Dogfight by Lilith

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 

I have almost forgot the taste of fears.
The time has been, my senses would have cooled
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in’t: I have supp’d full with horrors:
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts
Cannot now start me.

Shakespeare, Macbeth

Mairen lies on her back with Oromë's hound above her. The ground beneath them is wet, torn by their fight and muddied with his blood, hers and that of her wolves. She twists sharply and kicks out with her hind legs, trying to dislodge the hound.

It almost works.

He stumbles forward and his front legs sink into the muck. She gathers her strength and throws her body a second time, and he stumbles again. But, before she is able to wrench herself free from his grip, his back legs somehow find purchase in the mud and his jaws tighten around her throat.

He bites down hard. Pain, white-hot and fierce, tears through her body and into her mind as his teeth pierce the thick fur and skin at her neck. Fear follows the pain, and she panics and bucks into him, trying desperately to break his hold. It does her little good. The hound whines. But he does not budge, even when her nails rip the hard muscle of his chest and scratch the softer skin of his belly. He only holds tighter, and, though she growls and kicks at him, though she twists and snaps her teeth, she cannot loose herself from his grasp. She knows that every movement she makes is slower and weaker, every blow less likely to do him harm. His jaws are so strong and his grip so sure that she can barely breathe. Her vision darkens, and she can feel the hold she has upon her body weaken and her shape blur.

Desperate, she realises she might use her weakness to her advantage, and she no longer tries to hold to the shape of a wolf. Instead, she shifts from one form to another in the hope that she might find one he cannot hold. The wolf becomes a serpent, the serpent becomes a wild cat, the cat a slender fox, the fox a scorpion, the scorpion a gryphon, the gryphon a giant spider, and the spider a many-headed creature of nightmare. But even as the forms blur from one into another and even as claw, tooth, talon and stinger pierce his skin, the hound holds fast, and she grows weaker. The energy she spends to transform saps her strength still more and her breath comes in harsh, shallow gasps. She struggles to hold a form different from her own, but cannot. Claws turn into hands and feet. Scales into soft skin and horns into waves of hair.

She knows the transformation is complete when the hound's grip loosens a very little, enough for her to breathe but not enough to shake free, and she hears Melian's daughter gasp.

"Huan," Lúthien commands, "hold her."

Lúthien approaches cautiously. Her steps are slow and careful as she comes closer to where Mairen lies, pinned by the giant hound.

"A woman," Lúthien breathes. "The great lieutenant of Morgoth is a woman."

Unable to speak with the great hound's jaws tight around her throat, she projects her thoughts directly into the other woman's mind. "As you see," she replies.

"No one knows you are a woman," Lúthien replies and then quickly corrects herself. "No one knew you were a woman."

Though Mairen may see that Lúthien is startled by the revelation, she also notes that Lúthien remembers to speak her answer aloud and thus denies Mairen access into her mind.

“No one knew you were a woman,” Lúthien says a second time, and, despite her predicament, Mairen very nearly laughs.

“Little fool,” she answers, “do you truly believe that no one knows what I am?”

Lúthien stares as she continues, "The Valar know who I am. Most of my kind knows. I am certain your mother suspects, even if she is not entirely sure."

“A woman.”

“I believe we have established that. Yes.”

"I cannot believe that you are a woman," Lúthien says, voice thick, clotted with horror and disgust.

“Why not? Do your eyes not provide enough proof? Or did you not believe a woman would be strong enough?"

"No, my mother is strong. She has held you and your master at bay. I do not doubt that a woman may be strong," Lúthien responds. "But I had not thought a woman could do what you have done. I had not thought a woman would breed monsters or sack cities. I had not believed that she would devise ever braver and more cruel torments."

"Do you truly believe that we women are so very different from our men? Do you not think that we share the same hopes and fears or the same dreams and desires? That we have the same flaws and failings as they? Do you not believe that we are as capable of great and terrible deeds as they?”

"I had not wanted to believe that a woman would betray her people and serve a being who would destroy all the harmony in the world." Lúthien's voice is quiet, her gaze level and defiant.

Mairen laughs. Even in her own mind, the sound is silvery, cold and cruel. "Then you are a fool, little one. You know nothing of me and little of my people. If you knew, princess, if you had seen the things that I have seen, then you might only wonder how could I not turn? Betrayal is not so very difficult, especially when you no longer share the same purpose.”

