Working Conditions by Moringottocake  

Stupid Throne Duty!

No matter how much lava flowed through the heating tunnels, Angband’s throne room was always a bit too chilly for Melkor’s comfort. To make matters worse, sitting on that throne was hurting his now solidified body in ways even he could ever imagine. But what vexed him more, were the questions. 
Why was he required to sit on this stone slab throne all day, while that crown weighed down his brow? The stories  might tell of menacing dread and horrible punishments he doled out in spades, but actually his days were filled with watching Monsters, Demons, Orcs, and Trolls aimlessly frolicking around in the drafty hall to keep warm and entertained. 
Where did that stench come from? Even Melkor as the Dark Lord of this mess was afraid to ask what what had compounded and rotted within these walls to emit such hideous odors? Mairon had tried to establish a ventilation system, but those air shafts soon got clogged up with dead birds and worse. And placing scent diffusers on each side of the throne did not improve anything either. The bloody, sickly grime just smelled a little more floral than usual. Melkor could not help but wonder: What good was coming home after three ages of captivity, and staging a successful jewelery heist, when all he got was a profound headache. 
And then there were the hours. Even he deserved a break and some creature comforts? The duty roster did not agree. 
Sit on throne, scowl, think malicious thoughts? Dinner, bedchamber, get up again, and back to the throne. 
No wonder that Noldor High King, whatshisface?, actually wounded him seven times before a final blow with Grond eventually sent that Elf’s fëa to Namo’s doorstep. And what exactly was he to actually gain from smiting and slaying? Exercise? He would rather take a nice long walk with Mairon through the various tunnels of Angband and then have dinner, instead of feasting on gore and misery. Just because he did not want to be like the other Valar, was this enough reason for him to exist in this noisy hellhole?
Melkor rose, ejecting an especially screechy gaggle of goblins engaged in a fight over something he did not even care to know. How is a dark lord to contemplate with this racket? His backside was hurting but standing around was not a choice. So it was back to his throne. 
Sit, on throne, growl, think about what to do when he finally found Gondolin. And when would Mairon be back?
No one on Arda could maintain amiable spirits while being subjected to all this pointless drudgery of apparent power. No one! What did Mairon like to  say? You get what you tolerate! 
Melkor rose again, no one took notice of him this time. They were either brawling a little more quietly, were too drunk, or sleeping. What else was there to do in this chilly, drab dungeon of a fortress? No amount of ale, wine, debauchery, and even sleep could warm the cockles of his allegedly absent heart.
He had arrived in front of the iron-clad double doors, when they sprang open in front of him without him saying so. His surprise dissolved in the shadows. He even had to step back to let in two guards dragging in a young elf lad for him to publicly humiliate. Of course, Gondolin. That prissy Noldor town could stay hidden if it were up to him, personally. “What now?” He demanded. 
“My lord, you wished to question him!” Those guards looked like they had been dragging too many wretched souls and bodies around all day, and could enjoy a warm meal instead. Young Lord Gondolin was in no better shape either. “All of you take a bath and have dinner.”
“What?” 
“You heard me.” Melkor barked as he moved past and strove up the stairs to his chambers. Frankly, he did not care what anyone thought of his lack of interest in pressing affairs. Fuck Gondolin!
He had more urgent matters to tend to. 
***
The door closed, and he was alone. The scriptorium looked freshly cleaned. Mairon had left his writing bench orderly as usual. An ink bottle and some blotting paper sat on the left hand side, his quill on top, waiting for him to pick it up again. The chair made a soft scraping noise when he pulled it back, his eyes darted to the door, half-expecting Mairon to dash in to tell him about the latest intelligence report from Thuri’s spies or admonish him to leave this workplace the way he found it.  
But Mairon was away, tending to the preparations for sacking Gondolin.
Fuck Gondolin!
Maybe Mairon and he should rather go forth and construct ships to sail the firmament and attack from a vantage point where they were unreachable by most foes. But his heart was heavy, 
So he remained and found a piece of appropriately large parchment and a quill. The ink was freshly re-filled, thank Mairon.  
 

Professor,
before I trouble you with my urgent requests, the irony of you writing about me and the other Valar singing Arda into existence is not lost on me. So therefore it is not Eru to whom I direct this missive, but you. You created all of us, and now you have to answer. 

1. The throne of Angband is too uncomfortable, so I request you provide sufficient narrative description of a more ergonomic seat of power for myself. 
2. There should be alterations so that I may take off my crown. Also, those stones shining in front of me illuminate any dismal sight I come across. Why exactly did I steal those trinkets?
3. The hours of throne-sitting duty are too long.
4. In order to be formidable foes, Mairon and I require more time to plot and plan together, this is not accomplished if I am to sit on the throne in almost every waking hour. 
5. To defend my person more sufficiently in future, I request you mention me taking more training opportunities in your text. I only just managed to smite that glittering high king of the Noldor who insisted on single combat. 
6. Angband requires improved health-care facilities, so that we may heal sufficiently after your protagonists attack us once again. We will be unable to perform our villainous duties, if untended injuries hamper our efforts.
7. Mairon was equipped with several fierce werewolves, and then you write of one single hound besting him? This is preposterous. This requires amends!
8. You must rectify the characterization of my person in your writings. It is simply untrue that only the demise and horrible doom of others sparks joy within me. The birth of an orcling or a dragon hatchling make me very glad. 
9. On the topic of my personal joys, I am happily married to Mairon for many ages now. Our marriage has survived my captivity and many more trials and tribulations. This should be reflected in your writing. As you to mention every other sufficiently prominent matrimony in Arda, we request the same consideration. 
10. On the topic of my so-called discord during the Ainulindalë, my efforts to establish a counter-melody to Father’s tunes were mostly misrepresented in your text. It took until the third theme for Eru to finally adapt some of my counterpoints into his prescribed musical performance, and thus give the entire composition more texture and depth. 
11. I highly recommend you look into the benefits of what later denizens of Arda shall call a “Jam-Session”. This is a highly inspired improvisational practice you could gain some valuable insight from, Professor.  
I do not write lightly to you, for if I and my servants are not able to perform properly, you will have no more foe to write of. 
So be informed that if you do not give me a satisfying reply to my requests for betterment, I shall begin scaling back my efforts for subjugating Beleriand. This shall begin with me refraining from the pursuit of Gondolin’s location. I have already sent that boy I was to capture off to bathe and enjoy dinner. I might be a villain, but that is no reason for me to treat individuals who prove useful to the fulfillment of my duties with disdain. 
I await your reply until Midwinter.
 

Yours truly, 
Melkor 
 

He read the letter out loud to himself, before adding a few dots here and there he missed, while the ink dries. When the last specks of glistening wet had turned matte, he got up. No one was watching him in here. The air was warmer too, most probably because this scriptorium was closer to the forges, far below the level that wretched throne room sat in. He could get used to just being in here, writing, deciding, demanding, and making people wait for him in front of the door. 
He could get used to just tending to matters in here. Melkor looked beside him at the box all of Mairon’s yet unanswered correspondence and tasks were waiting for his return. Many of them wee requests for provisions, material allotments, and some even relayed important information about the movements of those Fëanorians. He rolled up the letter he had just written, attached his seal to it and set it aside.