Chapter 18: The Gates of Hell

Eighteen
The Gates Of Hell

Beren threw himself onto the ground. Lúthien stood over him so that her infamous bat wings fell on him and hid him, for there were dragons and birds flying in the air, spies and servants of the Enemy. If they had seen Beren, they would have certainly burned him alive. Lúthien gave him his wolf-skin, and he slipped it on. They both stayed where they were, horrified at the thought of coming to those gates. Huan had warned them that something evil and dreadful would be there, and that it would not be the last time they would have to face it. At last Beren stood up in Warg raiment.
“We have managed to make it this far,” he said in a harsh voice because of Lúthien's magic. “We must finish what we started. We must at last prove to the world that our love is stronger than all the power of Morgoth and the might of all the kindreds of Middle-Earth. We go to face our destiny now.”
“Do you realize that we may not come back out alive?” she asked, but her voice had also been changed and came out in hissing whispers.
“Does it really matter?”
Lúthien shook her head no. “As long as I die with you, it does not matter. I am worried that you shall die, and I shall be alone.”
“And I fear the same, but this is our only option.”
“All right. Now I must teach you to be a wolf! Walk a few paces for me, Beren!”
He did as she asked, and she instructed him to walk like a wolf and snuff like a wolf among other things.
“Now, you are my servant, so you follow behind. And remember that you are a Warg. You must stay in character, or the magic and the wolf-skin will gain you nothing. We must concentrate on getting past the thing that guards the gates.”
They began walking towards the great volcano where a stone archway had been built. There, the great iron gates were. Beyond the gates and behind the very mountain itself was the land of Angband and the home of Morgoth.
Angband was built near the northwestern shores of the Great Sea in the range of the Iron Mountains as a first defense against any attack from the Valar. Angband was primarily an underground fortress, at least after its initial destruction by the Valar in the Years of the Trees. Like its prototype, Utumno, it had many hidden underground chambers and vaults far beneath the earth. Its main features above ground were the three peaks of the Thangorodrim, mighty towers of ash and slag raised above Angband's gates. The peaks of Thangorodrim were hollow, and from them channels and chimneys ran down to the deepest pits of Angband so Morgoth could produce poisonous clouds and vapors, as indeed he sent against the Noldor in Mithrim during the first days after their Return. There was a countless number of flying beasts in the sky, all the evil things any child might imagine. Bats and dragons, breathing fire through the air, screeched and circled the skies, their eyes sharp as the Eagles of Thorondor.
Lúthien and Beren could hear Orcs on the other side of the gates, shouting, blowing horns, cracking whips, and the cries of slaves. They heard the sound of industry and the roars of monsters. For a moment, they both stopped. A wave of emotions swept over them. Fear and despair were among other things, but then Lúthien stooped to the ground and picked something up from the soil. She held it to her breast for a moment and seemed to be frozen in time.
“Tinúviel?” Beren whispered. “What is it?”
“It is a miracle beyond all miracles!” she answered.
She handed the thing to him, and he gasped in astonishment. In his hand was a flower! Could it be that even here, before the very gate of Hell, there grew living things? He laughed! He laughed long and hard so that his sides felt as though they would split and tears came to his eyes.
“So there is hope after all!” he said. “And even here, life continues. But the flower is shorn too soon. Too soon.”
As he said this, he crushed the delicate flower in his hand, and the petals fell into the dust. But Lúthien and Beren had been too reckless. For they were spotted by the very thing that kept watch over the gates, and he had been given many names in the centuries that he had caused torment and death. But the name he favored above all was Carchoroth.
Carchoroth was a Warg: The largest and most terrible that Lúthien and Beren had ever seen. Not even Sauron had looked so terrible in his wolf-form! There was a fire of such hate and wrath in his eyes that they glowed like hot coals. They could see the very demon itself within them. He was robust and hairy, with fur blacker than the dark around them. He stood with a grimace on his face, and his eyes glowed with disquiet. He was sharpening his iron claws and his horrible fangs on a stone, and they were like daggers and were full of deadly poison that could kill instantly.
Even though Carchoroth was possessed, he still had a corner of his mind that was his own even with the demon in his body. That demon in his body was the most ancient and most terrible of his entire race. Some say that it was the very first and master of them all. His name had been Brahma. Of course, you may have heard his name before, and there have been many legends about him in after days because his spirit lived on even after Lúthien and Beren's day and after he at last left Carchoroth's body. But Brahma had been horrible and ever-tormented Carchoroth's soul, for it was the strongest of all demons. He was also sneaky and cunning, and he had corrupted the hearts of countless Men and Elves. Many say that he was responsible for most of the betrayals among them and blamed him for famines and droughts, and they were right. He loved chaos and thought death was a sport.
Morgoth had admired this in the demon and had offered for him to join him as his chief servant. That was if he would give him all of his own demons so that Morgoth could summon them up into his own servants for the use of even greater armies. He promised to set him even above Sauron if he would do this, but Brahma had refused, saying that he had been upon the earth and brought evil to the world even before him. But Morgoth always got what he wanted. He was the father of all evil, and he captured Brahma in the body of a horrible serpent and had been waiting for ages for the right wolf to cast him into to make him the greatest of all.
Carchoroth had once been a normal wolf. He became a wolf-lord of old and the most competent. He had been born already of large size and had been given strength unmatched by any wolf or even in many werewolves. Carchoroth had been Morgoth's favorite wolf, and he had been sent on many raids and plunders of Men's homes and even the Elves of long ago. His sight was keener than any of his race, and his ears were even sharper. But the greatest sense that he possessed was his sense of smell. He could track a small conney hiding in its burrow from miles away. He was fast, especially for his size. He was perfect and had never failed his master in his life. That was why Morgoth decided to take the next step and make Carchoroth even more useful to him.
He brought Carchoroth to him and cut his own wrist, allowing Carchoroth to drink his own dark blood. In doing this, Carchoroth became the most bloodthirsty wolf for his kind and needed many men to devour. As he drank more and more from his master through the years, his thirst for blood became unquenchable. He began to prefer the soft flesh of children and infants. These were almost always in good supply for him, as sad as it is to hear. And when he could not get it, he went out hunting, devouring whatever creature crossed his path. This pleased Morgoth very much, and at last, he decided that he would again unleash Brahma into the world using Carchoroth.
He sent for Carchoroth and commanded Brahma into his body. Carchoroth had no strength to fight Brahma. He transformed then into a Warg; the mightiest on Earth.
