Thank you to all those who have reviewed -firerosedreamer, ninde, freddie, Annika, Sparky TAs, Nako. It was nice to have those- I hope this chapter inspires a few more of you say hello:)

Beta: Anarithilen.

Chapter 23:Messages

Aragorn leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. He sat in his preferred office for there were many in the Palace, but this one was snug and cosy, its windows opening onto the rose garden. On the desk in front of Aragorn were a number of messages, but the one he held was resting lightly in his hands. He tapped it on the heavy mahogany desk and pursed his lips. Although it had arrived the evening before, its contents bothered him.

Aragorn had been having supper with the Hobbits and Legolas then. He missed their noisy company and warm friendship. Pippin had been singing his version of The Prancing Pony, one that he would not have sung in other company, when the message arrived. There was some excitement, for this was the second message from Gandalf. The first had come a few days earlier. Gandalf and Gimli had arrived in Pelargir too late to apprehend the fugitive, Kustîg, for he had reached Pelargir a full day ahead of them and had already boarded a ship to Umbar. Gandalf had intended to catch the next tide and pursue him to Umbar.

This second message was from Umbar.

'They are in Umbar,' Aragorn had said excitedly as he tore open the message. '"Gimli and I have lost him I fear,"' he read aloud and there was a collective sigh of disappointment from the Hobbits and Elf. '"He is nowhere to be found although we will give it another few days."'

'He will surely be hiding out in some tavern or seedy place,' suggested Legolas. 'It is a city still hostile to Gondor and I cannot imagine anyone willingly telling a dwarf and Wizard anything,' he added a little testily. 'I should have gone with them. I don't know why Gandalf thinks that I am less useful than a dwarf.' No one said that Legolas had not been taken because Gimli and Aragorn had been worried about the effect of Legolas being closer to the Sea.

'Gandalf should have taken Merry and me,' Pippin added. 'Gimli is hardly subtle. We would have been able to listen in the corners of taverns and found things out.'

'Yes, I agree, Pippin,' said Legolas, not very seriously. 'And I would have listened at windows and at doors. Together we would have it covered.'

Frodo had been laughing at the idea but Aragorn was puzzled. 'What is strange,' he had said, 'is that I have travelled these routes many a time, and I cannot see how Kustîg managed the journey to Pelargir in under two days unless he was on his own and on a fast horse.' He looked around the company of Hobbits and one Elf. 'It has never taken me less than three days from Pelargir to the city when travelling with cargo, as Kustîg would have done with that Mirror.'

Legolas had laughed. 'He probably sits a horse rather better than you,' he said.

'That is more than a little unfair,' Aragorn protested but even Sam smiled behind his hand. 'I do wonder why a cart travelling at such speed would not have aroused suspicion or be stopped.' Aragorn did not add that he thought Kustîg must have whipped the horses until they bled to reach Pelargir in such a short time.

'It would be unrealistic to suppose that all Men are incorruptible,' Frodo had said softly.

'Yes, not every Man is like you,' Legolas had said, perhaps feeling he had been a little hard of Aragorn for his riding. 'The Dunedin are incorruptible like you…if a bit grumpy. But the same cannot be said of all Men. Or Elves either.'

'Well I have sent a message to Gandalf,' Aragorn had said, 'to tell him to return to Pelargir and then back here. I cannot see that any good will come now of pursuing Kustîg further. It remains for my ambassadors and envoys to ensure there are good enough relations between Gondor and Harad and Khand to ensure Kustîg does not succeed in raising an army.'

And that seemed to be enough for the Hobbits had agreed and raised their glasses in appreciation. Legolas was delighted that Gimli would be back soon and confessed he was missing him. The rest of the evening had been spent in pleasant good humour and only now in the cold light of morning did Aragorn's thoughts turn again to the mystery of how Kustîg had made it to Pelargir before Gandalf, and where he was now.

Perhaps he had not taken the Mirror after all, Aragorn thought. Perhaps someone else had taken it…

He frowned. Who else knew of its existence? The men who went to Minas Morgul knew, he thought. They might not have known its power but they knew it was of sufficient value to be brought to Gondor and hidden. But of the Men who had brought the Mirror down from Minas Morgul, one was dead and one had left the city. Then there were the sentries who guarded the Hallows; they knew there was something there that was valued by Gandalf certainly and it was not so great a leap as to work out it might have some dark power. But the ones who had been corrupt, taking the 'Pilgrims' to visit Denethor's tomb. They had been dismissed and had no access to it now. Those left were vouched for by Beregond.

Even if someone had guessed its value, they did not know for sure. Gandalf alone knew what the Mirror might be, for certainly Aragorn did not, nor did Legolas, nor Gimli. They had speculated that perhaps it was part of the Great Wonder of Khazad-dûm, Narvi's Hall of Mirrors, or similar from Celebrimbor's forge, but that was mere guesswork. He thought back to Ioralas' death. Would someone think the Mirror valuable enough to kill for?

