Some of you may remember that back in 2019, I posted the first half of a fic called "Screwtape on Maedhros", which is exactly what it sounds like: a Screwtape Letters fusion/pastiche. There it has languished, unfinished, for six years. I always knew where I wanted to go with this fic, but for one reason or another haven't made substantial progress - until recently! So I'm pleased to share a draft for the next letter from Screwtape, written following the Nirnaeth Arnoediad:

My dear Damrus,

Your enthusiasm is certainly understandable, but I fear you have become drunk with your enjoyment of the suffering attendant on this latest battle. That it has advanced Our Father's military position in Beleriand is indeed worthy of celebration, but the deaths of Men and Elves, however much you may have enjoyed their fear and suffering, are worthless to us - indeed, worse than worthless - if their fëar are not properly inclined.

How cruelly the Enemy cheats us! How He stacks the deck to His own benefit! We are given only a bare few dozen Sun-years, at most, to work our arts on Men ere they pass forever from our reach. And as for the Elves, though they shall be with us until the breaking of the world, we have not yet - though our Research Departments have made repeated attempts - found a means of entry into that loathsome place called Mandos, and so when Elves die, their fëar are placed for some time out of our reach, and, being under (we must assume) the unmitigated influence of one of the Enemy's most fearsome servants, are liable to undergo quite distasteful regressions.

But as for your patient, you must strike while the iron is hot. All his plans, all his alliances, all his high and hopeful thoughts, have been shattered by the hammer of Our Father's armies against the impregnable anvil of Angband. His infuriating cousin is dead; your patient - you must not let him forget this point! - has led his rescuer to ruin.

The War, and the Oath, I told you before - let him think of only these. Well, your patient has seen the truth now: The War was over before it began. (What a fool he was, to think he and his folk could stand against Our Father’s greatness!) But there is still the Oath, the Oath to which his dying father bade him hold, the Oath by whose terms he and all his brothers swore themselves to damnation; the Oath, and a Silmaril in Doriath.

"No theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined." So boasted the Enemy, in His halls before the beginning of Time - but not only He may boast thus! Behold Our Father's art: Lúthien has claimed her victory, but from that clear spring shall flow a river of blood.

Great is the opportunity before you, Damrus, and I need not remind you that the punishment for failure will be commensurately great.

Your affectionate uncle,
Screwtape

(Yes, I am changing the demon's name - "Damrus," "hammerer of copper," is from Chestnut's brilliant names list. It is a little on the nose, but I couldn't resist.)