Fell Meats by pandemonium_213

Chapter 1: Layla

Read Chapter 1: Layla

A creature of an older world maybe it was, whose kind, lingering in forgotten mountains cold beneath the Moon, outstayed their day, and in hideous eyrie bred this last untimely brood, apt to evil. And the Dark Lord took it, and nursed it with fell meats, until it grew beyond the measure of all other things that fly; and he gave it to his servant to be his steed.

 

 

~~ J.R.R. Tolkien, “Battle of the Pelennor Fields,” The Return of the King.

 

No need to be nervous, Findaráto...or will it be 'Finrod' today? Right. 'Finrod' it is then. Yes, they are watching us and listening to every word we say. I have no illusion of privacy here, but Lord Námo's servants have proven to be nothing if not discreet, and I sincerely doubt that much of anything we discuss would shock them, considering all the lost fëar who inhabit these halls. I may be the most infamous prisoner here, although Fëanáro must surely be neck and neck with me in that regard, but there are many others who...what's that? Why, yes, the wine is splendid, isn't it? Complements the scallops nicely.

 

You're surprised by how well I am treated? Yes, that surprises me, too, but my understanding is that Aulë and Ulmo — yes, Ulmo, of all people, if one can call the Valar "people" — have ensured that I am well taken care of. Part of my rehabilitation, for what that is worth. I am grateful, regardless of the reason. I might otherwise be spinning around on the cusp of space and time, stuck in the Infinite with Melkor. Stars' dung! I cannot imagine a worse fate. Melkor was a terrible pedant, and a dreadfully bleak one at that, once you got him going. Imagine that for all eternity!

 

However, it is you, my dear fellow, who continue to surprise me. Visiting me time and time again, even though it was I who tossed you and your companions to the wolves to be devoured, one by one! You prove to be as charitable as they say. But mind! You and Beren were trespassing! And don't blame me for Orodreth's cowardice!

 

Let's return to the subject at hand: the fell beasts. I assume that the younger Baggins fellow told you of these? Bilbo (may he rest in peace) would not have known of my pets, not first hand, at any rate. Shall I tell you the story of how I discovered them? Very good! We have all the time in the world, you know. Yes, yes, of course, you may visit me again if the tale proves long, which no doubt it will (I can be voluble), and truth be told, you are a refreshing change from Olórin.

 

Let's begin when I resided in Dol Guldur, before your pest of a sister believed she had vanquished me. Oh, yes, of course, Olórin and Curumo were there, too. Elrond and Glorfindel? Well, their role is subject to debate, now isn't it? But Olórin and Curumo, they most certainly gave me a sting. More wine? They will bring us another bottle, if we wish.

 

As I was saying, it started when I was still dwelling in Dol Guldur.

 

That evening, one of the upstairs servants — the second footman, if I recall correctly — carried my repast to me on a silver tray, one that I had crafted. It was quite attractive, if I don't say so myself. You'd like it, I think, save for the lupine motifs. All it took was one sip of the vile stuff for me to know what the kitchen staff had done. The wretch managed to duck when I threw the crystal goblet at him, but he could not avoid the loops of clotted blood — what's that? Yes, blood. I shall get to that presently. He could not avoid the blood that slapped across his crooked back nor the fire I sent into his brain stem. He withered like a moth too close to a flame, and he crumpled to the stone floor.

 

“You all are hopeless!" I bellowed. "Hopeless!”

 

The sound of my voice — so much more impressive in those days — reverberated off the hard walls of my chambers, eventually to be sucked into the wine-red draperies that bracketed the tall windows. Why, yes, draperies! I have always been a civilized man, Finrod. If you had taken any notice, you would have seen that I kept the draperies you left behind in your old home. Tasteful and practical, they were.  Continuing, when I bellowed at the footman, the other orcs shrank into the shadows in fear.

 

“Why in all of Eä do you think that I would not be able to distinguish the spoiled blood of a diseased boar from that of Man or Elf? Now please do try to find me something acceptable or you will surely meet his fate.” I pointed at the twitching body of my erstwhile slave, the stench of his loosened bowels insulting my senses. “And for Blessed Bauglir’s sake, dispose of that, would you?”

 

The butler (Gashûrk was his name) touched his forehead, and tugged at a non-existent forelock. “Yes, your Grace!” He and the other skulking uruks dragged the body out of my quarters. No doubt they would eat their comrade. So unfortunate. Good help is hard to find, and my trusty Boldog was then off in Mordor, making preparations for my eventual return. Now he knew how to run a household!   Exasperated and still hungry, I summoned yet another of my servants.

 

Soon, the will-o-the-wisp folds of a black mantle appeared in the arched doorway to my chambers. The shade of a Man awaited my acknowledgment. Yes, Finrod. One of the Ring-slaves. Now do listen please. You were the one who asked to hear this tale, no?

 

“Khamûl. Approach," I said.

 

My third-in-command, who had so loyally held down the fort of Dol Guldur for many years, glided across the room to where I stood.

 

“Once again, I have been presented with entirely unsuitable fare. This will not do.”

 

The wraith's greenish-white pallor became even paler.

 

“It is difficult, your Excellency, to find what you require.”

 

“Look, Khamûl. I require sustenance only once every six days. How hard can it be to find a woodman or a Silvan? I’ll grant you, fresh hart or kine will do in a pinch, but you know what I need.”

 

“Yes, your Excellency.”

 

“Then see to it.” The wraith turned to leave. “Oh, and Khamûl?”

 

The black mantle spun again. “Yes, your Grace?”