Whoever had helped Kustîg escape, Aragorn thought as he carefully tore little pieces from the edges of Gandalf's message, could have stolen the Mirror themselves and hidden it inside the city. To sell it maybe?

There was a light tap on the door of the study now. Aragorn started from his reverie, and turning his head he saw that Faramir stood in the doorway. Aragorn smiled warmly and beckoned him in, gesturing to the comfortable chair opposite.

'How are food supplies?' was his first question. It was always his first question: the people had to be fed.

Faramir smiled slightly for it was no more than he expected. 'Better than we expected, my lord. We have had a steady stream of merchants, and farmers using the markets in the lower levels. Their prices are exorbitant but to be expected I suppose given the war has decimated the fields of Pelennor and many of the closest farms were destroyed.' He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair thoughtfully. 'But farmers are canny and it seems most had driven off their livestock into the mountains and forests and now they return. So we will not starve. But no feasts for a little while.'

Faramir paused for a moment. Then he looked up and met Aragorn's eyes. 'It was very good of you to give your own money to pay for the feast honouring my…' He swallowed. 'Honouring my father.'

Aragorn nodded slowly, appreciating that it cost Faramir to speak of Denethor. 'It was for you, my friend. And Boromir, who was also my friend. My comrade. As are you.'

Faramir drew a breath but his eyes were clear and Aragorn could see only a desire to serve, to be loyal to the People and City and her King. He was so like Boromir and yet the pride that clung to Boromir did not appear to be in his younger brother at all. Aragorn smiled for he liked Faramir and thought they would work well together. He had shown his quality by standing at Aragorn's side as they paid tribute to both Denethor and Boromir. There were no bodies of course for either but a good likeness had been sculpted for each, and the ceremonial feast was grand and fitting for two Men who had indeed served Gondor all their lives. Merry and Pippin had spoken at the ceremony, of Boromir and how he gave his life to save theirs, and Aragorn had been careful to tell the people Boromir's last words. It was Bearos who had urged him to do this. Aragorn had been surprised at the number of people who emerged to honour Denethor; it had been a lesson to him. A good one. Through it he had been able to gauge the people's feeling for their Steward who had served them long and well. And Aragorn had praised him where he was due and saw too, that there was respect for this new King for the honour he showed his Steward and sons, maybe even gratitude in the faces of some. But in others there was still suspicion and hostility. The old Lord Herion was one of those.

Faramir was smiling too and a new found confidence seemed to light him up. And then he ventured a question. 'I wonder my lord, if I might have my knife back yet?'

Aragorn felt as if he had been punched in his belly. All the cheer and good feeling blew out of him. He had been avoiding this. 'Of course,' was what he said lightly. He stood and opened a drawer. He took out the knife that Legolas had found brought to him, claiming that he had found it quivering in the door jamb after a ghoul had thrown it at him. That ghoul, Legolas was convinced, had been responsible for draining Ioralas of blood.

He handed the knife hilt first to Faramir.

Faramir hefted the dagger lightly. 'I still do not know how it left my chambers,' he said. 'But I will lock all doors now and I have spoken to my servants.'

Aragorn said nothing.

Faramir placed the dagger carefully on the table before him and asked, 'And what of Gandalf and his pursuit? Any luck with catching our escaped prisoner?'

Aragorn lifted the message and handed it to Faramir, forcing himself to do so, forcing himself to trust. 'They reached Pelargir too late and so have missed Kustîg in Umbar. I do not think we can recover him.'

'Or the artefact,' Faramir added seriously.

'Indeed.'

Faramir paused and then said, 'My lord, Gandalf was very keen that this…artefact be kept hidden and secret. It is not…like the Ring though surely?'

Aragorn gave an unamused laugh. 'No. It is not. The One Ring sought its Maker, and to rule all else. All the Rings made by Sauron seek dominion.' He felt a cold shiver steal down his back at the thought of the thin wails of the Nazgûl hunting the Fellowship in the darkness and the Wild. 'Thank Illuvatar that all the Rings are destroyed, gone into the Void at the Black Gate when Sauron fell.' He blew out a breath, remembering how the remaining Nazgûl had been dragged into the chasms that had opened up before the Black Gate as Barad-dûr fell. 'No. This is not one of the Rings of Power. This is a Mirror made indeed, so Gandalf thinks, by Celebrimbor himself. I do not know of any Power it has in itself. It is merely…' He waved his hand dismissively although it bothered him intensely, this Mirror and its theft. 'Gandalf wishes to take all such things to Valinor where they will be safe. These links with the Old World, of magic and sorcery are best left to Wizards and Elves. I hope that Gandalf finds it, but no one will build a kingdom on it and I have just sent a message and asked that Gandalf return, for he will not apprehend Kustîg now. He is long gone and on his way home.'

Faramir nodded and then seemed to consider something. 'My lord, I believe I may have a solution for the problem of the Houses of Healing.'

Aragorn sighed. 'What state are they in? Still overflowing?'

