Chapter 14: The Isle of Sauron

Fourteen
The Isle of Sauron

It was even as the Enemy had threatened. The prisoners lay forgotten, enmeshed in a maddening darkness and tormented by the cold. From time to time in the eyeless dark two eyes would glow. The companions would hark to frightened cries, then a sound of ripping and weeping and the smell of fresh blood, but none would yield, and none would tell. The company grew smaller, until at last, only King Finrod and Beren were left. The others had been slain.
Beren awoke when he felt something brush past him in the dark. Finrod cried out in warning and he sprang away, not knowing what was happening or which way he was going. There was another cry, a wail of agony suddenly cut short. Beren lurched in that direction wielding a dagger he had made of human bone, likely one of his former companions’ ribs. But the monster was too quick for him, even with a fresh kill in its jaws, and the wolf’s vision was not impaired by the darkness. Beren stabbed blindly, and it vanished through some unseen exit.
“Damn you!” Beren cried in anger and frustration. “You cowardly bastard! Picking us off one by one in the dark and hiding! Come out and face me! I would rather die fighting!”
Beren despaired and wondered if he was the only one left.
“Who is left alive?” he whispered.
“It is I,” Beren recognized his lord’s voice.
Beren fumbled for his hand and clasped it. They had only each other now. All of their valiant companions were dead. Duro had been the last. It was almost a mercy that he was gone. By that time, he had become half mad. He had stopped eating and sleeping and whispered prayers and curses in the dark, nearly driving them mad as well. Beren and Finrod would shake him, call to him, but there was no reward for their actions. Duro seemed dead already.
Every attempt at escape had failed the company. They knew the murderous wolf must come and go somehow, but after endless hours of searching for some hidden passageway, they could find nothing, not even a chink in the ground or walls. There was not even evidence that the passageway must be opened from within the walls. They became convinced that it was a trick of sorcery. They kept watch, but that was no good. They might as well have kept their eyes closed and slept because it was so dark and fighting was futile.
Next they had tried to slaughter the beast. They gathered together against the wall and shouted and struck out at any noise. But they had no weapons, and their killer only seemed amused by their antics. They only exhausted themselves with the effort. Some of them gave up and gathered before Finrod and Beren so that the wolf could not reach them and would take the others instead.
It was of their sacrifice that Finrod was thinking of, and of Beren.
“Soon, one last wolf shall come to devour you or me,” he said. “You will not be next while I yet live. I must not fail in that at least.”
“No, my lord. It would be little loss if I were dead,” Beren said breathlessly. “I release you from your old oath, for you have endured for me more than was ever earned. It was my father‘s deed that saved your life, not mine.”
“You cannot release me from my oath any more than you can bring your father back.”
“We also swore an oath to protect you.”
“Yes, but you and your father were more like sons to me than mere vassals. The sons I never had from the maiden that I abandoned in Valinor.”
There was a long silence in which Finrod sighed.
“You should tell Sauron who we are and you will spared,” Beren said at last.
“Beren, you have not learned yet that the promises of Morgoth’s servants are frail as breath!” Finrod answered. “You shall suffer whether he learns our names or not. Do you not remember Gorlim and how he was betrayed? Treachery is often the token that the Enemy bandies. Our torment would be unimaginable if he knew the true nature of his captives, our names and the dreadful errand.”
Then suddenly they heard laughter ringing within the pit.
“True!” the voice said. “It would be little loss if he were dead, the outlaw mortal. But the king, the Elf undying, many a thing no man could suffer he may endure. When your folk learn of your captivity, they may wish to ransom you with gold and gem. Or maybe Celegorm the proud will deem a rival’s prison cheap and crown himself and keep your gold. The errand I shall know before all is done. The wolf is hungry. The hour is near. Beren does not need to wait much longer to die.”
Then Finrod cursed the voice, “Laugh, but you shall never have what you most desire! You may take our lives, but you shall never have our souls!”
Sauron did not answer.
Time slowly passed. Then in the gloom the two eyes glowed again, and Beren saw his death within that glow. But he was prepared, and he sat silently and did not struggle with his bonds.
“I will not have you die, Beren,” Finrod told him. “Or else I would not have repaid your father. For his sake, I will guard you.”
“No, Finrod! You cannot defend either one of us from that wolf! I will not have you die before me! You have your people to care for!”
“I do not have any hope for my people,” Finrod answered bluntly, astonishing Beren. “The Noldor are doomed. You know that. The Kinslaying was a horrible deed, and we have yet to pay the price for that sin. You have a greater cause to be free of your captivity here, Beren. You have Tinúviel to care for, and there is hope for her still. I know what it is like to pine for a maiden. Therefore, do not hinder me!”
The wolf came and then the sound of snapping chains. Finrod shoved Beren aside and fought the wolf with his bare hands, heedless of fang or venom. There in the dark they wrestled, remorseless, snarling, teeth in flesh, fingers locked in a shaggy coat. Beren struggled with all his strength, but that was soon spent, and the light was so dim that Beren would never tell if he were grappling with the wolf or with Finrod.
At last, there came the sound of gasping and a death rattle. The wolf was dead, but Finrod was dying as well.
“And so this is how it ends, Beren,” were his last words. “I have completed my oath. I am afraid that the beast bit into my breast and I am poisoned.”
“Another cruel trick.”
“I was doomed as are my people. But now I shall go and see my father once more. Do not mourn for me. This is my last request, Beren: I insist that you recapture the Silmaril and wed Lúthien Tinúviel. I only regret that I will not see your wedding. I have always felt a strange kinship with the sons of Bëor. You are the son I never had.”
Beren was struck by the emotion in his voice and the words themselves. He could not answer. And then he realized that they had both been silent for a long while.
“Finrod! Where are you?” Beren cried in grief.
There was only silence.
“Where are you? Allow me to see your face!”
Finrod crawled beside him, and Beren reached out and took his hand with the last of his strength.
“My lord!” Beren shouted as his hand became cold. “My lord!”
“Call me not so,” the broken king replied. “Call me by my name.”
“Finrod…”
There came no answer from Finrod the beloved. Then Beren slipped into dark dreams, still holding his fallen king’s hand, and in his dreams, he saw the face of Lúthien Tinúviel as he had on the first night he had lain eyes upon her, dancing upon the hill in Doriath, where the very air you breathe is filled with laughter and the scent of flowers. Her voice trembled across the distance and throbbed in his ears, and she was singing not a song of joy or awakening, but a song of lament.
*******
Lúthien found herself more than satisfied with the Wolf-Hound’s speed. Huan seemed to never tire or break his stride. They traveled night and day without rest. The journey was beginning to take a toll upon her, but she never once complained. She knew that speed was necessary if they intended to reach Beren and Finrod while they yet lived. She covered herself in cloak and hood and buried her face in Huan’s fur and fought off sleep. But after they had traveled three nights without a pause, the rhythmic motion of Huan’s strides became too much. Not even the ‘waking sleep’ could stop her eyes from dimming and her head to swim. She began to nod off. Huan sensed her weariness when her grip loosened upon his neck. If they went any further, she would not be able to ride anymore. She would only fall from his back. He came to a halt and Lúthien roused herself to protest.
“What? Why are we stopped? We cannot stop!” she cried and clung to him more fiercely.
The great Wolf-Hound began to shake himself forcefully. Lúthien struggled to cling onto him, but it was futile. She fell to the ground unceremoniously. Huan nuzzled her in apology but growled when she attempted to climb once more onto his back.
“What is the matter?”
He lay down to sleep.
