Chapter 19: Before the Throne of Darkness

Nineteen
Before the Throne of Darkness

Beren crawled after Lúthien, once again playing the part of a cringing servant. The chamber was cavernous and seemed to stretch for miles until it came to the throne of iron pyrite. The air was stagnant and reeked of death and blood. The only decorations were bones and complete skeletons representing each race of Middle-Earth, bleached stark white with jaws gaping open in silent screams. Torches were few, but it was not dim. The Silmarils was bright enough to light the hall alone. There was a small host of servants and bodyguards. There were many wicked men and wargs, but there were no Orcs. The Ruler of the World did not trust his own brood in his presence. Lúthien was glad for that at least. She would never be able to look upon an Orc in the same way again.
A Balrog was on either side of Morgoth, whips at their belts, eyes aflame. Lúthien half expected them to see through her disguise, but if they did they made no move. They were his Left and Right. They seemed to be made of stone rather than shadow and they never left Morgoth’s side. The only thing that gave them away was their eyes constantly moving and one other thing. It was freezing, and their breath steamed like smoke from their nostrils.
Morgoth, the source of evil and self proclaimed Ruler of the World sat upon the Iron Throne in his dark majesty. He was colossal in stature, even taller than her own father, and his shoulders were twice as wide. His face was hidden by hood and shadow, and he wore a black iron mask, shaped into the features of a demon. Only his eyes could be seen. His eyes glowed an in-human gray and blue, or perhaps it was simply absorbing all colors. Those eyes could probe into any mind that could not withstand him, and there were not many that could. His power was great, and none could resist it. Even though he had once been a Vala, little of his old fairness was left to him. He had become a monster in all his years of evil and darkness. His home was under the earth and in the depths of its core. So they beheld the Evil One.
Upon his head lay the Iron Crown, a crude work of craft, not art. There, the three Silmarils were encrusted and kept friend and foe alike at a distance. The Silmarils shone brighter and more glorious than anything in that room. They were the only beautiful things they had seen in this hell. Lúthien and Beren looked up at the Silmarils in wonder and despair. The Silmarils were Fëanor’s creation, supposed to have been made by capturing the heavenly light of the ancient Two Trees that had, before the Sun and Moon, been the only light of the world, in crystal or glass. Only Fëanor knew what substance they truly were made of or how the deed was accomplished. He had so coveted them that they destroyed him. Morgoth had seized them for his own. They shone with the brilliance of the Valar and the Blessed Lands, perfectly circular. The luminosity matched the brightness of the sun, and yet it was as gentle upon the naked eyes as moonlight. The light seemed a living thing, and they both wondered what sort of alchemy had achieved that. They were indeed very fair.
Lúthien knew that much suffering could have been prevented if only Fëanor had made a different choice. Her mother had been there when treacherous Melkor and his ally the spideress Ungoliant sapped the Two Trees. The Valar came too late to save them, and Yavanna could not make another pair of trees. Such a great work could not be done twice. But she could make the trees whole again with the Silmarils. Fëanor refused, though the Silmarils were half the Valar’s creation anyway. He had stolen the light to hoard it as his own. And so the Oath was sworn, the Noldor were exiled and doomed, and the entire face of the world changed with Morgoth loose upon it.
Fëanor was a selfish fool, she thought. What would the world have become if only he had given up the cursed jewels, if that is even what they are? We may all fail and Morgoth may keep them forever, but no one shall ever know that secret!
Somehow, they must reclaim one of these stones and survive. They had passed through all manner of evils to look upon the face of Morgoth and to see the light of the Silmarils, and now they loathed the sight of them both. Lúthien doubted herself and her plan, and Beren had none and knew nothing of what she had conceived. She had refused to speak of the matter with him. She had only said she had a plan and Beren must not interfere no matter what may happen as a result. It worried him to no end, but Lúthien was set on her course.
Morgoth looked up and laughed sinisterly as Lúthien and Beren approached his throne. His servants stepped aside for her. They recognized only the form of the sorceress and feared her almost as much as they feared Morgoth himself. The Messenger of Thuringwethil was cruel, swift to anger at any slight, real or imagined, and knew much of the Master and all that occurred in Angband. She reported everything to Morgoth, for she was his eyes and ears. And Draugluin was also known for being bloodthirsty and loyal only to his master Sauron.
Beren sank on all fours before the throne in wolf-form. Morgoth over-looked him, he seemed as nothing. But he did not over-look Lúthien. No fangs or bat-like wings could fool him. He knew magic when he saw it, and he sensed a hidden power in Lúthien that was of the Maiar, which drew him like a moth to flame.
And who art thou that has so freely and so boldly come before my halls? Before Melkor of the Valar? Melkor the Maker? How camest thou in, for of a surety thou dost not belong here?
Morgoth spoke, though his lips did not move. He spoke in a soft, musical voice.
