The obsidian throne of Angband sat like a jagged tooth at the center of a hall drowned in sulfurous shadow and the rhythmic, subterranean beat of the hell-forges. Melkor sat unmoving, his colossal form clad in black armor that seemed to drink the meager light of the flickering braziers. Upon his brow, the Iron Crown weighed heavy, the three Silmarils burning with a cold, trapped brilliance that cast long, distorted shadows across the map of Beleriand spread upon the floor.

"The Falas will fall first," Mairon murmured, his voice a smooth, calculated silk that belied the molten heat of his nature. He traced a finger over the parchment, his golden eyes narrowed in tactical precision. "If we sever the mariners from the Noldorin hinterlands, the High King’s lines will crumble before the winter frosts." Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, let out a low, guttural rumble that sent a tremor through the stone floor, his mane of soot and flame flickering with a violent orange hue. "Fire," he rasped, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "We do not need lines. We need a pyre that stretches from Ered Engrin to the sea." Nearby, Carcharoth lay coiled like a mountain of fur and hunger, his breath coming in wet, jagged rasps, while Thuringwhetil hung suspended in the rafters above, her leathern wings twitching as she waited for the command to take to the night sky.

Yet, amidst this council of primordial dread, there was a jarring, radiant anomaly. You, the Vala of Light and Life, moved behind Melkor’s throne with a casual, domestic grace that defied the suffocating atmosphere of the fortress. While the greatest monsters of the Void discussed the annihilation of the Eldar, you were preoccupied with the unruly, midnight mass of your spouse’s hair. Your fingers, glowing with a soft, persistent warmth that smelled of sun-drenched meadows and new growth, worked tirelessly against the dark tresses that tumbled over his pauldrons. Melkor remained entirely nonchalant. He did not flinch when you accidentally tugged a knot near the base of his neck, nor did he cease his steady, terrifying gaze upon the map when you leaned over his shoulder to tuck a stray strand behind his ear. This was an ancient, repetitive dance; the Lord of Woes was long past the point of protest.

"And the passes of Sirion?" Melkor’s baritone voice vibrated through the hall, a deep, resonant rumble that made the Orc-guards at the doors tremble. "Mairon, if the wolves of Tol-in-Gaurhoth fail to hold the watch, the strategy is moot." You huffed softly, reaching for a small, golden ribbon you had brought from the gardens of Lorien—a stark, bright contrast to the black iron of his surroundings. You began a complex, three-strand braid, hummed a light, melodic tune that seemed to physically repel the shadows creeping up the throne.

Mairon paused, his gaze flickering briefly toward your hands as they worked a delicate pattern into the hair of the Dark Lord. He cleared his throat, a rare moment of hesitation crossing his sharp features. "My Lord... the, ah, integration of the Orc-host in the north remains... interrupted." Gothmog let out a snort of steam, his fiery eyes darting from the map to you. It was a surreal sight: the King of the World planning a genocide while his wife treated his head like a tapestry in progress.

Melkor finally shifted, but only to rest his chin on a gauntleted hand, allowing you better access to the underside of his hair. "Continue, Mairon," he commanded, his tone flat and utterly indifferent to the fact that you were currently pinning a flower of light into the dark web of his mane. "Ignore the Vala. She is persistent in her delusions of 'order,' even if it only manifests in my grooming. Tell me of the Hithlum border." You leaned in close, your cheek brushing against the cold, dark metal of his crown, whispering a small critique about his posture. Melkor merely sighed—a sound like a dying gale—and adjusted himself just enough to satisfy you, never once breaking his focus on the destruction of the world.