The Witch-King of Angmar was known for many things; none of which were benign deeds that sprang from a compassionate, benevolent heart. No, his actions were caused by the malicious workings of a deviant, chilled mind. No heart, no soul was left, torn from him as they were.
He was instead known as a bringer of evil, death, hate and chaos.
He was - and was famed for - all those things.
None dared mention his name aloud. Not one whisper, not one breath could be heard uttered from the lips of those who dwelled in Ithilien. Even across the great Anduin river, separating the free peoples of Middle Earth from the Dark Lands, the slightest mention of him would cause the eyes to flit warily round the room; searching for his servants, and someone would rush to light a candle to ward off baneful spirits.
'Twas the darkest night, one in which gloom surrounded you with icy fingers that would reach up your spine and give you awful, wrenching shivers, soon turning into a spasm of shudders. The moon herself felt not the courage to beam down merrily upon the world, and hid, frightened, behind a veil of clouds.
The Orcs too stayed well away from the Witch-King's quarters tonight, for fear of stumbling across his dreadful presence. Yet, to the residents' relief, he was nowhere to be found.
Not to anyone but himself, of course.
The Captain of Despair glided up the stairs of Minas Morgul; work was to be done. Atop the highest turret stood he, the awe-striking Lord of the Night. It was only on such a night - when the fell wargs howled, when the children dreamed of monsters and demons - that the Witch-King could perform what was his…and his alone.
With the ghastly, smoldering glow of Minas Morgul behind him, the Witch-King proceeded to do what he alone knew of. Aye, it was the one singular act that he truly cared, after all these years, to perform.
Reaching over the parapet with gauntleted fingers, the Witch-King of Angmar started forming...
Oh look, he made a butterfly…