So many thanks to those still reading and apologies for the delay in posting this. I have come to a tricky bit and was not quite sure how it proceeds. But clarity now.

As always, my very fabulous Anarithilien beta'd this so thank you.

Chapter 14: The Silent Street

A man sat silently in the corner of the tavern, barely seen. A stranger to this hostelry. He sank back into the darkness. Shadows drew close to him as if listening. Suddenly the door opened and an unseasonal wind blasted through the door as it opened and shut quickly.

A young man was blown in, dead leaves followed him and rattled on the floorboards. Heads turned, voices raised in greeting. The young man wore the livery of the Tower Guard and he laughed and called to a woman as she passed him holding the big glass tankards, three in each fist.

Then the barman called him over and pushed a glass tankard towards him, muttered something and then nodded over towards the stranger. The young man turned to follow the barkeep's direction. He lifted the tankard and raised it thanks to the stranger and then having taken a long draught, he pushed his way between the noisy drinkers and came to stand before the stranger.

'What have I done to deserve this?' he asked smiling. His pale blue eyes were sharp and quick, darting round the room.

'Your name is Maltök?' the stranger said rather than asked.

Maltök slid alongside him on the bench and leaned his elbows on the dirty table, marked with beer and stained with the rings of glasses left too long. 'It is.' He looked sideways at the stranger. 'Is there something you want?'

'It is a mere whim, nothing more,' said the stranger. He leaned back and in the lamplight a red gemstone flashed briefly on the stranger's finger and Maltök was captivated.

'What do you want of me, lord?' he said, eyes fixed upon the ring.

Bearas smiled. 'I merely wish to see the tomb of the Steward Denethor. He was a great man and had no proper funeral. I wish to pay my respects. He did me some kindness when I was young.'

Maltök put his head on one side thoughtfully. 'It can be done, lord. But it will be difficult and the way is forbidden to any. It is always guarded.'

Bearas slipped three fat gold coins towards the young man. 'There are ways,' he said. His eyes seemed so dark as to be almost black and Maltök's lips parted in horror but he did not speak. 'Find a way.'

0o0o

For five days, Bearas sat watching from the window of his rich house on the sixth level. The windows had leaded glass and heavy curtains of wool embroidered with bears and roses, which he had taken as his heraldic device. He deliberately ignored the mispronunciation of his name by his enemies, those nobles he could not win or who were suspicious of a common man made rich by Fortune. In retaliation he placed more and more emphasis on the Bear in his name and slurred over the suffix. Lord Herion was one who ridiculed him but Bearas did not care. Revenge would come.

The ring was warm on his finger, gave him confidence, stretched itself in his mind like a long cat…or a serpent. He did not know which.

Now he watched as a messenger ran in the street below and knocked upon the heavy, wooden carved door of his rich merchant's house. The messenger was scruffily dressed, not a liveried servant.

He saw the door open and the maidservant leaned out to speak to the boy, shortly and rather dismissively and the boy thrust a note into her hand before she could shut the door in his face. Bearas twitched the curtain aside and leaned out of the window, calling to the boy.

The boy looked up astonished, his cheeks flushed from running and his eyes bright. Hungry.

'Here! You will have earned this,' Bearas called and tossed down a copper coin to the lad. He watched the boy's mean and narrow face split into a grin.

Bearas watched him coldly. 'Do another errand and there is another coin in it for you.'

'Name it, my lord.'

'You know the lord Gimli of Erebor? Tell me where he is now that I may speak with him about some stone I wish to purchase on behalf of the King,' Bearas lied easily.

'I do know of him, milord. An' I know he is at the Third Gate even now for he is watching the new Gates being put into position.'

Bearas smiled thinly. 'Good. Here. For you troubles.' He flipped a coin towards the boy. 'Come to me again when he is finished that I may speak with him.'

'Very well, milord.'

Behind him, a soft, nervous knock on the door. He did not turn but half listened to the girl, awkward and fumbling in his presence. He did not care.

'My lord, a message arrived for you.'

'Leave it there,' he said, not turning from the window.

He heard the girl leave but still stared out of the window for a while. Only when she was gone did he turn and flip open the message.

It was from Maltök.

He had found it.

Suddenly his plans had changed. No longer did he need the dwarf-lord with his rock-solid head, nor the irritating elf that whatever Bearas did, looked down his supercilious nose at him. No. He did not need any of them now. He had found what he needed.

0o0o

At supper he ignored his wife but the new baby cried incessantly, its thin wails piercing him and dragging his attention from his thoughts.

