Summary: Morgoth stands upon the walls of Angband, contemplating Maedhros as the eldest son of Fëanor is bound up in chains deep beneath his feet, pondering just what he should do with his copper-haired thrall next. (Inspired by a study of "Myths Transformed", Morgoth's Ring.)

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Tolkien's world. I wish I did, but it all belongs to the Tolkien Estate. I make no profit from these ventures of delving into the Master's legendarium, and I also do not own the uploaded "book cover" for this particular story. It is owned by "jonathanguzi", whose depictions can be found on deviantArt, and who has also given me his permission to use said image for this fic.

A/N: This is virtually a bold and somewhat daring attempt on my part to delve into the mind of Morgoth and a few of his thoughts behind the captivity of Maedhros, and I bear no pretentions of expecting this to be accurate. Maedhros, as well as a couple other recognizable characters, will star (including Sauron). Despite what it looks as, this is not a Maedhros-rescued-from-Angband story. Far from it - pretty much the opposite.

And yes, Fëanor is dead in this story, and I don't intend to use his name as clickbait, but he as a character has such an imperative part in this story that not including his name in the list of characters involved seemed preposterous. Just as this story revolves around Melkor, a significant portion of his thoughts revolve around Fëanáro.

Warning: This story, short as it is, will progressively grow to be dark with little to no levity, and some descriptions and/or images may prove disturbing to some readers. This initial chapter is "clean" some might say, but in future chapters, read with caution. This story is not for the faint of heart, as the saying goes.

"O wretched man that I am!" ~ Romans 7:24

Chapter 1

Elves. Such insects. As ants they scurry when their home be prodded with the butt of a twig. As beetles they flee come the light of Darkness. As butterflies, so beautiful and delicately wrought, they be smote with but one rent of their wings.

Melkor stood on the thousand-foot precipice above his Great Gate of Angamando, the dark fortress cloaked in shadow and poisonous fumes. No smidgen of light could pierce the vapors he summoned from the depths of the stronghold, vapors that belched in black clouds from the countless smithies through the chimney. And no foul winds from the West could conquer the three smoking peaks of Thangorodrim, towering into the sky just in the distance. Here it was impenetrable, for not even the surrounding black lands Melkor now looked upon could regain any semblance of Life.

Elves, he again mocked with a disdainful chuckle deep within his mind. His smoldering eyes glittered as he cast out his gaze unto his wide demesne of Arda. Elves, such delightful baubles! How foolish they proved to be when they gathered what little courage they had to prove what little might they possessed. That ill-conceived water-lover of a Vala had warned the Lindar and people of Ingwë of his misgivings against him, and those Foam-riding and Air-minded creatures had heeded the Water-king's words. But the Noldor….Ai, how credulous they proved to be! An acerbic grin touched his face. Though he had anticipated as much as he liked (namely, not at all) that his Sword-elves had followed him beyond the Sea, from it his untainted hate knew no bounds. Melkor thought his accursed Brethren would have forbidden such a crossing, wise of the danger to be swiftly wrought otherwise at his hands. But then, the Valar had countless times proven foolish in their deeds.

But come they had, crossing the Cold Road that he once had been forced to march across when bound up in the accursed Angainor. Melkor could still feel the chains burning as a cold brand into his body. But he was little ignorant in the goings of his demesne and had learned swiftly, oh so swiftly, of the Noldor's humiliation and the deeds they committed at that Haven of incompetent boat lovers. But not only had all but a tithe come, either by way of Sea or Ice, for the Exilic Noldor had not been idle, much to his amusement. He had long known the Elves to be arrogant in his dealings with them, oh yes, but he had underestimated that arrogance, or mayhap downright prideful folly? For whom with half an intelligent mind would believe himself capable of overthrowing him, King of Arda? He, mightiest of the Valar!

