Author's Note: To prove I haven't died this is a mishmash of everything pertaining, to chapters 5,6, 7, and 8. I have no idea if any of this is useable because it's been gathering literal dust on my bookshelf since April, so none of this may be viable, or all of it might be viable/used in the actual story, meaning you all might be getting a TON OF SPOILERs.
To start I have what appears to be an answer to a question someone asked me? I'm not sure if this is one I've answered (I don't believe it is-there's no corresponding question that goes with it so I have no clue what I was on, or what this was about.) So Warning: for potential Q&A Spoilers and Confusion?
Fëatho's weapon of choice is his own power. He doesn't like physical conflict, and like his dear ole dad, he prefers using manipulation to save his skin, fighting only when it's strictly necessary. But assuming he was caught unawares I guess he'd prefer a sword… because that's what he's trained with primarily.(oh I think I do know what this was for lol)
He has not received much of that training yet, so this is definitely spoilery. Now, the funny thing was that for a long time I envisioned him being a knife wielder. There are practical reasons why that wouldn't work out, but for a long time I saw him being fond of knives. I think as a back-up he will still have one on hand, but it won't be his weapon of choice. So yeah… he's a sword guy.
The road was wide, lined with jagged rocks, and cruel northern wind yanked at the cloaks of the two riders, and churned motes of dust.
In the midst of such a vast expanse of wild country, comprised of sharp ragged stones, far off mountains, and only the bitterly long road before them, Fëatho felt uncomfortably small, and vulnerable.
Behind them Barad-dûr rose like a king from its mighty seat, its lofty crown lost amid churning clouds and its highest towers concealed by a black shroud of his father's making.
It was a mountain built upon a mountain, built of cities within cities, citadels within citadels, barred behind massive gates, shut off to him, and above it all the Eye shifted, as his father's interest was piqued and lost, and for the first time he understand the true terror of it. With the closing of the Tower's Gates against him, what leniency and safety had been provided to him had been suddenly stripped away. He was no longer the Dark Lord's treasured son. He was just another traitor, another deserter, another shattered chalice of broken promises.
The Eye moved, a scorching and terrible finger of his father's mind, to pin down what displeased it, its potency magnified, now that his lord felt no inclination to hide such a thing from a wretched child in disfavour, but when it moved, it never encroached on the space he occupied. He was never in indirect sight of it either, as if the Lord of Mordor was purposefully avoiding him, and for all the fear the Eye would have induced had it actually turned toward him, the notion that his father was rejecting him so utterly made his heart contort.
Every breath felt an agony. He'd lost so much, so quickly, on the one hand he couldn't believe it had been anything more than a dream, but the sudden absence of everything he'd had left him feeling sick in the saddle.
"We mustn't loiter," Fuinur's voice, soft as a breeze, cut through the snarling wind like a blade of ice, and Fëatho checked his horse. The animal moved a pace or two, before falling still, while Fëatho's fingers throttled the reigns, before falling limp.
"Has it… always been so dark? So heavy? So…?" He trailed off, tensing as the Eye shifted on the edge of his senses. The Dark Lord was still his father, and Fëatho was horribly attuned to the sensation of it falling on him, but now it was different. He'd broken everything and fixing things, making them better, was starting to look impossible. It was the one thing no one had ever done… no one had ever clawed their back into his Lord's favour after losing it.
"This is as it has always been, since the raising of the second tower. He sought to keep such things veiled until you were capable of bearing them, and this you'll find to be true of many things. He's never lied. You've known your whole life what he is, but now you shall see, perhaps more than you might wish, that it took little effort on his part to soften such things you were so willing to turn a blind eye to."
"I-" His face burned, and he glowered at a nearby rock, hating his own ignorance, hating his own folly, and stupidity. It's all he was: a stupid child, with stupid dreams, and he wanted that rock to suffer for it, as if it was the stupid one, when it in actuality smarter than he was. It was wisely being the rock it was supposed to be, wanting nothing more or less than what it had, content and happy right where it was being a rock, and he'd lied to a dark lord.
"It's the difference between reading about a war and experiencing a battle first hand. Many a fool can read about it and claim to understand its nature, its horror, and its glory, but only a soldier who has fought knows the sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch of battle. He showed you all that he thought he could. Perhaps he didn't show you enough. Perhaps you're seeing too much too soon, but you asked for this. You asked to serve in a greater capacity. You asked how you might become him. And this-" the wraith gestured at the tower glowering down at them from on high "-this is your answer. But we must continue now. There are many leagues between us and Cirith Ungol, and we must be there by the date he's set."
