Chapter 35: Pursuit

Arwen felt it like a knife. She bent over gasping and clutching her breast.

'Aragorn!' she cried.

Elladan pulled up and turned a tight circle around her palfrey who stood quietly, chewing the silver bit in her mouth. Arwen's long black hair hung down over her mare's neck as she leaned forward in agony like she had been shot and an arrow in her breast. The ground seemed to spin towards her but she felt a strong arm catch her as she fell. But then, as she was lowered to the ground, she thought she saw a child running away from her through long meadow grass and stared after it in longing. Her child? Her lips moved but she could not speak.

'Arwen?' Her brother's concerned voice drifted over her, somewhere above her head. But she could not reply. A blade was in her heart. She clutched at it, thinking she should see blood but there was none.

Gentle hands lifted her, placed her gently on the thick grass. Voices around her.

'She cried Aragorn's name as she fell.' That was Elladan, she thought dully. His voice was anxious, concerned but she could not answer and stared at the ground. A small spider was spinning her web out over the blades of grass. The breeze rippled the skeins of silk.

'What is happening?' Glorfindel's voice called above the steady hoofbeats of Asfaloth. Her own palfrey snuffed her hair briefly and then fell to tearing at the grass, a moment of rest in the pell-mell gallop towards the city. 'Arwen?' Glorfindel came to kneel beside her and lifted her face towards him. She gazed at his fearless face, his eyes that had seen the light of the trees in his first life and the memory of which remained.

'I felt Aragorn…' She moaned and doubled over again as pain squeezed her heart, crushed her chest. 'He is…I don't know.' Tears welled in her eyes and she could not bear it.

Erestor and Elrohir had arrived back for they had been ahead. 'Arwen?' Elrohir leapt down from his black horse and cradled Arwen in his arms. 'What do you feel? Is it Aragorn?'

And suddenly she felt a yawning emptiness. She saw Aragorn as if he was there with her on the green sward, a blade of light in his hand that she recognised with a gasp; the Evenstar. But behind him and over him loomed a serpent of darkness and its jaws were wide and then it plunged down, engulfing him.

It was gone. The vision had dissipated in the morning light.

'He is gone,' she whispered. 'I cannot feel him in my heart. He is gone.' She stared up at Elrohir and he met her gaze with a gasp. She clutched at his tunic, eyes wide. 'Moryo, it cannot mean that he is….I cannot have lost him! Not after all this!' Her eyes filled with tears but her belly, her womb shriveled at the idea. 'If he has, then still will I take the Way of Men!' she cried in anguish. 'I will follow him now…' But no more words would come and she leaned over in the agony of loss and grief that overwhelmed her.

She did not hear the hurried conversation above her head, the urgent agreement. She did not even notice when Elrohir mounted his black horse and charged off, or when Elladan followed, leaving her with Glorfindel and Erestor.

0o0o

Elladan looked back over his shoulder to where his sister leaned against Glorfindel in a swoon. Then he looked ahead to where his brother charged across the land of Anorien, a cloud of dust in his wake. Above them, Amon Dîn towered, the beacon that had summoned the help of the Rohirrim but now lay silent and dark. Minas Tirith was close now, a long day's ride and if they rode like the wind they would arrive during the night, which Elrohir seemed determined to do and Barakhir was willing. He urged Baraghur after his brother and they swept along the southern reaches of the Ered Nimrais towards the White City, while his heart thundered with fear that Aragorn was dead.

0o0o0

Gimli was breathless when he met Beregond at the entrance to the Rath Dinén. He hurried towards the small troop of Men gathered there but even from this distance he could see that Beregond's jerkin was already bloody, his sword drawn and face streaked with dirt. Arduin, whom Gimli had met earlier, looked serious. His eye was bruised and there was a cut on his knuckle. Twenty or so doughty Tower guards clustered around Beregond and all looked as though they had been fighting. They turned towards Gimli with grim, determined faces.

'It is as you see, Master Gimli,' called Beregond as Gimli approached. 'Salkathôr's thugs are not so willing to give up their place at the city gates and there are enough of them to defend the sixth and seventh levels against us.' His men gathered about Gimli. 'We have taken back the Seventh Gatehouse now though and Lord Forlon has taken the rest of my men to free the Sixth Gate. Once we have the Gates, the rest will follow. Cendir is leading an attack on Urîthor and the Palace. As far as I know, messages are coming that the lower levels are unaffected.'

Gimli nodded briefly. 'Gandalf has freed the King of the sorcery that was cast over him. Will it come as a surprise to you that Bearos is the Ghoul?'

Beregond gasped and shook his head and there was a murmur of anger from his men and Arduin's mouth was a thin bitter line.

Gimli continued, 'He had bewitched the King so that you were dismissed and Faramir arrested. Once he was discovered though, Bearos attacked the King and has now fled,' he said briefly. 'Gandalf thinks that he will come this way. We need to capture him and force him to take us to Legolas.'

