Author's Note: A piece that didn't make it into the final cut of TYW, but gives some critical insight into Featho's headspace after the terrible falling out between him and his dad. This is one of those pieces that I still want to dub as 'canon,' but eh. I may make references that insinuate a scene of similar nature occurred behind the scenes, but this as it is did not make the cut.
Disclaimer: don't own.
Chapter 4 Scraps: Fainting Spell
In the infirmary Fëatho sat quietly, staring down at Dirar's sleeping face, tears pattering the top of his fluttering hands, as a nurse looked to the weeping cash in his scalp. When asked what happened, he claimed he'd fallen, and whether they truly believed him or not, the physicians hadn't seen fit press him.
He sat there, tears falling in bitter silence as he struggled to hold himself together as he fell apart. He tried not to think, he tried not to. He was so close to losing all composure, so close to be consumed in his entirety by ravenous worms that he couldn't bring himself to admit to himself what had just occurred.
His lord hadn't meant it. His father wouldn't have gone so far, had he not truly deserved it. He should have kept his mouth shut, should have obeyed, and it was on him. His father wasn't nearly so cruel. It wasn't evil, what he'd done. Only an evil son had given him grief. That's all it was. That's all it was. His lord hadn't meant it…but even if he had, Fëatho assured himself that it was deserved.
It was deserved, and he was wrong for pushing his lord so. He was wrong, because he couldn't do anything right. He was wrong-
"Wondrous news! Wondrous!"
An assistant's voice rang too loudly in the silence of the infirmary, and a grey clad slave-girl appeared in the door. Fëatho was yanked from his reveries, as several senior nurses and Master-physicians hissed their disapproval at her loud flamboyant entrance.
Admonished the girl apologized the same ostentation they'd hissed at, but now her voice was sugar and spice and grated his wrung out nerves to hear. Selfishly he wished she'd celebrate elsewhere, so that he could sit in peace.
"Sorry! Sorry I hadn't known-"
Her brown eyes widened as they landed on him and she dipped into a tentative curtsy.
"Please forgive me Lord. I hadn't meant-I'm so sorry." Her voice hushed as her wide eyes darted between him, the nurse, and Dirar.
"What is the wondrous news?" One of the Master-physicians looked up from a tome he was pouring over. She swallowed meeting the beady-eyed orc's gaze.
"It's Lord Kemic," she breathed in an elated rush, and Fëatho's blood turned to ice. "He's stirred." She was beaming, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"He's awake?" Fëatho prayed that his voice hadn't trembled, and that he looked calm and collected as his palms turned tacky with sweat, and that his face had not paled in the sudden sickening flutter of his heart.
"No lord-not yet-but soon!" She turned once more to the Master-physician, all smiles and giddy joviality, asking what ought to be done now, and prattling on about how great it would be when he woke at last, and they be able to find out what had happened to him, and wasn't it wondrous?
Fëatho sagged, dangerously close to being ill as the world rose up to devour him. It was too much. Too much, and the maggots in his chest hollowed him with galling pain. He braced against the bed for the support, and slumped into a pair of hands that suddenly grabbed him.
"Lord Fëatho!"
Maggots. There were maggots. Red, slaked in gore- they were everywhere! He was rotting. He was melting from the inside out, and he shut eyes against the horror of it, as his chest churned molten and his hart raced beyond endurance.
Voices were loud with alarum, and they pulsed in yellow-white flashes behind his eyes, and he moaned as cold cloth was wonderfully pressed to his face. His stomach churned, and he lurched forward coughing up bile and burning acid.
Water was offered to him, but he didn't want it. He rose to stand. He needed to leave. He needed to tell his father that Kemic would be awake soon, if he even cared for the wellbeing of such a horrid failure of a son. He needed to leave, because Dirar hadn't stirred once, and he was furious at the injustice of it. He needed to leave before they caught on and realized that he was the reason Kemic had gotten hurt. He needed to leave, because his father had commanded him not to disgrace himself, and he needed to do something right to make things better.
He swayed. Hands snagged his robes and grasped his shoulders holding him back.
"What's wrong with him?"
"Concussion. The back of his head was bleeding…."
"My lord-!"
He found himself forced into a chair.
"I want my chamberlain. Send for my chamberlain."
"You need rest."
He shook his head, railing against the blackness in his vision. It was hot. He was boiling hot, as he never had been before. Maggots were eating him alive, and there wasn't enough time. There wasn't enough air, and he couldn't break from the hands grasping him. He couldn't do anything but sag miserably into a pair arms that held him, as strength deserted his quivering limbs.
"He feels cold," a voice said over him.
"Please…I want Ikshu…."
Voices were speaking to him, over him, but his the buzz of his pulse whooshing through his ears was growing impossible to hear over. He wanted Ikshu. He wanted his father. He was hot and sick and horrible scared. It was scary! And he struggled in the attempt to rise, but the dark rose with him and he sobbed as it encroached. He wanted his father-needed-needed to go back to him, before-before he couldn't. His father had hurt him. But he could fix him too.
He begged, screaming as that awful darkness pulled him from the world, but those around him heard naught but incomprehensible whimpers.