Their pace was leisurely, as Fëatho had fallen mute, lost in his own thoughts, and enthralled to a darkness of despair. Fuinur was in no hurry to see his brethren sooner than strictly necessary.
"It feels wrong… so wrong… I should be-"
"Don't think it." Fuinur snapped. "You've been banished, and you are exactly where you should be."
"I wasn't really suggesting-"
"You were born a son to a father and a servant to a lord. It's the latter being punished. The servant has fallen from grace, and our distraught lord has asked that his erstwhile servant gives him space. It's a mercy- a mercy to you both. If it's truly your wish to make amends, be wise, and give him that which he's asked for." Fuinur glanced over his shoulder. Fëatho was staring at him, with such unveiled hope, it was laughable. Any light, any sign that there was an end to dark path he'd thrown himself on, left him desperately clinging to his every word, and all the amusingly bitter irony in the situation it irritated the Ringwraith too. The boy was hopelessly ignorant, and while it wasn't the child's fault it rankled, because Fuinur knew how terrible the Dark Lord could truly be. It was a mercy, an astonishing display of mercy, and while boy had no other great suffering to compare his pain to, it left the wraith biting down on his temper, because he had never received a scrap of what the child had for far lesser crimes.
Banishment was so small a thing compared to what could have happened, or might have happened, if Fuinur hadn't intervened for his lord's sake. Fëatho had no idea, and Fuinur found the boy's endless naiveté loathsome, but there was nothing for it. He couldn't act on it. He was there to protect the child from all of Mordor, including himself, and even if the rules regarding the latter had been pliable he wasn't so foolish to test his lord where his son was concerned.
Fëatho was still watching him, staring, pleading silently for answers the wraith could not and would not give. The Dark Lord hadn't renounced the boy's kinship, hadn't disowned him. The wraith's presence ought to have been proof of that, and it both irritated and amused him, the boy hadn't put that together.
"He needs this," was all Fuinur said. "And so do you."
Fëatho looked away, fingers clenching his clothes where the maggots writhed and his sternum burned.
"It hurts-" The boy's voice thickened, the word themselves were suddenly lost in a clotted inhalation.
"Good." The wraith smirked. "Pain, bitter though she may be is often the best of teachers."
(And here is an alternate version of events. There will be a lot of those. But this one… I'm including here, because it touches on Fëatho's mother and Herumor… I actually don't like this version at all to be honest.)
"I had no idea."
Barad-dûr rose dark and foreboding, incomprehensibly tall, cloaked in shadow, with its spires and ramparts lost in churning clouds.
It stood as a mountain, upon mountains, a city full of cities, and a citadel surrounding other citadels- strong, impregnable, and higher than all the others, past cloud and shade, there was a single window among thousands, open to world, from which a great eye peered, unseen from so far below, but felt, like molten scorching sun, that cut through the clouds and vailing shadows, like a clawed hand or cruel blade.
With a dry mouth and fluttering heart Fëatho felt his own eyes drawn upward afraid that if he did not keep a constant vigil of his own, that horrifying sun, freed from all its restraints might turn toward him while he was unaware, and his hands shook as he clutched his horse's reigns.
He was little more than a spark that had fallen before the boot of a giant, so easily squashed, and snuffed out.
How was it possible that one so powerful had catered to one such as he? What was he, but a candlewick in the Void? How had he been so ignorant, so stupid, so wretched to take all he'd known for granted? When the truth was more than obvious: he'd never been worthy of any of it.
"I-I didn't know-" Shame and guilt twisted his insides and flushed his cheeks with dark red. "Fuinur, how was I so blind?"
The wraith's lips quirked, as an icy wind whipped at their cloaks.
"The last time you were beyond these walls, you were in a covered wagon, and asleep in your mother's arms."
Fëatho's brow furrowed. "How do you know that?"
"Herumor." Fuinur glanced up at the tower, before looking back at Fëatho.
"He was a near constant travel companion to you and yours during your earliest years, whether you remember or not. He found the excursions to Núrn a pleasant enough change from Minas Morgul's stuffy halls and our stuffier company."
A smile touched Fëatho's lips. "I miss him."
"He'll be delighted to hear he's corrupted you so utterly."
The boy laughed, following him down the road.
Fëatho laughed. "How many times did I leave Barad-dûr?"
"Only a few. Though I suppose it depends on one's definition of a 'few.' There were to my knowledge only two successful trips to Núrn. For all your love of travel, it did not seem overly fond of you. The second attempt, when it actually seemed as though the journey was to be successful was the one that proved most perilous."
"Ikshu's told me. I don't remember any of it. You would think I'd remember flying, but I don't. It must be amazing to soar so high, coasting of unseen currents. I don't remember anything. I don't even remember the trip out."
