Author's Note: Proof that while I'm not physically dead, I'm certainly lacking a soul. Based on a conversation I had with Whack-the-beetle. I know this isn't great but it's something…. *shrugs* I'm severely burnt out.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Tolkien's world or characters.

To Dream of the Sun

Brenine raised her head from her pillow, groggy and cold. Another dream. She'd had yet another dream of the Eye turning toward her. It clove through her, and it saw all that she was. She didn't know how or why only that it did. And it scared her.

What dwelt in Barad-dûr terrified her. And she knew not what to do about her dreams. But Sauron had no reason to travel to Minas Morgul, and certainly no reason to see her, a frail and sickly child of Gondor, right? She didn't know.

Could she ask one of the wraiths? Dare she ask? Her visions such as they were, were all that she had-her only weapon to defend herself with, and to reveal her secret may well be her undoing. So she bit her tongue, and opted to say nothing.

For weeks the dream plagued her. Its torment stealing away sleep, and consequently her health. She wasn't getting better.

Hot water filled with Athelas was being kept near at hand, and Herumor was doing all he could to stoke the fire in the harth and keep Minas Morgul's corruptive malicious will at bay. But further and further she appeared to be backsliding, again, and he was getting fed-up and impatient. What the king felt or knew she couldn't say, as she'd scarcely seen him since he'd returned from wherever he'd gone.

She lent over a bowl, inhaling, sucking in deep breaths, in and out, in and out, until Brenine convinced herself that she was feeling better.

Walking stick in hand, she made her way out the door.

She stepped back, as fear cramped in her belly. The hooded cloaked figure raised its hands in a placating gesture, but all the same, dread crept like ice through the marrow of her bones and stole her breath. Quivering in the door she gaped at Him, even as she logically knew no harm was going to come to her. Of the Nazgûl none could truly be fearless.

"Tis only me, my lady most fair." Herumor's voice slid mockingly out of the hood, with its odd archaic accent, and something inside her bridled.

She straightened her back and stood straight, trying to look imperious.

"I believe thou meant to say 'my most glorious and delightfully sarcastic lady, of unparalleled splendour to whom not even Galadriel can hold a candle,'" she said trying to imitate his archaic speech and accent.

The wraith laughed. "Minas Morgul has truly addled thy wits. But I beseech thy forgiveness all the same, for failing to extol and enumerate thy virtues. How might a lowly lord of Numenor, and humble wraith, such myself, ever hope to make it up to thee?" He bowed at the waist, but the movement was so stilted and sardonic she couldn't help but laugh.

Moments with Herumor were always surreal. Two ancestral allies, turned bitter enemies, sharing a joke in a dark hallway as a war between her people and his master drew ever closer. It felt wrong in a way, and yet….

He was terrifying, cold, and cruel, this Herumor from Numenor: that Brenine knew. But past the inherent dread he conjured, with its revulsion and repulsion something about him was gravitational and compelling. Something about him, as a person -a sliver of whom he might once have been- remained, and she found herself wanting to like him in spite of every argument common-sense made to the contrary.

"Perhaps you can tell this lady, whether or not she might be frightened by any statues on the way to the library?"

The wraith clasped his hands together. "No. Thou shall find no statue an impediment." But what the statues in the library itself might be like was another matter, but since she didn't ask, he didn't bother to reveal.

"Good."

He nodded. "I must be off. Something unexpected has occurred, and my thaumaturgy is most needed elsewhere." In sweep of black robes he turned on his heel, and made his way to the stairs.

Heart fluttering Brenine leisurely followed him down the stairs. At an intersection they parted ways, and she continued forward to the library.

The air smelt of candle wax and literature. It smelt like a proper library, full of dust and archaic tomes. Shelves and shelves filled with books everywhere. It was glorious. It was grand. A lifetime it would take to read them all, and what a merry lifetime it would be, pouring through pages, that perhaps the Men of Gondor hadn't seen since the first sacking of Osgiliath. Maybe she'd find books, no man of Gondor had ever seen.

