Author's Note: This is called Wolf scraps, and as such it's time I put some proper scraps here.

What follows are all the things I had intended to write for the third chapter, but for various reasons opted not to include.

CH3: Middle Bits


In which the Feast is introduced differently. I have no idea how many alternate introductions I have. None are as good as what I ultimately decided on.

"A feast?" The question fell disbelievingly to the floor, and the Dark Lord shrouded as he always was in gloom chuckled. But Fëatho was too surprised and too excited to mind the mocking lilt in his master's voice.

"That is was I said."

Feasts in the Dark Tower were a rare occurrence, and Fëatho could scarcely recall much of the last one, and what little he did remember, snuffed his excitement. And it was with worry and discontent he now looked upon the polished ebony floor with.

"What do I need to do my lord?"

While overseeing a feast was a sign, his lord was willing to entrust him more important duties, he felt like nothing more than a glorified steward. Too firmly he still held to the notion his time could be better spent infiltrating their enemies, and wreaking havoc from within.

"This is on you. It is high time you became acquainted with your allies within your home and abroad. Speak to the emissaries, learn all you can of Far-Harad's rich heritage, and use that as your template. It is for King Nizar's benefit. I would also encourage seeking out the stewards, and getting their advice, as they have seen a few feasts more than you. But ultimately when, where, and how are decisions you have to make."

Fëatho frowned, as question upon question rose to the fore.

"Shall the feast be held in throne room, or should the great hall be opened? Can this really be afforded? Aren't imports of raw ore from Rhun arriving soon? What about-?"

The Dark Lord raised a hand. "I'm appointing this task to you. Find the treasurer and deduce for yourself what Mordor's coffers can afford."

"Yes lord." Fëatho reigned himself in, before asking one more question. The one he needed to know the answer to most. "My lord, has someone died?"

Heavy silence dropped like iron between them. And it seemed the Lord of Mordor was momentarily taken aback, but quickly his father recovered. "Not all feasts are thrown for the deceased." There was a strange edge to his voice that Fëatho couldn't place. But carefully he nodded, eyes never rising from the floor, as he felt himself relax. Without guilt he could look on this feast with excitement and anticipation. Swiftly those feelings returned, budding to life, and he hesitated.

"Will you be in attendance lord?"

"I should hope so. I'd hate to think I'd be uninvited to a feast in my own hall." There was a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

"Still there are few things to address. In the near future, dignitaries from Rhun will be here, and they'll need to be accommodated. And my messenger from Erebor will be returning."

Fëatho's heart fluttered with undo excitement. He carefully concealed his smile, but it glittered brightly in his eyes. Fuinur was to return!

Lord Fuinur, was the only one among the Nazgûl who Fëatho saw with any frequency, and he was curious was to what stories the wraith would have to tell of the dwarves he'd visited.

"You have much to attend to, Little Wolf."

"Of course lord!" He bit down on his lip, swallowing the shrill cadence of untrammelled excitement and after a moment said more calmly. "All shall be seen to immediately."

He rose, bowed, and scuttled from the throne room, his lord's faint laughter trailing behind him.


Textiles:

(I don't know what I was thinking either.)

The boy was slumped sleeping at his desk. Ink, smeared across the page in wide ebony streak, where his hand had slid through it. And Ikshu paused, worriedly frowning passed the man he was speaking to. As soon as the man started to turn his head, curious as to what Ikshu was looking at, the Chamberlain caught himself, and quickly resumed the conversation.

"Red would be traditional, but my master is not the average Mordorin Lord. His rooms should reflect that. He's expressed interest in in cream and gold accents, but seems conflicted in terms of a main theme. Have you any suggestions?"

The merchant's eyes flicked back to him, and as a servant girl passed Ikshu waved her over. "Onya, shut the door so our guest doesn't see that he's asleep," he whispered so the merchant wouldn't hear. With a wordless nod the girl returned to her original task.

"Well," the merchant said. "A great range of colours compliment gold and cream. You'd be hard pressed to go wrong. If the young lord wishes to break from tradition, then I have a range of greens and blues that have a great deal of potential. If expense is of no great concern, then I'd go so far as to suggest purple. There is no colour more noble or bold."

Onya slipped passed them and into the bedchamber proper, letting the door swing closed enough that she and Fëatho were shielded from view.

"Purple is indeed fine, but I think it would be too dark, for our purposes. After all my lord wishes to lighten the space and break the austerity of what are very dark walls. But I'll take a look at your greens and blues."

