The one he hated.
The one that was too short.
The one that was not quite black enough.
As the Witch-king tore off his old cloak and flung it to the ground, he swore he would kill that Ranger. Wrapping the new cloak around himself a long string of vile curses flew from his mouth when it failed to flow around him properly. How could he instill fear in others without a proper cloak, he asked himself with despair. He turned cold, lifeless eyes south towards Mordor. Perhaps he would first go and deal with the spineless little tailor in Minas Morgul who had made this wretched cloak. Knowing his master would not be pleased if he did that, the Witch-king growled in frustration as he climbed aboard his horse, arranging the cloak as best he could to cover both him and the back of the horse so they looked menacing.
The tailor would have to wait. A Ranger… and a hobbit needed to be dealt with first. The Witch-king jerked on the reins and pulled his horse around, calling to the others to join him as he galloped down the road, his cloak barely fluttering in the breeze created by their passing.
Oh, yes, he and the tailor would be having a most serious discussion on his return to Minas Morgul.
This short little story came about because a friend and I were recently watching FOTR and when we got to the scene where Aragorn is fighting the Ringwraiths one of us made a comment wondering where they got new cloaks. I knew it didn't happen that way in the books, I think that without their cloaks they had to return to Mordor... anyway, it got me thinking and this is the result.