'I am sorry my lord, the sick and injured flood in from the districts and lower levels still.' Faramir frowned and then continued, 'I have done as you asked and commanded Herion to make way and remove from his house beside them and give them over to the sick and injured. No doubt you will receive his emissary this afternoon.' He ran his fingers through his hair agitated. 'These commands are making you unpopular, my lord. The old families are not used to be commanded this way. My father….my father had them tightly bound through patronage and privilege.'

Faramir did not say it, but Aragorn knew that he meant that the new King was ordering the old families from their homes upon the seventh level, closest to the seat of power, so that the sick and injured might be closer.

He tapped his teeth.

'What should we do then?' he asked. 'About the Houses of Healing?' If this is going to cause such resentment amongst these old families who live here on the seventh level, I would not oust them from this place just so they can go elsewhere and foment rebellion.'

Faramir took a breath. 'There is something we could try. May I ask Bearos to join us? He has an idea,' he said with hesitation and Aragorn thought him too deferential, too used to asking and not commanding. He would have to change that but now he merely nodded.

Faramir pushed back his chair as if to fetch the Man but at the very moment there was a quiet knock on the door and Bearos entered quietly.

Aragorn suppressed a frown for the Man was close to Faramir and in all his counsels but Aragorn could not quite bring himself to trust him completely, though he could not say why; perhaps, Aragorn admitted to himself, he had been influenced by Legolas in this. The Elf disliked the Man intensely, even though Bearos had spoken for Elrohir and Legolas on more than one occasion and made himself indispensable in so many ways. He had been helping with the pensioning of widows, the setting up of orphanages, things that Aragorn wanted done, and quickly. Things that helped the common folk, although it was at the expense of the older, richer families. Bearos was hated by the likes of Lord Herion.

But Bearos never gave Aragorn reason for distrust and now he bowed and said quietly, 'You asked that I join you, lord Steward.'

Faramir smiled warmly and pulled out a chair beside him. As he seated himself with quiet poise, Aragorn looked at him: Bearos' face seemed strange, almost stretched and strained, like he was having to concentrate on keeping his mouth not just closed, as in shut, but almost as if his jaw might stretch and elongate.

Aragorn shook himself. It was ridiculous, he told himself. He was tired. He did not sleep well in these soft beds with too many pillows and feather quilts. He almost always slept on the floor and hastily shoved everything back on the bed to make it look like he had slept in comfort.

'Speak, my friend,' Faramir said more warmly. 'Tell the King what we discussed about the Houses of Healing.'

Bearos shrugged, self-deprecating.'It is nothing, my lord. Just common sense and I am sure you have thought it yourself a thousand times…But I have never really understood why we have to bring the injured all the way up here, through the many steep streets and over bumpy cobbles. Why do we not simply install a House on each level instead?'

Aragorn stared in surprise. It was so simple it seemed too easy to work for a moment but Faramir had leaned forward with enthusiasm at the idea. 'Yes. Just think, my lord. If we could have a House on each level, the sick could be nursed near their homes, and each house could have a healer posted there to help with minor injuries when they happen so that infection is stopped before they are brought up here ranting and beyond all help.' He looked up at Aragorn, eyes shining. 'How much less suffering would there be for the wounded to be taken to the nearest House instead of being dragged all the way up here?'

Aragorn blinked; of course. It really was that simple. He had never lived in such a densely populated community as Minas Tirith. In the Angle, every village had its healers, many of them. In Imladris, of course they were the Wards that Elrond oversaw. He leaned back and laughed.

'Let us do this! And I can give Herion the good news that he no longer has to move out of his home,' he said with absolute relief for he sensed trouble brewing if he had forced it.

'My lords, you have not heard the news?' Bearos said softly.

Both Men looked enquiringly at the grave advisor.

'Lord Herion was in bed, asleep it seems, when Death took him.'

Faramir gasped and rose to his feet in shock.

'In his sleep?' Aragorn asked. He could not deny the relief he felt at the news; Herion had been a thorn in his side.

'He was found this morning. There will be a ceremony at the family's request. They had asked that they might delay the move from their house until after this has taken place.' Bearos spoke quietly, but to Aragorn it seemed almost forced, as if the Man were struggling to hold in laughter- but surely that was his imagination for Faramir did not seem to have noticed anything.

Faramir stood in shock. 'I must go to the Lady Gwithindel. She was an old friend of my mother's,' he explained to Aragorn and the new King was reminded again how fragile were the ties that bound his people to him. New and delicate. They needed tending.

He nodded. 'I will come with you to pay my respects,' he began, but Faramir stopped him.

'Allow me to do this one thing, my lord. I will give her the news that you have decided that they no longer have to move. It will be a comfort.'

Aragorn was about to refuse, knowing that it needed to come from him, to establish that he had listened, was compassionate, but in the long rays of sunlight that lay over the still hours of morning, Bearos stood silently, barely moving and the light flashed in the antique gold ring he wore on his gloved finger. Aragorn looked at it oddly, wondering where it came from, but in the next moment, he was smoothed and calmed and felt suddenly calm, sleepy, and he remembered that he had barely slept.