Brahma had been a vengeful spirit, and he was beginning to devour that little corner that belonged to Carchoroth so that he could take over his mind entirely and perhaps overthrow Morgoth, which was something that he never managed to do or ever would have done. Carchoroth, even though he was evil, had been strong of will before his possession and prideful. He was his own master. He only followed Morgoth's lead because he gave him great glory and power. Brahma hated that, so he tried to destroy anything that was left of Carchoroth's soul. If he did, Brahma would have complete control of him. But so far, he had not succeeded. Other demons had their houses under control, but Carchoroth could still speak with his own voice and commanded his own body, and Brahma could only influence him.
Lúthien and Beren stood before him, fighting the urge to flee or cry out. Before they could do either, though, Carchoroth began speaking.
“The sorceress?” he growled, and his voice was hollow and chilling.
“I am the vampiress and sorceress, Gwendling,” Lúthien answered.
“Oh, are you? What purpose have you in Angband?”
“I have come hither to see Melkor.”
Carchoroth shivered at the name Melkor. Melkor was Morgoth's first name. That is what the Valar called him before when he was still one of them. Very few dared to say that name. They say a curse would fall upon the ones that spoke it.
“And what do you desire of... Melkor?” Carchoroth demanded, hesitating to say the name but saying it anyway to make himself appear more terrible.
“I am the eyes and ears of Melkor the Ruler of the World! I need not discuss the matters of the Master with his dog!”
“Dog! I am Warden of the Black Gate! No one passes without my leave, not even the sorceress of Thuringwethil! What sort of news would make you leave your lands in Thuringwethil and bring you here? You were assigned to Minis Tirith and put under Sauron’s command!”
“You insolent fool!” Lúthien said with indignation. “It was Sauron who sent me! Here is his seal! I have come to offer some of his Wargs as tribute.”
She held out Sauron’s seal that he had surrendered to her along with the keys to Minis Tirith. Carchoroth recognized it at once. Beren crouched low and let out growl and Carchoroth looked at him with interest, sizing him up.
“Fine wolf there. He no doubt will be of great service to Melkor.”
Carchoroth scowled and moved towards the gates to open them. Lúthien's heart leaped and Beren sprang to his feet. He was anxious to get into Angband, and neither Lúthien nor Beren could believe this stroke of fortune. Huan had warned them against the 'gatekeeper' of Angband, and it seemed almost too easy.
Then, suddenly, Carchoroth halted. He sucked in a large draught of air, and then he turned around, and his eyes were glowing with such malice that Lúthien and Beren were convinced that he would devour them then and there. But instead, he came towards Lúthien and snuffed the air about her. She showed him her fangs hissed at him, and drew her wings about her like a bat. Then Carchoroth turned and snuffed the air about Beren. He snapped his jaws at Carchoroth in warning, but the Warg was not daunted. Instead, he laughed.
“A little witch from Thuringwethil and her pet wolf, eh?” he said suspiciously.
“I am a Maia!” Lúthien corrected.
“Well, I must say that you do look to be who you claim you are, but you do not smell like a demon at all. AM I NOT A DEMON MYSELF!?”
A dramatic change had come over Carchoroth's voice. It had been Brahma speaking, not Carchoroth. The wolf tore at his fur and let out an anguished cry. Beren and Lúthien took a step back, but then Carchoroth seemed to contain himself again, and Brahma did not speak again.
“What is your name?” he demanded of Beren.
“Draugluin, Sire of Wolves,” Beren answered.
“Draugluin?” Carchoroth sneered. “It is an honor.”
This was where Beren and Lúthien made their most terrible mistake. For long had Carchoroth known that Draugluin had been killed by Huan. That was why Carchoroth had been posted to guard the gates. He knew now that his suspicions had been right all along.
“That pathetic servant of yours is not a wolf at all!” he declared. “He is only a Man!”
“A Man?” Lúthien tried to sound puzzled. “No, of course not!”
“I believe that is the most foul insult a fellow wolf could give another,” Beren growled.
“YES INDEED HE IS A MAN!” Carchoroth bellowed. “DO YOU THINK ME BLIND!”
Carchoroth took a step towards them, and Beren stepped before Lúthien to protect her if Carchoroth should attack, but Carchoroth grabbed Beren and threw him aside as if he were a pebble. Beren cried out as he flew up into the air, high above Carchoroth and poor Lúthien, who was now being circled by the Warg as though he were a vulture waiting for a fresh kill. A look of desperate terror was upon her face. Beren fell to the ground, and his cry was cut short, for the wind was knocked out of him, and it took all of his will to lift himself up again.
“Do you take me for a fool?” Carchoroth shouted at Lúthien. “I have fed on too many of his kind not to recognize their scent! I should have picked it up sooner. Neither are you a sorceress nor a vampiress! Well, perhaps you are a sorceress. It takes more than great skill to give a human the semblance of a wolf. You have that mortal upon your leash. You chose your slave wisely. They are trustier servants than Orcs, I know that at least.”
“Aye,” Lúthien did not fail to stay in character. “Orcs are treacherous. What a useless, ruined race! I cannot see why Melkor would need them. He could use his infinite strength and power to create greater beings of majesty. I shall speak of these matters when I am alone with him.”
“Your scent is a strange scent; one I have not smelt for many years, but I am Carchoroth!”
“Melkor has summoned for me, you wretch!” Lúthien hissed. “Do not waste my time or your Master's! Stand aside! Open those gates or you shall pay dearly for it in the end!”
Carchoroth held up his hand and growled, and his iron claws grew in front of Lúthien's eyes. She understood the warning and bit her lip so that she would show no outward sign of fear. Beren managed to his feet, but Carchoroth scooped him up again and threw him beside Lúthien. He did not throw him so high this time, but with no less vigor. Beren landed, bounced, and was burned and cut by the jagged earth underneath him as he rolled at Lúthien's feet.
“I hope I do not have any broken bones!” Beren wheezed. “What are we going to do, Tinúviel? Carchoroth does not need sight to tell who we are! Shall I cut off his nose!”
“Play your part, and let me handle this.”
“You do not know what to do either!”
“I shall do what I must.
“Silence!” Carchoroth sprang in front of Lúthien.
The wolf drew in a rattling breath, snuffling the air deeply. Then he sneered triumphantly.
