reached Men. What could he do? Angwë's thoughts turned to the hosts he intended to use. He went to catch a few rats to examine for his purposes.

---

Sauron and Rautanor took the vessel he had left behind. "He has made no changes at all," said Rautanor. "He said he was going to transform them. Now he has gone to tell our master that he has made a great discovery so he can take credit for the work you have done, Sauron."

"He mentioned getting rats to use for an experiment," said Sauron. He was becoming suspicious of his aide, who always seemed to be finding fault with someone.

"Of course he did," Rautanor drawled, arching an eyebrow. He was embodied in his Man-like form, and looked strong and well in sharp contrast to Sauron's shrivelled hame. "And he is coming back with our master to show him how diminished you are since Artíre the Watcher committed his treachery! You will see soon enough whether I am right or not."

"Rautanor," said Sauron, facing his aide, "I have been engaged in a feud with Artíre for two ages mostly because of the things you told me about him. You kept telling me he was a threat and now he very well may be one. When Angwë came to ask for my aid and promised to get our master to help me to regain my strength, you decided that he must be an enemy too, though you have not told me what his contention with me is. How many more enemies will I have in the end? I cannot fight them all."

"Artíre did betray you, Sauron," insisted Rautanor. "Angwë spoke disparagingly of you at your very gates, so I doubt his loyalty towards you. I have only ever acted in your best interests."

"That remains to be seen, Rautanor," said Sauron. "But my enemies are increasing here in Angband. Did I not have enough of them before? You are too eager to pick on the slightest show of disagreement and present it as sedition! A molehill is made into a mountain if there is an opportunity to get someone into trouble with myself or with our master. Did you think I had not noticed your love of provocation, particularly if there is a chance of someone being destroyed - so you can take your share of them? I know where you were the night that Elf-woman Lúthien came to contend with me - feasting on the flesh of Finrod!"

"That is unfair!" shouted Rautanor, backing away.

"I knew there was a reason you appeared to be weaker than before in the aftermath of the attack of the Eagles," persisted Sauron. "One of the others told me they found the body of a wolf in the caverns near where the prisoners were held, and that the Elf's corpse was nearby. Did he slay you as you tried to devour him, Rautanor?"

"I have given up everything for the advancement of your realm on Middle-earth," replied Rautanor, who was up against the wall at this point. "What more can I do for you?"

"Stop ridding me of people I find useful!" snapped Sauron. "I am surprised you did not blame Artíre for your diminishing, but for mine."

Rautanor sighed and closed his eyes. "I was indeed in the cavern, and yes, I was there to devour the Elf. I was surprised to find that after being starved and kept from sleep, he was able to fight me at all, but he slew me by biting my throat. It was as if someone else was controlling him, now that I think of it..."

Sauron shot him a warning look.

The Maia gathered his thoughts and continued, "Whatever gave him the strength, the Elf killed the form I had taken on. The shock of death took me, and I fell back, aghast. It was like being wrenched through a narrow pipe by the throat. Suddenly, I had no feeling, no sight or sound. All my senses were gone, and I was blind and naked. As I tumbled around trying to take form again, I became aware of the thrum of power. Something strong was approaching, and I could feel the footsteps of doom. I hid, just as I was, in a crevice and waited for the worst to come while I gathered my strength in the hope of putting up a good fight.

"The Man wept over his friend instead of trying to escape, and the sensation of approaching power grew stronger. Then the singing began, and I heard the tumult of battle. As I hid, I became aware of the presence of a Maia, and observed him crawling through a crack in the roof of the cavern to a spot under the bridge. I sensed his curiosity and love of conflict, Sauron; it could not have been anyone other than Artíre. There is no other Maia like him in all of Eä and you know it! His focus was on the battle between you and Huan, and I was aware of the spell he used to bind you to the forms you took because it was the one you taught me. It was a while before I could take form again, such was my confusion after falling to the Elf in the cavern, so there was nothing I could do about it."

Sauron sat back and digested this report. Rautanor was rarely so honest with him, and never admitted to weakness. He had no choice but to believe it. "It would be counter-productive to continue my feud with the Watcher at the moment," he said, "but when I get a chance to strike back at him, I will take it!"

Angwë arrived in the workshop, carrying a small cage full of rats. He was excited, and eager to share his discovery with his brother. "Sauron," he gloated, "I have discovered how to carry the plague to Men using rats!"

"How?" asked Sauron, a sour expression on his wizened face.

"In the fleas!" exulted Angwë. "They carry the plague within them, and bite the rats. The rats carry the plague in their blood, and when the fleas leave them to move to other hosts, the plague spreads. Dogs and other furry creatures can carry it to Men - and you know how they love their animal companions!"

"But the hosts would catch the disease unless you gave them some immunity to it," argued Sauron.