But her raised spirits were dampened by the sight of another sitting at a table. Sable travelling clothes did not conceal the leather armour or the sword, nor did the hood conceal his face. And whoever he was, he was singularly the most beautiful person she'd ever laid eyes on and he was looking right at her.

She swallowed, unsure of who she was in the presence of, unsure if she was supposed to be in the library, unsure of what to do or say.

His eyes were grey like the sea, and his braided copper hair, hung over his shoulder like a gleaming molten snake. Then it occurred to her who she was looking at. It couldn't possibly be?! But it was! The Eye had indeed come to Minas Morgul, in the form of Sauron in one of his fair guises.

Brenine staggered back, intent of fleeing.

How it was possible, didn't matter! Because he was there! He was there in the flesh! And she wished for the Witch-king. Gothmog, she'd settle for Minas Morgul's horrifying Lieutenant if it would spare her this encounter.

"Wait."

Heart thudding loud in her throat, Brenine halted, shivering where she stood.

"Please don't-! I only dreamt- I didn't mean-" She stammered through trembling lips, as she turned. The sight of Him was too much.

The walking stick fell from her fingers, and clattered against the floor. She sagged to her knees waiting in terror for the Dark Lord to kill her or torture her. She didn't dare look at him, terrified of what she might find in his eyes.

At length she heard him move, saw his booted feet enter her vision and stop right in front of her. She shuddered, wishing she had a knife to put in his chest. He couldn't be killed, The Lord of Mordor, but maybe she could hinder him enough to spare Gondor a war. If only…she had a weapon. Maybe she if she could grab a book, and hit him hard enough over the head…?

He knelt before her, the Eye glared at her from his chest, where it had been branded into his armour. He grabbed her cane, and after studying the grinning evil skull face on its handle, offered it to her.

With trembling fingers she took it, clutching it to herself. Maybe she could beat him to death with her cane, but she could see the knife at his hip, with a wolf's head for a handle.

He rose, and offered her a gloved hand.

Biting her lip she took it, and before more could be said, He was unclasping the cloak from around his shoulders, and draping it over hers.

Forgetting the danger in her surprise, she met his grey eyes. And his lips quirked in what she thought was a shy and awkward smile.

"I didn't mean to scare you."

Given that the Dark Lord seemed to enjoy terrorizing the world at large, she couldn't imagine him caring much for the fear he inspired in a single prisoner. It hadn't even been a proper apology, though he did sound apologetic.

"It's alright." She offered him a smile. It was warm in his travelling cloak. It was warm around Him, and she found herself relaxing. Truly relaxing for the first time in a long time, standing before the Dark Lord. What a strange thing. Here she had been; dreading her dream, thinking it a nightmare, only to find Mordor's formidable lord warm and oddly comforting, like a glowing coals in a hearth fire.

He frowned at her, grey eyes studying her face, and boldly she kept her chin lifted.

"What were you saying about dreams?"

"I have dreamt of you. You coming here. The Eye at any rate, but I hadn't imagine you'd show up yourself."

His face turned red, and he twirled a finger in the end of his braid looking away.

"I didn't know you were so fair," she added. He made a choking sound, stepping away, and she inwardly smiled, to see Him put off his game. "I thought you'd be…well I thought you'd have the lost the ability-" His eyes were wide, as he looked back at her.

"I meant no offence," She hastened to explain, befoe he could smite or hurt her. "You surprised me…."

His fingers tightened in the end of his braid. But all he managed for a moment was an, "Ah."

Toying with the end of his braid, he frowned at the polished marble under their feet, as if its ebony whorls might hold the secrets of the world.

"I fear you are mistaken. I'm not-I'm not Lord Mairon." His voice sounded breathless. "I'm not the Dark Lord." Even the tips of his pointed ears had taken a scarlet hue.

"I'm Fëatho..." His cheeks were still flushed, and his fingers were curled rather viciously in the end of his braid. "Frûmsnaag, in Black Speech if you prefer."

