Disclaimer: Everything Arda belongs to the great JRR Tolkien who created it. I belong to myself (as no one came forth to claim me).
Summary: What if a self-insert landing in Arda landed in an unexpected place? An attempt to answer some questions that bothered me for years, and make my profession a bit more glamorous in the process.
Dedicated to all those writing sappy stories about Morgoth being really nice or those reveling in torturing their characters in stories about Morgoth being not just evil, but simply icky.
Prologue. Morgoth's Dinner Disturbed
Angband. Year XXX of the First Age.
Morgoth cringed as Draugluin dropped pieces of a chewed bone on his foot. It has been a long time since he gave up on trying to look halfway as good as before stealing the Silmarilli, and dirty floors stopped bothering him, but dirty shoes still did. He couldn't help but point that fact out to Boldog, the captain of the Orc guard, whose boots were covered with weeks of grime and mud. The Dark Vala thought lazily: "Every time he is invited to come in, he would be forced to polish his shoes – maybe that's why Boldog always volunteered for the monthly "Let's Search for a Way into Hithlum" missions?"
"My lord, I have the report from our most glorious expedition!" reported the Orc, trying to avoid his master's eyes.
"Glorious? You call something glorious when your boots are obviously not?"
"My lord, I hoped…"
"And I have given up hope that you can polish your boots without being reminded to! Return when you have done so. You have ten minutes. Oh, and polish mine too!"
It has also been decades since someone dared to let Morgoth know that his feet stank. The last one to do so, a former Maia of Orome, made a nice wall mount, and served as a good reminder to those with sensitive noses.
Just as Boldog returned, his boots shining like mirrors, and the ones he held in his hands reflecting the light of the Silmarilli onto the walls and the ceiling, like a disco ball, there was a loud crash.
Morgoth sighed, looking at the hole on the ceiling, and the bat dung, that covered boots that just a second ago looked like his dream of world domination come true. Then he looked at the cause of the commotion, a shape remotely like an Elven female, lying at his feet.
"Oh look, Boldog, the complaints of the Fifth Regiment about bland diet have been solved! You can tell them they get a fresh meat pie today!" the Dark Vala smiled happily. Combining pleasant (punishment for the destruction wrought) and useful (improving his Orcs' diet) was his favorite way of solving problems. It was why he wanted to conquer the world in the first place – his imbecile siblings obviously weren't capable of even solving the problem of precipitation (or lack thereof) without his help!
Author's Note: Evil website doesn't allow hyphens in the story title or summary. I beg your forgiveness. Also, this is NOT how I really think Angband was, but this is how I want to play with it.