Chapter 30 Angmar

Legolas' heart thumped ponderously in his chest; it laboured for there was no longer enough blood to keep it pumping. Blood oozed slowly now from the cuts and wounds, slid down his skin. Breath squeezed through his lungs, shallow, rapid and he thought he was suffocating. He found his lips moving in prayer but no sound came but little gasps escaped his lips. In the Glass, he saw himself dimly, long lean body stretched. There was light somewhere and it gleamed on his hair, on his pale skin with its yaré- cármë.

He knew the purpose now of this Mirror they had found in Minas Morgul. It was a window into the Dark, the Abyss. On the other side of the grey-silk Glass were the Nazgûl…And not only them, he knew. Worse things… if the Balrog had been worse. But he thought less and less clearly. He knew he had lost too much blood and was becoming confused. He had begun to catalogue the effects of the blood loss on himself a while ago but now he had become lethargic, exhausted and he found he no longer had the energy to care.

I am dying, he thought. He wished he could see Elrohir once more.

In the Mirror, a skeletal face appeared in the darkness, it was not his own reflection, and not quite a skull, for it was too alive for that, but not human either. Its eye sockets seemed empty but there was a wicked gaze there watching him, amused. There was the jaw, teeth exposed but the rictus of its smile was more than a skull's empty skinless grin; there was something of himself in its movements, the way it tilted its head slightly in mockery of himself, the way he did to invite intimacy.

It was inviting him now.

In the Glass, shadows drifted and the skeletal face loomed closer. It wore an iron crown, blackened and spiked, gleaming dully in the strange half-light that lit the cell.

Angmar. He knew it was the Witchking.

Dread settled in his belly like a cold stone.

All he could do now was to turn his head away in horror and fear. But he could not escape. He knew that; it was useless. He was too cold. His body spasmed. Muscles clenched and shuddered. His fingertips prickled but that was as much to do with blood loss as the presence of the Nazgûl.

I am dying, he thought again, feeling his own blood slide slowly down his arms, his belly, thighs.

From the dark on the other side, a skeletal hand lifted, bone barely covered in skin, and it pressed against the surface of the Mirror, pushed. Pushed again at the grey-silk surface and horribly, the surface gave, as the hand impressed itself upon the silvered surface like pressing a hand in clay or draping it with silk.

Oh Eru, save me.

The hand reached towards Legolas and he could not move; he could not breathe.

His skin remembered the cuts of the morgul blades that he took upon the cold mountain Mindolluin. There were the same cuts on him now, like the blade the Ghoul had used remembered him, like it traced the scars that were long-healed and gone, opening them again for the Nazgûl.

Sweat ran into his eyes and he wondered how it was that he was sweating when he felt so cold. He blinked slowly, watched the sweat bead on his eyelashes like tears. Perhaps it is tears, he thought dully.

Angmar was close now, his skeletal hand reached through the fog of the Glass, stroked his face.

Yôzâira.

He felt himself shrink from the ice-cold touch through the Glass that draped over Angmar's hand like grey silk. He shrivelled inside but could not escape.

He knew that word; Gift of Longing. It was what the Nazgûl had called him on the Mindolluin, when they promised him to Elrohir in return for the Ring. As if the Glass reflected his thoughts, the grey fog cleared and he saw in the Mirror the mountains, the black pines on the ridge above and the high peaks covered in snow.

Look. Watch how your beloved Ravéyön betrayed you.

In the Glass he watched himself check on the small fire he had lit, and look up towards the high ridge where Elrohir had gone. Though Elrohir had scorned him and his company. Called him whore. He saw how the trees suddenly bent and tossed their heads in the great wind that roared up through the passes and high valleys. It lashed through the trees, tossing branches, bending the tree tops. He had not forgotten how the biting, roaring wind brought the bitterness of the East. Pine cones, small branches struck the earth around him. He watched his hair as it was caught up and thrown back by the wind and he struggled against it, fighting his way to the top of the ridge. Long shadows seemed to cling to the trees, shifting as the branches and leaves tossed and swayed in the strong wind. Lightning spiked ahead just beyond the ridge and the shadows lurched forward. The rain came then, heavy thunder drops and he saw how he broke into a jog through the trees now, searching for Elrohir and anxious as he drew further and further from the small camp.

