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Chapter Text

Frodo knew fear.   A deep and all-encompassing fear, it was, chilling him down past his bones and into his very soul.  A chill snuck its way down his spine, then, for he knew what he had to do.  The solution was an answer he had known for a long time, had known it in his heart even though he denied it all the while.  Since he had first entered Lórien and looked into the eyes of the fair Galadriel, the Hobbit had known what had to be done.  The loneliness and pain in the Elven Lady’s gaze had made the solution plain – of all beings in the universe, she alone understood.  Ring-bearer of one of the three, Galadriel knew – the path of the Ring-bearer was one apart.

He had to go on alone.

But he knew not how to do so.  The thought of loosing the loving support of his friends in the Fellowship was nearly crippling.  The loss of Gandalf had broken his heard, and Frodo almost wept to think of the kind, old wizard, crushed at the bottom of the abyss.  Together, the Fellowship had sworn that his death would not be in vain – and wouldn’t breaking the Fellowship of the Ring be the same as dishonoring his memory?  Wouldn’t abandoning each other be to discount the sacrifice that Gandalf had made to keep them together?

Such doubts, however, did not change the feelings in Frodo’s heart.  He’d sworn to take the ring to Mordor, even though he knew not the way – and without Gandalf, he had no hope… Alone, he knew, he would never make it; yet the rest of the Fellowship could not help him.  In his mind’s eye, Frodo could see them dying along the way…  He had to go alone.  They could not go with him.

And yet he could not go alone.

Alone, he would perish in the shadows of Mordor, and fail in his quest – and in failing, the world would come to darkness.  Sauron would regain the One Ring, and all that they had fought for, including Gandalf’s sacrifice, would be for nothing.  So he could not bring the Ring into Mordor.  To do so would be to bring Shadow over the entirety of Middle-Earth.  Faces and places flashed through his mind, and Frodo could not help but think of all those that would suffer if Sauron was not defeated.  If I fail, the world as I know if will die.  Sorrow weighed heavy upon his heart.  I cannot fail!

So there was but one other option.  Rising, Frodo took a deep breath.  It was time to return to the Fellowship.  Aragon would not like this, he suspected, but his decision would also answer the yearning in the Ranger’s heart.  Boromir would be pleased, and perhaps, the Hobbit told himself, the man was right.  And he firmly pinned his hopes on that possibility, refusing to look back as he threaded his way through the trees to reunite with his friends.  “I have made my decision,” he announced.

Their eyes looked to him, and Frodo scanned their faces.  Boromir, as always, looked regal and handsome, ready to take on the whole of Middle-Earth in the name of Gondor.  Merry and Pippin looked to him in wonder, ready and able to lend him aid in any way he should ever ask, yet their faces had lost the youthful exuberance that they had held so long ago.  Legolas’ blue eyes burned through his soul, though, with the timeless wisdom and strength of the Elves.  He understood, perhaps better than any of the Fellowship, save Gandalf.  By the Elf’s side, Gimli raised his busy eyebrows in expectation, one hand gripping his axe as if it were his lifeline.  And then Aragon looked upon him with noble and sad eyes.  The heir of Isildur, too, understood the price of the Ring, and his gaze told Frodo that he knew.   Aragon could not bear the Ring, but he’d sworn to see it through.  Regardless of the cost, the Ranger would see Sauron’s ring to the innards of Mount Doom.

Last of all, Frodo’s eyes found Sam, the ever faithful.  But those once innocent eyes held a grim determination now, a determination that shook the Ring-bearer to his core.  Sam would accept his decision, no matter what it was, Frodo realized.  But the fierce gaze told him something else – it told him that Sam would never abandon him.  Sam would never let him do this alone.  All the better that I have decided then, Frodo thought shakily.  For I would not have his life in my hands.  He cleared his throat.

“We go to Minas Tirith.”

Chapter Text

Through the haze, a voice reached out to him.  Like waves striking on a far ocean shore, it broke upon the rocks of his mind, roaring and whispering all at once.  He thought of opening his eyes, but the old body did not respond.  Nothingness was all he could see.  Or perhaps there was nothing to see.  Was he still in the abyss?  No…that was not right.  Durin’s Tower…was he there?  Had he lived, then, or was he dead after all?

The voice whispered from the darkness.  Olórin…

His mind still did not register.  There was nothingness, nothing to his world, if it was a world at all. 

Olórin… It whispered.  Darkness falls…

Had it ended?  Was he dead, or did he live yet?  If so, where was he, and why would not his body respond to his commands?  Why, for that matter, could he feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing?  Blackness surrounded him, and only the voices remained, one before the other, overlapping and singing in a beautiful chorus he felt he ought to remember but was just beyond his reach.  It was as if he existed in a vacuum with only the voices for company.

The loudest amongst them continued.  Shadow… Shadow falls…

Shadow! The world lit like fire in his mind.  Shadow and Darkness… There was something important in that, if only he could feel it.  Even as he concentrated, searching his soul for remembrance, a great drowsiness overtook him.  It would be so much easier to stop struggling and return to his people – his people?  He remembered very little of them, an age ago… But then, now he remembered nothing, not even what was so dreadfully important about Shadow and Darkness.  All he felt was exhaustion beyond human endurance.  Shadow falls…

Olórin! the voice cried suddenly, trying as if to, by force, to bring him into the light.  But seeing no light, and feeling no life, he let himself slip into the blackness, ignoring the demanding voice.  Even as he did so, though, a soft whisper emerged from beneath the clamor of the Valar, reaching out to him.

The Fellowship has broken, she whispered.  Her voice was different, somehow lighter than the Valar, and younger, though immeasurably ancient and wise in itself.  There was a beauty in it, as well, but that was somehow overcome by the immense sadness and weight that its bearer carried.  The Fellowship has broken…

Images of Frodo, Aragon, and the others suddenly rushed to his mind, and he remembered.  Oh, he remembered now, remembered his mission, his quest, and his failure.  The Balrog, and their battle, came to him once more, but he brushed those aside.  There were more important matters at hand, now.  For if it was true… Broken? His heart screamed all of a sudden.  “Broken?” he asked aloud, surprised to hear his own voice.

Broken, she replied.

“The Fellowship?” he croaked weakly.  Still, though he tried, his eyes would not open.  “Why?”

Their task has been set aside.

“Do they live?” he found himself gasping.  “Frodo?  The Ring?”

They live.  But Darkness is
coming.  Sauron knows…

“How?” he whispered, all strength leaving him.  His sacrifice had been for nothing, then.  A deep and treacherous voice within his mind cried simply to let go of mortal life and return him.  Let the mortals and the Elves deal with Middle-Earth now.  He had not the strength…

Minas Tirith… They go to Minas Tirith.

“But why?” he cried, mindless of all but his own despair, but knowing the answer.  The Fellowship, Frodo, and the Ring, would only go to Gondor for but one reason.  They would only go thus if they meant to use the Ring against Sauron, that which could not be done… They set out to do what they could not – and what no other would do.  Did they not listen to what Elrond had said?  Had they not heeded the words of a great Elven lord?  Why would they think to do such a foolish and useless thing?  Fear, he reflected briefly and bitterly, was apt to be Sauron’s chief weapon forever.  And what a useful weapon it would be, were these tidings true.

But must they be?  The suspicious corner of his mind spoke up, the part of his mind born of being betrayed.  Once he would not have thought such things, but circumstances had forced him to adapt, to be alert for more than just darkness.  Lies and betrayal would always exist.  He would rather trust and befriend than hate and doubt, but who spoke to him now?  It was not one of the Valar, not one of his own kind, though her voice, smooth and beautiful, mixed amongst their own, which spoke of great power.  Or was it truly beauty that he sensed?  Could it be something else, something much more sinister, yet every bit as powerful?  Fear gripped him, then, for a moment, as he wondered if it might not be Sauron himself.

Long habit alone pushed the fear aside to look at the situation rationally.  The Balrog had been a power older than Sauron himself; it had not been held under his sway.  Thus, he could not, did not, know of the battle that had raged between two ancient and great powers.  None, not even the other Istari, could feel such things and know the result.  They, too, were limited by the physical realities of their bodies upon Middle-Earth.  No, only a Ring-bearer could know.  Only one of the Three, the ancient and hidden Three, could sense where he had been and what he must do.

You know the answer to that, she finally replied, her voice softening, and for a long moment, he was unsure if she answered his asked or unasked questions.  You, as well as I.

“I know,” he whispered heavily, then felt sudden emptiness in his soul as her voice faded amongst the clamor.  No being, even one of the Eldar, could hold off the Valar for long, and he now realized that she had done just that.  Such was her power that she could succeed in reaching him amongst his kinsmen.  He fought to sit up, but again realized that there was no feeling in his body.  Was he even in a body?

Olórin? the strong voice asked again, and he knew it was one of his own once more.  A pity; he’d rathered speak to her.  She understood what even the Valar could not.  For he had moved on…

I am here, he replied, his mind whirling with the lost contact.  Her light presence had reminded him that if he did live, there was much left to do.  He had a responsibility to Middle-Earth that he could not so easily escape.  Nor, now, did he want to, as he came back into himself.  Yes, it would have been easier, but that was no matter.  If the Shadow were to advance, he, Olórin, would be there to meet it.  As always, he would fight to the last – even if this battle would indeed be the end of him.  For all would be lost if not.  If Sauron gained the One, all was lost.  For the Seven were destroyed, and the Nine he possessed.  As for the Three…  Of the Three few knew the truth.  He, the voice, and one other could understand.  Only they could understand the risk.  And if Frodo had taken the road to Minas Tirith, had undertaken to use the ring…

It was nearly unthinkable, but think of such things he must.  And to do so, he had to face the possibility of becoming everything he was not, and then some.  With a mental frown, though, he pushed such thoughts out of his mind.  First he had to figure out how to get off the damn mountain top – if he was alive, at all, a fact he was still unsure of, given his peoples’ very nature.

We thought we had lost you, the voice returned.  This voice, too, he knew, and respected deeply.  Instantly, he regretted his earlier irritation.  Such powers were not to be trifled, no matter how awful you felt.  No matter how your head swam with pain and weakness.

Laughter would have been so appropriate, but he found it would not come.  He was fading quickly, despite his resolve, and knew not how to stop it.  Have you? he asked.

Not yet.  But you will rejoin us soon, the voice said.  A soft smile was almost felt, then, and old wisdom looked gently upon its student.  Pity, too, he felt from the other, and that he liked not at all.  You have done enough.

Panic gripped him.  Time was running out.  I failed, so you will stop me from trying again?

No.  Your body will stop you from trying again, the other reminded him.  That was the arrangement.  A mortal body, with mortal aches, pains, and worries, to accompany the mortals of the world.  If you had shown yourself truly, any of you, even the Eldar would have feared the Istari.  For they would have seen that Sauron was once one himself.  A dark silence lasted but a moment. Thus your body dies.

What then? He cried.  Do we leave them to themselves?

In his hidden accusation, he felt the pain amongst the Valar.  No, they indeed did care for Middle-Earth.  He had known that from the beginning… else he and the others would never have been sent.  Should darkness cover Middle-Earth, it would take the forgotten lands of the West as well, and Sauron knew full well what they were.  He knew the Valar.  When there was no answer, he continued, You cannot send another, can you?

No.  It is too late.  The answer was flat, and held as much despair as his own cry.

So let me continue here.  Let me finish what we have started.  The words had barely come to mind before he realized fully what they meant.  In all possibilities that he had envisioned for the quest, this had never been one.  He had not imagined it easy, but he had not expected to have to die to accomplish it.  But he would, even if it took his real life in the end.

We will not ask that of you.  The Valar cannot ask that of you, the ancient one replied.

His mind spun all of a sudden.  You do not have to. Pain faintly lashed through him, but he was too far gone to care.  It would be too late… Sauron would win.

Doubt was evident in the question, Are you sure?  Do you truly wish this?

But he could not answer, scream though his heart did.  Someone had to do this, and though he wished with all his soul that it did not have to be him, he knew the truth.  But it was too late, and now real pain encompassed him, the agony racing through him like fire on dry wood.  The prior emptiness, the lack of feeling, was better than this.  It was better to wonder if you were alive than to know you were dying.  Sensation suddenly ripped through him for a quick and endless moment, and he felt stone underneath him as his body lifted off the ground and slammed down again hard.  He became conscious of the burns and the breaks of his old body before blackness took him.

