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"A sheer precipice where reel the dizzy senses staring down from Thangorodrim's stony crown."
~ J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lays of Beleriand

Chapter 8

The thralls were screaming.

Melkor sighed, and a churning of wind swept through the Nethermost Hall, empty save for the Vala kneeling upon the floor. He shook. His hands, one blackened and one coated in flaking blood, they clenched at the coarse fabric covering his body. And he trembled.

Darkness. Darkness was there. The ever enveloping cold warmth of the Essence of the Void. He inhaled it, reveling in its embracing of his ëala.

But the thralls were screaming. Melkor stirred as the sound at last penetrated the barriers he had cast around himself, his mind soothed by the balm of such hellacious cries, and he felt the raging turmoil quell within. His gaze flitted quickly about the empty Hall, eyes impossibly dilated and alien with a bottomless black. He had willed himself to be consumed by the frore chill of the Darkness, and he felt the warmth of the glittering Folds of Disorder fill in the gaping fractures. It encompassed him, the chaotic Lawlessness, the Disharmony of Melodies long defiled and sullied beyond a healing of their weavings, such noise now having all the beauty of a drowned forest.

It was a balm to Melkor.

With a shuddering sigh, he slowly rose from where he knelt, his fists clenching as his body went on being wracked with tremors. Empty. He hissed at another sudden churning of air around him, and his head snapped to one of the two braziers alongside his throne as its fire grew from the burst of fuel, its flames dancing to an Elf's height. Melkor growled, glaring at the brazen flames. He approached and, with a single breath, blew out the wild brazier, pensively watching the black swirls of smoke rise as the Nethermost Hall grew several shades darker.

Melkor looked to the remaining brazier, the sole source of light left within the Hall, and with a swell of anger he approached it to douse it too, to plunge the Hall into the comforting dark of shadows. But as he drew breath to blow it out, an especially loud wailing of the thralls echoed through the tunnels and met his ears. He closed his eyes at the sound, absorbing unto himself the despair and anguish and fear that laced the Elven cries. Orc laughter came with it, along with his servants' glee that he could sense on a higher dimensional level. Such noise erupting throughout Angamando calmed the inner turmoil, and Melkor felt his shakes subside. He drew another breath to blow out the brazier.

But stopped.

Melkor stared at the dancing fire, the blue flames at its base that lit in an eternal burn until he willed it otherwise. He stared at it, the light of the wicked flames reflecting on his obsidian throne in a haunting display. He stared at the fire, the fire that only made the Jewels enmeshed in his Iron Crown shine more brightly. Light. And fire. The brazier looked to absorb the sounds of wailing thralls, for its bursts of flame fell in tune with their screams. The thralls had yet ceased to voice them.

Melkor's eyes lit with a dangerous light. Nelyafinwë would soon come to scream as though a manifestation of all thralls' despair, unceasing and unending. And staring at the brazier, Melkor knew just how he would pull such agony from their kingly guest.

In a flurry of dark robes, Melkor departed the Nethermost Hall, willing the doors shut behind him. He went swiftly through the tunnels, feet flying over a remembered path through and to different chambers and stairs, heading down and then up and back down. Though Orcs fled from the path of his passage, he encountered no thrall, though their pickaxes and tools lay strewn about, for all the slaves to be gathered were congregated at the Low Chamber to bear witness to Nelyafinwë's lesson, from which their caterwauling still echoed in an endless chant. But Melkor needed them not, for he flew to many collieries and with his hands, he gathered to himself ore of copper and lead and tin, blackened ingots of silver and gold, and the ever-present iron of Angamando. He gathered all six metals with a speed beyond even that of his Maiar and hastened to the High Smithy, where Mairon had remade the iron chains of Nelyafinwë. The vast chamber was empty, but the tall furnaces blazed bright with unfinished moldings of metal and steel, evidence of the hurried clearing out of slaves.

But Melkor approached a furnace freshly fueled and went about the task of crafting together the six metals he had gathered. He worked with a speed and efficiency that outperformed even the talented hands of Mairon, that would have even set his vile Brother Aulë a challenge to beat. Not that he could. But with the music of the thralls resounding through every tunnel of Angamando, and with his own implacable will powering the fire of the furnace to burn impossibly hot, the metal took shape before his eyes.

