Author's Note: My twisted take on a tenth-walker fic…sort of.
Disclaimer: I make no profit off anything I write.
A Meeting with Papa Wolf
Smoke roiled from Mount Orodruin, a sign that any day it would soon erupt, whenever the Lord of Mordor's darkening mood finally hit its peak. And Fëatho watched the billowing dark clouds with a mix of worry and excitement.
His father's wrath was dangerous and violent and well he had learned that at an early age, but rare were the times when it affected the mountain. Most of the mountain's eruptions were natural occurrences. Arda's molten blood flowed freely in glowing veins that coloured the bleak landscape. Without misgiving he could sit and watch and celebrate the glory of Mordor's deadly majesty, knowing when the mountain's rage had passed his father would sigh, hearing of the damage done to his roads, before sending orcs to repair them.
But the mountain's current activity tinged his enthusiasm with anxiety, because his father was unhappy. There was power in the mountain; cracks, crevices, hollows, and chambers that echoed with old song if one had the ears to hear it, and he felt them now- the buzz of notes too far away to make out humming in the earth and quietly reverberating throughout Barad-dûr's dark walls.
He wished his father could be happy. If the mountain's fiery displays of his father's anger were rare, then his father's moments of pleasure were even more so, and he wished, he wished, that he could do something, anything, to fix that.
Mordor's lord had always been overly controlling and incredibly domineering pain in Fëatho's rear-end. The found himself bound within the walls of Barad-dûr, everything he did was heavily regimented, and he was sure that his every move was reported to the Lord of Mordor, but in spite of all that he loved his father, and hated that his pleas to aid him were refused or subverted to other tasks. Never had Fëatho been allowed to do something truly daring or dangerous in his father's name.
Sure he commanded men and orcs when asked and went through reports his father had not the time to look upon but loathed to delegate to anyone less trustworthy. And Fëatho knew having such a place on the Dark Lord's council was an honour, but as time wore on he felt increasingly constricted, a prisoner inside his own home. For years he had not been permitted beyond the walls, and every day the need to get a breath of fresh air grew more poignant. Even his dreams were filled with far off places, Minas Tirith surrounded by dust and filled with enemies was starting to look appealing.
His father had told him many times of the grass that surrounded Minas Tirith. It was green and yellow, but all he could imagine when he thought of the white city were dark walls, jagged spires, and darkness- a landscape not unlike the one beyond his window. He knew nothing else, and while he loved his home and always would, he desperately wished to travel beyond the walls, beyond the orcs, beyond the cares of his father, and beyond the duties that came with being his father's son, to see what the lands that other people called home.
A single day would be enough. He would even ask his father to accompany him, but he knew the Lord of Mordor would not abandon his fortress when there was war to prepare for and enemies to punish-
The young lord jumped as a knock sounded at his door.
Seconds later he heard the pitter-patter of his servant's feet in the adjoining room as he hastened to the door. Muffled voices tickled Fëatho's ears as he glanced at himself in the mirror.
Plucking at his clothes and running pale fingers through the curly ends of the thick red braid draped over his shoulder, he made sure he was presentable.
His servant, Ikshu appeared in the mirror, lightly bowing in the threshold of the archway.
"Your father wishes to see you Lord."
Nodding, he gave himself another swift appraisal. It would never do well to look less than perfect when wandering outside his chambers. His father would undoubtedly hear of it if he did, and as the son of the greatest being on Middle Earth he needed to look the part. Earning the respect of Mordor's denizens was not easy, and there were many who disliked him for having power and favour that they thought was undeserved and had never been worked for.
Fëatho had heard the rumours. Most were wise enough to keep their opinions to themselves when in his father's presence, but he knew what they thought of him. He knew that they called him 'runt' and said he 'merely piggybacked on his father's success,' and he could not find it in himself to argue when he truly felt he had done nothing to help his father. 'He gets all the benefits and suffers none of the work,' they whispered when he they thought he couldn't hear, and the young lord hated how right they were.
"I go to him presently." He breezed past his man servant into what served as his study, and met the orcish messenger tittering at the door.
"Take me to him."
Outside the thick dark doors of his father's quarters, the orc bowed and scurried away. Fëatho paid the hastily retreating messenger little heed. He knew well that his father was not the kindest of masters, nor was he the most pleasant to look upon, or so he'd heard. The face of the Dark Lord had always been concealed within the blackness of a low hood. And that sent a pang of jealously rippling through his veins.