 

“I desire a new servant. I am bored to death with all these uruks. Find me one of the Children – a woman. Yes, a young woman, elf or mortal, it doesn’t matter. Just make sure she is comely.”

 

“But your Grace...”

 

“Just do it, Khamûl or I will strip away the layers of your spirit like an onion.”

 

“Yes, my King, yes! Consider it done!” He flew from my chambers like plague-ridden wind and left me alone.

 

A balcony adjoined my chambers, affording an expansive view over a dark sea of trees.  Eryn Galen, it once had been named, but under my care, it acquired the banal name of "Mirkwood." It was there I went to stand and watch the setting sun burnish the leaves of the tangled trees, and bloody the distant fangs of the Hithaeglir. Exhausted, I had to face sleep that night. I dreaded it.

 

Dreaded sleep, you ask? What is to dread of sweet sleep, the time for us to rest, the time to dream, the time to renew? Even the Fays must sleep, that is, if we are incarnate. I sleep now, not always soundly, but I truly sleep and am glad of it. But during that time, it had become a horrific ordeal.

 

They — Manwë, Námo, Varda and their ilk — were punishing me. Or maybe it was Eru, if that Entity troubles Itself to look upon this benighted earth. No matter. It was a moot point whether Ilúvatar or Námo was my judge. I hated my body. Nonetheless, I was driven to seek corporeal form, addicted to the incarnate as are all my kindred. Unfortunately, my demise at Gil-galad and Elendil's hands on the slopes of Orodruin caused me a great deal of difficulty, for after the death of the form I had so long inhabited, I was unable to create a new body out of whole cloth. This is where necromancy comes into the picture.

 

After many, many years of — ah, how should I put this? Experimentation. Yes, that's it. After much experimentation with the arcane arts of necromancy, I found habitation in a perfectly suitable Man of the Edain, a handsome fellow from Elros' distaff line, who, at the time I subsumed him, stood at a perfectly acceptable six and a half feet. You'd be able to look him in the eye, Finrod.

 

Ah, poor Faellos! A proud, foolish Man, bargaining away his life so that he might live forever, like his distant Elvish kin. Mortals do not understand the burden of long life. What's that? Yes, I am aware that you discussed such issues with a mortal woman, that poor lady who was in love with your brother. I may be named Gorthaur the Cruel, and rightly so, but what your brother did to that woman was unspeakable, not taking her to wife even though he loved her in return. Blessed Bauglir! Knives and the rack are not the only means of torture! But it is true: Faellos did not understand what I meant when I told him he might live forever, but I was grateful to find a new home in his flesh.

 

At first, all was well after I set up residence in Faellos' body, but as the years passed, I was unable to maintain my form in an attractive condition. I could not control my powers as well as I had previously — when the Ring was in my possession — and my spirit expanded to make my thigh bones, spine, and ribs lengthen and thicken. No longer able to confine myself to normal human stature as I once had, I became unnaturally tall. Not a giant, mind you, but large enough to be ungainly. Intimidating? To be sure, but my size was bloody inconvenient, I tell you!

 

My stature was not the only thing that changed.   My left forefinger blackened from putrefaction, so I had to amputate it.  Yes, the same finger that is missing now, the same finger that Isildur cut from my hand.  It seems that I will never have a full set of digits!  But for a time, the saving grace of that incarnation was Faellos' eyes, silver-grey and fringed with dark lashes, so much like my own eyes of the body I lost when I fell on the slopes of Orodruin.

 

The beauty of my host's eyes, regrettably as ephemeral as his mortal life, also degraded, and and so I was compelled to revert to those with which I had been born. Yes, "born," Finrod. Just as you were. But that is another tale, and a long one at that. For now, I will simply tell you that in the lost life of my youth, my eyes would have been considered normal, perhaps even beautiful, among my own kind, but here, flame-yellow eyes with elongated pupils do not sit well in an otherwise human face. You, of all people, are familiar with those eyes, although, to your credit, you never looked away from me until I sang those final verses.

 

So where was I? Ah yes. Sleep! Sleep in the form I had taken from Faellos became the stuff of nightmares. When I slumbered, I was no longer able to control my inner fire so I burned — quite literally — whatever I touched. I was therefore compelled to sleep on a bed of bare rock, its surface brutally hard. Linens would stand not up to the heat of my flesh that roared forth when my sleeping mind, enmeshed in dreams, relinquished control of my body. I would awaken to find swathes of my skin burned. Over time, my skin became blackened like charcoal and stiff from repeated healing and scarring.

 

Worse than my involuntary conflagrations was the warping of my body. I would awaken and find that my parts had shifted shape while my consciousness drifted in slumber. Fingers would be fused. My nose would be spread across my face. My arm would be locked to the side of my head. Once, the entirety of my legs grew together into a pillar of bones and muscle. I would then reconfigure my body — step by excruciating step — until I had regained function and form of distorted parts. And that, I was convinced, was also part of my punishment.

 

My body required not only rest but also sustenance, just as any man does, whether he is Firstborn or mortal.  However, I could no longer consume breads, fruits, roasted meats or wine, as much as I might desire these, but was bound to a monotony of more grisly fare: I subsisted on fresh blood, preferably human. Oh, I did indulge in whisky, all too often. I could not resist the stuff, but I always paid for it. The liquor tore up my guts, sometimes even igniting. Such was the price of necromancy.