'Is the King well?' Beregond asked in alarm and the other Men gathered round, casting anxious glances at each other.

Gimli said nothing for a moment for Aragorn had looked very pale when Gimli had left to pursue Bearos and catch up with Beregond. 'He is badly injured it is true and there was much blood, but I have seen him survive worse,' he said soothingly. 'It is not a major wound and there were many healers in attendance by the time I left. As long as they stitch it and keep it clean I am sure it will be no more than an interesting scar.' But though he spoke confidently, he remembered the terrible wound, the blood, the panic of the healers as Aragorn was lifted onto a litter and taken away. Frodo and Sam had been clinging to each other and were as pale as Aragorn himself. Tears had run down Pippin's face.

'The Ghoul will not have him,' Gimli vowed silently to himself, 'And it will not have Legolas either.'

'Good,' Beregond's voice pulled him from his thoughts. 'Then let us plan to catch Bearos as he comes this way. Do you have a plan?'

Gimli tugged at his own beard. Everything depended of course on Bearos actually coming over the Rath Dínen and having men who were swift and nimble. The Ghoul had outrun and outplayed Legolas twice and Gimli could not bear it if the Ghoul eluded him now too and they never found Legolas.

Of course there was no time to be elaborate and so he had to improvise. He looked around, searching for things they could use. At first, he frowned for there was little even for a Dwarf's ingenuity. And then he saw through the archway to the Royal Mews where the haywains were netted to stop any hay falling from the carts. A smile stole across his face. 'Yes. I have a plan,' he said.

0o0o

Bearos hid. Skulked. He watched with bright, gleeful malice as the Zigûr ran hither and thither, searching futilely, but Bearos cloaked himself with fog, deep, dense and sank into it, hiding. Even Narya could not find him though she blazed with brilliance and power and swept like a blade, searching for him. Bearos was wondrous of her power, desirous of her beauty and might. What might he do if he had both Khamûl and Narya?

'You would be incinerated should you take her upon your weak and decrepit hand, said Khamûl with contempt. We will take Narya when we are renewed, when we have rid ourselves of your exhausted corpse and taken our new body with its vigour and strength.'

We will take Yôzâira?

No. Not he, but Ravéyön. It is he we want, need.

Yes. His power will feed us.

He will release us.

There were more voices in Bearos' head, pressing him, pushing him. Moving him. Khamûl pulsed energy into his bones, muscles, stretched his sinews and bunched his muscles.

The Zigûr had been joined by Men of the Tower Guard, the old Guard, the Men loyal to the King, not the ruffians Bearos had deliberately recruited and cultivated. These Tower Guards were Beregond's men, and searched for Bearos, systematically, thoroughly, professionally. They would find him. But not easily, Bearos swore. He strained to see where Beregond was, but he was not here. Bearos hoped he had been killed, painfully and slowly

Now Bearos' own men were coming, answering his call; they were heavy cudgels of meat that would fight thoughtlessly without regard for their own skin. Animated by Khamûl, they came now to where Bearos hid, to protect and shelter him so he could escape. Some were ponderous, heavy limbed and blank-eyed. But not all of them. Others were greedy, like Maltök had been, and Tyresis. Salkathôr was amongst these, and Urilthôr. They swung cudgels and heavy sticks as well as swords and they walked heavily towards Beregond's Men and then ran full tilt into battle.

Bearos sniggered to himself at the fighting, the blood, the battered and broken bones. The Zigûr fought Bearos' thugs, irritation clear on his face. He should be tired, thought Bearos, and Narya depleted, but even so, they were still too strong for Khamûl alone.

Bearos slid from the shadows, weaving the fog more densely once again and sending it amongst Beregond's men. It twisted and coiled about them so they stumbled or lost themselves in the fog. Bearos sniggered as the fog gathered and coiled and reared up over their heads, blinding them and suffocating them. One Man stood staring upwards, his face frozen in horror as if he saw the serpent that reared up, jaws gaping, above them. Others stumbled about in the fog, clutching each other or standing staring into the mist. So when Salkathôr and his henchmen ran into the fog, cudgels lifted, the Tower guards blundered and stumbled clumsily, stabbing at shadows in the mist and Salkathôr grinned. He bared his teeth and raised his cudgel, brought it down hard over a Man's head so that he stumbled sideways. Salkathôr hit him again and again until the Man fell upon his knees, hands raised to protect him head. Salkathôr stood over the Man and his cudgel smashed down upon the man's head again and again until his eyes rolled back in his head as he fell heavily to the ground.

There were shouts and curses from Salkathôr's men and the awful sound of heavy sticks on flesh, of the slit of knives through skin.

Bearos spluttered with laughter and skulked between the rose bushes and trees, slid with the curling fog through the gardens. He dodged between the Zigûr and Ulrithôr who fought hard, the white staff smashing over the Man's shoulders so he stumbled but Salkathôr barged the Zigûr so that Urilthôr was able to wriggle away from the white staff and then land a blow that had the Zigûr reeling.