“We cannot take a rest now! We are so close!”
Huan growled. He knew he was easily as big as she when he stood upon his hind legs, and he knocked Lúthien over with his front paws.
“Very well! I will sleep if you are going to be that stubborn! I cannot argue with you, can I? Promise me that you will wake me in no latter than an hour from now.”
Huan nodded defiantly.
She set her cloak beside her and slept as Huan stood guard. She marveled at how quickly she fell asleep, and she slept for a long while. Huan was satisfied and did not sleep. He did not have to sleep. He stood guard, growling at any sound and pacing. He kept his ears pricked up to pick up every slight sound or movement, his eyes glanced around in their sockets, sharp and alert like an eagle's, and his nose remained quivering, trying to pick up any suspicious scent.
They were only a few leagues of Sauron’s abode. They could see the ruined tower of Minis Tirith in the distance, but that distance felt so very near. The land itself was also a ruin, a shadow of its former self. Sauron had poisoned the waters of the lakes and rivers so that the grass no longer thrived as it had and shrubs in the waste grew black and twisted. The original trees had been fed to monstrous furnaces and cleared so that the Isle was more open for view. The trees that remained sprouted pale gray leaves; their bark was charcoal black and knobbly. Those trees seemed almost alive. Their branches waved without any wind.
The Noldor and all the native animals had fled before the initial attack upon the lands began. Anyone or anything left was destroyed if they could not serve a useful purpose to the enemy. Now only wolves, Orcs, and other such abominations roamed freely here. The Noldoli that had been left behind were set to work. The smoke of fire and other, more volatile materials clouded the heavens so that it was unusually dark. Any rain that fell burned, and any snow or sleet that fell was grayish and warm. It was no Angband yet, but the likeness was disturbing, and it angered Huan, for the place had once been beautiful. He wondered how anyone could prefer such a wasteland.
Huan suddenly heard what sounded like whispers, but he could not decide if it was voices or merely the wind. Then he smelled something foul. He took a long draught of air. He could not tell how close or how many there were, but he knew one wolf would bring many more or perhaps even a company of murdering Orcs. He would have to wake Lúthien, and they had to try to make a run for it. The scent was growing frighteningly stronger and closer, and it came from every direction now. The trees began whispering again. He fancied that he even heard mocking laughter. Lúthien stirred in her sleep and awoke
“What is it, Huan? Is it Orcs?”
He shook his head.
“Wolves?”
Huan made no sign.
Lúthien sighed and looked about frantically for her cloak, but it had disappeared into thin air.
“Oh no.”
*******
The sorceress of Thuringwethil crouched upon a parapet of the tower of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Her bat-like wings were folded about her to protect her from light and the elements. When she covered herself at such a height, she melted into the shadows and became invisible. She dreamed of fountains of blood and awoke thirsting. She stretched her huge wings. It had finally grown dark enough to satisfy her preference. Despite the constant smog, the sun occasionally penetrated the thick clouds here and delayed her nightly vigils. In Angband she did not have to worry about sunlight. She was thirsty, and she took to the air in search of prey, hoping for something better than Orc blood for her palate.
The sorceress had been very beautiful once, born a Maia and served in the mighty Halls of Mandos in Valinor. She was handmaid to his queen, who spun constantly the web of life and death. She had been lovely with hair kissed by fire and eyes green as Aluë’s emeralds. Her lips were ruby red, set in a deceptively sweet heart-shaped face. She was ambitious and had hoped to learn great secrets from Vairë, but she soon found that she never would and continued to serve as a simple handmaid grudgingly, nursing the seeds of pride and jealousy in secret. But she could not hide her malcontent from Melkor, the most powerful of all the Ainur. He sent Sauron to recruit her for his own purposes, feeding her vanities, praising her beauty and speaking of her talents. He criticized Mandos and his wife for ignoring her and promised to grant the sorceress power equal to that of her mistress, if not more. The sorceress was flattered and tempted sorely by his offers. She found the Halls of Mandos dull and gloomy and joined Melkor’s hosts, unaware of the price it would cost her.
She abandoned Valinor and left behind even her name. Melkor fell from grace quickly, and his servants fell with him. Melkor became Morgoth and ruled his new kingdom upon Middle-earth with an iron fist. He favored intimidation over beauty for his servants, and so the sorceress was forced to take up a new form. She took up a terrible shape now to strike fear into friend and foe alike and gain more power thereby. The Dark Court knew her title and were apprehensive in her presence. She spoke for Melkor himself often enough and carried out his commands without question and without mercy. She would take no slight from anyone.
Her hair was a lustrous gray and all in tangles. Her skin was wrinkled as an old crone’s and ghastly pale. Her nose was squashed in like a bat’s, and her jaw jutted forward like an animal’s muzzle. Her fangs gleamed like the ivory from the tusks of oliphants in the South and went past her chin like an ancient saber tooth’s. Her hands were like claws with barbed iron nails. Her wings sprouted from her shoulders, covered in a fine pelt of russet fur, also had a single barbed claw of iron upon their edges. With these wings she traveled at high speeds and could cover herself entirely with them to utilize as a shield. The only thing that was remotely humanoid about her appearance was her eyes. They were still emerald green, but they became like pale gimlets in the dark. Her robes were dusty gray, and her voice was dry as dead leaves.
She gained the power of flight and was given a small host of her own brood to guard her, and her children were increasing in numbers swiftly as they glutted themselves upon the blood of the living and turned chosen Men and Elves into Undead as well. Her brood was much less numerous than Sauron’s terrible wolves, but no less feared. Wolves could walk about in daylight and often would rip their victims to shreds. Vampires, devilish fiends, had an insatiable thirst for living blood like their cousins but could no more abide the sun than could the Orcs. But they could disguise themselves as the Children of Ilúvatar, control certain animals and gained many other deadly powers.
The sorceress needed blood to sustain herself, and though she could tolerate sunlight, her powers were drastically weakened during the day.
Her new tasks were to fly back and forth bearing Morgoth’s messages and patrolling the borders of Angband. She was merely Morgoth’s fetcher, and a hideous vampiress. She was Sauron’s lover for a brief while, but now she despised him with her whole being. She had discovered that she had never been his first choice, but whoever he had desired refused him and his notion of power, much like Melkor had once been Varda’s lover and she soon spurned him and turned to his brother Manwë and became his spouse. She lived in fear of Morgoth and his second in command, Sauron. She felt betrayed by both of them and mourned constantly for her lost beauty. She could temporarily change into her original form to lure victims, but only for a short time. She could never escape her Master, nor would she if she could. Her pride would not allow it. She would rather be a feared Messenger than a docile handmaiden.
The sorceress spotted one of her own signaling to her from below. She landed before him, curious.
“What is it?” she said harshly, folding her wings about her.
“We have intruders. I saw them with my own eyes. You see, I came down here because I was starving! You know that since the war hasn't been doing as good as usual, we do not have so many prisoners for food. I came here for a drink, expecting to catch a few toads at least. That was when I smelled that irresistible scent. The scent that drives us all.”
“What was that?”
“Clean blood.”
“But how can you be sure they have not fled, you idiot! Did they see you? How many were there?”
“I saw only one sweet little maid, and then there was another with her. I could barely make out his shadow. But I know they have not fled. They did not see me, and I have something of theirs. They would not leave without this precious item.” Tatar drew out Lúthien's cloak. “Here is the cloak I stole from them. It caused me to drop off to sleep for a while, so be careful when you handle it.”