Swatches of fabric were pulled from the merchant's bag. And he frowned, as he reached for his cup. "Might it be possible to have more of that Haradrim coffee?"

Ikshu nodded. "Of course. Onya, could you see to that."

"Right away-cream or sugar?"

"Oh, yes please." The merchant smiled. The girl nodded and left.

Ikshu flipped through various swatches of sample fabrics, until at length he came across what he thought was something his master would approve of.

Conversation was sparse as the merchant idly drank his coffee, ruined by an absurd am

"He wants what are essentially curtains to frame various art pieces."

"And the art will have a need to match the fabric as well? Would it not be better to choose something plainer-?"

"The art has already been bought. My lord wasted little time in procuring it." Ikshu said, eyeing what he thought a pleasing pattern of pale blue and gold. "Much of it is seascapes and ships, and this reminds me of sunlight on water. I think he'd like it."

The merchant, tilted his head. "I would not have guessed his lordship possessed an interest in such things."

"Lord Fëatho has a great many interests," Ikshu said. "And he comes from a long line mariners. It's only natural he'd possess a special affinity for the sea."

"His mother was Numenorean-"

"Indeed," Ikshu cut him off, but undaunted the man continued.

"I had nearly forgotten. She was Mordor's treasured Dark Lady for so long, it's easy to forget she'd ever been anything else." His voice became hushed. "It's a shame what happened to her."

"-What do you think?" Ikshu held up a piece of fabric to distract the salesman.

That is a fantastic decision," the merchant smiled. "I'll have measurements taken as soon as possible, and I will return with designs as well as an official price." Eager to get started he hastily grabbed his various books of swatches. "I'll send men here tomorrow to get measurements.


Fight Between Featho and Ikshu:

This scene has many versions. This is version 1:

(My favourite between the two I decided to share.)

What it was that woke him, Ikshu could never say. Whether it was intuition or an errant sound that made him slip from his bed and creep out to investigate he was never certain. A thick door stood between his lord's sleeping quarters and the servant's quarters, but all the same he'd risen, and his heart fluttered uneasily as he found Fëatho's bed empty.

He heard the faucet in the washroom, and that was not so strange a thing, and he deliberated returning to his bed, when he thought he heard the faint hiss of pain. It was soft, it was likely the water he knew, but he stood tentative, waiting, listening, and he jerked as something crashed.

It was followed by a series of silent fretful curses.

"My lord?" He was at the door, before he was aware of the conscious decision to move. And for what seemed a beat too long there was nothing but silence and the sound of running water.

"I'm alright." Fëatho sounded calm enough. "I startled myself, that's all."

Fine words, but Ikshu heard the breathless guilty lilt that told another story. He could practically see his master's hand through the door, still as could be as he told yet another lie.

It was one lie too many, and without announcement, he pushed the flimsy wooden obstacle inward. He saw the boy jump as it smacked against the wall and reverberated on its hinges.

Wide grey eyes met horrified onyx, as Ikshu saw what it was his lord sought to conceal. Horrible, gutting silence reeled between them, and he looked from the counter top to his lord and back.

Blood was smeared everywhere, as if the boy had been frantically trying to clean it before Ikshu walked in. It was on the counter, the rim of the sink, drops of red smeared across silver metal and grey marble.

His lord was stained in it, hands pressed against his mouth. His wrists. It ran in silent rivulets down his arms, to drip from his elbows to the polished marble at his feet, all of it pouring from a wound near his mouth that Ikshu couldn't see.

But he did see. Burst capillaries wept in their agony into traumatized purpling flesh of his cheek: the tell-tale signs he'd been struck by something heavy.

"What have you done?" His voice was rattling horrified hiss, as he took a threatening enraged step toward his lord, still standing stricken dumb and silent, and stained in blood. "What in Arda have you done?"

The boy shifted his hands, and after a second lowered them, revealing a folded scrap of cloth and the torn flesh that bled so profusely.

"What have I done?" His teeth were stained red as he spoke. And his eyes were narrowed as he glowered in ornery, petulant, adolescent defiance. "I've done nothing more than what I need to."

"That so? You're father sanction this?" Terror flashed across Fëatho's eyes. And he ducked his head turning it to the side. "I know this looks…bad." He shivered as he gestured to the offending counter. "But it's not. It doesn't hurt, and I-"

"You know well enough this isn't about a split lip!" Ikshu stamped his foot, livid and terrified for his lord. "Fëatho? Lord? What has happened to you? What have you done?"

