Special mention to Orodreth the Traitor: I am sure I have been influenced by her work with regard to the sense that the Nazgûl were somehow enslaved. And continuing thanks to Spiced for the loan of her gorgeous OC, Tindómion.
As always, thanks to my very wonderful Anarithilen, beta and muse!
CHAPTER 40: Bearos
Glorfindel stood hidden amongst the boulders and scrub of the wild hillside that sloped up towards the city wall from the creek at the bottom of a chasm. He and his companions had climbed swiftly through the gorse and scrub, spreading out so he knew that Tindómion was away to his left and Mithrandir to his right. He could hear the beast creeping slowly up the hillside. He could taste and smell the greasy slick on the air from its hide, the old blood on its mouth, caught beneath its claws, the stink of its breath, and its breath was heavy and its stumbling, shuffling gait told him it was in no state to offer a fight. Even so, it had teeth and claws and maybe other weapons. And it was desperate.
It is not an Orc, Glorfindel had said to his companions. No. It was worse. Orcs were stupid. They did not question or care about their inbred cruelty. This thing had enjoyed what it had inflicted. But it was still a Man.
Silently, his blade slid from its sheath. Not a sword. This was knife-work. The blade gleamed hungrily but he dulled it so it could not be seen.
There was movement suddenly to his left and he turned slowly so that the Ghoul could not see any disturbance. Tindómion had sent him an almost imperceptible signal that the Ghoul had slowed and stopped.
He eased round a scrubby gorse bush to get better sight of the Ghoul.
What he saw was a Man, dragging one foot and his shoulders hunched. The Ghoul suddenly caught sight of Glorfindel. Its face surprised him in its normality apart from the deadness of its eyes. It simply registered him but there was no expression.
And then there was a slice through the air, singing steel and the Ghoul's head slowly toppled from its body. Tindómion stood behind him, breathing hard, eyes wide and his sword bloody.
'I thought it would have you,' Tindómion said. He swiped the air twice with his sword and dark drops of blood slid from the blade leaving it clean.
Glorfindel leaned down and lifted the Ghoul's head by its short cropped hair. Its face was human, stupid, ugly but not ghoulish.
Tindómion frowned. 'That was much easier than I expected,' he said. Glorfindel hummed an agreement and looked at the face of the Man Tindómion had killed.
'Perhaps whatever spell or sorcery was over it was fading,' he said cautiously.
At that moment, they heard Mithrandir hurrying towards them.
'You killed it! Well done, my friend.' He pulled up beside them, breathing a little harder than they. 'Well. That is done. I think we can return now. It will ease Aragorn to know that his city is safe from this creature.' He nodded down at Glorfindel's grisly prize. 'Not what I usually advocate, but in this case, I am glad to make sure it is dead.' He leaned on his staff to catch his breath. 'Right. Let's get back and let Beregond know and send a message to Erestor that he can return.'
'What shall we do with this?' Glorfindel asked, holding the head up.
Mithrandir's face went white and his eyes widened. 'Wait,' he said breathlessly. 'This is not Bearos.'
'What?' Glorfindel stared at him. 'What, who is this then? And where is the Ghoul?'
'I do not know who this is, or what,' replied Mithrandir. He looked down at the headless torso.
'What was he doing here?' Glorfindel asked horrified. 'Have we killed one of the Ghoul's victims?' He noticed then, the long gash in the Man's side, like talons or claws had ripped him open.
Tindómion's face was aghast. 'I did not know!'
'He is wearing the badge of Bearos. Wait…I know him. He was one of those who sought to overthrow Aragorn. Urithôr I think,' Mithrandir said, peering at the headless torso. He shook his head and looked at Tindómion with sympathy. 'Let us hope that he was doing Bearos' bidding. Perhaps this was deliberately done to make us follow this unfortunate fellow and allow Bearos to escape.'
'Then where is the Ghoul?' Tindómion asked in a low voice.
Glorfindel turned his head to look back down the hillside towards the cleft in the rock from which they had emerged. 'He could be anywhere. He may not even have left the tombs.'
Slowly their eyes met. 'Erestor!'
'He is alone in there' Tindómion cried and he was already running swiftly back down the hillside towards the cleft in the granite cliff that led back beneath the Hallows.
