1. Lord of Werewolves
I try to be patient with some of my less thoughtful underlings. Really. I offer tasty Orc-snacks to the wargs, Men to the Orcs to play with, and I taught the game of tic-tack-kill to the trolls to occupy the brutes' so-called minds.
And then there's Sauron. If he's not in the forge fooling around with fancy jewelry like some sissy Noldo, he's subverting my werewolf training program.
I let him handle the new beast. This morn, when I arose and cast off my slippers, I could not find my boots. The door was ajar, knocked off its hinges. I stepped out, and howled in rage as my bare feet encountered a particularly foul puddle!
"SAURON!" No answer. Orcs fled before my wrath. I stomped back into my chamber, dried my feet, dressed, found a pair of old shoes and my favorite whip, and hastened to find a certain idiot.
Following a trail of puddles and eviscerated, shoeless Orcs, I reached Sauron's door. Breaking it down with one showy kick, I stormed into his quarters. The reprobate was reclining on a chaise longue, attended by that toothsome strumpet Thuringwethil, who was giving him a manicure.
Sauron turned red. The leggy vampire batted her eyes at me.
"Where is he, Sauron!" I roared.
"Um…er. Where is who, Dark Lord?"
"My Anfauglir, cretin! I gave him to you to fashion into a weapon against that cursed Valar-hound if you remember."
"Oh. He rose languidly, stretched, whistled, then called "Wolfiekins!"
I heard a loud thump in Sauron's bath chamber. Then came my great weapon, the young werewolf into which I'd poured my power and effort. The half-grown beast was sleek, his thickening dark coat brushed even more than Sauron's own black locks. Now the size of a small pony, the wolf wore a fine leather collar studded with amethysts - more of Sauron's foppery, no doubt. He also had one of my boots in his mouth, and a happy look in his yellow eyes.
The beast sauntered over to Sauron and sat against his legs, grinning foolishly at me. Sauron's hand stole to the wolf's head and stroked the ears. Thuringwethil pouted.
This petted creature was the werewolf I'd created to rend and tear and destroy? My Red Maw?
"Sauron, what have you done to my wolf?" I asked mildly.
"Done, Lord of All?" He weaseled. "I have been training him. Wolfie, lie down!"
The beast actually rolled over, tucking his paws like a scared rabbit. Pathetic.
"Sauron….What shall I do with you" I said, stroking the whip in my hand. "You've spoiled the beast, let him waste his strength on Orcs instead of captives, and make free in my chambers. And he's not even housebroken!"
Then I raised the whip.
After I'd beat the crap out of Sauron, subdued the angry wolf and kicked him across the room, I finally regained peace of mind. The situation was salvageable without killing the creature and starting over. I hog-tied the wolf, removed his silly collar and buckled it around Sauron's neck. Then I forced Sauron to clean up the puddles and Orc-remains. I finished by making Sauron polish all of my remaining footwear, while I fondled Thuringwethil before him.
"Carcharoth is your name, not Wolfiekins" I told the wolf as I cast him, growling and snapping, into the kennels. I would take up his training myself.
As for Sauron, I sent him off to conquer Tol Sirion, with a host of werewolves already ruined by his soft methods. Thuringwethil flew away with him, the stupid twit.
Good help is truly hard to find.
Carcharoth was created by Morgoth to kill Huan, the Valar's "hound of war". The name Carcharoth translates as The Red Maw. His other name, Anfauglir, means the Jaws of Thirst. But doubtless Sauron preferred to call him "Wolfiekins".
Sauron is called "lord of werewolves" in The Silmarillion (Ch. 18, Of The Ruin of Beleriand) when he conquers the fair isle of Tol Sirion and converts it into a fortress and werewolf sanctuary, renaming the place Tol-in-Gaurhoth, The Isle of Werewolves.
Thanks again to Branwyn, Beta Extraordinaire, for editorial assistance!
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