Author's Note: This is not a normal scrap. Instead of posting scraps after completing and posting the third chapter, or posting a pointless flashback, that may never get referenced in that actual story at all, I've decided to do something a little bit different.
So the third chapter of The Young Wolf, has proven to be a pain to write. It has gone through rewrite, after rewrite, after rewrite, after rewrite, and I'm still not satisfied. For a variety of reasons, I won't go into here, as they are too many to list. But even having nearly completed a fourth draft of the chapter, I'm once again disappointed and, even though I intend on having it reviewed by unofficial beta Whack-a-Beetle (I hope you don't mind me calling you out) I'm considering yet another rewrite, so what I will be doing is posting my scrapped and possibly-not-so-scrapped-ideas-after-all here. (Four and half rewrites so far, plus lots of ideas that never made it off the launch pad.)
This way you'll have an idea of the progress I've made, will still have some access to Fëatho and Sauron, and be left wondering, what in the blazes will the actual chapter when it's done look like. Now I did say "possibly-not-so-scrapped-ideas-after-all" because some of the ideas I've had are recycling themselves, and every time they do, they're better than before, so you might as a consequence get a few previews of the final draft, without realising that you have. Don't worry though. I will not be posting spoilers. ;)
So here we have two alternative beginnings to the third chapter. Both incredibly different in tone, but both are trying to convey roughly the same idea. For the sake of brevity, I'll be posting my three favourites, as they are. Unedited, so you can see all the grammar and spelling errors that don't make it into my work. (I do edit. I'm just too impatient to ever do a splendiferous job at it.)
The Beginnings of Chapter Three
Version 1:
For days afterward Fëatho kept to himself. He remained quiet, more dedicated to the study of the languages spoken by Mordor's creatures, than Ikshu had seen him in a long time. A reptilian hawk, named Vras, Fëatho took pleasure in calling from the sky. And he poured over books of history with the softly chittering creature perched on his shoulder, or curled up sleeping on the desk beside him, bored into a comatose stupor as its master attempted to translate the pages of the book using the language the bird spoke with.
That much Ikshu was able to glean from observation. As always the servant tended to his accustomed duties, keeping a closer eye, than usual, on his Lord, fretting over his newly developed humour, and the cause of it.
He wasn't the only one.
In his chambers, at the utmost level, of Barad-dûr's topmost tower, the Lord of the Black Land was well aware of his son's change in behaviour. He was letting the boy have his time alone, sending servants to him with various parcels to be looked over, rather than summoning him for anything.
Better than most, the Dark Lord understood the need to be alone, with one's own problems. They had that in common, and while he did not stretch out his will to observe Fëatho's doings, knowing the full well the boy would sense it, he had seen to it that the boy was closely marked.
The reports came frequently at regular intervals, so that even without The Eye, he knew at all times what his son was up to.
He saw no reason yet to grow overly worried what he heard.
For days Fëatho remained cooped in his room, unwilling to leave it, just trying to wrap his head around what his father had said. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't be true, but he'd read of Beren and Lúthien, and he had read the story of Thingol and Melian. There was nothing but truth in what his father had said, and yet it was so horrible.
On some level, he had already known-should have at least, seeing as his father had gone out of his way to make sure Fëatho had a clear understanding of history. That didn't make it easier to deal with.
Barad-dûr had grown colder over the last few days. A hideous cold front was sweeping through the ramparts of the tower, clawing its way through the halls, sucking the heat from any space not heated by with a blazing fire.
The corridor inside Barad-dûr's dark walls were crushed with slaves trying to stay warm. As a result the outdoor causeways were emptier. It was him, an occasional watchman, and the wind noisome howled as it slipped through spikes and spires.
His hair whipped across his face, as he lifted a hand to irritably push it over his shoulder. The sky was empty of birds, and the grey clouds of ash roiling above, were grimmer than usual. As if they were aggravated by the turn in weather like he was. A few lower ones, rolled into the tower above. Cloven asunder by unyielding stone they momentarily obscured the towers and ramparts above, creating a low ceiling over his head.
The Window of the Eye was completely lost from view. It almost always was, but much of the main tower was veiled as well, slowly being lost more and more in an ethereal haze.
But the Great Eye could not be blinded by the clouds, and he could occasionally feel it on the edge of his senses, as it silently glided across the land. It had not looked upon directly, but he was sure he'd appeared on the edge of his father's visions.
As a bright little speck of sunshine, a voice in his head sarcastically chided.
Fëatho leaned against a heavy stone balustrade, absently picking an ice crystal, forming on the stone. It was an ugly little thing, coated in dust, blackened by his father's industry. It melted in his fingers and smudged pale skin in ash.