“This cloak is made of Elvin-hair. The finest I have ever seen. But what do I care? You can deal with one trespasser well enough, can you not?”
“I caught a scent of dog. I fear that the Wolfsbane may guard the maiden. I am sure that the weaver of that cloak shall be of great service to Sauron. They must have great power. We shall be well rewarded. And we may be able to feed off them,” Tatar added.
The sorceress struck Tatar, “For your insolence! Prisoners of Sauron are not fodder for fools!”
Tatar howled as blood began trickling down his face.
“What of the She-Elf? You cannot even guess who she may be? Is she guarded by a mutt only?”
“They are alone, Mistress. I know the She-Elf must be someone of importance, and she is very fair.”
“Fair? Fairer than me?”
Tatar did not dare to answer, sensing his peril and still bleeding from the previous blow.
“Very well, search for them! Find them for the Master! If she is important as you say, and the Wolfsbane is with her, we shall be well rewarded indeed.”
*******
Lúthien became more apprehensive with each step. Surely they had been spotted. There could be no doubt of it. There were not very many places to hide, and they were slowly making their way to Sauron’s tower. Huan’s senses were heightened and he remained close by Lúthien’s side. She knew that Huan would be of great help to her. Not even Celegorm and Curufin could have offered her such protection, but Lúthien was still afraid of what they now were about to face. She had never had a plan to rescue Beren, and she was beginning to doubt whether her cloak, even if it had not gone missing, would be of any use to her against all the armies and hosts of Sauron, and not to mention Sauron's own evil magics.
She would not ride Huan anymore. She wanted to walk and think. No matter how hard she tried, though, she could not come up with a single plan that might work. How could she pull this off now? How could she have waited so long to get some ideas? She was forgetting that in all of her little adventures and her struggles, she would never have been able to come up with a plan anyway. And Huan? He did not have the fanciest idea as to how they were going to get inside the tower. It was guarded by curses and hexes. But Lúthien herself was a daughter of a Maia. Could she possess the magic that was needed to break those evil spells? It could be possible.
It was certain that Lúthien was terrified, but she was also hopeful. If she managed to break through Sauron's barriers, she could again be reunited with Beren. She laughed to think of what Beren's reaction would be if she suddenly threw down a rope to him. She was eager to see his face and to feel his touch again. He was the reason why she had gone through so many dangers and snares. And looking back on the betrayal of Daeron and Celegorm, she realized that she would never have reached the tower in the first place without them. She did not know if she could ever have had the courage to leave Doriath if it had not been for Daeron. The danger of her paths was no less worse than that little tree-house her father had made for her. And if it had not been for Celegorm, Lúthien would never have had Huan on her side.
Suddenly, the wind around them began to blow hard. On that wind, the laughter of Orcs and the howling of wolves were borne. Bats flew in the air. They screeched and hissed at the intruders. Lúthien had to dodge a few of them, and Huan snapped at them, tearing their wings apart.
“Help me!” a cry rent the air. “Someone help me!”
The two unlikely companions were stunned. Was it possible that an innocent or a potential ally was nearby? Could it be a trap? In the end, they had no choice. They followed the voice.
The voice belonged to a maiden with fiery red hair dressed in rags. Two strange creatures pursued her. They looked like corpses with glowing red eyes, clawed hands, and long fangs. They moved with blinding speed and hissed like wild cats. As soon as they caught sight of Huan, they fled, leaving the maiden lying upon the ground where she remained for a while motionless. Huan did not give chase to the creatures. He would not be so foolish as to leave Lúthien behind with this stranger. If they had not already been spotted, they were certainly known now.
The maiden lifted her head and blinked at them. Her hair was in tangles and she was caked with blood and dirt. She did not appear to be armed and yet Lúthien and Huan were very hesitant to approach her.
“Who is she and why is she here?” Lúthien whispered.
Huan tucked his tail between his legs. He did not like the stranger’s scent. She smelled of the creatures underneath a sweet one.
The maiden rose, eyes wide with fright and said, “Thank you! I do not know what would have become of me if you two had not come running and scared those foul things away.”
“What were those things?” Lúthien asked.
“Vampires!” she said the word as though it were a curse. “The Isle is full of them and other things. Worse things.”
“And what of you?”
“I am Gwendling, an escaped Noldoli thrall. My father and I once served the commander of Minis Tirith and were taken captive when it fell. We were given the task of deforesting the land. My father took that chance to slay our overseer and unlock our chains. He has labored more than I, so they caught him almost immediately. I was swifter.”
“Then more will come after you.”
“Mayhaps. My father was the threat and they have no lack of thralls. One mere maiden is not worth the effort of a chase. Who are you, fair lady?”
“Tinúviel,” Lúthien answered with a grin, refusing to give her true name.
She had learned the hard way not to trust anyone.
“What is a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this with but a dog to look after you?”
Huan snarled in disfavor. Gwendling reached out to pet him and he snapped at her hand. Lúthien calmed him by resting a gentle hand upon his head.
“He is no ordinary dog, I assure you,” she told the stranger. “And he hears and understands much. As for why we are here, I am searching for someone.”
“Perhaps I would know their name?”
“I doubt it,” Lúthien said curtly.
“May I join you? I will be safer with you,” Gwendling pleaded.
“That is also very doubtful. You should make for Nargothrond. If you have kin there, they will keep you safe, for we cannot. I wish you good fortune. I seek a way into Minis Tirith.”
That sent Gwendling into peals of laughter. Huan cocked his head in confusion. Lúthien narrowed her eyes. She would not stop laughing until they were convinced she must be mad. Huan intended to leave her behind. Lúthien quickly followed, turning her back to the maiden for but a moment, and she was suddenly grabbed from behind. The two vampires had returned. One had Lúthien in his grasp, the other had cast a net over Huan from the trees that entangled him more and more as he struggled. Lúthien squirmed and twisted.
“What have we here?” came a cackling voice, and instead of Gwendling, the vampiress of Thuringwethil stood before them. “Lúthien Princess of the Sindar!” she exclaimed. “Come to join us, or have you come seeking death?”
Lúthien was stricken with contempt. She had been warned of the vampiress. She had been Melian’s greatest rival in Valinor. Before she joined with Sauron, the Maia had tried to outdo Melian in anything she could. She bragged that she was the fairest and that she was the more powerful of all the Maiar. The vampiress in turn recognized Melian’s features in the Elvin-girl and doubted. Though she had claimed she was more powerful than Melian, it had been a false claim. Even with Sauron’s powers joined with hers, she wondered if she was a match for the daughter of Melian. She was also immediately resentful of Lúthien’s beauty.
“Be gone, she-devil!” Lúthien commanded, unafraid. “Go to Angband and warn Melkor that the Sindar is here to carry out the will of the Valar!”
The vampiress hissed, “You are but a Half-Maia! You think that you could stand against me? I am a creature of the Blessed Realm!”
“Not anymore,” Lúthien said boldly. “You are cursed!”
“You are not as beautiful as me, but perhaps your blood will restore my lost looks!”
The vampiress lunged for her throat, but by that time Huan had managed to gnaw his way through the net and pounced upon her, gnashing his teeth. The fledgling released Lúthien and the other vampire in the trees dove down to assist his mistress. Huan turned upon them, tearing and ripping them apart as they cursed and screamed. Lúthien seized the sorceress by the hair, drawing out her sickle dagger. She sliced it across her throat and stepped aside. The sorceress grabbed at her gaping wound, making a choking sound as her blood bubbled forth.
