Fell Beast

Author’s Note – This is not intended to be serious in any way. This was written in a ‘mad’ moment, and I just thought I would share, in case someone else might get a laugh from it. Although the canon facts are more or less intact, they have been treated with a slight amount of irreverence. I apologise now, in advance.

The following account was discovered during renovations in the Citadel of Minas Tirith, around the middle of the Fourth Age. The manuscript, found beneath a floorboard in the king’s bedchamber, along with several drawings of an anatomical nature, is believed to be the work of Findegil, King’s Writer of Gondor for King Eldarion, as his name was found scribbled on the cover, along with what appears to be a laundry list. The text concerns a very early scene, rightfully part of the history of the War of the Ring, which for some unspecified reason were not included in the Red Book of Westmarch, or in any subsequent copies. Why this episode was deemed unworthy of publication is unknown.

The two wraiths leaned over the heap of sticks, twigs and regurgitated ferrets to peer down on the egg. As neither wraith had bothered to dress that morning, both appeared completely transparent, yet the orcs around the outer edges of the room were still painfully aware of their presence, through the icy, fearful chill that surrounded them wherever they went. All was quiet. The orcs would never dare utter a sound when their masters were present, not without permission, and the two wraiths stayed silent through concentration.

The Witch King, in particular, stared down at the object within the heap. The pale blue, ovoid form rocked and shuddered gently as the being inside squirmed and tried to break free. There came a tap, and then a small crack appeared in the egg’s shell.

"At last," breathed the Witch King. "You have done well, Khamûl, to find this. With one of Lord Gwahir’s eaglets under our control, we might achieve great things! Who will stop such a fine creature entering their realm? We shall train him, Khamûl. We shall nurture it in place of its mother and bend its will to our own. A servant of Sauron whose presence shall go unnoticed, perhaps even into the realms of the Eldar!"

Another tap, and this time a small section of the powder blue shell popped out, revealing something grey and writhing inside. Clear yellow liquid oozed down the side of the egg and dribbled onto the filthy, orc-made nest. The Witch King and Khamûl leaned in closer.

The egg jerked and rolled over, more cracks appearing, like black veins against its pale, matt surface. Another large section fell away and a scrawny, clawed limb poked through, grasping at the air. The creature made its first sounds, squawking loudly in a high-pitched, gurgling little voice. The eggshell crackled as the last fragments broke, and the baby creature wrestled free, covered in gelatinous fluids.

The Witch King frowned, though obviously, as an invisible being, this had very little effect on anyone. He caught the thing by the scruff of the neck and held it up. The newborn creature was about a foot and a half long, including its thin, rat-like tail, and had grey, wrinkled skin that was soft and tender, waiting for scales to form later in life. A pair of leathery wings lay folded against its back, too wet to be of any use for the moment, although, held aloft by the unseen King, it appeared to fly. Or at least hover. Two little limbs meanwhile wriggled beneath, trying furiously to find solid ground. A mouth full of tiny teeth gulped in air for the first time and continued to emit squawks at regular intervals, though its eyes remained firmly shut. It had no feathers.

"Where," said the Witch King to Khamûl, "did you say you found that eyrie again?"

~*~

After an hour, the strange grey creature quietened a little and took to chewing on the remnants of its shell, while the Witch King and Khamûl, having dismissed their guards, sat on a rock, chins on fists, and watched it dully.

"So what is it?" asked the Witch King.

"An ugly eagle?" suggested Khamûl, still praying that the thing would do something aquiline in the next few seconds, before the Witch King became very annoyed.

The creature tossed a fragment of eggshell into the air and tilted back its head, mouth wide, to let the morsel fall straight down its throat. It then burped.

"Whatever it is," sighed the Witch King, rising, "it is of no use to us. Kill it."

Khamûl stood and wandered slowly to the nest. Although its eyes had not yet opened, the creature either heard, smelled or sensed him nearby, as it turned suddenly to face him, smacking its lips and gurgling quietly. Khamûl stared, yet had no idea why he should be frozen there, transfixed by this ugly little beast.

"Well?" said the Witch King, hovering (literally) by the door. "I said kill it."

The beast opened its mouth and let out the most pathetic of mewing cries.

"Might it not be…of some use?" asked Khamûl.

"As what? Our entry into Middle Earth’s most hideous lizard competition?"

Khamûl continued to stare at the creature. The creature continued to stare at Khamûl, or at least it kept its head aimed towards him. It was still too young to see anything. The Witch King sighed again, secretly recognising those strange signs that infrequently appeared amongst their number. A few remnants of what they once were. A few strands of song still preserved within their dead essence. It was such a pain in the neck, he mused grimly.

"Could we not keep him?" asked Khamûl, and the Witch King almost spoke the words in unison, so certain was he of what Khamûl was thinking.

"No, Khamûl," he replied. "Such a beast is not suited to a fortress of this nature. It will soil the flagstones."

"But he could be trained."

"How do you know it is a ‘he’?"

"Well…"

"Ah, now I think of it, I do not wish to know," said the Witch King. "But it cannot stay."

