Author's Note: From a scrapped piece of dialogue. Yes, it's a bit of Sauron and Fëatho fluff that didn't make the cut.
Disclaimer: No I don't own.
Footrace
The grass swayed, bowing under a sea breeze. Smiling up at the dark cloaked figure, Fëatho stood barefoot and happy, twirling in the pale light of Mordor's southern sun. The dark clouds of Orodruin didn't reach Núrn, and the boy was soaking up the sunlight, his pale skin darkening slightly as he'd spent the better part of a week frolicking about out of doors.
"Come on! Come on!" He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, crimson braid bounding from his shoulder. "Father!" He groused at the Dark Lord, putting his hands on his hips and putting. "Father." His voice took on an irritated edge, and it was all Mordor's Lord could do to stifle his laughter at the absurdity of being snapped at by a child that didn't even reach his knee.
Tiny fingers found clenched the edge of his dark robes, and the boy pulled, insistent and irritated. "Dinner's going to be ready soon! And Mother's waiting! Come on!" He yanked on the silver edged robes, and to humour him the Dark Lord falteringly shifted his foot forward.
Glad he was that the boy's mother, had departed their company earlier, otherwise she would have borne witness to this and had been rolling in a fit. She would have never let him forget this.
Grinning down at the grumpy red-haired tot attempting to drag him back to the palace.
"Look at how strong you are!" He smiled. They'd progressed maybe three inches. "Keep going, and I'm sure we'll get there soon." Mocking sarcasm slaked his voice, as he stifled a laugh.
With a growl the boy gave up pulling him, instead darting around behind him to push him.
The sheer audacity undid him, and he laughed. Genuine mirth bubbled up, and echoed across their grassy wind swept hill.
"It's not funny!" The genuinely angry shout from his calf lifted another wave of hilarity from the Dark Lord's chest. Irritable and tenacious those tiny hands kept pushing against his legs with all their might, and he stood shaking, hand pressed against his mouth to contain rapturous mirth.
"You're too big!" Fëatho snapped, pausing in his attempts to push his father forward, to fix the hooded face he couldn't see with a fiery glare. "And you're not funny!"
"I'm not funny?" He gasped as if astounded. "That pains me. That pains me deeply." Sarcasm dribbled from his voice.
"Seriously!" The boy whined.
"Seriosuly? I'm being serious." The Dark Lord raised an astonished hand to his chest, in mocking distress.
"No you're not." The boy spat, giving him a surly glare, as he slowly moved to face him, attempting to glare down a Dark Lord standing ten feet over him. "You're being silly and mean. And I'm going to tell Mother."
"I wonder what she'll think when I tell her you don't appreciate my humour."
The boy petulantly crossed his arms and pouted. "You need better jokes."
"Ugh! Your words! How they've wounded me!" The Lord of Mordor fell backward into the grass. "Fëatho. I think you'll have to go on without me."
Pink cheeked, and peeved the boy grabbed his father's arm. "You still not funny! Come on!"
The Dark Lord didn't budge. "Come on!" Fëatho gave another vicious tug, truly frustrated.
On his back, mantled in his dark robes the Lord of Mordor was utterly still, completely silent, and almost entirely at peace. The sun warmed him through his robes, and the grass smelled fresh about him. The wind sweeping over him, pleasant and tinged with salt, ringing with the calls of distant gulls.
He smiled as his son's futile attempts to move him ceased, and instead the boy frowned down at him.
"Ada?" A note of worry crept into the child's voice. "Ada?"
"Father we have to go." The boy shook his wrist, only to watch it fall limply to the grass between them. His little brow puckered. "You're not funny. I'm leaving without you."
Before the boy could even look away, the Dark Lord lunged. "Not until you say I'm funny." The worlds rumbled in his chest as he growled. His fingers danced against the boy's ribs as he squealed, bucked, and squirmed.
"You-you're not-you're!" He was crying with laughter. "-Not!"
"Not funny!"
"Say it Fëatho! Admit you think I'm funny and this can end!" He smiled as the boy squirmed desperate to escape the impromptu tickle. "No!" He shrieked happily. "You're not-ah-haha!"
"We'll never leave if you don't! I don't know about you, but I can stay here all evening."
"No-!" Protest was staunched by the fingers dancing across his belly. "Stop-not-funny-!"
"Your stubborn refusal to comply won't spare you. Now, tell me," he hoisted the boy up, cradling him against his chest. "Am I funny?"
The boy shook in a fit of raucous laughter. "No!"