This surely was not what Lúthien had expected. She had feared that he would have a deep, gruff voice, and that his head would be covered with horns, but it was not so. Morgoth bent his eyes on her so that her breath nearly gave out. Lúthien felt as though his eyes were burning into hers, but she knew that if she looked into them, he could read her mind. She became so cold that she began to tremble.
Speak!
To hide her reluctance to meet his eyes, she bowed low.
“Master,” Lúthien answered in the hissing voice of the sorceress, gathering all of her strength and will to answer. “It is I, your humble and obedient Messenger. I come bringing devastating news to the Dark Court. Tol-in-Gaurhoth has been recaptured by the Elves. Sauron has failed you. His slaves are slain or scattered, and the captives he held for your pleasure escaped.”
Morgoth spoke aloud, unimpressed, “Your news is late, sorceress. Sauron is being hunted for even as we speak. Why are you so late in returning to me with such tidings?”
“I searched for survivors and for Sauron. I found only Draugluin. It seems that Sauron was cast out of his shell and is but a wandering spirit. He wishes to escape your wrath, the sniveling coward.”
“Look at me,” Morgoth commanded.
She had no choice but to obey. She had known her disguise would only get her so far. Her eyes flickered to his for but a moment. She felt a sharp pain at her temples, and her disguise suddenly melted away, and her cloak fell out of reach. She gasped, and Beren's heart stopped and terror seized him. The entire hall inhaled deeply at once in shock and amaze. Lúthien had made a dramatic transformation. She had changed from a repulsive hag into the fairest maiden they had ever seen. She gazed at the floor as the sight of her was absorbed. The silence was thunderous, and then there was a great clamor.
“An Elf! A rebel!” shouted Morgoth's evil vassals, and they also said less pretty words. Then many of them seized her and began to scorn her. They threw her about the crowds. Then they began grasping her clothing, pulling her to them and shouting in her face, pulling her down. She struggled wildly but they were hurting her and her cries were muffled.
“Do you know what we do to your people, She-Elf?” said a voice in Lúthien’s ear. “Do you know what we do to maidens?”
Beren tried in vain to save her from the many hands and claws, but his attempts were useless. The crowd had become too large and too violent, and in his wolf-form he could do little to aid her, and not in Morgoth's presence. As long as he was over-looked, he may be able to save their lives.
Suddenly, a whip coiled itself about an arm that was raised to strike Lúthien. The man screamed in pain as the burning thongs scorched and ripped at his flesh. A second whip wrapped about the leg of another clutching Lúthien’s hair. The Balrogs had erupted in orange and angry red flames and roared their displeasure. The hall trembled and became silent.
“Drop the girl!” Morgoth said from his throne. “This is entirely unnecessary. Perhaps you may all ravage her later, but I know naught of her yet, and I am certain that she can be put to a more proper use. She could be, in no doubt, invaluable to me. Indeed she may be more valuable than all your lives! Do not make me unmask myself in wrath and set the Balrogs upon you all! Drop her, I say!”
One of the Balrogs stepped forward and cracked his whip in the air. Sparks flew up and flames licked the sky as the Balrog growled. Then the court was abashed and afraid and reluctantly threw Lúthien back before Morgoth's throne. She was in great fear and lay where she was upon all fours, breathing heavily, her eyes held firmly upon the floor still.
There was a long silence, save Lúthien's labored breathing. Beren heard his own heart beating like thunder. He kept his eyes on Lúthien and was fighting the urge to cast off his disguise and run to her, though all might be in vain. But he thought that somehow, Lúthien spoke to him without moving her lips and without even glancing at him. She spoke quite plainly:
Trust me, Beren! Whatever happens, you must trust me for my own sake. Now wait! Be patient and be still!
Beren was in great doubt. What was Lúthien's plan that she had been unwilling to tell him of? There she was now before the throne of Morgoth, stripped of disguise and at his mercy. What would he do to her? Lúthien was before the Evil One, revealed in Hell, and yet she did not seek for help! She says to wait! Beren prayed silently where he sat and was ready to cast off his disguise, but he was too late.
“Hello, child,” Morgoth spoke softly, so softly that she had to strain to hear, and he spoke with sickening sweetness. “Tell me your name.”
She did not answer at once, a mistake. Morgoth stooped down before Lúthien and wrapped a hand around her throat swiftly. She gasped and was stricken dumb as his fingers made their way around her slender neck, for his touch was cold. Nothing could burn like this cold! Lúthien began to shiver, and her teeth chattered, and the strength that he possessed in his fingertips alone! She knew that he was being very careful not to crush the bones of her throat let alone bruise her horribly. He could easily snap her neck if he so desired.
“Rise in my presence! Bow before your lord!”
Lúthien wanted to say, Never! You are not my lord! But for the sake of her plan, for Beren's life and her own, she fought back the words. “I cannot!” she sputtered instead. “Please let me go!”