Hoarfrost had coated his windows in a pale grey haze he'd woken up. Ice crystals normally formed in winter, but were a constant all year round at the high altitudes of the utmost tower. But the ice had never caused serious damage to the stone. Barad-dûr was in a constant state of repair and disrepair. Water leeched into fine hairline cracks in the stone that widened when the moisture froze and expanded. But then they mysteriously disappeared. It had nagged at his for a long time until he'd asked his father where the cracks went.
They healed. The Dark Tower may have been built, but very few machines of industry had been needed to raise it. Much of the stone had been moulded by his father's mind and grown.
It would always do so, as long as his father's will permeated the rock. Far below, lost under shreds of tattered clouds, power pulsed through the foundation of the tower, flowing upward like blood through veins. Barad-dûr resembled a living organism rather than an architectural structure.
Fëatho sneezed as a cold wind howled against walls of the towers, its shrill voice filling his ears as it was rent apart by the thorny crown of the ramparts.
Hugging his heavy robes against the cold, he glowered at the sky. Irritably flicking another ugly little crystal from the railing, he departed, continuing on his way.
He was going to the library, to pull every account of Beren and Lúthien, and Thingol and Melian he could from the massive shelves. In truth he wasn't sure what he was hoping to find, only that he needed to search for that illusive solution to his problem.
It wasn't that he desired multiple lovers. Indeed the idea of one true love and only one was romantic and captivating, but he what he wanted was to know why he was going to suffer so heavily for it. Was it really because he was descended from Ainur? Was there really no Second Born resilience in him to mitigate the pain? Everyone suffered loss, but surely it would be so great for him, half-Edain, rather than half-Elven?
He unhappily fiddled with his hair as he walked. Making his way toward more sheltered hallways.
Regrettably he'd have to make his way to an indoor corridor, on the plus side the halls nearer the library would be less crowded- at least he hoped so. If worse cam to worse he could backtrack and make his way to the library from another direction.
No servants had come bearing letters or parcels for him to review, and he was free for the moment at least to do as he wished.
He pushed open a set of doors, sighing as warm air rushed outward to greet him.
Torches flickered, and the polished marble appeared to ripple like water, as those hazily reflected flames danced.
Footnote for V1:
So when I first drafted this story two years ago, I decided that the first three chapters would be slice of life pieces. Each one showing Fëatho at a different point in adolescence until the fourth chapter where he's nineteen and still adolescent. (He'll still be nineteen by chapter four. But I have no idea how old he actually is in chapters one-three. Okay I rough estimates of how old he is. I actually touch on those in this chapter, so yay?! I guess if you wanted an exact point of time for this story.)
Upon writing chapter 2, I thought it might work well to abandon my slaice of life idea and, write the third chapter as a direct follow-up rather than an ambiguous number of years in the future, and so I present you with this. Of all of them this is easily my favourite. Because I love breathing life into Barad-dûr . (It has become a guilty pleasure, and in a story like this its important for the sake of the plot that I do.) But for continuity reasons among others, this will not be the start of the third chapter.
Version 2:
I know you're hoping there's something to rad here, but alas, this version of events was deleted, how and when I don't know, but I was never able to recover it, but I still felt it was worth mentioning, because it was another one of those one of those chapters that captured Barad-dûr 's hidden beauty, but also provided insight into when this story is beginning.
This chapter start in the Hall of Wolves, a place that is nearly sacred to both Sauron and Fëatho for similar but different reasons.
Without giving too much away, it's my head canon, that Sauron's days in Tol-in-Gaurhoth were some of the best he had during his service to Morgoth. To Sauron, his wolves were more than mere servants or pets, but genuine and loyal companions. They were his friends, and in the case Draugluin nearly family, and it killed him inside when Luthien killed them all, making the loss of the tower that much more shameful, and that much more devastating. Not only had his most important prisoner died, not only had he been terribly defeated, but all at once in a single battle he'd lost all the people he cared for, and in turn cared about him.
He's never recovered, never forgiven himself, and never really moved on. The Hall of Woves was built, as a memorial to all those he lost, but a reminder of his failures, his inabilities, a testament to the guilt that's always haunted him, that he's never been able to atone for. Perhaps the only thing he truly wishes to atone for.
For Fëatho it's a place of legend and inspiration. But kinship, as well, and it's what sparks his fascination in wolves to begin with, and he wants to be one among the pack, to live up to those legends. But he also recognizes that these were beings who loved his father, and it's a place that proves that his father wasn't always lost or alone. And while he can't replace an of those memories, he desires to be a close companion and confidant of his lord and father, to ease some of that pain and loneliness.
While they're there, Sauron is giving his son, a lesson in controlling in manipulating fire, by showing him how to light the little candles that fill the hall like stars. While in the midst of this, Cadrian (a ringwraith) arrives with important news, concerning a strange creature that was caught skulking in the pass above Cirith Ungol, which Cadrian is lord of.