Fëatho's brow furrowed, and again he turned away, concealing his expression behind dishevelled molten hair.

"My Lord-"

"Ikshu stop-" Fëatho's voice was made of icy despair and bitter exhaustion. "Please. I can't- I can't say. I can only tell you that I must. I need to do this. I have to. It's the only way-"

"No! I've let this go long enough! But no longer! Look at you!" Ikshu took a brazen step forward shaking hand fisted, and a part of him want so badly to lash out and knock sense into the boy. "Look at you!" He growled. "You're worn to the bone and you look like someone hit you with a battering ram! You're bleeding all over the place. You've been sneaking out! And you've been lying!"

A horrified fearful hiss scraped across his lord's lips, and Fëatho looked at him in blatant surprise and fear. And Ikshu hated it. Hated that his lord was becoming another monster to stalk the corridors, another viper to hiss and sink its venom into all. He hated that his lord seemed more concerned with being caught than with consequences of his erroneous behaviour.

To his credit Fëatho was looking. He was looking down at his fingers, tacky with gummy red, but his gaze was far off.

"Ikshu, I've done something terrible."

Version 2:

What follows remained in the chapter until the very second I decided to post it, so right before I hit the submit button, I decided to cut this.

"My lord," Ikshu closed the heavy door so that no other servants might hear. In his hands he thumbed the silken cool fabric, and quietly padded to stand a short distance from his lord.

The boy was half turned in his chair, looking at him, with a frown, and Ikshu felt that some cold sliver of dread worm its way in his chest. Whit like bleached bone, he sat small and frail against the dark walls, and his eyes looked strangely dim and exhausted.

He must have snuck out again. Anger reared its anxious head, but Ikshu tamped it down.

"My lord," he said again, tentatively smoothing a crease of fabric between his fingers. "One of the servant girls brought me this."

Raising the fabric aloft, he revealed it to a pillow sheet, plain slate grey, save for the dark rusty smear.

Fëatho, frowned in disinterest as his grey eyes swept over it. Lost in his long billowy sleeves the boy's hands were hidden from view, but Ikshu detected no movement. Passively the young lord answered. "My nose bled sometime during the night."

Ikshu's brow crinkled, several thoughts zipping through his mind at once.

His master didn't get nosebleeds. Was his master alright? Was he ill? Was that why he was acting so strange lately; because he'd taken ill for the first time in his life? Could he even get sick? What sort of illness triggered nosebleeds in the first place? Was his lord lying again?

"Are you well my lord?" The chamberlain asked. "This was not the result of another nightly venture was it?"

"I'm fine," Fëatho's gaze sharpened and his voice flattened. Fed another lie, Ikshu's eyes narrowed, and slowly he lowered the pillowcase to his side. Resentment burned bright white and hot moiling and mixing with concern and fear for the child's safety.

"Are you, my lord? Are you truly?" Brazen and bold he demanded answers no servant had a right to ask. "Last I knew my lord had no need of dishonesty when he was feeling fine."

Fëatho stood, glaring, jaw clenched and gaze livid. "I appreciate your concern, but your gaze is faulty."

Ikshu wanted to laugh. He want to strangle the boy. He wanted to beg and plead for answers that he knew his lord wasn't inclined to grant.

"Perhaps, my gaze is faulty. Perhaps, I've never known my lord as well as I thought… I had never imagined he could so callously rip apart the relationships he has with those closest to him." Something in Fëatho's gaze shifted. A sliver of guilt wavered quicksilver in his eyes, before disappearing. Ikshu lifted the pillowcase. "I'll see to it that this is purged of its blemishes."

Fëatho looked away, fingers picking at the hem of his sleeves, as Ikshu shifted, making for the door.

His hand was on the handle, when he heard his master's voice behind him.

"Ikshu."

It was a desperate quiet plea, and feigning vague curiosity, and callous disinterest, the Easterling turned. He'd considered asking his lord to consider his resignation, to truly drive home how upset he was, but he'd withheld, sensing that it hadn't been truly needed.

"Yes my lord?" Ikshu asked blithely, and he saw his young lord wince when he heard his uncaring tone. A far greater actor and liar than his lord, he sounded ruthlessly uncaring to his own ears, and whether or not Fëatho believed in that moment he'd driven his chamberlain to become so callous hardly mattered. What did matter was that, at last, the boy seemed willing to speak. What plight his master faced could be thwarted if he would but illuminate it and hope was kindled in the man's heart as the boy shifted on his feet.

