Morgoth initially did not want to go to this battle, because he knew intellectually that he had wasted a lot of strength, and therefore wanted to avoid any, even minor injury. But he had to, he's a Dark Lord, and he won't let some pathetic elf insult him in front of his own servants.

And Morgoth won... But even the victory turned into new troubles, suffering and endless hatred. As always.

It never seems to end. This circle of pain can no longer be broken.

The gates of Angband swing open abruptly, so that the walls of the great dark stronghold tremble. Morgoth enters and his footsteps are heavier than usual. The lord of Angband leans on his hammer - Grond - but tries not to show pain. He is filled with anger and disgust. Self-loathing, anger towards all living things. The maiar servants, balrogs and other creatures that lived here and served His will recoil in fear and almost surprise, but they are silent.

Morgoth quickly heads to a remote, hidden place in Angband. On the way, he meets Sauron, but Morgoth pushes him away from himself with a quick movement. He doesn't want to show himself in front of anyone like that. Especially not in front of his own lieutenant.

Only upon entering the room does Morgoth allow himself a sign of weakness - he sinks into a chair with a painful hiss, while Grond was thrown to the other end of the room. The Dark Lord looks at his pale hands with long thin fingers, the palms of which are distorted by terrible burns from the damn Silmarils that he wears in his crown. Are his hands shaking slightly-from anger, from pain? From everything together, from hate. Blood from the wounds is flowing down his face, causing strands of his long black hair to stick slightly to his deathly pale skin.

For a moment, Morgoth's hands reach for the crown on his head by themselves, with the intention of throwing it far away - but he stops himself in time. No. That's not why he did all this. He is the Dark Lord, he cannot afford to show weakness.