Glorfindel leapt over scrubby bushes and rocks, overtaking Tindómion in his haste. Although Erestor was a formidable warrior and there was far more to him than met the eye even, this Ghoul had supernatural strength, had cunning, knew these tunnels well and had overpowered Legolas, not once but twice. Erestor was in danger.
0o0o0o0
In the deep quiet of the crypt, Erestor shared a low plinth upon which rested one of Gondor's long dead Kings. He had not bothered to see the name. Old bones in little piles crumbled almost to dust, encased in stone tombs. Crude letters scratched upon the stone tomb in a language almost forgotten. Erestor had never bothered to learn it certainly.
He wondered why they bothered.
Quietly and silently he sat, dampening the glimmer of his fëa, cloaking his Song, suffocating every trace of his presence so that none would know he was here. The Ghoul. Nazgûl. Bauglir. He had learned the art long ago in the Woods of Ossiriand when the armies of Morgoth hunted every last survivor of Himring, of Thargelion, of Dor-lómin. Relentlessly. Determined to wipe out every last drop of Feänorian blood, every last one of their followers. It amused Erestor to have outlived Morgoth Bauglir, in as much as you can outlive a god. It was ironic, he thought and not for the first time, that Bauglir and the Valar shared a purpose for Namó's prophesy had been nothing of the sort: it had been a curse.
With that bitter thought he waited. Absolutely still, absolutely silent. He was imperceptible. A mere trace of breath in the dark. But he listened and watched with an intensity honed through the Ages. For in the moonless nights and the dark places of the Hithaeglir and Thargelion, there was nothing to watch. So he listened. And he did so now.
He let his awareness spread out through the catacombs. The darkness in these tombs was not the same as the Dark. This darkness in which Erestor waited, was merely underground, and the sun and moon did not reach this deep. But beyond that door, that slab of iron that was slammed across the cell where Legolas had been imprisoned, was a Glass that held back the Eternal Dark. The Night. The Void. Whatever you cared to call it, he thought. And that was not simple in any way.
Celebrimbor had said it was more than 'nothing'. He had been trying to explain how Erestor's own Ring worked, a gift, for Erestor was close to those beloved children, Elros and Elrond, and one of the last followers of Celebrimbor's doomed House. It was one of the lesser rings that were made in Ost-In-Edhil. Not one of the great Rings of Power, of course, but it had its own Power nevertheless. 'This,' Celebrimbor had said putting the unobtrusive Ring in the palm of Erestor's hand, 'will help you to see.' And when Erestor put it up to his eye and peered through it, Celebrimbor had laughed. 'No,' he had said. 'To see.' He pushed it onto Erestor's finger. 'To see what is Unseen. And to hear what is Unheard.' He had laughed then. 'Otherwise how can you be any good as a spy?'
Erestor tapped his teeth thoughtfully. Then he cocked his head to one side and wondered what he would see if he peeked into the cell where the Glass was.
In the dark silence beyond the Glass, Erestor knew the titanic Presence had turned towards the Mirror, like a leviathan moving slowly in the darkness. Moringhotto Bauglir. The Enemy.
Not the Nazgûl. The Nazgûl were flies to this great darkness and besides, they were trapped behind the Glass. He did not fear them, mere shadows now looking out through the Mirror. Although they had sucked on Legolas' blood…He pondered that for a moment. But they could not escape.
. Erestor stared towards the iron door to the cell. Moringhotto was not the only one in there of course….In Phellanthir, Maedhros had come. He rubbed his chin and considered what he had said to Glorfindel.
You promised Glorfindel not to peek, the better-part-of-himself reminded the less-than-good-half. But the less-than-good-half shrugged, used to winning these arguments with his better-half, rose and flattened himself against the iron door anyway.
He felt the Nazgûl, quiet now. Perhaps they were merely waiting? Or perhaps they had exhausted the energy they had gained from leaching Legolas' strength?
With a grin, he flung open the iron door and grasped the iron bars of the inner gate that barred the way to the cell. Inside he saw the Glass, a soft silver radiance at the far end of the cell, undulating slightly as it had in Phellanthir. The Nazgûl were dark shadows in the Glass, settled and gathered in one place, attentive and listening, like the tall mysterious standing stones upon the Barrow Downs.
So they have not gone yet, Erestor thought.