 

Enough of that. Let us return to Dol Guldur. Often, mists thickened around the fortress, and that night was no different. The fog phosphoresced most wondrously with the results of my most recent tinkering with animalcules. I turned my sight north toward the wood-elves’ realm, my will seeking to penetrate the barriers of stone and thought that their regent had set around himself. Thranduil was a persistent thorn in my side. His forces repulsed my incursions as he and I fought over the most precious resource Mirkwood had to offer: the spiders, or rather their silk, a remarkable substance that the elven-king and I both coveted for all manner of arts and industry.

 

To the West I next turned to set my will against Lothlórien, but try as I might, I could not pierce the glamours placed about its borders by that Noldorin bitch. Oh, I am sorry! I forget myself. Do accept my apology, Finrod. Old habits die hard, I fear. Let me appease you by telling you that another memory surfaced when I bent my mind toward that sister of yours, a woman diamond-hard and disciplined.

 

I found myself smiling with nostalgia at the memory of a glass of wine shared long ago with her husband, who was far more pleasant company. That was shortly after I had arrived in Ost-in-Edhil, when Celeborn and I were collegial, even friendly, before Galadriel stepped between us, and our opinions and designs became irreconcilable. That surprises you? I swear, so many of you underestimate Celeborn and you all assume that I was evil to the core. Well, fair enough. I came very close to that, but yes, Celeborn and I got on splendidly for a time. We often went fishing together. Oh, stop laughing! Our fishing expeditions were very enjoyable, at least until Celeborn and I became estranged.

 

I reach back to those memories more often these days, but during those dark times of the Third Age? I could not afford such weakness. So I slammed down the gates of forgetfulness, for if other recollections of that time of my life surfaced, I knew I would crumble into wreck of weeping regret. It had happened before, and I could not allow it.

 

I swept my sight over the black forest one last time that night and went back inside to return to my desk, where I settled into a massive carven chair. Once sitting, I held out my hands to examine them, turning them over from back to palm and back again. The empty space where my left forefinger had been now mocked me, and the hole in my spirit, rent away when Isildur cut the Ring from my hand, screamed silently, reminding me always of what I had lost. It was painful, being without it, and I lived with that pain every day, year after year after year.

 

To take my mind off my anguish, I reviewed the latest reports and inventories from Mordor, compiling and cross-referencing all the data provided, a pleasant exercise in order. Ah, ha! Here was a discrepancy in the tonnage of mineral salts sent from the flats by the Sea of Núrnen. Likely the chiefs of the supply trains were skimming again.  Well, I would see to that.

 

Pleased with the tallies, I stacked and re-organized papers then rolled the scrolls tight. Next, I unlocked a small chest and removed the letters from my spies, their script encrypted so that only I could read the words. From their reports, it appeared that my planned feint stood an excellent chance of success. The White Council had been wringing its collective hands over me, particularly now that they knew my true identity.

 

How did they discover this, you ask? Well, thanks to Olórin, of course. Much to my chagrin, he had weaseled his way into the depths of Dol Guldur and had ferreted out far more information than I would have imagined possible. Soon, I knew, they would attack, and I would be ready for them.

 

I then called for my little companion.

 

“Tiberth! Here, puss, puss!”

 

Why, yes, I had a pet cat! Don't you like them? You do? Very good! At least we have that in common. I have always been fond of cats, but have no use whatsoever for dogs, which likely comes as no surprise to you. Tiberth was a lovely ginger cat, very adept at catching rats, and she slipped out from behind the draperies where she had been sleeping and padded to my feet when I called.

 

“Come here, my sweet.” I picked her up and petted her, rewarded by her affectionate purring. She butted her head against my hand, as she was wont to do, demanding to be scratched behind her ears. As always, I obliged her. Cradling her in my arms, I went to the entry of my quarters, opened the door and deposited her in the corridor outside my chambers, ignoring her mewling protest.

 

“Out you go. Oh, don’t look at me like that. This is for your own good.” Then I shut the door. As comforting as it was to have a cat or two snuggled up against me while I slept, the danger of incinerating them was too great. I did not care to awaken again to the odor of burnt feline fur.

 

Returning to my bedchamber, I stripped off my mail shirt and lay down naked on black granite, carved to cradle my body. I hoped for the best and let slumber take me.

 

~*~

 

Khamûl brought her to me two weeks later. Wrapped in a red hooded robe, the woman stood shaking by Khamûl. Her head was covered and face veiled, but large brown eyes, like those of a doe, darted in fear.

 

“Please, my dear. Come forward.” I beckoned to her with my intact forefinger, its simple — and utterly powerless — golden ring glinting with asymmetry to its missing companion.  Yes, I kept the ring Culinen had given to me so long ago.  I must correct myself: that ring was not without its own kind of magic, but of a different kind.  It never failed to remind me that I had forsaken love for power.

 

The young woman remained rooted in place, but when Khamûl reached out with a spectral arm to shove her, she walked forward, step by painful step, until she stood before me.

 

“What is your name?”

 

“Layla, my lord.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her Westron speech heavily accented. She bowed her head, her face obscured by veil and hood.

 

“And you are from Amrun, that is correct?”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

"Your Excellency, wench!" hissed Khamûl. "You must call the King 'Your Excellency.'"

 

The poor girl flinched.

 

“Come closer.” The fragrance of roses caressed my senses, taking me back to a lost time, a forfeited life. “Remove your veil and your robes.”

 

She did and revealed her beauty: smooth tawny-brown skin, long wavy black hair caught in a thick plait, high round breasts and ample hips with a narrow waist, all covered by fitted emerald silk. Those breasts rose and fell with the bellows of fear, and flesh quivered above her pounding heart. What's that? No, I did not have such designs! Just listen, will you?