Light encroached upon his private world darkness an age later.  Without thinking, he opened his eyes, and bright stars shown down upon him.  He looked with wonder at the beauty of it all, almost missing the voice as it returned.

You have received that which you desire, Olórin.  Sadness tinged it now.  I wish you all hope.

Before he could reply, this voice faded as well, leaving him alone on the mountaintop, conscious now, but too weak to move.  There was nothing he could do but lay there, wondering, until feeling came not only into his body, but into his mind.  It felt like ages before this came to pass, but his eyes told him his mind’s lie.  The sun had risen and set a bare six times, which meant he was on his seventh day atop Durin’s Tower.  Yet even as he felt the whole of Middle-Earth, felt the growing anticipation of the darkness, he could do naught to stop it.  He lay in the snow, feeling neither hot nor cold, despite his nakedness, and knowing that worldly things could harm him no longer.  He had indeed changed…Changed back.

The cry of a bird brought him to reality and away from the worried driftings of his mind.  Sauron was growing more and more powerful…soon he would not need the ring to triumph.  Saurman had been struck down, and even then was a prisoner.  The darkness was expanding…  Soon, Sauron’s reach would know no end.  Again, the eagle’s scream, and he looked high into the sky and smiled.  Old friends, he reflected, could always be counted upon in a time of need.  Relaxing, he allowed himself to wait patiently, though that had rarely been his strong suit, he felt it needed now as Gwaihir the Windlord swept down from the clouds.

Chapter Text

“And behold! in our need chance brings to light the Ring of Power.  It is a gift, I say; a gift to the foes of Mordor.  It is mad not to use it, to use the power of the enemy against him.  The fearless, the ruthless, these alone with achieve victory.  What could not a warrior do in this hour, a great leader?  What could not Aragon do?  Or if he refuses, why not Boromir?  The Ring would give me power of Command.  How I would drive the hosts of Mordor, and all men would flock to my banner!”

          And thus the shadow fell.  Good intentions had the worst of results… And all because I was too weak.  Frodo writhed in his chains, remembering.  Driven by despair after Gandalf’s death and with a heart wrought by hopelessness, the young Hobbit had chosen the easy way.  It had seemed so right to do at the time.  Perhaps Boromir was right…He had seemed so strong, so heroic, so able to use the Ring – only to borrow it, though, as he had given his word to do – without it controlling him.  Without it taking him completely.  In the depth of his despair, Frodo had seized that one and only hope.  The One Ring could never be destroyed; he knew that to be true, so he had no other choice: use it against Sauron they must.  It had seemed so simple, so true…

          “Gandalf, Elrond – all these folk have taught you to say so.  For themselves they may be right.  These elves and half-elves and wizards, they would come to grief perhaps.  Yet often I doubt if they are wise and not merely timid.  But each to his own kind.  True-hearted Men, they will not be corrupted.  We of Minas Tirith have been staunch through long years of trial.  We do not desire the power of wizard-lords, only the strength to defend ourselves, strength in a just cause.”  Boromir had made it seem so simple, and his words had made Frodo wonder.  Why was Gandalf so afraid of the Ring?  For that matter, why was Elrond also unable to see its potential?  The Ring did not have to be evil in itself; Sauron was the evil one; the Ring was only a tool.  Oh, it was such a wonderfully presented and wrapped package.  Almost too good to be true.

          His heart had warned him against it, but he had not listened.  And if only I had…Then this would not have happened.  This would never have happened!

          For chained at the neck, hands, and feet – just as he was, deep in the dungeons of Mordor – were his friends.  Bruised, bloody, and bleeding, they remained with him, as they had sworn to do until the very end, Sauron’s prisoners, Sauron’s trophies, because of him.  Unable to help himself, Frodo began to weep quietly.

          That thought broke his heart.

          “You can not wield it!  None of us can!”  Aragon had said those words what seemed ages ago, at the Council of Elrond.  He had seemed so strong then, so sure of himself…and knowing was a king made it so easy to believe in him – at least, it was easy in the safety of Rivendell, guarded by Elves’ magicks and with a wizard for a guide.  On the road, though, fighting death, failure, danger, and the destruction of the world as he knew it – destruction of the Shire, his home – Boromir’s arguments were seductive.  They were simple, and they came from a good man with a pure heart whose only desire was to save his people.  They came not from a shadow of a king who cared not to explain himself, and grieved not for an old friend.  Boromir had grieved for Gandalf…

          But the look on Aragon’s face when the decision was revealed was far too much.  I should have realized it then, Frodo thought.  I should have understood what would happen when he turned to me with those heartbroken eyes.

          The worst part was that Aragon had not even been angry.  “I promised to serve you with my life or my death,” he’d whispered.  “But are you sure this is what you want?”  But once on a path, Frodo’s pride would not let him turn back.  “Do you remember what Gandalf said?” Aragon had asked.  “The Ring knows but one master… But you are the Ring-bearer, Frodo.  The decision is yours to make.”

          And he had made it, made his friends suffer.  Frodo choked back a sob as he looked with blurred vision around their vast cell.  Beaten and guarded, none of them could escape.  They were all Sauron’s trophies, now.

          Above all, though, there was Aragon, the Heir of Isildur.  Isildur had destroyed Sauron all those years ago…and the Dark Lord of Mordor knew his foe when he saw him.  The monster seemed to delight in all their pain, but Aragon he mocked the most.  The Ranger had never given in, never allowed himself to even crack, but Frodo had often found himself screaming for it to stop in the passing hours.  It had seemed eternity, yet it had hardly been seven days since Gandalf was felled in the mines of Moria; they had not even been in captivity for the length of a sunrise and its matching sunset.  Only seven days, and the world had changed so much.  Everything he loved had been destroyed.

          Squinting in the darkness, the Hobbit could barely make out Aragon’s unconscious form.  Bloody and broken, the man who would have been king lay limp in his chains at the other side of the cell, his breathing weak.  He had been that way since Sauron’s creatures had dumped him there.  A dead body lay by his side, left there so the others would learn and suffer from the death of one who dared defy Sauron.

          That body was Sam.

          Tears flowed faster down Frodo’s bloody face, and he shivered in the darkness, not wanting to remember.  Sam…Oh, Sam… Why did you have to do that?  Frodo could have screamed in his misery, but did not.  Such things would only draw attention to his friends, for the Orcs had left him unharmed since the battle.  They were under orders to do so, for he still wore the Ring.  Frodo knew not why it had yet to be taken from him, but Sauron seemed to be waiting for something.  It was not that he could read any expression from the Dark Lord – his grotesque mask mad that impossible, even if he’d possessed a face underneath at all – but the Ring gave the Hobbit a sense of Sauron.  It was a vague and frightening feeling, but he knew the monster was waiting to tear the One Ring from where it hung around his neck.  Fresh sorrow returned to him at that thought.  It had been such a needless sacrifice – they had already lost!  Oh, Sam, why?  Why did you have to sacrifice yourself for me?

          It was his fault, and there was nothing Frodo could do to change that.  There was no way out now.  He had failed.

          Someone stirred by his side, and he turned his head to see if Boromir was awake.  The man was, now, once again, and seemed to have been for some time, for matching tears shone in his eyes.  Boromir’s lips moved slightly, but no sound emerged; they had learned in the beginning that such things only meant pain.  Frodo, though, could still read the words.  I’m sorry, Boromir mouthed.  So sorry…  He gulped back more tears and nodded as best he could, understanding.  The man had meant well, truly, he had.  But like all of them, he’d been touched by the Darkness in the Ring, and Boromir had seen but one way to save his people.  Still, though, it was not his fault.  Frodo had made the choice.  Frodo had failed all by himself, and now the others had to go down with him.  Breaking his gaze away from Boromir’s, he looked to the others.  Merry was at his right, either unconscious or senseless, slumped in a horribly limp way.  Gimli came next, his beard half ripped off and matted in blood; the dwarf’s left leg was also at an unnatural angle and clearly broken.  After him came Pippin, whose eyes met Frodo’s as the younger Hobbit shed unashamed tears for their failure.  Pippin was as cut and bruised as the rest of them, and his eyes, too, scanned the room nervously, fearfully.  Frodo himself was nearly beyond fear now – he could feel almost nothing save sorrow, a look that was mirrored on Legolas’ disfigured face.  A ragged and still bleeding scar cut across the Elf’s once beautiful face, and he too, looked back at Frodo with great despair.  There was a kind of loss in his eyes that did to the Hobbit what nothing else could do: it told him that there was nothing left.  Shadow would cover the world.

          Last of all came Aragon, who stirred now, stubbornly refusing to yield to the pain.  Why he resisted, Frodo knew not, for all was indeed lost…but it was not in the Ranger’s heart to give in.  His pained eyes blinked open, scanning the room, and at last meeting the Ring-bearer’s.  But Frodo could not meet his gaze; it was too painful to see that there was no blame in them.  How can he not blame me?  Even worse, though, there was no hope.  Suddenly Aragon seemed to twitch, reacting to something he heard from behind the door to his right.  His eyes sharpened, clearing, and Frodo saw him gather himself.

          The door swung open, and Sauron, preceded and followed by Orcs, strode into the cell.  Dark power seemed to radiate from him, and Frodo shivered, knowing pure evil when he saw it.  The others mirrored his reaction, except for Merry, who remained unconscious, and Aragon, who only glared, seemingly allowing his hate to fuel his determination.  But the Ring-bearer could feel things the others, save perhaps Legolas and maybe Aragon, could not.  He could feel a dreadful anticipation from the Ring, and could almost hear it calling out to Sauron.  The Ring knows but one master…  It sang to the Dark Lord, and began to burn against the Hobbit’s chest.  Despite himself, Frodo trembled for an instant, but, struggling for calm, gained control of his reactions once more.  Fearing him will not change what he does to me, he realized.  He will take the Ring no matter what.

          A deep and primal desire raged within him then at the thought of loosing the Ring, but he shoved it away, knowing it for what it was.  And still he felt it…  It’s mine!  I could claim it, rule it…  Claim the Ring, Frodo!

          No!  His heart let out the scream that his mind and mouth could not.  Boromir had failed in that, for none could rule the Ring save Sauron.  Sauron… The Lord of Mordor stood before him now, greedy and powerfully evil.  His hand came up, armored and disgusting, and Frodo felt the chain upon which the Ring rode pull taunt against his neck.  Just below his chin, the Ring strained against its boundaries, moving inevitably toward its master.  Pain tore through the Hobbit and he cried out, feeling the One Ring sever itself from him completely, and a horrible emptiness consumed him even as the chain broke and the Ring returned to its master’s hand for the final time.

          As the Dark Lord placed the Ring on his finger, Frodo screamed.

          Sauron laughed.

          The evil eye came before him, and for a moment, the Hobbit thought it was only in his mind – then he realized that it had actually materialized, great and strong, before them all.  Aragon gasped in realization, even as Legolas cried out, “No!”

          And Frodo understood.  The possession of the One Ring allowed Sauron to find the Three Elven Rings for which he had searched centuries.  As Elrond had once said, the bearers of the Three would become unmasked if Sauron held the One, and their hearts and minds would be open to him.  The only powers that could stand against him were doomed because Frodo had been weak.

          Sauron’s head whipped to the side as Legolas struggled wildly in his chains, the normally graceful and wise Elf distraught with the knowledge that he too possessed.  With inhuman strength, Legolas jerked forward, nearly ripping his bonds from the wall with one effort.  He gathered himself, again, to leap at Sauron, when an unseen force slammed him backwards.  The Elf hit the wall hard, but continued struggling until an unseen hand smashed his head into the stone and he cried out, his body convulsing, and finally lying still.  With a snarl, the Lord of the Ring turned next to Aragon, but the Heir of Isildur remained slumped against the wall, his eyes closing in despair as a single tear flowed down his cheek.  Nothing Sauron had done to him could have done that, Frodo knew, but this final defeat was too much.

          A satisfied hiss came from the Dark Lord, and he turned away with one last look at Frodo.  The Hobbit wilted as the door slammed shut once more, leaving the broken Fellowship alone with their guards.

Chapter Text

“But all that has been wrought by those who wield the Three will turn to their undoing, and their minds and hearts will become revealed to Sauron, if he regains the One.  It would be better if the Three had never been. That is his purpose.”