He knew what was coming and cried out, for he dreaded even the memory of it. Now he could see that sudden sheet of lightning lighting up a silvery reptilian hide, gleaming wetly in the rain ahead of him. Movement flashed in the lightning and then darkness.

In the terror of the cell, of the ghoul's bleeding him, he was forced to watch himself hunted down by the Nazgûl, fleeing down the narrow goat track in the heavy rain that had put out his weak fire. Hearing the terrible shrieks of the Nazgûl as they pursued him in his desperation and fear, and Elrohir was supposed to have been there… Elrohir, who was supposed to protect him from giving everything away, from being taken, was nowhere. Nowhere!

Now the rain came in drenching sheets, broken only by the tree cover overhead and he watched himself fumbling with the kindling he had stocked, throwing it on carelessly in his panic…and then too late. The Nazgûl slowly stepped forward and one strode into the clearing…Then a second.

Hanging, weak, his body shuddering with cold and blood loss, Legolas felt each cut as the Nazgûl blades sliced across his cheek and another burned along his arm. Three blades pierced and cut and tore his arms, thighs, his chest, his belly...but they did not stab downwards, they did not pierce his heart. He felt his shirt flutter and knew it had been rent and tattered. And then one blade pointed at his breast.

He could not distinguish between then and now for he felt their blades as if it were happening again, right now, each sword touching him; left breast, right breast and behind him. They did not ease but pressed forwards slowly, slowly. Where the points touched and then so slowly pierced him, along his nerves he felt a cold ice that burned and was terrible. The pain pressed slowly, endlessly inwards and there was warmth trickling down his skin and the blades pierced skin, then pierced slowly through into muscle and flesh, pressed on between bones. Squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth to stop the screams that wanted to burst from his throat, he drew himself inwards, and briefly thought of his friends, of the Fellowship...and whispered to himself…

For Frodo.

And at that very moment thin shrieks filled the air, burned his ears almost. It hurt as much as the swords. In the Glass, he saw again how the dark wraiths surrounded him but he no longer knew if he saw the past or if they surrounded him now in the cell that was like a tomb. The blades of the Nazgûl sliced downwards and he sank under the agony to his knees…

No- he did not sink to his knees, he could not. His arms stretched and the sinews in his shoulders wrenched… tiny gasps for breath so the blades would pierce no deeper, no longer. His nerves shrilled in the pain and agony.

There was salt on his lips and he wept. He would never see Elrohir again. Blood slipped down the glass, a libation to Angmar. The Glass yielded like silk to the bony hand that reached out to him, stroked down his chest, swabbed his blood into the grey silk of the Glass which clung to him.

That is not how it was, Yôzâira, murmured Angmar, standing close in the Mirror, the skull's split grin.

See. This is what he has not told you:

The mist cleared in the Glass and Legolas peered into it blearily. He had difficulty focusing now, his eyesight was dimming and he thought he was almost beyond recovery now. Through the Mirror, he could make out the outline of the black pines, the high mountains and there, through the darkness of the night upon the Mountain, was his beloved Elrohir and his weakened heart gave a little thump when he realised.

Elrohir had settled on a boulder and the darkness was almost upon him. He was higher, hidden amongst the black pine trees upon the ridge and looking down through the forest, down the mountainside to where there was a faint smoulder of orange flame. Legolas saw how Elrohir scowled in irritation and then something happened and he felt like he was moving, sliding forwards though he did not move, and into the thoughts, the body of his own Elrohir, saw what he saw, knew what he knew…

'See. He sacrificed you. You…are…his… prize.'

In the distance, Legolas could see through Elrohir's eyes; saw how Elrohir had been watching Legolas himself, crouching down and feeding the fire with twigs and bark until it kindled and was burning steadily….Painfully, Legolas tried to grasp the chains with his hands and to pull himself up a little, to ease the agony in his chest, to raise his head so he could fix his gaze on the beloved face in the Mirror, Elrohir, but his hands were slippery with blood and he could not get a grip on the cold chains.

