A/N: In my stories, Melkor (AKA Morgoth) uses and archaic form of English when he speaks. This is to make him sound godlike, at least in his own reckoning, and to separate himself from everyone else.

Artíre observed the battles between Huan and the werewolves from between the cracks in the stonework of the bridge. When he saw his enemy Sauron attack Lúthien, he seized the opportunity to exact revenge. Distracted by the fight with Huan, Sauron was not aware of the Watcher casting the spell that bound him to the wolf-form he inhabited – the same spell Sauron had used on Artíre at the temple of Moko. By the force of his will, Sauron succeeded in changing the forms he was housed in, but he could not shrug any of them off. Artíre saw to it by repeating the spell every time his form changed. The Watcher smiled as Sauron fled to Taur-nu-Fuin in terror, dripping blood.

The Deceiver clearly did not have the stomach to face Melkor.

Now that his enemy was gone, Artíre considered the possibilities his absence presented. How could he exploit the situation to his own advantage? Sauron was hiding for the moment, but at the first opportunity, he would strike back. He was most certainly gathering his forces and making plans for a war against this upstart Elf-maid and her friends. While this would present a most interesting spectacle, Artíre's focus was on making the most of his enemy's misfortune. Melkor was sure to be angry when he heard about Sauron’s defeat, and would think less highly of his lieutenant. If the Watcher could persuade Melkor to send him in pursuit of the Man and the Elf-maid, he would be in a good position to oust Sauron from Melkor's favour altogether. Grinning at the prospect of ruining his enemy's standing at Angband, Artíre made his way there at once.

Melkor sat brooding on his throne, the Silmarils in his iron crown casting an eerie light in the gloom. Artíre entered and bowed before him. “My lord Melkor, I bring news,” he declared.

“Hail Artíre,” Melkor replied, “tell me what thou knowest of the howling and baying that have been heard in my realm, for they were horrible to hear, and I am told that many werewolves have been slain.”

Artíre hesitated, affecting a grief he did not feel. “My lord, I bring dread tidings, and I fear to tell thee,” the Watcher cried.

Melkor frowned, a terrible sight, and Artíre felt the atmosphere in the chamber change as the rage of his master kindled. “I wish to know, Artíre, whether the news be good or ill,” he ordered.

“Master,” Artíre wailed, “Sauron has been defeated in battle by an Elf-maid of great power. She was like unto a Maia, my lord, and accompanied by a great hound, Huan of Valinor. 'Twas he who slew the werewolves of Sauron, and defeated Sauron himself. Sauron took the form of a vampire and fled to Taur-nu-Fuin.”

“Sauron defeated by a maid and her dog? Impossible!” Melkor thundered. “Why did you not aid him, Artíre?”

Artíre stood silently for a moment, his thoughts of victory quashed by his Lord’s question. “I heard the sounds of the battle, my lord, and went to his aid but by the time I arrived, Sauron was flying away. I deemed it best to come to tell thee what had happened rather than contend with those who had defeated the most powerful Maia on Arda and leave thee with no word of what had happened,” he replied. Unused to uttering barefaced lies, the Watcher struggled to keep his composure in the face of Melkor's wrath.

Melkor sat back on his throne seething with fury. “Thou hast admitted thy weakness and called Sauron weak, yet his victors were a maiden and her dog. Where are they now, Artíre?”

“The maiden has taken the mastery of the isle, my lord,” Artíre quavered.

“Go there and see what thou canst learn about them,” Melkor told him. “See if thou canst discover some weakness in them that I may use to mine own advantage, for the shame of this day will be spoken abroad, and Elves and Men will laugh us all to scorn when they should hardly dare to speak our names. Go!”

The Watcher left the chamber with all speed, thankful that he had not been questioned further. He decided to avoid going to Sauron's new lair, as he guessed that it was likely that he was being blamed by the Deceiver for the fate that had befallen him. However weak Sauron was now, he did not wish to face him in his wrath. He had learned from bitter experience that a humiliated Sauron was something to be feared indeed.