 

“Did Khamûl tell you why you are here, my lady?”

 

“Lord Khamûl said that I am...I am to serve you.” She made a choking sound, a sob caught before it emerged. She hung her head, but her face reddened.

 

“Ah, well, you needn’t worry. I will not take that kind of service from you, my lovely. I shall only admire the aesthetics of your beauty."

 

Indeed I would not take any kind of physical pleasure from her. After the Downfall of Númenor, I was impotent, and that state of affairs persisted until, well, until Námo rehoused me in this form, identical to the one I wore for so much of the Second Age. Alas, I have only myself to please...what?  Well, yes, of course I indulge in self-pleasure. After all, nearly every healthy fellow does so, from Elf to Man to Dwarf to Orc to Hobbit to an embodied Maia!

 

At any rate, Faellos' cock had been a most impressive feature, but once I took his body, it became nothing more than a flaccid piss chute. Not that any robust function would have much mattered. My libido had died long before that.

 

I told Layla as much. “Here is what I wish from you: your company, entertainment and at the very last, your blood. I fear that the enjoyment of food and other pleasures of the flesh are no longer available to me. I must sustain my body with fresh blood, preferably human blood, and I should think your blood shall be sweet. But if you can keep me sufficiently amused, then you shall forestall your own demise. What talents do you possess, dear lady?”

 

She raised those lovely brown eyes to me in supplication. “I can sing and dance, your Excellency, but most of all, I can tell stories. Many stories. My King, I have one thousand and one tales to tell.”

 

“Splendid! Should you succeed in telling these, then you shall live at least one thousand and one days. Khamûl, ensure that Layla is settled in properly. I daresay the orcs will not agree with her so assign old Grêtl as her servant. Layla ought to be more comfortable with a woman of Mannish folk.”

 

“Yes, your Grace.”

 

“Furthermore, let it be known that if any Man or Orc touches this young woman, there will be a heavy price to pay. I am always in need of subjects for my experiments.”

 

Khamûl’s eyes glittered within the dark shadow of his hood. “Yes, your Grace.”

 

“You may go, Layla. I will summon you when I am in need of diversion.”

 

Khamûl nudged her, and she stifled a shriek. She bowed before me.

 

“Thank you for your grace and mercy, King Sau…” Khamûl poked her with his bony finger, harder this time, when the name I had forbidden my subjects to use nearly escaped her rosy lips. She stammered, trying to recall words in a language unfamiliar to her. “Tar-Mai...” Khamûl threatened to prod her again.

 

“Lord Zigûr,” I said. “You may call me that.”

 

Layla proved to be a welcome distraction from the more tedious aspects of my work, namely the trials and tribulations I faced from the machinations of the White Council and the skirmishes incited by Thranduil. She danced with only the accompaniment of tiny brass cymbals on her fingers. She sang, and I sang with her, teaching her new songs. The first time she heard me sing, her eyes widened.

 

“Your Excellency, you sing so beautifully.”

 

I smiled, feeling my lips, dry and thin as a lizard's, drag across the tangled mess of my teeth. She winced at the sight.

 

“I may no longer have beauty of face and body,” I said. “But my voice is still that of the Ainur...of the gods.”  And she smiled then, a much lovelier sight than my own pained grimace, I was certain.

 

Do I still sing so well, you ask?  Shall we sing a duet and find out?  No?  Let me tell you, Finrod, her songs may have amused me, but best of all were her stories. Even after my long years in the world, many were new to me. She drew them out to forestall her death, I knew, but I found her fables so charming that I never rushed her.

 

Night after night she told me tales: one of a young man who discovered a magic lamp that harbored a demon who granted him wishes, another about the woodcutter who stole gold right out from under the noses of forty thieves, a story of a princess and an enchanted horse, and many more. You would love them, I'm sure. Often, they were so enthralling that they would let me fend off sleep, and so I was grateful.

 

When the White Council at last made their move, I was already a step — or rather many thousands of steps — ahead of them, and I quietly returned to Mordor, setting myself up in the fortress of Durthang where I could oversee the Barad-dûr’s reconstruction. I installed Layla in a lavish suite of rooms close to my private quarters so that whenever I was ready for a tale, she was on hand. I brought slaves from Núrn to serve her, and slaves from Near Harad to play instruments that accompanied her singing and dancing. She seemed content and wove her stories into a tapestry as varied and seemingly unending as that of Vairë.

 

Nine hundred and ten stories had passed the nights away, and her life was drawing to a close although neither of us spoke of it. Then one evening, she told the tale of a great mariner whose ship plied the seas of the East. The sailor found himself stranded on an island where he wandered into a valley. There, monstrous snakes dwelt and even larger birdlike creatures flew from the cliffs. The great birds guarded the diamonds that covered the vale’s floor. The intrepid sailor stole these from the bird-creatures. Although the prospect of diamonds littering the open ground of a valley was enticing in itself, the giant birds captured my attention for often grains of truth lay beneath fantastical tales.

 

“Tell me more of these winged creatures. What were they like?” I asked.

 

“I do not know, Lord Zigûr. It is only a story but perhaps they are like the creatures said to live in a valley of the country east of my home.”

 

“What?”

 

Her hands flew to her temples, and her mouth opened in a silent scream, her knees buckling under her. I jumped up from my seat and took her hand, steadying her.

 

“Please forgive me, Layla. My enthusiasm got the better of me.” I reached into her mind to soothe the pain I had caused with my overeager probing of her mind. “Just tell me all you know about these creatures. I am most intrigued.”