There was a shift in the air, and Melkor recognized the frore and subservient frequency that traveled through the heat. A light pattering of footsteps soon came with it and Melkor looked up just as Mairon was giving his obeisance, not a hair misplaced upon his raven head. The lieutenant stayed his approach fairly close to the furnace, turning up his eyes to his Master's hardened gaze with apprehension in his own. Melkor let not a morsel of the disquiet he felt within surface to his face, nor resonate among the disharmonious Melodies only he emitted at the sight of his troubled disciple.

He should not have yet returned from his airborne observation of the Noldor so quickly.

Melkor instead lifted an eyebrow, hands never ceasing their molding of his craft. "Well?"

Mairon's eyes flitted down to his project, confusion clear in the glittering orbs, but he looked back up. "I return from the flight among the Noldor you bid of me. Amid my search of you Fankil has informed me of the intransigence of Nelyafinwë."

Melkor waited, his hands stilling. "And?"

"I traversed the Low Chamber on my way here and the score –"

"Your task, Mairon. Not the princeling's lesson."

Mairon grew still, face impassive, though his eyes grew hesitant once again. "They are marching to Angamando, my lord."

Melkor grew wholly still at the words, staring at Mairon, and his servant visibly flinched under the regard. And his eyes glistened. "They march?"

Mairon nodded. "Aye, my lord. It is no mere trekking of land. Ñolofinwë has unfurled his banners of silver and blue. I spied them amid my flight, and neither wife nor child walks with him, though I returned hither ere I could discern if they remain unguarded at the grey lake."

"How many?"

"All of his Host that bears sword and shield, though spear and bow are borne also. His sons march behind him, along with the get of Arafinwë."

"Leagues?" Melkor turned again to the metals, willing them too cool.

"A score, by how I flew," Mairon estimated, again glancing down with a furrowed brow to the shackle gradually yet swiftly taking shape. Though this time he looked not away, tilting his head. "Though by the size of their Host their march is made slow, they will be here within a fortnight at the speed they maintain."

Melkor paused in thought, his eyes narrowing. "You name not the sons of Fëanáro to be among them."

Mairon quickly turned his eyes up again to those of his lord and gave a minute shake of his head, clasping his hands at the small of his back. "Nay, my lord. Their standards are borne not among the Host, but I know not of what discourse they have yet held, if any."

Melkor again turned to his work, taking up a pair of iron tongs, feeling Mairon's curious gaze once more go to watch his hands as they flew, and he sensed envy within his servant as he observed the skill with which he worked. Melkor paid him no heed as his mind turned over Mairon's report. Though he had espied Ñolofinwë's march into Hithlum and the brief sojourn they had held in the basin of the Mountains of Shadow, he had neither yet witnessed nor determined whether or not Ñolofinwë had made contact with the sons of Fëanáro since the end of their trek across the Ice. It had been one factor he had bid Mairon to determine amid his flight, but now to learn Ñolofinwë went to march on unto the very Gates of Angamando….He dismissed his musings. Even if the two Hosts of the Noldor had interacted by now since their parting, he wagered that this march of the Host of Ñolofinwë had or would have been done without Makalaurë's counsel, or in utter disregard of it. After all, Makalaurë had witnessed firsthand all the good it had done the Host of Fëanáro the last time they had acted so brazenly against the mightiest of Eä. He would have told Ñolofinwë, right?

Melkor's face contorted into what might have been a smile, but his eyes were dark and soulless, emitting a black and ominous light. He looked at the lieutenant, though his hands still never ceased their labor. "Rouse the wrath of the Valaraukar," he said, his calm voice belying the swell of eagerness he felt. "Goad the baying of thanes and growls of hounds and kindle the breath of my fire-drakes." Mairon lifted an eyebrow, and Melkor smiled in truth. "It would be discourteous to bestow Ñolofinwë's Host upon their arrival anything less than a proper greeting as only that of mine armies can give." Sparks swiftly flew between his fingers and Mairon's attention was caught by the sudden light. "Ñolofinwë shall taste the unconquerable might of the Great Gate, and though my Children still cower in their dens from the rising of the Sun, I shall instill in Ñolofinwë and his Host a terror the likes of which can be molded only in these hells of iron. Let them traverse the ravines of molten fire! Let them sound their lofty trumpets of silver and behold their din drowned by my thunder. I will imbue my ire into the gales overhead and incite the distress of the mountains and fouled waterways, and thereby will the Noldor go without easy footing or quenching of their thirst come their arrival. They will witness in truth just whose command Arda obeys."

