Chapter 33: Ólorin
Chapter Text
• Refers to Through a Glass Darkly, which tells the story of the first Mirror found by Glorfindel and Erestor in Phellanthir. Glorfindel's presence brought a Balrog to the Glass in Phellanthir as it is a gateway to the Dark. Legolas' presence/blood and Bearos/Khamûl, in case you hadn't realised it, brought the Nazgûl. In Through a Glass, they find a Nazgûl has killed and captured an elven fëa and is consuming it, which Sauron has forbidden as it would make them too strong, too powerful and able to even defy him.
Khamûl is the Ring. In my head canon, the original Men who were given the Rings imbued their Rings with their history, experience, but the Rings devoured them. And so, it is the Rings which are truly the Nazgûl, the Brethren. To me, that makes far more sense than the wraiths having personalities. I know that is not Tolkien's canon but I like this -it works for this fic.
Aragorn: OK- sorry, Aragorn fans. He really is deeply under the influence of Khamûl. So, he isn't in control of his actions.
Khamûl the Easterling's names:
dulgî- the black
Saphad- understanding/wise. Khamûl is considered wise amongst the Brethren.
Chapter 32: Ólorin
The Zigûr was here, Bearos could feel the crackle of power and snap of energy as he approached. Narya blazed like a beacon over the city if only the fools could see it! Her power was a fiery glow moving closer, closer towards the citadel, the Hallows.
Bearos hurried then, slipped away from the council where they bickered and raged over what to do about the stupid, stupid Steward. A snigger forced its way out of his chest through his mouth: the evidence he had planted against Faramir was so flimsy! Oh, it had not been easy to break the will of the Usurper, a Man who had spent months in the company of Ash Nazg. It had taken spells and sorcery that Bearos, Khamûl had wound so tightly about the King that he could not escape. Sorcery coiled about him, over him, suffocated him and no one even knew!
The Zigûr would know of course. But it did not matter now. And the Khazâd and the evil, malicious Halflings who were everywhere, with their sharp beady eyes and their poking fingers. They had always suspected Bearos, he thought, they had never trusted him. The Elf had not trusted him either.
But he was right not to!
Oh, how clever he had been! Trapping the Elf with his cunning. Twisting his way around the Usurper and the Steward. He had tricked Elessar so that he no longer trusted anyone.
But it hardly mattered now. He was ready. The city was already ripped apart. Soon it would explode with blood. The movement of the earth ticked away until Ravéyön arrived. Not long. Not long! His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
Sliding out of the palace, he cast a net of concealment over himself, slipped along the narrow alleyways of the city towards the catacombs. A thin smile twisted over Bearos' loose and shifting features, long teeth bared. He flexed his hands…his hands…more like claws now. He threw back his head exaggeratedly and laughed as loudly as he could, retching out the laugh, grimacing a horrid parody of humour.
He was hungry. Hungry! But he would soon have blood enough to keep this shell of a body going for longer, until Ravéyön was here. He needed to feed the Elf too, to keep him alive, to keep his blood rich and nutritious.
The darkness slipped over him, around him, viscous, caressing. Elemental. Like the Sea. Khamûl pulsed on his finger, coiled and slithered about his hand, his arm, pushed his sinews to stretch and bones, joints to crack. His fingers lengthened, his hands stretched, elongated. And he dropped to all fours and gathered himself. Leapt into the dark.
Ahead of him there was fresh blood and still living flesh. He had chased and dragged something in here three nights ago. Hunting was plentiful in the narrow alleys and ruins. He had gnashed his teeth and with the vigour of the beast he was, pounced upon his prey and cracked his head against the stone and then hoisted the Man over his shoulder and ran, skulked through the sleeping city into the Hallows where he had gnawed with his powerful jaws on a leg, crunched with his long teeth on a hand, an arm, chewed and spat out the bones.
Bearos had taken the rest of the leg to the Elf. Ungrateful though he was. The Man had crawled away from where Bearos left him but it did not take Bearos long to find him for his breathing was loud and raspy and he had crawled slowly, whimpering, his face was swollen and blood congealed in the three gashes in his cheek.