'Take that, old Man!' Salkathôr screamed, hitting the Zigûr again and again with his cudgel.

Bearos saw his chance and quickly cast a rope of fog and smoke and sorcery around the Zigûr's neck, coiled it around him so it tightened and tightened until his hands went up to his neck and he suddenly gasped in recognition that this was sorcery and his eyes were afraid. He struggled with the rope but Bearos pulled it tight so the Zigûr fell to his knees and Salkathôr saw his chance and stood above the Zigûr, his heavy cudgel raining blows upon the old Man.

'Old bastard! Think…you…can…order…me…' Each word was punctuated with a blow, each one harder and bloodier than the last. Bearos chittered in amusement and then he saw that the white staff had fallen from the Zigûr's hands during the struggle and lay almost at Bearos' feet.

He licked his lips and stared at it for a moment and then touched it with his foot.

It burned and flared! He leapt away from it and then kicked it hard, quickly, as far from the Zigûr as he could and then shrank back into the fog in case Narya sensed him for the Zigûr still had her.

Bearos realised that much as he would like to stay and witness the Zigûr's fall, he had to escape now if he was to stay free. He turned and shoved through the fighting men, dodging their blows and stooping low. A blade swooped suddenly overhead and he ducked just in time and then was more careful. Looking back briefly, he saw that the Zigûr had struggled back to his feet and Salkathôr was hunched over, clutching his belly and Ulrithôr was looking hesitantly from the Zigûr back to Salkathôr. Bearos knew he was considering running. But before he could do anything more, he felt the force of the Zigûr beginning to summon Narya's power so she began to glow with light. Bearos ran then, letting his hands, his feet elongate and his limbs stretch until he could bound like a wolf, a dog, a half orc through the fog-bound gardens and scramble up over the high wall.

Behind him, was the clash of swords and the shouting of Men but ahead of him lay the Citadel Square. Further along towards the Palace he could hear more fighting but it was muffled by the fog. He knew now that his dominion over the city was gone. It would not be long before his henchmen were overpowered unless he used Khamûl and thrust power into his limbs, stretched their mouths wide and gave them teeth such as his.

But he shrugged. They were not important. This was not important. It was entertaining to cause mayhem in the city, to set the King against the Steward, but it was not important.

No.

The Elf, Yôzâira, was important.

Ravéyön was important.

Bearos sniggered uncontrollably. Spluttered. It was so funny to think of the Elf, Yôzâira, waiting in the dark in terror, listening out for Bearos' return. It amused him too that the Elf had been so easily convinced that the Steward had been nearby. Laughter escaped his thin lips, spluttered from him. And the Elf was convinced too that Ravéyön would not reach him in time, that he would be devoured before he could be rescued. Bearos' jaw clacked and he clenched his teeth trying to stop the clacking in case he was heard. But there seemed to be no one in the Square below.

The fog lay thickly, suffocating. The great houses of the noble families rose up out of it gloomily like empty shells and the sound of fighting had drawn a little closer. Fog poured itself like a serpent's dry coils around him, over the walls and into the square below. He slid down the wall and crouched at the bottom of it, watching, letting his red tongue loll from his slack mouth. The fog drew about him like a cloak and he lunged forwards uncoordinated and uncontrolled now, and lurched towards the Rath Dínen.

There was no one on the streets. He clacked his teeth in irritation and suspicion; he could have done with blood right now to assuage his hunger. Was everyone engaged in fighting, either one side or the other? That would suit him well if the noble families had taken up arms against the King, or against the Steward. Or had the Zigûr warned the citizens that the ghoul was at large in the city, prowling, hunting?

He lifted his muzzle and sniffed, long and hard. Yes. Here it was. The hot stink of fear. It excited him and made him swell, hard with lust, and couldn't help the gibber and yip of excitement. His eyes strained and searched for the telltale red blurring in the fog that showed him where there was blood, pulsing, throbbing blood in the veins of man or beast. Nothing. Not here. His jaw clacked and gibbered and he stretched his hands and feet, and shook his head from side to side like a dog, shook his head as if to rid himself of this human visage. He sniffed the air again, lifted his head muzzle in the air and his jaw clacked again. Drool and spittle shook from his jaws.

A reddish blur moved far ahead of him in the fog. It bobbed around like it floated in water, hands busy with something.

Bearos crept forwards silently.

The red blur, pulsing, blood throbbing through rich veins, coalesced, densified. A short, stocky figure was standing just there in the grey mist, his back to Bearos. But there was something long and sharp strapped to his back, it glinted in the dim light. Bearos paused; the short man was armed but he did not have his weapon drawn and he had no idea that Bearos was here, edging forwards on silent feet. Bearos stretched and flexed his clawed hands, pulled back his lips and bared his long incisors.

Slowly the figure straightened and turned towards him, as if aware of his peril. Bearos could help the excited yammer that escaped his jaws and the stocky figure straightened, startled, hand going to its hip where a knife should be. Or a sword? Bearos did not give it time to draw but lunged at the figure which staggered back. Snarling Bearos flung himself forwards and the man turned, baffled and disorientated by the thick, clinging fog, and fled towards the gaping mouth of the Rath Dínen.