He speared slices of bloody meat from the platter. Blood pooled on his own plate, dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

The baby squalled loudly and nothing his wife could do would calm it.

'If you do not want me to take that squalling infant and dash its brains out on the steps, you will take it from me, woman,' he said coldly. She scooped it up and scurried away without looking at him.

'Da?'

He looked up and frowned. The child who had come with them from the mountains, Gerda he remembered, sat at the table staring at him. Her hair was gold, he thought. Like the ring. His finger stroked over it and comforted him.

'Have you been good today, Gerda?' he asked softly. And when she nodded hesitantly, he said, 'You must learn to sew and sing and pray. You will make a good marriage soon. Connect us with a noble family. They will give me connections.'

She had looked down at her plate, half her dinner growing cold on the fine porcelain, but he did not care. She was a bit young still but it would not be long before she began her monthly flow and then she could be married for a rich dowry to some impoverished nobles who still had alliances with the King. Old blood, no money. He was new blood, new money.

Smiling, he turned the ring on his finger and swallowed the almost raw meat on his plate without tasting it. He was so hungry. He never seemed to be able to eat enough to satisfy his hunger.

He didn't notice when Gerda left. He cared less that his wife did not reappear and devoured all the meat. Even then he called for more.

He found he could not bear to eat bread or fruit or any other food. He could not drink wine. He had not eaten enough but was aware that the servants were anxious and so he sent them away and waited instead for midnight. Then he threw a black cloak around his shoulders and slipped silently, like a shadow out of the house, like he had never been there.

0o0o

It was a dark, moonless night but clear and the stars hard and bright on the stones of the empty city streets. The watch approached and he sank back into the shadows. The two men passed him, talking softly, and did not notice him at all although one of them shivered and pulled his cloak about his shoulders more tightly. It was cold and even in May, his breath turned to frost.

He stopped at last in a square that had been completely ruined and the dwarf had not reached with his plans to rebuild the city. Here the empty, abandoned houses were all in darkness, ruined by the bombardment by the Nazgûl's fell beasts. The jagged outline of the crumbling houses seemed to tear at the sky. Not a soul was about. All was silent and still. Ahead of him, the Silent Street that led to the Tombs of the Kings.

He waited here for Maltök as instructed, letting his cloak fall about him, the hood pulled low over his face. It was strange, the sensation of being shrouded in the black cloak, almost like disappearing in the darkness of the night.

Nine for mortal men

He started and turned around.

The darkness seemed to intensify, shift and Bearas stepped back. For a moment his heart clenched with fear and sweat broke out on his forehead, lip and he felt the fine linen shirt cling to his back. A silent scream tried to force itself from his chest, clawing its way out like a trapped animal. Somehow he had become caught, ensnared, somehow he felt that he himself had been swallowed by something that inhabited him, and he was sunk deep into his own belly and looking up towards the light that he could no longer reach. That slow scream started in his throat but was strangled by a long shadow that reached into his mouth, forced itself down his throat and crushed his chest, his heart….

His blood was pumping through veins. He gazed at his own hand in wonder and flexed his fingers…fingers of flesh and blood and bone. Sinews stretched, Blood pumped. He breathed in cold air that burned his throat and lungs….ah. Skin. Sensation. Breath. Texture. Smell. He rubbed his fingertips together and felt the rough catch of his skin.

A slow pressure pressed down on him then, struggled with the man inside.

Help me! Help me!

He felt like he was in a nightmare and running through tunnels pursued by a beast of unimaginable horror. He stumbled and fell against the cold stone of the bridge that spanned the cleft in the rock. Leaning over the parapet he stared into the depths below, the plunge into the dark and thought he should throw himself from the bridge.

Gerda and Marinel, his wife, would be better off without him. They had money now. His fists curled about the stone rail and his knuckles clenched white with the strain. He leaned over the stone balustrade until he stood on tiptoe, barely touched the ground and thought about casting himself into the abyss below where the dark writhed and swirled.

You will die. And your soul be devoured.

He knew it was the Ring. It spoke to him. Its voice was metallic, insidious, resentful. It made him hate.

'I am not like this!' he cried but his voice was weak and lost in the darkness. 'I am lost….Help me.' But the words were snatched away by the wind.

Suddenly there were footsteps ringing on the cold hard stones. He turned, gasping, but a surge from the ring wrestled him back down so all he could do was claw, drowning in the darkness.

When Maltök appeared with another guardsman marching confidently up the Silent Street towards the square, Bearas had recovered. He stood in the shadows and watched as Maltök nodded to him and then jerked his head towards the other Tower Guard at his side. This new one wore a knowing smile plastered across his smug face. Bearas did not smile. His fingers stroked the ring's smooth gold, caressed the red stone and felt warmth flood him. There was a red light behind his eyelids like he had closed his eyes and looked up into the sun.