'I have kept you alive to keep you fresh.' Bearos peered down at the terrified Man. 'But no need now.' A cruel grin split his blood-spattered face. Then he gnashed again at the face because it reminded him of Tyresis whom he had hated. Not Maltök who he merely despised. He ignored the screaming until it stopped.
Gnash gnash grind chew spit out the bones for later.
He dragged the bloody body by its one remaining foot, bumping it and bashing it into the stone plinths and tombs of Kings and Stewards. He hefted it over one of the tombs for a rest and looked down at the silent, stone face of the effigy of Narmacil, King of Gondor he supposed. There was a weak groan from the body so he kicked it hard and bashed its face against the stone face of Narmacil. It did not move or breathe or groan again.
The cell was deep in the belly of the earth, hidden. The slab of iron that covered the iron grille was cunningly wrought. Oh, so cunning! Bearos ran his hand over the seamless door lovingly, proudly. It looked just like the stone wall. They will never find it! he thought hysterically. Not without Khamûl! When Beregond's posse had searched the Hallows with their crypts and tombs, a small number of guards had even walked right past the gate and never saw a thing, didn't hear the weak cry of the Elf in his despair. Bearos hugged himself gleefully and dropped the corpse on the stone floor, pressed himself against the slab of iron; the Elf was peaceful, heartbeat strong. Bearos imagined the blood gliding through his veins, his heart pulsing, pumping strongly.
'Su-pper,' he shouted loudly in a sing-song voice that he knew would terrify the Elf.
There was a stifled sob on the other side of the door that amused him. He heard the Elf shifting and moving as far from the door as possible. Bearos opened his mouth, breathed in, tasted the Elf's fear on his tongue. Clacking his teeth because he knew it frightened the Elf, he swung open the heavy door.
Light gleamed softly from the Glass and illuminated the Elf who was cowering on the floor in fear. Bearos loved that. He breathed in deeply: fear was like a rich frankincense, like the heady erotic scent of sex when long ago in his previous life the long-lidded girls shrank away from Khamûl Dulgî, Khamûl Saphâd, the Feared. Khamûl. Red fluttered round the edges of his vision, the dry heat of the desert, heat, beneath him the beat of hooves, the shring of the sword from the sheath and blood. Blood. Blood.
Bearos hoped the Elf would try to escape again, he liked the feel of his strength and power beneath him as they had wrestled. It reminded him of sex. But the Elf just watched in terror, weakly. The Elf's light was fainter than it had been when first he was brought here. The bright green-gold was thin.
Dumping the still warm carcass in the middle of the cell, Bearos ripped open the abdomen and reached into the cavity. The liver was warm and slimy. Grasping it firmly, he tore it from the cavity and ripped and gnawed and tore it into tiny pieces ready to feed the Elf, whose small cries of distress inflamed Bearos, gave him a delicious erection which he enjoyed, stroking it every now and again in between tearing the liver, his fingers bloody and covered in viscous fluids. He licked his fingers, then sucked each one noisily.
The Elf fought less too and it was easier, if disappointing, that it was so easy to wrestle him to the ground and straddle him, sitting on his chest, Bearos' long taloned feet gripping his arms so he could not move. And Bearos' scrotum, his stiff erection pressed against the pounding heart beneath him. Delectably. Erotically. So he rubbed himself on the flat and hard belly, on the strong chest while the Elf struggled against Bearos and tried to turn his head away. Oh, and how Bearos enjoyed that. He forced tiny gobbets of liver into the Elf's mouth When the Elf tried to turn away, Bearos held his chin fast and squeezed, digging his nails into the soft mouth so he had to open it.
