Chapter 19: Pursuit

Legolas slipped over a wall, climbed up into a cloistered balcony and from there swung himself lightly over the gutters, pulling himself up onto the roofs of the city. His Lorien cloak, flattened against him by the wind, concealed him even if the citizens of Minas Tirith were abroad with the threat of such a storm as was coming across the Pelennor Fields and chanced to look upwards. Clouds loured over the city and seemed to have brought nightfall early but he could not wait. He needed to be swift if he wished to spy upon the house where they had met Ioralas' mother. It was too much of a coincidence that she had blundered into them in the market. And the two washer-women who had been hanging out washing in the courtyard had neither greeted the old woman nor seemed remotely surprised that she brought to her house a Hobbit and an Elf. More importantly, he wanted to see if the woman had any visitors, like the cloaked and shadowy figure that had followed Merry and him.

A great gale was blowing up from the sea, driving a storm pounding over the Pelennor Fields. Thunder rolled and great sheets of lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the whole world it seemed in silver bursts. And in the city itself the rain came down hard, the harbinger of the storm to come.

Legolas ran through the rain and over the roofs so lightly that never a single inhabitant noticed or if they did, they merely stirred and thought themselves dreaming of running deer through beech woods of green-gold sunlight and water gushing over the grey granite rocks. In the days of Denethor, each of the city gates was guarded during the day and locked at night in case of siege or treachery, and the custom yet prevailed. Legolas did not wish to draw attention and so had no choice but to climb down to the lower level by way of roofs and the city walls. At least the walls are not dwarven-delved, he thought gratefully, remembering the glass-smooth walls of Erebor's gates, Anglach standing above him, firing arrow after arrow into the swarming goblins and orcs below… Lossar had been there too. Briefly he pressed his head against the cold, limestone wall. Both dead. As cold as the rock and stone of this city of Men.

No. He would not go there. Not now. He shook his head, pressing his lips together and did not stop for long. He dared not for he would lose his quarry and more besides.

He leapt from the turreted walls of the fifth level wall to the rain-washed roofs of the fourth level below. There were plenty of taverns here, and market squares, stalls, seedy back alleys and illicit houses where men gambled and whored, even here in the White City. Not quite Aragorn's yet.

From the windows of the tavern Legolas had passed earlier that day yellow light spilled onto the puddles and a shout of laughter came from within. A woman stood outside, oblivious to the rain and swaying slightly, swigging from a bottle but Legolas was no innocent; he had seen the same on the streets of Esgaroth and Dale and he did not pause but kept to the shadows and climbed quickly over the narrow iron-wrought balconies that crowded together and blocked out the sky.

Now the gale blew the storm crashing over the city like a giant bestriding the Mindolluin and flailing at the city walls with thunder, lightning, and rain. The wind howled, snatching at Legolas' cloak and his hair and the rain whipped around him, stinging eyes and ears and skin.

He clambered over the wet slate roofs and skirted a huge black hole in the roof of one house where, during the war, a block of masonry had fallen through one floor after another after another, tearing down floors and walls and windows, and now the rain poured soddenly through the gaping hole and into the house below. Legolas clung to the chimney, buffeted by the wind and drenched by the rain, looking down into the empty courtyard of the house he had been led to by the woman purporting to be Ioralas' mother. Now it was deserted, lashed by the storm and flooded with rainwater. Not a single light was to be seen except for the lightning that split over the houses, and stabbed down into the streets. He was too late. No one was there.

Cursing, he squinted against the rain and settled himself as well as he could anyway, just in case; his back was against the tall chimney and the wind howled around him. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and sat in the cold rain to watch the empty house though without real hope that anyone was coming. He wondered where the real mother of Ioralas was and thought perhaps she had already left the city. Or was she dead? He wondered where Arduin was and suddenly felt a surge of fear for the Man. I will check on him tomorrow, he decided.

For more than an hour, he watched through that wild storm, and in that time not another soul moved. Rain lashed down suddenly, even more heavily, as if the clouds had broken. He pulled the hood of his Lorien cloak further over his head, not for shelter from the rain, but to hide the gleam of his hair, his face. He wondered who the woman was and why she had pretended to be Ioralas' mother. A puppet he decided, for surely she had no purpose but to tell him lies. But for whom was she working? The cloaked figure perhaps?