He waved Faramir away. 'Go. Do as you see fit,' Aragorn said slowly. 'I have these ledgers to peruse and then a council meeting to prepare. Give the family my highest regards and tell them that Herion will command a place in the Hallows. He has earned it.'

Faramir bowed and left but Bearos lingered, and Aragorn did not see a reason to send him away. In fact, Bearos was useful and took notes, helped him organise some things he had been putting off, and Aragorn began to see why Faramir valued him.

0o0o0

Legolas leaned back on the bench that was in the kitchen. Lobelia (for the Hobbits)/Luthien (for Aragorn)/Azaghâl (for Gimli)/ Glaurung (the cat's real name) was curled up on his lap and snoring loudly. He had not known cats snored until now. He rested his head against the wall behind him, stroking the little cat in long soothing strokes and watched as Merry and Pippin put the last plates away from First Breakfast. It was a little earlier than usual, for the two hobbits were going to visit Beregond and Bergil and to spend the day with their friends. Frodo and Sam had missed First Breakfast but Merry and Pippin were already thoughtfully studying the contents of the pantry in readiness for Second Breakfast when Frodo and Sam came downstairs.

Neither Frodo or Sam seemed as interested in food as they used to be, Legolas thought sadly, although Sam was slowly recovering his interest in the garden as the little spring flowers peered out between the weeds. Legolas had been helping Sam, and with the attentions of both Hobbit and Woodelf, the garden was flourishing. They had moved a bench beneath the old apple tree so that even Aragorn could stretch out his long shanks. Legolas could sit in the topmost branches then and drop things on his head, for it was too early for apples.

'I wonder when Gandalf and Gimli will return,' he said, for he was the odd one out, without Gimli's company. Aragorn only visited briefly these days, and although he had joined them for supper the evening before, that was an uncommon event. 'If Aragorn has commanded them back here, the message will not reach them until…' He thought for a while. 'A day to get to Pelargir, that's today perhaps, and then it could be three more depending if the messenger catches the tide. And then the return journey…That could be six days,' he realised a little more gloomily.

'There is no need to rush back though, is there?' Pippin said, reaching for the dishcloth. 'They might have a look around Umbar. It sounds interesting,' he said cheerfully.

Legolas' heart sank a little more, but a thought struck him. 'I wonder if they will find our friends, Nestor and Anor. We rescued them from the black ships,' he explained and smiled, remembering how gently Nestor had nursed him when he had been wounded, both in body and from the call of the gulls. 'I hope they do,' he said fervently. 'I would like to know that he and Anor are well and are finding their way home after all these years of slavery.'

Legolas bowed his head over Glaurung, who stretched and yawned and dug her little needle-sharp claws into Legolas' thigh. But though he winced, he did not complain and did not stop her.

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other and then Merry said cheerily. 'Legolas, pass over that cup will you? There's a good fellow.'

Legolas blinked and leaned carefully forwards so he did not disturb Glaurung, and snagged the cup between his long fingers. He flicked the cup upwards and caught it dextrously, then lobbed it accurately towards Merry, who held out both his hands in panic but caught it nevertheless.

'I've been thinking,' Pippin announced.

Merry immediately said, 'That's never a good idea, Pip. Makes your brain hurt and you're not very good at it.'

'I am actually,' Pippin said with pardonable pride and threw the dishcloth at Merry, who caught it laughing. 'I've been thinking that we should go back to the fourth level, Legolas, all of us.' Pippin sat on the bench opposite Legolas. 'Don't you think so, Merry?'

Merry looked dubious. 'I'm not sure, Pip. That thing threw a knife at Legolas.'

Glaurung's claws dug deeper into Legolas as if she had understood and determined she certainly had no intention of going back there. Legolas uncurled the little claws from the fabric of his breeches. He did not say that he had been on the fourth level every night since he had found Ioralas' body, or that he had looked through every window of every tavern, listened at corners and windows and spied upon the ordinary folk in the hope of finding the woman claiming to have been Ioralas' mother… or glimpse a shadow clad in black with a white face. But in spite of all his efforts, he had seen nothing that would help. The Hobbits thought he was sitting in the apple tree and singing to the stars. But when he was not spying, he was keeping watch over the Hobbits, and over the city as best he could. And even though the Mirror was supposed to have gone from the city, he was still not convinced the ghoul had gone, for every now and again he felt an oily slickness on the air like something had passed before him. And sometimes he felt like he was looking down into a pool at night when moonlight lay upon the water so everything was sepia and the houses were bent inwards. It reminded him horribly of the Nazgûl…. But they were gone. Angmar had been destroyed by Eowyn and Merry, Khamûl by Elrohir upon the Mountain, and the remaining seven were all dragged into the Void before the Morannon.

'It missed though,' said Pippin said of the knife thrown at Legolas by the ghoul. 'And we have been in a war now, Merry. It's not like…well, we are not like we were when we left the Shire,' Pippin finished but his voice was firm. 'And anyway, it hasn't been seen since the Easterling escaped…Kustîg. He took that Mirror with him and it seems the ghoul too. He's welcome to both as far as I am concerned.' He shook himself.