"You're not…." She bit her lip. "I didn't mean…I'm sorry."

He waved a hand, batting aside her apology. "It's-I'm not-I'm not offended… He may well have been, if you'd truly been speaking to him. I'm just a humble servant of his." Fëatho smiled tentatively, face still pink, and Brenine felt warmth pool in hers stomach. He was beautiful this Fëatho.

Silence reeled between them, both lost in their thoughts, Brenine wondering how to salvage the conversation after a terrifyingly embarrassing greeting.

"I'm Brenine." She said at last.

"Brenine…" He said, thick Mordorin accent curling and moulding her name, into a pleasant new shape. It occurred to her, he was roughly her age. Maybe older, maybe younger, she wasn't sure. And she wasn't sure if it was appropriate to ask, but given how terribly the conversation had started…maybe she could get away with it.

"You're from Gondor." It wasn't a question, but he did seem genuinely curious.

Uncertainly, Brenine nodded, wondering if the Witch-king's authority protected her from this servant of Sauron. The wraiths were the highest in the Dark Lord's service as far as she knew, but the intricacies of Mordor's politics were not known to her, and she had no who might stand above them or alongside them. She doubted very much this boy was one of them, but she thought it wise to be cautious all the same.

"What's it like? Gondor?" Intrigue danced on his tongue, and excited curiosity glimmered in his eyes. His face was so open and earnest Brenine was taken aback by it.

He seemed to think he had some authority, questioning her as he was, but he was such a far cry from the Nazgûl that she was at a momentary loss. When was the last time she'd had a conversation that wasn't barbed by manipulation? Even Herumor, who seemed least likely to do her ill, was manipulative, and had no problem flouting his authority over her when it suited him, but this boy little older than her didn't seem like them. Of course he could be a really good actor? She certainly wasn't going to trust him, or think him any less an enemy, but there was something, something in the very air about him, that felt warm and safe.

"I'm not sure how you mean…" She trailed off. He frowned at her, before clarifying.

"What does it look like? What does it smell like? Sound like? Is it beautiful? Can you see the stars?" His voice softened. "What does it feel like to stand under the sun?"

"I-" Brenine's throat closed as she gazed into Fëatho's open and curious face. She could scarcely remember those things. She'd been trapped in maddening darkness so long it took effort to recall the touch of grass and the smell of the flowers in her mother's gardens. The sun, oh the sun and her warmth. Something in Brenine's chest tightened, and abruptly she was compelled to cry. It was so cold. So terribly cold. She pulled the cloak about herself, trembling. Tears welled up, hot and stinging, and she pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, choking on something painful she'd tried so long to keep buried.

Against her control the tears fell, as something inside ripped and tore at itself. The cloak slid from her quaking shoulders and landed heavily on the floor, as she cinched her arms about her waist, as broken sobs rattled across her lips.

A warm hand, tentatively settled on her should.

"Oh no." There was worry in his voice. "No-it's-" The fingers tightened, and warmth curled about her as Fëatho slipped his arms around her, and hesitantly, almost fearfully pulled her toward him.

"I shouldn't have-I shouldn't have asked. That was thoughtless and careless. I'm sorry."

His voice was gentle and soft like honey, and the compassion clove lose all the broken fearful things she'd kept so tightly locked. Her fingers curled against his leather breastplate, and she buried her face in his shoulder, falling apart in the arms of this beautiful compassionate stranger.

"I'm so sorry." His arms tightened-so warm….

So warm. He was warm. That warmth seeped into her skin, soothing and assuaging her fears and pain, and helplessly she let it take her away, to sunlit fields.

"You-" She bleated into his molten hair. "You- the sun is like you."

He shifted, but he didn't release her, and Brenine sobbed. She cried herself dry, until there was nothing left to cry over, and she fell still, weary, worn, and warm.