Suddenly everything was lit up by lightning. Through the torrential rain, he saw the black shapes of the ruined houses, roofs jagged and torn, the silvered cobbles and sliding shadows in the lightning. And then all was plunged again into darkness. It had grown late. Thunder crashed overhead almost immediately. In the empty street below nothing moved but the rain poured off the slate roofs, into the gutters and drainpipes and flooded the drains below so they were awash and puddled between the cobbles.

Except…

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen and he held his breath. Another flash of lightning lit up the courtyard below and through the window of the house, he thought he saw a dark shape suddenly move within.

He was sure of it; something was down there, inside the house.

He leaned forwards, straining to see through the rain that hammered at him. Lightning suddenly thrust down into the courtyard and he saw it; a dreadful face stared up at him through the window with absolute hatred, white, haggard in the lightning. And then it was gone.

Legolas froze. That face. Surely it was not human? Horror lifted the hair on his scalp and he felt his heart pound in his chest. Dread flooded through him as it had all those times in the South of the Wood where he had fought the Nazgûl for so many long years. He ducked down behind the chimney, clung to the stack in the rain, heart pounding and every nerve of his body telling him to run.

But this is NOT the Nazgûl, he told himself in desperate rationality. I saw them fall, I saw them sucked into the chasm that opened before the Black Gate. I saw them pulled into the Dark and they cannot get out.

He breathed slowly and steadied his heartbeat. It is only fear, he told himself resolutely. It is lightning, catching on glass; moonlight reflecting on something within the house. Or it was the face of the Man who had followed Merry and him earlier? A Man, he reminded himself firmly. One who had bribed some old woman to lie to him and Merry.

He ducked through the hole torn into the roof and leapt into the attic, crouching under the rafters and shoved the door hard, almost falling through it when it opened suddenly. Half the stairs were missing and the huge block of masonry that had crashed through the roof and every floor, lay in the centre of the kitchen at the bottom of the house. Splinters of wood and shattered pottery lay on the cracked slate floor.

Something curled against his leg in the dark, pressed itself against his calf and he drew back in horror.

But then it purred and he saw it was the skinny little ginger cat he had seen earlier. 'Hello little sister,' he said softly and stroked its head. 'You are not safe here I think. Find somewhere warm where you will be well fed.'

He left it sitting on the broken stair next to a child's toy. The little cat watched forlornly as he left.

In the dark between lightning flashes he ran crouching along the outside wall of the courtyard and then ducked into a doorway. Squinting against the rain, he peered around the corner and through the window. But there was no movement. Wind rushed suddenly through the courtyard and rattled the glass in the window panes as if to alert anyone to Legolas' presence and he crouched low. But inside the house it was silent and still. At last he breathed and straightened; it must have been lightning reflecting off something, he told himself again ruefully, or old tattered curtains drifting in the wind.

It was merely that he had been reminded of the Nazgûl so acutely, he thought, that it had triggered that dread in him. He had been wired and as tense as his own bowstring. That was all. Still he wanted to check that the house truly was empty or if the Man who had been following Merry and him, if it were indeed a Man, was within.

He waited in the shadows. Another flash of lightning stabbed into the city, flashed light over the puddled courtyard. Thunder crashed above him. But nothing else moved.

Even so, he was silent and stealthy as he let himself into the house, holding his breath as he eased the front door open, bow already strung and arrow notched. It was unlocked and opened easily.

Nothing.

He shut the door behind him, keeping out the rain and wind.

The kitchen was empty as he had thought; no ghoul, white faced and reaching for his soul, no wraith. The grit and small pebbles he had seen under the table remained undisturbed and the only thing that was different was the earthenware jar had gone. He was not really surprised at that.

It must have been lightning reflecting on the broken glass, he told himself again. He kept his arrow nocked nevertheless.