Bearos' jaw clacked and yammered in excitement. It was exactly where he wanted the man to flee. But he was surprised too at how fast the figure moved and there was something odd about the earthy scent, which was not quite a Man. It reminded him of the deep places beneath mountains. There was an oddness about his gait as well, but Bearos did not really care. His prey fled towards the Rath Dínen, which was where Bearos wanted to be, so he could chase it into the Hallows, hunt it in the dense, curling fog that drew itself close. Bearos gibbered and leapt after it.

He could hear its breath coming hard as it ran, and he paused briefly to sniff the air. The hot stink of fear edged the fog, emanating from the great houses that lined the square, the grand streets that led off into the city itself. But there was nothing coming from the stocky figure he pursued.

Bearos dropped to all fours now, long hands, long feet. He dragged his long talons deliberately so they rattled on the stones. The stocky figure had turned towards him as if reluctant to run down the Rath Dínen and Bearos sniggered. Of course not! The Silent Street led only to the Hallows, to the Tombs of Stewards and long dead Kings.

The stocky man was standing alert, peering into the fog as if he knew Bearos was there. Bearos gave a soft laugh and rattled his claws again, enjoying the chase, the fear. The man was backing away from him now, slowly, and Bearos crouched and hid in the fog, enjoying the game, waiting. Silently now, he sidled forwards, lifting his lips and baring his teeth, sneaking forwards on all fours. It had become so much easier to hunt on all fours. The man had turned now and was facing him, his body stiff and alert. He can hear me now, thought Bearos, probably the clack of his claws on the polished stones. He crept forwards and gave a quiet snigger, just loud enough for his quarry to hear. The man backed away a bit more and Bearos followed step for step, rattling his claws, letting his jaw clack for it terrified the Elf and it would terrify this man too.

Suddenly the man shouted loudly, looking upwards. Surprised, Bearos followed his gaze upwards, and at the same moment, the man thrust himself away far more powerfully than any Man should be able.

Two things happened at that moment.

Bearos realised it was the Khazâd, and something fell over Bearos from above.

He leapt forwards after the Khazâd but too late! Heavy ropes. A net. It closed around him, and he snarled and thrashed and struggled. Khamûl became a snake and the fog gathered to him, writhing and thrashing, and Bearos swore and spat and hissed. A troop of Men trotted towards him out of the fog, long pikes and lances pointed towards him. Several prodded him with their sharp points through the net and he turned towards them, clawing at them through the ropes, but his struggles only made the net cling more tightly to him.

He was caught. He yowled and gibbered and tore at the ropes, clawed at any Man who came close enough. Then the Khazâd appeared through the mist, sharp eyes boring into him, feet planted on the stone, and Khamûl, Bearos could see how he drew the energy of the stone towards him, into him.

Be still! Khamûl wrenched Bearos, caught at his throat and held him still. Bearos collapsed as if he were dead or wounded. Immediately there was shouting and cursing and the Khazâd, alarmed, came towards him carefully.

Bearos watched him cunningly as he commanded the men. So, it was the Khazâd who had captured him. How interesting, Bearos thought and lay flat and still while the men milled about anxiously, holding their sharp pikes towards him but not touching him, not killing him. They wanted him alive, Bearos realised. Of course. They wanted Yôzâira. They wanted the Elf. Eventually one would lift the net from him and then, thought Bearos, he would pounce. He would tear out their hearts and eat them, dripping with blood and still pounding with fear.

The Khazâd approached slowly, gesticulating to the other men that they should hold back. Bearos held very still, held his breath so the wicked little Khazâd would believe he was dead.

The Khazâd came towards him even more slowly, very cautiously. He had a pike in his hand and prodded Bearos with it sharply. Bearos clenched his jaw tightly shut. Not a sound would escape him.

The Khazâd poked him again.

Nothing.

He shouted something that Bearos did not listen too but he waited until the Khazâd approached and leaned down closely.

Suddenly Bearos shot out a taloned paw and slashed at the Khazâd, seizing him and pulling him down. The Khazâd rolled, unexpectedly agile and roared in anger, leaping back to his feet, he thrust a blade down towards Bearos. It touched his throat. He froze cursing and swearing, hissing and spitting.

'Yield, fiend!' shouted the dwarf. 'Or I will kill you, for I would enjoy seeing your body turn cold and lifeless!'

Other men ran forwards then and though the Khazâd half turned his head, he did not take his beady, cruel eyes from where Bearos lay pinned and bound by the net.

'Bind him in the net. Do not get close to his hands if that is truly what they are. '

The men did as they were bid and though Bearos struggled and writhed and hissed and gnashed his teeth, he was well and truly caught. They lashed the net with more ropes and then slung him over a pole, hoisted him up and carried him like a slaughtered carcass.