'Liver is good for you. Plenty of iron for the blood. Makes you strong.' He clacked his teeth in the Elf's face for he knew it terrified him and he enjoyed the fear. Could smell it. Taste it. He rubbed his own stiff cock again against the Elf's chest and belly, knew that terrified him even more. He let his bloody, streaming jaw hang down slackly and his long red tongue lolled out, licked the liver's fluids and blood from the Elf's face. Letting go of all semblance of humanity, he let his teeth show, long and sharp. His eyes bulged and stared madly. The Elf watched him with frightened eyes and spoke, pleaded, perhaps begged but Bearos no longer heard the words. He did not care anyway.
After he had fed him, Bearos had to shackle and bind the Elf and pulled on the chains so that the Elf was slowly lifted and hung again before the Glass. There was one single moan of agony, a piteous cry that inflamed Bearos. He loved to see the Elf hanging like this, vulnerable, unprotected. He did not need a knife now either and he stood with his face close to the Elf's groin; the skin was thin and soft here, the pulse strong and blood thick. Bearos' fingers, long and clawed, searched for the delectable pulse of blood and pierced the softest skin with his talons. Blood beaded like perfect jewels and he licked it from the warm skin, sucked at the wound. He lifted his head to see the Glass was malleable, grey silk, and the faces of his Brethren were there, greedy, gathered round and pressing through the Glass. He selected various sites on the Elf's body and sliced into the Elf's body. The Brethren appeared in the Mirror and the Glass undulated and closed about the Elf's body. There was the sound of feeding, of the suck of the wet silk Glass against the Elf's bleeding body.
When he had drunk his fill, Bearos, Khamûl, raised his head and glanced up at the Elf's white face: his full lips were parted in ecstasy and only a slit of green showed where his eyes were heavy -lidded, half closed. His body twitched like an orgasm.
Khamûl looked at his Brethren, met their greedy eyes. Their mouths were as bloody as his for they had thinned the Glass, the barrier between worlds. All they needed now was Ravéyön.
Bearos was strong now that he had fed, and the Brethren too. He moved easily. His hair was coarse and thick and his muscles bunched and powerful. He lowered the Elf enough that his feet just touched the floor and there was a groan of relief. He forced bloody meat from the carcass into the Elf's mouth again. As before, the Elf tried to move his head and clenched his jaw shut but Bearos wrenched his mouth open and shoved in the meat, held long-clawed hands over the Elf's mouth and nose until he gagged and swallowed. It did not need much and Bearos stopped when he became bored of the struggle.
'Your Ravéyön is coming,' he whispered and the Elf went still. 'He is coming for you. This is his dream.' Bearos laughed softly. 'He will be ours. There is no escape. But you will be gone by then…just slipping away under his eyes. Your fëa will feed us. You will be devoured. A day, a night, a day, a night…your last day…' Bearos leaned his cheek against Legolas's thigh and slowly licked blood from his cooling skin.
Bearos stepped back and looked at the scene before him; the Elf's pale body gleamed slightly in the dim light that came from the Glass. The wild colour swirled over his body, stretched in chains, blood streaked his flat hard belly, lean hips, his thighs. His long hair streamed down his back. Khamûl, Bearos nodded, pleased. Perfect.
When he clanged shut the iron grille, Khamûl felt the felt the edges of flame. The Zigûr burned white fire into the air; he was searching for the Elf, for the Glass. He was here, his attention skimming over the green-gold of the Elf. Too close but he moved on, had missed it. But Bearos was so strong, full of blood, of Power. Enough to resist the Zigrûn? Still enough to influence Men, true, but enough to win Ravéyön?
It did not matter. Either way, their plan was delivered. He sniggered and hugged himself with glee. Not long now!
One last thing. To water the doubt that was already planted.
He leaned against the iron grille and murmured, 'My lord Faramir. It is done.' And when he heard the Elf's cry, he knew the Elf had heard as Khamûl had intended. It was not needed, just mischief but it gave him delight at the chaos he would leave. The iron slab ground over the gate and sealed the Elf in his tomb. Then he murmured words of sealing and suffocated the green-gold thread of his Song. 'No one can find you now,' he called softly into the cell and grinned at the despair that seeped from the Elf.
