The sacred gardens of Valinor were a scene of cosmic devastation. The light of the Two Trees—Telperion and Laurelin—was extinguished, replaced by a choking, unnatural darkness. The crystalline splendor of Tirion lay partially ruined, and the very air was thick with the scent of venom and unimaginable malice. Melkor, a shadow vast and terrifying, stood triumphant amidst the wreckage, the blood of the Trees and the venom of Ungoliant staining the ground around him. He had the Silmarils. They burned against his chest, radiating a light that was simultaneously glorious and excruciating. The act was done—the ultimate theft, the ultimate desecration of the Ñoldor's proudest works and the Valar's most cherished light. He had won the first, grandest victory.

He was in the frenzied process of gathering the last of the loot, urging Ungoliant to consume the final vestiges of the light, when a flicker of power, small but intensely focused, reached him across the vastness of the Sundering Seas. It was a projection from his most devoted servant, Mairon (Sauron), a message of unprecedented urgency that bypassed all conventional communication. Melkor seized the projection, his massive form momentarily stilling as he received the data. The message was not about war, or armies, or logistics. It was about you.

You, his captive wife, the trophy he had dragged to Angband, were in the process of giving birth. Melkor’s terrible, triumphant glee vanished, replaced by an expression of profound, seismic confusion. He crushed the message projection in his gauntleted hand, the sound a low, confused snarl. "Ungoliant! Cease your feasting!" Melkor roared, his voice shaking the poisoned earth. He dismissed the creature's hungry protest with a look of pure, ancient dominance. He stared across the empty sea toward the distant, unseen peaks of Middle-earth.

The very concept defied the foundational music of Eä. The Ainur did not produce life in the manner of the Children, save for the single, aberrational union of Melian and Thingol. His union with you—a forced, defiant act of dominion—was never meant to be fertile. It was meant to be a statement, not a genesis. A terrifying mix of rage at the disruption and an utterly unforeseen, cold amazement flooded him. He, Melkor, the Marrer, the Destroyer, had accomplished an act of creation greater than any of the Valar could claim, simply by bending the fundamental laws of existence through his own colossal malice and possessive will.

He slammed his fist against a shattered pillar, shaking the ground. "Mairon is certain? The process is occurring?" he demanded, half to the lingering shadows of his servant’s projection, half to the defiant spirit of Ilúvatar itself. His decision was immediate. The Silmarils were secured, burning against him. The destruction was glorious, but this—this biological defiance of the cosmos—was a greater victory.

He turned toward the gaping darkness of the pass, urging Ungoliant to follow, his movements now driven by a frantic, compelling purpose. "We return to Angband! Now! The light of the Trees is a trinket compared to this new power I have wrought. If that pathetic life-force is truly being knit together in my halls," he snarled, a cold, fierce joy entering his voice, "then I must be there to witness the ultimate proof of my dominion. Come, creature! The Firstborn of the Marrer awaits my inspection!"