He cast away the tongs and waved a hand at the furnace, and its fire intensified. But he held Mairon's gaze that grew less assured at whatever he saw in his Master's. "They shall learn of their folly when facing the great walls of Angamando, and none are to heed their challenge," Melkor instructed. "No one. But they shall witness a display of might that shall send them trembling with a bottomless dread until they retreat with quaking hearts." Indeed, he added with a vile chuckle, the Host of Ñolofinwë doomed themselves to a lesson akin to that learned by the Host of Fëanáro. Ñolofinwë would have saved his people from such a sooth if he had only sought the counsel of Makalaurë first.

Oh, what would the Valar speak at such childish strife?

Mairon bowed his head, shifting his stance as though readying to depart. "I will go speak to my brethren that they are to stand down come the arrival of Ñolofinwë and go fly south with Ancalagon."

"You will do neither and will fly with Ancalagon later," Melkor spoke with an upheld hand, for Mairon had begun to leave. "Go and grab our little king. His lesson is nigh finished, and bid the thralls return to their labor, lest they desire his lesson to be continued." Melkor looked down, effectively dismissing him, and resumed the forging of the malleable metals.

Mairon looked wholly to the fetter almost fully made. He furrowed his brow, tilting his head. "As you will, my lord, but what is it you are doing?"

"Your task."

Mairon looked up, uncertainty in his alluring eyes and not a little bit of fear. "My lord?"

Melkor felt a stab of impatience and with an exasperated sigh, he reached out with his bloodied hand and grabbed hold of his servant's neck, slamming him against the furnace, and Mairon winced at the harsh impact, still yet unused to the ways of Incarnate flesh. He held still, even at the burning heat dancing against his skin, though neither hair nor apparel caught fire from the flying sparks. Nor did he grab hold of Melkor's wrist, but Melkor went out anyway to paralyze him with his gaze alone.

"Turn not on me such dimwittedness, best beloved," he warned, tightening his grasp. "I have neither the patience nor the will to indulge your feigning, and I am of mind to make your cup more bitter blent than sweet. Do not tempt me." He readied his tongue to speak further, but paused as he stared upon the countenance of his servant. Fairer than even the fairest Child, eyes scintillating the dark beauty found in the nether wastelands of Eä, a voice an echo of the Voice that had been all he had retained of his former glory….Melkor tilted his head. Why had he allowed Mairon to remain so beautiful upon his changing of fealties? He had allowed it of no other, and at present, Melkor felt to be in a fell enough mood as to scar his servant's ëala in addition to the flesh.

"My lord?"

The entreaty shook Melkor from the musing, and he saw that Mairon's eyes had darkened in raw terror at what he had seen unfold in his own eyes. Good. Melkor released him. "I bid you to break the whelp, to implant in him a harvest of hate where all seeds of olden love bitter or sweet are made twisted and blackened unto his very fëa. To turn that he hates unto himself, to render his mind to the furthest corner an endless recycling of loathing as to be consumed by it in full. Nelyafinwë may be damned the vessel of a broken body, but never had I before thought I would see again the fire of Fëanáro with an even more burning of ardor. Yet I saw it today." Melkor stamped down the smoldering blackness that curdled within at the mere memory of the atrocity in the Nethermost Hall just hours ago, refusing to let it find purchase in his thoughts again so quickly. Yet he could not disremember it, this unfolding of a broken and bloodied creature, and how in truth it ought to have been impossible. "Had you fulfilled my will, the living essence of his fëa would be smote. Ten years I have granted you, ten years have I watched and waited, and now I will see it done myself. For however longer I deem he lives, I will see him live his suffering in an eternal autumn – russet, still, and waiting to die, until I grant him the pitiless death of winter. And my patience for both you and him has reached its end."

Mairon still had a look of bewilderment. "But what has your craft of a manacle to do with it, Master?"