Bearos skulked through the tombs now, his awareness stretched to encompass the eerie underground catacombs and tombs. It was time! Timetimetime to run! Time to grind bones and gnaw flesh. Time to cause fear and terror and panic in the city. Time to kill.
He started running, his feet stretched beneath him, sinews, muscles bunched, blood thundered- Elf's blood. Power, energy, ecstasy surged through him and he lifted his head, and howled in delight. Sniffed the air and smelt the Zigrûn.
The Zigrûn was alone. Narya upon his hand. Narya was alone. Narya, obeying the Zigrûn like a dog. The Brethren could take Narya, force her to her knees and serve them!
One chance to take her! A chance. A slim chance. But oh, the Power! Like Angmar, he mustered Shadows about him. They gathered about him like smoke.
And with Ravéyön, they would break the Glass, shatter it. He could see it now; the rise of the Nazgûl once again, more powerful, splendid in their sable robes, pouring from the shattered Glass to take the city first, then Gondor and all of Middle Earth fall under the iron heel of the Brethren.
Bearos howled, shrieked again in delight and leapt ahead. His claws rattled against the stones that gave way to smooth marble as he thundered through the Tombs of Kings, lifting his muzzle and yowling, yipping, howling gibbering through the dark. I am coming for you, Ólorin! I have feasted on blood! I am strong!
Strong enough to meet Narya?
It does not matter.
He tore through the tombs, his clawed and prehensile hands grasping the faces of effigies of the Kings and he scrambled and skittered carelessly over them in his haste to reach the Zigrûn. It did not matter what happened now to Bearos. It did not matter as long as he survived long enough to greet Ravéyön as Lord of the Brethren.
0o0o0
Gandalf was standing on the Rath Dínen, and gazing over towards the Hallows. He had been standing there for a very long time, considering. A skein of mist was draped over the rocky outcrop, hiding the cliffs and little valleys like a grey-silk lake or sea. Emerging from the mist, like the still and silent stones of the Barrow Downs, were the tall mausoleums of the Kings and Stewards. But the mist was thickening and becoming a bank of dense fog. It seemed portentous and threatening somehow and the Wizard felt the hairs on his neck and back spike and stiffen.
Something was there, crouching in the belly of the earth. Something skulking and dark, like a black spider in its web. It lurked in the darkness of the tombs, hiding? Was that the Ghoul?
Gandalf leaned on his staff. The Ghoul had only appeared to Legolas and had it been anyone else, it might have raised a question over the truth of it. But Ioralas' body had been drained of blood. And Gandalf had felt an oiliness in the air about the body. If he had not known better he would have thought the Nazgûl had passed. But they were gone, were they not? Into the Void with their master?
His eyes were fixed on the grey mist that seemed to roll and bank more densely so that now the tombs slowly vanished one by one as if they were being consumed. But he was only partly aware of it, for he mused upon the mystery of what had happened to the Mirror: the Nazgûl had guarded it closely. Indeed, the Nazgûl had made sure they kept the Mirror away from Sauron, their overlord. As they had guarded the Mirror in Phellanthir.
Gandalf stared unseeing towards the Hallows. He thought of the stories he had heard of the Nazgûl, how they had fed upon the flesh and blood and souls of men. Never of Elves. There had not once been a tale that they had taken the soul of an Elf. It had been one of Sauron's commandments to the Nazgûl. Was that because an Elf's soul would have made them too strong? And they had kept his commandment.
Until Rhawion.
Gandalf had heard the whole story from Glorfindel, how he and Erestor had found the Nazgûl slowly feeding off the fluttering soul of Rhawion, who had been one of Glorfindel's men. A horrid sensation crept through Gandalf then. Not only had they hidden these Mirrors from Sauron, but the Nazgûl had broken Sauron's commandment. They had rebelled against their master.
But just then he caught the edge of something… Hidden. Just below the sounds of the world, beneath the Song, deeper than the sound of the breath in this mortal body… He leaned his head slightly to one side and half closed his eyes, listening, feeling…and slipped beyond the heavy flesh and muscle, bone and blood.