Even so, he told himself weakly, though it be the past, to see Elrohir's beloved face once more. He was still a comfort, though it be the last time he looked upon him.

'Fool. You think he did this for love?' The cruel, hard voice sneered at him.

'He did not know it was love. Not then,' Legolas whispered weakly.

'It was not love. It was hate….You do not believe me?' The Witchking came close to Legolas. A hand grasped Legolas' scalp and dragged his head back so he had to look into the eyes of the Nazgûl.

In those empty black sockets, there was nothing but the Abyss. Vertigo plunged Legolas into the chasm of the dark beyond the Glass and there was nothing, endlessly dropping away beneath his feet, and above him, the huge vault of the Night. Ahead of him, nothingness stretched for eternity. He knew he was screaming because his throat hurt.

'Be silent,' commanded the Lord of the Nazgûl.

And Legolas was. His voice froze in his throat. His chest constricted until there was no air and he was suspended in the Dark.

'Look. Feel. Hear.'

And he was Elrohir, feeling as Elrohir, seeing what he saw…

….He has disobeyed me about the fire, thought Elrohir, feeling a surge of anger. Legolas, hanging in the darkness of the stone cell, could not look away, could not bear to hear and feel Elrohir's hatred and dark desire, for there was a swelling and stiffening of Elrohir's cock as he grew angry at Legolas' disobedience. Elrohir's skin felt scorched by the other Elf's nearness, his lungs filled with his scent, every nerve, every hair was alive to Legolas' presence, of the promise of him. Elrohir thrilled at Legolas' obedience for he had done everything Elrohir told him. Meekly. Submissive. Head bowed, shoulders slumped. Defeated. Until that last moment when Legolas had challenged him. Elrohir felt a shiver tremble across his skin, through his bones, thrum in his blood…and it had nothing to do with the cold.

Pain flared through him. Lust, violent lust. Those terrible passions brought him with a horrible start, as always, back to the cave...with the firelight flickering on the dank walls, the muffled panting and cries...

...It had got worse since Legolas had come into his life. He could not forget, for he had stood there and watched. The flash of long pale hair, the orc shoving itself against the limp body...to his horror he felt himself stir and he clenched his fists and cried out, dug his nails into his own hands until the pain flickered on the edge of his consciousness.

He hated himself, hated Legolas for making him remember, making him feel a lust he tried so desperately to deny, to subdue in himself. It was Legolas who provoked him, the long winter-grass hair, the arrogance, the sweep of his laughing, teasing eyes, the brushes against Elrohir, the sheer sensual power of the Mirkwood warrior...

Elrohir found himself hard and full of need. Legolas made him worse. He deliberately provoked and teased, without a thought, without a second glance. He should have been the one in the orc's cave… He should be chained, restrained, bound...

Elrohir licked his lips, suddenly dry. Realising the scene that played itself over and over was the scene in the cave... But this time it did not matter that he watched and did nothing. It did not matter that he felt his own lust stir at the power of the orc shoving against that limp form, because this time it was Legolas' strong, lean body that writhed and struggled…And because it was Legolas, he deserved it. Because it was the long fall and sweep of winter-grass hair burnished gold by the firelight, and the yára-carmë painted on his skin, not blood, and Elrohir let his hand drift down the lean hips, and watched as the Elf's body was pounded and pumped…and when the Elf cried out, he deserved it, wanted it, and his head fell back with a cry...

Blood pounded in his ears and he pressed the palm of his hand against his groin and heard a long moan from his own lips, unexpected and full of desire. He closed his eyes and let his long hair sweep down his back in a sensuous wave. He wanted to feel Legolas beneath him, to bury his hands in that sea of pale gold, to rip the sueded tunic apart and bare him to Elrohir's own greedy gaze. He wanted to push Legolas' head down over his own steaming sex and hold him there until he choked, to force him down to the ground and hold him there, to struggle with him, wrestle the strength and power into submission, to force the lean thighs apart and to plunge into him even as he imagined Eomer had, to ride him, to tame him, make him plead and beg…

...ahhhhh, he felt a long surge through his belly and loins and leaned his trembling hand on a boulder….became aware of a strange prickling sensation in his fingers and toes.