'Why did Kustîg want the Mirror anyway, Legolas? What power does it have?' Merry asked shrewdly.

Slowly Legolas stroked the cat's soft fur. He took a breath and then tilted his head. 'Elrohir told me that he thought the Mirror was made by Celebrimbor. If so, it had no evil purpose and Gimli said that there are tales of a Hall of Glass in Khazad-dûm, where the seer could walk upon and through light,' he said. It was exactly as Gimli had said. 'Gimli said that the spectrum was like a tangible thing. He said that there were many mirrors that lined the hall and the light stretched.' Legolas shrugged. He really had not quite understood what Gimli was saying about the Hall of Glass. He could not imagine light stretching. 'But I am just a simple warrior and do not know what that means.'

'But this one wasn't in Mori…Khazad-dûm. It was in Minas Morgul,' said Pippin, leaning his elbows on the table and putting his chin in his hands. 'So it can't have been like those ones.' He scratched his ear. 'Why would the Nazgûl have a mirror though? If it had Power, would Sauron not want it himself? Like the Palantir?'

'Remember Gandalf had feared something in the Mirror even older than Sauron,' Merry said. 'What would that be, Legolas?'

Legolas' hand stopped stroking Glaurung. 'There was only one thing I know that is older, more terrifying than Sauron…and that is Morgoth,' he said slowly. 'He was the Dark Lord before Sauron. Morgoth killed the King of Elves over the Sea and stole the Silmarils that were made by Feanor…He is supposed to have made the Orcs.' Legolas pulled a face for the thought disturbed him more than he would admit, even though Morgoth was just a name to him from the deep Past, Ages ago. 'I cannot imagine anything worse than Sauron,' he said slowly and scratched Glaurung's ears thoughtfully. 'I wonder what Gandalf thinks the Mirror can do?'

'And Kustîg already knew about it, didn't he?' Pippin reminded them.

'Yes,' Merry agreed. 'But it was Bearos who told Faramir that. If he hadn't said, nobody would have even connected Kustîg with the Mirror's theft.' He pulled on his pipe and then blew out a long thin stream of smoke.

Legolas's hand fell still on Glaurung's fur and she grunted softly in disapproval. Did that mean that Kustîg knew, wondered Legolas, and told Bearos? Or that Bearos knew and told Kustîg…Or that Bearos knew and told Faramir that Kustîg knew? Whatever the truth of it was, certainly Bearos knew that the Mirror was somehow important…And there was something about Bearos that reminded Legolas of Grima Wormtongue, something in the way his gaze slid over Legolas, like oily hands. Something in the way he stood too close to Aragorn, or Faramir, and slithered away when Legolas was near.

Glaurung yawned, her sharp little teeth gleamed. Her eyes screwed up and she sighed and settled back down. Pippin laughed. 'You're not going to be moving!' he said, amused.

There was a creak of the garden gate and Legolas lifted his head to listen. He carefully removed Glaurung's sharp little teeth that she sank into his hand when he placed her in the basket they were trying to get her to use instead of the most comfortable chair, best pillow, middle of whichever bed someone was trying to get into.

Then came the knock on the front door. Merry and Pippin looked up but Legolas was already along the passageway and opening the door.

A messenger boy stood outside and when Legolas appeared at the door almost as soon as he had knocked, the boy's mouth made a round 'oh' of astonished surprise.

'Good morning,' said Legolas.

The boy gasped again and Legolas frowned slightly, wondering if he had some injury that made him open and close his mouth like a little fish. He realised he was very tall compared with such a small boy and knelt on one knee and leaned forwards concerned, looking the boy in the eye and scrutinising him intently. This seemed to make the child even worse and he stopped even closing his mouth but just let it hang open, gaping.

Legolas gently put his finger under the boy's chin and closed his mouth, wondering if he could keep it closed. It seemed he could.

'Is this for one of us?' he prompted, gesturing to the scroll that was scrunched up in the child's hand. The boy nodded mutely and Legolas gently took it from him and scanned the wax seal.

It was Gimli's!

Legolas ripped open the scroll. It read:

'Legolas, things are afoot. Better you had come quickly. Gimli.'

Legolas slipped three coins into his hand. The gold glinted between the boy's thin fingers and he glanced down. The boy stared for a moment and then suddenly sat down on the step and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. His shirt was worn and grubby, Legolas noticed and was suddenly angry that Faramir employed this child who was so poor he could not eat, and had not a clean shirt though he was in the service of the King. Legolas resolved to bid Pippin speak to Aragorn about this scandalous neglect this very day.

But he had in his pocket a clean white handkerchief that Frodo had given him and that bore his own father's sigil. So he pushed it into the boy's hand. 'You might want to just rub that smudge of dirt off your face before you return to the palace,' he said. 'And you had better come and have some breakfast.'

Merry and Pippin were delighted to hear that a message had arrived from Gimli.