In his lair in Taur-nu-Fuin, Sauron licked his wounds. His vampire form lay in a corner of the chamber in a pool of blood. His freedom had come at a price – he had died as a result of the wounds inflicted by Huan. Though he had repeated the counter-spell many times, it did not avail him in time, and as a result he was diminished. If Artíre should discover this, he would gloat about it for aeons.

Sauron's obsession with the Watcher kept him from considering that Huan and Lúthien might have acted of their own accord – he was certain that Artíre was in some way responsible for the situation he now found himself in. He had forced him to take sides in the conflict between Melkor and the Valar, after all. Surely Artíre was responsible for the debacle at the temple of Moko at its inauguration? He was surely aware at the time that he was being hunted – had he not persuaded Melkor to send him to spy on Sauron?

While he had brought back a good report of the Deceiver to Melkor afterwards, Sauron still distrusted Artíre, convinced that he was working towards his destruction. Though he felt neither guilt nor remorse for the position he had put Artíre in, Sauron did fear the retribution Artíre was sure to wreak if he could. The Watcher's abilities as a spy and his favour in Melkor's eyes made it eminently possible to bring about the Deceiver's downfall, which had already begun.

Huan and Lúthien had defeated him indeed, but he had only seen the Elf-maid and the hound, no-one else. But was Artíre not in the habit of skulking around, learning what he could in order to bring reports to whom he would? The accuracy of those reports, to be fair to the Watcher, was never in doubt, but Artíre, more often than not, twisted the truth to his own advantage.

Sauron had tricked Artíre into telling the Elves to fear Oromë, and The Watcher had done so willingly for the sake of the drama that would ensure. Sauron frowned as he remembered their conversation.

“When the Children have awakened, I want you to whisper to them against Oromë, who has come to Middle Earth to hunt my master's monsters and destroy them. Tell them to shun him if they should see him, for the Hunter will surely catch them and take them away to devour them,” Sauron instructed, hoping that the Watcher would agree to do this.

“That I will do,” said Artíre.

The Watcher had been quick enough to accept the task. Artíre obeyed Sauron’s command, and the Children had indeed fled from the Hunter when he met them. Then, Sauron guessed, when the Valar had come to contend with Melkor in the War of the Powers, Artíre had tried to join them – then fled when his duplicity was discovered.

The idea that he should take some responsibility for the Watcher's hatred of him was absurd. Artíre was to blame for the enmity between them, and that was final. Was Sauron not more powerful than the Watcher? More noble for his dedication to a cause that was not his own, but that of the rightful master of Middle-earth? Did the Watcher not spend his time skulking here and lurking there – seeking naught but his own entertainment? He made nothing, learned nothing and sought not to increase the glory of Melkor. Sauron despised Artíre at that moment more than any other creature in existence, but as he considered his position, it occurred to the Deceiver that seeking the ultimate destruction of his nemesis would only lead to his own ruin. He was weakened now, but would rise again, having learned from his mistakes. There was a greater power at work here, some doom beyond his ken, and he knew it would be wise to stay out of its way until it passed.

“Let Artíre's meddlesome ways bring about his own downfall!” he cried aloud.

Artíre followed Beren and Lúthien, counting on her love for the Man to distract her from his presence. He was certain she could sense him. During the course of his eavesdropping, he learned that she was the daughter of Melian the Maia and Elu Thingol of Doriath, and that she was the Lúthien of whom he had heard in the Pit of Werewolves. As they neared her father's realm, Lúthien let slip the mission that had led to the deaths of twelve Elves, one of whom was Finrod of Nargothrond: the theft of one of the Silmarils from Morgoth's iron crown. So Morgoth was the name the Elves now called Melkor? He would remember that.

As he followed the Man and the Elf-maid, Artíre became aware of the approach of horses.