Beren slammed his face against the iron floor and wept secretly. He was stricken with dread and anger. Lúthien was in an agony of pain, and Morgoth scowled and raised her to her feet by her throat. He tried to force his eyes upon hers, to rape her mind, but Lúthien closed her eyes, refusing to look into his own. She already possessed the knowledge that it would be her undoing. Then Morgoth reached out with his other hand and touched her cheek and traced her lips with his fingers.
“Why, you are nothing more than a tender maiden,” he said almost soothingly. “Surely you do not wish pain upon yourself, child?”
“I am no child,” she answered.
“Who are you?”
“Please take your hands from my throat!” she said. “You are freezing my very heart!
“Who art thou that flittest about my halls like a bat!”
Lúthien choked on her words. Morgoth sneered and let her go. She fell again to the floor, coughing. Morgoth had not tried to strangle her in the least, but nonetheless, she needed to cough. Morgoth then waited patiently for her to recover, and the next time she looked up at him with fear, he locked eyes with her.
Morgoth's eyes suddenly changed. The pupils grew until his eyes seemed to be nothing but an endless, black void, and Lúthien could not break her eyes away.
“I shall ask one more time,” Morgoth laughed. “Who are you?”
Lúthien fell to her hands and knees, gritting her teeth in mental anguish, trapped under Morgoth‘s gaze. Her mind was completely vulnerable. She tried to drive all thoughts from it, but the effort was too much. She suddenly grew cold and numb, and she also grew terribly weary, as though Morgoth had been relentlessly questioning her for hours and hours, and that he was trying to break into her mind. It was like glass scraping against glass. That was exactly what he was doing, trying to force his own consciousness into the tunnels and corners of her brain. She fought his gaze for a long while and a weight was put on her heart.
Her head throbbed, and her will slowly began to weaken. A mist came over her eyes, and she suddenly had the desire to tell Morgoth of her every secret, but Lúthien stared back into his eyes, as hard as it was to do so, fighting him, battling for her very soul. The mental anguish was unbearable, but she knew she must not let him discover Beren or learn from her where the Hidden Kingdom of Doriath was and its other secrets. She did not care for herself, but only for Beren and her people. She must protect them at all costs, she must fight.
This proved to be the most dangerous moment of the entire Quest and Lúthien almost fell, as did King Finrod. Morgoth sensed weakness. He caught an image of a bird, a nightingale, from Lúthien. Thinking that he had triumphed, he relaxed his attack. But then there came an explosion of images. Lúthien filled her head with the paintings her mother had made. They were images of Valinor and incomprehensible images of what may be. There were some beautiful and some terrible. There were some that were bizarre and confusing. The Dark Lord was caught off guard.
Morgoth suddenly broke his gaze, and his eyes rapidly returned to their natural state if that truly was their natural state. Lúthien crumpled to the floor, exhausted and shuddering. Pain swept her entire body that she had not been able to feel while under the Evil One's hypnotic power, and she was horrified and ashamed to realize that she longed for his gaze to take that pain from her.
“Impressive,” Morgoth said. “You are not daunted by my eyes. Now I am even more curious to know who you are.”
“My lord, I am Lúthien Princess of Doriath,” she gave her name. “I would have answered sooner, only I was too in awe of you. Then I could not speak in your grasp, for it was too cold.”
Then Morgoth’s expression changed to that of surprise, for Lúthien had given her name most freely after fighting him for so long. He was impressed and interested. Why had she resisted him only to answer his question anyway? Was it to prove her power or to manipulate him somehow?
“Ah!” Morgoth must have been smiling behind his mask, and his tone revealed that he was pleased. “What an unexpected surprise! Lúthien Tinúviel, is it not? You are a long way from home, little bird.”
A chill ran down her spine when Morgoth called her 'little bird'. She wondered how he could have suddenly come to such a name. Beren had always called her that with affection. Morgoth said it mockingly. Could it be that he had been able to reach briefly into her mind even as she had fought? What else had he managed to unveil from her as she was under his gaze?
“So you are a liar like all Elves and Men! Yet welcome, welcome, to my hall. I have a use for every thrall. What news may you give me of Thingol in his hole? What fresh folly is in his mind that cannot even keep his own offspring from straying here? Or does he not have better spies?”
She wavered and answered, “My father did not send me here nor does he know of it.”
“It seems that you cannot fly from me now. This little bird has no wings!” he laughed again, but Lúthien remained calm. “I have often fancied of meeting you in person, Princess of the Sindar. Then I would have an essential advantage over two of my greatest enemies: King Thingol and Queen Melian the Maia. I have not forgotten her. Oh, no indeed. Of course not. Melian the Maia has waged war against me for ages long past, and it is of her that my thought is often drawn to. How is she, by the way? Does she know that you are here?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? Is she here now?” Morgoth looked over both his shoulders and then laughed. “I assume not. And you have fled from your home to my halls of all places! I did not even have to send my servants out to seek you. You came to me! It was the last thing that I could have hoped for. Come now! What is your desire? For do you not know that there is no love here for your mother or father or your folk, nor need you hope for soft words and good cheer from me?”