'I hope you are enjoying yourselves in there,' he whispered softly.
At the sound of his voice, there was a movement of air and the Nazgûl's dark shapes fluttered like agitated birds. He didn't care. They were stuck in there and could not reach him.
'Any moment now, you are going to be obliterated,' he said cheerfully. 'Morgoth is coming and you are just flies on shit to him.'
He was about to turn away and slam shut the door when he felt something. A bigger shift in the air, a slither of dry coils.
He looked more carefully then and slid one finger over the gold and bronze of his Ring. His perception altered and he looked again, as Celebrimbor had shown him.
Inside the cell, pushing up against the Glass was a layer of smoke or mist that he had mistaken for the shimmer of the Glass itself. He narrowed his eyes and it coalesced, the smoke was one long, muscular and sinuous coil, piled up against the Glass. A flat head was turned towards him, but its eyes, like drops of blood, regarded him with malice.
'Khamûl.' He was genuinely surprised.
The forked tongue flickered over its lipless mouth. 'Nármöfinion.' It was almost civilized if it hadn't been so full of hatred, thought Erestor.
Erestor bowed slightly, hand over his heart in an ironic and sarcastic salute. 'I think you are on the wrong side of the Mirror,' he said sweetly. 'Your Brethren are over there.' He tilted his head. 'I am tempted to say that it looks as if you have gone to a very great deal of trouble to keep them there.' Then he bowed gallantly and with a flourish of his flamboyant lace sleeves. 'I wish you joy of each other. And be sure to give my regards to Moringhotto when he arrives.'
He slammed the iron slab of a door shut quickly. What did that mean? Khamûl curled up cozily against the Glass. Was he trying to release his Brethren or keep them there? And how was it that Khamûl was on THIS side anyway? Surely the Nazgûl had been swept away with Sauron's fall? He leaned against the iron door as if he might contain Khamûl.
Mithrandir's spell must be holding, he thought, for he was sure that otherwise Khamûl would have pursued him.
And then he felt the hair on his arm prickle and the air moved softly in the crypt behind him. He could feel the warmth of blood, the beat of it in veins. He felt dissonance in the Song, thrumming the wrong notes, stringing the wrong chords together a cacophony of sound.
The Ghoul was here. Bearos. It must have doubled back, slipped away from Glorfindel. He wished he had insisted that Tindómion stay now, for he had not anticipated Khamûl. But he was alone and had to simply make the best of it. He hoped that it was indeed the strength of Mithrandir's spell keeping Khamûl in the cell, he did not like the odds if Khamûl chose to come to his slave's aid.
Erestor did not move. He widened his nostrils, smelled the dried blood on the Ghoul. Elvish blood smelled different from Men or Dwarves. He half closed his eyes and listened, spread his awareness over the air. A slight brush of coolness against his left arm -the air disturbed by the Ghoul's movement.
He let his teeth shine in the dark, thinking how annoyed would Glorfindel be to have let this thing slip through his fingers, wishing that he had not. Best to get it over with and quickly, he decided.
There was silence. But an alert, charged silence and he knew that the Ghoul was listening too, was close.
He could feel its breath.
'Come. Let us finish this and swiftly,' he said softly. 'You have been clever to shake off hunters such as Glorfindel of Gondolin and Tindómion of Lindon. But now you have returned to Erestor Nármöfinion, of Himring and Imladris.' Slowly he allowed the glamour to fall away and he revealed himself, rose slowly to his feet and there was the Ghoul, within striking distance. 'You should feel honoured.' He grinned.
It was shocking nevertheless, even to one who had seen Balrogs and werewolves. But their power and raw energy was terrifying because they could destroy you. The Ghoul was terrifying for the horror of its making; a Man's eyes, but bulging like something writhed and fought in its brain, forcing the eyeballs outwards. A Man's face but elongated, distorted into a muzzle. A Man's torso but taller, stretched and pumped into something more of an Orc. With a Man's cunning. With a wolf's coarse hair.
He swallowed the horror and looked more carefully, this time using his own Ring. There was an absence on the Ghoul's hand. A white band was around its long, clawed finger where once it had worn a ring.
Ah. There had been a Ring.
Khamûl.
Of course. That was how Khamûl had survived; somehow the Ring itself had survived. But where was it now?