Apparently, Fëanáro. And then Ñolofinwë had come with the rising of the white orb, surprising Melkor and his minions with the blast of silver trumpets. But while his servants had simply stood there, ogling with amazement and dread at this newfound source of Light, Melkor had been more keen and recognized Tilion of Oromë at the helm of the satellite. Melkor recalled with a sense of foreboding how confounded he had been when first laying sight on this unanticipated hand of the Valar. And swiftly had he hated the new creation with a burning passion that would have sent fleeing any sane being. What was worse was that this newfound orb of white spat with the image of Telperion! But mayhap, Melkor mused, now that the dismal wonder had dissipated, he could thwart this new creation as all the other plans of the Valar he had thwarted. Tilion was no threat and Melkor fantasized at the Maia's reaction (and the Valar's) should he be assailed with a host of demons. Or shadows. Or flame. Anything of Darkness would work, really. It always proved entertaining to watch the Valar panic over the small things he did.

But such planning was for another time. He knew not what this new sheen of light indicated, if only if it was in coordination with Ñolofinwë's arrival, or if it meant more beyond the Valar deftly trying their hand in retaliation again. But he would deal with the newly come Noldor later. Oh yes, he would soon make them regret ever venturing across the Ice as they learned the true meaning of wrath.

But Fëanáro….At the recollection of his bitterest foe, his mien darkened to be as dark as the vapors blotting out the sunlight. And thunder shook the foundations of Angamando beneath his feet. Melkor shook his head in both disgust and disappointment. My my, how many regrets he had with that endearing Elf. If only he could have been present, to have placed an ear upon the moment when that insolent princeling had learned his precious father had died. A bitter smile lit Melkor's face, for though he had delighted in playing with an Unbegotten once more, he had to admit that smiting Finwë would have been all the more entertaining if only his firstborn had been there to witness what he had done to him. He could see it even now before his eyes, and he relished at his musings: Finwë in his hands with that delicious terror in his eyes all Quendi had been wont to reveal; Melkor going out once more to do as he pleased (oh, how he had longed to!) with brittle hröa and fëa; and all the while Fëanáro bound up in his traitorous Ungweliantë's web, forced to watch his beloved father's demise as he crushed the Noldo's head with his great mace of iron. Melkor's smile diminished as his aura darkened. Yes, he hissed. Even though, upon impulse, Fëanáro would have been the first to go, tormenting the princeling by witnessing such would have been some small reprisal for slamming the door in his face.

And now in death Fëanáro was beyond his reach! Oh, none could mistake the joy and pleasure Melkor glowed with at the reality that Fëanáro, mightiest to have been and to be, was dead. But he had wished for the pleasure of killing that insolent excuse for a Firstborn himself! But no, Fëanáro's Fire had been smote by a greater flame ere he could reach him, and Melkor had made sure Cosmoco knew fully of his wrath for performing the deed that had rightfully belonged to him!

Jail-crow Fëanáro had called him. A jail-crow, just before Fëanáro had slammed the door in his face. He had not even given Melkor the chance to talk with him as he did the other Noldor! Melkor still knew not where he had failed in his endeavor to douse him with sweet words and was ever bitter for it, for he had needed the Spirit of Fire like no other for his plans to fully come to fruition. But such never came, and when finally Melkor had the chance to break and make suffer that Incarnate in any way he pleased, that pleasure was taken from him! Lord of Valaraukar and king of flame though he be, Cosmoco still trembled in the presence of his Master. Good riddance.

But though he had wished for Fëanáro as a captive, Nelyafinwë proved to be somewhat of a fine substitute, he had to confess, his ire with Fëanáro fading as he considered his firstborn son. And really, he was somewhat impressed with how long it had taken to break down the whelp.

As his thoughts turned to the red-haired creature deep beneath his feet in one of the pits of Angamando, Melkor leaned his elbows on the parapet of glassy igneous rock, wondering what end was to be for Fëanáro's firstborn. He had a strong spirit, true, and such was something Melkor had initially underestimated. But what else should he have expected from the very get of the Spirit of Fire?