Suddenly the thunder crashed so loudly it sounded like the rafters had cracked and lightning seemed to split the house asunder so he was lit up where he stood inside the kitchen. Eyes wide he looked out of the dirty window at the sky. Rain lashed at the glass, ran in rivulets and pooled onto the windowsill.

Suddenly there was a face at the window. White and haggard. Mouth open. Jagged teeth. And then it was gone.

Legolas stumbled back. The chair behind him crashed over and he spun around, arrow nocked. On the back of his neck, his hair was stiff and his fingers tingled. He shuffled backwards towards another door leading to a staircase, his eyes wide and terrified and fixed upon the front door. The shadows seemed to slide towards him and the clouds broke suddenly, moonlight gleaming on the slate floor. Cracked lines seemed to snake towards him.

He turned and fled, slamming the door to the stairs shut behind him. Heart pounding, he leapt up the stairs three, four at a time and over to a narrow window. The glass had already been shattered and scrunched underfoot. Below him, in the courtyard was a cloaked shadow. It raised its head like a hunting hound and though this time Legolas could not see its face, he knew it looked straight at him.

His heart pounded in his chest and he heard his breath rip from his throat. No, he told himself. It cannot be. The Nazgûl were gone. This could not be a wraith so it must be flesh and blood. He sighted along his arrow and let fly. His aim was true, he swore but the figure seemed to melt into shadows and he heard the arrow hit stone. He let fly another arrow from his bow into the darkness. Suddenly the shadows coalesced into a cloaked figure and it fled from him.

The Nazgûl would not have fled, he told himself sternly though he wanted to run the other way. He shoved his bow back in his quiver and drawing his long white knives, he leapt from the narrow window, rolling to break his fall and onto his feet, he sprang over the cobbles after the figure.

Suddenly something whizzed through the air towards him and he jerked backwards. A knife shuddered in the timbered doorpost behind him. He glanced at it briefly, pulled it from the doorjamb, shoved it into his boot and turned and leapt after the cloaked figure. It seemed to slide across the darkened courtyard ahead of Legolas at a terrible, unnatural speed and dissolved into the shadows. He hurled himself after it, dashing through the rain, knives in his hands. Lightning blazed across the city, and rain lashed down, so his face was soaking wet and his hair was plastered flat against his skull.

He skidded around a corner and hurtled through an empty square where there was no cover and then up one alleyway and down another. Always, the cloaked and hooded figure was just disappearing, or somehow just glimpsed at the end of the alley through the rain and he could not catch up.

A long flight of stone steps wound about the city walls and he saw it half way up as he arrived at the bottom. Leaping three, four at a time, he pursued but it was already gone when he reached the top. He stopped, gasping for breath, straining around him unbelieving. No Man could outrun him.

Rain battered his eyelashes and he wiped his eyes and face, wicked it from his hair.

His shoulders dropped and he breathed. He had lost it.

He pulled back slightly and stood in the cover of an arched doorway and listened….

The rain first. It had been swept up by the wind from the sea and thrown over the city. He did not dwell on the salt in the rain, the sea's pull on him like a tide…He listened more deeply to the stones of the city, deep rooted in the mountains; they had waited long for the feet of he who had returned, the blood of the Kings…He leaned forwards, tasting the air for a dissonance, for discord. And there, suddenly, it struck. A terrible shriek like nails down a board. Like the heart of a deer being torn from its breast. The Song was shattered. Like musical glass breaking. He clapped his hands over his ears and knew that this was no mere Man he pursued.

Thunder cracked suddenly, loudly overhead and he could not help but look upwards. And there, moving upwards like a bat climbing on its pinions, the figure was climbing the city walls. He could see it like a black blur against the white limestone. It moved with preternatural speed and agility. Faster than he could himself.

He swore roundly, thoroughly, and was glad that none was there to hear it.

What choice did he have but to follow? He slid his knives into their sheaths and began to climb, swiftly finding toeholds and handholds in the wet, pitted wall. He was aware that the buttresses sloped slightly inwards and that a little further on, the walls gave way to bare rock; above him were the great stone arches of the bridge that led from the sixth level to the House of the Dead. He was directly beneath the Rath Dínen and the figure was heading to the Silent Street.

