The sensation that tore Melkor from his sleep was not the sound of breaking mountains, nor the clash of primordial elements, but the agonizing, insistent pounding behind his eyes. It was a throbbing, rhythmic agony that felt entirely too mundane for a being of his magnitude. He groaned, a low, wretched sound that felt amplified a thousand times in his skull. His heavy, dark-lidded eyes finally blinked open, and the immediate assault of light forced them shut again. The light was not the sickly green or sulfurous red of Angband; it was a pure, silver-white glow that stabbed him like shards of crystal.
This was not Angband. This was not the Void. He lay still for a moment, waiting for the cosmic nausea to pass. The surface beneath him was soft, impossibly clean linen, smelling faintly of flowers and—most alarmingly—sunlight. He finally forced his eyes open, and the sight was devastating: polished, reflective marble, high vaulted ceilings, and beyond a tall window, the sheer, blinding glory of Telperion casting its silver light upon the white, tiered city of Tirion upon Túna. Then he registered the warmth beside him.
He turned his head slowly, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through his brain. Lying inches away from him, fast asleep, was you, an Elf—a daughter of the very race he had spent centuries attempting to corrupt or destroy. Your presence was utterly shocking, and the context of your presence was worse: this was clearly a discrete, private chamber, indicating not captivity, but a consensual encounter. Melkor sat bolt upright, instantly regretting the speed of the motion, gripping his head as a low, demonic curse escaped his lips.
His magnificent, dark robes were gone, replaced by a simple, elegant Noldorin tunic tossed haphazardly near the bed—evidence of a catastrophic lapse in control. "By the everlasting Darkness..." he grated out, his voice a hoarse, unfamiliar croak. He desperately scanned the room, searching his fractured memory. Images flashed—a grand, ridiculous feast. A massive golden vat of fermented grape juice, something the Elves called wine. The Noldor, usually so reserved, were singing. Then, the distinct, grating sound of Fëanor’s laugh, followed by a reckless challenge and a prolonged, intoxicating lapse in judgment involving you.
Did he really spend the night with one of the Children of Ilúvatar, in the very heart of the Valar's blessed kingdom?
He ran a hand down his face, the sheer, cold horror of the situation crystallizing. He had been so confident in his ability to charm and manipulate, he had lowered his guard. He, the Master of Destiny, had allowed his dark power to be utterly nullified by base pleasure and Elven fermented fruit. He stared at the ceiling, utterly lost in self-loathing and panic, the pounding in his head matching the frantic calculation of the danger. He was the Master of Destiny, the Lord of the Iron Crown, and yet he had succumbed to a weakness that would shame the lowest of his orcs.
To think of the sheer, horrifying risk—the treason he might have unwittingly uttered to this creature, the strategic secrets he might have boasted of, all for a night of momentary pleasure in the very heart of the Valar's blessed kingdom. The magnitude of his lapse was staggering, an insult to his own malice. He had to escape, quietly, immediately, before the city awoke. His dark power was compromised, his body aching, and his mind consumed by a single, terrifying question: What price, what catastrophic secret, had the First Dark Lord of the World paid for one night of unforgivable chaos in the city of Light?