Fëatho's fingers tittered, twirling and pulling on his sleeves, and his gaze was fixed solidily on the wall beside him. He trembled, shivering as if with cold, and he opened his mouth uttering nothing but a faint click of choked inarticulate sound. At length his eyes slid to Ikshu, and boy stilled, save for his fluttering fingers. For a beat he paused, as if still uncertain.

Then he cast aside his doubts. His shoulders rose in the anticipation of speech and his mouth opened.

"I…I'm sorry." Fëatho shifted; disparaging guilt flushed across his face. "I'm sorry." He ran a hand through his hair, and if his nails came away blemished and dark. Ikshu frowned displeased by the sight, he made no move forward, and said nothing of his observation. Before his Fëatho picked at his fingers, scraping blood from under his nails.

For a moment Ikshu was disgusted, because he expected more. After well over a week of this, 'I'm sorry' was all he was getting? He didn't want his lord's apology. He wanted answers.

"My lord."

His lord flinched at his icy tone, and once again looked away, all but squirming with agitation where he stood. It was enough to make Ikshu feel uncomfortable just looking at him, seemingly cowering back -even as he stood straight- fingers a maelstrom of activity, and his pale face turned away.

His entire countenance screamed of fear and revulsion, and Ikshu felt an enormous upwelling of guilt and fear. To think he might be responsible for this in any way was appalling but worse was the notion that something or someone else had elicited such visceral terror, because that was exactly what it was.

"My Lord…Fëatho. Please. If you are hurt, please, I implore you to tell me. Ever we've been friends, and whatever it is, all that it is, won't change that. Please, Fëatho, don't suffer in silence. There's no need." He longed to reach out, bit withheld himself. It was so fragile, so tenuous a thing, that last shred of gossamer hope, that it could snap like a string.

Ikshu watched the boy shudder. His hands shook in balled fists, and his jaw was clenched-in sorrow or anger the man wasn't sure.

"My lord, what is it that scares you so?"

The question was enough to cross the line, and Fëatho hissed, face contorting into a sneer as he twisted his head to glare at his chamberlain. His hands were clenched in fists at his side.

"I'm not afraid!"

But he was afraid, Ikshu saw it in his eyes. It burned and blistered in the air about him. It rattled its truth in every tremor of his white knuckled hands. He was terribly frightened. And Ikshu couldn't understand it. When and how had his lord been driven to fear?

Immediately he thought of Dirar. His lord felt terribly guilty about what had happened to the boy, but guilt did not general morph into fear. It didn't add up, yet all this odd behaviour had started around roughly the same time. He tapped his toe against the marble floor, in thought.

Was that it? It was all that he knew-the only correlation he could make. And yet…he felt like he was missing something, some critical detail, and he studied his young lord for any inkling as to what that might be?

"I am not!" Fëatho's voice dripped venom, and his grey eyes were stormy, flickering with far lightning. "I don't know what you think Ikshu, but I'm not the bloody library; some secret coveted and cloistered. I'm tired of being treated as such! I don't need coddling! I don't need help, nor do I want it! So please, do us both a favour and leave it be!" He hissed.

"My lord, all I wish is that you are happy and safe. But since you have made it so poignantly clear, I will of course refrain from pestering you further." He bowed. "If you desire, I will take my leave now, and see that this is cleaned."

"Yes." Fëatho nodded. "That I think would be best." He turned, and sat in front of his desk once more. The quill in his hands scratched across the paper, and bitterly Ikshu glared at the child's back.

Burying his frustration and relaxing his face into a calm smooth plain he left his lord to sulk in front of his books and papers. Let him sit and rot there if he wished.

The chamberlain pressed the pillowcase into the arms a passing servant boy.

"See that this is given to the wash girls."

The boy nodded scampering off.

Fuming, Ikshu slipped into the hall. His slippers softly padded against the floor, as he wondered with no thought of where he was going, beyond abandoning the company of others. What did he do now? Was this more than adolescent rebelliousness? Instinct screamed yes, but what ought he to do now. The immediate answer would be to bring this to his father.

He could tell Dark Lord the boy was unwell: sick in the head and sick emotionally, and doubtlessly the Lord of Mordor would summon the boy to discover the truth. It would be out of his hands after that. If there was one thing the Dark Lord would be furious to hear, it was that his honest son, had found a bedfellow in deception.

