Not like this, he thinks, hating every second of it. Still, he is more sickened than craven, and he forces himself to stand while still averting his gaze. Ever has he wanted to be useful and prized, unlike the mess he presents now. A mess Luthien herself had predicted.

'There everlastingly thy naked self shall endure the torment of his scorn, pierced by his eyes.'

He hates more than he fears and so, yes, he finds his feet by the time Melkor finds him. Embarrassingly, an arm flies around his midriff to stem a tsunami of nausea, wincing. Bright eyes remain squinted and narrow, unwilling to look much further than they absolutely have to as the crashing waves around the temple ring loudly in his ears.