Melkor regarded his servant with a keen eye, and knew upon inspection of his Thought that the Úmaia had perceived the significance of the six metals being used, but wisely remained silent on the clear mockery they represented. "Our kingly guest beseeches for an end to the darkness I shroud him in, and he shall have it. To use more light I instructed you, and praise be to my beloved Manwë for unwittingly giving us it, for as I ordained I speak again: I will see the Noldo fastened to the crags of a cliff and feel that Tree's fruit burn him from within.

"Nelyafinwë believes he has suffered all the woes to be had at my devices, believes he has seen the farthest I can go ere just slaying him myself." His eyes sparked. "But ever will he go on to learn of the cruel Ordering of Creation, in that as the mightiest of all Dwellers I have no limitations. And he will suffer tenfold under the Sun. Even as his eyes will be blinded and bled, one simple band of steel will deliver a horror unto his body he could nigh perceive. He hates the screaming of thralls, so will be left isolated to instead hate the sound of silence. He hates the decayed air of his vault, and so will hate the fresh wind for every burn its impact gives to even the smallest of wounds. He hates the embrace of his chains, and so will be freed and left to hang by but a single fetter, and hate that the impending internal agony is ever so worse than the torments put to mere skin. And all the while will Manwë's vessel of that fruit scorch him." A ghost of a smile surfaced. "Nelyafinwë will crave again his old imprisonment and its darkness with it ere he can even determine what a sun is."

"But not one lumen of either Sun or Moon enters your Dwelling, my lord," he reasoned, but Melkor could see the subtle shift in Mairon's unique Resonance, indicating delight and a thrill of excitement, though none of it surfaced to his face. "It is as you willed. Too thick and knotted is the tempest of your gales."

"I will part the gales for him alone." Melkor gave a bitter smile. "Manwë will be made to see this mockery."

A flash of horror and revulsion shown then in Mairon's face, though he was quick to suppress it. "You would withdraw the cover you summoned against that baneful light, my lord?" It was asked quietly, but Melkor heard the tremor in his fine voice.

He gave a mirthless grin. "Not so, best beloved," he reassured coolly, running his hand through the silken tresses, flakes of dried blood catching on the strands. "Never will Manwë gain such purchase in my domain. To Nelyafinwë I will bestow their blessed light until he loathes it and craves again the darkness, and then withdraw it until he loathes the dark and craves again the scorching light." Blackness seeped into his face. "Even if not for the benefit of our Noldóran, I would part the dark clouds and close them again for the pure delight alone of proving over and henceforth always that my Brethren's light can succeed not even a foothold in my Dwelling."

Mairon was visibly appeased. "But what of the veil you keep upon the Elf's eyes, my lord?" he asked. "Ñolofinwë comes, and it has been your will that Nelyafinwë knows naught of his arrival by way of the Ice. That to Valinor he and his Host had returned, disgraced and their proud Houses left desolate. It is wise to risk the sustaining of lies spoken as truth to him when the mere sight of Ñolofinwë's banners may alone unravel the weave?"

Melkor gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "It shall be not so, for he will be too high up."

A shadow of suspicion flitted across Mairon's expression. "Where intend you to bind him, Master?"

Melkor looked at him then, eyes now glittering with a cruel amusement, and a blast of heated air shot through the cavernous smithy. "Where reel the dizzying senses, of course."

Mairon's eyes dawned with comprehension. "Thangorodrim."

Melkor nodded. "Upon its crown, for after all, deserves our little king no less when he has naught else to grace his brow?" He huffed in dark humor. "These Firstborn seem always to have a way of unwittingly declaring their own dooms."

Mairon smiled, a small upturning of the corners of his mouth, but his spirit within was dancing. "For how long will you sentence him there?"

Melkor lifted an eyebrow. "Until he bends his knee." He nodded towards the mouth of the chamber. "Go now to him. Later will I deal with you."

Mairon nodded, and Melkor could perceive the fury with which the thoughts of his cunning mind now flew. He bowed to his lord. "As you bid, I will go escort him here." He walked about the furnace to depart.

"Nay, to the mountains," he called after him. Mairon halted, turning to him with a look of enquiry. " I will leave a trail for you to follow. Any others who would fain bear witness may come also."

"But must he not first be fettered, my lord?"

Melkor shook his head, gesturing to his almost completed work. "To my own will this manacle is made, and his wrist shall be sealed inside by words of my mouth."