It was now, he thought to himself. Slowly he drew Aícanaro. He leaned on it carefully, focused on the mithril runes that swirled and leapt along the blade, invoking its power. It was time. Then he let his long black hair fall over his face for what he was about to do and let himself sink into the mire of his dark lust. Now he would summon them… the Riders on the storm…the Nazgûl.

He conjured the images of his lust, the darkness, and sent them out reeling into the darkening night. He focused his powers, his heritage from Luthien, Melian, from his own father, and forced them to obey him, to send a long, soundless call up into the night. He closed his eyes and focused on the images that would summon the Nazgûl; the One Ring, hot with power, the strange lurid runes melted on that liquid surface as it burned, burned and molten. He saw the words…saw them and his lips moved as if he had no power to stop them …

'Ash nazg durbatuluk,'

The world stopped, held its breath.

'Ash nazg gimbatul.'

Like a long sigh, the wind suddenly stirred and brushed through the treetops in the valley and on the slopes below, whirled around the mountain peaks. The thunder rumbled threateningly. The words were like ash in his mouth. But he took a breath that the wind seemed to snatch from his mouth as he spoke again...

'Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'

The words kindled and became like flames, hot, then burning, searing his tongue, but he did not stop. The wind howled about him, flattening his cloak against his body, storming the treetops so they waved and tossed like grass on the plains. He raised his head to the skies, threw his head back in the wind that pulled his hair into a long streaming black mane, and fixed his gaze to the dark heavens that lowered and roiled overhead, and lightning shot in his eyes.

He stood firm against the wind and conjured the images that seduced him to the darkness. He watched the firelight flicker over naked skin, watched the writhing torment, the rape. He let the darkness wind around his soul, let the shadow slither and coil about his limbs, envelop him in its velvet tempting darkness…He spoke more strongly, more loudly, summoning them…

'Ash nazg durbatuluk,

Ash nazg gimbatul,

Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'

And while the words seemed to melt and burn in his mouth and throat, he felt part of him was screaming, part of him howling. But he would not stop though the wind swirled and buffeted him on the cold mountainside, as if it sought to tear the words from his mouth before he could speak again…

He shouted against the wind a third time…

'Ash nazg durbatuluk,

Ash nazg gimbatul,

Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'

And then he knew that all of him was lost to the darkness…

Fire and flames rimmed the darkness and in the hellish glow he saw the promise that burned, the promise of Legolas should he, Elrohir, join them...it was as the Nazgûl had said that night on the city walls; the red glow on the elf's skin, bound, struggling, naked, helpless, subdued…ah, no.

Not quite. He thought of the flames reflecting in the elf's eyes and knew that Legolas would glare back defiantly, his generous mouth snarling in disgust. Elrohir saw the bloody smear where he had hit the elf across the mouth.

He watched his own hand as it drifted lower and stroked across the welts he had already left on Legolas' skin so there was more blood. He trailed his fingers through the blood, through the swirling painted yára-carmë of the elf's skin…and gripped him hard, his lean hips, dragging him forwards. And then with a sudden thrust, he watched himself impale his victim helplessly on the spear of flesh so it thrust into the captive elf, tangled his fingers in the wheat-pale hair and dragged his head back, muffled the cries with his own mouth. He felt the Woodelf writhe and struggle in his chains, against the rod of iron flesh that shoved into him again and again...he felt the warmth of his skin, the muscles slide beneath. He saw himself now with the elf pinned beneath him, held fast and his ecstasy as he plunged into the hot, tight body, so tight he could hardly penetrate and had to force himself in harder and harder, punishing him, subduing him.

He touched his fingers to his mouth and the words no longer burned but tasted coppery, of blood. Now he did not speak them for they had life and pounded towards him like flames, like shadow and flame on wings. The huge leathery wings pounded the sky, rode the thunder, brought the storm.

Above a high ridge, the sky split in two and forked lightning flashed across the thunderous sky. Huge raindrops splattered on the dry ground, and the smell of dust and dry pine needles scented the crackling air.

