The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

The Dagor Bragollach - Part 1

Morgoth plots to unleash hell on the north.  A short look at Morgoth's character and the narcissism that drives him.

30)  Dagor Bragollach - Year of the Sun 455 Hrívë (Winter)

Morgoth

“I have waited centuries for this,” the Dark Lord said, seated upon his iron throne.  He shook with the very anticipation of what he had planned.  The three stolen Silmarils glittered in his iron crown, casting shadows on the faces of his most trusted servants: Sauron, Gothmog and his other great lieutenants. His gaze penetrated the thick stone walls of his fortress, Angband, perusing the land far and wide.  He had grown afraid to venture outside of the safety of his iron prison, and the comfort that his throne room gave to this god became his crutch.  Once, long ago, he could level mountains with a sweep of his hand, rend valleys with a stomp of his foot and create deluges of oceans with a thought.  Those days were gone.  In his brooding and his lust for vengeance and domination, much of his power had flowed into manifesting that rage.  His dragons, his fortress…and his newest foul creations had all required that he pour his strength and malice into these.  Only the sacrifices made by the Court replenished that vast reservoir. He was now a shadow of the one named Melkor, eons ago.  But he dared not show that to his people.  His lust for power showed in all of his minions and they were no different.  And Morgoth would tolerate no rivals.

He pounded his fist on the throne for effect, the sound reverberating throughout his hall.  “I have waited so long, and no one will deny me. No one.  Do you hear me?” he bellowed and his minions all nodded silently then bowed their heads.  “I am the chosen one!  No one will deny me the right to rule and to be the King of the Earth!  Me!  You are all here to make that happen and then you will bask in the light of my glory. Mine!”

He pointed at the massive balrog before him, a creature wreathed in flame with horns that wrapped around his head.  “You will lead them, Gothmog.  You are my armored fist to destroy the elves.  They are but ants before you.”  He turned towards the halls that led to the pits.  “My faithful wyrm, Glaurung, you will attack the hated Sons of Fëanor. Crush them with talon and fire.” Two giant eyes glowed orange in the darkness.  “You have grown since I first unleashed you.  None can stand before you now.”  Then, he looked down from his throne.  “And you, my most trusted lieutenant, Sauron, unleash your spies and beasts.  Sow fear and mistrust once my plan is in play.  This will happen soon.”

Sauron bowed and let the edge of his lip curl up in a mischievous look.  His perfect face began to morph and sprout dark fur.  His nose elongated into a snout and razor-sharp fangs replaced his teeth.  His hands became claws, and he crouched down on all four legs as a massive wolf.  “I will take your creation, great lord,” he said in a gurgling voice that was punctuated by snarls, “the beast, Draugluin, and we will bring hell to the elves.”

The Dark Lord had bred and raised the beast, drawing from his own immense power and now it was terrifying to behold.  Morgoth smiled through black lips.  The color and appearance of his being increasingly followed the malice and hate in his heart.  At one time, he would try to restore the perfection of his face and body, but now, he no longer cared.  Rage and lust consumed him.  “Excellent, my lieutenants.  And now, behold,” he cried as he stood and raised his arms high above his head.  The throne room glowed in reds and oranges, and the very walls seemed to flow.  “The fires of Thangorodrim have shared their bounty and they will pave the way for my victory.  The world will soon be mine and mine alone and I shall have my revenge.”  He looked up into the night sky.  It would be darkest tomorrow.

There was a deep rumble in the three volcanic peaks of Thangorodrim, 35,000 feet high and five miles across.  Morgoth closed both of his fists, and a pulse of energy shot outwards from his being and the rumble became a roar.  He reveled in the fiery glow, basking in the heat, imagining his complete victory where those who opposed him wailed in fear, led to the pits in chains.  Suddenly, his breath wavered.  The effort had cost him and his very being felt hollow…weak. The Court in the south would need more sacrifices to keep him strong.  You had to be strong.  You would never dominate Middle Earth with weakness. 

Chapter End Notes

I want to look at the vast vanity and narcissism that drive Morgoth.  It is how so many, who profess to do good, devolve into self-serving evil.