“I know what you are now!” he said triumphantly. “You spoke in half truths before. You do reek that of a Maia, but I smell Elf as well!”
His eyes flashed, and he took a step towards Lúthien, snarling threateningly. He hated Elves most of all the races. It was the Maia scent that made him hesitant in killing her then and there.
“Spies!” Carchoroth howled with rage. “Spies and rebels! Murderers and traitors!”
“What has my race have to do with anything?” she demanded. “What matters is my loyalty to Melkor!”
“Ah, but not only do I know what you are,” Carchoroth said with a sinister smile. “I know who you are. There is but one Half-Maia upon this earth, and that is the child of Elu Thingol and his whore Melian: Lúthien Tinúviel! If you had wished to come to Angband, then you shall have your wish. You shall see so much of Angband that you shall soon have no wit or voice to beg for mercy anymore! You shall become the most miserable of all the slaves of Morgoth!”
Then Lúthien felt her knees buckle beneath her, and she fell.
“Tinúviel!” Beren cried.
She felt something pulling at her veins, in her every fiber of her being, but what it was, she did not know. She thought she heard her mother's voice. Her disguise fell away, and Lúthien stood again, radiant and terrible. Something divine had possessed her, and she was suddenly fearless before the wolf. Carchoroth was surprised and even blinded by her illuminated beauty, and Beren stepped aside, fearful.
“Let us pass!” her voice was sonorous. “You shall let us pass!”
“I shall not obey any command a thrall gives me!” Carchoroth answered, but he was cowering upon the earth now.
“Oh, woe-begotten spirit, fall now into dark oblivion, and forget for a while the dreadful doom of life!”
And then Lúthien began to sing, and her voice and her song was beyond lovely. Miraculously, Carchoroth's eyes became heavy. Never before had he slept, even as a pup, but Lúthien's arts were very powerful. When she had suddenly burst with such a beautiful but terrible light, Beren had shrunk away from it in fear. It was unlike any other light. It was brighter than sunlight, but it did not cause him pain when he looked at it. And then Carchoroth fell to the ground and fell into deep slumber.
Lúthien stood for a moment, gasping for air, and then she fell again. The power she had felt stream through her body left her as soon as it had come and left her feeling drained and weak.
Beren feared her at first. When she turned to him, he recoiled, and she looked pained so that he stepped towards her gingerly.
“Do you not recognize me?”
“No. How-how did you do that?” he stammered.
“The Great Power that I told you of. As I have said before, I am merely a vessel of unknown power.”
“Whatever it was, it saved us!” Beren said. “Thank Ilúvatar! I was sure he that damned wolf was about to leap at us when he spoke in that horrible voice!”
“Yes! Thank Ilúvatar!”
Lúthien rested for a moment to catch her breath and put back on her disguise.
“Come on, Beren,” she told him. “We can pass now that the Warden of the Gate of Hell is asleep. I do not know how long he shall stay that way, but I do not want to be here when he awakens. If he does, then he shall raise an alarm.”
“I should like to cut his throat,” Beren grumbled. “That way he shall not hinder us again.”
He drew out Angrist and approached the slumbering beast, stepping towards it slowly and carefully. But when he was about to end his foul life then and there, Carchoroth stirred in his sleep and seemed for a moment to awaken. Beren sprang aside and the monster slept undisturbed.
“Beren, do not tempt fate!” Lúthien cried.
Beren hesitated, and then sheathed the dagger with a curse. Then they passed through the iron gates, avoiding Carchoroth’s sleeping form, and they stepped into Angband at last.
******
Lúthien and Beren almost choked on the smoke that greeted them. The air was stiflingly hot, for lava spewed from the volcano, filling little streams that zigzagged along the ground. Countless slaves were being worked on the great monsters, and others were being beaten or whipped. One of the thralls fell at Beren's feet, exhausted from the heat and toil of the day. He was a young elf, strong because of his life of thralldom and endless work. He was drenched with his own sweat, and his hair was long and unkempt. He looked up at Beren, and his eyes bulged with fear. Then he shut his eyes and covered his head.
“Get up, my good fellow,” Beren said. The sound of his voice reminded him that he was in the guise of a Warg. The poor lad was sure he would kill him, but Beren pulled the elf to his feet. The elf thrashed at him, and when Beren let him go, he ran from him and dodged the whips of a few Orcs standing nearby.
Lúthien had to bite her tongue to keep from shouting at an Orc as he pushed a Man forward. He fell at the iron boots of an Orc captain.
“This one refuses to work!” the Orc told his master.
“These Men,” the captain grumbled. “They always fight. At least the Elves do not put up such a great resistance. They are just disobedient, which is extremely annoying! It slows down business. The Big Boss wants his machinery operating, and if there is any glitches, then he shall come to see a few of us die personally. What's his number?”
“Here's his arm.”
“All right. I recognize it. And he has been working here for about ten years, right? I think this one has been reported to me before. Many times before,” he gave the man a stern eye.
“Yes, sir! Twelve years it is!”
“That's not the number I guessed, ape!”
“Sorry, sir. My mistake, sir.”
“Anyway, twelve years is too long for a Man. How old is he?”
“How old are you?”
The man refused to answer.
“He's ailing and getting weak,” the Orc captain said, “but he shall make use yet. The wolves have been complaining that they have not had man-flesh for days now. We've been waiting for one to die out quickly to stop their jabbering. If we do not feed them, they shall become hungry and angry enough to try Orc-flesh.”
“Yes, sir!”
The Orc saluted and grabbed the man again, dragging him away. Some of the other slaves watched him being dragged off. Many of them would die the same way. Those that were caught stalling soon received a blow or felt the sting of Orc whips.
Beren urged Lúthien on. They could not help any of these people. If they did, they would have a good chance of becoming one of them. The slaves took no notice of Lúthien and Beren as they passed by. The Orcs watched them with interest and fear, but they did not stop them or speak out.
Lúthien and Beren stood before the tunnel that led to the halls of Angband. The tunnel was dark and musty, but once they had walked on for a few miles, they took off their disguises. The tunnel at last ended after they had been walking deeper and deeper underground. And there, a labyrinth was there to greet them: A series of enchanted stairways leading to great halls filled with monsters and snares. One dead end would be the last place you turned to. Only the most trusted servants could pass through this labyrinth safely.