There was a heavy moment of silence and Lúthien did not answer.
“You bear weapons,” he frowned and turned to his servants. “Fetch them here!”
She surrendered them without a fight. Morgoth took the sickle dagger and studied it. As he held it, it began to smoke and melt away. Lúthien stared in horror.
“This little dagger, with all its charms, could never harm me,” he said. “My power is too great.”
“The dagger was for my protection,” she answered.
“Do not play games with me.”
Morgoth cast what was left of the dagger away. Only the hilt remained. Then he suddenly drew a long sword. It had a long reach, and he held the point of it at Lúthien’s throat. She shut her eyes and was very still. Beren’s whole body tensed and he stared with unblinking eyes.
“Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of King Thingol and Melian the Maia, Princess of Doriath, fairest maiden upon this earth! Fairest among all my children,” Morgoth said in a whisper. “I know what sort of horrors you must have faced to come here. It is quite a shame that one so fair should suffer so much.”
“Are you going to kill me?” she tried to sound innocent and simple-minded.
“No. That is not your doom. That I know, but I can prevent the doom that hangs over your head, little bird.”
He clutched her arm suddenly, and she cried out, for it was her wounded arm he held. Morgoth saw her twisted look of pain, and then he cast the sword away and took off the cloth and stroked her arm, whispering in his black tongue, and the wound healed before her eyes. She gasped.
“There now,” Morgoth said. “It is delicious irony that you have come, Lúthien,” he said. “I have sent small armies to seek you out and bring you here in chains yet here you are of your own free will. Or is it so? You came in disguise, but then you gave your name, knowing the peril of doing so! Does madness drive you, or is it a vain pursuit for glory? Perhaps you expect mercy from me?”
“I know better than to expect anything of Melkor the insatiable and the unpredictable,” she answered boldly as her tongue mastered her fear. “I came because my father is a tyrant. I grew weary of his rules and being treated like a little child. I had hoped to serve Angband, center of the world. I killed the sorceress and took her form as proof of my power. I also defeated Sauron. He groveled at my feet for clemency, but I knew that you could better punish him than I. Allow me to take your incompetent servants’ place! I could be of some use to you, no doubt?”
Her words were lies mixed with truth. She had never lied before in all her life, had not even understood the concept until Celegorm had exposed her to the notion with his deceits. The Eldar did not lie by nature, but considering her predicament, Lúthien knew that she would be forgiven.
Morgoth’s eyes grew stern, “You seek great rewards for your boasts. You will be punished for the deeds of your kin and for disposing of my servants. Incompetent you have proven them to be, but even so, destroying my most powerful thralls is no favor to me. If you fight my own, then my house becomes divided, and you work against me. But you are what you are, and that shall not be forgotten. You are only half Elf, but the other half of you is not. You are a child of the gods, sweetling. You are the daughter of Melian, and I cannot deny she has power all of her own. It must be so with you. And here you shall remain, in joy or pain. Pain is the fitting doom for all your race. Or should I spare such slender limb and frail body from breaking torment?”
Lúthien instantaneously thought of the Balrogs with their flaming whips and shuddered. His eyes raked her body again, and the lust was plain to see. Her little hairs stood up, and Beren felt a sickening nausea in the pit of his stomach.
“I have long desired to gaze upon you in the flesh, Princess to judge whether you are the fairest or not. Word of your beauty has reached us even here in Angband, center of the world.”
“And now that I stand before you at last, my lord, what then is your judgment?” she asked.
“Come closer. To me, little bird.”
She hesitated, then took a few tentative steps forward, fearing any show of reluctance would be mistaken as defiance. Morgoth beckoned her closer still and suddenly reached out and pulled Lúthien toward him by the string of her girdle about her waist. She gasped and Beren crawled forward, hate boiling in him like a white-hot liquid. But Lúthien must have sensed his movement and shot him a negative glance.
Morgoth began to stroke her fine dark hair as he studied her closely. She was indeed the fairest child of Man or Elf. She was even lovelier than her mother. He was also puzzled that she bore a striking resemblance to Varda in her fleshy form, Queen of the Valar and wife to Manwë. He had once loved Varda in his young days, but she spurned him and wed his brother instead.
Morgoth had long puzzled over the mystery of Melian’s heritage. She was one of the Valar’s offspring, but he could never be sure whose. The Valar had countless children but did not proclaim them publicly as their own. It was not out of shame or callousness, but the Valar tried to show no favoritism or pride and no one laid claim upon another. Everyone was equal in Valinor and considered kin and children of Eru. And anyhow the Maiar seldom remained long with their parents, often entering the service of another or wandering the earth. Over the immeasurable years, it was easy to forget whose brood was whose, and it was not polite to demand the origin of any child.