"I won't believe that," Lúthien answers. Mairen hears the certainty in her voice. It is easy to recognize, echoing, as it does, words she herself had said to Melkor millenia ago, when the world was young and he had begun to woo her with the secrets the Valar had kept. She remembered how easily he had shattered her certainty, shown her beliefs to be only illusions. He had left her with nothing, not even fragments, to shore against the ruins of her faith. She knows how to answer Lúthien.

"Won't you?" she replies. "I suspect you know far more of betrayal than you would have me believe, little one."

She sends another wave of laughter, icy-cold and bright, into Lúthien's mind, and she feels her own lips quirk and thin, despite the dull bite of the hound's teeth at her throat and the heat of his paws on her cheek, when Lúthien raises her chin defiantly and turns away. Mairen continues, "Am I to believe that your father has countenanced your presence here? At Tol-in-Gaurhoth? Alone?"

Lúthien continues to look away. But her shoulders stretch into a taut line and her hands splay against her sides, so Mairen presses harder. "With none of his warriors? Not even Beleg the Strong? And only a hound for your companion? A hound belonging to one of his enemies? In pursuit of a Noldo and his motley crew?"

She knows the questions hit their mark when Lúthien turns sharply upon her. "You are hardly in position to ask questions, witch," she answers. Then, turning to the hound, she says, "Huan, perhaps Morgoth's thrall needs to be reminded of her position?"

The hound growls an affirmative. He tightens his hold on Mairen's throat, and, placing both paws on her chest, he presses her deeper into the muck.

"Hold her down, Huan," commands Lúthien. "If you dare to resist me, Huan will choke the life out of your body. I know enough of your nature to know that, while Huan may not be able to extinguish your spirit, he can destroy the body in which it resides. I also know that it will take precious time for you to create a new home for your spirit. My mother has taught me that much."

In response to Lúthien's words, the dog pushes harder. Mairen feels her body sink deeper into the muck. It creeps over her chest, impedes her breath with its weight and slips between her legs and slides, thick and heavy, across the tops of her thighs. It inches over her jaw and soaks her hair, comes so near to her nose and mouth that the fetid smell of it cannot be escaped. The smell is sickening, overripe and rotten, heavy with terror and despair.

"I wonder what Morgoth will think when you return to him as a pitiful, bodiless wraith because you were bested by an elf-woman and a hunting hound. I doubt he will be pleased," Lúthien speaks slowly, each word clear, precise and deliberate. "He is said not to tolerate failure, especially from the one he has favored above all others. Will he be disappointed, Thû? Will he be angry? Will he hurt you and force you to beg for his mercy before you may assume a new form?"

Mairen stills beneath Huan, for Lúthien's taunts are more accurate than she knows. Mairen remembers well the cold heat of Melkor's anger. She also recalls the ease with which he had penetrated her mind and learned her closest-kept secrets, the fears and desires she clutched near to her heart, until she could hide nothing from him and find no refuge. It had happened only once when she had first entered his service. She had come to him in the dark of Utumno and presumed to tell him what she would and would not do for him. She had thought she might refuse him. She’d believed that there were sins she might choose not to commit.

She learned then the price of her hubris when he had stripped her bare of pretense and shown her exactly what she was and what she would become. She had learned that there were torments of the mind greater than any that might visited upon the body. She has no desire to experience that again, so she masters the fear Lúthien's words had inspired in her. She presses it down, deep within her, until she is certain that no echo of it may be heard in the thoughts she sends. "Do you have another proposal to make, princess?" she asks. "Or are you merely gloating? I hadn't thought an elf would stoop to gloat."

"Why should I not gloat? Or rejoice in your powerlessness? You would do the same were I in your hands," Lúthien replies. "But I do have a proposal and one I expect you will be only too happy to accept. Yield the tower to me and I will release you. Refuse and Huan will destroy your body and force you to return to your master as a wraith."

While Lúthien speaks, the hound tightens his jaws on her throat. Mairen gasps and tries to breathe. His teeth dig deeper into her skin and she feels the blood begin to trickle down her throat a little faster. She knows that should he shift his hold a little and bite a bit harder, he will damage her badly enough that Lúthien's threat will be moot.

