The Fall of
Sitting upon his Iron Throne, Sauron Gorthaur, newly
crowned lord of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, brooded upon the lightning in the
north. In the Towers of Thangorodrim. In his old home of Angband.
Something was very wrong. Or, if Sauron was lucky, very right. The
Noldor had come to the Gates. Morgoth had answered. But had his master
Dagor Bragollach, as the elves were already calling
it, had been incredibly devastating. The Noldor were scattered, broken
even, but did Morgoth expect nothing? The elves had hidden reserves of
strength. And they had unleashed whatever it was in before the Towers,
and it was great in might. Sauron knew it was even now. Morgoth had
cried before it. Great and terrible were the sounds of his master’s
anguish, and he could not mistake them. He had heard them before, when
his master was nearly consumed by the Unlight; when he returned to
Middle-Earth. The bloated mass that Gothmog, with his Balrogs, had
driven off had made it then; the elves made it now.
No matter what it was that the elves had unleashed,
Sauron knew he could not be ignorant to this development. So he had
sent Thuringwethil, the Woman of Secret Shadow, to spy quietly what had
occurred in before the Towers. And he hoped, in his heart and mind,
deeper and more secretly guarded than any of his secretes, a
Could Morgoth Bauglir, Melkor, Greatest of the
Valar, have fallen?
Sauron did not even dare to hope it. But he was
treading in waters where venomous snakes strike whether one dares or
not. Though he knew what could kill Morgoth would surely be able to
overthrow him, it concerned him little. He recalled a day when he was
free. No, not even when Morgoth was banished by Manwë, was Sauron
free. He was still under Morgoth’s influence from afar. The entire
earth was; why should he, Morgoth’s lieutenant, be spared? No, he
remembered when he worked tirelessly with Aulë the Smith, free of
care and servitude. But Melkor had come and seduced him. In truth,
Sauron did not regret his decision. But he envied the life Annatar had
lived. He wanted to be free.
So he did indeed dare to hope.
The lightning had long since ended, and Morgoth had
uttered one last cry amidst the sound of rushing winds. What had the Noldor used?
Thuringwethil entered silently into her brooding
lord’s chamber. Naked in her stealth, she clothed herself in her long,
vampiric wings, and bowed. “My lord,” she said, “I have news.”
“Speak, my dear. Tell me, what happened before
“Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, is no more. He
rode along before the tall Towers, and challenged Morgoth to single
combat. There they struggled…” and now pausing, perhaps for effect, but
it maddened Sauron, “and they took each other’s lives.”
For the first time since he labored long as the Lord
of Gifts, Sauron’s heart beat. A single black beat, but a beat of joy,
nonetheless. The silence came again, because Sauron Gorthaur is the
Abhorred, and is now Dark Lord of Middle-Earth. “Summon Draugluin. I
have need of my general.”
“That is well, sire. Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, with
Lungorthin the White, his newly named lieutenant, have named themselves
Lords of All Fates in Arda.”
Most hated Gothmog.
“No matter. My rival cannot stop my rise to power. I
am the rightful successor, and I do not think I will have need of him
long. However, I will not need the armies, as you think, my dark lady.
Orcs are of no use. Bring me the three greatest of your vampires, and
Draugluin, and I will be Lord
of All Fates in Arda.”
Thuringwethil smiled, and left to do her master’s
Coming now upon the frozen wastes before
Thangorodrim, Sauron, Draugluin, and three great shadows rode towards
the Gates, sounding their horns. The Gates opened before they arrived,
and forth came Gothmog, in flames, to answer their call.
“Welcome, Lieutenant of the Most High. What brings
you to Thangorodrim?” Gothmog asked, in mock geniality.
“Not to parley words with you, old and rusted tool.
Get thee off the Hell Throne; take from thy brow the Iron Crown; they
are mine to possess, and rightfully so.”
Gothmog, smoldering in what Sauron took to be anger,
asked, “What do you mean, Abhorred?”
“There is no more need for pleasantries, Bastard
Son. Get you gone, lest it be your doom.” Meanwhile, the three dark
shapes took from their cloaks bows with black darts.
Gothmog growled. “What is the meaning of this,
coward? Are you finally so bold as to show your true colors, but even
before the Gates of your master, who will punish you should I fall?”
Sauron’s mind was muddled by this statement. “What
do you mean? Morgoth is fallen.”