"Ah," said Angwë gleefully, "but the fleas do but carry it. The motes dwell inside the fleas, and they go from one host to another to feed on their blood. The motes are transferred to the hosts when the fleas bite them. A single female flea can mate once and lay eggs every day with up to fifty eggs per day. They can live up to a year!"

Sauron looked at his brother, clearly impressed. "How did you learn all this so quickly, brother?" he asked.

"By simple observation, brother," Angwë replied, wagging a knowing finger. "The best thing about it is that the eggs can lie dormant for months. Imagine a flea's egg lying in the dirt or in a crack in a floor somewhere, waiting for the right conditions. When the weather is warm, it hatches, and a few months later, a flea springs forth to land upon its unsuspecting host. It then jumps from host to host and soon infects them all!"

"How can you have learned all this in a matter of hours, though?" asked Rautanor in a suspicious tone.

"Because," said Angwë in his most smug voice, "we have the ideal conditions here in Angband. It is always warm and there are many hosts for the fleas to feed on. In a matter of hours, I have been able to observe the entire life cycle."

"So what was the importance of remembering that the motes are living creatures?" asked Sauron. His brow was furrowed and his expression was one of truncated comprehension.

"Because they, too, thrive in the right conditions," said Angwë. "All of these things work together. In the springtime we shall unleash a great horror upon this Middle-earth."

"So what can I do to help?" asked Sauron, looking somewhat concerned. "Have you not discovered all there is to know about these things?"

"You alone can understand the subtleties of these matters, Sauron. You told me yourself. I go now to bring our master here. I will explain it to him and ask for his help to transform the motes, and I will tell him we cannot do this without your knowledge. That way I shall keep my word to you and we will both be rewarded."

Sauron nodded.

Angwë left with alacrity, looking insufferably pleased with himself.

As soon as his brother was gone, Sauron dropped his hame. It would not do to let his master see him as he now appeared when embodied.

---

Some time later, Morgoth came to the workshop.

Rautanor and Sauron stood to attention.

"Show me this thing you have made, Angwë," commanded Morgoth.

"It is not yet ready, master," said Angwë. "We need thine aid for thou art stronger than us all, and thou hast the greater portion of power."

"That I do," replied Morgoth, his vast form filling a large part of the room. "What is thy need?"

"See," said Rautanor, stepping forward, "we have prepared the motes for thee to alter by the power of the Silmarils in thy crown. Change these, lord, to the form we require, that thy will may be done throughout Middle-earth."

"And how shall I do that?" asked Morgoth, moving to take the vessel being held out to him by Rautanor.

"Put forth thy will through me," offered Sauron, making his way towards his lord.

"Use the Silmarili as thou didst in the making of the Brood Fungus," said Angwë.

Morgoth hesitated, looking intently at Sauron for a moment. Then he moved so that Sauron could stand in front of him. He focussed his power through Sauron into the vessel so the purple motes turned yellow and became like bean pods in appearance. A hunger for the cells that protected the body from infection was born in them, and their nature was altered so that they could dwell wherever a supply of blood could be found.

The power coursing through him was like being connected to a sustained bolt of lightning. Sauron could feel himself being filled by the strength of his lord's will and of the two Silmarili that remained in the iron crown. It was so exhilarating he nearly forgot to work on the motes, but he applied himself to the task until they were as he desired them to be. When Morgoth broke off the connection, Sauron was fully embodied and visibly stronger, having absorbed some of his master's power. The Deceiver's Elven form glowed like the moon did on a clear night, and when his master stepped away, Sauron bowed deeply.

"I see thou has gained some considerable benefit from mine efforts to alter the motes," said Morgoth. "Art thou satisfied?"

"I am most grateful, my lord," said Sauron as he rose. "And I will serve thee with greater fervour than before."

"Be sure that thou dost," said Morgoth, who appeared to be unconvinced. He glared suspiciously at the Maiar. "Orc breeding rates are too slow. Your next task shall be to increase them."

"Yes, my lord," said Sauron, with a bow.

The Dark Lord left the room without another word.

Angwë went to his workbench where the cage of rats was. By the force of his will, he moved the plague motes inside them, then he carried the cage out of the room.

When he had left, Sauron grinned triumphantly at Rautanor. "Well, it seems my dear brother has kept his word, and we are both in favour with our master again. I am much stronger now, and better able to re-establish my position with Morgoth."

"I must concede that Angwë is no enemy, my lord," said Rautanor, who looked decidedly uncomfortable. It was a well-known fact that Sauron was prone to holding grudges for every offence, whether real or imagined.

"Well, not to me," replied Sauron. "That plague will prove to be most effective, I deem."

A knock on the door caught the attention of the Maiar. An Orc poked his head around the corner. "Morgoth wants to see you in council," he said, trembling at the sight of Sauron.

"Let us go, Rautanor," said Sauron, putting an arm around his aide. "Our master desires our presence."

They followed the Orc to the council chambers, each of them glad that whoever Morgoth considered to be his enemies, it was not either of them.

The End.