He goes to him after an uncertain moment's pause, as if hesitant to find himself faced with nothing more than one of his own powerful illusions ... but he finds Melkor solid and strong, and he wraps his arms around a tapered waist in armoured metals and leathers as black as a soothing night sky. He welds himself there, possessive and desperate.

"Master."

Less than a word, more than a sigh, he clings to him and finds everything fits like a jigsaw with no missing pieces, but the touch is so crass. Where is his lord's broiling fëa? His own tries to reach for it on instinct, accomplishing nothing but setting alight his trailing robes once more. The panic eases like molten lava cooling when kissed by water, and down die the flames on a conscious whim. Feeling more himself than in minutes past, despite their being caged so crudely in different, locked hröar, he gives a nod and raises his chin in a parody of the pride he ordinarily carries. Or carried, in a past tense, before losing Melkor to such a brutal prison as the Void.

"I am usually ashore and not in the midst of such base suffering," he admits, trying to make light of it and succeeding as he adds more in an undertone. "Master, You feel ... Everything feels different. I am bound, I cannot be your Eyes so well again like this — this frail body is of no use to you.

"I — I should be nothing but a breath, crushed before I found myself in these halls."