"Nor would you. You were still very young, and you took a rather nasty bump on the head."
"I was flown back to The Tower. I'm amazed Father let me out ever again."
Fuinur, nodded. "He was not particularly pleased, but the best medicine in Mordor is in the Tower. My cousin is a fine healer. I can vouch for that, but there's only so much to be done on the road, and Minas Morgul is no place for languishing children. Not even the Dark Lord's son."
(This next piece is yet another opening for chapter Six. So guess what? There's more spoilers? I don't honestly know. To try to explain things. Chapter five is all the events after the throne room debacle, told from Sauron's POV, and how he comes to his decision regarding Fëatho's punishment. Chapter six is the events following the throne room debacle from Fëatho's POV and it starts when he's in the infirmary. So in chapter when Fuinur references a conversation he's with Fëatho. That conversation is going to be seen in full in chapter six when thing switch back to Fëatho's POV. Chapter 7 ties them back together, for yet another delightful throne room scene. XD)
What had he done? What had he done? He was a fool! So irretrievably stupid-! Fëatho's fingers curled around Dirar's, while a healer tended to the gash on the back of his head. He hadn't noticed even noticed he'd hurt himself, until he'd gone to scratch an itch at the back of his neck, and found his finger tip covered in blood.
Eyes closed he sat, hands clenched, fighting to maintain his composure, bot be any more of a disgrace than he already was, while his torn up and strung out insides throbbed In bitter memory of all that had transpired.
If he'd only gone and done what he'd meant to. If he hadn't selfishly made it about himself, it could have been different. He was the liar and the one who was in the wrong, not his father. But then something, he couldn't even recall what had been said, and he'd started demanding answers to questions he ought to have unasked. Fool!
He'd tried to fix it, to illuminate his follies, only to make it worse. Only to make it about himself. He hated what he'd done. He hated himself!
((OMG! I should have added spoilers for chapters 5 through 11. I have no idea what I'm about to transcribe here, but I saw the name Glorfindel and I am very excited. I have about spiral bound notebooks taking up space, that I no longer have room for, and in the interest of getting my life on track especially in the face of Covid, and two tropic depressions heading our way, I'm putting all my handwritten work on my pc. So that if we end up running from a storm or two, I won't lose anything. So anyways… I have no idea what this is, but I'm here for Glorfindel.))
The Hall of Fire was beautiful, and cheerful fires danced in the hearths, happily chattering to one another with merry crackles and pops, as they lazily consumed the faggots offered them. In the glow, Mornor's dreary grey eyes were brighter, though it would have been a stretch if not an outright lie to call the captive spy happy.
His shoulders which were normally rigid with tension seemed to have slackened, as if the company of fire agreed with him, and the elf was glad their young prisoner was finding some measure of calm in the hall's warm embrace.
Hand raised and palms out, Mornor let the nearest fire warm his fingertips. He wasn't cold, by any means, but after being thrown into a strange world where everything was new, it was wonderful to find a place full of fire. It wasn't akin to meeting an old friend. Even the fires here were different, but in the wake of all his stress, dread, and confusion it was nice to find himself willingly embraced by something familiar.
For a fleeting moment he considered flinging the fire warming his hands at the elf lord and making his escape. He could do it, but Imladris was more than a house for wayward travellers. It was a fortress, and the Elf Lord he was considering throwing fire at, had taken on a Balrog and come back. He'd never take him unawares. He'd never outrun him, and he'd certainly never outlast him in a fight. But even if he could, he was in a fortress surrounded by powerful elves, and some of his Lord's most powerful and terrifying enemies.
He'd flee eventually, but he'd wait for a better opportunity, and not one that resulted in fighting the scariest elf in existence, so he contented himself with relishing the heat of fires, letting their warmth fill him and carry him off, where rings, wars, fathers, lies, lords, and corruption were distant memories.
It was a pleasant fantasy, but the Ring, and its voice pulled at him, and he'd spent the better of part of his time hiding, skulking around trying not to come across Hobbits, or Numenoreans. It was unbelievably cowardly, but he didn't know what to do, or what to say. He was from Mordor. The enemy here, and while he had successful won a fair amount of pity he was still… it was still… he didn't know what to do! He shouldn't have been caught! He wasn't supposed to be near the Ring, and he was effectively being held in the same building with it, and every time he got within the compass of its snare it started calling out to him.
