A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Twenty-two~

His spirit burned. It flared, it rose; Caranthir's wrath turned to near glee as he felt his fëa pulse, growing brighter and hotter, until he was sure it was hotter than even Fëanáro's--and even it then it still swelled, an ever-growing bonfire. The orcs were dust, dust under his feet to trample.

He killed them all, each with different methods, burning some with the heat of his hand and the Ring, swatting the rest clean off the mountain like flies. He wasn't sure if he had grown several feet taller in that instant or was somehow floating, but through his eyes everything was small, viewed as if from the eyes of a bird, far away. Such a glorious view.

Beneath him, were the two hobbits. So small, really, too small. They didn't understand, they never could understand power. They would misuse its magic, its fire. Really, it was such a shame. Elrond had bestowed the greatest artifact of Middle-earth to these lowly creatures. Hardly any better than the orcs lying slain about him.

With that, some thought in the back of his head stirred, a strange thought. It was a quiet, but indignant voice. . . but drowned hastily away by his stronger mind. He couldn't quite latch on to the memory of that voice, for it had trickled away with the stirring that brought it. And yet it seemed. . .

There was something linked to his mind.

Caranthir nearly halted where he was. Something cold took its place in his mind, the rush of triumph slid away and dropped. It was all so ghostly, almost rehearsed. But there was such power anyway, all his, so he need not fear. . .

His mind was swift as it grasped outwards, searching for the fëa that was probing him, his senses expanding, circling from that silly mountain, to woods and rivers, tall towers and a shadow to the distance, a noble light to the west. . . The spirit was nowhere in those places. But it tugged on him, ever harder, dragging him up, so that he was spiraling off on the road, to. . . power. His own power, his right.

You want this, fool, Caranthir told himself--or at least, heard so clearly in his mind. Another voice in his head reared up, urging him to push all thought of the voice away. There was no extra fëa surrounding him. . . There was nothing, nothing, he told himself again. Yet his head seemed ready to split in two with some strain, another voice surging and rising, then being shoved back down. And then, that other voice returned to spite him and calm him at the same time--because Caranthir hated that doubting, rising voice. So the voice became stronger. . .

And for a flicker of an instant, Caranthir recognized it. Sauron.

Caranthir's mind came alive again with a rush of anger, outrage; and that was enough to keep him from believing. He felt himself sink to the ground and suddenly stagger, the snow cold and biting at him, the wind stronger as it blasted him. His senses caught it all again, each rustle in the snows, the hobbits that lingered, eyes peeled with worry, searching. They couldn't see him, Thauron's had cloaked him well. Beyond the rush of greed, of rage and horror and to tear at his hand, take the Ring off--cut it clean from his hand if he had to. Yet his hand -- his body entirely -- seemed immobile against the force, pounding at his mind, straining to control his body.

Someone was calling out, in the distance, tugging on him. Caranthir staggered back, shoving Sam away; he couldn't be the one to get them hurt, why didn't they stay away? He was barely aware of himself ripping away, hissing, "get off, get off!" Get it off. . .

As he clawed at his hand, pushing the hobbits away, he felt his fingers close around the Ring, and for a moment, that band of metal burned. Scalding his hand, telling him, if you'd just take it in, if you'd just welcome the power. . . His hands did slacken for an instant, mind breaking. . . Only for a moment, he promised himself. Except it wouldn't be a moment. It would be forever. And he, Caranthir, would become just another wraith under the Dark Lord. There would be a tenth wraith, even though there were originally Nine -- just as there was Nine in the Fellowship, originally, before Caranthir jumped in and blew everything off-course. To neither group did he belong. . . And he would become no slave, whether to Sauron or the Valar, or Eru himself. No coin would ever land on one side for a Fëanorian, a Fëanorian would always scrape through in its own, gray world, torn apart by their own loyalties and desires. . .