Lúthien turned her face away from the gruesome sight. Huan brushed her hand, licking his chops. His muzzle and most of his coat was stained with black blood. Then he began to growl. Lúthien looked and saw that the sorceress had recovered herself. Her wound had healed miraculously.
The sorceress erupted into laughter again seeing the astonished look upon Lúthien’s face and said, “I told you that I am a Maia, the most powerful and beautiful of them all!”
“You are no Maia, you are an Undead thrall of Morgoth! My blood cannot restore you, nothing can! You are nothing but an envious, vile witch!”
She scowled and Huan sprang before Lúthien, snapping his powerful jaws. The sorceress sought the sanctuary of the sky and Huan howled in frustration. The sorceress circled them and dove at them unexpectantly, scratching and flapping her wings in their faces until Huan was wild with fury and Lúthien’s bones began to ache. Then the sorceress let out a terrible screech, summoning her brood. Her servants came from everywhere. Some popped out of the ground, seizing Lúthien’s ankles. She hacked at the hands that clutched her, wishing she had a sword for better range. Huan was taking his fair share of them, but they would soon be overwhelmed if this kept up. There seemed to be no end to them. This sent Huan into a frenzy, and each time the vampires dove for an attack, he was there with jaws foaming.
She plans to tire us out this way, Lúthien realized. I am not sure if we can keep this up until dawn. Surely the sorceress will be weakened by the sun’s rays. Even if we could hold out that long, I am not certain if we have the time. Beren and Finrod…
For some unexplainable reason, Lúthien knew that time was short. An urgency she had never known was in the pit of her stomach and an idea exploded in her brain. They could not wait for dawn, but she could create an imitation of sunlight. The sorceress was immune to weapons, but no Undead was immune to fire.
“Huan, try to keep them busy!” she commanded.
The Wolf-Hound nodded, bits of gore dripping from his jaws. Lúthien reached into their supplies and set to work. She took out a carefully wrapped vial of strange blue liquid and hesitated.
This could very well kill us all, but what other option do we have?
She added a drop to her dagger and to both tips of a broken branch. Then, careful to keep them away and whispering a prayer, she struck two flint stones together and the dagger’s edge and the branch burst into blue flames. Her eyes flashed brilliantly with the blue glow.
“Huan, keep away from the fire!” Lúthien warned. “It is fickle stuff and will burn you as well as our enemies!”
He kept his distance. She swung the branch high above her head in one hand like a baton and slashed with her dagger in the other. Anything that touched these lit weapons caught aflame. The flames consumed everything. It could not be beat out and water would only amplify it. The vampires soon became nothing more than wicker fodder. In their panic and confusion, the trees caught fire. Even the grass burned. They began to flee, spreading the flames.
The sorceress shrieked with fury and attempted to seize Lúthien in her claws, but she slashed at her blurred form, narrowly missing as the sorceress backed off from the flames.
“Tear one of her wings, Huan! A moment is all I need!”
Huan sprang and caught the sorceress’ wings in his jaws. The vampiress screamed and flapped her wings, struggling to free herself from the Hound’s grasp. She thrust her barbed iron claw at him, and he yelped and let go as blood spilled from a wound in his leg. The sorceress crashed to the ground with an aggravated cry. She flapped her wings for momentum. Even as she fell, her wing was repairing itself. But it was not healing fast enough. Lúthien doused the remains of the blue liquid into the sorceress’ face, blinding her, and cast the torch after. She was then consumed with blue flame.
Her screams were terrible. She spun about in circles, thrashing her arms, trying desperately to put out the flames. She flapped her wings at maximum speed. Lúthien avoided the flames. She still had her dagger, so no enemy dared approach, and Huan stood by her side. Soon the sorceress was reduced to ashes, and even they still burned bright blue.
Lúthien raised her dagger high and any surviving Undead fled in fear. Huan let out a warning howl and all the wolves turned tail and ran without a second glance too. Except for one. He was the sire of all Morgoth’s wolves, and he wanted a good look of the hound and maiden. Huan caught his scent and growled and Lúthien saw his shape in the shadows.
“Your Mistress is vanquished! Your Master is next!” she promised him.
The wolf sank into the darkness.
*******
When the flames had finally died, Lúthien scattered all of the ashes of the vanquished. Most of the remaining plant life had burned but she was not sorry. At least the wildfire had kept she and Huan alive. Her mother had taught her the secret and warned her that such ‘magic’ was dangerous and would surely be used with evil intent by the Children of Ilúvatar. One drop of the potent liquid could burn for at least an hour with little more than a spark to stimulate it. The Queen trusted only her own daughter with the sample and had told her that she would know when to use it. Once unleashed it could not be controlled. When had she ever needed it more?
To her relief, Lúthien found her shadowy cloak undamaged where the sorceress had first fell. She wrapped it about her, feeling safer. The hound and the maiden reached the bridge of Sauron’s tower unopposed. Lúthien gazed up at the tower, once Finrod’s. It was of Noldoli craft with smooth, even sides of gray stone. The bridge was small and narrow so that only two men could walk it side by side. The only gate, thick and heavy, was shut.
“Now, how are we going to get in?”
Huan cocked his head in answer.
“I do not think there is a way in,” Lúthien said.
Huan whimpered and tugged at her sleeve and nuzzled her. He knew there had to be some way.
“The gates are held against us,” Lúthien answered. “This tower once was the Noldor's, King Finrod's himself. Minas Tirith it was named, and now it is Tol-in-Gaurhoth.”
Huan growled.
“We cannot get in ourselves. It would require a strong battering ram and men to use it. We would need more men to kill the defenders. The gate is closed and the walls are too smooth and too thick to climb. There are no windows or even murder holes to allow for footholds. There are no ladders long enough to reach the top. It is a true castle. Impregnable.”
Lúthien sank to the ground. Huan circled her, growled at her, even bit her, to try to get her to her feet. If they must, they would go to the gate and try to beat it down. Lúthien heard Daeron's voice in her mind, and her father's voice, and Celegorm and Curufin’s voices, and they all said the same thing: There is no hope for Beren! He is dead! Then, suddenly, she drew herself up with a light in her eyes.
“If Beren indeed is dead and the Valar gives me no protection, then I will give myself to Sauron so that I may spit in his face! Now let them hear my voice and acknowledge it! If we can lure him out, then maybe we have a chance.”
Then Lúthien drew in a deep breath and began singing.
What are you doing! Huan whimpered, pacing so that it looked as though he were chasing his tail. You are being too loud! Everyone inside that tower will hear you! Stop singing! Do not give up hope! Do not surrender so easily!
But Lúthien did not understand Huan, and he was not about to open his mouth and speak with words. Her voice echoed through the isle. The unbroken silence suddenly shivered into silver fragments. The wolves in the distance howled, and the tower's walls themselves trembled at the sound of her voice. And when the song was over, Lúthien strode towards the bridge of the Isle.
Then they heard a faint voice in quivering song from the walls of rock that sang in answer that was not an echo.
Lúthien gasped and halted in her tracks, pricking up her ears. “Keep singing, whoever you are!”

“Morgoth, mighty though he be,
Shall never withstand the wrath of Me
For long ago Varda set in the voids with dews still glistening wet
The seven stars to give all My children hope and light
And to fill that void and chase away the fear of night;
To render the Evil One's fall from his throne that I there set.”

“Huan! Huan!” Lúthien whispered. “I hear a song far under, far but strong, a song that Beren often sang. I hear his voice; I know that it is his. I have heard it often in dream and in my wandering.”
