Well, this is the end, isn't it?
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Morgoth stared glumly at the dark walls of the Void. Honestly, if Ancalagon did not shut up, he was going to commit seppuku himself with the very same rusted spoon that those two Elves threatened him with. Their names were so vile on their tongue that he refused to speak them. The mere memory of their faces and his getting beaten up by two Elves that were shorter than him and one of them couldn't even overcome Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs he may be, the weakest captain, of his, of the weak - he was digressing. Either way, he hated those two half-brothers, and a little bit resentment was held high up for the fair haired one who shot Ancalagon. How the hell did flowery-princess - er, prince - Arafinwë Ingalaurë manage to take down his lead (Glaurung was still acrimonious about having his position revoked by Morgoth, but hey - was Morgoth just going to take it lying down that Glaurung got to go to Mandos instead of coming to the Void the first time around?) dragon?
The hell?
And Ancalagon still wasn't shutting up about it.
"Damn me," he didn't have anyone else to swear to beside himself, since Eru would most likely smite him if Morgoth took his name in vain, and Manwë was no more of a powerful deity than Morgoth was, in his own opinion, "Ancalagon, but if you do not close that fire-breathing snout, I will take this souvenir and shove it right into your arrow wound! For the mercy of all the dark, corrupted souls in the Void, spare us from your self-inflicted pity party!"
Ancalagon only served to glare at him. "Just because you are bitter about losing to two sons of Finwë doesn't mean that you have to take it out all on us either, you sore loser!"
Morgoth coughed into his darkened palm, feeling the urge to laugh sardonically at him. "For your information, worm, I was subdued by two sons of Finwë, one of the most respected pairs of fighters of the Noldor. It only took an arrow and chance given to the lucky currently reigning King of the Noldor in Tirion to bring you down. And to the Void, he can only take on the bow! And you are calling me a sore loser when you're still sitting here, bemoaning a chipped scale? You must be shitting all of the entirety of the Void to think that I am a worse sore loser than you are. No one is more...gracious than I!"
The dragon snorted, and grey wisps of smoke came from his flaring snout. "Would you like to be reminded of the fact that you were kneed in the groin by the Morwen Eledhwen?"
Morgoth snarled. "I will kill you, 'calagon, if you continue. I swear to myself - "
"Oh, you think so highly of yourself, don't you?"
" - if you continue with your cheeky tone, I will have Gothmog come castrate you with this very rusty spoon that I hold!" roared Morgoth.
"You have no power here, wannabe dark lord, if you want to go. Bring your heat; we all know I'm the one with the fire!"
"And I'm the one who broke us out of the Doors of Night! You may want to cool yourself down, dragon, before you go questioning the authority of the authorities! I alone have slaved at hammering the damn nail into the bolts and hinges; and none of you would aid me in my quest to save us from eternal boredom! And what do I receive in return? A very pained crotch, a failing lead dragon who ended up being brought down by Finarfin, and a dead Glaurung! Now how the hell am I supposed to react when you want to keep complaining about how unfair your death was? Just so you know, I'm still alive, still capable of feeling annoyance, and if you do not clamp your jaws together and bite your tongue off, I will storm the ingress, prostrate myself before my own brother, and plead guilty to all crimes and stay locked up in a separate part of this place forever, and I will make sure that your life will be miserable as long as I am not there to keep Glaurung off of you!"
Glaurung was, in fact, somewhere else right now, away from Morgoth, and slightly afraid of the Dark Lord's threats. Not even his continuous complaints were enough to cause Morgoth to implode silently. The Dark Lord was bound to eventually burst his gut, and his lungs, yelling and screaming and shouting.
Ancalagon rolled his golden eyes. "As if Glaurung could even overtake me!"
"You would be surprised, Ancalagon!" mocked Morgoth. "His nagging is the one thing that keeps me second-guessing my motives! And you all know - " he gestured to the entire crowd gathered around him, " - that I would never feel remorseful of my sins!"
"Then, if he dare comes, I shall... I shall melt him with my fire!"
Morgoth sighed. "Your fire cannot even melt the One Ring; how will it melt him?"
Ancalagon fell silent.
"I'm tired," mused Morgoth to himself. "And I kind of want coffee."
"You're an addict," said Ancalagon finally, his ego bruised. Damn the One Ring, damn Sauron, and damn Orodruin.
"Call it a day?" Morgoth asked.
"There is no day in a hell like this, with you," Ancalagon replied.
Morgoth clenched his fists. "I am trying to make a compromise with you, worm, but you are making it awfully difficult to repose from contention."
"Call it a day then."
As if on cue, Eärendil soared over, and Morgoth walked away, the faint urges of suicide fading away from him.
Dragons are so annoying, he thought. Naggers. Just like Brother's wife. They are the...corrupted forms of the Valie.
Then, amusing himself, he likened Ancalagon to Yavanna and laughed.