'You are not the only one to possess a Ring of Power. Celebrimbor made many, and gave them to those he loved.' Erestor opened his hand and the ring on his own hand gleamed. He hazarded a guess and kept his voice soft. 'You had Khamûl, but now he had abandoned you.'
'I found it,' the Ghoul spoke. Its voice was harsh and fast, and its jaw clacked when it got excited. 'Yesyesyes! It was mine. It brought me here where there is so much blood. Bloodblood yeeeessssss.'
The Ghoul watched him with its bright, bulging eyes that were full of hunger. Wicked glee… But underneath, there was confusion… betrayal? It reminded him of Sméagol, of course, but bigger. The same sinewy strength, the same conflicted love and hate. The same hunger. Erestor narrowed his eyes for now it crept slowly forwards until it was crouching on the other side of the sarcophagus by which Erestor stood. The beast stank. It watched him gleefully.
'Elf blood. Elf fëa. That is what my Master really wants. Forbidden before but he is free now.'
The Ghoul crept around the edge of the stone tomb towards Erestor, its maddened eyes fastened on him. It was bigger than he expected, its rough matted hair was grey and its muzzle was long, hands long-fingered. He had seen something similar once before, a long time ago on Tol-in-Gaurhoth. He held himself utterly still and did not move but he knew where his knife was, how sharp. How quickly it would leap into his hands.
'It will please him. Elven fëa. Yesyesyesyesyes.'
'I hope you do not think to feed me to Khamûl. That is hardly polite.'
The Ghoul froze, its malicious eyes fastened on Erestor's and he dared not blink; his eyes did not flicker or change. He kept his amber gaze steady. It was close enough now to smell its foul breath, like old and rotting meat. Salty and bloody. The little capillaries in its bulging eyeballs were red like it had not been able to sleep.
Close. Closer, it crept. One hand on the edge of the sarcophagus so it was now on the same side as Erestor, one hand over the other it edged towards him, never looking away, haunches bunched to leap for his throat.
Erestor was absolutely still. Only one way to grab a dog, a wolf.
Suddenly he shot one hand and grabbed the creature by the scruff of its neck and the other lay his knife against its throat. Faster than a snake. Faster than a wolf certainly.
'Choose.' He smiled thinly. 'You may speak or stay silent. Then I will release you.'
The Ghoul gibbered and hissed but it did not struggle and did not move for the knife was sharp enough to cut silk and the Feänorian blade was as thirsty for blood as the Ghoul.
'Khamûl. The Ring. Where is it now?'
The Ghoul sniggered but it sounded, to Erestor, like a sob. 'It is where ii has always wanted to be. Safe, safe. Yesyesyes.' A string of thick white saliva hung from its jaws, red frothed through it. Its teeth clacked together horribly. 'But YOU! You think that your Aphanuzîr is safe.' The Ghoul sniggered again. 'But he is not.' He gave Erestor a sly and malicious look. 'Not from you.'
Erestor frowned. He knew better than to ask what the Ghoul meant, for it wanted to be obscure, to confuse and distract. So instead Erestor let the blade slide very slightly along the coarse grey hair of the Ghoul's neck. Beads of dark red blood slipped along the gleaming blade.
Aphanuzîr? Did he mean Elladan? How could this creature know? Khamûl did not know the secrets of Erestor's heart.
For a moment, the briefest moment only, he blinked: but did Khamûl know the secrets of Elladan's heart? Elladan had hovered between this world and the Unseen when he took the morgul blade meant for Erestor in Phellanthir. Had Khamûl rifled through his heart then? Hope surged in his breast and in that moment of distraction, the Ghoul's haunches bunched and it leapt.
They went down, tumbling together, teeth and claws ripping into Erestor, he grasped its snout and wrenched hard, brought his other arm up and plunged the knife as hard as he could into its sinewy belly, pulled hard so the knife slid out gleaming wet and bloody. There was horrible growling and snarling. Teeth sank into his arm and talons clawed at his face. He slashed the knife as hard as he could across the beast's throat.
Hot blood spurted over his hands, shot up and spattered his face so he had to pull back for a moment. The Ghoul jerked horribly in his hands, its eyes staring up at him in shock and he saw…..
