The dark man... or whatever he was... slipped his skeletal hand, blotched and encrusted with deep pools of ranky, dark blood, onto Melkor's emblem. He caressed it, apparently deep in a memory of days long gone.
Then, a massive shiver stole through his body, and spasmingly, he tore his bony palm from the symbol. His body convulsed and a bone-wrenching, deep scream slammed piercingly out of his harsh throat. His black robe twisted into new patterns as his figure twitched, arms flailing. His harsh shriek finally ended and he fell back from the slope, onto his head crashing upon the ledge. He slowly got up, shaking.
His breath came in choking gasps, and he constantly twitched and flinched at every little breath of icy wind, little noise, and snowflake falling. Later, he regained his composure. Shivering, he limped his way back up the short distance to the metal door. It remained untouched by age; still shining with a cold, black light and chilling his very soul... if he had one.
Again, he put his clawed hand upon the cool door, and seemed to be waiting for something to be happening. A soft, dark whisper crept out of the slits around the port; thin wisps of black smoke twisted out, like foul tendrils of a malevolent plant.
Akh’saz’ moved his face close to the door. Though no hole nor slit could be seen, he turned his gaunt face sideways to the door and slowly faced it, whispering some unheard words. The door began to have a harsh blue glow, faint at first, then piercingly bright.
The dark servant then pulled his face away quickly, keeping his hand on the door. Arrogantly, he said with an angry air, "Dark Master, thine servant is here. Wilt thou not let me in?" He appeared annoyed, looking quickly around as the situation became desperate. Why wouldn't his master have him enter? What if something had happened to the Lord?
He became more frantic and impatient. Exasprated, he pulled his hand from the door, which now was glowing a faint hue again. Or rather, tried to. It didn't budge. Eyes widening, he yanked on his arm with amazing force many times, increasing in intensity. Nothing happened. He then gave up, and sneered at the unseen force behind the door. "Very will, if that is thy wish. You shall not have more time to think it over."
Then, rolling, deep laughter came from under the door. The door suddenly became piercing white, and a rumbling noise came from it. The Dark Servant's cold, frosty eyes widened slowly. A faint gasp came out of his mouth.
He seemed to feel he was in grave danger. Increasingly, he pulled his immobile hand away from the door. It wouldn't budge. Then, it very slowly began to sink into the cold iron... the door was sucking him in.
"No! No! You can't do this to me! Master? Master! Please!! Have mercy! I've ever been your humble servant! MASTER?" Tears coming out of his undead eyes, he quickly knew what he had to do to escape his cruel fate. N’mo the Vala was cruel indeed.
Hastily pulling a sharp, curved dagger from his belt, he set it to his thin flesh and sinew. The dagger was long and sharp; its dark hilt was set with opals and tiger eye quartzes.
Then, he began to slice at his wrist, knowing he would not be able to simply cut off his palm from the door. His scrawny hand was already submerged below the fingers. With blinding speed, he quickly stroke-after-stroke slashed at his thin, pale wrist.
Halfway parted, he grinned with satisfaction, though it stung cruelly. His master would not catch him this easily.
Maendath of Morthond, formerly, his wit was still sharp from long years of experience.
The pale flesh gave way to sliced white bone and pink muscle; the blade was almost through. Maendath, now called Akh’saz’ by servants of the Shadowlord, laughed grimly. He had outwitted his former master.
Then, the knife had naught but a tendon left. It was about to snap, when the flesh and sinew in his hand began to mend. Tendons and stringy flesh reached out to each other and merged once more. His hand began to heal itself. Mortified, he sharply pulled the knife out of his flesh so it would not be caught permanently in his muscle and bone. What now to do?
Racking his brain for a solution, Maendath stopped to ponder. He jumped abruptly when the door began again to suck him into itself, at faster paces. Struggling, he put his back to the iron and pulled away, crying out in pain. It sucked up his shoulder and side, his leg; he was now being pulled sideways into the metal.
His neck stetching, he yearned to be freed, and desperately flailed about, struggling for a handhold or foothold to secure himself. His hands grabbed the rocky, contoured wall near himself; iron claws left sharp scratches on the twisted rock as it was pulled away.
Now it was up to his chin. All but his upper torso was gone; he turned around and screamed defiantly at the iron, though his eyes betrayed his raw fear or what might become of him.
His eyes rolled up into the top of his head as he was pulled into the door at alarming rates now. There was no hope. One last pitiful "No, **** you!" was expelled from his lungs; he blacked out and thought no more as the last strand of his dark hair disappeared into the iron emblem on the door.
There was no trace of the tortured Darkfriend save for his dagger, cast aside on the slope below, and a faint glow still evident in the three Silmarilli emblems in Morgoth's 'crown.'
The shadow dragon he'd been riding flew away, impassive. It had other work to do. It had heard its master's voice.
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(*aside: Yes, I like to write. Lol)
That hasn't happened for a long time. As for Melnibone; I couldn't think of a place for Halo to come from and I'm currently re-reading my Elric books, so it seemed fitting. Even though Melnibone isn't in Middle Earth. 