Chapter 2: The Journey East

Thanks muchly to Drummerwench, Elfscribe, Ignoble Bard, Oshun, Randy O, Russandol, Scarlet, and Spiced Wine for comments and feedback on the draft version of this chapter.  Please see End Notes for another important acknowledgment.

Read Chapter 2: The Journey East

It is good of you to return, Finrod. Tell me, how is the inn? Yes, I can imagine it might be uncomfortable to stay so close to the Halls of the Houseless. You and I share the knowledge of what it is like to be reincarnated at the hands of snake-eyed Námo and his minions — a most disconcerting experience, wouldn't you agree?

 

What do you think of today's setting? Wonderful! True, it's rustic, but in a quaint sort of way. It replicates an inn of Bree, a village at the crossroads in Eriador, just East of The Shire and West of Imladris. How do I know of it? From Olórin and the late Mister Baggins, naturally. Oh, and the Ringwraiths, too, although they were not inclined to stop for a pint when they visited. Indeed, the ale is excellent. Here, I shall order tankards for us, and I will continue my tale.

 

I am certain that you, being an inquisitive sort yourself, can appreciate how thrilled I was at the prospect of discovering a hitherto unknown creature. Judging from the rack of giant elk antlers that hung over your hearth in Tol Sirion, you must be aware that a few atavistic fauna lingered past their time in Middle-earth. I suspected the birds that Layla described were among these.

 

I set about organizing the expedition with enthusiasm: arranging for supplies, procuring beasts of burden, and seeing to those items that would ensure Layla’s comfort since she would guide me to the country of Amrun, where terrible monsters were rumored to live in an isolated valley. I charted the route such that the journey would take us through those towns and cities where sacrifices were made in my honor, thus providing my sustenance.

 

My chief lieutenant (yes, that would be the Lord of the Nazgûl), whom I summoned from Minas Morgul, stood beside me at a table where I had spread out several maps.

 

"I have left instructions with Khamûl to search for news of my prize here along the old road that runs through the forest and the vales of the Anduin. I know it has re-surfaced somewhere in this region." I pointed toward the eastern slopes of the Hithaeglir.  "You will provide oversight for his assignment, of course."

 

"Yes, Lord Annatar." 

 

That's right, he addressed me by my old alias, and appropriately so, for I had given his ring to him under that guise many years before. After he betrayed his own people by opening the gates of Tharbad when I led my forces into Eriador during the Second Age, I also gave him more treasures: the kingship of a coastal realm near Umbar and a steady supply of young boys for his pleasure. It is plain that such desires revolt you. An utterly reprehensible practice, I agree, but such were my tactics in those times: to exploit another's weakness so that I might wield power over him, and the Witch King's unnatural appetites played into my hands most effectively. As the years wore on and the power of his ring consumed him, his bodily drives ceased, but his lust for power and hunger for torment continued to grow.

 

I said to him, "Be sure Khamûl does not bungle this. Saruman should not prove to be that difficult."

 

Yes, Saruman was indeed Curumo. My colleague of old — the self-styled White Wizard — fancied himself to be sly. I knew he had been sifting through the Gladden Fields where I had abandoned my search. Even so, the ludicrously predictable Curumo with all his snooping about might yet lead me to my precious artefact.

 

I had more orders for the Lord of the Nazgûl. "To you I also entrust gathering information on the Heir of Isildur. You must contact the Sorcerer of Rhudaur. He is late in reporting."

 

Who is the Sorcerer of Rhudaur, you ask? He was the successful result of my first forays into necromancy. The Sorcerer was an elvish wight of dark and dreadful substance.  When he lived, he was known as Ahando, later as Moredhel.  Ah, so you do know of him! Yes, he was the herald of Fëanor, later one of Celegorm's men, and it was he who dragged those hapless children into the winter woods where he left them to perish. Maedhros may have slain him, but it was I who ensnared his houseless fëa, not that it was difficult. He had long ago paid heed to Melkor's teachings in Valinor, and his allegiance was always questionable, even to me.

 

I taught him the arts of necromancy, and he became adept at re-housing himself. Talented at it, really. I suspect he may have harbored a bit of Fay blood in his ancestry. Of Makar's folk, I should think, who were rumored to have dallied with a few of the more savage members of your tribes, shortly after they awakened.

 

I understand that King Elessar ran into considerable difficulties with the Dark Elf. But then so did I. Ahando was an arrogant, entitled sort who often stepped beyond his station. After one especially egregious transgression, I stripped him of his body and imprisoned his fëa in the form of a large rat. For many years, he scurried about the bowels of the Barad-dûr, stealing from the orcs and avoiding my cats. You think that is worse than being slain by a wolf? Yes, I'm inclined to agree.

 

You wonder what transgression he committed to merit such a fate. I am not altogether comfortable telling you the details just yet, but suffice it to say he attempted to violate one whom I had entrusted to his care and whom I hold dear. Fortunately, he vastly underestimated her power. Well, for that matter, I underestimated her, too. Let's leave it at that for now, shall we?

 

At the time of my tale, I had released him, and once again, he favored re-housing his fëa in the bodies of your precious Edain. He most often haunted Rhudaur, spying on Elrond and his people in Imladris, and had done so long before my Black Captain set himself upon the throne there. It probably comes as no surprise, then, that the Witch King despised Moredhel, seeing him as a rival.

 

In reply to me, he growled through the clenched phantasms of his teeth. "The Sorcerer has been briefed and has a primary agent in place."

 

"Very well, but keep an eye on him. Another mis-step, and I shall summon him to Mordor for...mentoring."