But not fiery enough, he amended in dark amusement as he heard laughter from the stronghold's depths. Even now Melkor could hear the delightful shrill of Nelyafinwë's screams as his Orcs enjoyed him. In all honesty, he had to confess to being surprised Nelyafinwë had still any voice left in him to cry, for even his lieutenant, most cunning of all his People, had been erstwhile convinced that Fëanáro's Copperhead had lost any strength (or mayhap will) to utter pleas and protestations. But now, atop the slags of Angamando, from amid the deepest pits of the stronghold Melkor could hear him screaming again with that delicious despairing agony in his voice. Impressive.

Nelyafinwë, Maitimo, the Elf of beautiful bodily form….What Melkor would give to see if any would be capable of even uttering that amilessë after laying sight on him now. Mayhap Nerdanel had named him for the beauty of his body in reference to outwardly as much as inwardly, for Maitimo generated blood at an admirable speed. But even if he could survive his time here in this abode of mountains, this Elf of exceptional beauty would forever bear the scars of his torment and be a beauty no longer. Melkor let go a small grin at the thought. It was the least the Elf deserved for existing.

Verily, he had never taken much notice of Nelyafinwë amid his dwelling in the West, for all his focus had been bent on destroying that hapless Fëanáro. All he remembered most of all was the image of Maitimo in the constant company of that one Elf, the one who walked by his side with dark hair braided as ever with cords of gold. Melkor knew Findekáno as intimately as he knew all of the House of Finwë, but then Melkor took little notice of things not pertaining to his plans. Especially with all his efforts dedicated towards all the feigning to be done that naught was wrong and all was well.

And such effort had been draining. To all Elves he himself was fairer than even Manwë, Melkor knew. The Elves had given him ear as they never had for his usurper of a brother! But still, something had stayed his advancement in Valinor. And for that detestable reason he had dared to never risk his act of self-abasement and repentance being discovered, though such had been a temptation considering how gullible and naïve his little brother was.

The countenance of Melkor was terrible to behold as it darkened beyond forbearance as his thoughts turned to Manwë. And Melkor could have screamed in all hatred and ire unmatched.

Aye, naught had been wrong and all was well. Naught wrong and all well! And it had been an insanity maintaining the deception all the while working to stay the torment that had come upon Melkor in droves from merely being in the abode of the Valar!

His Being suddenly quailed in remembrance and several quakes rent rock and earth throughout the Iron Mountains. But Melkor paid no heed to the devastation he wrought, took no comfort from it, for he now trembled as seldom before, though whether more in hate or terror he could not tell.

Curse him, Manwë's Song was everywhere! A deep longing for the Void smote Melkor then, a longing for its vastness, vastness empty of all his brethren's pretentions of Song and might. Why did Manwë do what he did? Why must his Voice and essence echo in everything? And in his Song, an echo of the Greater One? One that still reduced and shriveled him until he wept. There was no escaping it, save in the Void. And every shrill of Manwë's Song he heard Melkor grew in hatred beyond Manwë's greatest conception. Why must he Sing? Why had his little brother ever been Brought into Being? Manwë's Song was unending! But not here – nay, here Melkor's own Song echoed with all the might he had long possessed. How the Elves so often cringed upon hearing it, how they constantly trembled as they did for no other Vala.

For Manwë was weak, utterly blinded by a complete lack of intelligence in how to perceive the purpose of Eä's Creation. Blinded! Manwë feared him and feared him greatly, this Melkor knew well. Manwë was beloved, nay, worshipped by the Eldar and yet his pest of a brother failed to even acknowledge his own faults undeserving of such adulation? What a fool he was! Melkor had seen swiftly before his Imprisonment how Manwë had become engrossed in amendment, in healing, in re-ordering. All in effort to control him, Melkor, mightiest of all Beings to be and to come. Ever had Manwë proved incapable of comprehending the benefit of creative power, the beauty of chaos and pure freedom of evil. Melkor had made certain to make Manwë regret that incomprehension, though, proving the King's weakness again and again in their wars and battles.