Upon the wings of the eagle he flew, soaring high in the clouds, amongst the blue of the heavens.  Had one looked up from the ground, the great eagle and his companion would have seemed no larger than the smallest knat, seemed to be only the tiniest speck in the sky.  Even Elven eyes would have been hard pressed to notice them at all as they swept speedily above Middle-Earth.  The wind roared in his ears, and he found himself forced to adjust to its feel.  Somehow, sensations were different now…they seemed muted, less important than before.  Even the stinging in his eyes felt less significant than it once had.

His body, too, now that he could feel it, felt different.  He felt lighter, younger, less decrepit… There were less pains, and no mortal worries plagued him now.  What once could harm him no longer could, he was sure.  He had been reborn, not from nature this time, but from magic.  The age-old restrictions upon the Istari no longer applied to him.  That which would annihilate the likes of Saurman would not even sting him.  Only another of his order could do him harm, and even then, that would be hard to accomplish.  It was a strange and invigorating feeling, though it deep down inside, it frightened him, though he knew not why.  Indeed, even the bitter wind whipping at his naked body was no matter.  He only felt pain if he chose to do so.  He was alive.  He was Olórin once more.

Suddenly, he grinned to himself, feeling the newborn babe.  Changed though he was, clothed he was not.  Laughing out loud once, he reached outwards to the winds and magically created garments to cover his nakedness.  The Istari often did such things, but unlike many others, Olórin cared not for how he looked.  Such vanities were for those who felt the need for fame to feed their egos.  His preference was a simple Gray because it fit his personality, because it, like he, blended into the rainbow’s background of colors until called upon to stand out.  Of course, he had not chosen the color Gray; it seemed, rather, to have chosen him, for when he created clothing, caring not what color it took, it always turned out Gray.  He supposed there was a lesson somewhere in that, but he’d always been a better teacher than student.

Out of mild curiosity, he glanced down at himself, and started in astonishment.  Rather than his old, unassuming, if bland, colors, he was clothed in the brightest of white – white, like the silver of the moon, like the purest power in the West.  He frowned, upset, and tried immediately, concentrating this time, to attire himself in something more appropriate and less ostentatious.  But the White would not leave him.  Instead, it seemed to shine even brighter under the sunlight, reflecting its image, and his, off of the clouds.  Its appearance brought to mind Saurman, his old friend and new rival, who had always endeavored to look the pure and powerful one.  But even Saurman had never looked like this, no matter how he had tried.

That meant that something beyond himself had chosen this.  Now he was the White.  And that meant that more responsibilities fell upon his shoulders, though he had never asked for them.  Long ago, he remembered, he had not wanted to journey out of the West, had not wanted to leave his home.  He had only come because the voice asked him to…and old friends were hard to deny.  Also hard, now, was to understand the urgency within him.  Oh, he remembered the reasons, but something inside whispered that he was not himself.  It was hard to remember why this was so important, why he had to act… But he would.  Simply because he trusted himself, and believed in whatever told him to hurry.  He called to Gwaihir and urged him on faster, in the meanwhile calling again upon magic, to garb himself outerly in a cloak of Gray, outerly as what he once was.

Soon the trees of Lothlórien came into view, and the Windlord soared lower, skimming their tops and slowing.  Finally, they aimed for an opening in the trees, and he took a deep mental breath, allowing his mind to absorb the peace of the forest.  It was time to return to this wonderful and timeless world, a place – few, amongst the many of Middle-Earth – where he could relax and be understood.  Perhaps, even, Lothlórien could answer the questions in his mind.

Galadriel! He heard the scream and the
pain, heard its warning and its plea. 
Its desperate agony stretched out to him, at once hopeful and
despairing.  At the same moment, the
smell of burning trees and dying Elves assailed his nostrils.  Visions sped before his eyes of a destroyed
and ancient refuge, of suffering and dying people.  Beings of peace were now at war – and not by choice.  The Elves of Lothlórien were attacked…and
death hung heavy in his heart.  The land
he loved was no more.  So much like his
own home once, but it was no longer… Flashes of fires, arches, and Orcs
appeared before him, and he saw them without seeing.  But they seemed split; there were two images, each closely the
kin of the other and yet not of the same place.  Sister worlds, ancient and timeless abodes of the Elves – Rivendell!  Destruction
ran rampant, out of control.  He forced
his eyes open, his focus outwards – and nearly choked on the smoke that stung
his eyes.

          No! The same voice cried out again, fraught with despair and with power.  But this time it heralded a greater event –

          Agony, true and real pain, split his world, and he felt himself falling free of Gwaihir, spiraling though the air.  This was pain beyond mortal comprehension, and it reached him on a non-human plane.  He would not have felt it, had it not been something of an entirely different sphere.  But it was something unbelievably potent.  Power, black power, split Middle-Earth, and the Darkness grew.  The Shadow fell…

          “No!” This time the scream was his own.

          A black and red eye filled his vision, consuming his world and glowing in fire, and flames suddenly shot from his right hand.  Frantically, he yanked the ring from upon his finger, clutching it tightly, but not daring to utilize its strengths even as he fell from the sky.  Sudden power reached out to him, and he felt the nearness of evil.  He could have touched it, had he tried, but to do so would be to loose everything, his heart knew, which was working far faster than his brain.  Desperately, he tried to hide himself from that evil gaze, to conceal himself from this ancient and great power that was seeking to rape his heart and mind.  With a cry, he dug deep inside and withdrew as far as he could into himself, calling upon strengths not of Middle-Earth, but of Valinor, and concealing himself from this all too certain doom.

          And upon the winds of the world whispered a tragedy.  The Ring…

          Images again flashed through his mind, and he plummeted in seemingly slow motion.  Even as the eye retreated, unable to see what it desired, he glimpsed still more to make him despair.  Rivendell… Lothlórien… Homes and beauty burned.  Beings, innocent and exquisite, living beings had died – and for what?  The Ring…

          And blackness neared as he struck the ground with force enough to slay a mortal body, save that his body was mortal no longer.  The old wizard would have fallen.  Olórin would not.  Still, though, dizziness crept into him, and weakness and pain suddenly encroached upon his former feeling of youth and strength.  Finally, those feelings took over, and he was lost in blackness, drifting in a deceptively safe nothingness.  However long he remained as such was a mystery, but upon waking, he realized how much his battle with the darkness had cost him.  Few seconds though it had lasted, it had been a lifetime of effort.  Lying upon the burnt ground, he found himself shaking, not consciously aware of the stench of fire and death that surrounded him, until a wondrous voice whispered, “Mithrandir?”

          Of their own accord, his eyes blinked open, his body ready to respond before his spirit could recover.  His mind still spun, and the scream of despair and agony trapped in his chest made breathing difficult to bear. The physical world spun for a moment as his spirit writhed underneath the onslaught that was no more.  But he forced himself to focus, reminding himself sternly that he had not fallen, and could hardly afford to waste any moment of oh so precious time.  Celeborn stood before him, his beautiful face streaked with soot, blood, and tears.  The Elven Lord’s clothes were in tatters, and at his back was a score of equally bloodied Elves, armed for battle but rent with despair.

          “Celeborn,” the wizard whispered hoarsely, struggling not to let his voice waver in his sudden exhaustion.  He rolled to his feet, standing shakily, his left fist still clasped tightly around his burning hot ring.  Oh, Narya, do not betray me now…  A young Elf grasped his arm suddenly, trying to support him, but he jerked away, not daring to let anyone so close after his mental battle with Sauron.  He had always been dangerous…but now there were other reasons to fear.

          “Is it you?” the Elf-Lord asked with disbelief.

          “Yes,” Gandalf replied heavily.  “It is I.”

          “But we were told that you were slain in the mines of Moria,” Celeborn objected.

          Getting control of his shaking, the wizard replied with a half-truth.  “Nearly,” he breathed, shifting his focus outwards to the still-burning trees a bare twenty or thirty yards away.  “But I think others have suffered far more than I.”

           A wordless nod was the only answer he received, until he prompted the exhausted Elf to continue.  Gandalf straightened painfully and stepped forward to look him in the eye.

          “What happened, my friend?”

          Celeborn trembled slightly, and the pain of remembrance shone in his eyes, making the Istar’s heart split.  It was unbelievable that one of the Eldar could be brought to this…but as the Shadow fell, all previous truths became lies.  “Orcs and goblins attacked us yesterday evening,” he whispered.  “They struck just as the sun set, but the attack continued into the dawn.  We fought desperately, but they continued gaining ground… They seemed to be hunting for something, though, something they could not find.

          “But as dawn broke, Galadriel cried out for Elrond.  We knew not why, but she called to me that Rivendell was also under attack.”  The Elf seemed to gather himself and nobly pushed the pain away.  Still, though, his voice only held a ghost of its former strength.  “ But I could not even ask her why before she screamed and fell.”  He swallowed before continuing.  “The enemy rushed her as she lay upon the ground, and though we all fought to save her, Galadriel was clearly what they had been searching for.  They carried her from the forest…”

          Celeborn’s eyes searched the wizard’s for an explanation.  Although a great member of the Eldar himself, the bearers of the Three had forever been hidden from all by themselves and Círdan, the Guardian of the Grey Havens.  Even Celeborn could not have known that his love was a Ring-bearer.  So now he looked again to Mithrandir for explanation, as had many before him.

          “Sauron has the One Ring,” Gandalf said heavily.  “And the minds and identities of the Three are plain to him.  That is why she fell.”

          “Galadriel?”  There was little surprise in the Elf’s eyes; Gandalf had long since learned that they felt more than they knew.  He understood, though it hurt him to do so.  But heritage demanded a great price, and the Elven race would always understand, and valued the Three above all else. 

          There was no use in hiding the truth, now.  Sauron knew, which meant the world might as well, too.  “She bore Nenya.  Elrond, Vilya.  Now both are lost to Sauron.”

          Celeborn blinked, absorbing the information quickly.  He whispered, “And the Third?”

          Images of lost hope and falsely rekindled hearts flashed through his mind, and Gandalf felt an incredible weight descend upon.  The voice he had heard, the beautiful and sad voice that had intruded upon his blackness – that had been Galadriel.  She had known that he lived, known that he fell into Shadow…and escaped.  Fellow bearer of one of the ancient Three, the Elven Queen had known all.  And she had tried to warn him, tried to tell him of the agony in her heart, of the betrayal she knew was to come.  Galadriel knew the temptations and the power of the ring, but like he, she had passed that test…only to see another fail it.

          Just as he had failed her, and Elrond.  Two of the Three lay in Sauron’s grasp, though they had not reached him yet.  But they would; there was no avoiding it.  Already his creatures – Orcs crossed with Goblins who could exist in the daylight – raced toward him, and through Narya, Gandalf could vaguely sense their progress.  Unlike his fellow Ring-bearers, he bore a power entirely separate from the Rings themselves, and that allowed him to see far too much.  No one, not even the Windlord, Gwaihir, could reach them before the enemy reached Mordor.  A screech sounded above him, then, and he glanced toward the sky briefly, grateful for the distraction and the small excuse to delay.  Indeed, Gwaihir awaited him there, unable to land in the burning forest, but ready to do his part.  He sighed.

          “The Third he has not yet,” the wizard responded, unable to say more.

          “Is there then still hope?”

          “I do not know,” Gandalf admitted.  Horrible possibilities of a dark and terrifying future possessed his mind for an instant, and he closed his eyes against them.  “But we will have to act quickly to ensure that all is not lost.”

          Celeborn nodded quickly.  “Tell me what to do.”

          Taking a deep breath, the wizard began to speak.

          Arwen Evenstar rose as Erestor placed a hand upon her shoulder, turning away from the still figure before her.  Bilbo Baggins lay lifeless upon the small bed, and she had watched him for these long hours past, praying that he might awake and confirm or deny her worst fears.  But the Hobbit had not stirred, felled by the same force that claimed her father, Elrond the Half-Elven and lord of Rivendell.  But even as their master was taken, her homeland had been torn into ruins.  The armies of Sauron had attacked without warning and without provocation, in the small moments before dawn, and as it ended, Elrond was taken, leaving his daughter and princess to care for the Elves of Rivendell.  But she knew not where to start, so great was her own pain.

          Her home lay in ruins along with her heart.  For the last words her father had spoken to her, before the battle had reached their sides, had been of the Ring.  The Fellowship had been taken, he had told her, but before even that, she had known it in her heart.  Aragon was taken.  Her love had fallen to Sauron’s hand, and she knew she would never see him again.

