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Morwë dances.
Morwë dances on the rare respites that he has between battles and the planning of war, for the demands of logistics and leadership and the burdens of warfare give him few moments to pause for anything else. He calls himself Gothmog in this Age as he leads the vast army of fellow orcs for the Dark Lord. His seniority is such that he can remember the original Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, and when Sauron was but one commander among many, and when the Dark Lord was Morgoth, Morwë’s creator.
Morwë dances with grace and beauty, the lines of his body as clean and elegant as any elf - greater than most elves, despite the scars and corpse-like pallor of his body. Morwë’s first body was an elf, not an orc. A child’s body, with a child’s blunt teeth, and Morwë’s current body is that of an orc, strong and tall and scarred and seemingly ill-suited for dance until his arms flow into graceful bird-like movements and his hands flow like water and his leaps and spins are weightless and poised. His soul is that of an elf and some of his memories of that life before his first death does linger - but the grace and elegance of his dance is not indebted to that origin.
Morwë dances, and despite the beauty his movements are but a pale reflection, a copy of the memories of someone else dancing with more skill and joy and expression than he will ever recreate or match. But that lack is not Morwë’s fault, nor even the fault of his nature as an orc.
Morwë dances as he remembers that she had danced in that throne room so very long ago, and there is no shame in only capturing the echo and faint imitation of Lúthien Tinúviel’s greatest dance, the dance of the half-Maiar maiden that bespelled the Dark Lord Morgoth and all the inhabitants of Angband. Morwë had been there in the throne room and had watched Lúthien dance, enthralled by the beauty of her movements, and was granted sleep by her spell.
Morwë dances with movements that few alive have ever beheld and fewer still remember. Even his recreation holds power and beauty - and sorrow that the proud orc can barely articulate or understand, a sorrow that the original dance did not possess. Lúthien’s greatest song, perhaps, would find an echo in his dance, but Morwë had not been audience to it.
Morwë dances and creates an ephemeral island of beauty and soothing calm in Mordor until his body stills, having flown through the movements of a dance that still haunts his dreams. Anger and agony thus banished, Morwë smiles and redons his black armor and heavy mace and whip, rejuvenated to lead his army of orcs in service to his Dark Lord.