FALLING

At first, he thinks he has fallen asleep before his Liege's throne and is dreaming.

He hears a faint, distant, sweet-voiced singing, and knows an old memory of joy. He stirs and sighs. Then he feels that song reverberating through the very stone of the great tower, making it quiver like the plucked strings of a harp -- and he knows it is no dream.

The sorrow swells a hundredfold into sudden anguish at the beauty of that unearthly music.

The Sire of Werewolves leaps to his paws and stands there before the throne, bristling. He clenches his jaws, holding back the sorrowful howl that seeks to rise in his throat. Two of his kin are howling helplessly, their voices filled with the same anguish he himself feels. The other werewolves crouch with their tails dipping between their legs, reeking of their own pain. The orcs cannot conceal their fear, though they manage not to run: their eyes are wide, showing the whites in rings around the irises, their talons tightening on their spears. They look uneasily about the hall, at each other, at the throne.

Beyond the throne room, the Isle of Werewolves resounds with the cries of its lupine inhabitants, caught in the grip of that same stricken remembering.

Then Draugluin hears a single word from his Liege, one that resonates through the head of every being in that room even as He speaks it: Hold. The cacophony ceases, as if cut off by a blade.

Draugluin turns to look up at his master, tail and ears lowered in deference. Sauron is smiling a secret, knowing smile, even as the stones still tremble and the song still threads through the hall.

Have that Singer brought to me, alive and unhurt. Though the voice can be heard by every being in the room, the order is for Draugluin.

"Yes, Lord," Draugluin answers aloud, in the speech of Morgoth's followers. He lowers his head once to his Liege, and goes forth from the throne room. Even as he departs, the quivering of the stones ceases as Sauron strengthens the spell holding them in place.

The rocks are honeycombed with tunnels, chambers, dens for the werewolves. The thick, rich odors of wolves and blood and raw flesh hang heavy in the air, laced with the less pleasant smells of the orcs who move through the tunnels, carrying food to the hundreds of inhabitants.

The song still thrills faintly through the air as Draugluin descends down the endless flights of stairs from the tower to the bowels of the Island. Forcing aside the emotions that the music stirs in him, he trots past the hurrying orcs and occasional lesser werewolves, who dodge aside.

Once, the lupine warriors of Sauron numbered but a handful of mighty spirits such as himself. But they served their Liege well, and so the breeding started: those who had once sung in the Great Music, commanded to mate and bear young like unthinking beasts, thus chaining themselves forever to the flesh.

Now the caverns of the island are filled with werewolves greater and lesser, and their legions go also to swell the forces of distant Angband. One day, they will number an army of deadly predators so great and so fierce that even the Valar will flee before them.

But they can be killed, like any weak child of Arda. When one dies, its spirit is reincarnated in wolf form once more. With each successive rebirth, they grow more forgetful, more lost in the instincts of the bodies they wear.

Most now lodge in packs, obeying the instincts of their beast bodies. Though most of them are his descendents, at least in body, he feels no ties of kin, no love for the spawn of his loins. All he feels is a certain distaste for the bestial acts that gave them the forms they now wear. Draugluin runs with no pack, but stands above all of them: their leader, because he is the fiercest and strongest of them all.

In the end, the rule of strength is the only true order.

The werewolves' howls and snarls echo through the tunnels -- redoubled by the distress that distant Singer has evoked in them. Though the stones no longer tremble, the Song -- that infuriating, beautiful song -- still threads through their clamor.

What or who is that Singer? No child of Elf or Man would come to Tol-in-Gaurhoth alone, to sing. It is female, he can tell that much, but no more.

Then it falls silent. Draugluin halts, ears perked in listening, wondering why it has ceased.

Oddly, his thoughts turn to that mysterious group of captives that were brought in many months ago. They numbered twelve when they arrived before the throne of his Liege. Now they lie in chains below, deep in the stony bowels of the lowest dungeons. Only two remain, for whenever Sauron has bidden him, Draugluin has dispatched a subordinate to execute a single prisoner.