There was the small matter of approaching the Lord of Mordor. That in and of itself was a dangerous thing to do. Oh he would listen. He'd listen because he would want to know all that his son was up to, but Ikshu had little idea with what or whom Fëatho had gotten involved, and he disliked the idea bringing open suspicions to Mordor's Lord.

Then sooner or later his master would learn who had alerted the Dark Lord in the first place, and Fëatho might consider such tattling betrayal. The lord, who had sought to protect him might not wish for his services any longer, and even if Fëatho did desire his continued work, the boy would be furious for a long time. No. He couldn't bring this to the Dark Lord. At least he couldn't do so personally.

Through the darkened halls, he wandered, pondering the dilemma. How serious was it? Was it worth the Dark Lord's involvement? What if it wasn't, and he was merely seeing things where no problems existed. What if it was, and too late the matter was brought to the boy's father?

Either way, Mordor's lord needed to be told.

But how to do it became the question. It was a dangerous gamble. Mordor's lord had no qualms punishing his messengers, and fear of his master's master, rose up to squash what loyalty and duty demanded. That anything was wrong with his son, that only what Fëatho had been content to reveal pointed a finger at the Dark Lord's parenting, would not curry leniency or forgiveness, and it scared him what might happen to himself or what might happen to Fëatho.

The very notion of Fëatho becoming deceitful was one the Lord of Mordor cared little for, and when he learned that's what his son had done, he'd be furious, regardless of what necessity the boy claimed as an excuse.

Rumour travelled fast across the vast expanse of the Dark Tower, and word had reached the ears of many, one of the High Lords was in the tower. It was the usual one; the Black Messenger. Not all the wraiths were the same, and while the Messenger was not nice, he was far from the worst among them. And he was one of the few his master had met and seemed to get on with, which could only be of benefit here.

He paused wondering if it would not be wise to inform somebody where he was going; any of the lesser servants, so that he might be found if he did not return. Fretfully he grit his teeth. The whole point of going to Fuinur in the first place was out of need for discretion, and he didn't fancy Fëatho discovering his whereabouts. But going to face a High Lord with no lifeline, no certainty of rescue or refuge, was a terrifying prospect. But if he didn't, and these issues surrounding Fëatho weren't settled, what might happen then?

Something was truly wrong and more Ikshu thought about, the more certain he was that something was terribly amiss. But while the boy had no wish to speak to him he would talk to Fuinur though: the unbiased friend.

All that remained was to compel the wraith to help...without getting killed, or worse.

Desperation might be his salvation. But there was little he had to offer in terms of payment. The Nazgûl could not be bought with gold or gems, and it was a stretch to suggest they could bought at all, but what they craved most was what they hated most.

Life.

Life could buy a High Lord's attention and time. It might be enough to curry a small favour. But even then there was no guarantee Fuinur would be inclined to help. He knew little of the High Lords and what demands their master made upon their time. And what little time Lord Fuinur might have him to himself was not liable to be cheaply bought.

Anxiously he tapped his foot, thinking of his young lord, all stiff and solemn, so strange and bent out of shape. He'd been a nervous child, shy even, and he'd thrown more than a few tantrums over the years. All children did sooner or later, but Fëatho had transitioned into adolescence without incident, until now. And all at once everything seemed to be coming undone.

He knew the boy felt responsible for Dirar. It was in his face every time the unfortunate page was mentioned. And for years his young lord had wished for a freedom the Dark Lord repeatedly denied. Maybe Dirar and a terribly disrespectful lord had truly served as the final straw? It was the conclusion he'd made, even if once again he was struck by the notion he'd missed something vital.

While he knew what he might say to ease Fëatho's guilt, he also knew his lord was in no mood to hear it. On the contrary Fëatho was making every effort to shut him out and to shut him away, and for the life of him Ikshu couldn't imagine why.

He'd done nothing to deserve such treatment. And angry though he was, everything he was observing screamed of a child in need. There would be time for anger, but his duty first and foremost to his lord's wellbeing, and that required a power greater than he to intervene. Whatever his lord was doing, wherever he was going in the night, the Dark Lord needed to know.

'The Dark Lord needs to know….'

Ikshu shook his head, with an exhale. He might have questioned whether or not the Dark Lord would be furious that he took so long to bring this scary change in his son's behaviours to his attention. On the other hand, men who beseeched the High Lords for favours seldom returned, so he'd at least be spared the Dark Lord's wrath. That surely counted for something? He uttered a feeble huff of laughter that withered cold and frosty on his lip. It counted for naught, and he knew it. Ikshu wasn't so brave or foolish to think otherwise, but his lord needed help. Truly he did. And there was little else he could do.