It was the slightest blurring of the Song as if something was hidden deep in the ancient catacombs of the city. Yes, thought Gandalf slowly, there was something there, but muffled, suffocated by sorcery and spells. By the thickening mist.
A fleeting impression of green-gold, a sense of despair.
He frowned and gently sent Narya like a light into those deep, forgotten places…but she skimmed lightly over the surfaces, flashed back at him like she was reflected off glass…
Gandalf paused and bent his attention again. But this time, there was nothing. Not even a lingering thread.
He lifted his head and gazed towards the Hallows, and the mountain that reared above the mist that had begun to cover the rocky outcrop, filled the chasms and little valleys between the Tombs and the city. If he did not know better, he would have sworn that he had sensed Legolas for a moment. But what would he be doing in the Hallows? Surely the Elf would be with Gimli by now? Or if not, with Aragorn or the Hobbits up to some mischief?
He sighed and flexed his hand and stared at it, feeling the familiar sense of dislocation that he always felt when he thought about being in this aging, mortal body. The skin over the gnarled bones and spongy blue veins was freckled with age. How many years had he travailed this earth in this physical flesh? Mist clung to his skin, dampened his hair and he looked up, surprised at how quickly it had rolled towards the Rath Dínen and where he stood. It crept around him now and he could barely see the gateway at the end of the bridge and onto the Hallows. He shivered at the sudden cold and looked into the mist.
There was something. A blurring, a dark shape in the mist. It was there, and then it was gone.
He narrowed his blue eyes, peering into the thickening mist.
There! Something scuttled at great speed over the humps and rocks of the Hallows. The shape coalesced and he saw that it was taller than a Man and its shoulders were wide and hunched over. It disappeared suddenly and then reemerged but much closer. For the briefest moment, it lifted its face and Gandalf saw that its eyes bulged horribly, blood-shot and staring as though it could not blink. Its jaw and muzzle were elongated, wrinkled in a snarling, horrific grimace. Fog rolled over the Hallows once again and it was gone.
And then, echoing through the mist, an eerie cry, his name called in an almost sing-song voice. 'Ólorrrrriin. I am coming - for you.'
Gandalf understood then why Men said their blood ran cold for he could not help but step back, every hair spiked and stiff with horror. Surely this was the Ghoul that Legolas had seen? Certain it was coming for him, Gandalf hefted his staff in one hand and slid Glamdring from its sheath with a sharp ring of steel.
The fog rolled inexorably over the bridge that arced over the chasm. It curled and coiled about him so he could see no further than the few yards immediately around him. Cold damp pressed itself against his skin. He shuddered and moved back: this was no ordinary fog. This was sorcery.
Suddenly a hideous face came out of the gloom at him. Bloody saliva hanging from its snarling, gaping mouth. Bulging, blood-shot eyes fixed upon him like the creature could no longer blink. It leapt at him, long, clawed fingers stretching for his face. Swiftly he swept Glamdring in an arc and slashed at the beast. There was a blur of darkness and he felt a searing pain down his right cheek. He pivoted and struck with his staff as hard as possible and slashed again with Glamdring in the other hand. But he struck nothing but air for the thing had already leapt away and disappeared into the fog.
Gandalf stared into the murk, his eyes wide. This was no Orc or troll. This ghoul was something far more evil. Malice rolled through the damp vaporous mist, pressed itself against him, reached into his ears and nostril, he closed his mouth tightly shut but with every breath he took, it choked him.
'Ólorin.' A whisper. The fog was oily and thick, and curled around him like smoke.
He spun to face the ghoul. 'You have failed. You destroyed the Master.' It stretched its lips wide in a blood-curdling smile. 'YOU have set us free.'
Gandalf was suddenly afraid. This was greater than he thought.