Then he heard it. The scream… the thin wail…high above and moving fast…

Nazgûl. They came at his summons…

…Legolas felt the spike of pain as a knife was drawn over his skin and the burn of blood ooze from the cut. A libation, it dripped sensuously, slowly onto the silver-grey silk surface of the Mirror and he was held suspended as the blood ran down the Mirror and seemed to be absorbed into the silvered surface. His long lean body was stretched and the Glass pressed around him like a shroud, soaking his blood. It covered his face and he thought he would suffocate.

You see how you are promised to him? You are his prize. He sold you to us.

The ghoul slowly bled him until his skin was clammy, cold. His body spasmed and shuddered. He no longer knew where he was or why; but it was Elrohir's face beneath the iron crown, his eyes desperate and full of yearning and sorrow.

At some point, a long time later, he was no longer fully conscious and felt himself slide from the cuffs about his wrists and slump over someone's shoulder. He was lowered to the ground and a thick cloak wrapped about him. He knew liquid was slowly slipped into his mouth and he felt a strange burning, thrilling sensation over the wounds in his body. Something soft and wet and warm swiped over the bloody wounds, the dried clotted blood and it felt strange, soothing and arousing at the same time. His head lolled back over one shoulder and he thought he saw Elrohir's lovely anguished face gazing down at him.

Has Elrohir done this to me? he wondered, bewildered.

Then his wounds were bandaged carefully and he was given small pieces of meat. It was raw and bloody but he did not care, knew he needed it to survive. More liquid was dripped slowly into his mouth and it thrust heat through him like the fire-spirit water of Dale.

He was barely conscious. 'Elrohir?' he whispered in misery and despair. For Elrohir had wanted his rape. He had known that, but not believed it. There was an amused, manic laugh. He was so cold, confused. As his eyes closed heavily, he grasped at the hands that held him; they were cold and bony.

0o0o

Barakhir pulled up, shaking his head, leaning down on the bit and fighting to escape the hands of his rider. Ahead of him, Baraghur turned and Elladan pulled back from the small troop.

'Elrohir! What is it?' Dimly Elrohir heard Elladan call but he ignored him for he swore he had heard Legolas call him. An erotic, charged cry of yearning and desire. And that image again; Legolas stretched in chains, firelight flickering, licking his skin…

At his side, there was a long hiss and Aícanaro stretched in his sheath. In the pit of Elrohir's belly, the dark lust uncurled and raised its head from where it had slept, buried and forgotten amongst the confessions he had made to Legolas, of his secret thoughts and dark desires. But Legolas has forgiven me, thought Elrohir desperately, given me absolution.

It is not his to give, came a quiet voice, soft in its malice. It is not him against whom you truly trespassed.

No! No! He thought that dreadful guilt had been exorcised. He thought he understood what had been the truth in the orc caves, that he had stood and watched for a moment, he had thought for a moment that he might rape what he thought was an orc-female for he was stirred by the sight of the rutting…I did not rape. I hesitated, he cried.

As good as raped, came the soft voice of his own sickness. You might as well have.

Legolas forgave me.

Will he forgive his own rape as easily?

He became dimly aware that Elladan was pulling on his arm and Glorfindel had reached over and pulled his face towards his own and was staring into his eyes with frightened concern.

0o0o

Aragorn could not sit silent and still, merely waiting for news from Beregond's search for Legolas. In the end, he rose, pulled a cloak over his shoulders, for the wind had changed and came from the East, bringing a late bitterness to what should be almost midsummer. He strode along the Rath Dinén and soon found himself beneath the city wall on the other side of the Royal Mews. Beregond was standing below the wall and watching the Tower Guard as they strung out and painstakingly searched for any sign of Legolas. They scrambled amongst the wild scrubland, streams and dismal gullies and channels of icy water and into the chasm below.

When he saw Aragorn, Beregond left the three other men clustered around the wall and made his way towards Aragorn.

'Your majesty,' Beregond bowed. 'We have found two things. I do not know if this is significant'

Beregond put something tiny into Aragorn's hand. It was a thread. Dark green. Only a thread that had caught on a bramble but Aragorn knew it instantly. He had seen Legolas picking at his sleeve more times than he could remember. It was from Legolas' tunic.

'There is this too.'

A long pale gold hair wound between the man's fingers.