Fëatho, much to his disappointment, because he never gets to be around when eimportant things are going on, is kicked from the hall escorted by Hespar (another wraith-why he's in Barad-dûr I have no idea) while Cadrian and Sauron talk about this sorry creature that calls itself 'Gollum' and seems to have come across a ring of power or something else equally corrupting and terrible.
This would have put this part of the story about roughly eight years prior to the hunt for the ring, and Frodo's flight from the shire. Making Fëatho eleven.
Effectively this version, would have established, his age and the exact timing of this story's opening, but as I said it was deleted, and I wish it hadn't, but I couldn't recover it, and when I attempted to rewrite it, it was nowhere near as good as the first version had been. Still I felt this version of events was worth mentioning.
Version 3:
"Do you not know to kneel before your betters?" Lord Kemic growled.
Fearfully Dirar made to do just that. "Forgive-"
"You will do no such thing!" Fëatho snapped. "Set your labour aside and go to the infirmary." His voice tapered into softened silk at the end.
Blinking blood from his eye, Dirar bowed. "My lord." There was relief and calm in his voice, even as blood dribbled from a gash above his eye.
"How dare you?" He slipped in between the foolish lord and his retreating slave, livid, insulted, and concerned. "How dare you?" Fury scraped across his teeth, and he hoped the foolish man heard it. "He's not yours to punish. Nor yours to command."
Worry for his servant and anger by such an affront, Fëatho was at a loss. It was one thing to think he was being insulted in silence when he couldn't hear it. It was one thing, to over hear a whispered derogatory comparison between himself and the Eldar. But this flagrant disregard for authority was quite another. And it was stunning.
"Perhaps, Lord Fëatho," Lord Kemic, began pleasantly, folding his hands gracefully before himself, while slipping into native language from Dorwinion. Fëatho inwardly scoffed, far from impressed by such a pitiful attempt to control the conversation. "If you were more steadfast in your leadership, your servant would have known to-"
"Ever-" Fëatho's voice was a black whisper, and easily he could have reached for the puissance that roiled through his fea as blood rushed through his veins. "-touch a servant of mine again-"
"Pray tell what it is you think you'll do?" An infuriating smirk curled his lip, and Fëatho inwardly flinched, hating the hollowness of the threat he hadn't even finished. Would he kill the man? Could he? Did he even dare say such a thing? He honestly didn't know, but deep down he suspected the horrific answer, the terrible softness that plagued him, cursed, and set him apart from every power in Mordor. No. A little voice in his head whisper. No, he never could, nor would he, and yet, it was death by which authority was determined. And he had killed no one. He'd never even laid a hand on anyone.
This lord knew it. They all knew it, and once this man left unscathed, they'd be assured all the more, that Mordor's prince was unworthy of such a station.
Something of his horror must have left its mark on his face, as he stood, rendered by silent, by impotent rage, and the sheer knowledge that he was-he was pathetic.
"Surely, lord, you know as all lords do that it is unwise to make idle threats?" The question burned like venom, but he refused to look away. He fisted his fingers in his sleeve, refusing to raise them to his hair, even as the urge overwhelmed him to do so.
"So the truth's revealed, you are a little flower in the end. Lugbúrz's own copper blossom, choking amid the rocks. And here I thought, they'd said that you had flowers in your blood as a jest." Kemic shrugged. "Perhaps that what happens when one's mother is a Tark-"
Fëatho's fingers, found the tail end of his braid, as he growled in the back of his throat. "My mother," he ground out. "Was-"
"Was the weakest of Numenoreans, yet still stronger than you. She had her excuses for being such, but for the son of Lord Mairon," the lord laughed. "There are none."
He was weak. He was. Truly. And Fëatho's fingers coiled tighter in his sleeve, and his hair. He was not his father, and had not his mastery of words.
"It's a bitter irony, that from such a formidable union, a dainty flower was the end result."
"Enough!" Fëatho blindly called upon enraged puissance. It crackled under his fingers, but fear kept him from using it. Fear of what he'd do with it, but he knew naught what to do. He should go to his father. But pride wiped away such a notion. Somehow he had to figure this out on his own, but he just- what needed to be done, he couldn't-he didn't want to do.
"I'll-" His voice warbled, and he swallowed it back too late.
"I'm still waiting for you to explain what it is you'll do." Kemic uttered a faint laugh. "Run to your father perhaps? Kneel before him and reveal in full your shame and weakness?" The man took a brazen step toward him. Then another, and that tumultuous puissance roiled dangerously in his grasp, as he fearfully watched the lord encroach.