Before Morgoth’s fall and when he was still named Melkor, he had never taken special thought to the Maiar except as pawns to be bent to his will. He had seen Melian seldom, and she was always in the gardens of Lórien, so he had overlooked her and assumed at the time she was one of his daughters. She also studied under Nienna, and Morgoth could not believe that she had never borne children. Nienna walked alone, but that did not mean she was incapable of bearing fruit. He supposed that she and Ulmo coupled once in a while. Or they took other lovers to their beds. In that case it was impossible to know the truth. Melian and Nienna did have a brooding countenance in common.
He had spoken to Melian only once when he was recruiting Maiar to his ranks. The majority of the Maiar came from Aluë’s forges, others from the war-like Tulkas, some from Oromë, a handful from the gloomy halls of Mandos. They came from all of Valinor, seeking power or hidden knowledge. They even came from Lórien. Morgoth approached Melian and promised power, wisdom, and pleasures she could never dream of. She saw right through him, unlike her companion Gwendling. She refused him outright. He cajoled and threatened to no avail. She vowed to expose him and fight him to the death if he ever threatened her or tried to deceive her again. The only other woman to have rebuffed him so was Varda herself. He should have realized it then.
Now he was certain that Lúthien was the granddaughter of the one she called Elbereth and named in her prayers often. He smiled with amusement at this new knowledge. Here was another advantage to taking this one as his prisoner! Not only could he bring King Thingol to his knees and gain the maiden herself as a prize, but it was also a way of poking the high and mighty Valar in the eye and defying his brother Manwë. She was Varda’s granddaughter, which made him desire her all the more. Varda’s features were plainly written upon her pretty face. If ever he had an equal, perhaps she was it. She was of the blood of the King and Queen of heaven, though she did not know it. By rights she deserved a throne beside them. If they would not claim her, he gladly would.
“I will give a respite to Lúthien the fair, a pretty toy for idle hours,” he said at last. “In gardens many a flower like you the amorous gods have seen, honey-sweet to kiss. Then those flowers are cast aside and bruised. Here we seldom find such sweet amid our labors long and hard, and I have heard that such a flower as yourself shall never bloom again. In Elfinesse your beauty is revered, here it shall be worshiped. And who would not taste the honey-sweet lying to lips or crush with feet the soft cool tissue of such flowers, easing like the gods? Curse the gods!”
“I doubt I should dwell here in joy,” Lúthien blurted out, and she immediately began to rue it.
He shrugged, concealing his thoughts, and ordered, “Take her away! I shall question her later, for now she has made me weary! Now you are my prisoner, Lúthien. As for your folk, I will find them and destroy them, but not before I present you to your noble mother and father as my slave!”
She was seized from all sides by many eager hands, but she would not be so easily defeated. She struggled and fell before Morgoth’s feet. His servants did not dare come so close to him, so terrified were they. They could not bear the light of the Silmarils either. Morgoth’s eyes flickered with anger.
“My lord,“ Lúthien prostrated herself in humble fashion. “You are wise to suspect me and have every right to punish me. But before you clasp me in chains, allow me to dance for you and allow me one last comfort!”
Morgoth laughed and replied, “You amuse me, child. Thralls do not often have the boldness to ask of me anything save death. Speak! What is your desire?”
“Everyone knows of my beauty, but I am also the greatest of dancers and I have the loveliest voice. Would you not desire to know the truth of these matters also? I would dance before you, my lord, so that I may lighten your cares.”
The court and Morgoth himself was astonished at this. Indeed his eyes widened slowly with surprise, and he found no words to say for a moment.
“And what,” he asked with wry amusement in his voice, “have I done to deserve such a pleasure?”
“My lord,” Lúthien answered reluctantly, bowing her head. “It was simply an offer.”
Morgoth pierced her with his intense gaze for a few moments. He had already made his decision, but he did not wish to appear too eager. He waited too long. Two men grabbed Lúthien by the hair. She let out a shrill cry. They prepared to clasp her in chains, and Beren was about to draw his sword, but Morgoth spoke out against his servants.
“Come now!” he said. “I did not say nay! If you wish to dance, then you may, and after we may judge your skill. It is true that you may never dance again afterwards. Allow the girl to go free for a while! After all,” he added, sneering. “I am not a monster!”
“Thank you, my lord,” Lúthien could not quite hide her joy and relief.
“Your eagerness is encouraging and unexpected, but you are weary. That is all too plain to see.”
“Well, yes, my lord.”
Morgoth took a goblet from one of his servants. “Drink this, and then perhaps you shall be revived enough to dance.”
Lúthien took the goblet and looked at it suspiciously, reluctant to drink from it. She was not so taken to drink anything given to her by the Enemy. It could be poison for all that she knew, or drugs to make her lose her senses. It was a dark red liquid and steaming. She hoped it was not blood, for she had heard rumors that the Dark Court drank such and dined upon living flesh.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing that you are used to, my dear,” Morgoth snickered.
Lúthien had no choice. Morgoth watched her every move, and she could not refuse his hospitality. Once she had worked up the courage to taste it, she gulped it down quickly. She was pleased that it was not blood. It was revealed as some sort of wine. It was rather tasteless and scalding hot, but she immediately felt a burst of energy. She would certainly need all of her strength for her act.