Sheet lightning flared over the limestone walls, casting the shadows more deeply. Breathing hard, he glanced up briefly against the rain to see that the figure had gained the parapet and was looking down at him; its dark hood framed its white and haggard face, not like a Man's but ghoulish, stretched somehow and its mouth was open, like it was screaming though no sound came. With a shock he was reminded of his own reflection in the mirror in Minas Morgul.

The figure disappeared for a moment and then suddenly reappeared. It raised its sleeve and a heavy stone struck the side of his head with shattering force. For a moment, he reeled and felt himself slip. The rock face was wet beneath his hands and boots. Another heavier rock hit him squarely on the shoulder this time and he dug his fingers into little cracks in the stone and pressed himself flat against the sheer rock face fighting dizziness. Then another and another stone hit him, each one heavier, bigger than the last and at last he felt a pain crunch in his shoulder and arm, and he lost the nerves in the fingers of his right hand. Glancing down, he saw how far he would fall and how sharp the rocks below. Without a doubt, he would be killed.

And then he saw something flutter in the buffeting wind. Tattered fabric. Red and white. A guardsman's uniform. There, in the lightning, he saw a body caught in the scrub and thorns below the Rath Dínen.

He had found Ioralas.

It occurred to him that he was no longer being pelted with rocks and looked upwards, but the figure had gone. He listened, leaning his forehead against the stone and feeling for the dissonance in the Song. But there was nothing.

Whatever it was had gone.

He leaned against the wall, feeling the rain soak through his cloak, tunic. Although he had lost what he hunted, he was not sorry. Whatever it was, he admitted now, he did not want to meet it alone … And besides, below him lay the body of Ioralas.

He climbed slowly, painfully down to where Ioralas lay face-down and twisted in the thorns. One arm was stretched out and the other was trapped beneath him. It looked like an accident, Legolas thought. The rain had soaked the clothes of the young Man, and his hair was plastered slick over his back of his skull where a nasty cut showed pale and white for any blood must have been washed away by the rain. He must have hit his head in the fall.

Legolas sank to one knee for his shoulder was very painful and the side of his head was hurting. Gently he lifted the body and turned it over. But when he saw its face, he almost fell back. For it was white. Not just the paleness of a corpse. But absolutely stark white. Like it had been drained of all blood.

0o0o

The Watch were quick to come to Legolas' cry for help, and before long Men with ropes and lanterns were clambering carefully over the wet rocks beneath the bridge that was the Silent Street. A sheet wrapped the dead Man. Because they knew there had been a search for one of the Tower Guard, the Watch Constable despatched a message to Beregond, whom he knew well, and one to Faramir, who was their commander. The Constable, who was a good Man and kindly, had listened to Legolas, companion to the King, and in spite of his awe of this hero of the War, he recognised that the Elf was soaked to the skin, had been chasing about all night doing Illuvatar knows what, but certainly was in shock. There was blood all down one side of his face and his shoulder dipped as if he was hurt. The Constable recognised when a situation was beyond him and so he also sent a message to fetch one of the King's Companions, preferably the Lord Gimli, so that someone more experienced was in charge of the situation. And by situation, he did not mean the body - he had dealt with accidents before - but the Elf.

Embarrassingly though, when the Constable turned from his Men to give these orders and back to the Lord Legolas, Hero of the Pelennor Fields, he saw that the Elf had gone. The Constable winced slightly, and then because he felt there would be trouble when it arrived, he berated his men who had not even noticed the Elf slip away. He sincerely hoped that the Lords Legolas and Gimli might meet each other half way for he did not really want to be in the middle.

0o0o

Legolas had one more task yet before he could return to other members of the fellowship.

Quickly, he returned to the empty street and searched the abandoned houses. He did not fear that the figure had returned; it had gone and he felt no dissonance in the air or the Song. He managed to wash the blood from his face in the rain. At last he felt something curl about his lower leg, pressed against him and he reached down to scoop the little cat he had stroked earlier. 'There you are little sister,' he said softly. Curling the cat into the crook of his arm he tucked it away in his tunic where it purred happily.