It was horribly unfair that he should never know what his father looked like, when servants less than he had seen his face, and the Nazgûl; wraiths of men bound to is father's will for eternity had seen his father in the days of his beauty, when elves called him Annatar, and men revered him as Zigûr and Tar-Mairon.
Realistically he knew it was not the Wraiths' faults for being born when they had, but being denied all his life something so seemingly simple and yet preciously intimate as a glimpse of his father's face roiled unpleasantly in his stomach, and he wished that he could have been as lucky as they.
Suddenly irritable and not wishing to meet his father in such a mood Fëatho stalled, smoothing out the already smooth fabric that covered him.
Normally his father met him in the throne room, when there was something his lord and father wished of him. It helped his mood somewhat to think that this particular visit may have been a social one…or a lesson in sorcery.
His father liked his privacy, and his desire for it seemed to have grown over the years, much to Fëatho's disappointment. There was a time when his father used to ride with him to Orodruin, when he was young and ignorant of the workings of his father's forge. Those days had long since passed, and a small pang of longing made him rub irritably at his chest.
The Lord of Mordor was busy, dealing with allies liable to double-cross him, enemies to vanquish, wars to prepare for, and a world to organize and save. He knew his father had not intentionally thrown him to the wayside, but he still wished for the days when his father had been more like a father and less like a master.
Fëatho supposed he could ask his father to accompany him on an outing….
He sighed, tugging irritably at the ends of his plated hair. It was a hopeless affair. His father had over the years sought to restrict both their activities to the tower, and no amount of pleading on his part was liable to change that.
Resigning himself to the futility of his mission, Fëatho sucked in a breath and knocked. From within his chambers his father's voice faintly beckoned, and with no more time left to stall, the boy opened the door.
Fëatho found the Lord of Mordor standing upon his balcony, idly rubbing the scaly breast of a flyting reptilian creature that Mordor's wartime enemies had cruelly named hell-hawks. Akin they were to the beasts the Nazgûl rode, which might have explained the reasoning behind the hideous name the Gondorians had bestowed upon them, but there was nothing hellish about them as far as the boy was concerned.
The creature's leathery wings flutter, and it screeched at the sight of him, eliciting a chuckle from the Dark Lord.
He watched his father proffer the bird a piece of meat. It eyed the bloodied lump pinched between two gloved fingers, cooing gratefully as it bowed.
"A faithful messenger you have been young one," the Lord of Mordor cooed, his voice dripping with warmth and honey. "Far greater reward shall be given for your services."
Fëatho stood idly in the door, fingers idly fiddling with the ends of his hair. It was rare to see his father in so gracious a mood, and it brought a faint smile to his lips, seeing how such a small and seemingly insignificant creature could give his father pleasure.
Indeed, Orodruin, far off, and extension of the Lord's moods seemed quieter at present.
The long quills running along the hawk's spine rustled as it hungrily watched his father place the meat upon the rail, head poised like a heron's to snatch it as soon as its master's fingers released it.
Like heron it snapped the meat up from the dark stone, before rubbing its scaly face against its master's bloodied gloved fingers, and Fëatho watched, enjoying the sight of such a rare display of affection.
"Return to your roost and rest young one, I would speak with my son alone."
Chittering, the creature fanned its wings, bowing in reverence to its dark master, before leaping into the air.
Fëatho moved from the doorway to watch the little creature's flight, as it returned to its eyrie.
The Lord of Mordor turned. Golden eyes, gleaming like molten fire, appraised him from beneath a heavy dark cowl. Hastily Fëatho averted his gaze and bowed. "Father."
"It seems as though it has been a while since last we spent time in each other's company," the Lord of Mordor spoke, tugging off his bloodied gloves, revealing hands haggard and scared, charred to sooty black, and cut by veins of blood that looked eerily similar to Mount Orodruin's deadly fire. "I thought to rectify that with Luncheon."
The Lord of Mordor gestured to the interior of his chambers, and Fëatho shot him a light smile and followed him inside.
"Some messages arrived and I'm curious to see what you'll make of them," the Lord of Mordor gestured to a small stack of papers on his desk, as he stole a sip of wine from a copper goblet.
"I'll look them over, and report to you as soon as possible Father…." He trailed off, knowing that the Lord of Mordor would refuse him as soon as he asked, but the desire to get out of Barad-dûr burned hot and bright in his chest.
