Fell Meats by pandemonium_213

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Chapter 1: Layla

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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.”