'This is from Legolas,' he said slowly, one finger barely touching the long, long hair. Elf hair. Strong enough to thread a bow. In his belly was a cold hard stone of worry for his friend; how many days had he been missing? Seven now? Six? What if he were injured and lying alone in cold and pain? What would he tell Elrohir?

For many hours, nothing else was found. Not a footprint, nor anything to suggest that Legolas had passed that way. Beregond had signalled to the search to widen and spread out when a man straightened and looked about himself. His face was serious. When he caught Beregond's eye, he beckoned discreetly. Aragorn followed Beregond, clambering down the steep side of the chasm towards the man.

When they reached him, the man opened his hand and Aragorn leaned over, peering at it. A glint of silver. It was domed, bright with polish and wear. The white tree was etched carefully onto it.

Aragorn's breath caught and he stared. He knew that Beregond too realised its significance for he said nothing but took the button, turned and thanked the man and bid him say nothing to anyone but continue his search.

But Aragorn realised he was no longer concentrating. When he stared at the ground, searching for the lightest trace of footprint or trace of Legolas, all he could see was that button.

At last a hand was gently laid on his sleeve. He looked up to see the concerned, pudgy face of Aradhel. With surprise he saw that the sun had gone down and Beregond was gathering his men about him and preparing to finish. 'We will continue in the morning, sire,' he said. 'I know a hunter in the Pelennor who has used his dogs to find a missing child. Perhaps they will find the lord Legolas.' But he did not look hopeful.

Back in the Palace, Aradhel bustled around Aragorn, summoning servants, food, drink, lit the fire in the hearth. But Aragorn barely noticed. Sitting at his desk, he stared at the three small objects that Beregond now placed before him; the long golden hair, the thread of dark green, and the silver button etched with the White Tree.

He did not know how long he had sat in silence, staring, barely thinking. Frozen with indecision.

Aragorn picked up the small thread between his thumb and forefinger and stared at it minutely. The dark green-grey was muted, unmistakable. Not silk but strong enough to sew the frayed cuffs of a sueded moss-green tunic.

Aradhel stood mutely, watching while Aragorn's fingers paused over the silver button.

'This does not belong to Legolas,' Aragorn said softly. 'Is it worn by the Tower Guard?' he asked hopefully, glancing up at Aradhel. But both of them already knew the Guard did not have the White Tree upon their buttons. Those were reserved.

'No, your majesty.' Aradhel spoke softly, reluctantly. 'Only the Steward of Gondor is allowed these.'

Aragorn was silent. He fingered the button, staring down at it. They had found nothing more. Only the slightest trail that led from the stream up to an empty cave that ended in nothing.

Aradhel looked down at Aragorn with compassion. 'My lord,' he said softly. 'Is there anything you want me to do?'

'No,' Aragorn replied. He still did not look up. 'Go home Aradhel. Go and see your good wife. I will see you in the morning.'

Aradhel did not move for a moment and hesitated, on the brink of speaking. But in the end, he did not and with a sigh, he turned and left.

The sun had sunk behind the mountains now and long shadows crept over the rose garden, over the city. One by one, the small lights flickered on in the city below, in the windows of the houses, the taverns. The lights of the Watch. A bell tolled to close the city gates, and then another and another until all seven bells of the seven levels had signalled the gates were closing for the day and the city settled down.

A manservant came in and stoked the fire in the hearth, trimmed the wicks of the lamps and candles, and left. Aragorn shifted slightly and grunted a thank you.

He was alone now.

Legolas was gone. Vanished. He had no idea where his friend was. But he knew the button. Only the Stewards wore such buttons. He remembered Denethor from long ago, his tunic had a row of such buttons. Boromir's cloak fastened with the same. And he had seen them on Faramir's tunic, on the cuffs of the shirt he had been wearing this morning. One had been missing.

Aragorn leaned his forehead on his hand and half closed his eyes. He could not imagine why Faramir could possibly wish any ill upon Legolas. And when he had questioned the young Man earlier, he had been so convincing, had insisted he was not party to Legolas' disappearance.

But Faramir has lied.

It is his button. No one else wears them.

