Author's Note: I was bored, and not feeling well. Humour is good medicine, and working with it in my writing certainly helps keep my mind over matter. Apologies if this is poorly written, but I've always wanted to give Caradhras a stern talking to, for waylaying the Fellowship. Who better to do so, than Sauron's own son?
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
At the Peak of the Redhorn Pass
The wind howled and lightning cracked loudly in the sky above. Stiffly Fëatho clung to the short cliff wall, unable to go further. Too loud, too scary, too powerful, too strange… he shuddered under drapes of wool. Hugging his cloak did little good against the cruel chilly weather, and Boromir stopped next to him.
"Move."
Mute and wide eyed Fëatho shook his head. His fingers dug into the rock he was pressing his back against. They were growing numb against the cruel the stone. Boromir's eyes softened a moment, before being replaced by a frown.
"We can't stop here. We're dead if we do, and you're blocking the safest place on the ledge."
"I saw weather like this, a few days before I left Mordor!"
"There's no weather like this in Mordor!"
The Captain of Gondor scowled, feeling the panic rolling of the Mordorian slave in powerful waves. Alongside it he felt a flicker of pity. To have lived in a place where there were no thunderstorms and to suddenly be standing on a precipice in one of the worst storms Boromir had ever seen, he understood why the boy was scared, too afraid to move forward. He understood, and a moment later he swatted his sentimentality away.
"It's scary! I understand, but if you don't move I'll throw you over the edge, myself!"
Rocks cracked above them, and they both huddled against the rock face, as they crashed about them.
"Stop! Stop! No more I implore you!" Fëatho screamed as the wind snatched his words from him. Fear turned to fury, and his grey eyes were bright with fire and it shimmered with danger in the air about him.
"Desist Because I! AM! TALKING!" He kicked the rock before him, and it cracked under foot. The wind died and the blizzard relented. Indeed he had captured the mountain's attention!
Fëatho glowered upward in the direction of the mountain's lofty crown soaring several hundred feet above them, lost somewhere in the thick clouds.
"Listen you! You overgrown malicious hunk of charcoal! You temper tantrum throwing toddler, sprung from the malice of Morgoth's loins! Hinder us anymore and the New Lord of Middle Earth, the Greatest of Dark Lords, Mairon the Magnificent will melt you down for candle sticks-!"
"Candlesticks?" Merry asked, looking quizzically between Gandalf, Legolas, and Pippin.
His answer was a headshake and a hand wave from Gandalf. Legolas had a hand over his mouth, amused by this sudden turn or horrified- quite possibly both. He stood still on a snow drift, watching as the glowing fiery servant of Saruon ranted at the mountain.
"-You're not fit to even be melted down for candles. You'd be lucky if the Dark Lord saw fit to grace your flank with an engraving of "Gorthaur," you abominable, dreadful, loathsome, useless lump of shale-!"
"Oh Valar, we're all going to die," Legolas whispered. "Mithrandir, please do something."
The wizard was indeed doing something. He was smiling, or more accurately trying not to.
"I never thought I'd say this, but almost glad we brought him with us!" Pippin whispered to Merry. "He's out of his mind! It's hilarious!" He hissed and giggled.
"-Mightiest of the Misty Mountains they call you! Ha! I've seen slag in Mordor more befitting of the name! When he hears of us, of you, what you've attempted here, the Lord of the Earth will not be pleased. You'll be lucky if you majesty escapes his wrath then. Let us pass, and we shall sing your praises wherever we wander! We'll forget your cruelty, and come this way never again! But should you hamper us anymore and I would not wish to be you when the Dark Lord comes."
The mountain leered down at him, a tiny glowing echo of a greater power, pathetic and small on the edge of a mighty precipice. And Caradhras hated that little candle flame more than it had ever hated anyone.
Fëatho's eyes narrowed, and puissance coiled hot and golden at his fingertips, and he spoke in a voice deep and cold, and horribly unlike his own. "Don't test me mountain." Sauron shown through him. His influence glowed like a crown on Fëatho's brow, and the ring about Frodo's neck grew suddenly heavy, and he gasping cling to it as bore him toward the ground.