"Is that what you'll do Fëatho? Run to Lord Mairon the Great, pathetic in your cowardice, proving to all once and for all that you're just a pretty little flower? Or a weed to be plucked by the stem?" His fingers grazed Fëatho's cheek sordid and repulsive. "It's a wonder he's kept you as long as he has. To no other would he have shown such clemency. Perhaps, little flowers have their uses after all? If only to look upon?"
With a flash of brilliant puissance, he sent the man sprawling backward.
"Don't touch me."
The words echoed, ringing along the hall like a the blackest of bells, and he watched as the man raised a hand to his lips, stunned and frightened, that he'd been sent hurtling to the floor without the boy raising so much a finger.
"Touch me or one of mine again…." The threat trailed off. He still couldn't do it. Still couldn't think of anything appropriate, and that ugly repugnant truth only aided the lord's words in spreading their poison deeper.
"I suggest you leave, Lord Kemit." When the man didn't make a motion to move away, that dangerous fey power still moiling about him in bloodied copper, crackled. "Now," he whispered, his voice like ice, as fear and anger and puissance roiled like fire within him.
The man ran, and once he was gone, Fëatho sagged against a wall, sick and tainted. He scratched at his face, trying to remove the memory of that fleeting touch, only to choke on a broken sob when he couldn't.
Why? Why? Why can't I?
Ugly hot tears, filled his eyes, and hastily he swiped at his eyes. Melkor and Valar forbid, someone should come upon him in such a pitiful state after that… He wouldn't be able to handle it, and he knew he wouldn't, regardless of what hopeless lies and façades his father wished him to maintain.
Staggering upright, he pushed himself from the wall, deep down caring very much about his appearance, because he might have been too weak to be a proper lord, but his father would be still be furious if he didn't look the part. It took effort he didn't really have to fuss over his clothes, and smooth the end of his braid, he'd knotted up. All the while, the horrible ugly truth, and the terrible sham of a role he was being forced to play choking and clotting like ice in his chest, until it was an agony to breathe.
Pale hand rubbing at his chest to ease the tightness, he walked defeated and pathetic, down the hall toward one of the many elevating chambers. He would at least do what any half-decent lord would do, if his father so fixated that he continue with pretences-and visit Dirar, and make sure that he was alright.
Flower. He was a little flower, trying to make a living amongst iron and rocks. But all Fëatho had ever wanted to be was a wolf.
Footnote for V2:
I will only say this particular opening has been written and rewritten. And just when I think I've come up with something that works better, and gives me all I need to do everything I wish Mordor, this stupid thing won't leave me alone. It just comes back, demanding to be rewritten time and time again so here is the latest version; so far the best written, and most tempting to continue.
Version 4:
Feasts in Mordor were a rare occurrence, but seldom as they were, they were opulent and exciting. The Great Hall had been opened, its mighty doors flung wide to welcome guests into its warm fiery bosom.
Great fires roared in their hearths, their flickering flames reflected across the polished marble floor. Brazier's spread out delicious warmth to those who loitered near them, the majority of whom were stragglers, chilled from trekking through the streets and outdoor causeways, from Barad-dûr's other towers.
Ladies and Lords sported their finest furs, and the air was filled the din of laughter, gossip, and scheming. Ever the decadent courtiers sought power at each other's expense, and even for a feast they did not set aside the spinning of their webs. Indeed some had counted upon the occasion to provide an unusual opportunity to hamper their rivals.
To the untrained eye wine flowed freely, and to the unsuspecting ear many a salutation was little more than a genuine greeting. But it was the undercurrent of intrigue that the Dark Lord paid keen attention to, more so than usual as he watched his son navigate the perilous conversations, and tiptoe around the vipers with fanged maws open wide.
Verbal jousting at its finest, and he was not a position to participate. It was an arena he took pleasure competing in, but who in Barad-dûr would dare challenge him? None. He stood above them; a formidable and tarrying lord, not to be trifled with. It pleased him to know none were that bold, but it illustrated how set apart they were. It wasn't merely his table, sitting on a dais, from where he could observe all, but the sport of manipulation and wordplay was lost to him. And he missed it, with all its subtleties, slowly piece by piece excavating valuable information from guarded minds as if it were raw ore to be quarried, quietly insidiously leading those who thought to challenge him to their own defeat.
Instead he was relegated -by status and the fear he inspired- to watch. The few who were bold enough to approach him, and engage him in any shred of conversation, were sycophantic and ultimately dull.
He tapped his fingers, against the table top, to watch his son. The boy was sound mind and keen intellect, but young, naïve, and honest. If there was one thing the Dark Lord would have wished for in a child it was that, but sometimes he wondered if the boy was not too candid. Admittedly one did not need to be exceptionally skilled at lying to bend a conversation or a person to their will, but like everything else it was a tool, better to possess and never rely upon, than to desperately need and be sorely lacking the skill to use.
