Author's Note: so I came up with this rather spontaneously, but it's also been something that's been bothering me. So during the Third Age Sauron, was swanning about, claiming to be Morgoth Returned, and proclaiming himself to be God. So I've often wondered what Featho thought of that, when he heard it. Surely he must have, at some point, or perhaps several points over his life, and while this isn't story breaking plot-hole, it's still a matter I wish to settle in some capacity.

That is not what happened here.

Disclaimer: No profit was made off this absurd idea


Drabble: His Hands

The Dark Lord's hands were burned black and brittle. Featho was reminded of beetle skins-crackled carapaces left to whither in the sun, but his father's hands felt of flesh and bone as any other hands, and they did not crackle or whither to dust as he examined them.

They were strong hands broken by mountain chains of scars, cut across by molten veins of fire. Valleys formed between tendons as fingers flexed, and Featho found his father's hands an endless fascination. And he hadn't given much to thought to why or how they looked as they did, for they were his father's hands, and that had been summary enough. His father was good, and so surely his hands must be too. There hadn't been reason before to question it until troubling words reached his ears, and his little brow was furrowed in a child's innocent perplexion.

He pressed a hand against his father's. Stark pale chubby little fingers, barely escaped his father's palm. They fluttered anxiously against blackened skin before he spoke.

"Father… I'm scared…."

The Lord of Mordor stiffened, and the one arm wrapped around Featho's waist tightened. "What of, Little Wolf?"

Prudence was a skill he had not yet acquired, nor did it occur to him to be dishonest.

"You."

"How so?" His father's voice was flat and devoid of emotion.

"The men earlier…they called you Morgoth. Why did they call you that?"

It bothered him enough that he made to squirm and turn around in his father's lap, but the arm around him was heavy and immovable. A shadow grew around him, and he fell still, shaking, afraid of the black above him. He leant back, shivering against his father's belly as something fierce and malignant scratched at his ears, and at the walls.

"Oh," The Dark Lord sighed, and the darkness evaporated. "Little Wolf…." There was an edge to his father's voice, and Featho felt him shaking, with laughter or with tears he wasn't sure.

"You're not him are you?"

"Of course I'm not! I'm greater than he ever was!" His father snarled, and Featho believed him. With a squeak, the found himself lifted and turned about, to meet molten eyes.

His father was furious. Wrath churned in his gaze, and his hands on either side of Featho's ribcage trembled.

"Morgoth was a spineless coward, and a fool, who sought to destroy. I am neither of those, and greater than he ever was! My desires have ever been to fix Arda. Why would you ask such a thing?"

"Your hands- hands-are like his, and what they said."

It was a truth too potent to ignore, and the Dark Lord released him as though he'd been stung. The dropped like a sack of potatoes off balance of his father's thigh, and he curled trembling in has father's lap, wiping at his eyes until her hear the scrape of leather and chanced a glance at the movement in his peripheral.

Gloves! His father began was yanking them on, and Featho mewled rising in protest to snatch them away.

"No, I wasn't done. I want your hands." He strained for the hands raised too high to reach, pawing and pulling futilely at velveteen sleeves.

"Why? Why are you-I want your hands. I wasn't finished holding them. Please, let me have your hands. Father I like your hands!" He pled. "Give them back, please….I wasn't finished holding them."

Greedily he snatched his father's hands when they strayed within reach, and immediately he began to pry and twist the tough leather loose of his father's fists.

"Featho!" His father warned, but the child tugged harder.

"Enough!"

"I want your hands," he whined in abysmal protest.

"You have them. Both of them."

"No I don't. The gloves-they have stupid gloves on them."

"Watch your language."

In fuming, furious, tearful silence, the child glowered at his father's gloved hands,

"Why did you put them on?" He folded his arms indignantly.

Above him, the Lord of Mordor, was pinching his nose as he sighed. "I put them on, because my hands were bothering you."

"But your hands don't bother me," Featho said softly. "I like them fine." He pointed to the door. "They bother me. I don't like them. And I don't like their words. They're terrible. They shouldn't say things like that. Why did you let them call you that?"

"I didn't stop them, because they didn't mean any harm by it. It was meant as an endearment- a nice thing-"

"But it's not nice," Featho insisted, exasperated.

He clung to his father's robes and stood, teetering precariously on his father's thigh, as he tried to glare his father into submission.

"Morgoth is the most powerful lord they know. They know no other to whom my majesty may be compared. It's their way of celebrating of my greatness."

"But it's wrong! They're wrong!"

The Dark Lord pressed a finger to the child's lips. "Yes, it's incorrect, but they don't do it to offend."

Featho was scowling, and the image of a child that didn't reach his collar bone when standing on him, trying to give him the evil eye, was an amusing one. It was lucky, the Dark Lord thought him so, or the boy might have suffered otherwise.

"I'm offenced."

"Well, Little One, I'm sorry it offends you, but things must be as they are, even if they're distasteful."

The boy scowled confused more than angry.

"Why?"

"One day I will tell you why I allow them their transgressions. But suffice it to say it's a matter of politics."

"What's…poli-poltics?"

"That too I will tell you later."

Grumbling and simmering the child sat back down. "Can I please have your hands?"

"You still have them, son."

He pouted, and glowered at the offensive, hateful, stupid gloves hiding his father's hands.

"I don't want gloves."

Arms folded, and fingers fluttering, the boy eyed them as a general would enemy ranks, scouting them for weaknesses.

"Please?" He asked. "May I have your hands?" He asked politely, and the Dark Lord's lip twitched at such hopeless manipulation.

"Why do you want them so badly?" The Lord of Mordor asked.

"I like them."

The Dark Lord's brow rose. He was fairly certain the whole conversation had started with the boy being disturbed by them.

"So you say, but I wish to know why." The boy frowned, looking up at the hooded gaze. "Why do you like them?" The Lord of Mordor asked.

"They're your hands."

"Yes…that is certainly true. They are indeed my hands. But why do you like them Frumsnaag?"

"I like you." It was a simple enough answer that explained everything. His father was good, and so too must have been his hands. He yanked once more at the leather gloves and smiled at the blackened flesh and fiery veins they revealed.