Huan cocked his head hoping but doubtful. But that was all the proof she needed, and she despaired no longer. She sang loudly a song of praise to the Valar; a song her mother had taught her long ago when she had been an Elvin-child. She invoked Varda and Manwë. But once her song ended, neither Huan nor Lúthien heard an answer this time.
“What has happened? How come he will not answer me anymore? Beren? Beren!” Lúthien cried.
Huan whimpered.
A hundred reasons for his silence crossed her mind, but she refused to give in. She sat wrapped at dead of night and sang. To its height and to its depth the Wolves Isle, rock upon rock and pile on pile, trembled and echoed her voice. Huan lay hidden and growled, watchful in the dark, waiting for cruel battle.
*******
Sauron sat in his high tower upon his iron chair. It was as close a replica of the Iron Throne as it could possibly be. Though his master Morgoth sat upon the throne and ruled as King of the World, Sauron wielded great power of his own. He was wrapped in deep thought. He planned to announce a great sabbat to celebrate his good fortunes. Torturing a prisoner or two, an execution here and there. It would please him and amuse his servants as well as strike fear into their hearts.
He had the last of Barahir’s kin in his dungeons and planned to send his head to Morgoth. That would put an end to Man’s annoying rebellion and discourage the accursed Elves. Men had been a valuable ally to the Elves. The race of the Dwarves was not so hardy. They were fewer in number and were easily swayed to Morgoth’s side with the promise of mithril, the rare and invaluable ore of Arda. He also held King Finrod of the Noldoli. Morgoth would be pleased with such an important captive. This would be a crippling blow to the Noldor and their kingdoms would be unstable without one of their royal family.
It was then that he heard a sweet and feminine voice cut through the eerie silence like a knife. She sang in elvish, the Sindarin language first, and then in Quenya. She sang defiantly. For a moment he harkened to her, enthralled by the beauty of her voice and marveled that it could reach his ears so clearly. Her voice seemed to ring within the very walls. Then he smiled to himself. Though he could not see her, Sauron knew she could be none other than the daughter of Melian. He had known long before from his spies that she was coming and had only waited for her to fall into the trap. Her voice was unlike any other, and the rumor of her beauty, song, and dance had long gone forth from Doriath.
“Draugluin!” he called.
The wolf strode before him silently, ever near his Master and ever watchful. Unlike treacherous Orcs and cowed slaves, Wargs were reliable servants.
“Yes, Master?” his voice was hoarse.
“You have always been one of my most faithful servants. True?”
“Of course, Master.”
“Do you hear that voice?”
“Aye.”
“Does it belong to the same maiden that you encountered upon the Isle?”
“Yes! Yes, that is she! She lit the whole forest on fire with her black magics! Many of my wolves will never grow their hair back!”
“She slew Gwendling?”
He nodded grimly.
Sauron did not know if he should be angry, impressed, or amused, “I always told her that her pride and her vanity would be her undoing. But how did the girl manage it? She is alone and quite conspicuous.”
He thought of how valuable a captive Lúthien would be. He knew now for a certainty that he held Beren and Finrod within his grasp. Rebels seemed to be drawn to this tower like flies to honey. He could not believe his good fortune. Morgoth would reward him richly for Beren’s head and Finrod’s. Lúthien would make the greatest gift of all. The brash she-elf was even more valuable a captive than Finrod! Last time he looked, Finrod was dead. The Noldor had likely taken a new king and forgotten him, Sauron convinced himself. Most likely Celegorm had been crowned. It was no secret that the Dark Lord wished to possess Lúthien, fairest of maids. There would be no mutilating torture for her. She would also be the key to Thingol’s throne, Melian’s downfall, and the destruction of the Sindar. He was so overjoyed at these thoughts that he no longer cared if the girl was alone or if she was truly defenseless.
“Ah! Little Lúthien! What brought the foolish fly to the web unsought? A great and rich reward Morgoth will owe me when I add such a rare and precious jewel to his hoard. He sent a small army to snatch her from the Caves. I shall present her to him and laugh in his face!”
“You would mock the Maker and the Destroyer?”
Sauron turned to Draugluin, “Did I say mock? Never! Now is the time that you may avenge yourself and Gwendling. Release a wolf to bring her before me for questioning. Remember that not a hair upon her head must be harmed. We must have this prisoner intact if we are to deliver her to Morgoth alive. Do not disturb me until you have her. Now be swift!”
******
Lúthien’s throat was becoming too dry for singing. She listened for Beren’s voice again, but he did not utter a sound. Instead, a wolf howled in answer. Huan bit at her sleeve, for she continued to sing. But he stopped and quickly hid when the gate opened and a beast charged through it with blood red tongue and jaws agape. He stole onto the bridge as the gate quickly closed shut again. The wolf stopped several feet from Lúthien and growled menacingly.
She almost laughed. She had expected more than an average wolf. It was good tidings, though. Sauron was confident, underestimating her. He would quickly find himself mistaken, but she hoped to fool him for as long as possible.
She feigned fear, crying, “No, please! Do not harm me!”
The wolf seemed pleased with her act. She continued to beg for mercy as Huan sprang from beneath the bridge and slew the creature before it even knew what was happening, snapping its neck. Then he returned to his hiding place, dragging the carcass with him.
Within several minutes, another wolf followed and yet another within a short interval of time. Each wolf was a little larger than the last, stronger, quicker, and more brutal. But each fell for Lúthien’s pleas and practiced tears. Each ended their lives with Huan’s teeth in their throats. Each that came was seized, and none returned with padding feet to tell that a shadow lurked fierce and fell at the bridge’s end and that below in the shuddering waters were thrown the gray corpses that Huan had killed.
“Is this the best that Sauron can do?” Lúthien merely gave words to Huan’s thoughts. They wondered if he meant to simply empty out the Isle thus, sending them one by one to fight to the death. How long might that take? Dawn was approaching and Lúthien was anxious to recover Beren at last.
The gate opened this time and remained still. A great gray werewolf began striding slowly and surely toward Lúthien. His shadow slowly filled the narrow bridge, a slavering hate. His eyes were blazing blue, his arms and legs powerful, and his jaws agape, revealing several rows of teeth and yellowed canines. He was Draugluin, the old gray lord of wolves and beasts that devoured and drank the flesh and blood of Man and Elf beneath the chair of Sauron himself. He was the sire of wolves, ancient, bloodthirsty, and clever.
This time Lúthien’s voice trembled of its own accord, “Come no farther, please. I am but a child!”
“Whose child?“ the wolf rasped. “The child of Melian. This time, no black magic can save you, witch! Come with me willingly or I may forget my orders. Child or not, I feast upon all living things. Beg if you must, but your pleas will only fall upon deaf ears. It is blood I crave, not your terror.”
Lúthien had discovered that after fear, she expressed defiance and answered, “It is blood you shall have, but it will not be mine. I advise you to step aside. I will enter this tower, but not until I am its Keeper.”
“Words of courage do not impress me either. I prefer the sound of dying hearts beating their last in my ears.”
“The last heart you hear will be your own.”
With these words, Huan sprang from his hiding and tackled the lord of wolves. Their fight was brutal. He was by far the most powerful of wolves that Huan had faced yet. They grappled upon the bridge biting and clawing at one another, snarling and yelping. They fell into the water below, a vile, muddy river, waters likely infested with poison.