Beren stood with awe and anxiety at all the mazes of steps. There were hundreds of them, and from many of them, he could hear the murmur of beasts. He had not expected this. How could Lúthien and Beren find their ways out, let alone stay alive? Each tunnel looked as dark and as uninviting as the next. He had no clue which way they were supposed to go first. His head began to swim. He was falling into a panic.
“How are we going to get through all of this?!” he cried, and his voice echoed off the great stone walls. The murmurs stopped, and there was a heavy silence. Lúthien set her baggage down in front of her.
“Do not worry,” she said quietly. “Do you think I would come here unprepared?”
She drew out her sickle dagger and set it carefully in front of her.
“What good will your dagger do us? We have been through the ordeal with Sauron, Celegorm, the marshes, but this? We do not even know where to begin with this!”
“Be quiet!” Lúthien hissed. “This dagger is the only thing that can get us through here in one piece. Now before you rouse every creature from here to Valinor, be quiet! I need to concentrate.”
Beren shut his mouth. Lúthien ran her fingers over the edge of the blade and said a word of command. Then she took a step back, gently pushing Beren backwards also. Beren stared at her. Lúthien began to spin it and stepped away from it carefully. It spun and spun, more slowly, and then it stopped, pointing to one of the tunnels. Then Lúthien picked it up from the floor and handed it to Beren, breathing a little heavier now.
“Tinúviel? What is it?” he asked, putting a hand under her chin. “Was that magic?”
“I suppose, but I am tired. There are many things in these tunnels, visible and invisible. They have their own methods of attack, but they cannot harm me. Do not be surprised if I begin to lag behind you or stumble on my feet. I will be getting tired, that is all. Just take whatever tunnel the dagger directs you to.”
“Tinúviel?”
“Yes?”
“Is the Great Power deadly?” Beren asked with concern. “You are Half-Maia and you do not know your limits.”
“Well...”
Lúthien climbed into the next tunnel, not answering. Beren followed after her.
“Is it deadly?” he repeated.
“Well, there is a reason the Maiar reveal their power. Arda is the Marred World, it drains life out of you.”
“WHAT!”
“Keep your voice down!”
“Are you telling me that you can die if you use too much of your power?”
“I do not know.”
“Tinúviel!”
“Great Power comes with a high price, Beren, so that it is not abused.”
“But-“
”I will be all right!”
“Are you so sure about that?”
“Just keep moving, and stop worrying about me! Take the left tunnel.”
Beren looked into her eyes and climbed into the next tunnel. Lúthien began to follow after him.
“Get back!” he cried and pushed her out of the tunnel.
“What is it?”
“Wolves!”
“Did you expect to meet anything less?” Lúthien snickered. “Remember our disguises. Shall we proceed?”
“You stay behind me, Tinúviel.”
Lúthien began to lag behind, as she had predicted, when they entered the next tunnel. Beren shook his head and set the stone down, waiting for Lúthien. She caught up with him, and her face was becoming very pale.
“Need a rest?” Beren murmured.
“Yes!” she exhaled and sat down.
“All right. I think you should stop using your magic for now, Tinúviel.”
“No. I am fine,” Lúthien assured him, wiping sweat off her brow.
“No you are not.”
“Yes, I am.”
She rose to her feet.
“Where does it say to go now?”
“Straight,” Beren answered, getting up too.
“Lead onward!”
He helped her into the tunnel. This time, there were no wolves or other creatures, but two tunnels. Beren raised the stone. It pointed to the tunnel on their left. He raised an eyebrow and turned the stone around in his hands. It pointed to the same tunnel, but the other tunnel was shedding light. The stone was pointing to a dark and uninviting tunnel. Even he could hear something stirring inside. He was very confused. He looked at Lúthien doubtfully.
“The stone knows the way, and it never lies,” Lúthien said, reading his mind.
“But it almost sounds like there is a dragon in there! How can we possibly get through? And the other tunnel does not look half as dangerous. What would be the harm of it?”
“This is an enchanted labyrinth, Beren. That tunnel only leads you back to where we started: The beginning of the labyrinth. This is the way,” Lúthien insisted.
“All right. I trust you.”
He got down on his knees to crawl into the next tunnel, which was extremely narrow, but Lúthien crawled ahead of him and peered into the next chamber. She drew back and shrank against the wall. When she looked back at Beren, she was deathly pale.
“Beren,” she said in a low voice. “There is a Balrog in there.”
“A what?”
“A Balrog! A Balrog from the pits! They are the mightiest of Morgoth's servants save Sauron!”
“A Balrog?”
“Yes!”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, and Beren slammed his fist to the ground. He had, of course, expected to meet a Balrog in Morgoth's dwelling, but he did not know if he could face one now. Balrogs were like giants compared to him, and they only needed their flaming whips to kill him. Only one person had dared to fight a Balrog. He had been a strong Elvin-king in the ancient days. He had died facing it. Beren would never be able to defeat a Balrog, but he drew his sword anyway.
“No, Beren,” Lúthien said. “Put away your sword. It is no use against a Balrog. No mortal can withstand a Balrog. I doubt our disguises will fool such a creature. They walk in darkness. We must find another way. We must face Morgoth, and I am already weary.”
Beren gazed into the tunnel. There was the Balrog, snapping his long, fiery whip and muttering to himself in his master's abominable language. Not even the Elves knew exactly what the Balrogs were. Many believed that they were Maiar, some of Melian's folk that had fallen into Morgoth's service long ago. Although there were only seven, they were brutal and nigh invincible. They were large and tall with two mighty wings of shadow and smoke. They were covered from head to toe in black fur like a horse and grew a mane like a horse; only it was a mane of flames. They had ugly horns that grew from their head like a bull's and a squashed nose and ears like a bat. Their eyes were always yellow like a cat's with slits for pupils. They could spout out flame from their nostrils and jaws. Morgoth used Balrogs to torture prisoners. Torture from a Balrog was an experience that could lead to madness. Many slaves had become thralls at the mere threat of such torment. The Balrogs were experts on pain that few could endure. They were Morgoth’s most trusted guards and released upon battlefields to burn and destroy all in their path. They were like dragons in that they spouted fire, but they carried weapons and other instruments. And unlike dragons they did not seem to have obvious weaknesses.
The labyrinth stairs had hundreds of steps to each. They winded upwards and downwards, backwards and forwards. Climbing the flights of steps was wearisome to Beren who was a mortal, after all, but for Lúthien, it was a torment. She collapsed on the steps.
“I cannot go any further, Beren,” she muttered.