          So many had been lost in the hours trailing the attack.  Her father and Aragon she knew, as had many others died in the defense of her home.  Also, Mithrandir had fallen in Moria not too many days before, according to her father, and that meant that all hope was gone.  The one being who had entered the dungeons of Dol Guldur and survived Sauron’s wrath was gone.  The one who could rescue those she loved was dead…

          “Evenstar,” Erestor whispered softly, drawing her attention away from Bilbo and memories.  “There is a messenger from Lothlórien for you.”

          “For my father, you mean,” Arwen replied bitterly.

          “Nay, Lady,” the elf whispered.  “He comes for you.  He gives the name of Haldir, and will say no more, save that his message is most urgent.”

          She took a deep breath.  “I will see him.”

          Erestor led her quickly through the savaged halls of the Last Homely House into what had once been a small but ornate receiving room.  All other, previously more suitable rooms, were filled with the wounded and the dead – and Arwen’s heart broke for those that would never have the opportunity to go into the West and had forever lost their immortality.   Oh, Father, what do I do?  She had been raised to be strong, the daughter of a great Lord and descended also from a great Queen, yet she was lost now.  News from Lothlórien, the home of her mother, could only be bad.

          “Lady Arwen Evenstar,” Haldir bowed to her.  “Would it be we meet again in better times.”

          “My friend,” Arwen responded sadly.  “What tidings do you bring?”

          “Ill ones, Lady, but not without hope,” the other replied.  “The Lady Galadriel has been taken by the Uraki, creatures of Sauron.  Lothlórien lies in ruins, attacked and burnt even as Rivendell was. Many of our kinsmen lay dying.”

          “ ‘And not without hope,’ you say to me?” the daughter of Elrond demanded, anger surging within her even as her heart threatened to drown in rivers of grief.  My father, my grandmother, my love, my friends…!  All gone and forever lost to me as Sauron’s reach grows longer!  But pain made her fury grow soft.  She whispered, “What hope can there be?”

          “I know all sees dark,” Haldir replied quietly.  “But I come from Lord Celeborn and Mithrandir, who bid us not to loose hope nor time.  Mithrandir had bid us to unite our people once more, as was done at the end of the last Age.  All who can fight will oppose Sauron.”

          “Mithrandir?” Arwen repeated dubiously.  He had fallen into Shadow… 

          “Aye, Lady.”  Haldir shrugged, but a light shone in his eyes yet.  “I know not how, but I saw him with my own eyes.  Lives, he does, and awaits us.  Messengers have been sent as far as we dare go – to the Grey Havens, to the Dwarves, to Rohan, and to Gondor.  War is brewing, and we ask for the aid of Rivendell.”

          Hope threatened to rise, but Arwen Evenstar was the daughter of her father, and she knew such things would not come to pass without great events.  And she knew that such great things had not been seen in Middle-Earth since the ending of the Second Age.  Hope, then, was an elusive and treacherous idea to hold.  But Mithrandir lives, and of all living beings, perhaps he knows how to win.  Desire to act quickly coursed through her, but she forced herself to pause and consider.  Now her actions were not merely her own.  She had a people to consider – and a Shadow to fear.

          “Tell me this, Haldir,” she said quietly, afraid to ask, but having to know.  “Does Sauron possess the One?”

          The other elf’s head bowed.  “Aye,” he whispered.  “He does.”

          She nodded decisively.  “All who can travel and fight will come.”  Haldir’s head snapped up in surprise at the quickness of her decision, and Arwen smiled slightly for him, feeling no happiness, but knowing he needed the reassurance.  The Eldar race was not nearly so faultless as it often appeared to those outside.  “We have no other choice,” she explained.  “He must be stopped.”

          “Thank you,” he breathed.

          Pain tore through her body and she awoke, and Galadriel, Elven Queen, bit her tongue to keep a scream back.  Emptiness assaulted her, then, and she realized the cause.  Nenya, her companion of millennia, had been taken from her.  She forced her eyes open to glare her enemy in the eye, noticing, even as she did so, that her once white and pure garments were now stained and dark.  Hair snaked and tangled across her face, mixing with blood and taking away all but the most inner of her majesty and grace.  Far worse than her own appearance, though, was that of Sauron.

          He hissed, and spoke to her in a way she had not encountered in ages, and had prayed to never hear again.  “I should have known it would be you,” he snarled in the language of Mordor.  “You, with the Ring of Water.”

          Galadriel fought back the urge to bristle at his mocking words.  “You did not know for long enough, Sauron,” she replied calmly in her own language, “And there are yet other things you do not know.”

          “Very few,” he countered, holding up his hand, with the One, borne as old, upon it.  “Very few.  And sooner to be less.”

          “Perhaps.”  Her voice remained steady, but panic raced within her as her sharp eyes adjusted to the darkness.  Figures lined the walls, chained as she was – the Fellowship!

          “Perhaps?” he mocked her, still in the tongue of Mordor, for the monster knew she understood it perfectly well.  And to the small light he raised his other hand, upon which glittered not only her Nenya, but also Vilya, the Ring of Air.  Sauron cackled with little humor, then, and shifted his body out of her line of site to reveal he who had been hidden from her.  Before she could stop herself, horror betrayed her.

          “No…” the Elf-Queen whispered upon seeing.

          It was Elrond.

          Much like Aragon, who lay to the opposite side of the door to Elrond’s left, the Half-Elven lay broken and bleeding, beaten savagely after undoubtedly giving an unprecedented amount of a fight.  Unlike Galadriel, the other Ring-bearer was a warrior of old, one who had faced Sauron before in battle, long ago at the Last Alliance of Elves and Men.  His warning, she had felt even as the battle in Lothlórien raged, and his despair as she had fallen moments before she’d felt the pain and the horrible intrusion of Sauron donning the One Ring.  She had hoped that her old friend, who had seen more clearly than she, would have the time to remove Vilya from his finger, have had the time to hide from Sauron as they had of old.  But such was not to happen.  Elrond, too, was doomed.

          But still missing was Narya.  He had not the third…

          “Not yet,” Sauron echoed her thoughts, knowing her mind.  Despair coursed through her even deeper now, for the One would allow him to see the minds of the Three…But now that she wore Nenya not, Sauron could only catch an echo of her mind.  The Ring knew her well, but without it on her finger, the Dark Lord could not see her innermost thoughts.

          So she buried her hope deep within herself, putting it deep down inside where Sauron would never see it.  She could not afford to let it out – they had but one chance, and a slim one at that.

          “That one removed the Third and hid from me,” Sauron confirmed, hissing with anger.  “But not for long.  Soon the world will be mine, and the last of the Three with it.”

          Pain tore through her.  He didn’t even Narya, Galadriel knew.  Sauron just wanted it.  Complete domination was his goal, and now he was very close to that very thing; only one of the Three kept him from it.  Three of the Seven he bore around his neck – the others had been consumed by the Dragons long ago.  The nine were born by the Nazgûl, his vile creatures and little more than extensions of his will.  The One he wore, alone, upon his right hand, mirroring the two Elven rings upon his right.  And, once more it glowed in the darkness, its previously hidden letters plain to the eye again.  The circle is complete, it seemed to whisper to her.  What you refused has returned to its master.

          Nothing she knew could stand against that.  “Why do you keep us?” she whispered, having to ask.

          “I keep you all as my trophies.”  She could feel his sick and satisfied smile.  “Those who dared to defy Sauron.”

          Unshed tears welled up in her eyes then, for she knew it was lost.  All of that, for naught… What fools we were, to believe the Ring could be destroyed.  But she refused to let the tears fall.  All she had left was her pride, great and terrible as it had always been, and she would not disgrace the Eldar race by allowing this monster to defeat her.  Rape her mind he had and he could, destroy her heart he almost did, but win he would not.  Not in the one place that would forever remain Galadriel.

          “The others I believe you know,” he mocked her.  “The Fellowship that your kin Elrond thought might defeat me, save for your precious Mithrandir, who fell in Moria – amongst them, your beloved Heir of Isildur, whose forefather betrayed you all, and his kin, Boromir, the Gondorian fool.  Oh, and Elrond the Half-wit, of course, he who thought I could be stopped.  And for good measure, I throw in Curumo, who you know as Saurman, who thought to become a new Dark Lord.

          “Many more will join you in times to come,” he hissed with pleasure.  “Those I wish to make break and make slaves of, those who will fully appreciate my victory.  Those, and you, I will keep, and I leave you to suffer together.”

          Thus Sauron turned away, striding from the cell and leaving Galadriel, Lady of Light, in a darkness like none she had ever known.

Chapter Text

"The wise speak only of what they know, Gríma son of Galmod. A witless worm have you become. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a serving-man till the lightning falls."

Such a host the world had not seen in an age; not since the formation of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men had such an army come forth, and no living being had expected to see its kind ever again.  Yet, an image of an almost-forgotten past marched forth, banners flying high as Elven warriors stretched as far as the eye could see.  They forsook peace and certain immortality for the bloodied slopes of war, knowing, in their wisdom, that there was no other way.  Armed and armored, they struck forth across the plains of Rohan, a choice considered wise by some, foolish by many, and far less.  Still, all trusted it, for Elves were long-lived beings and not likely to forget the services Mithrandir had since done for their world, or the sacrifices he had made.  Indeed, an almost blind trust drove them forward, for the Lord of Rohan had closed the borders of his land to outsiders.  In defiance of this order they marched, an Army of Elves led by Thranduil of Mirkwood, Celeborn of Lothlórien, Arwen Evenstar of Rivendell, and Mithrandir, the Gray Wanderer.

As thus they were met, the Army stretching miles behind them, by Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark.  Forward he rode with a force of riders behind him, worry creasing his fair features, making him look far older than he should have been.

“Halt!” cried he.  “The Lords of the Mark bade you answer what events cause an army of Elven-kind to cross Rohan without leave of the King.  Such things are considered an act of war in the civilized lands of Men!”

Thranduil’s eyes darkened, and, narrowing, bore into the young man.  His temper had already been frayed – a hard thing, for an Elven King – from the loss of his son, Legolas; this jibe was the last straw.  Before Celeborn could reach a hand to touch his arm in warning, he demanded, “You think to call the Elven race uncivilized?”

The past days had not been kind to Éomer, either; he, too, was not himself.  The Darkness reached out to all beings in differing ways.  “Nay, Lord – I simply ask why Elves dare ride upon the fields of my nation as if garbed for war!”

Thranduil might have answered, but those present would never know, for Gandalf rode forward, mounted upon a remarkable steed.  “Peace, friends,” he said.  “I will answer your questions.”

Éomer’s eyes looked upon the wizard in amazement, and the lines of care and worry once adorning his young features seemed to fade.  Gandalf, though cloaked in Gray, seemed to shine, even to eyes that had seen him before.  Also different from times past was the horse upon which he rode, whom Éomer knew to be Shadowfax the Great, a steed from the very lands upon which he lived.  But the King’s nephew held his peace, knowing that answers would come.

“The Second Alliance of Elves and Men will be joined in Gondor,” the wizard replied, “and we go to meet it there.”

“Second Alliance of Elves and Men?” Éomer echoed, raising his fair brows in doubtful curiosity.

Gandalf looked him in the eye.  “Against the Dark Lord Sauron, who has regained the One Ring.  Middle-Earth has united as foes of Mordor, save those who ally with him and Rohan, who stands by.”

“We know naught of these events, Lord Gandalf,” the Third Marshal of the Mark spoke in his peoples’ defense.

Celeborn interjected with a frown.  “Messengers were sent to Théoden King.”

“I know nothing about what you claim,” Éomer frowned, “If true it may be.  Gríma Wormtongue holds my uncle’s ear in all matters.  It is at his orders that the borders of Rohan are closed.”

“Then either let us pass or join with us,” Celeborn replied.  “For our matter is most urgent.”

Éomer sighed.  “Though I wish differently, I can do neither,” he responded.  “For I must bring your leaders before The Lord of the Mark, so then that you might explain yourselves.”

“We have not the time to delay,” Thranduil objected.  “Have you not heard, young one?  We ride for the fate of Middle-Earth.”

“I like it not, Lord, but I can not stray.”

“Peace,” Gandalf cut in again.  “I will accompany you, Éomer, to explain our purpose to Théoden.”  His gaze cut to look Celeborn in the eye.  “Perhaps it is that he also knows nothing of events as they have passed in Mordor  Regardless, I will come.  Is that sufficient for you?”