Mairon's eyes widened ever so slightly at what went unspoken. "You mean for it to become a part of his body even beyond when he will come to kneel at your feet?"

Melkor gave a single nod. "That, or unto the ending of his life. His fëa shall have to flee even from his body to be free of me."

"Such blight will be enough to break him further," Mairon realized.

"Will be enough to break him in full," he corrected. "And he shall be, now go. For him it will be a trek long and weary to the towers."

With a final bow Mairon departed, his steps hastened on by a fervor that encircled him as a corona. Melkor watched him go as he was disappeared around the corridor's bend. He cast his Thought unto the Low Chamber and saw indeed that all was nigh finished with the thralls and the sole Noldo residing in Angamando. An overabundance of blood had been shed, twenty new Elven thralls now dead, and their life blood drained by the most prolonged of torments, a particular sentence so woeful that it was perceived eviler than death at its slowest by every thrall who crawled in his fortress. Melkor could smell the iron tang of the pools of blood from where he worked, despite being above them in elevation by over a league. Inspired by the perfume, he turned again to the splendor of his labor and with a swiftness ill-conceivable and willpower implacable, he finished it.

A band of steel rested in his hands, still yet emitting a heat blistering enough to scald Elven flesh. He ran lithe fingers along the fine sheen. Six metals folded and encased within, the smoldering fires of the furnace danced in its reflection, and a thrum of power dark and insidious teemed through the flawless curvature of steel. Unbreakable and unyielding, Melkor knew that not even the plasma fires of the forge of Aulë himself could unmake it. With it and resting alongside the assortment of iron tools were two nails with bulbous heads. Molded from heat-hardened iron, they were a handspan in length and narrowed to the point of a cold chisel, surrounded by four small spurs that would anchor it irreversibly into the rock unless undone by his words alone.

Gathering together the three pieces of embedded wizardry and taking up an iron mallet, Melkor departed the High Smithy with a swiftness of foot that flew him as a passing shadow over granular rock and through convoluted and winding tunnels once again, passing witless Orcs and not a few thralls that cowered away come the sight of him to flush against the walls, subdued and shaken beyond measure. Along the fastest route Melkor ascended to the surface of Angamando, traveling along the Great Tunnel until he came to yet another obscure passage that wound evermore upwards. And he walked it until, for the second time that day, Melkor left the roof of mountain roots and came to the three great peaks that fenced his Dwelling, smoking sickly ash and disappearing into the black cover of clouds.

Melkor looked at Thangorodrim, paying no heed to the vicious wind battling against him, nor the sparks and embers that were carried across the vast reaches of Angamando from the pools and rivers of fire. Melkor regarded each of the oppressive mountains, gaze flicking from one to the other, contemplating which of the three would be best-suited for Nelyafinwë. After due and swift consideration, he decided upon the west-tower. The central tower was tempting, but Mairon's concern for the imminent arrival of Ñolofinwë was correct. Even though he purposed to place the get of Fëanáro high where none could reach him, he would not risk the enthralled king laying sight, however chancy, on the Host of his kin. And hanging him upon the central tower that faced foremost the wastelands from where Ñolofinwë would hail offered the greatest chance of seeing the marching of Noldor, no matter how obscured he might will the Elf's eyes to be. But at midpoint between the Great Gate and Secret Gates westward Nelyafinwë would see nothing, even should he try.

Now decided, Melkor altered his course and approached the tower, traversing over obstacles and compositions of rock impossible for even the most fleet-footed Elf to surmount. Though it would be hours before Nelyafinwë could make the journey in the encumbrance of his ruined body, Melkor was hastened by the ever underlying current of anger that smoldered any measure of satisfaction he may have felt.

He came to the tower and ascended it, pondering now how high he would go. While the central tower stood in height over two leagues tall, its neighbors each soared into the sky nearly as high. He knew the peak itself where belched the ash and smoke of the thralls' labor was no option, for at that extreme height Nelyafinwë would suffocate fairly quick at the lack of air. And what air there was up there would be so fouled and noxious that it would poison the hröa of any Incarnate. And he would not allow the ruined Noldo the bliss of death yet.