"Yet I shall take care of it," promised Khamûl. "I shall make sure it is fed and watered and that it is exercised every day. Can we not keep him?"

The lesser wraith moved closer to his master, imploring him mentally.

"Can we not?" he asked again.

The beast mewed again in a very pleading manner.

"If I find it has made a mess," said the Witch King finally, "I shall have the orcs clean it up, using your entrails as a rag."

Khamûl secretly smiled, secure in the knowledge that the last of his entrails had rotted centuries ago.

"Then," he said, returning to the creature, "I shall call you ‘Chwestir’."

Which as everyone knows, in the elven tongue, means ‘Fluffy’.

~*~

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Quick Note

‘Chwest’ as far as I can see generally means ‘air’ or a ‘puff of air’ but it was also listed as ‘fluff’ in one of my dictionaries, which is what started this whole silly story off. That and several discussions on the forum.

Also, I have listed this as ‘complete’ rather than WIP, simply because at the moment I haven’t decided if I shall continue Fluffy’s adventures. Suppose it depends how much I drink over the next few days.

The Witch King walked the streets of Minas Morgul just before the dawn’s light ruined the sumptuous blackness of night, spoiling the phosphorescent green lighting effect they had created all around the city to make it look ‘ominous’.  At first glance, the city seemed deserted, yet there were many things lurking in the shadows.  Many eyes gleamed in the secret places, and the Witch King knew, as he strode on, that dark, foul things roamed the streets of Minas Morgul.  Yet he felt slightly content, knowing he was one of them.

His footsteps, heavy boots on stone pavements, echoed hollowly all around him, the sound seeming to spiral upwards towards the veiled stars.  And behind him another sound followed.  The scratching of claws on stone, as his charge hopped along after him.

Chwesteg the Fell Beast, (or ‘Fluffy’ in the Common Tongue) was barely a few months old but already he had grown to a length of near four feet, including tail, and his wings stretched out a fair yard and a half in total.  His skin, so soft and fragile at birth, had hardened in his first month of life, his scales forming as the second month began, and the irritating, soprano squawks had now given way to irritating baritone squawks.

The Witch King led him on a steel chain, which he had attached to a collar around the beast’s long neck.  The Fell Beast moved somewhat reluctantly and often had to be tugged before it would budge.  All the while the Witch King sighed and wondered what would be the best sauce to cook it in.

As the wisest and canniest of the Nine, the Witch King should have known that Khamûl would not keep his promise to look after Fluffy.  After all, had they not encountered the very same problem with Smokey, the incontinent warg?  The Witch King knew, and had often heard Sauron remark, that ringwraiths were not the most reliable of ghostly beings.  All save the Witch King, in fact, tended to wander off if left alone for too long.  Being dead to all intents and purposes seemed to limit their attention span, while only the Witch King maintained control of his senses.  So Khamûl had grown tired of Fluffy and moved on to other things, and the Witch King had found the ugly and unfortunate creature scratching at the door one night, unwanted and unloved.

He should have killed it, he thought, as he jerked the chain once more and hauled Fluffy from his inspection of a nearby pillar.  He should have given it to the orcs as a pre-battle lunch.  He was the Lord of Minas Morgul, Captain of the Nazgûl, and had no time to house-train ugly flying lizards.

Yet somehow, and he did not know how it happened, he found himself outside, almost in daylight, walking the dratted beast.

“Come on, Fluffy,” he barked, and winced as he said it.  He felt intensely stupid every time he had to call on the creature.  He yanked hard on the chain once again, as Fluffy put up sterling resistance.  The beast strained against the leash, stretching his head over to sniff at a gargoyle carved into a nearby gate.

“Move you stupid creature,” hissed the Witch King, wondering how this one beast could be immune to his dreadful aura and concluded that his fear-inducing powers had no effect on something so dense.

Finally, as if it had been his intention all along had he had no idea what all the fuss was about, Fluffy sauntered to the Witch King’s side.

“You are a profoundly stupid creature,” rasped the King.

Fluffy squawked, gargled, then started to eat the Witch King’s black robes.

The Witch King pulled himself and his clothes out of reach with an angry snort, then carried on down the street.  If Khamûl were not already technically dead, he would have happily killed him.  He had better things to do besides walking the stupid creature and he had spent far too many nights picking his way carefully through the corridors of his Halls, since even an invisible foot can step in something nasty. 

No, he thought, this could not continue.

By sheer chance, he had come to the edge of the city and to a spot by the fortified wall, where there was a small circular opening in the brickwork, half covered by an iron gate, with the city’s ancient sewer flowing (or at least stagnating) underneath.  A wicked thought crossed the Witch King’s mind and he mentally felt around the place for unseen watchers. 

Knowing he was alone, he pulled Fluffy closer to him and stooped to release the chain from the catch on the beast’s collar. 

“Look over there, Fluffy!” he said, then when the beast followed the black, gloved hand to see what was being pointed out, the Witch King gave Fluffy a sharp shove in the hind quarters and watched him plop into the sewer.