A swipe of a huge taloned paw slashed at him and he felt a tearing of skin and flesh. Blood scattered into the fog. Spattered the white robes. He swung Glamdring through the fog and the fog seemed to splinter, fiery sparks flew from the blade. Suddenly Glamdring sank into something and a howling snarl erupted from the beast. He leapt aside as the dark blur crashed against him and Gandalf went down with the bunched muscle and sinew and rough fur, skin, muzzle snapping in his face, claws scrabbling at him. The beast clawed at the hand that held Glamdring, smashed his knuckles against stone until nerveless fingers let go and Glamdring clattered away from him. Bloody saliva spattered from the ghoul's jaws and over Gandalf's face. He saw a gleam of yellowish- white as it gnashed its teeth at him and then plunged down, tearing at his throat. He became Ólorin and thrust power from Narya into the beast, and the ghoul was thrown back into the clinging mist.
There was a scrabbling of claws and then, silence.
He rose to his feet and drew his staff to him, focused Narya through the staff and sent white power detonating through the fog, burning it. It would leave him depleted but it was worth the risk.
The mist thinned reluctantly and the bridge slowly emerged, stretching before him and then the chasm appeared, and then slowly, one by one the tombs emerged once more. But the mist did not dissipate, it merely seemed to retreat a little as if waiting for his back to be turned and then it would creep back down into the city.
He watched the fog for a moment, breathing hard and alert, searching for the beast, the ghoul but there was nothing. He knew it had not retreated. It waited.
He heard it before he saw it. Behind him. A strange snarling that was almost a voice and he turned, staff upraised and Glamdring ready but it was hurrying away from him. Gandalf sprang after it and it turned its head briefly towards him, a ghastly white face that was no longer human, coarse hair on its clawed hands. It lifted its thin lips in a horrible parody of a smile and long yellow teeth gleamed. And then it was gone with preternatural speed, half scrambling, half leaping, as if it could not quite control its limbs; away from Gandalf, towards the great archway of the Rath Dínen and into the city.
Gandalf ran as fast as he could, cursing the old bones. He was stronger than his body suggested but the Ghoul was so much faster. He needed help. He needed all of Aragorn's resources and he needed Legolas and Gimli. His white robes were speckled with blood and when he touched his cheek it was wet.
Gandalf rushed into the city, sped past the archway to the Royal Mews and into busy Citadel Square with its tall lime trees and great houses crowding close to the Palace. He scooped up his robes and shucked them over his shoulder and ran. Messengers hurrying up and down the square leapt out of his way for his face was serious and full of wrath. He half registered the relative emptiness of the Citadel Square, the air of suppressed excitement and fear, the scurrying of the messengers and equerries. But he was in too great a hurry to ask anyone for news.
The grey mist was still thin here but still it had blocked out the sun and clouds loured heavily over the city from the East. Gandalf halted suddenly, searching for the Ghoul.
Nothing.
He arrived at the Steward's House, hoping that Faramir would be there or at least one of his advisors who could raise the alarm in the city, and escort Gandalf to the King. Although surprised, he was relieved by the presence of armed guards at the doorway.
'Good!' he called as he strode towards them. 'Send word to Beregond to come to the Palace in all haste! And you,' he turned to one of the guards, 'take me to Faramir. Now.'
'I am sorry Mithrandir. We cannot let you pass,' said one of the guards a little nervously. His eyes darted to his companion's as if for reassurance.
'What do you mean I cannot pass?' he demanded angrily. 'There is a Ghoul loose in your city and we need to find it. Now!' But still they did not move. 'I am Mithrandir! The White Wizard.' He paused and then said emphatically, 'I saved your city from Denethor's madness and surrender to Sauron's forces.' He narrowed his eyes. 'You must do as I bid you: the city is already exposed to a great danger.'
'I am sorry my lord,' the guard said apologetically. 'It is by order of the King.' He paused and then his eyes darted to his companion again. 'Is this the Ghoul that is supposed to have killed Ioralas? I thought it had gone?'
'Well it hasn't! Where is Faramir? He must put the city on a curfew and summon the Guard!'