The young man nodded respectfully.  “Yes.”

“Then let us go, and let the army pass.  For as Lord Thranduil has said, we have little time to waste.”

Frodo could still feel the Ring.

It still called to him.

The emptiness remained, but the Ring’s voice still reached him.  It was a heartbreaking yearning that the Hobbit felt, for he knew that he would never touch that most precious of treasures again.  Now he understood the feelings of Gollum and Bilbo, and even so far back as Isildur – once you held the Ring in your hand, you never wanted to let it go.  But his torment was far different than theirs had ever been.  He had to endure the pain of seeing the Ring borne on Sauron’s hand.

The Dark Lord knew his pain, and Frodo knew he loved it.

Some vague corner of his mind remarked upon Gandalf having mentioned such things once…about how the Ring’s hold grew deeper the longer it was in one’s possession.  He remembered being told that wearing the Ring would only sink its claws deeper into him – but it had seemed so distant, then.  He’d thought he understood the dangers of the Ring, but he hadn’t. Frodo had not seen the truth until now.  He hadn’t realized what the wizard spoke of until it was too late.

And now Gandalf was dead.  The others were prisoners.  Elrond and Galadriel, bearers of two of the Three most ancient Elven Rings, were captured, tortured.  Countless had died because he had given in!  Middle-Earth will fall under Shadow, and it is all my fault.

At least he could face the truth more easily now.  Before, it hurt even to think of what had transpired.  It hurt even to think of Boromir, so proud and strong, calling together the leaders of Minas Tirith.

“Behold the Ring of Power!” he had cried, and they had cheered.  Even the Fellowship had been light at heart – except for Aragorn and Legolas.  They had merely stood by silently, watching and waiting, seemingly knowing the cost.  Frodo remembered how Boromir’s eyes had sought Aragorn, how they had silently offered him the Ring – offered him Gondor, at that.  And that was the worst part of it all; Boromir was an honorable man who only wanted what was best for his people.  But Aragorn had made him swear an oath not to reveal the Ranger as the Heir of Isildur, and Boromir stood by his word, even in the end.

Indeed, though, when they arrived, they were hailed as heroes.  Frodo knew not what they were hailed as now, though the word “fool” probably was a large part of the description after all was said and done.  “Betrayer,” though, he reflected, was far more appropriate.

But Gondor had been in sore need of aid in any form, attacked from the dark fortresses of Mordor and struggling for her very survival – and survival of the world she shielded from the Shadow.  So, with an army at their back, the Fellowship, led now by Boromir, struck forth, invading Mordor.  The road had been easy at first, but now Frodo realized that Sauron had only been luring them in.

Boromir, like Isildur before him, bore the Ring on a chain around his neck.  He had not yet claimed it, although he had become by proxy the new Ring-bearer.  Frodo rode by his side, placed there to honor his effort in brining the Ring so far.  The Hobbit did not dare use the Ring, for he knew he had not the power to control it, but he had faith in Boromir, like all the others – when he ignored the coldness in his heart.  Finally, they were halted by an army lying in their path.

The time was midday, but the sky began to darken, and soon the sun disappeared.

“There is something in the air,” Legolas had said, speaking for the first time in hours.  His silence had been unnerving, and did not help to lessen the shadow of dread in the Hobbit’s heart.

“Something evil,” Aragorn agreed, and for the first time, Frodo saw the Ranger shiver.  “There is more here than meets the eye.”

“Not Elven eyes,” the elf replied softly, his voice a haunted whisper.  “He is here.”  And with a trembling hand, Legolas reached forward to point amongst the Army of Mordor.  There, great, terrible, and dark in the front ranks was Sauron himself, once more in a physical form.

Boromir’s voice broke through their fear.  “Then it is time,” he said quietly, lifting the Ring to look upon it.

“No,” Aragorn pleaded suddenly.  “Not yet.”

“Why not?” the other responded.  “I must claim it to defeat him.”

The Ranger looked the Captain of Gondor in the eye.  “I fear for you, Boromir.”

“It is a risk we must take.”  And Oh, how courageous he looked – so heroic, that day.  Boromir had seemed more the king than Aragorn had ever been, in that moment, seemed a worthy heir to Isildur and the Kings of Men.  But it had been Aragorn, quiet and frightened, who had been right in the end.

And it had been Aragorn who had suffered from that mistake in the end.

“I claim the Ring!” cried Boromir the brave.

Frodo’s eyes filled with tears, remembering.  Why was I so weak?  Why did I have to fail them?  No one could tell him that it was not his fault – and no one even tried.  It would be a lie if they did, for it had been his choice, his burden, as Ring-bearer.  Elrond had said it, but he had not understood.  His charge had been not to give up the Ring…and he had failed.  In the end, he reflected, perhaps Gandalf was the lucky one.

 “What could possibly make you think that you might have defeated me?” Sauron hissed contemptuously. 

Pain flared, and he gritted his teeth, struggling to keep it inside.  All was lost, and yet…only pride kept a scream back.  What have you to lose by giving in? a small and wicked voice whispered in the back of his mind.  Oh, it was deceptively soft and falsely truthful, but he knew it for what it was.  The past three weeks had given him ample experience with it.  Everything – he stood to lose everything if he gave in.  Not in a physical sense, of course, for all hope was lost for the world, now, but inside he could not surrender.  It was not in his blood to do so, and he would not let his lineage down.  He could not… Having been trained and bred for greatness, trained for final victory in the war against the Dark Lord, he had become something far different – but his heart was still his own, despite what fate decreed.  Perhaps he had failed, but he would not let Sauron have the final victory.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, smiled a grim smile.  “It’s happened before,” he whispered through the pain.  “It will happen again.”

Fate, sometimes can not be denied, and all that ought not to happen, was not always so, even when Shadow falls across all lands.  So be it that all things labeled ‘last’ are not necessarily, and once more Men and Elves united, under the banner of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth.

“Arise now, arise, Riders of Théoden!

Dire deeds awake, dark is it eastward.

Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded!

Forth Eorlingas!”

Thus rose the nation of Rohan against Sauron.  With Wormtongue’s advice set aside, Théoden rallied his people to arms, and set forth to the lands of his old ally, Gondor.  The Riders of Rohan were the first men to reach the camp of the Army of Elves, thus sealing the fate of the Second Alliance of Elves and Men.

How he had hope, none of the others understood; to them, Aragorn was as great a mystery as he was to Sauron.  Even Elrond and Galadriel, guardians of still one more vital secret, could not fully comprehend what the Heir of Isildur clung to – he knew not what they did, after all.  Still, something unknown to his fellow prisoners drove him on; an inner light shone within him that even Sauron could not extinguish.

But the Dark Lord cared not.  He had time – all eternity, in fact, with the One Ring in his grasp.  However, he would not make the same mistakes twice.  Time he had, so time he would take.  The world was his to plunder, the Dark Lord knew, but he would still move with care.  Experience had taught him that the unexpected could be even the most powerful’s undoing.  So he would go forth cautiously, first assembling an army that could never be defeated, and then striking at the world.  All direct threats to him had been removed; he had the Heir of Isildur; Isengard and Saurman were defeated; the One Ring, he possessed; the Seven were either his or destroyed; the Nine were worn by the Nazgûl; and Two of the Three lay in his hands.  No one could stand against him, even the missing bearer of Narya, for one Elf, even with a ring of power, could scarcely hope to stand up to Sauron.

He chuckled to himself.  Whenever the last chose to show himself came, he would be ready.  An Elf with a Ring… what a foolish concept.  The weakness of the Elves’ Rings had always been that the Elven race was not a warrior race – what talents they had once possessed in that regard had faded over the passing Third Age.  Now, Elves were of the type of Galadriel: great, wise, and powerful – but not warriors.  Not warriors!  And one of those peaceful beings thought to fight him…The thought made him laugh.

Or perhaps the Third merely meant to hide for all eternity.  Well, in that case, Sauron would have to root him out, but that, too, could wait.  He had time…even with his enemies uniting against him.  If they dared to enter Mordor, they would be destroyed, for unless the entire world united against him – which, he knew, they would not; he controlled far too many of Middle-Earth’s creatures – his lines would not even break.  Let them unite and come to me, he thought with another laugh.  It only makes it easier.

Alone, Men and Elves were not, for joined were they by all still with a will to resist the Dark Lord.  The unification was not immediate, by any means, but when the sun fell one night to not rise again, those who had previously called such worries overreaction amended their minds quickly.  Thus another council came, a distant cousin of the one-time Council of Elrond, which had vied to determine the fate of the One Ring.  Now, though, no fellowship would be formed; the stakes were far higher.  Now the fate of the world was in the hands of not a very few, but of nations and races. 

Forces quickly rose from all corners of Middle-Earth.  Following hard on the heels of Elves and Men were the Eagles, the Dwarves, and surprisingly enough, the Hobbits.  Although not a warrior-people, the “Half-lings” chose to strike forth and avenge the four of their own that had risked, and lost, all.  Their sacrifice would not be forgotten; Frodo’s name was on the lips of all his people.  Few tried to argue against the “adventure,” and those that tried were shot down quickly enough.  This was a battle that would engulf the entire world, willing participants or not. 

This they called the Council of Gandalf, and it met under a starless sky in the city of Minas Tirith.

Chapter Text

"And it is not our part here to take thought only for a season, or for a few lives of Men, or for a passing age of the world."

          A long wooden table adorned the center of the empty room.  It looked to be made of oak, polished and shiny, but few of the attendees cared.  Upon entering the conference room, they looked uneasily at one another, hackles raising on the backs of many necks.  Old alliances and ancient rivalries immediately came to mind, and the assembled representatives instinctively aligned themselves along these lines, four of the humans grouping together as a wall between the four elves and the Dwarf, who stood beside the lone Hobbit representative.  Only one man stood separate from his own kind, remaining by the door and eying the others distantly, taking part in none of the suspicious whispers drifting around the room.  The atmosphere grew more and more strained, and finally, when the tension in the room seemed ready to snap, the door opened.

          Gandalf the White stepped inside.

          His appearance shocked even those who had traveled with him or had known him long.  No longer was he the bent and tired old man they had seen before, nor was he garbed in drab and neutral gray any more.  Now he was clothed in shimmering white, which was not even hidden by his old gray cloak.  He stood tall and strong, a silver staff in hand but not leaning upon it at all.  The only glimmer of color on his body was the thin silver chain around his neck, from which was suspended a silver ring with a fiery red stone.

          “Friends.”  Gandalf gestured, flinging his arms wide to welcome them all.  A slight smile flirted with his features, but it was a grim smile.  The old twinkle was absent from the wizard’s eyes, replaced with a deeply ingrained worry.  “Please be seated.  You will find names placed before your seats.”

          Many seemed ready to argue, but after a moment’s hesitation, the guests all made their ways to their appointed locations.  The arrangements seemed to have been tailored to break up alliances and friendships, for none of the same race or nation sat beside each other.  Gandalf sank wordlessly into the chair at the head of the table, leaning his silver staff against the wall beforehand.  There was silence as all settled into their positions, until, Denethor, Steward of Gondor, sitting opposite of the wizard, cleared his throat.  “I thank you all for coming to our aid in the time of Gondor’s greatest need.

          “As you all know, Sauron has regained the Ring of Power, had has captured all those of the so-called ‘Fellowship of the Ring,’ including my son and heir Boromir.  Therefore, as I see it, our first priority must be not only to recover the Ring, but to also save the prisoners.”

          “Your pardon, Lord Denethor,” Théoden interjected.  “I believe that this Council has been formed by Lord Gandalf.  Perhaps it is for him to say what our goals are.”

          “With all respect, Théoden King,” the Steward of Gondor replied frostily, “I say this.  “Regardless of who summoned you to this ‘Council of Gandalf,’ Gondor is its host, and my country has suffered much.  I believe I have every right to speak.”

          Dáin II, King of the dwarves of Erebor interjected before anyone could quell the rising fire.  “Other nations besides Gondor have suffered,” he snapped gruffly.  “You are not the only one who has lost kin!”

          His words stirred up powerful emotions fast.  Angry voices spat forth in agreement or argument, and the hastily-formed Council stood a firm chance of fading before it had even begun, until Gandalf’s hand slapped down hard on the tabletop, startling the others.  “Enough!” he cried in a terrible voice, rising from his seat.  There seemed a power in him then that none had ever seen before – and an anger, accompanied by strong disappointment.  “Sit down, Dáin, of the House of Durin.  We have larger matters to discuss than the troubles of one or two nations!”