When Draugluin failed to bite Huan, the wolf-lord turned on Lúthien and sprang at her, but she had her dagger. She stabbed him, wounding him. Yet her dagger was no longer aflame. It was just a burnt dagger now, and the wound did not make it any easier to kill him. Slaying him took a great struggle, and he refused to die as quietly as his own servants did. He snarled and howled a great deal. He sank his teeth into Huan's side. Huan became enraged, and he ripped out an artery in Draugluin’s throat as he let out a howl of pain. Lúthien let out a worried cry, thinking Huan had been the one wounded mortally, the fight was so jumbled and confused. This startled both Huan and the wolf-lord, and the wolf slipped from Huan's grasp while it could.
Terrified at the sight of his own life’s blood mixing with the muddy water, Draugluin fled upon all fours to the tower. Huan bounded after him and was forced to a halt as the gate slammed shut before him. Lúthien stooped to study and treat his wounds. Draugluin limped back into the darkness from whence he came, leaving a dark trail of blood behind him. He was defeated. He had truly been one of the greatest wolves, and he was the first. He crawled to his master's throne, getting weaker with each step, his blood soaking the floor like water, his heart beating fainter in his ears.
Somehow he managed to reach his Master, falling before his feet with a great thud and lay there, breathing in quick, shallow gasps. Sauron’s body guards stepped aside and the necromancer himself rose from his seat and expressed offence as the wolf-lord's blood dripped at his feet. Draugluin stared up at his master, smelling of death.
“What is this?” Sauron demanded. “Have even you failed me, Draugluin? She is little more than a child!”
“Master, forgive me. I have failed to bring you your prisoner, but I have crawled my way here like a worm to warn you of what this Elvin-princess has brought with her. Huan, the great hound of the gods is here. He murdered many of my good lads, and he has done well to do me in. If you must send someone out there to capture the Elvin-princess, you must send the mightiest wolf on earth, for none of the wolves or werewolves you reign over can defeat that hound.”
Sauron's eyes flashed and he scowled. The other wolves whimpered at the name of Huan. He stomped on Draugluin's skull with an iron clad boot and shattered it, more to silence his whimpering and death rattles than to put him out of his misery.
“Bring a slave to clean up this mess!” he ordered. “And another to wash my boot!”
He sat grudgingly upon his throne, angry and humiliated, though he would never show his shame. Clearly he had underestimated the princess. He reminded himself that she was more than a cursed Elf. She was a Half-Maia, almost one of his own order. He knew now that any servant he sent against Huan would fail. If Draugluin was not the mightiest of wolves, then that left only one other wolf, but he was many leagues away in Angband.
“So,” said the sorcerer to himself. “The little Elvin-woman is not as foolish as I thought. She has not come alone. Huan of Valinor, is it? Hmmm. Very interesting. He would make a worthy captive also. After all, he has killed many of my master's most valuable wolves, not to mention half of mine. Draugluin was my greatest wolf, and Huan has killed him. That is a most terrible blow to my power. Hmmm . . . Well, I cannot pass up the chance to capture Lúthien of the Sindar, fairest maiden of the world and only daughter to her father and her sweet mother Melian. Oh no, of course not. I must either capture the mutt or kill him, although, I would much prefer him dead.”
Sauron cast a glance at the dead wolf upon the floor.
“The mightiest wolf on earth, eh? Well, everyone knows that story. Wargs have always been the strongest fighters, but none of my werewolves here would match the title of The Mightiest on Earth. So what can I throw at him?”
Suddenly the Necromancer was struck with a moment of inspiration. Perhaps the mightiest of wolves was in fact upon the Isle. He had the power to take up the form of many creatures, and the wolf was one of them. He was deadly in this form, perhaps even superior to Morgoth’s pet. If not, he would be a terrifying sight. Huan may be convinced that he was facing his death and would finally be cowed.
“Open the gates one last time,” he told his servants. “And once I bring up the princess, fetch her lover Beren from the pits. Alive or dead, it makes no matter. If he is still alive, I shall slaughter him in front of her. That ought to take the edge out of her quick enough.”
******
Huan licked his wounds. The first couple of wolves had never managed to scratch him. Draugluin had bitten him several times, but the wounds were not deadly. He was relieved that he was not dead. He had half expected it to be his last battle. Lúthien scolded him for licking the wounds.
“That will not help. You are bleeding, Huan. Here... I know some healing arts. Perhaps I could help you.”
She reached out to dress his wound, but he growled.
“You are stubborn! Or is it perhaps pride?”
Huan puffed out his chest. Lúthien laughed. She put an herbal salve on his cuts that stopped the bleeding and lessened his pain. He licked her hand in gratitude. Then he caught a curious scent and looked at her with wonder.
“Yes,” she confessed. “There is honey in my remedy. It prevents infection. Now we must try to get into that tower. I am not going to wait out here for another wolf or a whole army of Orcs to catch us. Next time that gate opens, we run for it. Follow me, Huan, unless you want to stay here?”
Huan shook his head vigorously.
Lúthien smiled and they both made their way towards the gates, crossing the bridge and passing two stone statues. They were the only guards for those gates. They were carved in the image of two Balrogs with their dark wings outstretched and a demonic gleam in their eyes. Lúthien and Huan kept their eyes low as they passed by them. It was said that those weak of mind would break at the statues' penetrating stare, but Lúthien and Huan were pure of heart and far from weak of mind. Those stones did not daunt them and neither were they afraid. Now they stood and prepared to open the gates.
Suddenly, that gate was cast open before they had laid a finger on it. Lúthien and Huan were flung away by some sorcerous power. Lúthien rose from the ground and ran towards the opening, fearing that it might never be opened again. This may be their chance. Huan ran before her, suspicious and determined to guard her. Then a dark form stepped into the gateway, barring the path, but it was hidden by the darkness within. Lúthien halted and stared. Huan was growling, his hair stood on end, and his teeth were bared. He looked very dangerous, but the figure took a step toward them anyway, clearly not in the least frightened by him. Then, the little bit of light that was in that land fell onto it and was revealed.
Wolf-Sauron stood before them. He was eight feet in height with muscular arms and legs and a pelt of fur black as pitch and coarse as brambles. His jaws were wide, fangs bone white and sank past his chin gleaming-sharp and dyed with venom, torment and death. The deadly vapor of his breath swept before him. His claws on his fingertips were as long and as sharp as swords. His eyes were glowing blood red and they glowed like fiery hot embers into the night. They bored into the soul and chilled the bone. He opened his jaws and let our a roar at the intruders, saliva dripped from his fangs and smoked as it hit the stone floor of the bridge.
It was a sight of such horror that Huan sprang aside. He feared that he was looking upon Carchoroth. His hair now stood on end for terror and he fled to his undying shame, leaving Lúthien unprotected. Huan was no coward and he had never ran from a fight before. Lúthien, however, was frozen in place. She tried to scream, but her voice had abandoned her for the moment. She could neither fight nor flee. When she found her voice, she sang, but her voice was feeble. She stood upon the bridge alone, but her beauty and her own light shone in challenge like the first star of evening, and she continued to sing, and the song gave her a little courage.
“Welcome to my tower, Lúthien,” he said mockingly. “Or should I say, your highness? Of what avail do you deem your babbling song? I hear you singing, and yet it cannot harm me. Why have you come? To sing to me? Or have you perhaps come to see my dungeons?”
Lúthien took off her cloak and answered, “I am here to see your fall!”
“My Master is dying to meet you, and you have come to me! I am honored.”
Those words gave her a chill. That was when Sauron sprang at her. She let out a cry as his weight crushed her, but Lúthien had expected it. What she did not expect was the stench. His body reeked of blood, sweat, and earth. She could feel and smell his hot breath upon her face, fouler than anything she had ever smelled before. His eyes were upon hers, burning ever brighter, and they seemed to scorch her very flesh.