'Take him to the Tower of Ecthelion,' ordered one of the Men.

Bearos gnashed his teeth. Beregond! An enemy. The Tower guard captain had always suspected Bearos. Beregond's face was serious and appalled. He stared at Bearos in horror and shuddered when Bearos rested his mad and bulging eyes upon him.

'You think you can keep ME!' shouted Bearos, spittle flying from his lips. 'Too latetoolatetoolate. You will never find Yôzâira,' he giggled and sniggered and yipped. 'Your Elf will be devoured, killed, torn,' he said in the soft sing-song voice that the Elf hated and made him tremble with fear.

The Khazâd came close then and Bearos itched to get his long fingered hands around the thick pulsing neck. 'You will tell me where he is or I will make the rest of your life so miserable you will regret ever having set foot in this city.'

Bearos laughed hysterically. 'Nevernevernever. Notyounotyou.'

The Khazâd leaned his face close, close enough for Bearos to feel his hot breath, like fire, see into his brown eyes, eyes that had seen the deep places of the earth. For a moment, Bearos was frightened. But Khamûl curled about his long-fingered, taloned hand, not in fear but in in resentful hatred and grudging respect. The Khazâd were stone. Rock. Their love of gold could be fanned into jealous rage by the Master's Rings of Stone, but this Khazâd was different. His heart was rooted too firmly in the earth and mountains to be swayed only by gold.

Bearos hissed and spat at the dwarf, his eyes sore and bulging and he felt his sinews crack and stretch beyond what was possible for this corpse. He thrashed about like a snake and snapped his jaws at the guards until one of the Men, cursing and struggling to hold onto the pole, had it wrenched from his hands and Bearos fell to the hard ground on his back with the pole between his feet and hands. He rolled and spun about so the pole was wrenched from the other Man's hands and the pole whacked into their ankles and legs. Other guards tried to seize the ends of the pole and Bearos rolled and shoved himself around so they could not get near him, laughing maniacally. They could not catch him! He spun again and again, spitting, biting, gnashing his teeth and rolled onto his knees with the net tangled around him.

And then suddenly he felt Narya. The pressure in the air bowed him and Narya lashed him into submission so he was crushed into the stone, the earth, head bowed. He saw the feet of the Zigûr and spat, gibbered, and spat again.

Something hit him on the head, hard. As his bulging eyes rolled back in his head and he fell like a stone, he knew somewhere that it was the Khazâd who had done this.

0o0o

Gimli leaned on his axe, satisfied. He felt much better now that he had hit Bearos really hard and seen the unnatural and grotesque face go slack and those bulging, mad eyes closed. Gandalf was breathing hard and wiped his foot clear of spittle, disgusted. He looked first at the unconscious Bearos, still swathed in netting and ropes. Then he quirked an eyebrow at Gimli.

'Just got fed up with all that yammering and stuff,' Gimli shrugged. He did not say how the creature, this Ghoul, disgusted him, made him sick to his stomach. And the thought that it had Legolas, he could not bear.

Gandalf smiled tightly and then turned to Beregond. 'Take this…thing to the Tower of Ecthelion. I think too that it needs to be kept shackled and do not wait until it is awake to do so.'

Beregond nodded and jerked his head towards the unconscious creature. 'Arduin, take six men and guard him… it,' he said, glancing uncertainly at the creature, and Gimli thought that Bearos no longer looked like a Man.

Arduin looked coldly at Bearos and gathered his men around the pile of netting. They tied the creature even more tightly and lashed it once more to the poles, but this time, its head hung down like it was dead, its jaw hung open and its tongue lolled horribly.

'I have laid a spell of binding so it cannot escape,' Gandalf added impatiently. He turned to Beregond briskly and said, 'Beregond, show me where you found the hair and thread, the button. Although I believe the button at least was planted there for you to find. But I want your men to come with Gimli and me and search the tombs for signs that Legolas has been there, or if that ghoul has passed that way. Start with the place the artefact was being kept and spread out from there. Leave no tunnel, no passage unexplored. Check every antechamber, every space, every tomb.'

Beregond instructed his men in the search while Beregond himself led Gimli and Gandalf climbing carefully into the chasm that plunged between the city and the Tombs. It did not take long to find the place Beregond had found the button but in spite of casting Narya wide, Gandalf found nothing. No trace of Legolas, no lingering sense of green-gold like new beech leaves unfurling in sunlight. Gimli watched anxiously, half knowing what Gandalf did and chewing the end of his braids in anxiety. He did not think he could bear it if they did not find Legolas. Or if they found him and were too late. He imagined having to take the message to Thranduil, as they had promised each other. But now he did not even have the little gold oak leaf that hung around Legolas' neck to take as a sign of their friendship.