"Frodo," Aragorn's voice was frightfully strained, and gratefully the hobbit sagged into the man's arms.
His grey eyes narrowed in Fëatho's direction. This servant of Mordor was not ordinary. He'd known that from the start, but the proof was shining before him, molten and hot and cruel. This person blazing on the brink of a terrible fall below was not the skittish, amiable, and kind slave of Sauron they knew. In his place was a lord, dark and deadly, like Sauron, but lesser and shockingly on their side for the moment.
Gandalf's fist was tight around his staff, his eyes narrowed and dark. Tensely he was watching their prisoner and unexpected companion with apprehension.
The clouds above them cleared, and the sun in her golden majesty, fell warm upon their cold shoulders. And Fëatho appeared to shrink. His eyes again were grey. The power that had crackled about him faded, replaced with ordinary sunlight. And he looked above, smiling as the light touched his face. Then he slumped, pitching into the snow and disappearing from view, in a shower of white.
"Fëatho! Fëatho-!" Aragorn shouted, refusing to relinquish the slumped hobbit in his arms.
Cautiously and quietly Legolas approached, kneeling on the snow, with an ease that was enviable. No print or mark was left in his wake, and after a moment of staring down, he reached out a hand and hauled the snow covered servant of Mordor out of the drift.
"Come. We can't tarry."
The boy looked haggard and exhausted, covered in white flecks. He slipped an arm around the elf's neck, and for a moment Legolas stiffened, but after a moment, he reluctantly wrapped an around Fëatho's waist and helped him walk.
Together they trudged, Fëatho sagging against the elf, who bore his weight with ease if not contempt. "Elves really are strong. My father always said so…."
At that Legolas only frowned.
No more sleet slicked their path, no more lighting cracked above them, nor did anymore rocks fall upon them. And while it seemed Fëatho had cooled the mountain's temper no one dared to celebrate. Instead Boromir and Aragorn ploughed through the snow drifts so that Gandalf, Gimli, and the hobbits could follow.
"Look Fëatho, we dance upon the snow, whilst the ploughmen plough." He laughed at the men's' expense.
"That may be true, dear friend," Aragorn grunted, heaving a pile of snow out his path. "But the pair of you look about as graceful as a three legged swan."
The elf laughed, and his grey eyes glistened with mirth. At his side Fëatho shyly smiled, feeling horribly alone and out of place. He found their banter funny, and enjoyed their company, more than he ought, but they weren't his friends or companions. He was their prisoner, and his smile ran away from his face. It was wrong. Everything was wrong.
He liked these people, understood their plight, and cared for them. But he cared for his father too, and he didn't know how to be loyal to both. In truth he couldn't be and he knew it. He couldn't betray his father or his people, but betraying The Fellowship and their quest, understanding their need for freedom was horrible too. What could he do?
Tightly Fëatho clung to the elf, as if doing so might provide him stability in his own mind. He had no such luck, and he felt, rather than saw the elf glance at him.
Slowly the Fellowship and their prisoner made it to the other side of the pass.
Pippin whooped, jumping in the sunshine. "It's great to have a servant of Sauron with us!"
"Pippin!" Several voices hissed.
Fëatho bit his tongue, and he could feel the elf's discerning gaze again: appraising him, studying him, picking him apart, he stood. "Thanks. I think I can manage from here." It was blatant lie, but Fëatho didn't like those eyes, didn't like the way Legolas was gazing at him, as if he knew Fëatho was lying. He merely nodded.
"-no so loud. Enemies may hear you!" Merry was busy reprimanding his cousin. "He's not exactly on our side to begin with." He cast a narrowed eyed glance at the servant of Mordor, hunched and struggling to walk on his own.
Unfortunately, no one could disagree with Pippin's outburst, as Cruel Caradhras became an unpleasant memory behind them.