Not long ago, he sent that subordinate down again to devour one of the two remaining. That werewolf has yet to return. No doubt he is taking his time with his sport.

Is this Singer connected to those captives, somehow? In league with them? As Draugluin stands, vainly straining his ears, he wonders. Still he hears nothing, but he feels a chill of unease, as if something had sounded just below his ability to hear.

Finally, giving up his wondering, he starts forward once again, plunging deeper into the caverns, looking for his lieutenants.

He finds one at his post in the main cavern, a werewolf nearly as large as he but with one lopear and several scars across the face from battles with others. The werewolf has a name that means Grimfang in Morgoth's tongue.

Draugluin gives Grimfang his orders. Grimfang dips his head and tail in acknowledgement, and then lopes away into the caverns, to pass on the mission to his own subordinates.

That bold Singer will soon be brought to account before the throne of Sauron.

As he waits for the captive to be brought in, Draugluin attends to other tasks: the ordering and supervision of the werewolves of this isle. The worm of doubt can be ignored as he occupies himself thus. For some time he continues about his tasks, padding from cavern to cavern to speak with the others and oversee the carrying out of other orders.

Time passes, but Grimfang does not return to him with news of the captive. Draugluin completes half the circuit of his duties, and still no word comes to him. The worm rises again, gnaws sharply. At last, giving in to it, he returns to the main cavern, to inquire among his other lieutenants.

None of them have seen any captive, though several wolves have been sent out on the mission, and not returned. Then he learns that Grimfang himself has gone out to learn what has happened. "He has yet to return, lord," the other werewolf tells him, and Draugluin can smell the unease upon him.

Fools, he thinks. They cannot carry out a simple order. What is wrong here? I will have to tear some hides when this is settled.

Even as he thinks this, the Master's summons rings in his head -- impatient, peremptory. Return to Me.

Draugluin bids farewell to his subordinate. As soon as he is out of sight of his underlings, he practically bounds up the tunnels to the throne room.

The Master of Werewolves is no longer smiling.

Where is she? and Draugluin knows he means the Singer.

Controlling his dismay, the great werewolf answers, "I know not, my lord. Grimfang himself has gone out and not returned."

Then the Dark One scowls, and even in the heart of the Sire of Werewolves a feeling rises that might be called "fear".

Go out yourself, then. Bring her to me, or else learn what has happened.

The Master makes no threat of what will happen in the event of failure. He has no need.

"As my lord wishes." Draugluin dips his head and his tail, and departs.

Once, the island now called the Isle of Werewolves was green and forested. Now, not even the harsh, melancholy calls of seabirds sound from its bare rocks -- only the voices of Sauron's servants, echoed and curiously distorted by the effects of the maze of tunnels underground.

Draugluin emerges from a tunnel under a midnight sky scarcely less dark than the caverns. No moon shines, only the stars, though he can see in the night well enough. Loping over the rocks and sand toward the bridge to the mainland, he strains his ears, his eyes, his sensitive nose, but can sense nothing of value. The breeze has died down to near-stillness, and what little there is blows away from the island, toward the bridge. His sense of smell will tell him nothing.

Then the Song sounds again, faint and distant still. He forces down the melancholy it evokes within him.

He crosses a scent trail approaching the bridge -- one of his underlings, too lowly for him to know personally. He halts to examine it with his nose, sniffing the rock carefully. He can detect no fear or anger in the scent, no hint of anything unusual.

What has happened to the others? Maybe they have found the discarded corpses of some Elven and Mannish thralls in one of the caverns used for rubbish, and hope to eat their fill before their insubordination is noticed. Or perhaps the fools simply became lost in the rocks outside of their accustomed caverns and tunnels.

Or they may have ignored or forgotten their orders, killed the intruder instead of taking her captive, and now feast upon her corpse.