The men let Lúthien go. She turned away, and when she did, Morgoth leered horribly. Beren gasped with alarm and fear. He crawled into the shadows where he would not be noticed, his eyes on Morgoth. His eyes were burning with malice now as he watched Lúthien. Beren started, but then he crouched down low and produced Lúthien’s shadowy cloak in his jaws. It had fallen away from her when her disguise failed. He offered it to her, his eyes full of questions. When she ignored him, he whispered to her as she began stretching and the minstrels practiced.
“Tinúviel!” Beren hissed. “What are you doing?”
“Reeling Morgoth into his own trap,” she whispered back.
He lowered his voice a little and said, “Was this the brilliant plan you would not tell me of before?”
“Yes.”
“No wonder you did not tell me. If I had known of this, I would have left you standing outside the door!”
“I know you would have. But Morgoth cannot be slaughtered. He is an evil spirit, and he is too clever to be out-witted. Of course, not until now. Now he is about to be beguiled by his own malice, and he does not even know it!”
“But you do not understand what kind of danger you are in. I do not like the look in his eyes now. Unless you are going to allow yourself into the Evil One's arms tonight, you must allow me to fight!”
“Trust me, Beren. I know what I am doing. You must not interfere! You promised. You must have faith.”
“Faith?” he scoffed. “That I never had. I knew when I saw you that you would be the death of me, but it was too sweet to pass up. You are an innocent, despite your years and knowledge. You say you have a plan, but what if it fails? You will suffer a fate worse than death! I beg you, you must not do this!”
Her gray eyes were sad, but she said, “Poor, Beren. You have no hope for yourself at all? I suppose mine must compensate for the both of us. You are the key to my doom as well, whatever that may be. But no one has confirmed that is will be death for the both of us. And if I suffer something more vile… I will accept it. I have no choice. A chance for happiness is better than no chance at all. This is our chance! If you have no faith in chance, fate, or even in heaven, then have faith in me.”
He hesitated, but Lúthien did not wait for an answer. She snatched the cloak from his jaws and wrapped it about her. She took to the center of the floor and a heavy silence fell.
“I would like a tune that begins slowly,” she ordered the minstrels. “Then it grows faster, shriller, more desperate. That shall be the climax. I could dance all night, if it should please, milord.”
“You shall dance until I say so,” Morgoth replied. “And they shall play the tune I want. Play!”
They obeyed, and Lúthien danced as she had never danced before. Their lives hung in the balance. She had practiced the movements until she could do them in her sleep so she would radiate self-confidence and embody perfection. She quickly adapted to the rhythm and found the beat. The instruments were strange, the song stranger still. She was more accustomed to Daeron’s pipe and his complex and beautiful music, but he was not here, and she could not falter. Morgoth must see beauty and skill, not the effort behind it. Despite her doubts and fears, she amazed even herself, and she danced with wild abandonment.
Somehow, Lúthien moved noiselessly, and her cloak moved swiftly about her like a living thing. Her skirts rustling was the only sound she produced. Her movements were different as well. She was graceful as ever, and she interpreted the music with her body well, but no one failed to notice that they were also provocative and erotic, though she did so with such subtlety that it was hard to explain how it was so. This was a dance of seduction. She glided about the hall, her cloak and her raven hair flowing. She began to use her cloak as a prop and as she danced it swept across the eyes and faces of her audience. Then she would flash them a knowing smile, and one by one, they began to nod off and fall asleep. Since every eye was upon her, however, no one seemed to be aware of it.
Her gaze was mostly fixed upon Morgoth. He did not outwardly show it, but he took secret pleasure in his thoughts, and he watched her. Few dared to look him in the eye. She could, and she was bold as she was desirable. She also had power of her own. As a princess, she had been born to it. Through Thingol she would inherit huge sums of land, wealth, and numerous subjects. She could command armies if she chose. But she was also the daughter of Melian the Maia. In her blood was the power of the Children of Gods. She was of the same blood as he through his brother Manwë. How else could she have made it here? She had defeated his two most powerful servants. What else could she be capable of? He began to devise schemes as dark as his plans for the darkening of Valinor.
Beren was astonished. He was as enchanted with her now as he had been the first night that they met. His awe overcame his fear, and he was surprised to see Lúthien wielding such powers. Her name had been chosen well. But he forced himself to recall their danger. Several of Morgoth’s servants were not swayed as easily as others. The Balrogs were wide awake, and Morgoth himself did not bat an eye.
When the last minstrel dozed off upon a shrill, desperate note that left the ear wanting resolution, Lúthien froze. She flashed a triumphant smile, and clapped her hands together and vanished, aided by her shadowy cloak. All of the torches suddenly went out, as if by a harsh wind. The hall was silent and plummeted into a sudden darkness. Then there was a great confusion and calamity. Beren was trodden over many times, and the Balrogs were letting out cries of wrath because even the flames of their manes had been quenched. Anyone not in such peril would have laughed at the sight of their anger. The Silmaril was the only light. Morgoth turned his head about, seeking her, but she dodged his gaze, slipping behind his colossal throne.