“Celegorm and Curufin!” cried Lúthien. “Run!”

The Watcher saw this and went to the aid of the two people who could help him to destroy Sauron once and for all. By the force of his will, he lent strength to Beren as he turned to face his attackers.

Celegorm spurred his horse towards Beren, clearly intent on riding him down. Curufin rode to where Lúthien stood, snatched her up and lifted her onto his saddle. Seeing this, Beren leapt from the path of Celegorm and onto Curufin's horse, aided by Artíre.

The horse, startled, reared and fell as Beren and Curufin struggled. Lúthien was thrown to the ground, where she lay for a moment. Beren throttled Curufin, and as Celegorm approached on his horse ready to cast his spear at Beren, Artíre saw Huan running behind him.

“Huan!” cried Artíre. “Remember your love for Lúthien! Forsake your master Celegorm – he means to do her harm!”

Huan heeded Artíre and leapt at Celegorm, baying and snapping. Celegorm, enraged, shouted curses at both hound and horse, but nothing he said availed him. He raged impotently as Beren, guarded by Huan, despoiled his brother of his possessions and clothes, for the Man had only a loincloth hastily taken from Tol-in-Guarhoth to cover his nakedness.

Not one to be gainsaid, Celegorm reached for his bow but Artíre stayed his hand by whispering words of malice to the Elf's horse to make him prance and rear with terror. It took all of Celegorm's strength and mastery to control him. Huan's low growls added to the horse's fear, keeping Celegorm too occupied to make any further attempts on Beren's life.

When Beren had taken what he wanted from Curufin, he thrust the Elf from him with a slap to the head. “Go hence to your noble kinsfolk, you murderer! Be thankful that Lúthien, whom you intended to cage like a beast, has had mercy upon you, for she will not let me slay you as I should. Perhaps your better relatives will be able to teach you to turn your valour to worthier use! Begone! I will keep your horse for the service of Lúthien, as compensation for your hospitality when she was a guest in your house. I am sure it will rejoice to be free of such a master as yourself!”

Curufin slunk over to his brother and climbed up behind him on his horse. “Go hence yourself, Beren – to a swift and bitter death!” he shouted.

Beren turned his back on him and walked away hand in hand with Lúthien, leading the horse. Huan walked at their side.

The brothers made to ride away, but Curufin's bloodlust was not sated. Seizing his brother's bow, he shot at Beren, but Artíre saw this and warned Huan. The hound caught the arrow in his mouth.

Beren heard Huan's jaws snap shut and saw the hound with the arrow in his mouth. He turned to see Curufin aiming at Lúthien, leapt in the way as the arrow sped towards her and was struck in the chest.

Huan raced baying towards the brothers and pursued them for miles. Artíre followed him and told him of a herb the Elves used to treat bleeding wounds. Finding the herb, Artíre bade Huan to carry back to Lúthien in his mouth. With the herb Lúthien staunched the bleeding, and using her power, she healed her lover. When Beren recovered, they made their way back to Doriath.

From time to time Artíre, mindful that Lúthien might well be aware of his presence, whispered to Beren when he could do so without Lúthien's knowledge. He reminded him that though he could enjoy the company of the Elf-maid, he could not take her as his wife unless his oath to bring the Silmaril to her father was fulfilled. Fearing to lead her into danger, Beren crept away just before dawn, prompted by the Watcher. Committing Lúthien to the care of Huan, he mounted the horse of Curufin and rode away while she slept.

Artíre was frustrated by this thing the Man and the Elf-maid called love. He could understand the need to have someone to protect and to aid, but to leave a powerful companion for fear that she might come to harm was ridiculous to the Watcher, and not what he had intended at all. Calling to Huan, he bade the hound to rouse the maid and carry her on his back to Anfauglith, where Beren was singing a Song of Parting in her honour, unafraid that evil ears might hear him.