"Stop," she thinks desperately. "I yield."

The hound loosens his grip on her throat, but he does not release her.

"The tower is mine?" Lúthien asks.

"The tower, the island, the prisoners and my wolves, those that remain, are yours."

"Swear it."

"Swear it?" Mairen cannot -- does not want -- keep the disbelief from her thoughts.

"Huan."

The dog's jaws close a third time and he pushes her body deeper into the bog. It oozes thick and wet into her hair and around her body. It begins to cover her face, so that, in a moment, she will not be able to see or to breathe.

She twists her body as hard as she can and pushes at the hound's head with an ineffectual hand. He growls and holds her still.

"Call off your dog, princess," Mairen demands. " I have no objection to offering you a surety, if that is what you wish. But on what would you have me swear? What would have meaning for the both of us?"

Lúthien laughs in response. It is a strange sound in Tol-in-Gauroth, a rich sound and full of life. "I suppose you are right," she concedes. "There is little that would have meaning for the two of us. But it is my choice and not yours, so I would have you swear on the Valar. On your rightful masters."

"My rightful masters? You know nothing of what you speak. They are no one's rightful masters."

“I know what my mother has told me.”

“And what did she tell you, little one? Did your mother never lie?”

“Huan.”

The hound growls in response.

"Very well," she thinks. "If you wish, princess, I shall swear on the Valar."

Lúthien nods, and the hound eases his grip.

"By the Valar," Mairen cannot and is not willing to try to keep the mockery from her thoughts, each syllable oozes contempt. "I yield this island along with everything and everyone on it to you, Lúthien of Doriath."

"I accept," answers Lúthien.

Huan releases the Maia but remains close should she decide to attack. Mairen waits until he settles at Lúthien’s side. Then she slowly begins to extract her limbs from the mud and to pull herself into a seated position. She scrapes one hand across her face and tries to remove as much of the muck as she can before she begins to clean the mud from her arms. When her face and her arms are as clean as she can manage, she touches the wound at her throat with two cautious fingers and flinches.

Lúthien watches her closely for a few moments. Then she reaches into the pack she carries and pulls a clean cloth and a waterskin from it. She hands both to the woman sitting at her feet.

"There is a man in your dungeons, Thû."

The Maia wets the cloth, presses it to her throat and blanches when the cloth comes into contact with her wound.

"There are several, princess. Which one do you want?"

“You have imprisoned Beren, son of Barahir.”

“Have I? I wasn’t aware I had. Are you sure he yet lives? Few men survive here long. They haven’t the constitution for it.”

“I know he is alive. When I sang, he responded.”

“You sang to him?” Mairen says this aloud and starts to laugh. But the pain from her throat causes her to choke and her long, fine fingers clutch at her throat. She raises her eyes to Lúthien and, again, speaks to her mind, keeps her thoughts soft and cloyingly sweet, “You came for him, princess? The mortal and not the elf?”

Lúthien says nothing and turns away from Mairen. But the other woman, shoulders shaking with unsuppressed mirth, continues to press her, “You came for a mortal. Do you love him? Is that why you’re here? Little one, he won’t be very pretty now, if he ever was.”

Lúthien glares at the other woman, but Mairen only smiles and pours more water on the cloth. She squeezes the cloth against her throat, so that the thin streams of water begin to penetrate the layers of blood and dirt, and then she fixes Lúthien with an appraising stare.

“Of the two of us, little one," she says, “I think you are in the worse position.” Her lips quirk and thin. “I’ll recover from this. But you... What shall you do with this man you seek? Are you fool enough to believe that your father will let you keep him? ”

“He will.”

“Why? I have observed your father for many years. He wed one of my people. Has he permitted any of the great lords of the Eldar to woo you? Has he shown interest in their suits? If he would not permit you to marry them, then why would he let you marry a Man? He is not overly fond of them, and his pride is such that he would never allow his daughter to sully herself with a Man.” She pauses and her mouth thins. “But it seems too late to worry about that.”

“He will,” Lúthien repeats obstinately.

Mairen smiles. “How will you convince him? Is there treasure enough for him to part with you? Perhaps if Beren brought him a Silmaril for your bride price?”