But where? Melkor traversed the tower, observing the ghastly mountainsides that had been built of slag from the furnaces and rubble amid the redelving of Angamando. For Nelyafinwë he wanted the perfect place. A place where silence would deafen him, where isolation would smother him, where the frore chill summoned from the Regions of Everlasting Cold would freeze him while the heat of the fires of Angamando would scald him. Where Sun and Moon could be defiled in their purpose while still being drowned in the Darkness that reigned. Where none could reach him, where he would believe himself abandoned. Where he would crave even the sound of Orcs' callous laughter or the wailing of Elves in thralldom if it meant retaining some sense of familiarity. Where he would learn in truth that, for him, Melkor would never rest.

And suddenly, Melkor knew just where to place him, and he rerouted his course.

He had built up these mountains and knew them with an intimate knowledge. Knew every crag, every shingle, every cliff. Knew every tumble of stone as lightning struck it and every reworking of its base as the quakes he sent rocking his stronghold shook it. And where he now went was to a precipice of the mountainside among the most oppressing. There was a protruding ledge not a handbreadth wide that ringed the plumb wall and he walked on it, gazing around. Here. The slag of the wall was smooth and absent of any nook or cranny. Before him was a yawning abyss, the tail of a great chasm in the earth that ran from the Iron Mountains unto the central tower, dividing Thangorodrim from the lesser mountains and cliffs that led unto the westward wastelands of the North. Across the way from where he stood was the bluff of one cluster of those lesser mountains, a tangled mess of massifs and perilous ridges, but at so far a distance that it was beyond the throw of any stone. It was an ugly view, lifeless and barren, and nothing could be seen beyond it amid the dark shroud of Angamando and rain of ash. Aye, a horrid view indeed, but the only one Nelyafinwë would be able to see.

Melkor felt a thrill of delight, stirring more chaos in the gales above him as they displayed more scattered lightning and rolling thunder. Turning to the wall, he readied nail and hammer but paused as a cruel thought grew his mind. And he smiled, deciding to drive the band of steel into the slag higher up on the wall, so thus would Nelyafinwë have no purchase to bear his weight, no ledge on which to stand. Let the agony be at its peak from its maiden dosage, he snarled.

And so higher up he went until the ledge was lost in the smoke-clogged and filthy winds. He took the manacle and the mallet and the nail and, sliding it through one of the anchors of the shackle, he drove home the first nail with an echoing clang that sang along the mountains' empty chasm. Melkor cackled at the sound. The royal Noldo hungered for the outside and so outside he would be. Ñolofinwë and his Host were coming, marching even now unto the Gates of Angamando. The cruel irony was not lost on Melkor of the circumstances, for he knew he would laugh aloud at how the Noldor would loudly go to declare their challenge at the fence of his Dwelling, all the while their king lay imprisoned behind it.

He went on hammering, leaving a margin of the nail free from the rock. He would wait for Nelyafinwë to witness in both sight and horrid sound the final blows of the hammer against his enchained wrist.

It was as he had asserted all this day. Let Nelyafinwë follow the scorched path carved out by the Spirit of Fire. Let his mind be clouded by the tendrils of residual smoke! Let him taste the full bitterness of decisions made. Fëanáro's fire had been smote by greater flame, and so would Nelyafinwë's light be smote by greater light. Fëanáro in mind had drowned in the abyss of madness, and so would his fiery firstborn be twisted in thought and corrupted in heart until all lies were truth and all Truth lies of the bitterest fruit. Until the dancing wildness of Nelyafinwë's fiery spirit consumed him as had Fëanáro's. Until the Third Finwë was brought to a ruin akin to that of the First and the Second. Until Manwë watched this mockery in full, for from atop Ilmarin his little brother could see all, and Melkor would fain make him witness this travesty of Elven life. Until Manwë failed in his task as a Guardian again and again.

Come save him, little brother, he goaded, casting his merciless Thought unto the darkened West. Do it! Mayhap now you will move! Move to reawaken our olden Wars ere came the birth of Time! Here will Nelyafinwë hang, and he will by you be beheld as the living shrine of all your precious Children you swore to Guard now enchained in the thralldom of my design! See him, and know again upon every new day's rising of your Sun that you allow it!