Hearing his song, Artíre led Huan and Lúthien to him, and hid as Huan spoke to them of the doom they were to face. The hound parted from them, taking the same path as the horse which Beren had freed; and Lúthien used her powers to disguise herself as the vampire Thuringwethil and Beren as Draugluin the werewolf.

Artíre, meanwhile, put the next part of his plan into action: the part that would absolve him of any blame in this affair. He wanted no part in the actual theft of the Silmaril, and he wanted to be certain that Sauron would be blamed for what would surely happen. With that in mind, he went to Melkor at once to warn him that Huan had returned to make war on him.

In his throne room, Melkor heard Artíre's report and was afraid. “Are they far from here, Artíre?” he asked.

“No, my lord. Should I tell Sauron that the Elf-maid who defeated him may have come with Huan?” the Watcher asked. “He will need to prepare for battle.”

“Go,” said Melkor. “I have a weapon of mine own, long prepared against the might of Huan. Carcharoth the Red Maw will not easily be defeated, for I have raised him myself, and put mine own power into him. Here he lies before my feet, huge and hungry. I will send him to wait for Huan before the doors of Angband, and there the doom of the hound of Valinor will fall upon him.”

Artíre fled at these words, hardly daring to look behind him as the mighty werewolf of Melkor arose from before his master's feet and went outside to stand in front of the gates.

In his chamber at Taur-nu-Fuin, Sauron was informed by his servants that Artíre had come with urgent news. He admitted him, eager to hear what he had to say. His hatred of the Watcher had not lessened in the months that had passed since the Man and the Elf-maid had defeated him and left him weakened and ashamed in this fortress, and he held him responsible for all of his woes, both real and imagined.

“So, Artíre, you have come here to gloat at my distress, have you? Speak! For I would hear your excuses and lies. Word has come from Rhûn that Narcawë has turned against me and has taken the temple of Moko as his own, declaring himself lord of Rhûn. Surely this is your doing!” Sauron declared.

“I had nothing to do with that, nor was I aware of it,” Artíre replied. “I have come to warn you that Huan of Valinor has returned to make war on us, and to bid you prepare yourself. Our lord Melkor has sent Carcharoth the Red Maw forth to defend his gates and has sent me to tell you to be ready when Huan returns.”

“Where were you when the Man and his Elven spies came here to attack me?” Sauron countered belligerently. “I believe you had a hand in it somewhere! Surely you hate me and wish to destroy me? When Narcawë is questioned he will tell me all, and your schemes and lies will be exposed, for I have sent my servants to arrest him and to bring him back here.”

“While it is true I bear no love for you, Sauron,” Artíre reasoned, “I see no reason to continue our feud when the powers of Valinor approach us both arrayed for war. The trouble with Narcawë surely stems from your choice of an arrogant Maia to take your place in Rhûn while you laid plans to continue your plots against me here. Why do you continue with this when all you can achieve is your own ruin? Do you think I would permit you to succeed in turning Melkor against me? Do you think I will allow you to have me driven away to be unwelcome anywhere I go? Of course not! Take counsel with yourself...”

“Do not think that honeyed words will convince me that anything you say is true, Artíre!” Sauron interrupted him. “Begone, Watcher, for all you have ever achieved is the ruin of my plans to bring this Middle-earth under Melkor's control. Everything you touch turns to dust and rot because you cannot make things and you will not fight in times of war. You can only skulk and lurk, looking for news to bring to whom you will in an effort to gain favour with the winners and to entertain yourself with the chaos that results from your meddling!”

“But Melkor says...” Artíre began, only to be shouted down.

“I care not what you say Melkor says, Artíre!” Sauron roared. “I have spies of my own, and I will trust their word above your own every time. Begone from here – go and find a place to hide while those of us with the courage to do so go forth to fight our enemies!”