Gimli looked away across the wild and scrubby landscape towards the Mindolluin, remembering how he had thought he had lost Legolas up there before they left for Mordor, and the fireflies had landed softly on him, fluttered about him. Now he had nothing to show for their friendship at all but memories. And then he told himself that when he found Legolas, he would make sure they honoured all that they had shared. From that moment outside the doors of Rivendell when Gimli had arrived with his father and their troop, and found Legolas standing in pouring rain and they had mistaken him for a servant and laden him down with their wet cloaks. He smiled at the memory and found his eyesight blurred. But he shook himself for being a sentimental and unfaithful fool.

I refuse to believe he is dead, he swore silently to his absent friend. I will find you, he added, and then I will kick you from here to Khazâd-dûm for doing such a foolish thing as to disappear, chasing ghouls on your own and not telling anyone where you were going.

Ah, but that is Legolas, he reminded himself. Impetuous, courageous, and entirely without any sense of self-preservation. He tugged at his beard, then stuck the ends in his mouth again.

They searched the tombs again, torchlight flickering over the cold bronze and marble effigies of the long dead kings. Gimli cast about like Beregond and his Men but it felt like they were searching uselessly. It was like something was slowing their senses, befuddling them. And though Bearos, the Ghoul, was captured, everyone felt the creeping fear and horror of the place.

Slowly Gandalf guided their search back to the antechamber where the Mirror had been kept and Ioralas had been killed.

The darkness seemed deeper here and torchlight cast long shadows on the walls, over the silent effigies of long dead kings. Row after row in the high vaulted chambers, they lay with their swords clasped between their hands and their carved eyes wide open, not in wakefulness against the enemies of Gondor but in horror and fear, Gimli imagined. He felt the edge of that fear creeping amongst the Men so that they clung together a little and were reluctant to move out of the torchlight or away from their comrades.

Suddenly there was a cry and Gimli looked up to see Cendir standing looking down behind one of the silent effigies, his face wracked. As Gimli hurried towards he was hit by the stink of blood and shit and piss. He recoiled at first but the humanity of the stink made his heart sink and he peered fearfully over the top of the effigy where Cendir pointed, afraid of what he might find.

There were bones, newly picked, bits of bloody meat stark on the whiteness.

A terrible pain lanced through Gimli's heart and he heard a low moan escape his own lips. He sank to his knees beside the bones, wanting to gather them up and clasp them to his chest but there was something odd and he saw, with painful relief and then pity, that the bones were far too small to be Legolas. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut tightly; there was hope! There was still hope!

'This is some other poor wretch caught by the Ghoul,' said Gandalf from somewhere behind him and Gimli bit his lip and then slowly rose to his feet. 'Let us bury what is left so he may have some peace,' Gandalf added and he leaned over and his fingers caught a piece of rough cloth, torn and ripped by bloody claws. It was stained with dried blood. Gandalf stared at it for a moment. Then he sighed and looked away, let it fall back over the bloody bones.

Beregond indicated two men to gather up the bones. 'Take them back outside,' said Beregond gently. 'Lay them carefully and we will try to find his kin.' But the men were nervous and reluctant, looking over their shoulders into the darkness. Nevertheless, the bones were gathered and placed reverently onto one of the men's cloaks to carry.

Gimli listened to the Men's muted talk. They were edgy and fearful. The discovery of the bones had unsettled them, he realised. Even though the Ghoul was captured and safely locked in the Tower of Ecthelion, there was something about this place. Something made the darkness intensify, and he was reminded of the strange fog that had swirled about the Square, the lingering oily atmosphere in Aragorn's council chamber before Gandalf had arrived. He felt his blood prickle.

'Tharkûn,' he murmured, slipping into his native tongue. 'There is a feel about this place…it reminds me of something…'

'Yes,' Gandalf replied slowly. 'I feel it too.'

They did not speak it but both felt the lingering sense of evil. It reminded Gimli of the Nazgûl. But they were gone. Sucked into the Void at the Fall of the Morannon.

Beregond's men searched this place carefully then, but they clung together, staying in pairs and then threes. There were signs of the Ghoul everywhere, from scratches where its claws had scrambled over the tombs and seemed to have leapt up the walls higher than the height of a Man. There were streaks of rusty dried blood on the walls and they found more bones. These were all that was left of the poor souls the Ghoul had dragged or chased into this dismal place and the Men found themselves groaning with fear and horror and pity. There were a few that were very small. A child. They tried not to imagine the terror that poor child would have felt. Some of the Men thought they could hear weeping but there was nothing there when they looked. But it made the Men more and more nervous. There was a stink of dried urine where the Ghoul had pissed or defecated over the silent effigies of long-dead kings.

'Gimli, tell me what you hear, what you sense. I feel if Legolas is here, you will be the one to find him.'

Gimli sent Gandalf a sideways look but he said nothing; he knew that Gandalf was well versed in the lore of the Khazâd and would know of the Aglâb-Chetyn, the deep notes of the mountain and stone upon which this city was built. Indeed, Gimli had seen the Gunud-Aglâb on Gandalf's arms and although he would not dream of breaking the silence of taboo that kept these markings as secret as his own name, Gimli was intrigued as to how Gandalf had been blessed by Mahal enough to deserve his own Gunud-Aglâb.