 

Angmar, not bothering to conceal his glee, sneered at the prospect of Ahando's torment at my hands. "Yes, your Grace. I will ensure that he knows this."

 

"And the renovation of the northeastern mines and quarries' infrastructures?" I pushed aside the map of Rhovanion to reveal the plans for Lugbúrz Reborn. "Do you understand my specifications?"

 

"Yes, I believe I understand, your Grace." His unctuous tone never failed to irritate me.

 

"You believe you understand? That is insufficient. You must know."  His spectral eyes blinked at my rebuke. "Then again, construction and smith-craft have never been your strengths, have they?"

 

"No, my King, they have not. However, your instructions are clear, and the site captains are not only skilled with tools and machines, but also with the whip. I shall see to it that your wishes are followed to the letter."

 

"Splendid! I know you shall." 

 

My jaunty show of confidence in his capabilities masked what he and I both knew to be the true motivator of his loyalty: the One Ring and through it, even if it no longer graced my hand, the control I exerted over him and his eight fellows.

 

My chief lieutenant had nearly stepped out the door when I called to him once more. He spun around on a booted heel to face me, an unalloyed look of annoyance on his fungal-pale face.

 

"One more thing," I said while I rolled up the maps. "If anything goes ill with Tiberth and her kittens in my absence, there will be hell to pay."

 

"I will make sure Boldog knows this, your Excellency."

 

"No, Boldog has too many other responsibilities. You shall care for Tiberth and her kittens."

 

Thinly disguising his anger, his hissed reply slithered through my chambers.  "Yes, your Excellency." 

 

I knew he hated my cats, yet I compelled him to care for them, delighting in the torment it caused him to do something he considered demeaning to his stature.

 

"If one hair on their little heads is harmed, you shall catch rats and mice yourself." He frowned, no doubt recalling Ahando's punishment. "Or better yet, you shall personally see that my other cat — the eight-legged one — is well sated with one of your boys."

 

His frown became a grimace, much to my satisfaction.

 

"Yes, Lord Annatar."

 

"Very well. Now get out of my sight."

 

"Yes, your..."

 

He let out a strangled croak when I fixed him with a baleful glare (which I knew it was, for I had practiced it in front of a looking glass) and sent a jolt of psychic pain to his undead nerves for good measure. He fled the chamber.

 

After the Lord of the Ringwraiths departed, Tiberth darted from beneath a draped table, her six kittens tumbling after her. I sank to the black stone floor where I sat cross-legged and picked up the mother cat while her progeny gamboled around me.  This was her last litter, for she was an old cat by then, and a fine lot of kittens they were, some ginger like their mother, others piebald like their distant kin, but a single young tom was pure black, like his sire, Miaugion, the best ratter of Durthang and later, the Barad-dûr.  She purred loudly while I petted her and ruminated on the unknowns that unfolded even as I prepared to depart on this expedition.

 

My desire to find my Ring took almost overwhelming precedence in my thoughts. That part of myself entrapped in the Ring called to me, and I to it, seeking to become whole once more. However, I could not pinpoint its exact origin.

 

Not far behind the Ring in my thoughts was the nagging sense of unease that had troubled me for the past ten years. Often, when I turned my attention to the Northwest of Eriador, I heard the echoes of a child’s laughter and caught a glimpse of keen young eyes alight with curiosity and determination.  The vision persisted, and every time I saw the child's eyes, I was reminded of those of the man who sliced my finger from my hand with his broken sword.   However, I assured myself, this could not be, for my agents had slain the last of the line of Isildur.   Hence, for some years, I dismissed these dreams as phantoms of suppressed memory, for many laughing children with bright eyes met their end because of me. Nonetheless, the remote possibility that Isildur's heir might yet live gnawed at me.

 

These uncertainties cast doubt on the wisdom of leaving Mordor for the length of time it would take to travel to the land of the strange beasts that Layla had described. Yet I could do nothing else. You know how it goes, don't you? Those questions that will not be stilled until one finds the answer?  Such was the case for me. If I could no longer create wonders, having expended the best of myself in Eregion and ultimately, on the Ring, then I could still discover and nurture them.

 

Convincing myself that all would be well in my absence, I departed that night before I could change my mind, and led a caravan of Men, horses, camels, Layla, and a few sturdy but attractive women of Núrn to serve her as well as to see to the men’s needs, out of Mordor and into the desert of Khand. I declined to take any uruks on the journey because so many were hobbled by the light of day. Melkor had inadvertently bred this vexing inconvenience into the creatures. My master had dismissed the deficiency, bellowing that he would cover the world in darkness anyway so that it didn’t much matter. At least that’s how he rationalized this inferior characteristic of the orcs, and it was something I struggled to rectify.

 

In the absence of uruks, we traversed the desert under blue skies and across painfully brilliant sand and rock. During the worst heat of the day, we retreated to great tents set up near whichever oasis lay along my charted path, or we stayed in the towns and the great cities along the way.

 

Layla continued her tales. As we traveled, these became increasingly lascivious, such as the story of the porter and the three ladies with breasts as round as pomegranates, brows like the crescent moon and slow, elegant gaits. When she told another story, she described in languorous detail each tryst in of the prince with forty maidens, drawing each morsel of succulent fruit, each honeyed kiss, and every energetic coupling.

 

When she danced in the firelight, her little finger cymbals rang into the desert night while one man beat on drums and another played a wooden flute. Her exposed midriff writhed above undulating hips, mimicking the swell of the desert’s dunes. She wound around the fire until the men’s loose trousers bulged with tumescence, which they would later pound away with the servant women or by their own hands.

