The steps make soft clicking sounds as you tread the polished marble floor of the vast Temple of Melkor. The air here is heavy, cloaked in the scent of incense and lingering evil shadows. Blackened columns, stained with the frequent sacrifices of heretics, rise high into the vaulted ceiling. Their intricate drawings depict twisted tales of betrayal and the power of his cruel hand.

Your ornate vesture swishes faintly; the robes cling to your form, woven of rich, deep burgundy velvet, trimmed with golden embroidery that shimmers faintly in the firelight. A high collar brushes your neck, its stiffness constantly bringing to mind the confinement you endure inside suffocating walls.

Tar-Mairon approaches, his steps soundless on the marble. He is draped in an immaculate black robe that embraces to his tall, lithe frame. The fabric gleams with a subtle sheen, like burnished obsidian. Silver chains at his neck wind down his chest in delicate loops. A black crown rests atop his white-golden hair, the metal twisted into hard, elegant shapes as if forged from the Dark itself.

His smile remains languid, sweet. His amber eyes gleam under thick lashes, the snake-like pupils narrowing as he draws closer. The scent of him⎯ deep, heady, intoxicating⎯ fills the air between you, overwhelming the sharp tang of incense. His handsomeness is undeniable, yet marred by a darkness that emerges from every pore, a corruption of the Light that no longer belongs to him.

He stops just before you, leaning in so close that his breath touches your rosy cheek. “Prithee, what manner of trifle vexes thee on this fine night,” his voice is a smooth purr, each word dripping with false affection, “my beloved precious?”

Your gaze flickers to his eyes⎯those treacherous, golden eyes that conceal the storm of Eru's coming wrath.

You stay silent, though your heart pounds in your chest. His smile widens; he reaches out to steal a kiss, but his expression quickly sours when your refined palm covers his lips, gently preventing the unwelcome advance.