          Chastised by the power and urgency in the wizard’s voice, the Dwarven King regained his seat.  However, he did spare a moment to shoot a hostile glance at Denethor out from under his busy brows.  The Steward of Gondor ignored him, but all present could feel the renewed tension in the air.  Then Gandalf sat down once more, the power and anger fading from him as if they never existed.  “I see we will have to start this in a way I did not intend,” he sighed.  “So I help you to understand one another, as you must, if we are to find victory.

          “To my left is Faramir, son of Denethor and brother to Boromir.”  The young man nodded to the assembly, studying them all in turn.  The handsomeness of his face could not hide the newly formed lines etching into it, though he did not know they existed.  All he knew was that arguing would accomplish nothing, though his heart told him there would be much more of that to follow.

          “Following him is Lord Círdan of the Gray Havens, who fought long ago in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men.  He is one of the Eldar Lords of old, who lived in the days of the forging of the Rings of Power.  He felt, from afar, the taking of the One Ring, and comes from the Western shores of Middle-Earth to bring forth tidings.”  The silver-haired elf nodded as well, his eyes saddened and a seemingly great weight resting upon his slim shoulders.  He hardly looked to be as ancient as Middle-Earth, but he was one of the first, Faramir knew, the Shipwright of the Gray Havens.

          “Next to him is Théoden, King of Rohan, whose army has joined us here in Gondor for the final war against Sauron.”  The old king met Denethor’s eyes briefly, communicating a subliminal message before returning the gaze of the rest of the council.  His bearing was a surprise to some; he no longer seemed frail, nor so old as much as he seemed distinguished and noble, with fire raging in his eyes.  There was much more to him now than there had been in a long time.

          “Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien follows,” Gandalf continued.  “His land is often known to men and dwarves as the Golden Wood.  He comes with a force of his people, bringing all who remain following Sauron’s attack on their home.  He is the husband of the Lady Galadriel, whom the Dark Lord holds in Balad-dûr.”  Celeborn remained still and silent, but to some there seemed agony in his eyes.

          “Halabard Dúnedain is a Ranger of the North,” the wizard said of the next man.  “He comes here in the stead of his captain, Aragorn son of Arathorn, who set out with the Fellowship as a sworn guardian of the Ring and its bearer.”  Neither Faramir or Denethor reacted to the name, though Halabard’s dark eyes watched them both closely as Gandalf spoke.

          “All know Denethor, Steward of Gondor, who sits across from me and has graciously allowed this council to be held on the front lines of Mordor, within the walls of Minas Tirith.”  The Steward nodded once, outwardly gracious but clearly impatient.

          “To his left is the Lady Arwen Evenstar of Rivendell, here as a representative of her people.  Her father, Lord Elrond, was also taken in an attack by Sauron.  She, too, brings forth a host of Elven Warriors to combat the Dark Lord.”  The beautiful elf nodded gracefully to them all, her eyes bright but haunted.  Her gaze flickered once to the wizard, and something unknown seemed to pass between them.

          “Dáin II is the King of the dwarves of Erebor, and cousin to Gimli, one of the Fellowship taken by Sauron.  He also brings a force of elite Dwarven warriors ready to stand beside us.”  Eyes on the wizard, now, the dwarf-king nodded as well.

          “Thranduil is the King of the Elves of Mirkwood, and is also the father of Legolas.  His army is the largest Elven host assembled in this Age, as his lands have not yet been attacked.  He has taken great risk in coming here and leaving his people behind.”  The Elven king remained distant as well, exchanging one glance with Halabard, of all people, before returning his gaze to Gandalf.

          “Éomer is the nephew and heir of Théoden King,” the wizard continued.  “He is also the friend of Boromir and a valiant warrior.”  The fair-haired Rohirrim gave a half-smile to them all, his lips twitching ever so slightly at Gandalf’s compliment, and his eyes grateful to the wizard for deeds past.

          “Last, and to my right is Saradoc Brandybuck, a Hobbit from the Shire.  He is the father of Merry Brandybuck, and the cousin of Frodo Baggins, the Ring-bearer.  In an unprecedented action, he has brought a force of Hobbits – or Half-lings, as some would call them – forth to war, who will reach Gondor within two weeks.

          “As for I, I am Gandalf the White, whom some of you have known as Gandalf the Gray.  I was amongst the Fellowship of Nine, but was separated from my companions in the Mines of Moria.  There I faced and destroyed a Balrog who sought the One Ring.  As previously stated, my companions, unfortunately, made their way here, and attempted to use the Ring.

          “They failed.”

          Silence hung heavy for several long minutes, as the council members digested Gandalf’s fateful words on their own.  Such a simple phrase – they failed – brought with it such a taste of doom that it was hard to swallow.  The elves at the table were the quietest, for with the exception of Arwen, all had been alive the last time that Sauron had held extreme power, and each feared to see it again.  Their people were not as strong as they once were, and men were fragmented, without leadership.  What would defeat him this time, without the likes of Gil-galad, Elrond, Galadriel, Elendil, and Isildur?  The worry was plain on their immortal faces, and ran much deeper there than it did for mortal men – save Halabard, who understood far too much.

          Finally, Denethor spoke again.  “It is good to know these things, but the question remains: what are we to do?”

          They were all too drained for anger; besides, none had ideas.  A long moment passed in silence, and what might have been annoyance flickered over the wizard’s features.  “That is the question,” Gandalf agreed.  “But some facts remain to be found, so I first ask Círdan to speak.”

          “I have little to say, Mithrandir,” the elf said slowly, “save that you have all my support.  Even at the Gray Havens, we have felt the change in Sauron’s power – I especially, when he took the One Ring.  The Havens are safe for now; they will be the last to fall if the defenses Middle-Earth fail, so I will remain here and lend what knowledge and experience I can to this mission.  The only thing that I must say for all here to understand is this: Sauron must be stopped.”

          The Eldar bowed his head briefly, glancing at his folded hands.  When he looked up, his voice was haunted.  “You have not seen a world overpowered by his shadow,” he whispered.  “I have, and I fear few here understand his real power.  He must be stopped, and the Ring must be destroyed.”

          Black foreboding stole its way through Faramir’s vision.  “If he is so powerful, what is the use in fighting him?” he wondered aloud.  “I ask not because I am afraid, but because I wish to find hope for our people.  Gondor has been fighting many long years, alone – but if what you say is true, My Lord, we stand no chance against him now, even with all the strength of Middle-Earth’s free peoples aiding us.”

          “There is no certainty in war,” Arwen responded, bringing all eyes to her fair face.  “But he was defeated once.  It can happen again.  It must happen again.”

          “Who, then, will have the courage to cut the Ring from him this time?” Denethor asked.  He continued relentlessly, then, but without sorrow.  “Isildur is long dead, as are all those of his blood.”

          “Nay, Lord – what you say is wrong,” Halabard suddenly interjected.  “The Heir of Isildur lives, yet.  But perhaps not for long.”

          “What say you, Ranger?”

          “Have you not listened, Steward of Gondor?” Halabard asked calmly.  “Lord Gandalf spoke of ‘Aragorn son of Arathorn, who set out with the Fellowship as a sworn guardian of the Ring and its bearer.’  The Heir of Isildur set out with Narsil reforged, but is now a prisoner of Sauron.”

          Denethor’s features flashed between anger and relief, but all those who saw chose not to comment, knowing the old feud – and Arwen and Gandalf remembered the words of Boromir, what seemed an age ago: Gondor needs no king.  Many had to wonder if the same words were running through the Steward’s mind, but all knew that it was not the time to ask.  Too much was at stake to resort to the petty squabblings of one nation or another.  Faramir, though, had to marvel at the words – a heir to Isildur, alive?  Gondor had many wounds in need of healing, and not all of them his father could, or would, fix.  What might a King’s leadership mean to the fragmented remains of Man’s once great empire?  For his part, the Steward responded honestly, seeming to set his ambitions aside.  “That bodes ill for us all.”

          “Worse than you know,” Arwen whispered, but even as Denethor and the others looked at her, she would say no more on the subject.  However, she swallowed quickly and continued.  “The Elves of Rivendell understand that it may not be possible to rescue those who are in Sauron’s hands…but we would ask that it is tried – both for my father and for Aragorn.  But we do not ask for miracles.”

          “I think, Lady, that it may take a miracle to win this war,” Thranduil said softly.  “I also recognize that we may not be able to rescue my son or the others, but we have to try.”

          “And try we will, Lord Thranduil,” Gandalf said softly.  “But let us move forward.  I believe that you the facts well enough.  We know of the army that the Dark Lord gathers to him.  We know that Saurman has betrayed us.  We need not dwell on that.  What you may not realize is this:

          “Sauron possesses the One Ring.  He controls the Nine Rings through the Nazgûl.  He holds the three that remain of the Seven Dwarven Rings.  And now he two of the Three Elven Rings.”

          Heads around the table snapped to Gandalf in shock.  “How is that?” Halabard demanded.  “The Three were hidden from him, were they not?”

          Gandalf and Círdan exchanged glances.  “They were,” the Elf-lord replied softly.  “From the beginning, those who wore them knew Sauron’s power, and when he forged the One Ring, they knew his purpose and removed their own Rings before he could discover their identities.  But it was not so this time, and in donning the Ring, Sauron was able to see the minds of the Ring-bearers.

          “Thus, he attacked both Galadriel and Elrond, taking them captive and their rings for his own.”

          Silence ensued again as each council member fought the turmoil of their own thoughts.  After giving them several moments to collect themselves, Gandalf spoke once more, his voice heavy.  “So now you know why we must act quickly,” he said.  “As soon as the army assembles, we must move to defeat him.  We must invade Mordor.”

          Some nodded, others merely shivered in fear, but Denethor demanded, “Why must we act quickly?  Nothing you have said tells me that we cannot afford to wait.  Perhaps that is what we ought to do – to pause and gather our strength, not heedlessly rush into death!”

          “Sauron is weaker now,” the wizard explained patiently, if tiredly.  “Wrenching the rings from both Elrond and Galadriel will have taken much of his strength.  You forget that he did not forge the Elven Rings.  They were made long ago, and never polluted by his hand until now.  They, like the One, still call to their rightful owners.  In time, that will change, and Sauron will gain control of them for eternity.  That is why we must act now.  Controlling the those rings by force takes away from his power.”

          “And what of rings?  They have done us only evil before,” Denethor pointed out.  “We clearly can not claim the One, so what is the use of dwelling on who has them and who does not?  I say that we ignore the rings, and we simply war with him by force of arms.  Is that not how they won the first time?”

          “We cannot defeat him by armies alone, Denethor.”

          “And how would we know, unless we try?” Denethor demanded.  “It seems to me our only chance.  Let us wait and build our strength before acting.  Let our greatest military leaders plan a campaign and bring war to Sauron.  Surely that is our best chance.”

          “It will not work,” Gandalf whispered.

          “For what reason?  Simply because a broken-down old wizard says it will not?” The Steward snarled coldly.  “There are other sources of wisdom, Gandalf, and they tell me that we can and will win this way.”

          “You see, Denethor, what he wishes you to see,” the wizard said softly, making Faramir frown.  But the old man’s next words sent a jolt of shocked fear through the young man’s body.  “The palantir are but another of Sauron’s many toys.”

          “So you say – but you could not stop him from gaining the Ring.”  Denethor retorted.  Then he turned to the rest of the council, who had merely watched in silence before.  Dáin’s eyes were light with curiosity, though, as were Saradoc’s.  The other humans at the table were swaying, as well, toward the Steward’s arguments; only the elves remained untouched.  “Why do we blindly follow his advice?  He has no greater insight than any of us.”

          Dáin nodded energetically.  “Given time, I am sure that other Dwarven houses would rally to our cause.”

          “We could even enlist the men in the South,” Faramir added.

          “You poor fools,” Celeborn said suddenly, making many angry eyes turn to him.  Unaffected, he sighed.  “It can not be done that way.  You can not give Sauron time!”

