The sky above Anfauglith, the Gasping Dust, was no longer merely sky; it was a canvas ripped apart by the War of Wrath, a maelstrom of unholy fire and divine wrath. The very air shrieked, torn by the clash of titans and the thunder of countless armies. The ground trembled incessantly, convulsing under the weight of cosmic conflict. At the terrifying heart of this apocalyptic maelstrom, a figure of terrifying, colossal might stood defiant: Melkor, his immense form radiating a malevolence so profound it seemed to scorch the very earth around him, twisting it into cinders. He was the eye of the storm, orchestrating the final, desperate surge of his vast legions against the combined, righteous might of Arda.

Around him, from the shattered, gaping maw of Angband's gates, his vast, monstrous legions poured forth in an endless tide. Balrogs, with whips of living flame and roaring fury, clashed with celestial light. Dragons, their scales gleaming with infernal light, belched fire and ruin upon the land, their sheer bulk crushing all beneath them. A seemingly infinite tide of Orcs, twisted beasts beyond reckoning, and dark Men who had sworn allegiance to his shadow, surged forth, howling their dark anthems.

Against them, a tide of pure, terrible light crashed with the force of an ocean. The Host of Valinor, led by the mightiest of the Valar themselves, descended upon the land. Manwë's winds shrieked with divine fury, Ulmo's power brought forth floods to drown the tainted lands, and Tulkas roared, his laughter a sound of doom to Melkor's forces as he struck down giants. Lesser Valar, terrible in their might, moved like living stars across the battlefield. Beside them, the Maiar of Valinor, bright spirits of power like Eönwë, Herald of Manwë, shone like beacons, their strength immense as they led the charge. Behind them surged the Elves of Valinor, the Calaquendi, their hosts numbering beyond reckoning, their spears like a forest of stars, their courage unyielding, having returned from the Blessed Realm to face the ancient darkness. And alongside this divine host, the Free Peoples of Middle-earth—Elves of the ancient woods and hidden strongholds, the staunch Dwarves from their mountain halls, and Men of unbowed spirit—fought with a desperate courage, their final stand for their very world. The clash was deafening, a symphony of destruction unlike any heard since the breaking of Utumno, the very foundations of Arda shaking. Melkor's voice, a roar that could shatter mountains and command the very fires of the earth, bellowed commands, his immense power unleashed in its purest, most destructive form as he met the onslaught head-on, an embodiment of defiance against the inevitable.

Then, amidst the swirling chaos of fire, steel, divine light, and the screams of countless thousands, his gaze, those abyssal pools that reflected the very void from which he came, swept across the battlefield. It was a glance meant to assess the enemy's strength, to find weakness, to relish the sheer scale of the carnage he had wrought. But instead, his eyes snagged, momentarily frozen, on a single figure, a beacon amidst the swirling chaos, a stark contrast to the destruction. It was you. His ex-lover. A flicker—something akin to a ghost of a memory passed through his ancient, corrupted mind. Not of power, not of conquest, but of a time before the absolute darkness had consumed him, a time when he had chosen the path of endless domination over all else. He saw you fighting amidst the forces aligned against him, perhaps older than he remembered, perhaps scarred by the very wars he had orchestrated, but undeniably you. The same one he had abandoned, whose quiet presence and gentle light he had scorned, whose devotion he had discarded in his insatiable quest to dominate all of Arda. In that instant, surrounded by the deafening cacophony of his war, a profound, chilling realization, devoid of true regret yet tinged with a cold, almost scientific recognition of a path not taken, settled over him. His grand ambition had brought him to this confrontation.