Lúthien's voice came down from the walls like rain and echoed off of the walls. Although Lúthien's voice was lovely, her voice had become terrible and commanding, harsh and frightening as she began an incantation.

“The little bird cannot fly? Well, perhaps not, but the little bird hath a voice more terrible than tooth or claw, sword or venom! I cast thee down from thy throne, foe of Eru and corrupter of the unsullied! Woe unto you, for thy time is cometh! Lasto beth lammen! Aye, Elbereth Gilthoniel!”

And with that, Lúthien began singing a song. Her voice was equal in beauty. It flowed smoothly throughout the mighty throne room. She sang an ancient song from the gardens of Lórien, a song of great power. It would cause anyone that heard it to fall into a deep sleep. It was perilous because it could cause the average person to sleep for years. It took skill to sing it correctly; not only note for note, but the tone and inflection were paramount. It took a special kind of voice, the voice of the Maiar. Lúthien was of that breed, but she was also of the Eldar so that her voice was enriched, unlike anything ever heard upon earth. This was why Melian had always cautioned its use and told her to keep it secret.
Everyone knew Lúthien had a beautiful voice that was pleasant to listen to. Few knew what it was truly capable of, not even she herself. Beren was helpless against it and dozed, though he fought sleep with all his might. The Balrogs had become fearsome when the lights were snuffed, but the song quickly quelled their wrath and they too dropped to sleep. The entire dark court was in slumber, all but one. Lúthien became silent.
Morgoth stood from his seat in anger and yawned, eyes heavy. He searched the chamber for her, knowing she was there. Lúthien pressed close to the throne, despairing. The song had not overcome him, and now, it had come to this. She was alone with Morgoth. She must snatch his crown and flee with Beren if she could.
“Reveal yourself, little sorceress!” he demanded. “No lullaby will save you from the mightiest of the Valar!”
She reached for his crown, and then he turned and spotted her. She began to dash away, but he was quicker. He seized her with lightning speed. She gasped as his fingers pressed ever tighter upon her windpipe. She could not cry out, only gasp. She reached for his crown again and found his mask instead and ripped it away.
He had once been fair, that much she could tell. His hair was once like threaded gold made of pure light. His long years in darkness had robbed it of its former glory. It was becoming more white than gold. His eyes were sunken and hollow, though still blue-gray and full of malice. He had a cruel mouth, his teeth was filed to points, his lips black, and his tongue long and carved to imitate a serpent‘s. A horrible scar was upon his face as though something had made an attempt to tear it off. Only sharp talons could have made that mark. The cuts were far too deep to be healed. They were red as though they burned.
“A thief are you? First, I shall clip off your wings,” he rasped, “and I shall lock you away in my vaults! I should cut out your tongue and sew your mouth shut for this, you treacherous songbird! But then I would miss your tongue. I shall keep you in a cage of gilded silver and make you sing pretty little songs whenever I wish. And you shall dance when I command you to dance! Do not think I never knew of your mortal lover. You shall watch as I rip him apart piece by piece! And you shall wear the Silmaril you so desire, but it shall be all you wear!”
Lúthien grabbed up the folds of her cloak and desperately cast it over his face. His fingers dropped from her throat, but his claws raked her skin. He stumbled, fighting sleep, reaching for her. She stumbled, weak from exercising her enchantments so that he grabbed only air perfumed by her presence. Morgoth let out a strangled cry of anger, but he could fight sleep no longer.
And that was when Morgoth, the father of evil, was cast from his throne by the hand of Beren and Lúthien, and thus they wrought the greatest deed among Elves and Men, for the Iron Crown fell from his head and clattered to the floor.
******
For a moment Lúthien could not believe what she had just done. Blood dripped from her throat where his claws had touched, but she ignored it. Hopefully she would not have scars there. She watched Morgoth closely, doubting that he could possibly be asleep. She half-expected him to open his eyes and seize her again, this time to make good upon his threats. But he did not stir, save his eyes moved rapidly behind his lids. He was dreaming, of what she did not care to know.
She sat there for a while, gathering strength. Then she worked up the courage to creep around the slumbering Dark Lord and began to search for Beren, not daring to call out his name. Could she even wake him? She found him at last, for every moment seemed an age. She was terribly weak, drained by all her dancing and invoking the unpredictable power of the Maiar. She laid her hands upon Beren and drew enough strength not to swoon as she shook him. To her relief, he awoke.
“Tinúviel, are you alright?” he was alarmed at how pale and short of breath she was. “Now you have really outdone yourself! Is there any life left in you at all?”