“Fool. Morgoth the Mighty can never fall. Still, if
you should tempt his wrath and mine…” A fiery whip emerged, and its
throngs smote the three shadows upon their wings of black night. Two
were slain before they could unleash they deadly darts, dissipating
into nothingness, and the other was wounded beyond help. Draugluin
leapt towards the Balrog, who smote done the Sire of Werewolves with
his fiery hand. Then, holding up his black axe, he unleashed it upon
Sauron’s steed, a great and black warhorse, beheaded by the fell stroke.
Falling to the ground, Sauron pulled forth his great
mace. His mind, cunning and conniving, had already guessed his doom.
Thuringwethil had lied. The Dark Lady, for whatever reason, had damned
her lord and master. But, though he doubted he would survive Gothmog,
and knew he could not survive Morgoth’s ensuing wrath, he nevertheless
defied he doom, to the very end, if need be.
But it was not to be. A black messenger, of race
unknown, came forth, and cried, “Abhorred! Lord of Balrogs! Cease thy
actions, lest you displease your master! I came speaking for him! Turn
aside your mighty wrath, Lord, and come back into the depths. You will
not be punished for your actions, for they were just and wise. And,
Abhorred, go back to your realm, and deal with treachery in your ranks,
lest your master be forced to deal with those in his. This is all the
Lord of All Fates has declared.” Then the messenger, quailing before
the great powers before him, turned back into the depths of Angband,
running as he left.
Gothmog put aside his weapon, spat upon the dying
vampire, and said, “I will not forget this, Lieutenant. Another day.”
And then, he too, was gone.
Sauron let go a long held breath, and walked over to
the panting Draugluin. “Are you well, my general?”
“Well enough, my lord. Shall I bear you back to
“Yes, I wish that very much. I have work to do.”
As he mounted the great werewolf, a croaking voice
came forth. “My lord. Do not be too harsh with Thuringwethil. She only
does what you taught her to do,” the dying vampire pleaded.
Sauron looked at the dusty blood leaking from the
shadow, and merely said, “Draugluin.”
Snarling, the great beast closed his maw upon the
shadow, and off were him and the Abhorred.
Sitting in the oversized throne of her late master,
Thuringwethil indulged herself in immortal blood. Sitting at her feet
were two of her vampire consorts, groping at her throne, humbling
themselves for her attention. In the week Sauron had been gone,
Tol-in-Gaurhoth had become a place of bloody carnal sins. Blood orgies,
demonic rituals, and other such perverse acts had filled up
Thuringwethil’s time as ruler. The werewolves had been thrown from the
tower, languishing in the yards. The orcs hid below, in the pits,
that the vampires would not come again and take them for their rituals.
That is, until, Draugluin howled at the rising of
the moon, with Sauron mounted upon him. Then Thuringwethil knew her
designs had failed, and she was damned.
So the Great Battle of Fur and Fang came into
passing. The werewolves, led by their Sire and by their Lord come
again, sieged the tower, against the vampires, some of whom threw
themselves before the flame to protect their Lady, but most pledged
fealty anew, and begged for forgiveness, which was given to those not
close in Thuringwethil’s service. Until, finally, Tol-in-Gaurhoth was
won, save for the throne room.
Beating it down with his mace, Sauron Gorthaur came
in alone, bathed in the dark glory of his rage. Thuringwethil threw
herself at his feet, and, suing for pardon, said, “My lord! Forgive
your wayward servant! Let her back into your ranks, forgive her, and
embrace her, as you once did. Just don’t end her before she has a
chance to repent and make amends for her sins!”
Sauron said nothing, but took out his poisoned
dagger, and slit her throat, ending her pleas. Then he called in the
vampires he pardoned, and, with the werewolves standing guard, forced
them to watch as he went into his bloody work, and skinned their late
Lady. Then he pinned it above his throne, and dismissed the terrified
vampires with, “Go, and do not forget her blood.”
In the long hours of the night that followed,
Sauron, still covered in the blood of the Woman of Secret Shadow, in
his still bloody throne room, brooded upon the developments of late.
True, his situation with his master was compromised, Gothmog was made
surer of his attentions than ever, and his ranks had been reduced by
this uprising. But he would survive this, for he was Sauron Gorthaur,
and he was the most cunning of those who flock to the banner of Morgoth
Bauglir, and it would be he who would survive the inevitable fall of
Angband. It was just a matter of time.