Carefully Fëatho kept his eyes adverted, wary of his father's gaze. It was potent and powerful, dangerous and nearly impossible to deceive or advert. Those eyes, their full power had never fallen upon him, but he knew it would take little for the Dark Lord to read him, if he did not already guess what thoughts swum in his head, and he did dare give himself away too early. At least not before he was sure he had an argument that might win him over.
"Speak your mind. If there is something you would have of me I'd rather you tell me, than leaving me to guess."
Fëatho flinched. His chest constricted as his hopes were dashed. Again. Exasperated and frustrated, he was suddenly very aware of an itch in his arm, and the need to fiddle with his hair. He had the same anxiously busy fingers his father did, and it took a great deal of effort to keep them from fiddling with the nearest items.
"I wish to leave Barad-dûr."
"Then do so." His father said lightly, without even looking up at him, seemingly very engrossed in wiping his fingers with a napkin. "I have not locked you behind iron bars or demanded that you stay." Fëatho knew better than to smile and leap for joy. It was his father's smooth cool equivalent to sarcasm, or at least it could have been, if not for the venom that ran beneath the words. It was a trick of one form or another, of that the boy was sure, even if there was no outward of it.
"But I have duties that keep me here-"
"As they should." The fiery eyes within the darkness of the Dark Lord's hood seemed to glow a bit brighter than before as they once again fell upon his son, and already Fëatho was mentally fumbling for a response. Everything he'd planned, everything he'd rehearsed was crumbling to dust on his tongue.
He may have been the son of Sauron, but he had inherited none of his eloquence. As he made the mistake of directly looking into his father's fiery eyes his resolve crumpled, and he struggled to continue his futile plea.
"Father I-"he bit his lip. "I-I wish to see the world. I don't mean through the gaze of the eye, I mean actually experiencing what is beyond our borders. I want to feel the grass beneath my feet, I want to stand under the sun, listening to the calls of exotic birds, and climb up mountain peaks that are strange and new. I want to explore and discover the world. Please, Father, allow me this. Please."
Fëatho leaned across the table, food and drink forgotten, eyes bright with longing and excitement. There were places he dreamt of going, people and creatures he dreamt of meeting, and activities he'd only heard of, but had never done. And a trip away from Mordor would allow him to shed his duties and gain some freedom. It seemed like so small a thing to ask for.
"You sound much like your mother."
Fëatho froze, breath freezing in his lungs.
His father rarely mentioned her. And all Fëatho knew was that she died young –even for one of the Edain- and she was buried in a crypt, under one Barad-dur's many lower towers.
Rendered speechless he could do nothing but wait, hoping that his father would tell him of her. "I permitted her departure… only the parts of her I could find, and those large enough to be carried ever returned." The Lord of Mordor regarded him over steepled fingers. "And yet you would ask this of me."
Fëatho knew that he'd once again failed to prevail upon his father. It was painfully clear that his mother was being held responsible for her demise, and that the adventurous streak he shared with her was not something to be proud of. Deep in his chest that knowledge tore at him, burning the back of his throat, as stinging tears clotted in his eyes. On a horrible precipice he teetered. He wanted to leave, needed to leave, but he needed his father's approval too. And between those two desires he was being pulled apart.
Why could he not have both? Was that just too much to wish for?
At least, if nothing else, he understood his father's aversion to his departing. But he would not be like his mother. He would return whole and hail, and never again would his father have need to refuse such a request. But then but then the Dark Lord would probably never ever have to, because all Fëatho felt he needed was a glimpse of the outside world. Surely that could satisfy his curiosity. No. It would. It had to.
But his father would be not be won an emotional appeal. The Lord of Mordor was pragmatist and it would take logic to convince him.
"Father I'm not a military mind, nor do I possess your charisma. I'm not fit to rule or command-"
"What have I groomed you for if not command?"
Fëatho flinched at the softness of his father's voice. "I will always lead men under your banner, Father. But…." He trailed off into pitiful silence. Never had he been able to articulate his true feelings, no matter how coherent and steadfast his words were in his head. The moment he opened his mouth the words always got stuck or entangled themselves, useless and very unhelpful. The boy wished he were braver, that he could speak openly of his true desires, he feared what his father-what the Lord of Mordor would do with such knowledge. He loved his father more than anything in the world, and never would he understand that. But also he wanted his father to be proud of him, to love him unconditionally, but his father's love was conditional, rigged with strings of manipulations and barbed with cruelty. He had learned that observing his father's treatment of other's people love, how he twisted it and moulded it into a weapon to be used against them, and he wanted to be different- needed to be different: the exception to the norm.