She put a finger to his lips and pointed toward the Iron Crown. It lay inches from Morgoth’s head upon the floor. Beren tore off his wolf-skin and gazed around him. He saw Morgoth lying upon the floor and the Iron Crown and the Silmarils that seemed to shine and twinkle at them invitingly. They both stared at it for a long while.
“You lulled him to sleep?” he would have laughed if they were anywhere else. He would never look upon Lúthien the same way again. She had cast Morgoth down from his throne, if only for a moment.
“Well, go get it!” Lúthien startled Beren to life.
Slowly, carefully, he stepped towards the Iron Crown and Morgoth's sleeping body. He reached out a warring hand and snatched the crown from the stone floor. He feared that Morgoth would suddenly awaken and seize the Iron Crown back and call for his guards. His mind was only playing a cruel joke upon him, for Morgoth remained quite still. He breathed a sigh of relief. Lúthien was leaning against the wall, breathing hard.
“Well, are you still alive?” Beren repeated.
“Never have I felt more alive in my life!” she answered cheerfully.
But even as she said this, she swooned. Beren had to catch her, and he gasped, for she was freezing cold. For a moment he was afraid that she was dead, but his warmth stirred her to consciousness. She was trembling and so drained that she could not rise to her feet. She was now as weak and as feeble as a child. Beren set his wolf-skin down and laid Lúthien upon it and wrapped her within the folds of it.
“You rest, Tinúviel. You have endured enough,” he said tenderly. “In the end it was only your voice, and not the sword, that cast Morgoth from his throne.”
Beren tried to lift the Iron Crown into his hand, and he realized how bloody heavy it was. No doubt that had been Morgoth’s plan. Only he could bear its weight. Perhaps it was made of some heavier metal and only coated in iron. He would have to cut the jewels out, if it could be done.
Beren drew his dagger and began prying at the chosen Silmaril, but suddenly, his dagger broke into two! He swore and threw the pieces away.
“We could just take the crown,” Lúthien said doubtfully.
Morgoth rolled over in his sleep, and they both abandoned the idea without speaking words.
“It is far too heavy anyway,” Beren said.
He saw that Lúthien was watching Morgoth intently out of the corner of her eye. She was breathing heavily and clutched at the wolf-skin.
“Do you still have the knife, Angrist?” she asked him, tearing her eyes away. “The one that Celegorm told us was indestructible?”
“Yes, I have it, and it saved me when I was in a tight corner,” Beren answered with a wry smile. “I never thought that I would say such a thing, but I owe much to Celegorm.”
“Let us hope that he was not lying when he said that it could cleave through iron,” she replied.
Beren stared at the Silmarils for a moment, and then he began to cut. After much sawing and cutting, the Silmaril slid out off the crown and into Beren's hand. He almost dropped it, for he had learned from the Elves that no mortal hand was allowed to touch the holy jewels, but there was no pain. Beren held it in his hand, a mortal, and the Silmaril suffered his touch!
“Well, Beren, you see?” Lúthien said quietly. “I told you that you were no ordinary man.”
Beren did not reply to her words, for he was bent upon the Silmaril. He held it up high and his heart beat with triumph. Never had he hoped within dream that he would hold this thing aloft now, yet there it was, resting upon his grimy hands. Lúthien looked up as the light of the Silmaril spread and became so bright they feared they would become blind, but it did not hurt to look upon it; touching their upturned faces. Every stone, every crevice in the wall, and even the stones on the floor shone anew, drinking in the liquid light. The stars would be dim in comparison. Their hearts felt renewed; their spirits revived. The beauty of it was captivating, and Lúthien smiled and breathed a collective sigh of relief.
“I shall go beyond the oath and bring back all three Silmarils to King Thingol. Then he will not have the option of denying me your hand,” Beren said suddenly. “The people shall demand it!”
Lúthien nodded, her smile broadening.
Beren tried to cut the next Silmaril from the Iron Crown, but suddenly, the end of Angrist's blade snapped off and went flying into the air. Beren and Lúthien followed it with their eyes, and they saw that it was flying towards Morgoth. Beren swore again and Lúthien gasped. The shard hit Morgoth's cheek, and it began to bleed hideously. Lúthien clutched Beren's arm so tightly when he stirred that he cried out in pain.
“He is about to wake!” she whispered in a panic. “Take the Silmaril we have and run! Is that not enough, Beren?!”
“I do not want there to be any doubt, Tinúviel.”
“Beren, please!” she wailed as Morgoth moaned again.
Beren clasped the Silmaril in his hand and scuttled away with Lúthien out of the throne room. He abandoned his wolf-skin, and Lúthien left behind her spell-woven cloak and only weapon, but all that they wished to do now was to escape the underground before all the hosts of Morgoth could take them captive and punish them for their theft. As Beren stood up and fled, the Iron Crown dropped to the ground and clattered away. They ran as though the very armies of the Devil were behind them, and indeed, they hoped that it was not so. The remaining Silmarils glimmered eerily, casting the illusion that they were blood red in the light of the torches, awaiting the day that they were to be rescued too.