'It's odd though,' said Pippin, helping the boy, who was called Tuillin it seemed, to toast and butter and honey which dripped down the child's fingers and onto his shirt. 'It's all right,' Pippin interrupted himself to reassure Tuillin. 'We have lots of clothes that will fit you, haven't we Merry.' Merry nodded and put another piece of toast on Tuillin's plate.

'What's odd?'

'Well, Gimli's message. The words. You'd expect a bit more really. Like, I'll meet you in Pelargir or something. You don't even know if he means Pelargir or Umbar.'

Legolas cocked his head. 'Hm. But you know Gimli. Few words. I'll see if there is news of them in Pelargir before I leave for Umbar.'

Merry and Pippin looked at each other. 'Legolas, you really shouldn't go to Umbar.'

Legolas paused and looked at their kindly concerned faces. 'Very well. I will not go to Umbar if it makes you unhappy.'

'I do not think Gimli would ask you to go to Umbar,' Merry said thoughtfully. 'So he must be in Pelargir after all. Perhaps they have found something.'

'It does sound like it,' Pippin agreed.

Legolas smoothed out the message and read it once more. He could hear Frodo and Sam stirring upstairs for all four hobbits were to visit Beregond and his son. His heart leapt at the idea that he might be near the Sea, that he might see that gleaming stretch of water meeting the sky, and hear the gulls mewling and crying on the wind.

0o0

His heart was light as he shouldered his great bow and quiver, and he made his way up to the King's Mews, on the seventh level, near the Palace of the Stewards. The Mews was the last building and nestled against the shelter of the city wall, behind which was the chasm that separated the city from the rocky outcrop that was the Hallows with its tombs of the Stewards and Kings. This was amongst the wild scrubland, streams and dismal gullies and channels of icy water.

Legolas sang as he went and many folk turned their faces towards him with a smile of astonished wonder as he passed.

As he entered the King's Mews, he saw one or two grooms who nodded a greeting as he passed and the horses turned their heads and whickered in excitement and pushed at the doors of their stalls, reaching their long necks towards him. He laughed and greeted them in delight for he had not visited the Mews for a few days now. He thought how Arod would enjoy the freedom of galloping over the plains and shaking loose the confines of the city. And he realised how he too felt confined, how much he needed to be out on the plains and with a huge sky over him rather than in this city of stone.

He walked the full length of the Mews to where Arod had been stalled but saw no Rohan horse leaning towards him. He frowned and looked back over his shoulder, scanning the horses he had already passed.

'Ah! My lord Legolas!'

He turned to see the Chief Ostler approach, wiping his hands on the leather apron he wore. He smelled of saddle soap and leather oil.

'You are looking for your mount, my lord? I had orders from the Steward's house to let some of them out in the orchards of the Lebinnin,' the ostler said with an apologetic bow. 'They mentioned Arod specifically and I confess, my lord, I did not think to send you word but assumed you had asked for this yourself.'

Legolas squashed his disappointment for he knew that Arod deserved his freedom and would enjoy running free in a herd over the fields and orchards that had survived the siege. It was just too far to go to retrieve him, so he turned his head towards the remaining horses.

'I beg you do not be concerned. Arod well deserves his rest. But I am going to Pelargir and although I can go on my own two feet, I need speed.'

The ostler smiled and nodded in understanding. 'Well we have many fine beasts here, my lord. Choose one. Any beast that you choose will be blessed.' He bowed and smiled. Legolas looked along the row of glossy, handsome horses.

'You breed good stock here. All are good beasts.'

A voice came from across the yard. A woman calling to the ostler.

'Then take your time, my lord. My wife is calling me for I have another important client.' He grinned. 'I will send a boy to help if you will.'

'No need.' Legolas smiled back. 'I do not use saddle nor bridle.'

'Very well.' The man nodded and retreated, smiling and untying his apron, he slung it over the back of a stall door. A chestnut horse leaned its head over the stall door and started nibbling at the strings with a faraway look in its brown eyes as if it thought about the taste of the string.

Legolas stroked its soft nose and it focused its eyes upon him enquiringly. 'What is your name, fellow?' Legolas asked the horse, amused. 'Aeglos,' Legolas read. It was chalked onto a board. 'A good name.'

He began to slide the bolt across the stall door when cold air lightly touched the back of his neck. There was an icy wind drifting through the mews. The smell was musty, of cold and empty tombs. As if the occupants did not sleep but walked the earth.

Immediately every horse stamped and turned their head towards the far end of the mews, nostrils flaring in fear. Legolas already had his bow strung and arrow drawn.

There was the lightest scuff of boots on stone.

A whisper of thin black robes.

Every hair on his head prickled, every nerve was as taut as his bowstring. The horses stamped more loudly and whinnied nervously. Wind came out of nowhere and whisked up leaves, blowing them into the mews.

Thin light cut through the dimness. A figure stood at the far end of the mews. Its white face was elongated, jaw dropped, like it was screaming, but no sound came. Its eyes were hollows and its black robe rippled like water in the wind, like it was worn thin. Like a shroud.

Then the ghoul fled, banging the door shut behind it.