But for now, Legolas was his only concern and Gimli stepped beyond the slow circle of Men searching, holding their torches aloft with breathless fear. He stepped into the dark that closed around him like a cocoon and tried not to gasp for breath. There is air, he reminded himself, as he did in the Deep Mines where the air was sometimes thin.

He moved further away from the Men and their clumsy frightened search, and towards the smoothed and inlaid passages that led off from this high chamber of the oldest Kings. He breathed slowly, so he became attuned to the sounds of the mountain beneath the rock and stone. He listened to the deep notes of water beneath the rock, a plink of one drop that had taken years to form. He listened for the delving of the tombs, how the Men of the early settlement had dug and chiseled without skill, and then learned, and smoothed and shaped… there was something else too….He smoothed his hands over the stone and hummed against it, deep in his throat…more delvings…something blurred and unshaped….He followed the lines of trembling shadows, the stone was fractured, not spilt, not shaped….but it was hard to see where delving ended and magic….Yes. Magic. Darkness…

He frowned and followed one narrow passageway that was rougher, not delved. His hand trailed along the stone, fingertips feeling for cracks and splits that were unnatural.

'Legolas!' he cried. And again, making his voice deep, deeper so it carried far, like the mythical leviathans of the Sea. 'Legolas!'

For a moment he swore he heard a cry and lifted his head excitedly. Then he hurried forwards, his hands trailing the surface of the stone. 'Legolas!' he cried again but he stumbled suddenly, and the air blurred around him. His voice was swallowed by the darkness and he felt intensely afraid that he was going too far the wrong way, that Legolas was in terrible danger and if he did not find him soon, he would lose him forever. That way, surely? The way back?

He rushed back along the passageway, retracing his steps unerringly in the darkness that seemed to close behind him. He almost ran back towards the chamber where Beregond kept the torches lit and spaced widely to banish the dark as best he could.

He burst into the chamber, and the torchlights swivelled towards him like the eyes of a beast.

Gimli halted suddenly. Tharkûn hurried towards him hopefully. But suddenly Gimli faltered; he had been so sure that Legolas was this way. But now, he was less certain. It was like reaching for a drowning man's fingers and they kept slipping away from his grasp.

Gandalf saw his hesitation and sighed, then approached, wearily and anxious. 'I fear that if the Ghoul was keeping Legolas here, he is hidden by sorcery,' said the Wizard. 'There is something, I feel it, but though I sense something, it keeps slipping away from me.'

'I thought I heard something. I thought he was here…' Gimli paused and felt hope slip away. Gandalf held his gaze for a moment and his eyes were full of sorrow.

'I will go and question the Ghoul,' Gandalf said, his face grim.

'Let me question it,' Gimli said darkly. 'It will be quicker.'

Gandalf gave a sad smile. 'No, it will not. I will press him as I did Sméagol. I promise you, Gimli, if there is anything to be found, I will find it.'

0o0o

Legolas was exhausted. Dying. He knew.

He could not lift his head but he felt the viscous stickiness of the Glass pressed against his skin, cocooning him, clasped like wet-silk about his dying body and the shadows leered, clambered over each other in their eagerness for him, pressed around him, suckling his blood. He felt his limbs twitch as the blood left his body. He was ice-cold.

He thought how his father would grieve, and worried that he might indeed fade from grief. For when Thranduil thought he had lost Thalos in the dragonfire of Esgaroth, his face had been grey with worry, and his eyes full of anxious despair. And what of Thalos himself, and Laersul? Legolas felt a last tear sliding down his face. He thought how he would never see them again, his strong, brave brothers. He would never hear Galion's affectionate scolding again. There was Anglach too. He wondered dully whether Anglach had gone to Mandos or if he was a houseless spirit guarding the Woodland Realm, waiting for Legolas' return as did his father. None of them would ever know Legolas' fate. None would ever know that Legolas' fëa would be devoured, like Rhawion's.

And what of Elrohir?

What fate awaited him now?

Head bowed, Legolas remembered the dream he had had after the Battle of the Morannon, when the Black Threads had infected every vein in Legolas' body and that Elrohir had taken it into himself to save him. Then, Legolas had dreamed he was running on the hard sand, the Sea curling white foam on the shore beside him as he ran. Ahead of him, too far to reach, Elrohir stood thigh deep in the Sea looking out beyond the horizon. Legolas was running and running and calling…And then suddenly Elrohir had gone and Legolas could no longer see him, could not hear his Song for he had slipped over the Edge of the World and was treading the Path of Men that led beyond the bounds of the world.

Legolas' breaths were short, shallow little pinches of agony now. And then he heard it; a deep cry, far away but still beneath this stone. He lifted his head heavily and listened.

Was that Gimli?

An answering cry broke from his lips but he did not have the energy to cry out again, and besides, it was probably an illusion.

The Nazgûl drew back breathlessly, listening as did he.