When he returned to where he had found Ioralas' body, Gandalf was there. The Wizard must have been summoned, Legolas thought, by the Watch Constable. Gandalf half turned at Legolas' approach and inclined his head meaningfully to a spot behind Legolas.

But he did not need to turn his head to feel Gimli's fury; the stone itself seemed to reverberate, like a bellow of outrage was rolling round the stone walls, through the cobbles themselves so Legolas thought he almost felt the rock beneath his feet tremble.

'You blithering half-witted pointy-eared horse-lover!' bellowed Gimli. 'What in all of Mahal's name do you think you are doing running around out here in the storm and chasing after Mahal knows what! And don't tell me you were protecting us!' Gimli roared as he strode up to Legolas and jabbed him hard in the chest. 'You do me great wrong.'

Legolas bowed his head as if deeply penitent. 'I know,' he said softly, eyes gleaming. 'I misjudged you, Elvellon.'

Gimli stared up at him, growing fury in his eyes. He brushed Legolas' forehead with his fingers and held them up for emphasis; his fingertips were bloody. 'Don't laugh at me about this, Legolas,' he said seriously. 'Don't. I told you. I will always be at your side. I have your back. But I cannot do that if you keep going off without telling me what you are doing.'

Legolas frowned. 'What do you mean? When have I done that before?'

Gimli's earth-brown eyes looked up at him with such serious regard, such betrayal that Legolas paused.

'Oh,' Legolas said, remembering. He winced. 'Yes… There was that one time.'

'Yes,' said Gimli sarcastically. 'There was that one time.' He planted himself firmly in front of Legolas. 'That one time that you left with Elrohir to go and sacrifice yourself to the Nazgûl so that Sauron would think that Merry or Pippin had the Ring and so move his gaze here instead of Ithilien.' The dwarf's voice grew in the telling, resounding from the walls, rolling through stone so that Legolas thought he must awaken all the city. 'Yes! That one time!'

Legolas bowed his head and this time it was not to hide his amusement. 'Yes. That one time. But that was as necessary then as it is now. I had to come over the roofs to trap a shadow,' he explained.

'And have you trapped it?' Gimli demanded. He looked about himself with exaggerated care. 'I seem to have missed it. Oh- of course it is a shadow so perhaps I cannot see it!'

Legolas shifted uncomfortably. 'That is true,' he admitted sheepishly. 'I lost it.'

Gimli threw up his hands as if in disbelief. 'Oh! You lost it. Well perhaps if you had a dwarf at your side, you would have caught this shadow if there even was one.'

'Gimli, listen. I know you are angry but I could not spare the time to return for you. I would have if I could,' he lowered his voice and pulled Gimli to one side. 'It was some ghoulish thing. It felt like the Nazgûl,' he muttered, glancing at the Watch Constable.

Instantly Gandalf was at his side and listening while Legolas told both the Wizard and Dwarf what had happened.

'But, as you can see,I could not catch it,' he said in conclusion and gestured to where the men were bringing up the body from the rocks beneath the tall bridge. ' But I have found something else.'

Gimli sighed, all bluster and fury gone. 'Aye. We are too late for him... But that might have been you, Legolas!' He remembered how angry he was and glared at Legolas again. 'If what you feared was indeed what you pursued, you are fortunate to even be here.'

Gandalf studied Legolas. 'Are you sure it was a wraith? Did anyone else see it?' he asked. 'I do not see how it could be what you think it is when all were sucked into the Dark at Sauron's fall.'

'No. I do not think that at all.' Legolas shook his head. 'And for the very reasons you give. Yet I pursued it here and could not catch it.'

'Some other thing then?' said Gimli with a shudder. 'Some other creature that was not tied to Sauron perhaps? There are more things in the deeps and dark places of the world than were just Sauron's servants.'

Legolas gave the dwarf an oblique glance but as he opened his mouth to speak, the Watchmen brought the body down past them and instead Legolas asked Gandalf, 'How long do you think he has lain there?'

Gandalf looked up at the high bridge above them. 'I would think he fell the night he disappeared. He must have been killed outright.'