Aragorn shook his head. He did not believe Faramir had anything to do with this. He could have just lost it up there at any time.

And what could he have been doing up there? Scrambling about the wilderness? And if not him, then who?

A shape detached itself from the shadows in the rose garden and drifted through the paths. The moon had risen and the moonlight caught on its white face, haggard eyes. The elongated jaw and sunken cheeks seemed ghoulish and unrecognisable at first and Aragorn had reached for his knife.

'Majesty,' Bearos swept a bow and when he raised his head, Aragorn blinked. It must have been the moonlight that had momentarily made the Man look …ghoulish. But it was only Bearos, a simple huntsman who had found gold and come to the city for a better chance for his wife to give birth to their baby. Aragorn smiled and relaxed, let his hand fall to his side.

'I am glad to see you, my friend,' said the King softly. He felt strangely relieved, as if he didn't have to think about this anymore because Bearos would do the thinking for him.

He slung an arm over Bearos' shoulder and guided him into the study. 'Join me in a cup of wine if your wife can spare you.' He poured two goblets of wine. Good wine, rich and red for Bearos and the King. Not the thin, acidic stuff he had become accustomed to.

'My wife will not miss me.' Bearos smiled slightly and drank the wine, it stained his mouth, his sharp teeth and Aragorn frowned for a moment but the strangeness passed. Bearos was unprepossessing, unremarkable.

'You are troubled, my liege,' murmured Bearos. 'Can I not unburden you? Tell me what ails you?' His voice slid carefully between Aragorn's thoughts, insinuated itself in his doubts and dug is claws deep. 'Ah. The Stewards sigil.' He indicated the silver button.

Aragorn sighed and ran his hand through his hair. 'Legolas is missing still and Beregond found this where Legolas seems to have gone over the wall. But Faramir has already denied all knowledge of Legolas' disappearance.'

Bearos smiled sadly. 'He is his father's son.' He spread his hands on the desk in front of him and Aragorn thought dimly that this was a gesture he made himself; Bearos was like him. Aragorn could trust him. 'So have they found our beloved Lord Legolas?'

And when Aragorn bowed his head in despair, Bearos reached out and clasped his hand. Aragorn stared at the warm red ruby of Bearos' ring. It was like an eye…but then he saw he was wrong. Not an eye. But warmth. Like a fire in the hearth. Like home.

'You have no choice now, my dear lord.' Bearos' face was warm, concerned. His mouth turned down in sympathy and he patted Aragorn's arm in the way that Gimli often did.

Aragorn covered his face with his hands. 'Arrest Faramir?' He shook his head, 'I cannot. He has been so loyal, so…abused by his father that he will never trust me again.'

Bearos sighed. 'I know. I am very fond of him too…But where is the Lord Legolas?' he suddenly cried in despair. He shoved his chair back and paced the room anxiously, gesticulating. 'It is...how many days since he vanished? Six? Seven? Where is he?' He turned back to Aragorn. 'He could be injured… wounded and lying somewhere unable to get help? Or perhaps…' He leaned down now, close to Aragorn, his eyes wide and afraid, 'Perhaps he has been imprisoned somewhere against his will? He may be hurt, bleeding slowly to death.'

Aragorn stared at the Man. 'What makes you think that?' he asked suddenly frightened for he saw how easily that could be true! 'Why do you think he is imprisoned?'

Bearos straightened, spreading his hands wide. 'You have been thinking the same, Sire. This ghoul,' he waved his hands, 'has been targeting him, has it not? No one else has seen it but it stalked him in the city and tried to kill him, threw a knife at him!' And here, an image of that knife appeared in Aragorn's mind; Faramir's knife. 'It lured him to the Rath Dínen where it had left the guardsman's body. Legolas has disappeared over the wall to the Hallows, just about where the button was found.' And Aragorn 's eyes were drawn to that button with its sigil of the White Tree. 'Faramir alone wears those. They are reserved for the Steward.' He sat down again and looked at Aragorn with compassion and understanding. 'You have thought the same as I, my King.'

Bearos sighed again and looked down at his hands. Aragorn followed his gaze and started; the Man's fingernails were almost talons! His fingers bony and white.