A hail of shards of gravel tumbled down the mountainside, showering the Dark Lord, but Melkor did not heed it. He readied the second nail and hefted the mallet to drive it in, envisioning already Nelyafinwë's naked and worthless form framed by russet hair upon the bleak wall. Nelyafinwë will break. Kept always alive to the margin of death, yes, but Nelyafinwë would here remain until broken in full, or until he devised a new and better design to fulfill his will of the Noldo. Sealed inside and condemned henceforth to wear an ornament of unbending steel, his ending of whatever vain hope sustained the obstinacy of his fëa would begin.

Melkor hammered the second nail in.

Yes, let it begin.

END

A/N: I cannot emphasize enough the significance of this story's place in the chronology. Maedhros has so far been imprisoned for approximately 10 years. Amid this duration, Fingolfin and his Host came into Beleriand and into Hithlum, took their respite in Mithrim and, without any reunion with the Fëanorians, he marched onward to Angband. Maedhros was bound to the precipice of Thangorodrim before Fingolfin reached the Gates, and then hung there for 30 years before Fingon went out in search for him. And it is true that Maedhros did not see the Host of Fingolfin, but he did hear them: "the Elves smote upon the gates of Angband, and the challenge of their trumpets shook the towers of Thangorodrim; and Maedhros heard them amid his torment and cried aloud, but his voice was lost in the echoes of the stone." He heard them.

Mairon: The original Valarin name for Sauron was never provided by Tolkien in the books I own. Mairon is not my invention and is certainly contestable. The plausible suggestion of Mairon being Sauron's first name can be found in the journal Parma Eldalamberon Issue #17, "Words, Phrases and Passages in Various Tongues". I elected against using the Eldarin titles he is named by the Elves, including the most common name of "Sauron". Sauron has innumerable names, in my opinion, and each respective name is categorized to be an innovative title among separate Races and then among divisions of those Races: he is called Zigûr in Adûnaic, Gorthaur the Cruel by the Sindar, to list a couple examples, and bore further names of Sauron, Necromancer, Annatar, Aulendil, Artano, Thû, Tiberth, etc., but all names were used respectively by those who bestowed upon the Maia each respective name. Thus, it leaves to be asked: by what name was he known among the Valar and by Melkor? The more common names of Sauron and Gorthaur in FA are doubtful and feasibly inappropriate, for "Sauron" comes from the Quenya adjective saura, which means "abhorred", and "Gorthaur" was derived from the old adjectival form thaur, of the base form thaw, which means "detestable" (consider the Sindarin Gorthaur and Quenya Thaurond [eventually to be the Quenya Sauron(d)]). No Ainu in the Beginning, Vala or Maia, was "abhorred" or "detestable", therefore any such application for his name beyond that outside of Elven perception would be inappropriate.

To come: I presently have a huge project in the making. Three separate stories, all interrelated, all canonical gap-fillers, and none of them to be short. The first of these three projects to be published is my next fic, Hells of Iron, a canonical gap-filler spanning the time between Fëanor's arrival in Beleriand and the first rising of the Moon. I really need to stop writing sequels before prequels, but this coming tale will also be not for the faint of heart: Fëanor has fallen, Maedhros taken captive, and the Exiled Noldor left without their king. Tolkien provided seldom to no details of what happened among the Fëanorians amid the time of Maedhros' imprisonment, let alone what went down in Angband. What became of Maglor as the newly appointed leader of his people? What became of Maedhros that initiated his fate of hanging from the precipice? This is a dark tale Tolkien left us scarce information to imagine, and it will go from Maglor taking up the responsibilities as king of his people, to the remaining six brothers "abandoning" their eldest to Morgoth's mercies, and to how Maedhros came to meet a certain "bright one". :) The date of publishing is undecided at this time, but this fic is being written with relish.

Following next will be "Cast of Iron", spanning a time during Maedhros' recovery, the first time he wakes up after his rescue, in which he also asks Fingolfin a question that makes him very uncomfortable. My fic "Let Him Go" takes place shortly before this story, and somewhat alludes to what will happen in both "Cast of Iron" and the next one after that, "Breaking Iron", the last of the three projects. Post-imprisonment and post-recovery, Maedhros is faced with the Noldor in a complete mess. Not to mention his own problems, for how exactly did he recover from all Morgoth did to him? This will be that story, and will progress to and beyond his giving Fingolfin the crown. And like "Hells of Iron", these fics also are being made with relish.