He could feel it. He could hear it. Even far off, it knew him, knew he was in the vicinity, and he could feel it search for him like an eye, and the way it felt. It was horribly familiar and yet alien, as terrified as he was, and it understood him, or he understood it, and he wasn't supposed to be here! His father was going to kill him! No, no, no… he didn't need to think about it. He just-the fire was pleasant wasn't it. It was a good, happy fire, crackling and popping in amiable chatter. It was just him, the fires… and Glorfindel staring at him.
"Mornor," the elf lord spoke, in a voice indescribable, but compelling, and Mornor turned to face him, as if the elf had commanded it. It was voice that was warm, gentle, and full of soft things-and yet it was voice of killer: a horrifying, bright, golden war lord that made Mornor's hands clammy, his heart race in trepidation. The elf lord scared him. He could him at any time for any reason, and the frown on the elf lord's lip did nothing to assuage his fears, so he spoke before the elf lord could form any conclusions about the situation.
"I miss my home." He did. He was dreadfully homesick, and wanted nothing more than the safety of mountains and tower walls to rise up like a buffer between them. He wanted his father. He wanted his lord. He wanted the rigidity of routine and order his lord's will demanded and provided.
The elf lord's expression become unreadable, and Mornor scowled turning away. "All my life I wanted to travel, and all my life my father said it was a bad idea." He uttered a bitter laugh. "He was right. He's always right. I hate it when he's right. I'm going to save him, and then I'm going to spend the rest of my life hearing about how he'd told me so, and that's going to be fine!"
He turned away and stalked off. He didn't know where he was going, nor did he particularly care. He back tacked down various corridors, until he was outside stepping into sunshine that made him wish for dark clouds and perpetual shade. And all the while he sense the elf following him.
Stairs wound beneath his feet. Birds sang. The wind hummed in the trees, and in his anger the wonder of it was last on him. But there was shadow here. Nowhere, was there darkness save for his own, and it wasn't the same. It wasn't enough.
With no plan nor purpose, he followed pale white path of stone under the eaves of tree, and around the walls of buildings he may or may not have been in. The was a disorienting lack of directional cues to be found. In the Tower even if you got lost, you could easily discern which direction you were heading and where you going. Little carvings in the archways of intersections in the tower proper gave direction. Wolves for West. Dragons for North. Orodruin for South, slaves for East, and the Eye for the Dark Lord.
XXX
"Given the evidence or lack thereof, it seems Lord Kemic had naught to do with your servant."
Featho's face paled, and his hand fisted his robes as his heart sputtered in horror.
"He's innocent…" He couldn't put into the words the horror or the guilt. All he'd done horrible as it was, he'd done to the wrong person…. He shook his head. It couldn't be. It just-it couldn't- something inside felt like it was ripping.
"He's innocent of the crime you accused him of, but he is guilty all the same…." Fuinur's voice trailed off, and he looked to the Dark Lord, who had turned from the window and was watching his son.
"He has much to answer for." The weight of world was in the Dark Lord's voice. Head bowed, and whole body shaking Fëatho was eerily silent, unwilling to or incapable of speaking.
With a flick of his will, the Dark Lord commanded Fuinur to leave, and hastily he did so.
XXX
"It's the small matter concerning your ring. The trifling thing of fancy that is the least of rings." But Fuinur's sarcasm withered then as the gravity of his master's plight stole away his meagre sense of levity. "Better than any, you know what it can do, and what it would do. On your hand my lord it's influence is great, and every moment your son were to be around you he'd be jeopardy. In the end, Lord, sooner or later it would ensnare him as surely as it had… Isildur, not to put too fine a point on it."
The Dark Lord turned, his wrath an incandescent blaze surrounded by shadow.
"Should that come to pass you'll be right to fear, but it needn't do so-"
"He'd try to take it."
Fuinur frowned. "Conceivably, but even if he did not, it would ruin him, or he might ruin you. You would be at war with one another, whatever comes to pass. If his safety is truly a concern of yours, if keeping him perfect, untainted, and innocent is your concern…My Lord, what I saw… I don't-"
"Speak Wraith."
"If you try to keep them both, you're liable to lose them both. One or the other, is all you will ever have, but which that should be is entirely up to you. The only way you might be able to keep Fëatho from harm, is to send him away. Forever yours but forever out of reach-"
"You know naught what you speak of," the Dark Lord hissed. "I send him away he'll be lost to me. He'll never be safe beyond Mordor. Never. By virtue of the fact he's my son, he'll forever be in peril. I've always known his position would be precarious. From the moment I realized he was mine. I knew."
I have more on the way, but I'm burned out. Today's been a weird day. I honestly don't know when I'll start working on this or any of my fics again. I haven't touched it since April, so none of this is recent work, though I did some minor editing to some areas that I might want to recycle and use.