          “Fools, you call us?” Denethor spoke for the insulted members of the council, and Faramir found himself sighing quietly.  While he could see the merits on his father’s side of the argument, he could also quickly see the lines forming in their supposed alliance: humans, dwarves, and hobbits together against the elves – and Gandalf, who was either jumping to their tune, or different from what Faramir had always thought him to be.  His father continued angrily, “We may not be of the Eldar race, but that is not to say that we can not see clearer than you!  If we are to risk our lives – we, who cannot simply run away to the West – we will do so only in a conflict that we have a chance of winning!  I, for one, will not simply throw away ages of work in one reckless attack.”

          But Celeborn only sighed and turned to Gandalf.  “I told you that this would happen,” he said mournfully.

          Círdan spoke before the wizard would reply.  “Lord Denethor, you misinterpret what was said.  We call you not fools because you wish for care, but because you will not listen.  Did you not hear: in time, Sauron will fully control the Two, and then he will find the Third, and all will be lost.”

          “Even if we must act quickly,” Dáin put in, “I agree with the Steward of Gondor.  Let military leaders run the campaign, not some wizard.”

          Thranduil disagreed.  “You will soon need all the insight that you can get.”

          “There are insights other than that of an old man who simply knows magic,” Denethor said scornfully.

          Surprisingly, Gandalf chuckled.  He cocked his head.  “Is that what you think I am?”

          “Regardless of what you are or claim to be, there are other ways,” Denethor responded.

          “Nay, Lord Denethor,” Círdan put in, his voice deep and resonant.  “Why should you listen to him, you say?  I respond that you should because you have no other choice.  For if there is any who can stand face to face with the Dark Lord, it is Gandalf the White.  At the beginning of this Age, the five Istari came from over the sea as emissaries of the Valar, sent to fight Sauron, should he rise again.  Of the five, one has fallen, another is disinterested, and two have been lost.  Yet by our side we have the last, and fail us he will not.”

          The eyes of mortals swiveled to Gandalf; the elves remained impassive – having long lives and long tradition, they had not forgotten of those who came from the West.  To men, hobbits, and dwarves, though, such things were not known.  Each of them had always assumed that Gandalf was mortal, despite the rumors that had always circulated about him, and despite the fact that he had been ‘around’ as long as any of their people could remember, never changing and never aging.  Of course, he seemed ancient already, so even if he had looked older, it would have been extremely hard to tell.  In fact, the only change any of them had ever seen from him had come very recently…when he became Gandalf the White, and no longer Gray.

          “That is true,” the wizard confirmed calmly.  “As is the fact that Sauron’s origins are close to my own.  I know him not, nor does he know me, but I am capable of opposing him, should that be our last chance.”

          “How is that?” Faramir asked quietly, careful to sound respectful.  He had known the wizard since he was young, and had always wondered what was different about him.  Now he knew, and yet there was still much to fear.  There were so many unknowns… “With all due respect, Lord Gandalf, Saurman fell to his power, did he not?”

          “Yes,” Gandalf replied slowly.  “But Saurman’s fall was long in the making.  Looking back upon things, I realize that he desired the One Ring for many years.  He was simply waiting to it to appear.”  He scanned their faces with his deep eyes, and seemed to realize the need to reassure them.  “I, on the other hand, have never possessed a desire for the Ring.  I have never wanted such a great power.  Saurman was intended to do what I now must, but he fell to temptation.  Therefore, I am now what he should have been.  Upon returning to this world, I was Gandalf the White – White to oppose Black.”

          The mortals of the council were quiet, seeing, for the first time a quiet strength and power inside him.  A sadness hung in his eyes, but it did not control him. There was something about his bearing that made them set aside all other concerns and think, made them consider the words that had been said.  Too much, indeed, was at stake to make this a power game.  Again, it was Círdan who broke the silence, creases of worry marking his face that Faramir sensed were not from the same concerns as the others’.  He said, “We can not ask you to face him, but we do ask for your leadership.”

          It seemed that Denethor was the only one unaffected by the wizard and elf’s words.  His eyes narrowed, and Faramir felt a stab of fear then, realizing that this was not the father he had known for so many years.  The change, before now, had been gradual; the lust for power had been hidden beneath the need to defend his nation.  Sorrow filled the young man, then, as his father spoke.  “Your advice I will accept, but in a battle for the lives of all inhabitants of Middle-Earth, I see not why you should lead,” the Steward of Gondor said evenly – but there was suspicious fire gleaming in his eyes.  “This war is for our future.  Let us win it.”

          “You do not trust me, Denethor,” the wizard said suddenly.  “And you never have.  Why?”

          The older man’s eyes narrowed.  “I have been warned about you.”

          “Have you now?” Gandalf snorted a laugh.  “By whom – or what?  The palantir?”

          “Such things are not your business, wizard.”  More contempt could not have forced its way into Denethor’s voice, and Faramir shivered.  Who was this paranoid creature masquerading as his father?  Was the lure of the Ring that strong?  He had only seen it for a moment, in Boromir’s ill-fated hands, but Faramir had, even then, heard its call.  Had his father, who had looked deeper into the subject, been seduced by it and all it offered?

          “Such things are my profession, Steward of Gondor,” the other replied evenly.  “And I know them well – and the risks of utilizing them.”

          Denethor turned to look at Círdan.  “I will not commit my forces to any army under his command,” he said.

           “Father?” Faramir hissed in surprise.  It was one thing to argue for the sake of power, but when the fate of their world was at stake, did it matter who led them?  Gondor would still be Gondor in the end, and Denethor still her Steward – but only if they survived!  Only if they survived…

          “Will you risk everything, then, simply for the sake of your pride?” Arwen asked suddenly, her voice remorseful and her eyes dark.  A great sorrow seemed to pierce the elf’s heart, and she wore it upon her face for all to see.  Something was eating at her, Faramir noticed; deep down in her heart there was a pain that could not be erased – a pain that his father’s arrogance only worsened.

          “I risk nothing.”  Denethor’s chin came up proudly, and Faramir fought the urge to groan and bow his head.  The Ring…it had to be the Ring.  Nothing else could have made his father act like this, made him touch powers that he could not control.  Was he lost forever?  Only time would tell.

          Dáin’s voice rose in time with his huge eyebrows. He began, “Lord Denethor–”

          “I see no proof that Gandalf will fare better than Saurman,” the Steward cut him off, voice sharpening.  “I see no reason why Gandalf the White should desire the Ring no less than Saurman, the White.”

          His words rang false, yet they still sent a wave of fear though the council.

          “But I do desire the Ring,” the wizard said softly.  “I desire it greatly.”  His eyes sharpened, and bored straight into Denethor, seeming to see right through his body and into his heart.  But they snapped away quickly enough, his intense gaze taking in the entire council.  “But I know what it would do to me!  Through me, the Ring would gain far too great a power, for I am not what you are.”

          “Should that reassure us?” Dáin clearly had to ask, but his normally loud voice was scarcely above a whisper.

          “No.  But this should:”  Gandalf’s right hand rose to lightly touch the ring hanging from his neck.  Using only the tips of his fingers, he drew it away from his chest for the others to see.

          “I would gain nothing by turning to Sauron, for I am who he searches for.  I bear the Third Elven Ring, Narya the Great, the Fire Ring.  Its powers, as well as my own, allow me see the Vilya of Elrond and Nenya of Galadriel.  I am bound to this Ring as they are to their own, and Narya is bound to the others as they are bound to it.  Through the Third Ring I gain a sense of Sauron; through my own powers, I hide myself from him.”

Chapter Text

“It would destroy you.  Did not Gandalf tell you that the rings give power according to the measure of each possessor?”

          Her voice sang softly within his mind, feeding the agony and attempting to give him an inner peace at the same time.  She whispered to him from afar, holding their bond steady – yet he could feel the darkness and the corruption sinking in.  She was strong, but even the most ageless of powers had their limits.  Even she could not last forever.  And through her, he could feel laughter, sinister laughter that told him that he knew.  But of course Sauron knew.  He was powerful enough to sense the messages following between the ring and her owner.

          Her.  Well, Elrond had always thought of Vilya as female, at least in the private corners of his own mind.  When Gil-galad had bequeathed the ring to the Half-Elven, there had been no explanation attached – there had been no time, then.  And never, after that moment, had he spoken of bearing the Ring, not even to Galadriel, Gandalf – or long ago, Círdan.  To speak of it was forbidden; the secrecy and silence was part of the unspoken bond with the rings.  The High Elven Rings were masters of disguise, and were only noticed when they wished themselves to be…Or by the eyes of a fellow ring-bearer.  To Gandalf or Galadriel he had never needed to say a word.  They understood.

          But he had to wonder if they heard the voices of Nenya or Narya.  Was it the same for them, or did each Bearer react differently to their own ring?  Frodo had certainly heard the voice of the One, but the One was different.  That one was a far more sinister Ring, one who only bonded with its bearer to accomplish its greater goal – the return to Sauron.  So maybe his relationship with Vilya, his companion since the Last Alliance, was different.

          Such curiosities hardly mattered, though.  The end result was the same: mental torment for every second that his Ring was worn on the Dark Lord’s hand.

          His mind swam, suddenly, and forced him back to the present.  His ability to distance himself from the world always worked for a little while; for a certain amount of time, Elrond could focus his mind on Vilya and remove himself from the pain of reality.  But that time grew shorter and shorter as time grew on.  Something contacted with his ribs, making him grunt.

          Pain was a feeling that the immortal were not well accustomed to, though Elrond was more used to it than most.  Still, if he had not been so inordinately stubborn – as his wife had called him, long ago – he would have probably cracked under the pressure.  In actuality, had he not been so determined to hold on, he would probably have gone insane the moment that Sauron placed Vilya on his finger and attempted to sever the Elf’s bond with it forever.  So far, the Dark Lord had been unsuccessful, but Elrond knew it was only a matter of time before the One Ring controlled the Two…and with them, the Third.

          Agony tearing though his body – it seemed never ending; one Orc simply replaced the last when that one grew tired of beating him – he forced his focus back to Vilya, despite the longing and pain that caused.  He couldn’t let go.  He had to hold to her.  He had to keep the bond strong for as long as he could…and buy Middle Earth time.

          And on the other side of the cell, he knew that Galadriel was doing the same.

          Alone, in the darkness, he stood.  Deep in the shadow of Minas Tirith, he gazed at the armies gathering beyond her gates, and sighed.  The world was changing; he could feel it in the air.  Great things were coming, be they for good or for evil.  After this time, nothing would ever be the same – especially if he failed.

          Fire glinted upon his breast, yet it was not a reflection of any star or moonlight.  Neither of those found a home in Sauron’s dark and corrupted sky.  There was not a place for light in this world; there would be no dawn come morning.  The sun had fallen beneath shadow, and the Second Darkness had begun.  Still, though, the fire glowed, heedless of disaster looming on the horizon.  There was hope, there, he knew, hope to rekindle the hearts of those who dug deep inside their hearts and opposed the Dark Lord, no matter what the cost to themselves.  Many in the army that he saw would not live to see the future, whatever it became.  But that was still preferable to abandoning all hope and encountering the Second Darkness.

          Such a small and insignificant thing, he thought, looking down at the ring.  To hold such power.  But his mind was on another Ring.  His mind was far away, far from the towers of Gondor.  And yet, which of us, if any, has the strength to wrench the One from his finger and destroy it?

          A shiver ran down his spine.  Can any of us do it without succumbing to temptation ourselves?  He could feel the evil in the air.  Sauron had learned from his mistakes.  There would be no victory unless the Ring could be taken from him, and no lucky chance would accomplish that.  Had there been a plan to take the Ring from him in the Last Alliance?  He knew not; the Maiar and the Valar had not been involved in that conflict – save for Sauron himself, the traitor, the dark one.  Had they simply left it up to luck, or had their leaders, unknowing what Sauron was in truth, trusted the strengths of Gil-galad and the Eldar to defeat him?  There was no way to know the answers to those questions; even Círdan could not provide them.

          But he did know that no power of Middle-Earth could defeat Sauron, except the Ring itself.

          Merry could not stop the tears from streaking down his face, and he did not care.  He tried to meet Frodo’s eyes, but the older hobbit turned away, deep in regret and self-recrimination.  Sniffling, he fought the urge to whisper his friend’s name – but he knew that would only cause trouble and pain.  Always there were orcs, goblins, or other creatures in the cell with them, and they constantly watched for conversation between the prisoners.  Incredibly intelligent the monsters were not, but they delighted in torture.  Whether they had orders to or not, the guards concentrated on Strider, Elrond, and Galadriel.  The others of the Fellowship they mostly left alone, and they ignored Saurman, the evil wizard whom Gandalf had spoken of so long ago, who lay unconscious and had been since he had been put inside with them.  Merry did not know what had happened to him, but he felt little pity for the wizard.