Below is what would have been the end for the chapter, but it felt…unnatural and stilted. I think a lot of my writing, after the feast scene felt that way, but this was particularly special, especially it was going to be the pivotal moment of revelation, when the readers finally see the problem in full. I cut it out because I didn't like it, and the special beginning piece of it is being placed here.

The original handwritten piece that follows is better, and will make its way into the scrap pile, because when I wrote it, I made the mistake of taking focus away from a character in dire straits (which is never a good thing) to do world building. So yay! Mordor has been fleshed out! Woo! But it was bad timing.

Yeah…this chapter did not want to come together. It really did not. I'm not happy with it. I'm doing a lot of hacking where the second half is concerned to make it more cohesive, and more meaningful. I really feel like I built up to something, and the opening was good, but when it came to dropping the hints, and putting the pressure on I dropped the ball. So the chapter is a big bowl of spaghetti, and I posted it because at about 20kT it's getting kind of out of hand. And the build-up thus far has not been worth the pay off. Nor the chapter worth the wait. So I'm rather grumpy. But chapter 4 might be redeemable. Might be, if I don't screw it up.

Oh dear….

Beginning of the End:

Papers flew, swishing as they wafted anti-climatically to the ground in utter disarray. Fëatho stood over them, limned in phosphorescent red, fuming; furious with Ikshu, furious with himself. Why couldn't the man leave well enough alone? Why couldn't have stayed and pried further, until he might have finally been compelled to reveal his secrets?

He wracked his fingers across his scalp, tendons rigid as he ruined his braid, and tugged molten strands from their roots.

Shuddering he bowed his head regretting the way their last conversation had ended, acutely aware it was all his fault. He couldn't tell the man what had happened. What he'd done. Ikshu knew all about Dirar, but that was only part of it, and the rest was infinitely worse. How, how could he bare that his chamberlain? The man was convinced he served a good lord, but to confess by his own admission he was not, and his friend had it wrong, that was unbearable. He couldn't tell him. He couldn't.

For a long while he paced, clutching his chest as the maggots ate away at him. He spasmed and twitched as their innumerable jaws devoured. A conflagration of fire burned beneath his sternum, and at length he slipped his robes from over his shoulders, relishing the touch of cool air as it brushed his flushed skin. His tunic he pulled off over his head, and closed his eyes as cool air grazed his chest.

It provided momentary relief and did not to cease the maggot in their devastation. He twitched as chest muscles constricted and his stomach fluttered. Shallow gasps dried his lips as he sucked in air. Rarely there seemed to be enough anymore.

Deciding his room wasn't cool enough to put out the fire, he slipped his clothes back on and tentatively opened the door. Hesitant he peered out, unwilling and incapable of facing Ikshu again, but the boy neither saw nor heard his chamberlain, and he darted across the scant few feet between his bedroom and the rest of his chamber.

He flung himself into the hall, and dug his knuckles into his sternum willing taut muscles to slacken and maggots to stop feasting. He was rotting.

Already he was rotten.

Without much thought for where he was going, as long as it might be cold, he moved. There were secluded balconies on the lower floors not yet barred off, and he slipped into an elevator. An ornate lantern illuminated the space, and the walls veiled in velvet that he absently ran his fingers over as the contraption lurched downward.

Part of the problem here, is that I didn't want this chapter to be written from Fëatho's POV. For two reasons. The first is laziness: What is going on with him emotionally, mentally, and physically is really difficult to keep straight. Trying to keep an even balance between those things, keeping certain details vague, giving him proper introspection, while trying to paint a naturally honest character as dishonest and making /that/ feel natural proved far too challenging to do.

The second reason is the mystery. If you're not inside his head, you don't know what he's thinking. You don't know what he's going through, what's been done to him, or what he might have done in turn.

So writing from his POV, really was not fun. I did not enjoy it.

And as I was writing this, it occurred to me that a lot of the problems were with Fëatho himself, and my inability to write him. And when I starting thinking about where and when I dropped the ball: after the scene with the orc healer, I realized I could essentially cut a lot of the following scenes out, as they did not contribute much to the story, or they contributed the wrong things at the wrong time. So the scrap heap became a lot bigger….