Lúthien bites her lip and Huan growls.

“Ah," the witch says, understanding beginning to dawn in her mind. "You are in trouble. Is that why he came with the elves? To assail Angband and steal the Great Jewels?”

She watches Lúthien closely, mocking smile having faded from her lips. “Perhaps I can be of greater assistance to you since you so kindly spared my form.”

“What do you mean?” The princess is wary.

“How do you propose to break into my master's fortress? Do you know its defenses and can you penetrate them?”

Lúthien does not reply; her hands clench and the hound presses closer to her. Mairen can see that she has not thought beyond the immediate goal of rescuing the boy from Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

“I can help you," Mairen continues. "I designed the fortress. I supervised its construction. I raised its gates. I selected the guards and planned the patrols. I can ensure that you will pass the gates, escape the guards and enter the throne room itself."

“Why would you do such a thing? Why would I trust you to do anything other than deliver us to Morgoth?”

“You shouldn’t. I am delivering you into his hands. However, if you want to claim the Silmarils, that is precisely where you need to be. Had you not thought of that?"

Lúthien does not reply, so Mairen continues, "Your father is a clever fool. He thought to be rid of Beren and not have the blood upon his hands. But I will give you a chance to succeed and to have your husband.”

She continues to wet the cloth and then to press it carefully to the wound on her throat. But, even as she does so, she watches Lúthien and notes her struggle with the offer. Lúthien runs her hands through her hair, bites at her lip and stares at the closed gates of Tol-in-Gaurhoth.

"Well?" Mairen asks.

"I do not believe you. You serve only your own purpose."

"Of course, I do" the witch replies. "But my purpose and yours may complement one another, at least for a time."

"Why would you do this?"

"Why would I not? It may be in my interest to help you. As you've noted, my master will hardly be delighted that I have lost control of my fortress to a half-Maia princess, a lovestruck youth and the lapdog of the Valar." Huan growls in response, but Mairen ignores him. "Should you succeed in your quest and steal a jewel from his crown, then I shall feel vindicated, though it won't help my cause with him. If you fail, then I have delivered a fine present to him and provided him with the thrill of the chase in an environment in which he can hardly fail. He so hates failure."

"Do you not covet the jewels yourself?" Lúthien asks.

"The jewels?" Mairen replies. "No. I covet only the skill to make them."

"It seems everyone else does," Lúthien answers.

"You have yet to see them," Mairen responds. "They are unique. Living and yet not. Sentient and yet not."

"Then why do you not want them, if they are so remarkable."

Mairen shivers and looks away from Lúthien. "The jewels are perilous. Few, whether elf or man or Vala, may resist their beauty. Such attraction is very dangerous, because it cannot be channeled and controlled."

She pauses for a moment, then continues, half to herself, "But, if one could create an object of such beauty and power, and yet be immune to its pull, it would be a most powerful tool."

She remains silent, keeping her thoughts to herself, for several moments. Then she turns to Lúthien and reaches forward to touch Lúthien's face with a long, fine hand. Her fingers leave streaks of mud on the princess's fair skin. "It would be wise if you chose not to continue. There is great danger in it," she muses, softly and, for the first time in their conversation, without any vestige of mockery. "You should abandon your quest."

"What would you have me do?" Lúthien asked, her voice filled with a bitterness and resignation familiar to Mairen. "Return to Doriath with nothing, having shamed myself and defied my father?"

"It would be safest," the Maia replies, but she sees enough desperation in the other women's face to reconsider. "Or you might flee. Take the boy, if you will not be parted from him, and leave."

“And where would we go? My father will hunt us throughout Beleriand."

“Then leave it. This is not the only place in this world. Go East. Beyond the Blue Mountains. There are many undiscovered countries where you might live out the days that are left to him.”

"I cannot."

"Why not?"

"He will not flee," Lúthien answers. She does not meet Mairen's eyes, but sits, shoulders hunched and fingers clasped, misery evident in the lines of her body. "I cannot return, and he will not flee. We must win the jewel."

"There will be such consequences," Mairen says, her voice gentle yet insistent. "Whether you succeed or fail, there will be such a price to pay. It will be very high, and you and your lover will not be the only ones to pay it. Others will pay it with you. Others have already begun to pay it, such as the elves who died in Beren's place. I hope you are very sure."