"Yes?" The Lord of Mordor inquired after a long pause.
"Father my assets lie not in warfare, nor in politics. You can teach me, and you have taught me, but I feel like I fail you. Constantly. I disappoint you, and I want you to be proud," his throat clenched, and his eyes prickled. Unable to face his father in such a state he looked away, swallowing down the lump that clogged his throat, and strangled his words. "I want to feel, that I have earned what's been given to me, and as a leader, as a commander…."And as a captivating speaker, the voice in Fëatho's head bit out sarcastically. I will never make you proud.
"I want to do something. I want to go out and learn. I want to be worthy of what I have here. Of you, and I feel like I do no good, like I'll lose my mind if I say here for much longer. Father want to be a wolf." His father uttered a bark of laughter, and suddenly encouraged Fëatho pressed on. "I'm the son of the Lord of Werewolves and I've done nothing remotely close to wolfish. Please allow me this one opportunity. I can be your eyes and ears in places that your hawks, spiders, wolves, and nightly creatures cannot go."
"I have too many commanders you say. Do you think I want for spies?"
"Father," Fëatho's red hair turned black, and his blue eyes turned green. His ears tapered to fine points, and his face narrowed, until what sat across from the Lord of Mordor wasn't Fëatho the Young Wolf, but an elf. "I can go where none of your other servants would dare to tread. This I could do, if you would but give me the opportunity. Please. If-if I fail then when I return, I'll do all that you ask, and I'll never speak of leaving Barad-dûr again. I swear."
The Dark Lord exhaled, taking another sip of wine. "I allowed your mother to wander into far less dangerous territory and that was enough to kill her. You wish for me to permit…no-wilfully send my son and the heir into dangerous lands so that he can get his blood flowing?"
"I am not my mother. I am Fëatho Gorthaurion, the Young Wolf, and your son. I will return, I promise."
The cloaked Maia's eyes glittered beneath his hood. "As your father I will not allow this, and as your Lord I will not sanction this. I will not send my heir to my enemies on a gilded platter."
Fëatho leaned his face into his hands, despairing as once again his father denied him.
Vaguely he was aware of the slither of heavy fabric, and the faint scrape of a chair as his father stood, but Fëatho didn't care, until heavy warm hands fell upon his shoulders.
Flinching he looked up, staring beseechingly into the golden molten eyes that appraised him.
"Fëatho, my Little Wolf-" His chest constricted and his teeth dug painfully into his lip as he struggled to keep his composure. It had been so long since his father called him that, let alone any term of endearment. "Who would rule after me if something were to go wrong? Who would rebuild my empire from the ruins if I could not do so?"
"I would," he choked out. "But I could never build as you. You must always rule."
The very notion that his father could be defeated, overthrown, by the pitiful remnants of Numenor was absurd in its audacity. He knew it had happened before, but his adversaries had many and great then.
There was nothing in the world for him to fear, and Fëatho found his worries paranoid and delusional. No one would harm his father, and he'd tear the world apart if someone thought to try. He knew his father would be nonplussed by further ruination of Arda, but he'd take his father's disappointment over his loss.
"If I'm not allowed to leave then you're not allowed to be defeated. The world needs you, the people out there need you, your enemies need you, and I-I-I-" He choked on a painful glob of condensed air and mucus. Without thinking Fëatho threw his arms around the unnaturally hot torso of his father, burying his face in his chest. 'I love you.'
He clung to his father like a sailor to a lifeline, hating the stupid hot tears that stung his eyes and soaked into his father's cloak, wishing that he could do something, even if it was only one thing, to make him proud. Spying was perfect for him and he knew it.
It was the perfect escape from Barad-dûr and the way he knew he could help most. He was good at hearing rumours, good at validating them, and good at learning their sources, but there was no way to convince his father of that.
"I'll return. I promise I'll return."
A gentle hand settled on his head, but the voice that spoke was edged with ice. "I have made my position on this matter clear, and I wish to hear no more of it."
Fëatho shuddered and pressed himself closer, snuggling closer, relishing the warmth of the impromptu embrace, aware that it would be over far too soon.