“No. We must not stop. If Morgoth’s servants find us on the steps to his throne, even if they do not see through the disguises, it could be the end for us.”
“I must rest for just a little while, just a little while...” Lúthien closed her eyes slowly.
Beren sighed and lifted her into his arms, willing to carry her to the top of the stairs. When they reached the summit, he put her down, and they both rested for a brief while. She took up the guide stone and stood upon her feet.
“I am still fatigued and it will only get worse,” she said, “but we must go on.”
They passed into the next tunnel that would lead them to the next series of steps. Beren had his sword drawn, and Lúthien reached for her dagger and clung to him, but there was nothing here. All the other tunnels they had passed through had been filled with monsters and deadly traps. The sudden absence of danger made it seem all the more perilous.
“Tinúviel?”
“I know.”
“What does this mean? What other traps are in this place? Sorcery, perhaps?”
Beren raised his sword.
“Do you really believe that shall be of any use to you?” Lúthien said quietly, turning into a tunnel.
“Then what should I do?”
Beren turned to her, but she was gone. He gazed into the tunnel into which she had gone and there was nothing. Likewise, when she looked behind her, he was gone. The place had some strange power like the Girdle of Melian to confuse and even distort reality.
“Tinúviel?” He thought he heard her voice and was about to answer when he heard a familiar clicking sound. His heart sank horribly, and he turned around. It was a Spider of Ungoliant, but this spider was even larger than the ones that he had faced in Nan Dungortheb.
Beren ran for the stairs, only to find them held against him by webbing. He was trapped like a fly. The spider crawled forward with astonishing speed. Beren drew his sword, and the spider s fangs bit into it, and the sword fell from Beren s hands. If he had been fool enough to reach for it, he would not have needed to be drugged for the spider to drink its fill.
Beren dove under the spider, but it reached for him and curled its legs about him, crushing him and sickening him. Beren kicked and tried to squirm free with all his strength. The stinger pierced him and he felt the poison in him again. He let out a defiant cry. His vision blurred, and he knew he was about to swoon. The spider let him drop to the floor. He fought the drugs.
“To think after being poisoned like this before, I should be immune to it by now,” he muttered to himself. And then Beren drew out the half forgotten shirt knife, Angrist. “Time to put the blade to the test,” he muttered.
As the spider sprang forward with its fangs, Beren rose in defense. He slashed at the spider s legs. They fell smoothly off, and the spider shrieked in agony and fled, having only six legs now. Beren fell to the ground, exhausted and staring at Angrist. He swooned, but then he heard Lúthien screaming blood-curdling screams. Those screams stirred him to life. He sprang to his feet, plunged through the webbing with Angrist, and leapt down the steps.
******
Lúthien had been plummeted into darkness. She cautiously put a hand forward, groping for a wall or any sign of life, and she suddenly put her hand upon something in the dark, and she realized that it was bone, and she knew that it was not animal bone, but a man’s bones. She sprang back, screaming like a banshee, and she felt the crunch of bones beneath her feet. She backed into a wall of damp earth and placed her hand on a skull. The smell of blood and decay was like a heavy curtain in the air, and this muffled her cries, and they echoed in her ears. The stench could not be ignored, neither the drastic heat. She almost fainted. She had realized where she was. She was in the pits of Angband, the pits of Baradur, and from there, none returned.
“At last, she has quieted down,” said a voice, and suddenly, there was light. It was the light of a pale lamp.
Lúthien looked into the face of the one that held the lamp, and she saw that it was an Elf, but he had deep, jagged scars and bruises upon his face. The wounds were fresh. He had been tortured, and Lúthien, in pity, reached out and touched the scars. There was a curse, and the Elf struck her, for the touch pained him. He let out an anguished cry, and Lúthien placed her hand on his shoulder.
“Do not touch me!” the Elf cried. “Stay away! Stay away!
Lúthien did as she was told and rubbed her jaw.
“Do not bother him,” said a voice. “That is Anglos. He has faced much torture in the past few days. The Orcs have found no more use for him.”
“And who are you?” she turned to the outline of a figure.
“I am Gwindor. I was once an Elvin-lord, but my people have forgotten me, and I am a thrall.”
“He is a living miracle,” said Anglos.
“Nay,” Gwindor answered. “I am only a hardened survivor, an Elf blessed by luck, but perhaps I was not blessed. I am alive, yet, but I am miserable. What have I done to deserve such punishment? I suppose it was only a stroke of ill luck, and my fortune at being alive is a stroke of good, but not when you are down in this place.”
“Nonsense. You have been down here for ten years! No thrall lives that long be he Elvin lord or common Man!”
“Please step into the light,” Lúthien asked. “I have heard that name before, and I would like to see your face.”
“I am afraid I cannot move much. The Orcs get little sport from one so numb, but nonetheless, they have not forgotten me. They fabricate many ways to try and break me, and my face would be an unpleasant sight for such a tender one as you.”
Lúthien took the lamp and raised it to see Gwindor’s face. Though he was much scarred, he was still beautiful, for his eyes were green, and his hair, though it was dirty, was golden. Or was it perhaps white? He had aged, seemingly. Torture had made an Elf age.
“Who are you?” Anglos asked her.
“Tinúviel.”
The Elf smiled and admired her beauty. Then he asked, “Where do you come from? You are not one of our people, alas!”
“I come from Doriath,” Lúthien answered.
Anglos and the other cried out in lamentation. “Aye Elbereth! Can it be that the Enemy has invaded Doriath, one of the Hidden Kingdoms?”
“No,” Lúthien said soothingly.
“Give us news,” Gwindor ordered. “Here, any tidings from the earth can give us the spark of hope needed to endure another day of torment.”
“I came seeking a Quest. Beren son of Barahir may come to rescue me, and you two may be of some aid.”
“No one can be rescued from the pit,” Anglos said grimly, “and my time is near.”
Then Anglos began to weep, and Gwindor rolled his eyes heavenward and asked, “What is your Quest?”
“To recapture a Silmaril from the Iron Crown and take it back to Menegroth in Doriath.”
Even Anglos burst out laughing at this.
“Oh,” Gwindor wiped tears from his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you. Down here, laughter is not something you receive often.”
Lúthien cast herself upon the ground and began to weep. She realized now how foolish the Quest seemed.
“Come now!” Gwindor said, still laughing. “Do not weep! We did not mean to laugh at you!”