Legolas hesitated for a bare moment and then leapt after it. His leather boots flew over the worn smooth stones and the horses whinnied and shied in their stalls as he passed. He threw open the door and hurtled through it. Already the ghoul was gone; he cast about and then caught the flutter of a black shroud disappearing round a corner of a little used yard. He flew after it, found himself at a dead end with the city walls towering up around him. There was nowhere else the ghoul could have gone but up and over. He had seen it before, climbing the steep sides of the Rath Dínen. He shoved his bow into his quiver and checked that his knives were in place and then leapt up and scaled the wall in pursuit. His fingers dug into the mortar and his toes found holds, and he hauled himself astride the thick city wall.

He looked over the chasm that separated the city from the limestone outcrop that was the Hallows. A mist hung eerily so that the great mausoleums looked like islands in a still, grey lake. To his left was the Rath Dínen, its tall, elegant arches bridging the Hallows to the city. He was not far from where he had found Ioralas' body, he realised.

And there, already reaching the bottom of the buttressed walls of the city, was the ghoul. For a moment only, its face turned up towards him, its mouth agape and eyes hollow, and then it fled down into the darkness of the chasm, clinging to the damp rocks and scrambling over the cold streams that spilled through the gullies and cracks in the stone.

Legolas took a deep breath and sprang from the top of the wall, his feet touched the smooth sides once and he somersaulted away, spinning down and then again, bending his knees as Thalos had taught him when descending the great beeches in the Wood. Except there were no branches helping him down, breaking a fall. Just hard white stone. He felt the second his momentum spilled into a fall, his somersault too fast, uncontrolled, his feet slipped against the wall for a third time and he could barely control it. He hit the ground hard, jarring his knees but managed to keep on his feet though he skidded along the wet rocks. Only the scrubby heather and gorse stopped his falling further.

Already over the other side of the chasm was the black spidery shape of the ghoul, scrambling madly up the limestone outcrop. No so far away, thought Legolas. Not as fast as before, perhaps?

He leapt forwards and grabbed at the rocks, slipped and skidded and scrambled his way down into the damp dark of the chasm. Quickly he found himself at the bottom of the chasm and looking up, he could see an easy way to scramble over the limestone boulders, through icy cold streams and up the other side. His fingers and hands were scratched and sore as he scrambled as fast as he could and suddenly he was out of it and amongst the rocks and boulders of the Hallows.

The ghoul was ahead of him, its black robes streaming behind like smoke. It fled before him and suddenly it disappeared.

Legolas skidded to a halt.

And then his sharp eyes saw an almost hidden crack in the rocks. A gully, dark and dripping with water from above, cut deeply between the rocks.

Legolas drew his knife and slowly, cautiously entered the gully. He made no sound. Water dripped on his head, ran down his neck, icy cold. Beneath his feet, the stones were wet and slippery. The gully went deeper then, and slowly the rock closed over him and it became a tunnel and the light disappeared.

He felt his pupils dilate hugely, like a cat's, so he could make out the dim shape of tunnel ahead of him. Silently he edged forwards, alert and attuned to the slightest breath of air, the slightest movement. He could hear something ahead of him…and carefully stepped on wet rocks. One tipped slightly under his weight.

There was a scrape of stone or metal ahead of him and he froze. A drift of air came back to him, and upon it was the cold smell of old tombs. He paused, breathing hard as fear surged through him. He had one hand on the wet rock, the other clasped about the ivory hilt of his white knife. But I am in the Hallows, he told himself. The Houses of the Dead, the Kings and Stewards. And I am not afraid of the Dead, he reminded himself. The Nazgûl are vanquished by Eowyn and Merry, by Elrohir, he told himself with a flood of warmth and adoration. Elrohir would not be afraid.

It gave him courage and he took another step, creeping forward silently. And then his fingers were not groping along rough rock but stone that was smooth and well hewn. He frowned and then realised he must be beneath the tombs. Under his feet the way was paved and his passing easier, but he paused.

Silence…but the air felt oily and he had a sense that the tunnel was closing around him. The air was thin. He felt his scalp prickle and his heart pounded. Blood surged in his veins. It is only fear, he told himself again, as Laersul had done many times, in the South, when the Nazgûl were screaming, thin wailing shrieks around them.

In the Wood, the depths of Winter and Thalos' patrol had not returned, Anglach and Naurion with him. Legolas had led the search, found them surrounded by Orcs and the Nazgûl on their way. The Elves had fled through the frosted trees, over the snow, skittered over the thin ice of a frozen pond. It is only fear, Thalos had said and Legolas said back. Fear.

He said it now to himself as he hefted his knife in his hand. The other hand trailed over the smooth carved stone, found iron. The Nazgûl are gone, he repeated to himself, but his fingertips prickled as they had when the Nazgûl were near.

A gate? Slightly open, as if someone, something had just passed.

This must be the way in, he thought. A gate leading into the crypt itself. There seemed to be no lock on the gate, though a bolt slid easily, as if well oiled.