Bounding past the last rocky hillock, Draugluin halts and looks down upon the foot of the bridge to the mainland. Built by the Elves, it is a delicate-looking yet strong edifice of wood and of other substances unknown to him. Even now that the Master of Werewolves claims this island, the bridge remains fair and beautiful.

The wind still blows from the island to the distant mainland, from him to the bridge, but it is little more than a faint breeze. Now it falls still. Draugluin's nostrils flare, taking in the scents in search of any trace of the Singer -- or other beings -- as he tries to ignore the Song.

He catches the scent then, coming from the bridge. It is female, and Elven, yes . . . mostly. But there is something else there, too. For a moment he thinks the Singer must be one of the Noldor, because of the unmistakable undernote of Valinor, bittersweet in his nostrils. But no, it is subtly different, in a way no words can describe. He doubts the Singer has ever actually dwelled in the Blessed Land.

He has never smelled anything like it before.

Cautiously, he slowly pads to the foot of the bridge, and looks up its graceful arch. He glimpses the figure standing upon it, a little ways up the arch, so pale as to be almost luminous in the darkness of the night. He approaches, still slowly and carefully.

The Singer appears to be an Elf-woman, her hair cropped short, but her face one of such breathtaking beauty that it makes the bridge look graceless and ancient. She peers into the darkness, directly at him, but seems not to see him yet -- she lacks his night eyes.

For a long, frozen moment, the Sire of Werewolves gazes upon the Singer. For his eyes can see below that beautiful form, and he perceives that she carries the blood of more than Elves in her veins. From her opened mouth sounds that ineffable Song; she has lost herself in her own music, her eyes closed with her Singing.

At this range, the Song is powerful indeed. An unaccustomed complexity of passions is welling up in Draugluin's heart, clearer and more intense even than the emotions he felt in the throne room: anger; underneath the anger, a scarcely acknowledged regret; beneath both, a deep, heart-aching nostalgia.

Now, he remembers vividly what he once was, and the memory is pure agony. For long moments, the majesty and pride of being one of the Strong -- a great and trusted warrior of Sauron and of Morgoth Who Returned -- seems a poor trade for that long-lost joy and beauty.

He hesitates, struggles within his heart to master himself. Then he remembers his task, and that several others have attempted it and failed.

His paws tread upon the first planks, his eyes fixed upon the Singer. Surely she must feel his weight thrumming upon the planks now. Mounting the bridge, and closer, closer -- and then she does see him. He can see the sudden fear on her face, and her Song ceases for a moment. Yet she makes no move to flee, to escape.

The relief of that silence is incredible, but then he catches another scent -- fresh blood, splashed across the bridge only a little ways in front of him. And another scent, very faint, but one he knows only too well.

Draugluin glances down over the bridge -- he is tall enough to do so easily -- and his breath catches. Lying in the shallows below, several great forms bump and bob with the rhythm of the flowing water, their fur soaked and matted and dark.

All his own fur bristles at the sight. He snarls with mingled rage and fear.

And a great shaggy form, as tall as he is, leaps onto the bridge behind him and bounds forward to the attack, uttering its own thunderous battle-snarl.

The bridge is almost too narrow to dodge the giant hound, but Draugluin succeeds, managing to move just far enough to one side to allow the charging beast to run past him. Huge claws scrabble for footing on the planks as it whirls to face him again, and Draugluin sees his enemy clearly for the first time, and a shock like lightning passes through him.

Now, too late, all is clear. The Hound swam the broad waters of the Sirion in order to avoid leaving his scent on the bridge, then hid himself in the rocks at its foot. The others were taken by surprise.

With his spirit's eyes, the Sire of Werewolves sees the Hound's nature beneath the bodily shape, just as he had with the Singer. He faces a former Ainu like himself; but more, he recognizes this Ainu. No doubt Huan also remembers, for he pauses before renewing his attack, his small ears going back, then forward again. They stand facing each other, hackles raised, and all their past history stands between them.