Still, Lúthien wept, and Anglos and Gwindor sat beside her and wrapped their arms about her, still laughing.
“Well, it is a good thing that we have such company. This maiden is fair to look upon and stirs laughter. I wonder what use the Orcs shall make of you. I hope they do not choose you for our fates.”
“What would that be?” Lúthien asked apprehensively.
“Mine,” Gwindor told her, “is to live forever in torment. I slaughtered one of the Enemy’s greatest fighters in the Battle of the Bragollach, and Anglos...”
Anglos began to weep again, and Gwindor cast down his eyes. Lúthien sat down and sang softly, and the two Elves listened to her voice intently, and they forgot their torment for a while. When she no longer had the heart to sing, she began to weep with despair.
“Do not weep, fair maiden,” Anglos said. “Your voice has healing power, and I hope the Sindar are as yet unstained. Gwindor, guard this maiden when the Orcs come for me.”
“Speaking of the Orcs, here they come now,” Gwindor said with a light in his eyes.
“Oh no,” he moaned.
“Farewell, Anglos. You were great company. I shall see you on the other side of Hell.”
There was a sudden light. Lúthien shielded her eyes from the light and heard laughter, Orcs’ laughter of course. They opened the gates and filed into the pit. Lúthien quickly hid her face in the folds of her cloak and her disguise returned. Anglos and Gwindor gaped in astonishment. The Orcs could not see her face and thought for a moment she was a new prisoner and squealed with delight.
“We must examine this one later, but now, Gwindor, it is time!”
“NO!” Gwindor drew back and covered his face.
The Orcs laughed harshly and reached for him, but Lúthien cried against them and revealed the face and fangs of the sorceress of Thuringwethil.
“I am no prisoner, I came to feed, you fools!” she hissed. “Unless you wish to be my next victim instead of one of these, begone!”
“Sorceress…” the Orcs’ green skin blanched to gray at the sight of her. “What an unexpected surprise.”
Gwendling had once been the haunt of the Thrall Vaults. When she returned to Angband after flying to and fro with messages or some mischief, she could no longer stomach the strict diet of Orcs and meaner things and required better sustenance. The vampiress was allowed at times to gorge herself upon the sweeter meat of Men and Elves. It was a privilege only the highest ranking blood suckers enjoyed. There were always certain prisoners they could not touch, but the weaker ones and those of low birth and worth were fair game.
“Silence!”
“Forgive us, Dark Lady, but the Boss has marked these two for other things. You must find nourishment elsewhere.”
“What other things have they been marked for?” she demanded.
“Boldog was slain and we need a replacement.”
She did not understand what they were talking about. Elves did not serve the Enemy. Men and Dwarves perhaps, but the Eldar would rather die than serve Morgoth as anything more than a chained thrall.
“Why these two?”
“They were both captured in the war and are the most rebellious of the thralls. I suppose we only need one,” the Orcs consented. “We would never dream of taking a bone from a wolf. Which do you want?”
Lúthien exchanged a quick glance with the two thralls. She could not possibly choose between them. The Orcs could not wait for her to make up her mind. They unshackled Anglos, Gwindor was too close to Lúthien for their comfort. Anglos begged for mercy, and though he fought with all his strength and will, they carried him away. It took five strong Orcs to hold him. Then they turned to Gwindor.
“You shall watch before the sorceress has you,” they said and seized him by the arm and dragged him forward. Gwindor had a terrified look upon his face, and then the Orcs closed the door, taking Lúthien and the struggling Anglos with them. She had no choice but to follow.
“Where are you taking them?” she asked with curiosity.
The Orcs laughed. “One thing that has always amused us and the Boss,” he said, “is that the Elves are supposed to be the First-born and therefore the wisest of the races and most beloved. And yet the wisest among them question our origin. They ask: Where did the Orcs, these demons, come from? Go on, Elf. Ask me: Where did the Orcs come from?”
“Knowing that you were created by Morgoth is enough. I do not want the horrid details!” Gwindor answered.
“Ask!”
He tugged on his chains again and he asked, “Where did your foul race spring from? Where did you spawn and how?”
“Ah,” the Orc seemed satisfied. “That is a very good question. The Elves curse us, not knowing that we truly are a part of them.”
“No! That is not true!”
“But it is. Our fathers were some of the original 144 Elves that awoke at the Beginning of Time. Morgoth captured several of them and tortured them and transformed them into Orcs.”
No! That is impossible! Lúthien thought at once but said, “The Elves are supposed to be pure and incorruptible.”
The Orcs gave her a strange look, “It is not our place to question the Dark Lady. We shall prove to you that anything can be twisted into the Master’s service.”
They came to another chamber. Lúthien could hear the screams long before she reached the gates. The screams echoed throughout the place and rang in her ears. She was blinded with tears, and she refused to look at those being tortured. They were all Elves.
Anglos was forced upon an iron chair and shackled down, and he begged piteously.
“This one refuses to work?” said what must have been an Orc, though he looked strange. His face looked ordinary, like a thousand other faces. His skin was blackened, as though he had been burnt from head to toe and he was still healing, and he was bald and much taller than an Orc had a right to be. “He is no sport either. A little pain is all he needs to start squealing like a little girl. But a mind is a terrible thing to waste, and we could use his experience upon the battlefield. He has some strength left in him still I can imagine.”
“I will never serve you!” Anglos cried.
“You will!”
Anglos struggled with his bonds, and the thing that was not an Orc struck him until he spit up blood.
“It is time!”
“NO!”
They forced him to drink some foul liquid, and then there was a sudden burst of flame, and a shadow stepped in through the chamber, casting Orcs aside with its fiery whip. It was the Balrog Lúthien had faced before, and she hid away her face. The fire demon stopped before Anglos, and Anglos lost his mind.
“Aye Elbereth! Stay away from me, demon!”
The Balrog reached for him, and he tore him from his seat, the chains snapped. An Orc took hold of Gwindor firmly and forced him to watch as the Balrog lifted Anglos into the air so that he could see his eyes. Anglos was screaming and pleading, but the Balrog’s eyes glowed suddenly, like gleaming coals and Anglos began to sob and beg, and then he was silent.
“What is your name?” an Orc demanded.
“I do not know! I do not know!” Anglos cried and began to weep again.
Then the Balrog raised his hand, and his flaming mane became a black flame. The Balrog reached for kindling and built a fire of this strange flame, and then he cast Anglos into the fire.