Damn Manwë! he shrieked on all levels of the cosmos. Thunder rumbled above and fire spewed forth from the rents in the mountainsides, and the air was as hot as his ire. And Melkor felt the hordes of Orcs beneath his feet tremble and cower in face of his wrath. There Manwë sat upon his throne, believing himself to be lord of the highest royalty in Eä. There he sat upon his throne with pretensions of kingship! There he sat upon his throne with the conceited belief to being the greatest of them all!

But no, for Melkor was greater and in all ways conceivable. The Valar cowered behind their hills and Voices! Fourteen of them trembling as he struck, startling as he jumped! Manwë's day of reckoning was coming, and ever was Melkor comforted by this knowledge. His little brother's day was coming and on that day forevermore would Melkor make Manwë regret his mere Existence. And finally would Melkor have his rightful place as Elder King.

He lifted his eyes westward to where he knew Taniquetil soared in the heavens. And the fire in his eyes then would have smote any Firstborn as a death knell.

"Rise up mountains and I shall fell them," he spoke, casting his sight to him far across the Sea. "Hallow out valleys and I shall upheave them. Sing unto me your Song, Manwë, and I shall blacken the very Voice of your Soul!" He shouted out the words with the Voice of his Being into the open land, and the surrounding earth quaked as cliffs upon mountains crumbled and Thangorodrim absorbed the bolts of lightning from his gales.

Aye, the day was coming, and Melkor's smile was this time gleeful as he retreated to one of his favorite memories, one that never failed to stay the weeping: He had tendered his mercies on Manwë before. Oh how he remembered, and oh, what a glorious moment in Time it had been! Never while in the Timeless Halls had he been able to do so, but in Eä….The Endless waiting in the Void had been fully worth it when came Manwë's screams. And the sounds of his sufferance had granted to Melkor an ecstasy greater than the warping of Eä's fabric ever did. Manwë had been his, wholly his to do with as he pleased!

But then Tulkas had come.

The thought came as a physical blow, and Melkor visibly quailed as he cowered away from the memory of that particular Vala. And Melkor shuddered as he recalled against his will the sound and Power of Tulkas' laugh. The black clouds surrounding Thangorodrim that sounded out their thunderous roar could not even conquer the mere memory of Tulkas, not even by a sliver. And in mind's eye an image was summoned, and he trembled at the memory of how even the Sun was shadowed by the brightness of Tulkas' golden hair, never mind how his own Music was drowned out by naught but the unadorned mirth of that accursed Vala of War.

A wave of despair washed over Melkor then as a crimson tide, and he hated Tulkas for it, hated himself for yielding to it! But the despair remained….What if he came again? He recalled easily how Tulkas had always clenched his hands whenever he saw Melkor go by in Valinor. What if he came again? No longer harnessed by Manwë's leash, what if he came again?

No, no! He would think never of it, never of Tulkas. He would not. He would not. Let all his thoughts be bent on what his hands still claimed. And forcefully Melkor turned his thoughts back to what had so occupied his earlier musings: Nelyafinwë.

And a veil impenetrable shrouded Melkor as he retreated deep in thought. For years had the firstborn of Fëanáro resided in Angamando, and for those years had the stalemate lasted. But now Melkor had need to do something else, for in all the years Fëanáro's copper-headed get had graced his fortress, he had pondered time and again if he should turn that Noldo into an Orc.