He wondered if they feared Gimli, but then he realised it was because they thought Elrohir might have also come. Elrohir would listen for Legolas' Song, and he would explode every rock, batter through the stone of the city itself to reach him.

His heart gave a weak thump as if it tried to make him strong for the moment that Elrohir was there and listening. He shifted in his chains, slowly, painfully, trying to lift his head to cry out, to send his Song arcing like a symphony, calling to his beloved.

But then he hesitated.

The Nazgûl wanted Elrohir. They wanted him so that they could somehow possess him, and use him to break free from the Glass…Bearos had one of the Rings.

This was a trap. And Legolas was the bait.

No. He would not allow it.

He would not allow Elrohir to find him, glorious as it would be, for that is what Angmar wanted. He could see the clever cunning gaze fastened on him. The skull beneath the iron crown grinned.

No. You already have me, Legolas threw out at the Nazgûl. But you will not have him.

And so he drew into himself and silenced his own Song, made it soft and quiet, dimmed the green-gold light with all that was left of his strength so that Elrohir would not find him and though it meant that Elrohir might give up all hope and take the Paths of Men, he would remain Elrohir. He would not be devoured by the Dark. That would be Legolas' fate alone. He took a little breath that sounded like a sob and Angmar was close, his skeletal face peered into Legolas'. There was a cacophony of screeching, like fingernails on boards and Legolas shrank away.

Even now you seek to defy us!

Angmar's clawed fingers pressed against the Glass and pushed into Legolas' flesh. Cruelly he dug and twisted and pinched and dug deeply.

We will have your heart.

Legolas cried aloud once and then closed his mouth firmly, resolved that he alone would know the pain. He would endure silently until death, until his soul was devoured, like the souls of those who were made into Orcs, he thought in despair. And Elrohir would never know.

We will have your soul.

None would ever even know where he died. He grieved for Gimli too and wished he had said goodbye. His spirit would be devoured by the Nazgûl. He did not know how.

As your spirit leaves your body, we will trap it, consume it, devour it, suck it dry like we suck your body dry.

He writhed in anguish as the Nazgûl drew close once more and the clawed hands pressed and dug and tore into him.

0o0o

Bearos found himself bound in chains driven into the stone wall of the Tower of Ecthelion, much as he had left Yôzâira. It struck him as funny and he giggled but he was anxious too. Where was Ravéyön? He should be here? If he did not arrive soon, Bearos' body might desiccate, might fall into ash before he could give his message….

No. Not whilst I am here. Khamûl's voice twined about him comfortingly, kept him warm, pushed the Elf's blood through his veins, squeezed his heart so it beat. But he needed to conserve his energy too and so he stood, staring emptily, his jaw dropped onto his chest, hands limp by his sides. It was surprising that he remained on his feet.

There was a sound outside his chamber and he heard the high whining voices of the Halflings! His skin prickled and he felt a gag of revulsion at the very idea of them. They had stolen Ash Nazg and destroyed a thing more beautiful, more precious than ever their weak and wicked minds could even contemplate. How perfect! How pure Ash Nazg had been! What gold! But His perfection was lost, melted into the hot molten stone at the heart of the earth.

The door to the cell opened then and Bearos shrank back from the blaze of white light that dazzled and blinded him. Ólorin came, cutting and slashing at him, pressing him, seeking to prise open his thoughts with Narya. Khamûl slunk low, hid in the clouded and emptied mind of Bearos that remembered blood and bones, dwelled on how he had chased his prey and sucked them dry of blood, cracked their sinews and sucked the marrow from their bones.

Tell me where is the Elf? Ólorin pressed down upon him. Blinding white pain, crushing fire and anguish in his desiccated flesh. He screamed and gibbered, like a stake was through his belly, like he had been impaled upon a lance and the pain was unbearable, but Khamûl had gone, shrunk back into itself and Bearos could not speak. He would not anyway. He laughed in spite of the pain, and spat in the Zigûr's face.

Hours passed. Anguish. Agony. Crushing pain. But still Bearos did not speak. He did not think. He did not give anything. Khamûl filled his head with memories of those he had slaughtered. Remembered the pursuit of the last Man, the first child, the woman who had screamed and screamed until he silenced her with long fingers grasping her throat, pressing dripping claws into the thin skin of her neck and ripping out her vocal cords.

He felt Ólorin recoil at the child, and revealed more and more horrific images. The child's whimpering as Bearos stalked it, creeping almost silently up behind where it hid, cowering in the shadows.

'Your foulness will not deter me,' declared Ólorin and Narya brightened as he spoke and then Ólorin went back in and pressed down on Bearos again. Bearos laughed in Ólorin's face and spat.

'Is this what you want to see?'

And he changed the child's face to the Elf's, showed Ólorin how the Elf had escaped and Bearos pursued him, dragged him back by his hair and threw him down.

After that, Ólorin was brutal. Bearos did not laugh any longer, he stood, half hanging as the Elf did, immobile, inanimate, senseless.

0o0o