Of course, if the Lord of Mordor had his way, then there would never be a reason for his son to become so comfortable with deception. But that was neither here nor there. Thus far the boy's feathers had been largely unruffled, but as the Dark Lord watched, one of the room's more venomous vipers struck.
Keenly he listened and observed, sensing the boy would not escape unbound by webs, if he managed to escape at all.
Picture, perfect lord, Fëatho was putting all effort in being. He engaged with all at his table, paying them all close attention, especially King Nizar, whom he tried not pester with questions of his homeland, and travels. But for his part, the King seemed thrilled Mordor's young lord was so keenly interested the happenings of Far Harad.
For all that though Fëatho's gaze periodically fell on the princess. In rich emerald and shining silver she sat. Orodruin's fire in the midst of eruption would have shamefully slogged up the mountain's slopes, because it couldn't have matched the glow of her eyes. She was beautiful to behold, her voice soft and deep, like black velvet, but he had spoken hardly a word to her directly.
In spite of his father's thoughts on the matter and his own feebly whispering intuition, Fëatho was inexplicably drawn to her. He did not know from where, when, or how, only that he was, like a moth to flame, and against such allure he had little chance. But rather than feeling any sense of reservation or trepidation at such a notion, he felt only excitement.
All the same, Fëatho was cautious, warily weighing potential conversation topics, unsure what subject to broach, nor what he would or could say if such an opportunity were to present itself. So he remained quiet, periodically sneaking a glimpses of her, hoping to find the path that lead to her attention, unwilling to move too quickly, should such a thing cause the king offense or anger his father.
Of course whatever he said, would have to be subtle as both his father and her father were present, and he didn't dare risk offending the king, nor angering his father.
"Beautiful isn't she?" The Mouth leaned toward his with a conspiratorial whisper, effectively cutting off Fëatho's train of thought. Scowling Fëatho looked at him, scorning the smirk that curled his lip.
Swiftly he collected himself, burying irritation, behind a wistful little smile. "All people are. Each in their own way." His words were hollow, and both knew it, but he hoped it possessed some level of diplomacy, if nothing else.
The Mouth of Sauron chuckled under his breath and stole a sip of wine.
"Beautiful, wealthy princess from Far Harad; I find it a trifle curious that King Nizar saw fit to bring her here, rather than one of his sons."
Irritably Fëatho inwardly stewed, his inner frustration leaching out to curdle in the downward curl of his lip. He hated being lead, and well enough he could see what it was the Mouth was trying to do, even if he didn't know why, nor where the man hoped for the conversation to end up.
It was a tactic his father used all the time, with far more subtlety and ingenuity, and for some reason Fëatho found himself insulted by the very idea that this man would attempt it.
"And…she's of marriageable age."
White hot jealously rose molten and terrible in Fëatho's breast, as the Mouth offered him a mockingly guileless smile. All too loudly the man's insinuation rang clear, and Fëatho's fingers convulsed into a fist around his spoon.
The Mouth, seemed to silently revel in the frustrated silence he'd conjured, and deliberately poured from himself another drink.
"It would be a great credit to her is the son of Lord Mairon found her worthy of a second glance. A man would be quite lucky to be wed to her then."
Fëatho sat utterly still, in a maelstrom of enraged envy, but what could he possibly say or do? Even if the Mouth were simply being an arse, he touched upon something Fëatho had not wished to think about. The princess was here, for the sole purpose of attracting the attention of one of Mordor's great lords, and Fëatho knew it. The Mouth could marry her if he so chose, and as far as King Nizar was concerned such a match would be a rise in status: that was a simple political fact. All of it made worse, since he knew what his father's opinion of a dalliance between himself and Sawda was. But Fëatho doubted the Mouth would hear such a complaint.
Seething in the midst of a livid maelstrom, he slowly and carefully reached for his drink, as every retort he could give flashed across his mind. Each of them liable to make matters worse.
'Diplomacy!'
'Diplomacy…!' Some far flung rational part of his mind urgently hissed.
Reaching into a suffocating reserve of self-control he plastered a smile to his lips, hoping none at their table had yet noticed something was wrong.
"Yes," Fëatho simpered, sickly sweet. "Such a man, might be thought lucky indeed." The words well sickly sweet from his lips and glossed in venom.
Fingers tremoring, Fëatho sought his wine goblet, and he fought down the urge to glance in Sawda's direction as he drank. Too much fuel he'd given the Mouth's fire already, and he refused to offer more.
How had the man even found out? Had his coveted glances not been discreet enough? Did everyone at the table know? His neck and cheeks were hot, and he prayed they mistook it for the wine. Inside he was furious, wishing that he could have said what he wished, that maintaining decorum hadn't been so important.