Dizzying, she whispered two words, “Sweet dreams,” and swooned, but not before she had cast a fold of her enchanted cloak over his head.
Sauron had thought that he had defeated her, but he stumbled and struggled to rip the cloth away. He suddenly felt dazed and drowsy. He backed away from Lúthien as he cast the cloak aside in fury. Then Huan sprang at him, sensing this critical moment of weakness now that he was drowsed by Lúthien's spell. The hound’s courage had returned to him and he would not abandon Lúthien, even if it meant death.
That battle between Huan and Wolf-Sauron was long and fierce. No power of wizardry could defeat Huan. Sauron could not fight off sleep. Lúthien's spell was too strong, and the battle had made him all the wearier. Backwards and forwards they sprang, and many times they rose and fell beneath one another and spun in circles trying to grasp the other. There was a terrible den of noise. Though Sauron was half-asleep, Huan had to be careful of his sword-like claws and venomous fangs. Huan barked and snapped at his legs as Sauron swung his arms and claws blindly. Huan sank his teeth into his thigh, forcing him to fight upon all fours. Sauron howled and roared in wrath and frustration and dove at Huan. They entangled one another, and Huan began to howl in pain as he was cut many times by Sauron’s claws.
Lúthien awoke with a start, coughing and shivering. Afterwards, she recalled that darkness with chills. She felt like she had been cast into a bucket of ice and had slipped from one dark dream to another. That was what the black breath did. Slowly she gathered her senses and reached for her cloak.
Sauron bit at Huan’s throat, wrenching off Huan’s protective iron collar decorated with mithril. His fangs barely missed Huan’s throat when Lúthien roused herself and screamed for Huan. The hound recovered faster and took Sauron by his throat, drawing blood, but he did not puncture any arteries. By then, Sauron was exhausted, Lúthien’s trick confused his senses, and dawn was fast approaching. He struggled, but Huan held his throat in a firm grip, choking the life out of him.
Huan was lucky. He had received many wounds from Sauron, but none were fatal, mere scraps from his claws. It was the fangs that he had avoided at all costs. He could have indeed been the mightiest wolf on earth, but he was not. Sauron was not a wolf. He was a sorcerer, and sorcerers are affected by other's spells. Huan was nearly bent and lame, but dragged Sauron towards Lúthien. She was pale and cold. The black breath had an effect even on Lúthien Tinúviel.
“You cursed filth!” Sauron hissed. “You shall meet your end soon, Wolf-Hound! What a glorious day it shall be!”
Threats are a sign of weakness, Necromancer, Huan snorted.
With that he gripped his throat so that Sauron gasped and quivered and tried to slip from his grasp. Lúthien laughed.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?” she said, grinning. “Ah, I see now. It must be one of the lowliest and meanest creatures I have ever laid eyes on in waking life! Oh no, wait a moment. I believe this is Sauron, Morgoth's mightiest and most clever of servants!”
Huan let out a bark and shook his head.
“No. I do not think it is really Sauron either, Huan. Sauron is much more terrible than this. Well, that is what I have heard. But now that we have him, I do not believe any of the rumors I have heard tell of. They have been greatly exaggerated.”
Sauron scowled and changed before their very eyes, trying to slip from his predicament. He became a bat, a rat, a cat, a boar, a horse, but all to no avail. He changed into a long serpent. He tried to slither his way through the grass, but Huan caught him by the tail and sank his teeth in deep. Sauron hissed at him and tried to snap his jaws at Huan with two poisoned fangs, but Lúthien sprang with her dagger and put it through his jaws, pinning them shut. He screeched horribly and took his original shape. With his change of flesh, the blade was loosened, and Lúthien pressed the edge to his throat.
“Down, snake!” she commanded. “I would advise you to be still. Small my dagger may be, but it is steel forged in Valinor, and very effective. I also know very well how to wield it. I do not faint at the sight of blood either.”
He became quite still and eyed her warily. He could not move, he could not summon his servants. He was cornered. He could not believe that this maiden with her strange cloak and her pup was to be his downfall! He was still drowsy, and he could not remember all that had happened, but he was still angry. He was also afraid for his life, a fear that cooled his anger swiftly.
“Good. Remain on your belly like the snake you are! I want a good look at you, necromancer. Whatever form you take, you will never manage to worm your way out of this one! For ages you have tortured my people, enthralled my people, murdered my people. Many ancient kings fell at your hands, and many people were ensnared by your curses and your dark spells. You have gone unpunished for far too long! I am here to take what you have stolen from me and to deliver judgment, though mine shall pale in comparison to Ilúvatar’s! What do you say in your defense?“
“Your people are rebels. They bow to false gods and disobey their true master. My part in this war is to eradicate dangerous rebels and to enlighten those that can be saved from their delusions about the gods. If they defy the power of Morgoth, they deserve no less than enslavement or death. They are all blind fools. They would see the truth to Morgoth's power if they would only obey him. You have no right to judge me nor to take what I have.”
“Power? How can you speak of the power of your master when I, only a tender maiden of Elfinesse and a simple dog, take all the might he gives you and now hold you as prisoner? Well, you are not so powerful now, are you?” Lúthien scorned. “The power of the Valar is stronger than you or Morgoth. That is why we have defeated you. The Valar came through us. You lie even now. I suppose the truth is too terrible for you. Even if I do not have the right to judge you, I still intend to finish what I have already begun. What shall I do with you now, I wonder? What would be the proper punishment for an evil sorcerer such as yourself?”
She paused and began to pace about, first with a thoughtful expression upon her face and then with a smile. Sauron watched with a resentful look in his eye.
“You are without a doubt, guilty and unrepentant,” Lúthien spoke again. “The damnable evidence of your deeds is all about us. I have also thought about your words and I must agree with you in part. I am not fit to punish you. Instead, I should take you to Angband. That is our next destination, and who better to judge you than the one you call your master? I am sure that he would be merciful and eventually forgive you for your failure.”
“No! My place is here!” Sauron cried.
“There everlastingly shall you be tormented by his gaze unless…”
“Unless? What do you want?”
Lúthien stroked the fine stone walls of Minis Tirith.
“I suppose you could begin by giving me this tower and everything inside it living or nonliving. That includes-”
“My tower-” Sauron tried to protest.
Huan closed off his windpipe.
“That includes all of the thralls and prisoners,” Lúthien resumed. “Your servants must flee from here at once. And all your beasts: Your wolves and your Orcs and whatever foul creatures you possess, and all your spells and sorcery are to be lifted off of this place! Should they fail to leave, their ghosts shall man the walls. I claim this keep and the land that lies in its shadow in the name of my father Elwë Thingol and for the people of the Sindar. You are to relinquish your stake here, give me the key, and be gone from here forever. And you must promise never again to trouble my people or their allies. Do we have an accord?”
“May I make on humble request?” Sauron inquired.
“That would depend upon the request,” she answered with severity.
“I ask for so little. I would like to choose two prisoners for myself. Since you wish to strip away most of my powers, I will need someone to assist me in such a vulnerable state.”
Lúthien snickered, “Two random prisoners? I think not. I can guess quite accurately which you have in mind. Beren son of Barahir and King Finrod.”
Sauron gaped in astonishment. She had guessed right on the mark.
“No doubt you sought to regain some of Morgoth’s favor by at least giving him those two. He would have been bouncing off the walls. After all, what is a rubble of stones compared to such prisoners? I must deny your request. You are the mighty sorcerer Sauron. You have no need of servants.”