For a moment he wondered if he should not simply close the gate and return for help. This is the ghoul's egress, he thought and stepped within.

Did he imagine there was a sound from the tunnel coming from behind him now? A flutter in the dark like a thin black shroud.

He turned his head and glanced back for a moment only. He hardly dared to breathe, listening like a fox.

Silence.

And then he crept forward, inching slowly, one hand on the smooth stone wall, the other clenched about his knife.

The darkness closed about him completely now and even his eyes, so used to seeing in the dark world of Mirkwood, were blind. The silence was immense. There was not a sound.

He stood for a long time, simply listening, letting the air drift around him so he knew the smallest flutter, the slightest breath. Nothing.

There was only the smell of tombs. But I do not fear the Dead, he told himself again. Here he was, in the crypt of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor, where one day Aragorn would lie.

I have lost my quarry, he realised at last, and leaned for a moment against the stone wall of the tunnel. But he could not give up quite so quickly, and besides, he felt the air had changed slightly and knew that a wider space was ahead of him.

He pushed himself away from the wall and still silent, but walking faster now, he followed the tunnel towards the fresher air. And then the wall turned sharply and he knew that here was a second tunnel branching off the one he was in. This new one was rougher-hewn and the strokes and cuts felt newer, not softened by time and erosion.

The slightest drift of colder air touched his face, the slightest sound, the flutter of a robe? The scuff of a foot against stone? It came from the new tunnel and with a thumping heart, he edged forwards down the new tunnel.

His fingers drifted over iron again but he knew he had not become lost and walked in a circle, returning again to the gate. This must be a different gate, he thought, feeling the bars of it, an iron grille gate. It was open and pushed back against the stone wall. He took a step forwards and peered through it.

A little way ahead of him he thought there was a gleam of strange light, the merest glimmer. He took one step past the iron grille gate. The light seemed to flicker and something moved ahead of him.

His knife was in his hand and he hefted it slightly, took another step forward so he was past the iron grille door. The strange light flickered eerily before him, like moonlight reflecting on a pool one might find in the haunted woods. He thought he saw a shape in the darkness ahead of him, stepping towards him though it was not the ghoul, he was sure.

He took one more step and the figure took an identical hesitant step towards him. He stopped. It stopped.

He was too late to turn and stop the clang that resounded triumphantly through the dark as the iron grille slammed shut behind him. He sprang about, hurling his knife unerringly through the bars of the gate but it clattered uselessly against the stone of the tunnel beyond.

Legolas leapt too late to the gate and clutched at the iron bars seeking to wrench them open, but through the iron bars the ghoul's face appeared. It was stretched and elongated and the features slipped horrifically and slid as if they were melting and then solidifying. There were moments when the face became recognisable and the features of a Man slipped over it and then were gone. But for those brief moments Legolas recognised the face of the Man known as Bearos.

A rictus of a smile wrenched itself over Bearos' lips, more like a scream than a smile. Legolas took a step back in horror but in the darkness, a glimmer of faint light came from somewhere and Legolas saw that Bearos held another door, not a barred gate but slab of heavy iron. He would slam it shut, Legolas thought and a scream struggled in the pit of his belly. He was in a cell, a dungeon, an oubliette. This second door would close over the iron grille like a slab of stone.

'Release me!' Legolas commanded, but the Man's jaw trembled and gibbered incoherently and his eyes were bright with madness. From behind him stepped two figures but Legolas saw that these were Men. In the faint light, he recognised the guard, Maltök, but Maltök's face was impassive, his mouth slack and his eyes empty, dead. Legolas took another step back then in horror and Bearos' jaw gibbered again like some mad thing.

How Bearos had managed to escape him, he could not fathom: even though Bearos looked so distorted, so unlike one, he was still a Man.

'Not so feisty now, my lord!' Bearos sniggered uncontrollably. 'But you haven't even got to the best bit.' He sniggered again, his shoulders shaking, eyes even brighter, and for the first time in his long life, Legolas was genuinely afraid of a Man. There was madness in him, an alienness that he was used to seeing in Orcs. But Orcs were not mad. They were full of hate and you could not reason with them. This was something different entirely.

'What do you mean?' he asked slowly, a feeling of dread reached deep into him. He was trapped. Deep underground. No one knew he was here. No one. There was no way out.

And then a finger of ice stroked the back of his neck as it had before and he turned his head with abject terror. Something flickered at the back of the cell he was locked in. Dim light skittered around the edges of one place in the cell and then seemed to fall into a vast emptiness. A face swam towards him out of the vast darkness, pale, eyes huge and frightened, framed by long hair, pale and gleaming. It blinked as he did and he realised it was himself he saw.

A mirror.

A mirror was at the back of his cell.

The mirror from Minas Morgul.

He staggered back, lips parted and breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The darkness in the Mirror was absolute, and yet it still coalesced and seemed to gather itself. A long sigh that was a hiss. A face appeared. Not his. Skeletal, empty eye sockets, grinning teeth.

Yôzâira.

We have you now.

0o0o0