Lúthien let out a sharp breath, not daring to scream. Gwindor was cursing and shouting, and then the Balrog reached into the fire and plucked Anglos out again. But it was no longer Anglos. Anglos had been transformed, and he writhed upon the ground, his skin blackened and his face hideously deformed. He resembled an Orc!
“Behold our new Orc captain, Anog!” sneered one of the Orcs, and he gave to Anglos an Orc scimitar. He recoiled and threw them away from himself.
“Take him to the breeding grounds!”
“Aye Elbereth!” Lúthien whispered to herself in horror. At last she knew the secret. The Orcs had once been Elves, but they were twisted into monsters! It could not be true, but she had seen it with her own eyes. The Orcs had not lied. She almost forgot herself. If she had, she would have out-screamed the unfortunates in torture, and she covered her ears and closed her eyes in mental anguish. How many Elves had received this damnation? How many captive Elves had reached this fate? How many Elvin-lords had not really died in battle but had been made to serve in battle? How many of her own people, the Sindar, had been brainwashed and corrupted by Morgoth?
Gwindor was still cursing and an Orc struck him and growled, “Quiet! You could easily become one of us, you know! Return him to his cell!”
Lúthien could not contain her rage any longer. There was a flash of light, and the Orcs about her fell dead, and there was a mighty wind that made all cower to the floor, and the Balrog’s flame nearly went out. He turned his eyes on Lúthien, and she fell to the floor, exhausted. She reached for Anglos and Gwindor, and he looked at her with helpless confusion. The Balrog could see through her disguise, and he swung his whip and it found itself around her arm. She screamed with pain as the fiery thongs bit into her skin. The fire caused the pain to double. Then the Balrog pulled on the whip so that she fell forward out of the shadows. She screamed with agony at this. The thongs were tearing at her flesh. She almost swooned. The pain was so great. The Balrog began dragging her forward with the whip. She began screaming once more.
Lúthien clutched at her arm.
“Yavanna!” she cried, rocking backward and forward and gritting her teeth. “Aye Elbereth!” Blood was dripping from the gashes the thongs had left, and the sleeve of her dress was torn where the whip had landed.
The Balrog sprang before Lúthien and reached for her, but Anglos put himself before her, and he was cast down by the Balrog’s fiery whip. Lúthien stood in the shadows, her hands clutching Gwindor’s in fear and amaze. The Balrog cracked his whip at them, but they dove under his legs. The flames were close behind them as the Balrog shot fire from his nostrils, but they toppled into the next tunnel to safety. There was a blast of heat and they heard the Balrog roar. Lúthien shoved Gwindor against the wall and she fell flat on the floor as a pillar of fire flowed through the tunnel. She did not see what became of Gwindor, for the ground suddenly gave way beneath her. She had unwittingly stepped upon some trap and began to fall.
*******
“Tinúviel?” Beren called after dragging himself up another flight of stairs. “Tinúviel? “
It was then that the stone cavern changed suddenly so that he found himself standing in a wild, untamed land. Beside him were the waters of Tarn Aeluin, for he recognized them immediately, and they were red with blood still. About him were carrion birds, the ones that he had so often seen in his troubled dreams.
“No,” Beren said.
“My lord,” said a thin voice, and a boy stepped out of the shadows.
Hathaldir? But you are...
“What? Dead?” he snorted. “Yes, I am dead thanks to you. I needed no reminder of that.”
Beren fell on his knees. The boy was as he had been the day he died, blood still fresh upon his clothes and open wounds. The only thing different about him was a strange gleam of indifference in his eyes. Hathaldir took a step towards him, and Beren slowly rose to his feet, preparing to run, but he was paralyzed. He was looking upon Hathaldir whom he had not seen for almost five years. This was the boy from his company, the boy he had failed to save.
“I forgive you for letting me die,” the boy said suddenly, as though he had read or guessed his mind. “I forgive you, but I do not want you to leave me this time.”
It was then that another figure emerged from the shadows and laid his hand on Hathaldir’s shoulders.
“I am glad you have come home at last, my son,” he said.
Beren turned his eyes away in pain. “Father?”
“It is time you joined us now.”
Beren turned to face his father. His mother stood by his side.
“You are not real, are you? No! You are a phantom sent by Morgoth to provoke my fear.”
“ Is that what you truly think I am?” he answered.
“BEREN!” he heard Lúthien’s screams.
“Tinúviel!”
He was about to spring after her when Belegund and Baragund, Gildor, and Radhruin, Arthad, and Ragnor, and all the others of the company barred his way.
“You poor wretch,” said a voice, and Beren recognized Edrahil, and beside him was King Finrod. “You chose the wrong maiden to fall in love with.”
“You cannot save her.”
“My lord king?”
Beren was glad and felt wretched all at once at the sight of them all.
“You gave the ring to Tinúviel, did you not?” Barahir asked suddenly.
Beren was astonished and said, “Yes, and I still have your sword.”
“Before you try to leave, I must ask you to come with us.”
“Where?”
Then Beren noticed the carrion birds, and there was one that stood out among them all. It was a bird with a tuft of white feathers.
“Gorlim?” he said aloud, not realizing what he was saying.
“Gorlim is burning in Hell,” Barahir told him curtly.
“Father, I do want to be with you again, but now is not the time,” Beren said. “I am needed. I must go to Tinúviel now. You must go home, wherever that is, and rest in peace. I cannot go with you.”
Hathaldir stepped before him.
“Stay here with us, Beren,” he said in a cold voice. “Teach me to be a warrior.”
“We need you, Beren,” Gildor said.
“A young knight has duties to his King, Beren,” said Finrod. “There is battle to be won.”
They were closing in on him, and Beren was trapped. He suddenly had a great longing to join them, or to surrender completely to fate. That was when the carrion bird flapped its wings and transformed.
Gorlim stood before Beren, a great, illuminated wonder under his robes of rugged gray. He said in a commanding voice, “Be gone, phantoms! Be gone, woe begotten spirits, shades of longing. You are nothing but shadows of a morbid mind! Be gone!
The phantoms hissed at him suddenly, and then they faded away, leaving Beren standing near the flight of stairs in the maze, and Gorlim had disappeared, but his presence was still there, and Beren heard his voice.
Go to Lúthien now, Beren. She needs you.
Beren looked about for him, and he looked for the phantoms as well. He had a deep regret that they were gone, and he longed to be with his family more than he ever had, but then he heard Lúthien’s summoning call and dashed off to find her.