And time and again Melkor rejected the admittedly savoring temptation. Aye, every fiber of his being ached to continue on with his artwork of old, but being turned into an Orc was too good for Fëanáro, and henceforth, too good for Nelyafinwë. Orc lives were as ants. Without him the thousands upon thousands of Orcs would be scattered leaderless and witless, for without his iron control and purpose upon their wills they would be little better than the dumbest sheep. And their mindset was simple, for Melkor knew Orcs even believed Elves to be crueler than themselves, that Elves took Orcs as captives only for amusement or to eat them. It worked to sustain their delight in tormenting whatever Firstborn fell as putty into their hands. Verily, Melkor made certain to hold the Orcs in their dire thralldom, for in their corruption they had lost almost all possibility of resisting the domination of his will. With a cursory glance Melkor looked beneath him and saw his children shiver as they felt his eye pass over them, the pressure of the Master's gaze too great and terrible to endure.

Aye, as tempting as it was, it would be a pity if any Elf flowing with the blood of Fëanáro was reduced to that. For then what would follow? Even reducing the Incarnate's life to that of his many thralls Melkor had also rejected, tempting as it also was. He had a prince of the Noldor in his hands, the very get of the Spirit of Fire, the rightful King of the Noldor! Such an esteemed and royal person deserved special treatment. And he would be damned if he let slip this opportunity for instead the brief satisfaction of seeing Maitimo as an Orc. Something greater was deserved. Something greater was needed. Something to teach those damnable fierce and fell Noldor to retreat back across the Sea, to lose hope in whatever pretensions they stood on. Something to make all of the House of Fëanáro regret ever stepping foot upon the Lands of Melkor. But what beyond that he already has planned?

So far, Nelyafinwë's screams had been music to Melkor's ears. And oh, how he would smile to hear them again! But not yet, not yet….Something needed doing before Nelyafinwë's descent into the Dark. To start, it was time to again send in Mairon. To send him in to break whatever vain hope sustained the fiery firstborn of Fëanáro.

"Mairon, my dearest," he whispered, the very command of his Voice breaching the unassailable stones of Angamando, and the words fell unto the ears of his most devout servant sitting on his chair with Draugluin resting beneath. And swiftly, he felt Mairon's undivided and fervent attention on him, the Master of Arda Marred, and the smile Melkor gave was as fierce and fell as the ice and fire he so delighted in. "Arise from your seat and go unto our guest, and to him do with what you have been blessed. Wean the Eru-fearing firstborn of Fire from his allegiance and propound to the Child a greater hope of benefit. Propound to him, best beloved, a Lord who will sanction what he desires and not forbid it. Call him to me and bend his knee, and my pleasure you shall know in plenty."

He felt Mairon rise from his chair and Melkor retreated to further thoughts of cunning for his copper-haired thrall. He had rid the World of the first Finwë and the second Finwë he had smote. It was time to heed the needs of the third Finwë. Mayhap now his fire had waned enough to finally do so.

Breaking down the whelp was a delicate process, after all.

Lindar: the attested divisionary name of the Teleri in Aman, preferred by the people of Olwë in that they called themselves the Lindar [UT.299].

Valaraukar: Balrogs
Ataressë/amilessë: father-name/mother-name
Angamando: Quenya form of Sindarin Angband [HoME X.350]
Ungweliantë: Quenya for Ungoliant [HoME V.443]

Index on Names: at this early point in time, it is irrational to attest that the Quenya form of Elven names were already provided their Sindarin rendition. At the time of Maedhros' captivity, the Sindar had yet to socially interact with the Exilic Noldor to the point of Sindarin adaptation.

Nelyafinwë/Maitimo: Maedhros, the ataressë/amilessë.
Fëanáro: Fëanor, his amilessë.
Nolofinwë: Fingolfin, his ataressë.
Findekáno: Fingon, his amilessë.
Cosmoco: Gothmog, the demon's masc. name, finalized and derivative form to be found in HoME I & II.
Mairon: the original name for Sauron. A full explanation for Mairon being Sauron's original Maian/Valarin name is provided in the final chapter. Also of note, I elected to refrain from using the Valarin forms of the names of the Valar as all of them were not provided by Tolkien.