The princess raises her chin and fixes Mairen with a cold stare. "What," she asks, "would you know of such things?"

"Too much, little one. Too much." The two women stare at one another. Mairen touches the streaks of mud her fingers have left upon Lúthien's face, so she takes the cloth Lúthien had given to her, wets it and then carefully wipes the dirt from her cheek.

"I know too well the cost of such things."

"You can't understand," Lúthien answers.

"Can't I? Were you tired, little one, of hiding? Of living untouched and unknowable, cloistered in a kingdom where no one entered save though your father's will and your mother's grace? Did you not wonder, little one, why you lived to wake the earth through a thousand different springs and were yet unable to be truly part of its rhythms? Were you not weary of having inspired a hundred insipid odes to your beauty? Did you not want to write the song yourself or, if you must be the subject of a song, did you not want it to be about the great and terrible deeds you had done? Were you not tired of always being pleasing, of always subjecting your desire to that of another? Did you not feel frozen?"

"No." But the lie is apparent in Lúthien's eyes, and Mairen raises her brows and continues.

"When you saw the boy, was it not like awakening from a dream? He was real. Imperfect, but real and warm. Open in his thoughts and feelings. Free with his desire. He dared to touch and to claim you, when others hid behind their clever words and elegant songs. He made you feel alive."

"That is not..." Lúthien begins.

"I don't believe you, princess," Mairen says and gently touches her hair. "It is how I felt."

Lúthien tries to pull away from her, but Mairen catches her hand and holds it tight. Huan growls, but he does not come closer. Mairen continues, "I was once like you. I was comfortable. I was safe and secure. I was admired. But I was not content. I found no fulfillment, was too tightly bound by the restrictions placed upon me. I wanted more. I searched for it. I found it, and I would take it again, though it has cost me dearly. We are not so very different, you and I, no matter what you wish to believe."

"I am not like you," Lúthien snaps. "My fate shall not be yours."

"No," says Mairen tenderly, winding her long fingers with Lúthien's. "Child, I fear it will be worse. It is not likely that you will succeed. It is more likely you will be caught and separated. Of the two of you, Beren will have easier fate. He will be tormented, but he will ultimately die. You will not. You will remain bound and chained in Angband and subject to my master's whims. He will hurt you. He will strip you bare, body and soul. He will take everything you will try to refuse him. You will not die. You will live year after year and age after age. No one shall rescue you. Try through they may, they shall not succeed, and you will leave the ones you love to imagine what my master has done to you and what he will continue to do."

She smiles wearily at Lúthien and continues. "If you are lucky and succeed, it will not be much easier for you. You will have your husband and your father the jewel for which he sold his child, and all of Doriath will rejoice. But what then? Beren will die. It is his nature. You know this. You cannot alter it. If you are lucky, you will have many years together. In those years, you may be happy in your love for one another. But, in those years, he will grow old. He will fade. He may even become like a child, unable to care for himself and forgetting all, even you. And you? You will not change. You will never wither and fade. Do you believe that he will never resent your immortality and the unchanging beauty that drew him to you? Do you not wonder whether his love for you will survive your different fate?"

Lúthien shakes her head and refuses to meet the witch's eyes. "Never fear, little one. More than likely you will not face this fate. Beren is a warrior. He has many foes. My master is one, and I am but one of his many servants. There are others, and you have other enemies. Think you that the sons of Fëanor will forget their Oath? How long shall you have before they threaten Doriath and demand their father's jewel? Do you believe your father will permit them to have it? Will Beren? Will he not fight? Will there not be war and the destruction of much you hold dear? Do not fool yourself. There is no gentle end for you if you follow this path. You have a choice here and now. Think carefully before you decide that your road leads to the North and to Angband.

Lúthien raises her eyes and answers softly, "I have no choice."

"There is always a choice, little one. Perhaps not an easy choice or a good one, but there is always a choice. You delude yourself otherwise. We choose, and we must live with the consequences. If we did not, our lives would be devoid of the little meaning they have."

Mairen touches her hair gently. Lúthien lowers her eyes and says, "Then mine is already made."

"Very well. Shall I tell you how to enter Angband and steal a jewel from my master's crown?"

"Yes. Tell me."

Mairen does.