As there was a time when Draugluin did not wear the form of a giant wolf, so was the Hound once other, and more, than Huan. Though they knew each other only from afar, both sang in the First Music. Huan remembers that as clearly as he does; he can see the knowledge in the Hound's dark eyes.

Draugluin chose the path of power, allying himself with Sauron and with the First Rebel, and so he accepted the form of the mightiest of predators. Huan chose the path of servility -- not the shape of a hunter in his own right, but that of a humble follower of Oromë.

In the wake of these memories arise other, more recent ones, ones that fill Draugluin's heart with long-held anger. Memories of missions in the great green forests and the vast mountains -- missions gone awry when a great Horn sounded. Of utter fear as he realized the baying minions of fell Oromë were on his track, too many to fight. Of running, fleeing back into the North, heart hammering with terror.

And he remembers Huan's famous doom. Oh, yes, that is a legend even among those who cleave to Sauron and Melkor.

Fear stirs beneath his hatred, urging him to turn and run. But retreat is unthinkable. The Master punishes failure without mercy; Draugluin's fate at His hands would be worse than any Huan could mete out.

And is he himself not the greatest wolf who has yet walked? Perhaps, after all, he can encompass Huan's doom, and avenge those past insults. The Hound stands alone this time, without packmates or Master.

He barely notices that the Singer has vanished -- withdrawn further up the narrow bridge to await the outcome.

The Sire of Werewolves leaps forward, at the same moment that the Hound renews his attack, and abandons himself to his bestial instincts.

The cries of savage beasts echo from the rocks and river and trees. For long, the outcome is in doubt.

For long, Draugluin fights as a mere beast, without thought. He ignores the knowledge that slowly rises in his heart: he is not winning, will not win this fight. The Hound is too strong, stronger than he is, and equally fast. Draugluin begins to realize that he must flee, and warn his Liege -- but so closely does Huan press him, that to turn now is to court almost certain death.

As his defense fails, the Hound's fangs find his flesh again and again, ripping open matted fur and thick hide. The Sire of Werewolves backs down the bridge, slowly losing ground.

At last, beast-terror overwhelms beast-fury in a mighty tide, and Draugluin gives way under it. Lost wholly to instinct, heedless of the danger from behind, he breaks away, whirls to flee. He feels Huan's teeth rip open his right flank one more time, deeper than before. He scarcely heeds the fresh agony as he bounds back down the bridge, yelping shamelessly, his mind filled with naught but heart-pounding terror and pain, the need to return to his Master -- to safety.

He reckons nothing of the flight back to the fortress. He does not notice that his free-flowing blood leaves great dark splashes on the rocks at every bound, draining his veins. Or that his bowels bulge through the deep wound in his right flank and begin to dangle behind him as he runs.

Only when the tower is in sight, and he begins to stumble from blood loss, does the wild panic slacken its grip upon his thoughts. He feels a growing weakness in his muscles, the darkness gathering at the corners of his vision. A buzzing noise sounds in his ears.

He realizes then that he is dying.

The mere animal death of the flesh. To die, like any savaged deer or broken-backed wolf. And afterward -- if Sauron even grants him another body, after punishing him for his failure -- he will descend further into the beast, with less memory that he was once a mighty spirit.

The knowledge proves too much, and for the second time his mind gives way. Whimpering, he breaks into flight again, running toward the tower.

When next Draugluin wakes to thought, he is staggering into the great hall where his Liege waits. His limbs feel cold and leaden; his eyes are more than half blinded with a darkness that is not part of the room.

Acting more on blind memory than conscious volition, he stumbles toward the throne, unaware of the shocked silence that has fallen all around. The Master is looking at him, His face for once betraying His emotions: astonishment, the beginning of anger -- but the Sire of Werewolves pays no heed.

"Huan is there!" he gasps with his final breath, and falls at Sauron's feet, down into the dark oblivion that he has never known before but will know again and again, after he has forgotten all else.