And so here follows a great deal of the third chapter:

In Which Fëatho Sneaks out for Night Fighting:

In the dark Fëatho laid, exhausted, but unable to sleep. His chest ached, and burned, and something inside was pulled taut and ready to snap like a string. It made no difference, which direction he lay, if he rolled onto his side, or curled on his stomach. Anxious and desperate he rubbed at his sternum, willing the maggots to fall still, to no avail. Nothing worked, and he groaned into the empty expanse of his room.

He'd returned to his chamber, appearance made immaculate. Precious time he'd spent in one of the tower's many elevators preening until he could face his servants without raising an alarm.

Ikshu was especially watchful, and Fëatho had to be increasingly vigilant and furtive in his dealings with his chamberlain, lest the man grow wise. Cleverer he was having to become in order to keep his secrets safe, and Fëatho supposed this was not a bad thing. Except it was. His father hated deception, and those who dared to wield it against him. And it was by lucky chance he'd avoided his father's detection this evening, but everyone else about him lied. They spun their webs, and laid their traps, conspiring all the time, and that was right, and yet it was simultaneously wrong for him.

They lied with impunity-though never to the Lord of Mordor- and got away with it, but Fëatho was quick to suffer ridicule for merely attempting it. How was that fair? What was his father thinking? Was lying wrong or wasn't it? Or was it only wrong to lie to the Dark Lord? Or maybe it was only wrong for him to lie?

It was exercise, he told himself every time he offered his faithful servant a false smile or a dishonest word. It was exercise. It was exercise, and it was good what he was doing, because his father didn't need a weak ineffectual sons, but strong ones. Good ones. And one of these days he'd be both a good son and a good lord.

Guilt burned in his chest as he recalled dinner, and the seemingly countless days he'd spent keeping secrets from Ikshu.

It was exercise, and he'd grow into a fine and noble lord, who would never need fear the harm others might do to his servants, who would never again be cowed by bitter truths spoken by an enemy's mouth, who would never need to depend solely on his father for protection. He'd stand proud and tall, on his own merit, because Mordor had no need nor room for weak little lords like himself.

"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 only jested when saying you have flowers in your blood."

Kemic had shrugged, so nonchalantly, his little smile had been so cluealy gluttonous as he had revelled in his mockery. Because he had been safe. He was returning to Rhun, and his pleasure palace in Dorwinion, and none would know what he said or did, save Fëatho, and stupidly the boy had let himself be cowed. By shock and disbelief, he'd been rendered mute and statue still.

"Perhaps that's what happens when one's mother is a Tark." And something had burned in the man's eyes, calculated and malicious, while something hot, white, and fell had been kindled in Fëatho's chest. It was one thing to insult him, and quite another to insult his mother.

"My mother," Fëatho had growled in pure venom, and even now he glared hatefully into the red and gold canopy of his bed, while his fingers fisted and throttled the sheets around him.

"Yes," Kemic had smiled innocuously. "Your mother was the weakest of Numenoreans to ever curse this land with their presence, yet she was still stronger than you. She had her excuses, of course; being the daughter of a mewling whore of a queen, and whatever drunken gutter-wretch of a father that had taken her in a back alley, but for the son of Lord Mairon," Kemic sneered so cruel. "There are none. Nor will there ever be"

His dark eyes had laughed daggers, and his words had dripped poison. Boldly and brazenly the man had approached him then, predatory and offensive, wicked malice burning in his eyes, as gutting words crowded behind his shark teeth.

"It's a bitter irony, that from such a formidable union, such a dainty flower was the end result."

Fëatho scrunched up his face, and turned his burning cheeks into his pillow as maggots wriggled and fire burned in his breast.

He was a wolf, not a flower, and he rubbed irritably at his face. His mouth especially as, Kemic's fingers glided in a phantasmal echo across his skin. But even if he was a flower now, he wouldn't be for long. He was training, he was lying, and he'd rise to stand above jealous lords like Kemic, who hated him not because he had what they did not, but because they thought he hadn't earned it. And he would. He would earn his place, because Mordor didn't need weak princes. His servants didn't need lords who couldn't keep them safe. And the Dark Lord didn't need an ineffectual son who couldn't take care of himself.

"Is that what you'll do Fëatho? Run to Lord Mairon the Great, pathetic in your cowardice, proving once and for all that you're just a pretty little flower?"

He screwed his eyes shut, pressing his face into his pillow. He wasn't a flower. He wasn't weak. And if he was now, soon he wouldn't be. He was going to deal with Kemic as he ought to have done in the first place. He was going to release Dirar from his service, since it was obvious he couldn't protect his servants. He was going to become strong, and brave, so that he could protect his father and serve Mordor to the best of his ability.

