Author's Note: So it's Valentine's Day, and in the spirit of 'love, lust, hearts, flowers, stars, and horseshoes, clovers and blue moons, hourglasses, rainbows, and tasty red balloons,' I decided to write this silly drabble. I thought it high time, that Fëatho get a girl. Of course this was very spur of the moment, and my internet was down, so this is late. But, yeah, have a happy Valentine's Day.
Disclaimer: I don't Own.
Under the Darkening Sky
The fires burned bright, like cherry stars in the dark. It reminded him of Gorgoroth from afar, when the Uruks were ants, and the tiny campfires stood out like so many tiny candles. It was like that, but the darkness was darker, and the fires weaker. The situation was dire next to the inconsequential study of a curious youth. Fëatho stood sickly pale against the cold, shivering and shuddering under the blanket as he shakily walked to the nearest among them.
A few elves scowled, and one sneered, as he sat. But he was too cold too care. He wanted to get warm, but he couldn't. Not since Morgoth. It taxed too heavily to try. Whatever the Dark Vala had done, he'd done it well, and fell sorcery had wormed its way deep into his fëa, and there it festered and rotted, corrupting and mutilating as it pleased.
His back froze, and his front blistered. The fire too hot, and the chill air too cold.
The elves muttered and chatted amongst themselves, and he for the most part tuned them out.
His father had gone, and Fëatho was both relieved and worried by that. Their falling out had been a bitter one, and things were complicated and awkward as they never had been before. But he missed the familiar presence amid sea of formidable Elves, Maiar, and worst of all Valar.
Fëatho shuddered, hunkering next to fire. His joints ached, and the fire scalded. His leg was especially bothersome, as old scars and injuries acted up. But it was suffer the heat, or succumb to the cold, and so he sat enduring the heat- shuddering, and gritting his teeth, unable to eke out a shred of comfort.
At length his father returned; dark, grim, and silent and took a seat next to him, adding to the conflagration that scorched his skin, and he sidled away. The elves altogether left wanting to be nowhere near a former dark lord, and Morgoth's more recently acquired former lieutenant.
His father watched him, wordlessly, golden eyes appraising and analysing every minute detail, but he had no words to offer. There was nothing to say. Ruin, Morgoth had wrought beyond his skill to fix.
The fire danced red in his father's hair. It was a sight, Fëatho still had not yet reconciled with. It was one thing to hear that his father had once been fair, but it was another to see it first-hand after years of dark cloaks and miasmic darkness.
Golden eyes met grey, but Fëatho looked away, not sure he wanted to look close enough to perceive anything in their molten depths.
A breeze wafted across the encampment, and to Fëatho it may well have been a blizzard.
"You may be more comfortable inside."
It was the first words his father had spoken in hours, and Fëatho looked at him. He was still staring; expression carefully neutral, and eyes inscrutable.
"I was inside. It was dark. I get colder in the dark." He fisted his fingers in his blanket, and hunched in on himself, as another gentle zephyr raked languid icy fingers across his scalp. "I don't like the dark." He added, as if his father hadn't already guessed as much.
"Soon Little…" his father trailed off, and Fëatho's heart clenched to hear his childhood name slip from the former dark lord's mouth. "Soon, all shall be dark. Look and admire the stars. One by one they vanish."
His father pointed to the east, and the sky seemed emptier. Something inside twisted like a knife, and he couldn't stifle the gasp. He balked as his father reached out. The pale artisan hand grasping nothing but the air between them.
"Please, don't." He rasped, fingers digging into the blanket to keep it from falling from his shoulders, as he leant away, watching the fingers hanging empty between them. The fire was all he could stand. Anything more would be too much. Mercifully his father's hand retracted, settling placid, and elegant in his lap.
Awkward silence reeled bitterly between them, thick with words unsaid, and Fëatho sat in eager anticipated at the thought of it being broken. But it didn't work like that. You couldn't attempt to kill your own father, and then make light-hearted chitchat a few days later. Reality didn't work like that. And reality would soon disappear.
More stars on the horizon had vanished, as something wholly abyssal and evil encroached. Soon it would be upon them, and all would be unmade, and destroyed in a violent cataclysm of power.
Fëatho made to stand, staggering, as the stiff knee in his mangled leg gave under him. But he fought, and found his balance.
"Fëatho-"
His father stood up behind him.
"It's my leg. I'm alright."
"It bothers you still?"
Fëatho turned with a raised eyebrow. "It was shattered into a bazillion places. We both knew I'd be lucky if I regained enough equilibrium to walk unaided, and lucky I was." He smiled softly. "We each have our scars, and we must own them…as you once said we must own the names that others bestow upon us. They mark us and we do not own the, then the world shall use them to harm us. Scars are no different."
He held his smile a little longer. "I'm alright." Shakily he tugged the blanket tighter about himself, and turned away. "I'll return soon. I just need to see someone."
She was in one of the healing tents, rummaging through a case.
"Fëatho," her voice was light, but she was deep and dark, abyssal blue. In her presence he sank to the blackest bottom of the deepest ocean, where fish winked like fireflies in the dark, or held little lanterns before them, like Eärendil carrying precious little silmarills. It place of rich indigo; eternal, endless, and timeless- he was hopelessly enthralled by such a placid and beautiful place.
She was like a river, and he was caught in the current, hopelessly adrift.
Chill air seeped into his bones, and clotted his insides with hoarfrost. Malignant affliction curdled copper light in brown choking embers, but he thought it a fair trade as he stared at her, bent over rummaging through her chest, silver hair spilling over her should like a waterfall.
"Do you need something?" She asked, rising, with an armful of cloth. She set on a nearby cot and approached him. Her eyes were silver-blue, and kind, but frowning as she appraised him. He felt terrible. He probably looked terrible, and her hand reaching out to him all but confirmed it. He shuddered as her too warm fingers rested against his forehead.
She clucked her tongue, displeased by the sheen of sweat that dampened her finger tips. "You're getting colder. I'll see if I have something that can-"
He caught her fingers as she withdrew grinding his teeth as they burned in once fiery hand.
"The stars are vanishing. I want you to see them, in all their silver glory, before they are utterly lost. Would you join me?" He let go of her fingers, ignoring the embarrassment curling in his stomach. Her eyes, blue and silver, wise, compassionate, and intuitive flickered like diamond light on the surface of an ebony pool.
It had cost him to come here, and she knew it. Yet here he stood, a dying firefly glowing its last rays of failing light.
"I will look upon them with you."
His heart fluttered, and he reached for her fingers, biting on his lip as he smiled, against the pain; secretly hoping she'd said yes because she genuinely wanted too, and not because she'd feel guilty to turn him away.
Clutching his blanket to his chest with one hand, he led her beyond the tent, and together they stood fingers entwined peering up into the darkening sky.
Author's Note: This deals with a much older Fëatho. He's still a fidget, but after everything that'll happen to him in Young Wolf, he's grown into someone more assertive and more sure of himself in some regards. He's still kind as can be, but…his compassion has been tempered by cynicism…to a degree.
This fic stems from some ideas I've had for a potential sequel. A sequel that I may not actually write. I tend to dislike writing sequels, but if I'm feeling inspired enough I may take a shot at it. I make no promises.
If Young Wolf, is the story of a young man trying to save his father, and finding his place in the world. Then this would be the story of a father trying to save his son, and reconciling with the world. Essentially, it's the same story, told from the opposite direction, and set during Dargor Dagorath. (A certain Numenorean princess may make a cameo during the second music. ;) )
