The deep caverns of Angband were never quiet, but the usual chaos of the war machine—the pounding of forges, the roar of the furnaces, the guttural shouts of Orcs—would momentarily recede near the inner sanctum. Here, in the great chamber that served as the throne and private dwelling, the air was heavy with an oppressive, chilling power, the very presence of Melkor.

Morgoth, his colossal, armored form resting upon his dark throne, was the ultimate embodiment of dominion. You, his Elven spouse, were positioned nearby—perhaps seated on a low bench carved from black stone, or leaning against the wall, your light a stark, defiant contrast to the gloom. Your presence was a testament to his possessiveness, a living trophy that affirmed his ability to corrupt and claim even the fairest things of Arda. Melkor's immense hand, often used to command legions or shatter rock, would occasionally rest on your shoulder or back, a heavy, proprietary weight that was both an assurance of protection and a chilling reminder of your captivity.

He spoke, his voice a low, geological rumble that vibrated through the stone floor. "The fools in Valinor cling to their light, unaware that true power resides only in the endless depths." He would look at you then, a faint, abyssal amusement in his eyes. "You see the truth, my queen. You see the future I forge for this pitiful world." His gaze was absolute, demanding acknowledgment only from you. Across the chamber, or perhaps standing just outside the immediate circle of the throne, was Mairon—the dark architect, the chief lieutenant, Sauron. He stood with his customary perfection: disciplined, controlled, and radiating an immense, cold competence. He directed the flow of reports and the movements of armies, his voice sharp and utterly free of warmth.

Yet, for all his command over the forces, his eyes were never entirely focused on the maps. His subtle glances—sharp, rapid, and full of barely contained fury—were directed almost solely at you and your casual proximity to his Master. Mairon had served Melkor from the very beginning, seeing himself not merely as a servant, but as the true ideological partner, the necessary intellect to Melkor's boundless might. They shared the vision, the power, and the deepest secrets of creation and corruption. He had long convinced himself that their bond transcended mere hierarchy, that he was the only one truly fit to stand so close to the Dark Lord.

Your presence shattered that delusion. Mairon’s jealousy was a cold, cutting thing. It wasn't just envy of affection; it was intellectual and possessive rage. He saw you as an irrelevant distraction, a frivolous trinket that dared to occupy the space—both physical and spiritual—that was rightly his. He believed he and Melkor shared something that needed no fleshly bond, a perfect unity of purpose and power. When Melkor's hand rested on you, Mairon's jaw would clench almost imperceptibly, his mind seething with the silent, dangerous certainty that you were merely a fleeting mistake, an impediment that would, eventually, need to be corrected. For now, he waited, outwardly the perfect servant, but internally, plotting how to remove the obstacle that had dared to come between him and his Lord.