Above him the Dark Lord shook his head. "What am I to do with you?" Trapped in his arm the boy howled with tearful laughter. "Hmm…I tell you what? I'll make you a deal. How's that? You admit I'm funny and we'll leave right now?"
Trying and failing to stifle a fit of giggles, he shook his head.
"Carry me too."
The Dark Lord tilted his head. "You mean you want to leave and you want to be carried?"
"Yes!"
Tapping a finger to his lips Mordor's Lord thought for a moment. "That's a bit greedy, wouldn't you agree? What's your hurry anyways?"
The boy's brow furrowed, and he pouted. "I'm hungry."
"I thought, we agreed at breakfast this morning you weren't allowed to get hungry anymore."
Fëatho sniggered. "That's not funny."
"Then why your
Sighing, the Lord of the Black Land relented. "Alright, I Mairon Lord of Middle-earth hereby solemnly swear to leave immediately and to carry you: Little Wolf to dinner, in exchange for the assurance that you find me funny."
"You're funny!"
The Dark Lord shook his head, suppressing silent mirth, before standing, and raising his son with him. Nestled in his arms. Fëatho squirmed.
"I wanna't see," he said plaintively, trying and failing to move.
"You wanted to be carried. I'm carrying you."
"I want to walk-"
"You want-fine…." The Dark Lord set the boy on his feet, and he watched as the boy walked through the grass.
"Ada, can I bring the grass home?"
Lake Núrnen's dark waters glistened and sparkled in the dying sunlight. Beaches of grey stone and gravelly coarse sand stretched toward the south, and he wondered why he didn't visit this place more often.
"Father, can I keep some pet grass?"
The Lord or Mordor looked down at his child fisting few loose bright green leaves. "No son, you can't. The grass needs light to grow." He knelt, gently plying the grass from Fëatho's clenched chubby fingers. "And roots. These leaves have no roots."
"What is a roots?"
The Lord of Mordor smiled, letting the loose leaves flutter to the ground. "A root, is like a foot. It holds the plant in the soil, but it's also what the plant uses to drink water. When we get to the palace gardens I'll show you."
The boy nodded, a light fading then returning to his eyes.
"I'll race you!" He chirped. He darted away only to be caught, and lift from the ground. Helpless and giggling he dangled like a sack of potatoes in his father's hands. "What do you think you're doing getting a head start you little cheater?"
"Winning."
The Lord of Mordor uttered a bark of laughter. "Well it seems you didn't. Now how about a proper race?"
Enthused and eager the boy nodded, and once again he was plopped in the grass.
Both stood at the ready, and Fëatho counted down, a mischievous glint in his grey eyes.
"Ready…Set…" He grinned up at his father, far too innocently, and that same coy unassuming smile tugged at the Dark Lord's lip. If only the boy knew what he'd gotten himself into.
Surreptitiously his foot shifted, until the toe of his boot stuck out before the child's feet. Two could play the game of deception.
"Go!" The boy darted forward only to hit the ground with a loud oof. Smugly the Lord of Mordor casually strode past, humming, as his long legs carried him effortlessly across the grass.
"Cheater!" Fëatho's indignant shouts caught up to him, and he turned to make sure he hadn't accidently harmed the boy. On his scrawny gangly legs the boy was running after him as fast as he could go.
"Cheater!"
The boy grasped the hem of his robes. "You cheated!"
"You tripped…." The Lord of Mordor smiled. "I think you're sour because I beat you."
"You cheated!"
A smirk was plastered to the Dark Lord's lip. "I cheated." He hoisted the boy in his arms. "Now there are two important lessons to learn from this. First, if you're going to cheat then there's a proper way to do it, and that I will teach you." He paused. "-But don't tell your mother I said that. She'd have a conniption. Secondly, I want you to understand that if you ever challenge me to a race, you will always lose."
Fëatho pouted, arms folded across his chest. "Did mother ever beat you in a race?"
A hidden smile curled his lip. "It's why I married her."
Hidden under the hood, the Dark Lord's furtive smile at the memory widened into a true smile.
Tall and proud the boy sat on the horse, his copper hair draped over his shoulder in its customary braid. The boy's grey eyes were bright and devious, as he deliberately checked his horse. It was a look the Lord of Mordor had seen before, a look he recognized instantly. It was that very expression that had sent him traipsing down memory lane in the first place: the look of a tenacious, stubborn boy, determined to lose another race, and the Lord of Mordor was more than happy to indulge him.
This was very spur of the moment. Sorry. Not sorry. The world needs more Sauron fluff.