“On you go,” whispered the Witch King.  “Shoo.”

Fluffy looked up at him and squawked mournfully. 

“It is for your own good,” the Witch King told him, feeling suddenly unsure of himself, which was a rare occurrence in one so arrogant.

Finally, with a sad, longing gaze, Fluffy splashed off beneath the grille and disappeared into the darkness. 

The Witch King found himself feeling very bad, and not bad in the normal, enjoyable sense, though he could not understand it.  He remained by the sewer for a long time, staring at the spot where the wrinkled, ugly creature had vanished forever, then finally folded his arms and stormed off.

It was good that the beast had gone, he told himself.   Never again would the orcs find their time wasted in clearing up the mess (and there was always so much mess, even from so small a beast).  It was good that he would never more be jerked from his meditations by incessant squawks for attention (or worse, the horrid squelching sound that heralded the coming of more mess).  It would be good that he would never again have to replace the drapes around hall because the hem had been chewed.

Khamûl would never notice the creature had gone.  He had paid no attention to it for several weeks.  He would never notice.  Besides which, this was the Witch King’s city.  He was Lord of Morgul, and his will was law.  So if he said the creature had to go, then so it would be.

Yet as he returned to his private chambers and settled down to read, the Witch King had yet to convince himself that he had acted fairly.

A moment later he sensed Khamûl behind him, and looked up from his copy of ‘Black Magic for Fun and Profit’ to find Khamûl in the doorway.

“Where is Fluffy?” asked the other wraith.

The Witch King rose slowly and put down his book.  He had no need to make excuses.  Who would question his decisions?  He was Lord of Morgul and his actions were beyond reproach.  He had no need to explain himself to a lesser being.  What he had done was right.  He was perfectly entitled to rid his city of such a pest.

So with this in mind, the Witch King turned to Khamûl and said, “Fluffy ran away.  I could not stop him.”

The black robes containing Khamûl’s invisible form sagged.  The Witch King let out a beleaguered sigh.

“I am not going to get any work out of you unless I get you another one, is that not so?” he asked.

Khamûl shrugged.  “It is no matter,” he replied sullenly.  “I do not want another one.  Fluffy can not be replaced.  I shall simply go back to my work, have no care.”

“Very well,” said the Witch King irritably.  “I shall find Fluffy and bring him back.  Will that end this maudlin behaviour?”

Khamûl perked up slightly, turning his empty cowl to face the king.

And so the Witch King found himself addressing a legion of Orcs, barking orders to them that they should find and return the missing fell beast before sunset, with a few threats added as motivation.  He watched them spill out into the cragged foothills of the Ephel Duath like ants over a rotting log.  All night long, he heard no more from the orcs, though he often heard Khamûl pacing around in the corridors of Minas Morgul.  He wondered if the other wraith had worn boots specifically to create this effect and increase the Witch King’s guilt all the more.

Finally though his orcs returned, bustling each other as if no one individual wanted to be out in front, within striking distance.  The Witch King knew then that they had failed.

He sighed.  He seemed to do nothing else these days.

“We couldn’t find it, Master,” admitted one of the orcs finally, when his superior jabbed a dagger towards his ribs, threatening to jab it further if the younger creature did not speak up.  “But…”

“But what?” asked the Witch King.  Then the orcs parted and showed him what they had found.

~*~

The Witch King returned to his studies, a smug feeling of self-importance washing over him.  How he had missed that feeling! 

So far, in five days, Khamûl had not noticed the substitution.  Who would have thought the Orcs would be cunning enough to find a Fell Beast roughly the same size and length as Fluffy?  It was such a simple plan, and so effective, that the Witch King ordered his servants to forget that they had thought of it.  He would take the credit himself.

With that crisis over, he thought, Minas Morgul could get back to its usual business; plotting and scheming the best ways to aid Sauron in bringing down all that was pleasant.

Only the peace would not last long.

Just as the Witch King had started to forget the silly grey lizard and all the trouble it had caused, he heard Khamûl let out a searing shriek.

“This is not Fluffy!” the Black Captain heard his lieutenant shout as he hurried to one of the lower dungeons.  He turned a corner and saw Khamûl standing, in his black robes, in the pit in the centre of the dungeon.  The Fell Beast (or at least its substitute) sat in front of him, a few feet longer than the Witch King remembered.  Its head was lain upon the stone, its wings flopped down on either side as if it was exhausted.

“What now?” sighed the Witch King.

“This is not Fluffy,” repeated Khamûl.  “You have brought another one back, but it is not Fluffy.”

“Of course it is.  I searched for him myself,” lied the Witch King.  “Of course they will start to look different as they get older.  Even the Eldar look different when they mature into adulthood.”

“It is not Fluffy,” Khamûl insisted.

“And what makes you so sure of that?”

“Because,” said the Ringwraith, “Fluffy was male.”

With that he grabbed the Fell Beast’s tail and hauled its rear end off the floor.  The creature groaned but did not move.  There beneath it, however, was a perfectly formed, though slightly gooey egg.