'Where will you take him?' Gimli asked the Constable.

'The Houses of Healing first,' the Constable said. 'It is ironic is it not? But Beregond will want to see him and ascertain there was no foul play.'

'No foul play?' Gimli declared. 'Well clearly there ….ouch. Legolas, what are you doing?'

'Forgive me, Gimli,' Legolas apologised with deep concern. 'I must have stepped on your foot by mistake. How clumsy of me.'

The Constable gave them a knowing look and then bowed his head slightly to each of them. 'I will tell Beregond that you found the body, my lord,' he said to Legolas. 'And I also understand the need for discretion.' He smiled slightly. 'I am sure that Beregond will be happy to share anything with you that he finds.'

'Thank you,' Legolas said.

Gimli stood close to Legolas and muttered, knowing full well that Legolas could hear every word, 'Do not think for one single moment that you are off the hook. There is a lot more I wish to say about you going off on your own after some ghoulish shadow. And do not seek to distract me.'

'I would not dream of it,' said Legolas smoothly. 'But first there is something else that needs taking care of.' He reached into his tunic and drew out the small, skinny little cat and held it out to Gimli. 'Just hold this a moment while I find it.' He dropped the cat into Gimli's hands and the dwarf had no choice but to catch it. It squirmed briefly, righting itself and then curled into the dwarf's beard with an ecstatic purring that resonated through the dwarf's whole being.

'Pah! What is this wee beastie?' Gimli spat angrily, carefully cradling the cat in the crook of his arm and against his chest so it would not get wet in the rain. 'Are you bringing home flea-ridden pests now? It is not fit for anything, look at these ribs poking through like it's a little toast-rack,' he said gruffly and Legolas hid a smile.

'Yes of course. Put it down, Gimli,' the Elf said matter-of-factly. 'It probably has fleas. We cannot have such a thing in the house and what will we do with it when we leave?' He smiled indulgently because Gimli was not looking at him but gazing at the little cat with undisguised delight.

'We can't possibly take it with us. Even if there are lots of mice and rats in the Mountain for little ginger warriors like you,' he crooned at the little cat which purred even more loudly and looked up at the dwarf. Its little face seemed to squeeze up into a smile.

0o0o

Although Gimli was still cross with Legolas, he could not raise his voice for the little cat had curled up so trustingly in his arms that he could not bear to waken it. Its purr resonated through his own chest and the little beast seemed to vibrate with the force of its delight to be warm and safe.

'I shall call you Azaghâl,' he thought and as if the cat knew, it raised its head and looked at him with big green eyes and purred even more loudly. Legolas was insisting that Azaghâl's basket be made of willow, which was the silliest thing Gimli had ever heard, but at least the Elf agreed it needed a wooden scratching post and the very finest poultry and fish from Pelargir.

'Glaurung will need to be fed three times a day at first,' Legolas was saying and Gimli wondered why on earth Legolas was talking about a long-dead dragon.

Gandalf humphed. 'Take that cat back to the house, Legolas and feed it. Gimli, you are coming with me. There is something I need you to do. And you,' he glared at Legolas from under his bristling eyebrows, 'are not coming. Go and tell Merry and Pippin what has happened and get yourself cleaned up. We will join you soon.'

Legolas opened his mouth to protest but Gimli, rather smugly, held the cat towards him with a last tickle under its chin, and it latched onto the Elf with its claws and scrambled up onto his shoulder.

In spite of the good humour and levity with which he had engaged Legolas on the way back, Gimli was in fact deeply disturbed by what Legolas had said about this ghoulish shadow. And so he insisted on watching Legolas all the way to the door of the house and only turned back to Gandalf when he had seen that Merry had opened the door and all were safe.

'Now,' he said, eyes gleaming with interest. 'What would you have me do?'

Gandalf breathed in and looked seriously at the dwarf. 'I need you to come with me through the Rath Dínen to the Houses of the Dead.'

0o0o0o

Next chapter: Gandalf and Gimli visit the Tombs of the Stewards. Elrohir arrives in Lothlorien.