The other Man looked uncomfortable and lowered his voice. 'My lord Mithrandir, Faramir is not even here.' He swallowed and then, taking a breath, he said, 'He has been taken to the Tower of Ecthelion.' The two guards glanced at each other but clearly unhappy about their orders.
'The Tower!' Gandalf exclaimed. 'For a council, you mean?' He turned to stare up at the Tower that rose above the city. Denethor had kept his political prisoners there. And in the Tower were rooms of torture. Oh, he did not have time for this right now with the Ghoul loose.
The guard looked guiltily at Gandalf. 'No my lord. Not for a council.'
Gandalf stared at him, appalled. 'You cannot mean imprisoned! What has happened here?' Only now did he become aware of an atmosphere of panic, of fear. And now he began to sense it too. Like the fog that was slowly rolling over the city. There was a taste in the mouth, metallic. Like blood.
He paused for only a second. Yes. The air was oily, like the Nazgûl had passed this way. The ghoul was close. Even now it might be watching him. But better stalking him than loose in the city.
'Where is Beregond?' he asked anxiously.
The guards shuffled nervously and then one, shaking his head, said conspiratorially, 'Mithrandir, so much is wrong. Beregond has been dismissed. And all the Palace Guard replaced. That is why we are here and not with the King.' The guard shook his head as if he could not believe it himself. 'Mithrandir, there is new Captain. Sakalthôr. He is cold and hard. Not Faramir's man but he hearkens to that new councilor, Bearos.'
Gandalf pressed his lips together. Cold dread crept through him. This was worse than he had feared and the Ghoul was loose in the citadel. 'Is Aragorn still the King?' he asked suddenly.
'Yes my lord. But he is much changed.'
'Changed?' Gandalf asked, and he glanced back over his shoulder towards the Rath Dínen and the Hallows. The fog was thick again, banked as it had been before he had challenged the ghoul, and impenetrable. Suffocating. Hiding. He felt the ghoul was close. His blue eyes darted back and forth over the Square, but for the moment, the ghoul hid from him. He needed to draw it out.
'How has he changed?' Gandalf turned back to the guards as if he were unaware of the Ghoul's presence.
They shifted, made more nervous by Gandalf's own fear. One leaned forwards slightly as if he did not wish to be overheard, and murmured softly, 'Mithrandir, ever since the lord Legolas went missing, the King has been mad with grief.'
Gandalf froze.
'Legolas is missing?' he repeated slowly. The lingering sense of green-gold deep below the Hallows returned to him, the crushing despair.
Suddenly it all made sense.
Ah, my dear boy, thought Gandalf with immense sadness. They have you. Like they had Rhawion. He felt a deep weight descend upon him, a stone on his chest. The Ghoul was indeed somehow a physical manifestation of the Nazgûl. The Mirror, like the one in Phellanthir, must be a portal into the Eternal Dark…Legolas was in the Hallows, he was certain. A prisoner of the Nazgûl. And the Mirror was wherever he was.
'Yes, my lord. This past few days the Tower Guards have found signs that he went into the wilds towards the Hallows and we have lost him there…'
'How long?' he asked sharply.
'Over a week, my lord.'
The thought of Legolas, that merry soul with all his silliness and his courage, imprisoned, or worse, the Nazgûl slowly feeding off his spirit, sank like a stone and settled in Gandalf's chest. He remembered how he had sent Legolas to distract the Nazgûl from Frodo, sent him with Elrohir up to the Mindolluin, knowing they would come, knowing they would seize the knowledge from him of the One Ring. Knowing they would kill him. But they had not. They had cut his fëa from his body and hunted him. They had enjoyed his terror. They had intended to devour him.
And now it seemed after all this time, they would have their way.
The Ghoul would lead him to Legolas. Suddenly it was clear; he needed to trap and capture the Ghoul, not merely defeat it.
The Guard looked anxiously at Gandalf. 'My lord I should not have spoken so... I have said too much. I beg you…but he helped me, and I want to help Legolas if I can.'
Gandalf squinted at the Man. 'What is your name, my friend?'
'Arduin, my lord. And this is Cendir.'