Roiling in irritation, he struggled to figure out where he'd faltered. To all he'd given equal attention, or so he thought. Perhaps he'd been too careful, too leery of addressing the princess, directly without also engaging her father? Maybe that had been his undoing, unless he really had done a horrible job of keeping his eyes away from her?
He didn't know, and didn't dare ask, so Fëatho sat stewing in his confusion and ignominity, trying to pay little heed to the Mouth who watched him slyly as he resumed eating.
Deciding he'd had enough of being ignored, the Mouth's voice spoke, and to Fëatho's horror, addressed in fluent Haradrim, Princess Sawda.
In abject dismay and anger he pursed his lips. The Mouth spoke, but Fëatho heard naught the words, his mind and ears struck by the pleasant tinkle of her light laughter. In silence he watched, as the man did what Fëatho had been fantasising about doing himself. She answered the Mouth warmly, her onyx eyes glinting almost deviously, and Fëatho imagined that if Orodruin had been erupting, the mountain's fires would have slogged back up the mountain's flanks and shamefully hidden themselves away in the cracks of doom, for they couldn't have matched the glow of her eyes.
The Mouth nodded. "I see." He smiled at her, and Fëatho's chest tightened as the Mouth turned toward him, reverting once more to Black Speech. "The princess has thirteen brothers, eleven older, and two younger, yet through years of rigorous study, and training, she's become King Nizar's heir." A smile touched the Man's lips that Fëatho didn't like at all. "It must be a pleasant place to sit; so high all must prove themselves your equal. Never will you have to know the struggle of us mere mortals."
To be undermined, insulted, and his own insecurities torn open, and then disregarded, he was beyond furious, and no longer could he sit there and suffer it. Too far. The Mouth had gone too far!
A smile-little more than a thin veneer crackling over an upwelling of fury, curled his lip, and with an air amiability he turned to the man, poised to strike verbally and physically.
Harsh cold air swept over them like a draft, and immediately Fëatho fixed his gaze on his food, fearing his father's wrath. A hush seemed to fall. The din of the feast seemed suddenly muffled, as if he were hearing it through cotton. The table seemed to have gone bitterly quiet, people's eyes downcast, closed, or staring past his right hand side.
Past his panic, recognition blossomed, and he eased. This was not the anger of Mordor's Lord, but the quiet greeting of one of Mordor's highest Lords.
The Mouth was as stiff as the others, his lip curled into a bitter sneer of anger, but Fëatho saw fear too: that same innate dread, that had silenced the others, and furious as he was, he found little pleasure in the man's fear.
He reached within and plucked at thin tendril of fey puissance. Where cold and fear sought a foothold, Fëatho insinuated a subtle warmth, teasing the air with it so that unfurled with the restrained silence of a changing seasons, so that none around him would know his sorcery, but he saw it: the tentative easing of tensions as shoulders straightened, and fingers found their strength.
Smiling faintly, he turned to face this unexpected, but most welcome guest.
Yet even as he did a soft voice spoke: "I make of point of not attending parties."
"Lord Fuinur," Fëatho rose, a trill of genuine pleasure evaporating his soured mood. He grasped the wraith's arm in comradery, forgoing formal greetings. "It has been much too long."
"The length of summer is much too long?"
Amusement flashed across abyssal black eyes, as he clasped Fëatho's arm in turn.
As soon as they let go, Fuinur surreptitiously drew back, uncomfortable being so close to a fire, for Fëatho was certainly that. But against such radiance the wraith stood proudly in his grey raiment, once a mighty lord among the Black Numenoreans, and a king of Harad.
But all the others around would have seen was black cloak, with hood pulled up, in which no face was visible.
King Nizar and his other guests he'd been entertaining, were no longer sitting in silent horror. At worse they now spoke in furtive hushes, casting Fuinur suspicious glances or staring at him outright, perhaps, trying to catch a glimpse of the face that must surely have hidden within?
"Lord Fuinur," He smiled, deciding it was long past time the men stopped ogling his…he wasn't sure what to think of Fuinur. It was a stretch to call him friend, but they were more than mere acquaintances. He was the wraith Fëatho knew best, but wasn't fond of. They're relationship was...complicated.
"Here sits King Nizar, most high among the kings of Far Harad. He a proud warrior, a tamer of mighty Mumukil, and a scholar. And it is for him that this grand feast is being had." Beside him Fuinur bowed pressing a fisted hand to his lips as he did so, ever proper and well versed in the subtleties of many cultures. Fëatho quietly observed him and making note of the King's raised eyebrow. Clearly he hadn't expected such a thing from some lord of Mordor he had not heard of until that very moment.
"This is Lord Fuinur, one of the Dark Lord's chief advisors. He has been away from the Tower for some time do to family affairs, and it's truly a blessing that you should return on such an auspicious evening." He turned to the wraith with a smile.
