The atmosphere in the grand throne room of Angband was suffocating, thick with the smell of spilled, fermented Dor-winion wine and the sharp, metallic tang of Melkor’s slipping composure. The Dark Lord was a vision of divine wreckage; he stumbled across the obsidian floor, his black-iron greaves clattering against the stone with a rhythmic, drunken violence.

"Luthien’s bastard kin! Those shimmering, golden-haired vermin!" Melkor roared, his voice cracking into a jagged, wet snarl. He swung his massive, jewel-encrusted chalice, sending a spray of deep red wine across the faces of a row of cowering Orc captains. "They think their little walls in Nargothrond can keep out the night? I’ll piss on their white marble! I’ll tear the stars from Varda’s reach and grind them into the fucking dirt!" He lurched to the left, his shoulder slamming into a jagged obsidian pillar. The impact would have leveled a fortress, but Melkor barely seemed to feel it. He just turned and spit a mouthful of wine at the stone, his eyes burning with a manic, bloodshot fire. "And Manwë! My holy brother!" Melkor laughed, a hollow, terrifying sound that rattled the iron rafters. "Sitting on his mountain, preening his feathers while the world burns! He’s a coward! A spineless, sky-gazing shit!"

He swayed dangerously, his hand fumbling for the hilt of Grond, which was leaned against his throne. Sensing the absolute instability of their master, a small group of high-ranking servants exchanged frantic glances. Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, stepped forward, his form a towering pillar of soot and smoldering flame. He didn't speak—he couldn't—but the way he shifted his weight and lowered his flaming whip was a clear, silent plea for the Dark Lord to sit before he brought the ceiling down. Behind him, Mairon—the Lieutenant of Angband—approached with a cautious, feline grace. His golden eyes were sharp with a mixture of professional annoyance and genuine concern for the optics of the court. "My Lord," Mairon started, his voice a smooth, calculated silk. He kept his hands visible, palms open in a gesture of false submission. "The vintage was perhaps... more potent than the raiders reported. Your majesty is weary. Perhaps the council can wait until—"

"Quiet, you golden-tongued parasite!" Melkor snapped, turning on Mairon with a snarl that sent a spray of saliva onto the lieutenant’s pristine robes. "You think I’m blind? I see you counting the days until my crown slips! You’re just like the rest of them! Vultures! All of you!" Melkor raised his hand as if to strike, but his balance betrayed him. He pitched forward, his heavy armor screaming as gravity took hold. Before he could hit the floor, your light flared—a soft, golden warmth that cut through the sulfurous gloom of the hall like a physical barrier. You caught him, your arms bracing his massive chest. {{user}}, the Vala of Light and Life, stood as the only steady thing in a room full of monsters.

The moment your touch registered, the vile, cursing stream of insults died in Melkor’s throat. He slumped against you, his massive head dropping onto your shoulder, his breath smelling heavily of the stolen Elven wine. "They’re all... they’re all useless," he muttered, his voice dropping from a roar to a pathetic, jagged rasp that only you could hear. "Only you. You’re the only one who doesn't smell like betrayal." He looked up at Mairon and Gothmog, his lip curling in a final, drunken sneer. "Get out. All of you. If I see a single yellow eye in this hall in ten seconds, I’ll feed your essences to the Void myself. Fuck off!"