He was simply training. It was only an exercise lying to Ikshu-lying to them all. It was good, what he did, but he couldn't shake off the guilt or the profound feeling that what he was doing was horribly wrong.

Fëatho woke with a gasp, the maggots in his chest burning as they gnawed ever deeper. With a flicker of fey puissance, a candle sprung to life, and shuddering, gasping, on the verge of tears he raised his hands. Pale and unmarred they shone pallid in the wan orange light. Blood, hot blood had coagulated in the creases of his hands, and horror shuddered out of his chest in a quaking sob.

Thoughtlessly he rose, stomach churning, and heart racing. He stood running his fingers through his hair, needing to leave, to move, to go somewhere, anywhere that wasn't here.

He slipped on a woollen robe, hiding the tunic and britches he slept in.

Calling up a tendril of puissance he wove for himself the guise of one of his servants. Hiding behind the face of a page, Fëatho fled his chambers, feeling from yet another bad dream.

He fell into the one of the many elevators utilized by the servants, and bolted the metal gate behind him, with a clank. Falling back against the barred walls, he closed his eyes, safe in his little cage, and there he hung gathering his wits.

But he wasn't far enough yet. He wasn't strong enough yet. And his chambers were not so far. He suspected Ikshu knew he was sneaking out, and if he tarried he was liable to be caught sooner or later, and with trembling fingers he pulled back the lever, and chains lurched in a rattling jump, before he began his solemn decent.

Many faces and many guises he would take to insure he made it to his destination.

There was one place where his dreams could be forgotten. One place where what he was and who he was were no importance, where he could escape Kemic's cruel smiles and his guilt as a failure of a lord. It was a place where leaves might be replaced with fur, and flowers with fangs. It was the only place where he might yet still be a wolf, and claim some strength to call his own.

Mentally preparing for another furtive night of secret brawling he made his way to the training pits. Throughout the course of his journey there, he'd take many guises, and wear many faces, and none would be the wiser. These late night excursions were not appropriate, and their discovery would earn him a stern word from the Lord of Mordor, if nothing else. But it was all he could think to do. It was the only way to grow, to become better than he was, and until he was ready to bring his nightly trysts to his lord and father.

By then he could stand proudly and claim that he had grown and become better, and what of his father's ire his secrecy might have raised would be lulled by pleasure, because Fëatho had tried, and succeeded in becoming the lord he was meant to be.

Until then it was his coveted treasure, too precious to lose. It was the only way he could think of to become what he was supposed to be. His little secret. His little lie.


The Subject of Elevators:

(Because taking a moment to ignore a character's problems to focus on the scenery in as much gratuitous detail as possible is always important.)

At the height of the utmost tower, stairs were not an efficient means by which travel and so the Dark Lord had wisely devised a means by which one could easily navigate the heights and depths of the citadel with ease.

Ikshu didn't care for elevators. Trapped in a little steel cage, suspended by chains and strong ropes on a pulley system, he felt vulnerable and claustrophobic. As far as he knew, none had ever fallen, but once or twice he'd heard of them getting stuck, and people being trapped between floors.

Given that there were likely hundreds of them, scattered throughout the various towers, being used by hundreds of people every day it was a miracle far more accidents of greater consequence hadn't occurred. This was likely owed to some magic that was imbued in them and the orcs and slaves that toiled away to see them maintained, but all the same Ikshu's heart fluttered and his brow prickled with sweat.

This particular elevator spanned five floors, reserved for personal servants of Mordor's highest lords, and no others could use it save for Fëatho and the Dark Lord himself, but for them there was another elevator; opulent and pleasant in its design, catering to comfort as well as swift travel, and it spanned the height of the tower. On every floor guards stood before its doors to insure that none other than Mordor's mightiest lords could use it.

The one Ikshu stood in was elementary, nothing but the bare minimum needed: a lantern to see by, one solid wall to cower against, and three barred walls to remind him of what a prisoner he was trapped in a mobile cage dangling who knew how high on a few measly chains that could break at any second. What a blessing it was that the Dark Lord was gracious enough to provide his servants such a reminder! As if they were liable to forget they might die at any second.

When the elevator jerked to its stop on the bottom most of the five floors, he darted out, convinced this efficient means of transportation really was nothing more than a clever means with which the Lord of Mordor could endlessly torment generations of slaves and servants.