…. The pit into which he had fallen closed around him like a mouth, swallowing him. He had worn his fingers to the bone trying to scrabble at the sides as it devoured him. But that had just made it easier for the Ring to transform his hands into talons, claws.
A scream tried to force itself from his chest, clawing its way out like a trapped animal looking up towards the light that he could no longer reach. That slow scream started in his throat was strangled by a long shadow that reached into his mouth, forced itself down his throat and crushed his chest, his heart….
Marinel! He tried to scream to his wife. I am in here! Gerda!
But they could not hear him for the snarling of the Beast that kept him trapped and that paced and sneered at him whenever he screamed. It gnawed on his bones, tore at his sinews and heart and his skin could not contain It.
He wanted to roar. He hurled himself into the night. His feet pounded the stone and he ran so fleetly, like he had last night, muscles pounding, sinews stretching beyond what was human, bones cracking and twisting into something he was not. His blood pounded and thrashed in his veins as if it wanted to escape. He felt the Thing in him, the Beast, writhing for release and he shook his head from side to side as if he might shake free from this skeleton, this skin and let the muscles in him expand as they wanted.
Deep inside the Pit, Bearas felt himself slipping deeper, falling away until he was staring up and the sides of the Pit was a long tunnel of polished Glass. Then he let himself fall and he was gone. Completely.
But now as his eyes dimmed, he remembered he had wanted to make a pair of gloves for his little daughter, rabbit skin ones for they would be soft and warm on her little hands that clasped his. He hoped Marinel had gone, hoped she had fled with Gerda and the baby and that he had not committed the worst of sins. He did not know. He could not remember…And now it was dark and a sob broke from him. But in the dark, a strong hand clasped him. Warm. It was filled with light and hope. It held onto him though he sank, and sank into the emptiness.
Erestor looked down at Bearos' dead body. The long fingered, taloned hand clasped his still and he felt its fingers relax and slip from his as the bulging, mad eyes glazed in death. He wondered where the soul of the Man, Bearos, might go, or if it went where a Beast might go? Its head was almost severed from its body and coldly, he cut it off. Too often werewolves and vampires could live on if the head was not cut off.
Erestor now looked down at the Ghoul's long fingered, taloned hand. More claw like. But no Ring. Not now. The white band he had noticed earlier showed where it had been. He frowned. Had Bearos given it up? He did not think so. Not easily. Then where was it now? It had said the Ring was where it wanted to be, that is was safe. And Elladan was not safe, not from Erestor himself. He sighed. He was always on his guard with Elladan. He would double that.
Then he felt the change in the air. A current of warmer air drifted. A door had been opened. He did not move.
The air shifted more steadily. Sounds reached him. Voices.
He listened to the steady footsteps, a slight jingle of steel. Hearts beating a little faster in excitement and fear. Feet a little slower.
Men. From the Tower Guard, he guessed for Glorfindel had told Elladan to send a relief for him.
He called to them and they hurried towards him, their faces alert and concerned when they saw his bloody coat and sleeves. One of them that Erestor remembered from when they arrived, seemed to be in charge.
'My lord, are you harmed?' he asked first. Cendir, Erestor remembered his name now. He shook his head.
'No. I am unharmed. But this is the creature that has been haunting the city and kept Legolas prisoner.' He found himself breathing harder than he had realised. 'Bind the body nevertheless. I have seen such things even in death strangle a fellow. Keep the head separate from its body.' He moved the grisly thing with one foot. 'Actually, give me a sack or something and I will take it somewhere away from the body.' One of the men hastily took off his cloak and handed it to Erestor. He swathed it around the head and tied it securely whilst the men hauled the Ghoul's body onto the stretcher they fashioned from pikes and cloaks.
He wondered briefly if he should post a further watch on the Mirror. But Mithrandir's spell had held, he said, in Phellanthir, and there was iron twice bound. And he knew that the Ghoul had deliberately chosen iron for magic; sorcery could not break through it. Although Erestor knew it was because the nature of iron was impervious to Tumnalómë. The Nazgûl could not escape the cell anymore than Legolas.
But the Ghoul was dead. The Mirror recovered and guarded. And yet, the Ring was still at large, somewhere, Erestor thought. Did someone have it? Or was it lying somewhere, waiting, like it had for Bearos?
0o0o