******
Lúthien had fallen into some pit and could not find a way out. What was worse, it was filled with water that seemed to be rising. The water had risen to her chin, and she spluttered to keep her head out of the water. Suddenly a stone slab was dragged away from the top of the pit.
“Tinúviel?” she saw him crouching before the pit.
“Beren!” Lúthien cried joyfully, and she began laughing with relief. “I am so glad to see you! Where did the Balrog go?”
“There is no one here.”
She was dismayed and relieved all at once, though more dismayed. “I fear I may have raised an alarm.”
“That only means we must hurry.”
Beren left the pit and came back with a long string of spider-web. He let it down and she climbed the rope to safety.
“Come on! We have to find our way out of here!” Beren told her.
He took hold of her arm as gently as he could, but she let out a cry of pain, cursed, and stamped her foot nonetheless. He shook his head and ripped off some of the cloth at his sleeve. With it, he carefully bandaged her wound.
“It was a Balrog,” she said in explanation. She could not speak of the rest yet. “It was a near miss. Falling into that pit may have saved me.”
He tore at his hair a moment, “You are wounded and you look half dead already! You have got to stop using your magic now, or you shall be defenseless against our chief danger: Morgoth!”
“I have no other choice,” she answered feebly. “The disguises are no good without it unless you wish to run into a Balrog without even that precaution.”
“Do you think he recognized your face?”
“I do not know how much Morgoth’s servants know about me. We must keep ourselves masked.”
They found themselves back in the original chamber the Balrog had been guarding. Beyond it was a stairway leading down to Morgoth’s chamber. Lúthien clung to Beren when he turned to the last stairway.
“What is it?”
“Are we ready to go on? Can we face it?”
“We have already faced our greatest fears.”
“You are right, but Morgoth himself is my greatest fear now.”
Lúthien rose from the floor, and they descended the stairs. Before them was a narrow bridge. Far below was a pit of boiling lava and fire. There was nothing to hold onto. Crossing a fallen log hundreds of feet from the air would have been safer than this bridge.
Lúthien took a timid step forward and began balancing herself. Then she rested her other foot behind her carefully. Beren followed her example.
“There is little room to place your feet,” Lúthien said. “And if you fall, well...”
“Careful!” Beren warned her when she wobbled a bit.
“I am all right.”
She fell forward, and Beren nearly dove to join her, but she clutched the stones as she fell and pulled herself up.
“You are not using any enchantments right now, are you?”
“No.”
“Well, do not fall, Tinúviel.
They both wobbled a great deal and almost fell off to their doom, but they at last leapt to the other side of the great gap of space. Now there stood an iron door. Engraved into it were gruesome pictures of torture and death and all sorts of malevolence. At the top were scriptures.
“What does it say?” Beren asked.
“I cannot read the dark tongue, and I have no desire to know what it could say anyway,” Lúthien answered bitterly.
Then suddenly she laughed.
“What is so funny?”
“Everyone has tried to protect me from all the perils in the world, and here I am before Morgoth s throne hall!” she answered. “They all believed I was too frail and tender a maiden to face such peril. You thought so, my Father thought so, Daeron thought so, and Celegorm thought so. Even I almost believed it, but now I am here, in spite of everything. Really, there is nothing amusing about it, but comedy has always been a defense against fear, and that is what I need. I am so afraid...”
They were silent and breathed uneasily for a moment, and Beren said, “You should never have come here. This was my quest. I do not know what possessed me to bring you here. It was selfish love, and now we must both pay for it.”
She snapped her fingers and once again appeared as the she-demon. Beren slipped on his wolf-skin. They could do nothing more to prepare themselves. They were both full of terror and dismay, but they knew that they had already entered Angband. They had entered into Hell itself. They could not turn back now. It was impossible. They may never see the light of day again. They may never see each other again. Both were suddenly convinced that the Quest for the Silmaril was a failure. They had not a chance in the world to steal a Silmaril and escape alive from the room.
It was Beren that at last spoke again, “There is no use delaying any longer. Morgoth’s lackeys may come to discover us at any moment. I swore an oath. I am bound to go on, but you are in no way bound to come any further. You have a chance to escape yet. I do not want Morgoth to lay a hand upon you, no, not even to look upon you!”
His voice broke, and he fought back tears. Lúthien embraced him and kissed him, knowing it would indeed be the last time. She was weeping too, but she knew there was no longer time for it.
“I came all this way,” she said, “and I cannot now return home. I lost the guide stone in the waters of that torture chamber. I would become lost in the labyrinth and dragged before Morgoth sooner or later. I would have to wander aimlessly, fighting off every Orc and Balrog and other such creatures until I was spent or finally destroyed. Besides, how could I abandon you now, in our darkest hour? If it is my fate to become Morgoth’s captive and cause the Eldar’s demise, then so be it. Better to end the fruitless wars and strife among my own kin.”
Beren sighed, for he was utterly resigned to her will, but he said, “You are stronger than I.”
“Or merely hopeless.”
She rose to her feet and began pulling at the handle of the door. The door opened a crack, but neither of them entered quite yet. They both hesitated. Beren was watching Lúthien. He was very fearful of what might become of her. She still looked weak from using so much energy. Morgoth was much more than anything they had yet encountered, he had created the Balrogs and all such evils. Look what scar his Balrog had left her! Her arm was badly burned and swelling. If she were not elvish, the wound may have been worse. Elvin though she was, Beren loved her. He knew that if they failed, he would die before they could lay hands on her.
Lúthien sighed and stared at the floor. Then she spoke.
“Listen, Beren. We must go in through the door. I have been brooding over this plan of mine for a long while now, and you may not like it. Just remember: Whatever happens, I know what I am doing. All right?”
“What?” Beren blurted out grasping her by the shoulders. “What do you mean? What do you plan to do?”
“I cannot tell you. But remember my words, and remember I love you.”
“Of course you do. I’m irresistible.”
“Yes,” Lúthien answered, and despite the horrors they had faced up to this point and the terror they would face soon, she laughed and kissed him. “You are.”
“Now, tell me what the plan is.”
“No.”
“Then you must stay out here! Tell me what this great plan is!”
But Lúthien did not answer. She walked through the door, and Beren could not ask again. There was a heavy silence, and the air stank of evil. Lúthien and Beren stood before Morgoth and all of his terrible court alone. The real battle had begun.