There was no pain, no fear, no darkness, no Minas Morgul, nor any Ringwraiths. There was nothing, but her and the sun, and her mother's gardens. At length she opened her eyes, to find herself in the world she'd left behind, the nightmare, she thought she had escaped.

The library in all its darkness, filled with its tomes, and scrolls, smelling of wood, paper, wax, and dust, was around her, and she whimpered, turning her head, to hide her eyes in his neck. He shuddered, and jerked, flinching from the motion, and wide eyed she stiffened.

He was an enemy. Not a long lost friend. He was a servant of Sauron, not the sun. And from somewhere else a few fresh despairing tears fell. It was hopeless. Bitterly, terribly hopeless. This stranger would do what his master required while in the Witch-king's city, and then he'd leave. He'd leave taking the sliver of warmth and comfort he'd provided, and she'd be lost here in the dark, never to be found by her loved ones, doomed to never again see the light.

Anger welled up unexpected and visceral. How dare he show her kindness only to take it away! He was yet another monster, showing kindness as a cruel weapon, and she'd fallen for it- allowed herself to be compelled by it! Next he'd hurt her. He'd hurt her, or They'd hurt her!

'Nonono!'

Panic and fear rose, clamouring in her ears, as her heart fluttered painfully in her breast.

"Please," she begged not even sure what it was she asking of him. Escape? To stay? To keep her warm? To withhold the pain that must surely be coming? She didn't know what she wanted, and in that moment didn't know how to articulate further.

"Please, what?"

Tremors wracked her body as she pressed closer, leeching every ounce of warmth from him.

"S-S-save me." She stammered softly. "Please."

She heard him inhale, becoming rigid as he held her. "Please," she begged into the crook of his neck.

He balked, and she whimpered as she thought he might draw away in earnest.

"Please."

She felt rather than saw him shake his head, and she clung tighter, so desperate, so scared, so sick of heart, and so alone.

"I can't." His voice was raw. "I'm so sorry." He pried her fingers from behind his neck, and with such ghastly tenderness pushed her arms away, and slipped beyond her grasp. In his face there such gut wrenching guilt, compassion, pity, and sorrow, it cut her insides with a harrowing deadly blade.

He looked away from her, toward the doors, then back at her, sea-grey eyes stormy with sorrow.

"I'm so terribly sorry." His voice was deathly quiet, as the doors opened, and a pair of guards stepped into the library.

"No! No! Please, please don't!" She hissed, she pled, she staggered back from the encroaching guards, as frightful gasps shuddered passed her lips. "Please, please, don't do this."

She burst into tears as firm hands grabbed her, and futilely she struggled, railing in vain desperation to break from their grasp. With pleading despair, sought Fëatho's face, meeting his eye, and holding his gaze.

And roughly her hair was seized, and her eyes wrenched from him.

"Stop-!"

Such wondrous hope blossomed in her chest as he seemed to reconsider. Brenine held still, watching him from her peripheral.

"Don't hurt her." He told his guard.

"Don't struggle," he told her with that same air of authority.

Cruelly her hope was torn away. She shuddered under the impact of such wanton brutality.

"Please," she bleated, one last time, so scared, so desperate, and she saw him shift, saw him look to the floor. Then he moved toward her, and Brenine forced her head to turn, ignore the stinging of her scalp as her hair was pulled taught.

Her heart sang as he stopped right before her, grey eyes so full of sorrow, and beautiful face full of such bitter guilt and pity. He raised a warm hand to her cheek, and she closed her eyes relishing the copper warmth that seeped pleasantly into her skin.

His hand rose to her temple, and the grip on her hair fell away.

Brenine felt Fëatho shift closer, and she relaxed as vermillion sunlight so warm and peaceful curled around her.

"I'm sorry. Forgive me."

Her eyes snapped open, as Black Speech scraped her ears, spoken as softly and gently as Black Speech could ever be.

The quick-silver glitter of tears in his eyes was the last Brenine ever saw of him as she felt herself pulled into warmth and utter darkness.