Fëatho wasn't lying. For much of the last two years, Fuinur's time had been spent in Minas Morgul, and the Nazgul did refer to each other as brethren. Though Fuinur did have true kindred as well, his cousin was also one among the Nine, and so, what he said to the King was not entirely dishonest. He'd never outright lie, but Fuinur's true nature was best kept a secret, for a variety of reasons, and already he had in place an explanation for Lord Fuinur's strangeness, born again of nothing more than bent truth.
"This is his daughter, and heir, Princess Sawda."
Around the table he presented Lord Fuinur to these mighty men of foreign lands, and it seemed at last some semblance of decorum, and more importantly, normalcy returned.
The air was warm again, limned in the faintest sheen autumn, and the world no longer seemed deafened, and when introductions were finished, he turned to Fuinur, eager to speak with him. Or rather pester him to the ends of the earth for details of his exploits, but much he couldn't ask here.
"How were your travels?" Fëatho asked. "How are your brothers and cousin? What was Erebor like? Have you seen Herumor? Any word from-? "
"My lord." Fuinur, scowled. "Which among those ought I to answer first." He'd know
"All of them." An impish grin curled Fëatho's lip. "In truth, I want to know how you're doing, and how your journey was. Then I want to hear about Herumor, and Hespar if you've had word from him."
Something in Fuinur's face darkened, and then disappeared, too quickly for Fëatho to be sure if it was in response to his errant cousin or Hespar. It could have been either, or both. Herumor and Fuinur rarely saw anything eye to eye, from what little Fëatho had heard over the years. But it could have been Hespar who had been cause of his soured expression. Brethren they may have referred to themselves, but if the rumours were true they possessed for each other about as much brotherly compassion of rabid bears.
"My journey to my brothers' abode was uneventful. Things in the south are as they have always been: typically frustrating. Herumor's…you've met him…."
Fëatho grinned. "Did you play cards?"
The wraith's face darkened, and Fëatho had to fight back a laugh at his expense. "It wouldn't be time with family, if I wasn't finagled into a game, by Mordor's resident gambling addict." The wraith sighed. "The journey to Erebor, it rained. My entire excursion around Long Lake it rained. It poured. It rained some more. It was abysmal. The day I reached the gates of the city proper it finally clearer. The journey back, the sun returned, and all the rain prior made it terribly humid. My escort was worn out, and I think I've never seen men so thrilled to return to Mordor."
The Nazgul glanced at the high table where the Lord of Mordor sat. "I did hear much that would intrigue your ever inquisitive ears, and I would tell. But not here. It's not for your Hardarim friends, but for our lord I've attended. But quickly before I leave you, tell me how you fare. The Mouth certainly seems as amiable as ever." He added with a sardonic quirk of his lips.
While relations between the Nine were subject to conjecture among Mordor's highest circles, the feud between the Dark Lord's chief emissary and Mordor's elite was known well, though few dared to bring it up.
"I'm well." Fëatho smiled.
The wraith's mouth was a flat line. "Indeed. I suspect their's more to the truth than that-?"
For a moment Fëatho gaped wide eyed, breath hitching. More to himself than to the wraith he grumbled. "Is there no one I can hide from?"
"Certainly." Fuinur answer. "But not from all. I'm far too perceptive, the Mouth too experienced, and Lord Mairon…" the wraith's voice dropped to reverent whisper. "He's…."
Fëatho nodded, understanding completely what Lord Fuinur was trying to say, and failing to. There were no words to describe the lord of the Black Land. He was so above and beyond everything.
As if to prove the point further, the Eye, that had been present on the edges of Fëatho's senses, turned to them in full, as if guessing the nature of their conversation. At the edge of the dais on which his father's table's sat, the pair bowed.
Ensconced in gloom and shadow, the Lord of Mordor smiled, inwardly laughing at the expense of his son and messenger. He stole a sip of wine looking down at them, and they suffered the Eye's revelry and mockery, before it flitted to observe something else.
They stood. The Eye's smile still tangible. And Fëatho exhaled, not daring to comment on what had just passed. "I must return."
"We'll speak soon." Fuinur promised. They clasped arms again, the wraith hiding his grimace as the child's cheat burned. Then the boy turned away, returning to his guests, and the wraith cautiously approached the table.
It was good his master was in a good mood, and he feared what horror his words would bring. So rare it was, and yet, some truths needed to be heard, and with great care he approached, one of only two open seats at the table. It had been reserved for him, and the other with a wine glass before it, had been Fëatho's at some point.
Again he bowed, not so low this time, but just as reverent, and with an apathetic gesture his master bid him to sit.