He passed the new guard two gleaming coins, and ignored the greed in his eyes, the slap of his lips as he laughed and shoved them into his pocket. Bearas despised them both, would use them both. The new guard was called Tyrises. He stank of garlic and onions and beer.

'You are not the only one who has asked to see Denethor's tomb,' Tyrises said. 'There are many who feel he was not given proper regard.' The Man smiled greedily.

But Bearas pushed down the dislike, the contempt and slipped his arm over Maltök's shoulders companionably, let the ring warm Maltök, bring him close, make him feel honoured that this important and influential merchant should choose him, should show him such favour and familiarity. Bearas felt Maltök relax and smile and a thin sneer curled over Bearas' lips. The ring slid its long black tentacles into Malök's mouth, into his ears and nose, wrapped itself about his head and neck and chest and squeezed so he could no longer think but nodded along with everything Bearas suggested.

He followed the two men into the tombs of the Stewards. Once inside, the close dark was cold. In the gloom of the sputtering torchlight, shadows ran ahead of them as if excited, leading him on. They paused before the tomb of Denethor but he was not interested.

'Show me what else is here,' he said, knowing the two men were enslaved now, and their slack mouths, glazed eyes showed him he was powerful now. Invincible.

Maltök led him slowly through the cold House of the Dead, past the carved images of long dead stewards, their hands uplifted in blessing or approbation, he cared not which. Maltök paused before a narrow stone door and glanced at the guard, then pushed open the door.

Within was a small guard room. A fire flickered in a brazier and another man was seated on a low stool, warming his hands.

When Maltök entered he stood. 'Right glad I am that you are back, Maltök,' he said, rubbing his hands. Then he saw Bearas. 'What is this? You cannot be here.' His face changed to one of aggression and anger. His hand fell to his sword. 'It is forbidden that anyone else should be here.'

But the other guard slid up behind him and before the guard knew anything, had drawn a heavy bludgeon and thumped him over the head. He collapsed slowly to the ground.

'Where is it?' Bearas asked, almost breathless. It was here, he could feel it. His nerves tingled and every hair on his body stood alert.

Maltök drew back a curtain and there in the corner, the shadows gathered like a shroud around the hessian-wrapped mirror. He could hardly keep his hands from trembling. Ripping the hessian from the mirror, he stood back. There was a white robe draped over its surface and he ground his teeth. The zigûrun. He had suffocated the Mirror's power.

He leaned forwards in a fury and tore the white robe from the mirror, threw it to the floor and stared into its silvered surface.

Breathless. Blood thundered.

Here.

At last.

In the darkness a silvery glow swam and coalesced into a face. His face. It moved closer towards the surface and he breathed in wonder.

But the reflection moved when he did and it was still his face. Not enough.

No. It is not enough…

He turned his head to look back into the heavy darkness of the Tombs.

In the guardroom, he could see lamplight falling on the unconscious guard. Tyresis said something in a crude tone and Maltök laughed- but behind his eyes was a horror.

'Bring him here.'

Bearas knew he spoke, felt his mouth form the words, saw their startled faces. But they obeyed. They had no choice.

He leaned over the inert body of the young guard and drew a knife that flashed briefly in the lamplight. A spurt of blood spattered over his hand, over the marble floor. Over the silvered surface of a mirror.

There was a flash of light, sparking deep inside the Mirror. And Bearas moved towards it, reached his hand out and touched the surface of the mirror. His fingers sank into it, and he pressed so his hand sank into it up to the wrist and he closed his eyes and then a cold, cold hard bony finger met his.

He opened his eyes in horror.

0o0o0o

Faraway, two black horses galloped over the flat grasslands. Clouds gathered over the huge horizon, towering thunderheads and the wind from the East swept over the long grass so it rolled like a sea. Behind them the Eastfold, and the éored of Eomer and Eowyn were returning to Meduseld.

Elrohir did not regret leaving the Rohirrim. In spite of the civility both he and Eomer worked at, leaving them at the Entwash had been a relief for them both. Now it was but he and Elladan. As it had always been.

Suddenly something pulled at his blood. Like the moon pulled the tide and he hauled ungenerously on Barakhir's mouth, turning him a tight circle which the black horse fought, stamping and tossing his head so the silver bit flashed in the dim stormlight. Elrohir turned his face back towards the south, towards Minas Tirith.

We are Nine….

Ravéyön.

0o0o

tbc