When Edenric thought of the concept of home, many were the places he could imagine.
There was, of course, his childhood home in the woods of Wildermore, hidden from prying eyes as his mother tried to keep him as secret as she could. An outcast, defiled by orcs, raising a half-orcs spawn that should be killed before he could do anyone harm as his father did her. All of these concepts she agreed with, yet still Edenric lived in spite of it all.
The house was small, but it worked. As mother spent her days in silence by the fire, her eyes a glaze, Edenric would sometimes come sit by her side after his chores. Never did she acknowledge his company, but it brought him warmth in the cold of the mountains and hills of his home.
Then there were the roads he traveled with his would-be killer, perilous and unpredictable as his companion was. Going from town to town so the elf could earn coin, then sending Edenric to collect the bounties on her head with a framed victim only to start again in the next place. It was uncomfortable at times, and she was not kind to him, but they survived together. Despite it all, Edenric remained by her side; thankless work as he would hold her and take care of her during her episodes only for her to assault and bully him the next day as if nothing happened. But still, her company brought him warmth on the cold road to Bree.
Bree was warmer, as the elf said, and a place of misfits. Yet even among misfits, Edenric never truly felt like he was one of them. They were kind to him, kinder than any had been since his birth, but keeping his heritage hidden was the condition to keep the balance. Ultimately he found himself looking over his shoulder even more, fearing that one day the people with the swords and bows would find out who he is and do what is just. Yet still he returned to the warmth of the Prancing Pony hearth as he filled his heart with a love for art and the familiar strangers around him.
But the elf never rested, and soon he would sleep in the depths of Isengard in payment of cooperation. That place never felt like home, even if he lived there with orc-kind like himself. The tortures inflicted on him outside of it will never add up to what he had to endure in there. Yet still he survived, and in time thrived to the extent that was possible. But even as he walked through the forges in the Pits, that place never felt warm.
Of course, when given the chance, he left that place in the hope that Bree would give him another one after all he had endured. And for some time he thought he had earned his place, even if the conditions had never really changed. He came close to building his own home with another - one who felt warm - but alas, as he walked among her peoples he, over time, came to realize that a home he is afraid in is not a home at all. Yet despite this, he kept returning to her side at the Prancing Pony hearth, clinging onto the warmth of her hand for as long as he could bear it. But the heat of passion burned his flesh, and he had to withdraw from the flame.
And now he had everything, as he walked the halls of his aunt's estate that one day he would inherit. Fires burned brightly in the Eyes surrounding him, and his body was drenched in Sauron's flame as he accepted his place in this world: a servant of Evil, next patriarch of a Mordorrim cult, future husband and father in an arranged family, destined for a life of mindless worship to a God that would never acknowledge him.
He had everything, and he felt nothing at all.
Yet on quiet nights in his chambers he would think fondly of the places he once called home, and weep for all he had lost.
