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Mairon wondered sometimes if his master would like what he’d done with the place.

          Mordor, as they were calling it these days, used to be a wasteland, until he showed up and convinced the soil it ought to be nutrient-rich due to the constant volcanic explosions going on in the north. That half of the land was unusable, except for him and his ever-present servant, his very own Black Hand.

          Really, Mairon didn’t know what was the matter with the guy. Until he took a moment to retrospectively examine his own relationship with Melkor. He came to the conclusion that the Black Hand, or Blackie, as Mairon called him, was basically fulfilling the role of Mairon back when Melkor was still around. Except now he was Melkor, and Blackie was, well, him.

          The dude was adorable.

          “My lord,” Blackie said to him one day, “we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

          “Blackie, we’re in the middle of what used to be a volcanic wasteland, surrounded by ugly sons-of-bitches that won’t stop trying to kill each other,” Mairon replied. “We always have a bit of a problem.”

          “I really wish you would stop calling me that, my lord,” muttered Blackie. “Anyways, this particular problem concerns your ex-boyfriend. That smith guy. What was his name?”

          “Celebrimbor, ye of little long-term memory retention,” said Mairon. “And he wasn’t my boyfriend, you prick.”

          That was one of the things he liked about Blackie. The man was not afraid to give him lip.

          “Whatever he was to you,” said Blackie, “he’s come back to bite you in the ass. Literally. He’s some sort of wraith now, and he’s found himself a fuzzy Ranger boy to inhabit. It’s… almost touching.”

          “I can almost hear your eyes getting misty,” said Mairon. “Are we going to have to get you to a bloodbath again?”

          “My lord, I thought we weren’t ever to speak of that particular incident again,” Blackie grumbled.

          Mairon laughed. “Not bloody likely.”

          In the past, there had been an… event involving a stuffed animal, a flock of live butterflies, a pink hat, and his very own dear Blackie. You know how young girls sometimes go through a phase in which they are obsessed with cutesy things, like Barbie dolls, horses, and fairies? Think of that, but condensed into a period of three or four days. Higher concentration of pink, fluffy, and adorable, but not for quite as long. It took dumping a tub full of freshly gathered Tark blood over poor Blackie to get him back into berserker mode, and shake off the ‘pretty princess’ getup he had going on.

          Fucking Queen Marwen. She was never going to let them live it down. Probably do it again, given the chance.

          “So what are we going to do about your ex-boyfriend?”

          Mairon sighed. “For the last time, Blackie, he isn’t my ex. We were never dating in the first place. And like all people I was never dating in the first place, he’s just going to have to let it go. Move on. See the light. Et cetera, et cetera.”

          “But…”

          Mairon held up a hand. “I don’t care if he’s killing war chiefs. They already kill each other way too much for this to be an issue, and it’s not as if we have any shortage of uruk-hai. I shudder to think of what they do every night in those caves of theirs.”

          “Eugh.” Blackie actually did shudder. “Why did you make them so ugly?”

          “Hey, don’t blame me! This was Melk’s work,” Mairon protested. “I’m just furthering it along.”

          “Not at this point, you aren’t,” said Blackie, looking at him with his unusually perceptive eyes. “This is your campaign now, m’lord. Everything we see today is your accomplishment, and Morgoth doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

          “Unusually treasonous words, coming from one of Melk’s staunchest supporters,” said Mairon, touched but wary.

          Blackie snorted. “It isn’t treason. It’s the truth. And I’ll make sure Morgoth knows it, when he comes back.”

          Mairon wondered if he ought to say thank you. He decided that showing sentiment would be a sign of weakness, and opted for a meaningful nod instead.

          “I’m off to drink a lot of wine and coerce Saruman into doing something for me,” he said. “You deal with,” he flapped a hand in the general direction of Mordor, “this mess.”

          “Will do, m’lord,” said Blackie, flashing a casual salute.

          The Black Hand of Sauron (because he was NOT ‘Blackie’, no matter how many times his master said it) stood up, elegantly rearranged his fussy attire, and swept out onto the balcony, with grandeur just a hair’s breadth shy of Mairon’s glorious entrances. It was probably a good thing he kept his hair under his hood at all hours of the day, because if he didn’t, he’d likely try to toss it over his shoulder like Mairon did. Curse the way those elegant copper locks always did exactly as they were told.

          He took a good look at the beautiful vista before him. Somebody was beating a slave very close to his tower, and the thwacking sounds along with the sharp cries of pain carried up to him loud and clear. He drank them in like a fine wine. Such was the way of life, here in the land of big ugly motherfuckers and a couple of pretty ones.

          Twenty feet above his hand, Celebrimbor was in a tizzy.

          “What the hell does he mean we were never dating?” he snarled. “He fucking wined and dined me! He gave me jewelry! He- He wooed me, for Eru’s sake!”

          “I really don’t want to hear it,” Talion groaned, thankful for the rain. “You’ve told me the story a million times, Cele-blue balls.”

          “This is an indignity,” the elven specter seethed.

          “This is Mordor, you dumbass,” Talion shot back. “And we’re here to kill Pretty Boy down there so I can go back to my family, not bitch about your awful love life.”

          “Fine, fine,” grumbled Celebrimbor. “Let’s kill this fucker so we can be rid of each other.”

          The Black Hand of Sauron, innocently nomming a pastry at the balcony railing, suddenly found himself beset upon by-

          By the black lord himself.

          Standing in front of him after being thrown off his head, adjusting his grip on his sword, and looking nervous as all hell, was the most adorable mortal Blackie had ever seen.

          “You,” he said, unable to properly articulate his appreciation of Talion’s utter cuteness, “You’re…”

          “You have got to be the cutest fucking Ranger I’ve ever seen.”

          Talion spluttered. “The hell?”

          The Black Hand of Sauron brought his hands up to his mouth and squealed.

          Talion blinked, unable to comprehend the sight, but luckily for him Celebrimbor spurred him into action. “Kill the fucker!” his spectral companion roared. Talion took advantage of the moment to put his blade through his adversary’s heart.

          “Buh-bye, bitch,” he said, and suddenly feeling very ‘gangsta’, added, “Peace!” along with the appropriate sign.

          Then he fell out of his body and went to the Halls of Mandos to see his wife and son. Celebrimbor on the other hand stayed around, floating in the middle of Mordor, wondering who he was going to possess next.

          Maybe he should go and find Annatar, and haunt the little piece of shit for real this time.

          Then he realized Talion’s body was perfectly good still, and with the slightest amount of effort he got his heart pumping again. It was just like before, except no weird angsty human. Worked for him. Celebrimbor walked off to go bang something with a hammer.

          Quite some time later, the Black Hand of Sauron woke up in his own bed with Mairon standing over him. The Dark Lord did not look impressed.

          “‘You have got to be the cutest fucking Ranger I’ve ever seen’?”

          Blackie buried his face in his pillow.

          “I thought I was over it,” he said miserably.

          Mairon patted him on the head. “It’s alright, Blackie. We all have our moments of weakness.” He snickered. “Yours are just funnier than most. The entirety of Mordor is laughing at you right now, did you know?”

          The Black Hand felt his face burning. “This is terrible.”

          His master laughed. “Yes it is. For you. For me, and everyone else, it’s bloody incredible. Do me a favor, Blackie: win back your reputation soon, alright? I might actually get tired of this joke.”

          “Will do, m’lord,” the Black Hand groaned.