 

Layla always concluded the most erotic part of the dance before me. Invariably, I indulged her with no more than a simple nod of appreciation while she did her best to entice me. Yes, she must have thought that by seducing me, she might extend her life, which, at nine hundred and sixty stories, was nearing its conclusion.

 

One night when I lay against the bare sand in my tent, I awoke to the sensation of a soft hand stroking my naked thigh, followed by a screech when that hand jerked away, burned by my searing flesh. I rolled over on my back and addressed Layla, who sat beside me, grasping her burned hand.

 

I pointedly eyed her injured hand and said to her, "My dear lady, your efforts are wasted. I am incapable of such affections. Even if I were interested and able, my attentions would likely kill you." 

 

She glanced at me with her limpid eyes and pursed her lips, affecting a sensuous moue. No doubt she convinced herself that she had the power to arouse me. Although her efforts proved futile, I regretted that I could do no more than admire her beauty. She reminded me very much of the kindly courtesan who, shortly after the War of Wrath, had enthusiastically cured me of a horrific case of performance anxiety brought about by my singular encounter with Thuringwethil. During my attempted coupling with her, I had the misfortune to discover that vagina dentata had a literal meaning.  You look puzzled, Finrod.  Ah, yes, forgive me!   You are not yet familiar with Latin.   You would know this disturbing oddment of anatomy as quimellë carcanëa. Oh! I am sorry! That is a bit much, isn't it?  Believe me, I recoiled much more vigorously than you! Please relax and uncross your legs, and I shall continue with my story.

 

She averted her face again. "Forgive me, Lord Zigûr."

 

"You are forgiven. Go then. You have more tales to tell, and you must guide me to your homeland and hence to the valley of the monsters. Your reward will be rich for that. Love your life for a while yet, and take your pleasure with one of the men. I do not mind."  I turned over on my side and returned to sleep, vaguely wondering which body part I would have to repair in the morning.

 

Before the new moon, we arrived in the city with its sand-colored walls and thick-walled houses, its air redolent of burning meat on marketplace braziers, the stink of camels, the many odors of human sweat, and the perfume of climbing roses and zambak flowers. In the heart of the city stood my temple with its golden onion-shaped dome and filigreed stonework that graced its walls.

 

There in the temple, I would receive my due honor (and my sustenance) from the sacrifices. Batânaru, the captain of my Men, brought the high priest and his retinue to my quarters in a well-appointed villa near the temple, offered to me by one of the city’s prominent citizens.

 

"Lord Zigûr, we give thanks to you for your presence in our humble city. In turn, we offer you a virgin in your honor."

 

"You are most welcome, but please, I do not require a maiden or a youth. Any old goat will do."

 

The high priest and his acolytes looked puzzled and then relieved.

 

The high priest's head bobbed. "A goat, your Grace? Yes, yes, we will procure a goat for you. I shall send my servant to the herdsmen."

 

"Ah, no, you misunderstand. By ‘goat,’ I do not mean a beast, but rather, a man or woman of some age, past their utility but not in grievous health either. Surely there is a suitable greybeard or a dowager in your city who would fit this purpose?"

 

A snake’s arid smile slashed the face of the high priest.

 

"There surely is."

 

I knew that someone’s pampered but shrewish mother-by-marriage would meet my knife the next day, her blood drained into a jar for my consumption.

 

Another moon waxed and waned while we traveled on, and we rested in yet other cities, much like the other, where the holy knives caressed the necks of thieves and other folk of inconvenience. At length, we reached the borders of Layla’s country where gnarled cedar trees clung to the tumbled hills and sheep grazed in ragged meadows.

 

Layla’s eldest brother was a man of means. He owned much land and many sheep and goats. Yet he had sold his sister into slavery so that she could not claim the estate — her just inheritance — from their deceased father. An oily, obsequious fellow, he fawned upon me. Her other brothers skulked in the dark corners of the rambling house. They were a weedy lot, who appeared inbred and smelled as if sheep-fucking was part of their daily ritual.

 

Rather than rubbing elbows with such wretches, I declined the eldest brother's invitation to stay in the house, and ordered tents pitched and the wool rugs thrown down on the earth, save for my sleeping space. Layla chose to stay close to me, stating that her brothers would just as soon tup her as the ewes. I see by your expression that you find the notion of such activities to be distasteful. I agree. It is disgusting, but never underestimate mankind's creativity when it comes to perversions.

 

On the morning of the third day of my second week in Layla’s home country, I awoke to find my right arm fused to my side. Cursing the inconvenience, I rolled over on my back and set to the excruciating exercise of ungluing skin and unraveling tissue.

 

As you might imagine, the ordeal put me in a foul mood.  Ah, I see you cannot fathom this.  Your legs and arms have done nothing of the kind, so you wouldn't know would you?  Well, indulge me anyway.  The slave whom I summoned to assist with my wardrobe visibly trembled while I snarled, angry with everyone and everything, and yanked on garments of ashen hue, save for high black boots. The half-starved man held my golden belt out to me, its overlapping scales clinking in his shaking hands. I snatched my sole source of sartorial color from him.

 

"Leave me!" I barked. The poor wretch almost tripped in his haste to get out of my tent. I heard him vomiting soon afterward, a revolting sound, but one that proved the fellow could eat food and drink wine. I envied him that.