Gandalf nodded in recognition then. Arduin had been the friend and more of Ioralas. 'Fear not,' he said kindly. 'I will say nothing of what you have told me. You may have peace on that. But you must take me to the King,' he said insistently.
'My lord, if you intend to go to the King you will find that no one is being admitted today. The Great Council has been sitting for hours now to discuss important business.' Cendir glanced behind him towards the dominating Tower of Ecthelion so Gandalf knew exactly what the important business was. Faramir.
'They will admit me,' he said with certainty. If it meant he blasted the doors of the Palace and struck them down with staff and Ring, he would make Aragorn understand. He vowed it.
But Cendir put a hand out in desperation. 'Please Mithrandir.' He licked his lips nervously. 'I tell you this, my lord, because I love Gondor. I do not want it to be torn again by war, not civil strife. But you need to stop them.' He gestured to the Tower, the Palace, the great houses opposite.
'If the King insists on arraigning Faramir for treason as it is rumoured, the families loyal to the Stewards will rebel. There will be bloodshed,' added Arduin. 'I cannot explain it, my lord.' His handsome face was strained and Gandalf saw now that his eyes were full of loss and sadness. 'It is like some dark force is at work. The same force that took Ioralas.' His voice broke a little and Cendir's own face creased with sympathy at Arduin's loss.
'Indeed it is, my good friends,' Gandalf said softly, watching the pair intently. 'The Ghoul that killed Ioralas stalks the city now. It is here, somewhere.' He looked around briefly. 'I need you, Cendir, to find Beregond and bid him assemble his guards to search the city for the Ghoul. Not these new ones of Sakalthôr or whatever his name is, but the ones you can trust. Tell them to alert the Watch and bid all citizens to be on their guard, get inside and lock doors. Stay in groups and keep your weapons at the ready. And you, Arduin, can you find Gimli and give him news of Legolas' disappearance? Carefully though. I want your head still on your shoulders when we next meet. And that will be at the Palace as soon as you can! But be on your guard!' Gandalf opened his hand in a gesture of trust and hope, let Narya flood their hearts with hope and their faces changed, illuminated with light. Go speedily and safely, be trusted. Fill the hearts of those to whom you speak with love and hope and trust.
The two guards' faces transformed briefly and, bowing slightly, they turned and left. But as they left, Gandalf saw how the mist drifted about them, tendrils coiled and curled about them. He took a few steps forwards. Raising his staff, he sent a blast of power into the mist. Light surged around him, lit up the mist like distant, silent lightning. For a moment, the fog drew back and the Rath Dínen emerged from the mist like spikes of burnt trees.
But, the fog waited, like some cognizant thing. His skin crawled with the sense that it was watching him, waiting. There was no doubt in Gandalf's mind that the Ghoul, whatever it was, was the root of this sorcery. It was protecting the Mirror at all costs, and was trying to prevent him from finding Legolas, for if he was right, Legolas was the source of food for the creature.
Lord Eru Illuvatar, let this not be true, he prayed. But in his heart, he knew he was too late to save Legolas.
A drift of cold air crossed him. There was the smell of rotting flesh.
He turned suddenly in time to see a blur of darkness disappear into the mist to his right. There was a hysterical sniggering, giggling and suddenly something crashed into him. He felt teeth bite into his thigh and he brought the staff down hard on the Ghoul's head so it let go with a yelp. He kicked hard but there was nothing.
Eyes wide and breathing hard, Gandalf turned and turned but the mist thickened suddenly, pressed around him. He lifted his hand so Narya blazed like a torch and burned the mist away, cleared a space around him. In the fog directly ahead of him was a darkness, a demon that stared at him. Mad bloodshot eyes bulged from its white and ghastly face. Its jaw dropped open showing long yellow teeth. It gave a horrific grimace and lunged away into the mist. He saw it leap up and scale the wall that separated the Stewards' House and Palace from the Square and disappear.
Gandalf ran. It was in the Palace gardens. It was going after Aragorn.
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