For a long moment the Dark Lord silence reeled between them, as his master stirred a steaming cup of tea, and plucked a slice of apple from his plate.
In the darkness the Lord of Mordor surrounded himself with, Fuinur found some semblance of peace. His vision was clearer, no longer blinded by Fëatho's coppery fire light, or the torches and regular flames dancing hatefully around the hall.
"Tell me, lord Fuinur, what urgency brought you flying to my gate in such haste you nearly killed your horse." The Dark Lord cut through the illusion of security, and the wraith would have swallowed if he could have. Instead he shifted, stealing himself, as best he could, before lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders.
"I confess, I feared Lord Fëatho would pry more than he did." The wraith stalled. "I wished to give nothing away until I'd spoken with you lord."
Fuinur paused, snatching a precious moment to gather his wits. He would have great need of them.
"I know not where to begin, so if I may, I wish to ask a question of my lord." There was no hiding the dread Fuinur felt as he dared to meet his Master's fiery gaze.
Under his silver studded hood, the Dark Lord frowned, sensing his messenger's grave discomfort. "You may."
Grateful for the indulgence, Fuinur owed his head. "I wish to know if thou wouldst rather here the bad news, the worse news, or the news that is eviler still first."
The air about the Dark Lord shifted, sharpened, like a honed blade poised to strike, and Fuinur did his best not to flinch.
"King Dain, has yet again refused terms." With shocking aplomb the Lord of Mordor spoke, but Fuinur, perceptive, too much so for his own good, new that under the cool façade lurked truly menacing frustration.
"Yes lord. I told him, that once more will I return, and if he has not come to new found wisdom by then… but if I may be so bold, I fear the stubbornness and folly of one Dwarven king shall prove the least of thy concerns."
The Dark Lord wiped his fingers on a napkin, cleaning his fingers of non-existent crumbs. "Speak plainly Fuinur."
"My Lord," the wraith beseeched in a pleading whisper. He shivered as the hooded head turned to look down at him once more. The full weight of those piercing eyes still mercifully absent, but he could dally no more. "Hespar sought me out while I was in Dale. I've never seen him so urgent or so grateful to see me. My Lord…."
Where he sat, Fëatho's scalp prickled, as the Eye's good humour vanished. Malicious and furious it twisted toward the west. Fëatho feared both for the wraith, and what it was the wraith was saying. What had happened? What was wrong? Panic set in. His heart leaped to his throat, but he kept a smile plastered to his face.
Beside him the Mouth glanced at him, sensing the Eye's wrath, and the man's grey eyes darted to the High Table as much as they dared, before he shifted to stare down at his food. Even their guests were falling silent, and Fëatho hastily dredged more puissance from within, and as he spoke he breathed soothing calm tranquillity into the air.
He focused on the torches and fires, encouraging them to burn brighter, to dance higher, to keep the dark at bay, until the air was incandescent with serenity, or as much so as the air in Barad-dûr could ever be.
With great care he stretched his spell across the Great Hall, pulling it like a sheet over the assembly, snuggling them all in its warmth, and he limned himself in glorious orange light, making himself the island of calm in the centre of the storm, this thin spell no more than a lacy veil to hide the menace that brewed silent and deadly all around them.
But Fëatho could not hide from it, nor dull his senses, and his skin was prickled by goose bumps, as he sat trying to keep from trembling; unable to escape as his guests did. And so he sat praying the Eye didn't so much graze the edges of his senses, and taking great care not to encroach upon the darkness congealing around the high table.
Emboldened, by the peaceful air, the Mouth continued speaking with the princess, and smiling sickly sweet, Fëatho endured.
Footnote for V4:
This is another one, that I have written and rewritten, and rewritten some more, because something in it begs to be told, and I can't seem to find the words to so properly. Or I've run out creativity and have gotten stuck in a rut.
There's an alternate version or two where Fëatho is charged by Sauron to oversee the preparation of this feast. In one version he's enthused by the idea. In another he's less than thrilled, feeling like he's useless and nothing more than a glorified steward, but begrudgingly sees to it anyways. In both his initial reaction to such a command is to ask who died, as his only previous feast was held the day of his mother's funeral.
In another one, you see him spend ample time with the stewards, and planners, as he learns what it takes to plan such a thing, and by extension what factors must be considered when making decisions as a ruler.
Again this another attempted opening that gives insight to the time this story is set, by using Gloin's tale of the fell messenger at the Council of Elrond for reference, setting this story much closer to the wraith's hunt for the Ring, and the afore mentioned council.
Author's Note: So that concludes the scrapped openings portion of this segment, which was brought to you by Redundancy and Longwinded Author's be continued, when I start spewing all the guts and a middle bits in the next segment. Don't worry there'll be plenty of ANs there too. *sighs, and slams head on desk*