He glanced up at Bearos who seemed to have realised for he curled his fingers and drew his sleeves over his hands for a moment, but then he spread his hands again and Aragorn thought he must have been dreaming before for there was nothing of note; just the ruby ring that glowed.

'You are tired, your majesty. Exhausted. You have worked yourself to the bone. Aradhel has not allowed you to rest. He is driving you too hard…' Bearos smiled ruefully. 'But in the meantime, my lord, Legolas is still missing. And Faramir knows where he is.'

'You cannot think he is the Ghoul, or knows something of the Ghoul?' Aragorn protested.

Bearos looked away, leaned back in his chair and seemed to hesitate. Then, as if he had decided something, he turned back to Aragorn and looked him in the eye. 'I have to ask you this then. How is that Faramir alone returned from the assault on Osgiliath?'

Aragorn frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Of all the Men who rode out to fight the Enemy, it was Faramir alone who survived…why? He was there long enough to have been captured.'

Aragorn pondered. 'He was sent back to goad Denethor to despair surely?'

'Exactly!' Bearos moved closer and the candlelight gleamed in the ring on his finger. 'Faramir is mysteriously returned, almost unharmed….He was caught in a spell of the Witchking of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl. Who knows what might have been done, or what spell might have been set deep in his heart.' Bearos held his gaze unflinching. 'How can we know, my lord? It will not be his fault. He is the victim of the Nazgûl. He says he knows nothing. Perhaps he does not in truth! Perhaps this…dark spell is deep below his awareness.' Bearos let a finger trail over the silver button. 'You must at least confront him with the evidence, my lord. We must at least ascertain that this is his and when he lost it. After all, if it is years ago, then we must not waste any more time considering it.' He smiled reassuringly and leaned forwards slightly and held Aragorn's gaze. 'Let us hope for a convincing explanation, Sire.'

0o0

Later, in his large, soft bed with its heavy quilts and furs, Aragorn could not settle. Thoughts of Faramir and Legolas swirled and rattled like dry leaves in the wind. Surely it was not Faramir who had lured Legolas to some dreadful fate? But he could not account for the knife in the Ghoul's possession, or the button lying exactly where Legolas had gone over the wall.

He threw a pillow onto the hard wooden floor and pulled a few blankets onto the fur rug that lay before the fire. He could not sleep in the soft bed. He put his hands behind his head and let his hand drift over the Evenstar. And his mind cleared like the moon coming out from behind clouds.

Without doubt, Legolas had gone over the wall and into the wild that surrounded the Hallows. The hair and thread proved that. There was only one reason why he would have done that so suddenly, Aragorn thought. Legolas must have seen the ghoul that he said he saw the night he discovered Ioralas' body.

So who, or what is the ghoul?

Gandalf had believed it was connected with the Mirror somehow but that had gone with Kustîg and Gandalf had lost the trail…So the ghoul was not connected with the Mirror? The ghoul was still in Minas Tirith?

Or Legolas had gone with someone he trusted. Followed them at their behest. Because he trusted whoever it was….like Faramir.

Faramir's button had been found by Beregond's men. There was no question it was Faramir's. No question it had been dropped or ripped from a sleeve or tunic. It was still bright, untarnished. It had not been out there for long.

Aragorn shifted restlessly. Legolas had been missing for almost a week. Aragorn picked at his fingernails anxiously. He knew that Legolas could survive far longer than a Man without food or water even, but seven days without water? And supposing he was injured? Or worse?

Unable to sleep, he threw the covers off, his knees clicked as he rose to his feet. He could not rest until his friend was found. Rummaging in the vast wardrobes full of rich and costly robes, he found his old ranger's cloak, robe and boots and pulled these on. But when he opened the door, a Tower guard stood to attention, and when Aragorn passed him, the guard looked alarmed and followed him. 'Your majesty?' he asked quietly. 'Where do you go? Shall I inform the captain? Or the Steward?'

Aragorn breathed. He paused and then turned back to his chamber. 'No,' he said resigned. After all, what would he do? The trail was cold and he would find nothing more in the middle of the night. He would, it seemed, have to trust in Bearos' judgement and see Faramir in the morning.

0o0o