The Deceiver watched as Artíre went forth, clearly frustrated at his latest effort to stir up trouble. Maybe the Watcher was telling the truth after all. His news was usually reliable, but Sauron had decided that attempting to separate the nuggets of truth from the Watcher's intentions was no longer worth the effort. He was better off without him. As Artíre made his way out of the fortress, it occurred to Sauron to have a servant watch the Watcher and report on all of his doings from now on. This would surely keep Artíre from doing him more harm.

As he made his way outside, Artíre considered the best course of action. Should he find a place to hide from the wrath of the Valar or should he go back to Melkor and tell him what had transpired at his meeting with Sauron? He had noticed a difference in the Deceiver: he seemed weakened somehow. Had his form died while he was still bound to it? Sauron had not tried to detain him. Was the Deceiver afraid of him now? A dreadful noise caught his attention, and the Watcher went to investigate.

Fleeing Orcs and other monsters brought a terrible report: an Elf-maid of incredible power had caused Draugluin to forsake his master and had defeated Melkor in his own lair. Carcharoth had gone mad and was slaying everything in his path as he fled towards Doriath, and the Eagles of Manwë were attacking the defenders of Angband. At this moment Artíre remembered the words Sauron had spoken in anger to him.

“Everything you touch turns to dust and rot because you cannot make things and you will not fight in times of war. You can only skulk and lurk, looking for news to bring to whom you will in an effort to gain favour with the winners and to entertain yourself with the chaos that results from your meddling!”

Whether he wanted to acknowledge this truth or not, he would have to do something more than running and hiding or simply reporting this matter to Melkor, who surely knew all about it by now. Something changed in the Watcher as he realized he would have to take responsibility for the first time in his existence. Calling on the Orcs and other monsters, he gathered them together and bade them form into their companies as best they could and prepare to face the onslaught that was surely about to take place. As soon as he could ascertain the situation at Angband, he sent word to Melkor to tell him that his followers in Taur-nu-Fuin were ready to carry out his orders, then he set guard on the borders of Melkor's realm and ordered all of the Orcs back to their posts.

Sauron came out of his tower and, seeing Artíre working for the benefit of his master, was amazed.

“Let us put aside our differences, Sauron,” said the Watcher. “It makes no sense to continue in this manner.”

Sauron, wearing his accustomed form, regarded Artíre with a baleful expression on his face. “I will never fully trust you, Artíre,” he announced, “but I see that continuing this feud can only lead to our destruction. I do not wish to fight you any more.”

“Agreed,” said Artíre, not believing a word the Deceiver said. The Watcher left Taur-nu-Fuin in a much stronger position than when he had first arrived. He had taken his revenge, and was thoroughly enjoying it. Sauron was weak and Melkor was aware of his lieutenant's defeat at the hands of an Elf-maid, a Man and a hound. Surely Melkor would blame Sauron for the loss of the Silmaril from his iron crown, since the Deceiver had been charged with the defence of the realm? Artíre's leadership after the attack on Angband had sharpened the contrast between the Watcher and the Deceiver. Even if Melkor did not punish Sauron, he was unlikely to regard him with the same favour as before.

Artíre gloated at the notion that he would rise in Melkor's estimation while Sauron would have to work hard to regain his former status. He would have to put aside his enmity with the Watcher in order to do so, since both of them had other enemies to contend with. Continuing their feud would surely lead to their mutual destruction if the Valar should return. The Elves had won a great victory this day. The next step would be to gather their forces and prepare to attack while Melkor was still reeling from the theft of the Silmaril, and Sauron was diminished after being attacked by Huan and his form destroyed while he was bound to it. Now was not the time for infighting.

'Vengeance is a complicated thing,' thought Artíre as he made his way to Angband, 'and it can be perilous to all concerned. I will stop trying to bring about Sauron's demise as long as he upholds the truce he has declared. I may not be even with him but he knows not to trifle with me. That will suffice.'

The End.

A/N: Special thanks to Epilachna for her excellent beta-work.