 

The town was less than two miles from the estate of cedar trees and sheep dung. Deciding that I needed a good walk, I assigned my retainers and captain to act as my heralds. They marched ahead of me, carrying the standards of the Lidless Eye and the curved brass horns that would announce my arrival. Layla, swathed in crimson and ebon silks, rode in her litter, carried on the bony shoulders of my slaves. Thus I went to preside over an interview of prospective members for my expedition to the Forbidden Valley, as the region's cretinous people had so imaginatively named it. As it turned out, its location was hardly a secret: all knew where the valley lay, but few were brave or foolish enough to venture into it.

 

The walled settlement was a somber affair of mud-daubed ochre huts clotted around the few stone buildings that broke up the scabrous architecture. My heralds sounded the horns, and the gates creaked open. We wended our way through narrow streets that stank of shit, the leavings of man and beast alike, mixed in a viscous reek. At least these wretches had the ability to execute a satisfying morning constitutional, yet another cause for envy, thanks to my unconventional diet slowing my guts to a leaden crawl. Oh, I am delighted this amuses you so: the mighty Thû with his ferocious case of piles. Give me a moment to wipe the spray of your ale from my face. There, that is better. I ought to warn you next time.

 

A high seat had been prepared for me in the town’s central square where the black standards of the Eye hung limp in the sullen morning. Many townspeople had gathered in anticipation of the audience, mostly men and youths, although a smattering of women wrapped in dun-colored robes stood among them. The throng slowly parted as I approached, but a beggar threw himself down before my feet, holding a clay bowl up to me in supplication.

 

He wailed piteously.  "Mercy, my great lord! I am sick and starving!"

 

A quick glance revealed healthy skin beneath the filth. Fat folded around his waist, and what appeared to be a withered foot was artfully contrived through cosmetics. I would have been content to simply step over the wretch, letting him freeze in the cloak of fear I cast about myself, but one of Layla’s brothers, who had self-importantly marched a little ways behind me, now stepped forward and levied a vicious kick against the beggar’s spine. He shouted at the injured man who writhed in the dust.

 

"Do not touch Lord Sauron, you cur!"

 

Before another kick found its mark, I had unsheathed my sword and lopped off the head of Layla’s sibling. Blood jetted from his severed arteries to spray upon the beggar, who, in spite of his pain, scuttled away on hands and knees, yammering unintelligibly with fear. The disembodied head’s eyes bulged with fatal surprise, staring at me from the dust where it had come to rest against the feet of a town official.

 

"Do not ever call me by that name!"

 

The official staggered from the blast of my bellow, but not before piss stained the front of his voluminous trousers. The crowd parted with haste to let me through, and I ascended the rough steps of the dais to the seat, constructed of cedar wood with carvings of the Eye decorating it. The carvings were primitive, but the wood’s fragrance appealed to me even if its workmanship, like that of the town, was haphazard.

 

I listened patiently while man after man described his skills that might be of use. I selected the most serviceable sorts: bowmen, hunters, and trackers. I also required porters and potential food sources. Then, a most unexpected applicant shuffled to stand before me: a wizened nut-brown man with sparse white beard and blind eyes like boiled eggs.

 

"What use are you to me, old man?"  I assumed he wished to sacrifice himself for my sustenance, but I was wrong.

 

"I have been to the valley, O greatest of kings," he wheezed.  "I have seen what you seek, although it cost me my sight. I can offer my counsel."

 

"Your counsel? I have my guides, my bowmen, my hunters and my porters. Of what use is your counsel to me?"

 

"O most feared lord, powerful you may be, but you will find that the flying monsters will prove too difficult to capture alive. You will wish to find the eggs of these creatures, take them, and nurture them yourself. To that end, you will need someone to climb up to the nests that rest high up on the cliffs and roast in the sun. Someone small and agile must climb to the nests to retrieve the eggs. Like my grandsons here."

 

He gestured and two scrawny wide-eyed youths stepped forward.

 

"Can you boys climb?" I asked. They each nodded. "Then show me."

 

They ran off and, like monkeys, proceeded to climb up the side of a building that abutted the square, using fingers and toes to find invisible niches in the stucco walls. Together they stood on a roof until I nodded to my captain who signaled them to climb back down and return to me.

 

"You lads will do," I said. The elder child had a pretty look about him, and I thought of my wraith-lord. "Your reward will be rich."

 

With that, I had what I needed for the expedition to the Forbidden Valley. What's that you say? A dinner engagement with Olórin at the inn?  Why, yes, we can continue tomorrow. It would be my pleasure. Please give my regards to the old fool and do not let the voices of the fëar haunt your dreams this evening. They can be a noisy lot when they get to yammering.

 

---

Chapter End Notes

The Sorcerer of Rhudaur (poached with permission) refers to a most excellent OVC (original villainous character) in the erstwhile Gandalf’s Apprentice’s The Sword of Elendil.  I highly recommend this fantastic novel, one whose influences weave themselves into my own fic (cf. The Elendilmir [WIP] and The Glitter of Swords [completed]).

 

quimellë carcanëa: my best guess at the Quenya equivalent of vagina dentata.  Quimellë is from Parma Eldalamberon 11, The Gnomish Lexicon, meaning "lady," but is also glossed as "womanhood."  It is not specifically glossed as vulva (or vagina), but given the similarity to "quim" in English slang of our primary world, it's probably a safe extrapolation.  Carcanëa is my ham-handed attempt at an adjectival construct of carcanë, row of teeth.

 

Zambak – Turkish for lilly.

 

Khand is a canonical region, but Amrun comes from Sampsa Rydman's most excellent map "Arda Marred: a True Projection of Middle-earth according to Parmandil Merhast," shown below.  Please see Mr. Rydman's site Lindëfirion for this and more maps.