It is guilt that stays his struggles, holds his tongue, and blinks back the tears. Guilt stirred ever more by the Vala's arguments -- guilt born of his own inherent self-hatred, tended for Ages upon Ages in the gardens of Melkor's torment.

He does not struggle now as the phantom touches him, only flinches and tenses when the sensation draws pain; and when next his mouth is opened in a kiss, he gives in with disheartened acceptance, his tongue, his lips making the correct movements with the awkward incompleteness of a sulky child performing some hated chore.