January 16, 2006
A lone messenger came through the door leading into Morgoth’s throne room. “My lord,” he coughed, “the Noldor have won the … gates.” After relaying his message, the orc fell to the floor, an arrow in his back. The sound of fighting became less muffled. His enemy was inside the fortress. Releasing every creature concocted by his dark imagination had availed nothing.
Leaving Sauron and the Balrogs to hold the throne room, Morgoth fled deeper and deeper into the caves he delved. He was beyond now where even his greatest servants were permitted, or even knew of, for these tunnels Morgoth alone carved. Deeper he went, over chasm and fire-pit, until he came at last to a private chamber. Therein he locked himself, putting forth his power to mask his trail.
“I only flee because I am still weak from my encounter with Ungoliant,” he told himself. The darkness absorbed his words, returning no reply. The sounds of battle and the clashing of swords echoed down to him. Then there came great thuds, shaking the walls of his mighty fortress to its foundations, and all became silent. The silence became overwhelming, the darkness overpowering, as Morgoth sat cowering in his chamber. It felt as if the darkness would choke Morgoth himself, and that is when he realized he didn’t have them. The Silmarilli! Somehow, he had left his crown in the throne room.
For a while still Morgoth sat in the dark, brooding. The silence above, and his overwhelming desire for the Silmarilli, however, eventually caused him to venture forth from his chamber. Slowly and cautiously he climbed the paths back to his throne room, ever watchful, ever wary. The silence continued, an emptiness beyond reasoning.
As Morgoth drew closer to his throne room, the faint sound of a lyre came to his ears. Then it was joined by soft singing. He knew that he should be wary, that he should return now to his hidden chamber and forsake the Silmarilli, but he was compelled to go on, unable to make any movement but towards the door at the end of the hall. The only sound, only life, in the entire fortress came in the sound beyond that door. He reached out his hand toward the doors, and the sound stopped altogether as they began to open of their own accord.
Fear filled him as he took in the appearance of the room. The tapestries celebrating his wickedness were torn down. Statues showing his victories were now in pieces. Pillars lay across the walkway, scarred from the clash of blade against stone. Weaponry and other instruments of torture and death lay strewn across the floor. A soft radiant light came from the throne, and Morgoth was compelled to enter.
As he passed the rubble of destruction, he came upon another disturbing sight: the corpses of his Balrogs. Against one of the pillars still standing rested another unmoving form. It was that of Morgoth’s chief lieutenant, Sauron. From his broken form came shallow breathing, but it was too faint for him to be anything but dying. It was as if Sauron had been left there as the least significant foe in the entire fortress.
As Morgoth gazed upon this, a voice came from the throne. “Looking for something, jail-crow of Mandos?” Merely by the voice was Morgoth able to determine its owner, and that its owner was of a fell manner. Morgoth’s attention turned toward his throne, where a form sat in an arrogant, brooding manner. The soft light shining from the throne offered little visibility in the shadows of Morgoth’s throne room. Hatred and contempt shone in the form’s eyes, and upon his brow rested an Iron Crown, once belonging to Morgoth, but now there were three empty settings upon it.
“Do you desire this?” the voice demanded, as the form’s hand opened to reveal the brilliance of a Silmaril. No longer encased by the form’s hand, the light of the Silmaril began to drive the shadows of the throne room into retreat, revealing the full majesty of the form of Fëanor, son of Finwë, and Morgoth’s chief foe. Light grew as two more forms appeared to either side of the throne. Opening their hands, Morgoth saw Fingolfin to Fëanor’s right and Finarfin to his left, equally as fey as their brother.
In awe, Morgoth could not speak or move. He could feel the heat that had scorched his hand through the casket, even from several feet away. He had no hope, unless…, if Morgoth could play to their pride… but even as he began to formulate his plan, his hopes were dashed as something sharp struck his cheek. Flinching in pain, Morgoth touched his face. Something felt strange. Looking at his hand, he saw blood on his fingers. He was bleeding! As he looked back toward the throne, he now saw all three standing before him. By the fell light in their eyes, Morgoth now perceived their anger had driven them beyond reason or guile by words. Light from the Silmarilli began to pour into Morgoth’s wound, burning him as it ran ever deeper. Fëanor raised his sword and swung down….
Morgoth awoke with a start, looking around for
Fëanor. Slowly, memory came back to him. The Noldor were divided
before they even left Aman. Fëanor was slain in his first
battle. The Silmarilli were safely in his crown. Morgoth checked
his cheek. A scratch, but no blood. Looking for his crown, Morgoth saw
it upon the ground, with the skin of a werewolf next to it. Lifting up
his crown, he noticed an empty socket where a Silmaril had been only