The pain filters away as Melkor's power works through him, and he jostles when gathered up in the strongest arms he has ever known. He feels like lava covered in ice-water, like dead blood without a heartbeat, no matter the meaty organ thumping in his chest and in his head.

"It is mine," he whispers to none by himself. His hand bearing the One Ring lies curled up protectively against his chest, covered by another. "Mine alone."

Eyes closed, he tips his cheek against his Master and wonders at the simple calming action of breathing with real lungs. Wheezing, really, after what passed for a broken Maia's panic attack.

"Do you remember Angband?" Quiet now in the aftermath of howling firestorms, he knows it is foolish to try and leave this form again, wanting to try and only stopping himself with the brush of Melkor against him. "You made it for me ...

"I think of it, still, and often."

Mordor is a fractured parody of that place.