She held out a slender hand.
“The keys now. And your seal.”
Sauron began mumbling incoherently. Huan gripped his throat tighter until he nodded. First he handed her his seal and then the key. It was made of iron and wrought in the shape of entwined serpents with emerald eyes and a ruby red flower, Finrod’s emblem. He clutched it in a death grip, reluctant to seal his own fate. Lúthien gave him a dark look and he allowed her to take it.
“Daughter of Melian,“ Sauron said slowly. “The Isle is yours.“
Lúthien opened the gates and declared her power. The servants of Sauron fled, abandoning the Isle. The tower trembled, and no wolf howled ever again in the Isle of Werewolves, and now it was once again the ancient watchtower of Minis Tirith. It would take ages for the land to be resorted to its former glory and beauty, but already the air felt less foul.
Lúthien turned to Sauron for the last time. “We are not through yet, Sauron,” she reminded him. “What do you think the proper punishment should be, Huan? Shall I let you kill him?”
Huan gripped Sauron's throat and nodded eagerly.
“You have betrayed your master’s trust by surrendering this land to me,” she told the sorcerer. “He would make you pay for such an offense. That would be enough. I shall cast your spirit out of your body, no more. Then you can do no one harm. To recover your form, you would have to come to Morgoth in humiliation. It is your choice what you shall do. This is my judgment for you. Remember your promise. I never want to see your face in Beleriand again. Now begone!”
A wolf’s corpse was left dangling in Huan’s mouth, for Sauron's spirit fled. His ghost took the form of a vampire and he fled. He would not return to his master. Morgoth would only give him cruel punishment for his loss and his failure to keep the two captives that he had lying in wait in his pits and for his failure to capture the maiden that he had so long hunted for. But that would not be the end of Sauron.
He would keep his promises in part. After a long spell of nursing his wounds, he began to grow in strength over the ages. He never again troubled Beleriand or Lúthien’s people again because both were gone by the Second Age when the necromancer would return to seize power of his own.
*******
Once the sorcerer and his minions were gone, the prisoners emptied out of the tower. They were a piteous lot, dressed in rags and chains. There were Elf-men, maidens, and even children that had been born and bred for cruel labor. Lúthien almost wept at the number of women and children that had been enthralled. Many had not seen the light for years, so they shielded their eyes as they came. Some burst into tears. Others were silent. They sang and embraced one another, rejoicing their freedom. Then each one came to thank Lúthien personally. One fell before Lúthien and kissed her feet, weeping hysterically and babbling prayers. The others followed his example until she was completely encircled. They shrilled their piteous cries of praise and thanks to Lúthien and the children tried to fawn upon Huan. He snarled at them and would not let the little ones come near him. He was alarmed and nervous. Everyone wanted to touch him, and they also wanted to touch Lúthien, their beautiful savior. They began singing praises to her, and they called her by a certain name.
She realized that they thought she must be Varda herself, Queen of Heaven and the Valar. After all, she had defeated Sauron and delivered them from their torment, and she was a Half-Maia. There was divine blood in her veins and it was evident in her very appearance. The thralls wished to know everything about their beautiful rescuer, but she was no Valier.
“Wait!” she announced and the crowd grew silent. “I am not one of the Valar, make no mistake, my good people. I am Lúthien Princess of Doriath, no more and no less.”
“An honest mistake, milady,” the first Elf answered. “But you are no less deserving of praise. No doubt the Valar used you as their instrument. Our freedom is a miracle.”
Lúthien searched each of their faces for Beren and Finrod, but she did not find anyone she recognized.
“Huan,” she said. “Must we search among the dead to find him whom we sought for love and for whom we toiled and fought?”
“Who is it that you are searching for?” one of the former thralls had heard.
“I am looking for a mortal man named Beren, King Finrod, and their companions. Can you tell me where I might find them?”
There was no response. Then a scrawny, half-naked boy stepped forward and took Lúthien by the hand. Lúthien stared openmouthed at him. She could see every little rib in his body, his hair was white like an old man’s, and his eyes which were green as moss and were sadder than any she had ever seen.
“I know where you can find the people you seek,” he said. “How many were you searching for?
“Twelve set out,” she answered. “I do not know how many live now.”
“They were thrown into a pit months ago. They had already been tortured. The pits are for those they want to break in slowly. The last time I looked, my lady, there were only two prisoners down there. I will show you where to find them.”
“Was one of them a Man?” she asked.
“Yes. The other was an Elf, though.”
Lúthien's heart leaped. Beren had been the only Man of his company. At last, she would see him again. Dead or alive, she knew not. She could not think about that, or she was lost.
He led her to the pits and halted before the largest of them and pointed. She struggled to slide away the heavy stone slab. The boy stooped to aid her, and the rest of the prisoners joined them. With the effort of ten, they managed to slide it open wide enough for Lúthien to squeeze through. A foul stench greeted their nostrils. It smelled of filth and of death.
The child looked at her with eyes older than his time, “I warn you, Princess. You may not like what you find.”
“What will I find?” she dreaded the answer.
“You will find truth, but no mercy and little hope.”
She cast a rope into the pit and shimmied down into the earth anxiously. The pit winded down, down, down so deep that the light could not reach and she could not even see her hand before her face. She felt bones crunch beneath her feet when she landed and shuddered, pulling her cloak close. Who knows what else she was stepping in. The temperature dropped significantly with the descent. The smell had grown worse. It was damp and silent as the grave.
“Beren?” she called. “Beren, I have come for you! Where are you?”
There was no answer.
Panic tightened her throat and made her mouth run dry as cotton. She groped and stumbled in the dark until she tripped over three great shapes. One was the carcass of a great wolf, its head smashed by some heavy object. The second was King Finrod lying lifeless upon the floor. A strangled cry of grief escaped her throat at the sight.
“No,” she whispered in dread. “I came too late.”
Huan heard her and came to have a look into the pit.
“No! Stay there, Huan!” Lúthien cried, but Huan had already seen the body of his king and let out a mournful howl.
“Oh, Huan,” she sighed. “I am so sorry.”
Huan whimpered, and Lúthien bowed her head.
“Beren said to me in his letters that Finrod knew he was going to die. It looks as though he had foreknowledge of it indeed.”
She hoped that she was not too late to save Beren as well. Huan sprang into the pit after her and nuzzled the body of his liege and howled mournfully. But it was the last shape in the pit that almost destroyed her. Beren was lying beside the dead king, eyes closed, unmoving. Lúthien reached out and touched him gently and her hand came back bloodied to the wrist. She took Beren's hand in hers. It was ice cold, and his face was deathly pale.
“Beren?” she called his name a little louder.
There was no response.
“Beren!” Lúthien shrieked. “Please wake up! You cannot die! I have come for you. Please do not die! Wake up! It is Tinúviel! I have come for you!”
Huan whimpered and nuzzled at her arm.
“He is not dead!” Lúthien shouted. “After all I have been through to get here, he has to be merely asleep! Please wake up! The sun is shining again and Sauron is overcome! It is not too late; there is hope yet!”
But Beren did not wake. Lúthien lay down beside him.
“I was too late,” she whispered. “Please forgive me, Beren.”
Huan tugged at her sleeve and she shoved him away. She would not leave him. He began to howl again. Lúthien was in danger of something worse than Sauron or the black breath or anything else she had faced so far. She was in danger of the darkness: The spell of forgetfulness, and death of grief. She closed her eyes and began slipping into oblivion.