          But the sight of Saurman did make him afraid of what lay in store for him.  Bored guards had beaten him along with the others, but that had been nothing compared to what Elrond, Galadriel, and Strider went through.  Was that what lay ahead for the other members of the Fellowship?  In despair, he glanced around himself.  None of the others seemed willing to meet his eyes, either, except for Aragorn, who seemed not to focus on the hobbit at all, for his eyes were unfocused with pain, even when he blinked and seemed to look in Merry’s direction.  But all the others (not counting Saurman, of course) seemed conscious.

          Except for Sam.

          Stifling the effort to scream out, Why Sam?  The reasons seemed so senseless… What rage had taken Samwise and made leap at the Dark Lord, breaking free of two orcs’ hold on his shoulders?  What had made him want to do that?  They had already been captured, albeit after a long and hard battle – a battle that even Merry realized now they could never have won.  Sauron was too powerful…So then what had made Sam try to attack him?  Why Sam?

          And that broke Frodo’s heart, he knew.  Poor Frodo.  If Sauron had only taken the Ring from him, he might have survived this, but I don’t think he can now.

          Aragorn was right.  None of them should have ever tried to wield the Ring.  Even old Gandalf would have been defeated by Sauron, and the result would have been the same.  But that thought did not help Merry’s despair at all.  We stared with nine, and now we are seven.  Who will be next?

          Who would be next?

          Her silhouette was barely visible in the feeble torchlight.  Faramir had almost missed her, but something had made him look a second time and notice her slim form standing deep in the gardens of Minas Tirith.  Her carriage made the elf-maiden seem young and lost, in sharp contrast to her bearing at the Council nine days previously, and curiosity gaining the better of him, Faramir approached.  “My Lady?”

          Arwen Evenstar turned toward him, her sharply beautiful features captured perfectly in profile. “Lord Faramir,” she responded gracefully.

          “I could not help but notice that you look lost, Lady,” the Steward’s son said quietly, having been wandering aimlessly around the city for the past two hours, unable to sleep at all.  He understood how she felt.

          “Lost?” Arwen responded pensively.  “No, not lost.  I am merely…thinking, Lord Faramir.”  A sad smile crossed her face for a moment, and then she sighed.

          “You seem sad,” he pointed out gently.

          “Perhaps,” the elf replied.  “But I prefer to say that I am remembering.”

          Somehow, Faramir did not feel it was his place to ask, but his mouth moved before his mind.  “Remembering?”

          “Yes.”

          The sadness in her voice touched him deeply.  “Some things are best left in the past, Lady Arwen,” he said softly, wishing he could help her but unsure if that was possible.

          “And what of those you love who you can not reach to help?” she asked suddenly.  “Do we leave them behind as well?”
          Boromir… His heart wept for his older brother, and he knew he did not have an answer to her question.  “You think of your father?”

          “Yes,” she nodded.  “And of Aragorn.”

          “You know him?” Faramir asked in shock.  Despite himself, curiosity rose.

          Pain filled her voice, and Arwen looked away.  “I know him.” 

          Suddenly, Faramir understood.  What a strange twist of fate this is.  The beautiful elf did not simply know the man who would have been king of Gondor.  Her voice made it plain that their relationship ran far deeper than even friendship.  He hardly needed to ask.  “You love him.”

          Her eyes found him again.  “You are perceptive, Faramir,” Arwen said softly.  “And yes, I do.”

          The moment seized him.  “If you do not mind my asking, My Lady,” Faramir said gently, “Would you tell me about him?”

          “What for?”

          His response came immediate and truthfully.  “When we find him, he will be King.”

          “You will support him?”  Arwen seemed slightly surprised, but Faramir would have thought nothing could surprise the beautiful princess.  Then again, she had clearly known his father, and Faramir would be the first to attest to how little he resembled Denethor in all but looks, strength, and will.

          “It is my duty to do so,” he replied evenly, knowing that it was so – even if the man turned out to be worse than Sauron himself.  Faramir had no desire for power; he only saw the stewardship as a duty to his people, who were his first concern.  If the return of the king would serve them, then he would support Aragorn, son of Arathorn, with all his heart.

          She smiled.  “You are not at all what I expected, Faramir of Gondor,” Arwen said.  “And yes, I will tell you of Aragorn.  I will tell you of your king.”

          Again, his focus shattered as Elrond found himself dropped painfully to the floor.  It took him a moment to reorient himself, for the elf had not even realized that he had been taken out of the cell, but when he did, he realized that he lay bound before Sauron’s throne.  Two orcs grabbed his shoulders – one of which Elrond was sure had to be broken; the agony from that nearly made him cry out – and hauled him to his knees.  To fight them would have been pointless even if they’d not gripped him so hard, so he raised his head with an effort and looked Sauron in the eye.

          The language of Mordor had always been a poison on his ears, yet now the sweet tone that Sauron now took seemed far worse than any anger.  “Elrond the Half-Elven…”

          “What do you want?” the Elf-lord asked bitterly, struggling for calm inside, but he felt fear.  Once already had Sauron dug deeply into his heart, had raped his mind… It was an experience whose pain he knew would always be with him and he did not care to repeat.  The mental invasion was worse than any physical torture that the Dark Lord could have done to him – but what Elrond feared the most was that he would not be able to withstand it a second time.

          But he didn’t fear it destroying him. 

He only feared betraying Gandalf.

“The question, Elrond, is what you want,” Sauron said softly, and despite himself, the elf felt the tug of the Dark Lord’s words.  If he hadn’t known better, he might have been fooled.  But Elrond knew his history, and had lived through the downfall of Númenor.  He had seen kings seduced by Sauron before.  He would not be added to that number.

“I want nothing from you.”  The arrogant words made him cough, and he felt something stir painfully in his chest.  Blood trickled down his bruised cheek, and not from a split lip.  Inwardly, another small jolt of fear touched his mind… Internal bleeding would surely lead to death unless he could be magically healed – or taken into the West, which was obviously not an option.  If there was one thing that elves feared, it was to die long and painfully.  Their immortality shielded them from all but this…

“Don’t you?” the silk-smooth voice continued.  “I have much to offer you, Elrond, Lord of Rivendell.”

It was hard to summon the strength to say, “You have nothing I want.”

“Ah, but I do.”  Sauron smiled at him, and a small corner of Elrond’s abused mind wondered why the Dark Lord wore a mask in battle when his actual features were so frightening to look upon.  “I have the power to return much to you…Such as your sons’ lives.  I can give them to you.”

Longing pierced his heart.  No father wished to outlive his sons, especially an elf…and the pain from watching his two sons die was something he would never forget, even if by some miracle he ever escaped Balad-dûr.  What he wouldn’t give to have them back… Gladly would he have sacrificed his life for theirs’. 

“And your wife,” Sauron continued.  “If only you will serve me.”

For the briefest and weakest of moments, Elrond considered the offer.  It would be worth it, if Sauron would restore them to life, leave them to be free…  His wife had departed for the West countless years ago, and he had pined for her every day, so great had been their love, remaining forever faithful and always wishing to follow her – but worldly concerns and promises had kept him in the lands of Middle-Earth.  His mind cleared suddenly. But what kind of world would I leave them in? he wondered.  Surrounded by Shadow, would they ever be happy?  He cleared his throat, and spoke clearly.  “No.”

“No?” the Dark Lord repeated questioningly.  “Such a small sacrifice, isn’t it?  Serve me and I will guarantee your daughter Arwen’s safety in the coming war.”

“No.”  The word came hard, but he could not.  Elrond knew what it would mean, and he had no desire to become one of the Nazgûl.

But he had not anticipated the last hook.  “I will return Vilya to you.”

Elrond’s breath caught in his throat.  Vilya…he could still hear her voice, her pain, and her plea to be freed from Sauron.  The beauty and innocence of his ring was being corrupted and overcome by the One, and she called to him to end it.  Take me…she seemed to whisper.  Take what is yours.

“Serve me, and I will grant all you wish, including Vilya,” the monster said seductively, knowing the intense desire in the half-elf’s eyes.  It was so tempting that Elrond could almost feel the touch of the ring on his finger, its lightness, its power…  Vilya reached out to him, her song beautiful and sweet.  He felt his heart break.

“I will not.”  An inner reserve of strength allowed him to meet the Dark Lord’s eyes.  “Take your offers elsewhere, Sauron.”

Anger and pain lashed out to him with such suddenness that Elrond had never seen it coming.  He flew backwards, striking the distant wall of the throne room and almost blacking out from the pain.  His world cleared only in time to notice Sauron standing over him.  The Dark Lord hissed, “I will not give you a second chance.”

Swallowing blood, Elrond forced the words through his bleeding lips.  “I do not want one.”

Again he stood alone, feeling pressure that no other being could feel.  Pain, he felt, though it was not his own, and despair threatened to engulf him.  He would resist it, of course, for he had to do so…but he knew not what came next.  One step he had taken, followed by another, and now the Alliance was almost complete.  In a few short days, the hobbits would arrive – and then what?  He knew not the answer to that.  An army he had formed, and war they would fight, but Celeborn had spoken rightly.  They could not defeat Sauron by force of arms alone.  They had to take the Ring from him, and even that would not destroy him.

Only the destruction of the Ring would annihilate the Dark Lord forever, and the chance for that had been wasted.  Taking the Ring from Sauron would diminish his power, but it would not stop him.  The moment it left his grip, every resource the Dark Lord had would be bent toward regaining the One before his enemy could destroy it, and he was far stronger now than he had been when facing the Fellowship.  There were many more weapons at his fingertips…and he did not think that Sauron could be stopped from regaining the Ring a third time.  Not unless something more powerful than he intervened.

And there was no power of Middle-Earth that could face him alone and hold the Ring without claiming it.

Chapter Text

"Dangerous!  And so am I, very dangerous: more dangerous than anything you will ever meet, unless you are brought alive before the seat of the Dark Lord."

          Rank after rank of elves, men, dwarves, and hobbits struck forth from Minas Tirith in the greatest offensive Middle-Earth had seen in the span of an Age.  The great eagles soared above them, scouting ahead for any obstacles or dangers and reporting back anything they found amiss.  People lined the roads as they passed, some cheering, but still more silent and with fearful hopes in their eyes.  All knew this was their last chance for freedom on Middle-Earth, yet they still looked upon the great army with awe.  At the head of the van, though, were those who drew the most attention from friend and foe alike.

          United for the last time, the former members of the Council of Gandalf, the kin of the Fellowship, rode ahead of their armies.  Their faces were noble and grave; each knew the risks they took but knew they had no choice but to take them.  Fate hung in the balance, treading on a path the width of only a thread.  Still, though, those of the great army set forth with hope in their hearts; it was hard to do otherwise when led by the bearer of Narya the Great, rekindler of dreams and faith.  For Gandalf did lead them, strong, glimmering, and garbed in white.  In the past two weeks, always energetic and wise, he had become their banner, and their ray of hope. 

          For many, it became hard to think of losing with him at the front.

          But not for Gandalf.  He knew there was something dark before them.  He knew there was something left to go terribly wrong.  In his heart, he felt that not all was what it seemed, and not all was right.  Oh, how he hoped to be wrong…but he knew he was not.  Sauron had an unseen trick left in reserve.

          “I will not serve you,” she whispered through the pain, scrunching her eyes shut tighter against the oppressive darkness around her.  Always, in the past, no matter how dire her situation, she had been able to concentrate on an inner light and hold steady to her course – but not now.  Now, all Galadriel felt was darkness.  Hands touched her face and there was pain again, but this time it was of a different kind; invisible hands of power raked her exposed mind.  She fought the urge to scream, but clung to the deepest and most secret parts of her mind as her own.  Despite that, despair still threatened to overcome her, but she pushed it aside with difficulty and forced her eyes open.  “Sauron…” she hissed through gritted teeth.

          “You can rape my mind and you can scar my soul…but in the end, I will remain Galadriel.”

          There.  She had renounced him once and for all, and no matter what the cost, she would remain herself.  Silently, she made Elrond a promise, knowing that he could feel it, wherever he was.  Millennia of kinship through the Rings guaranteed that.  I will not break, she swore.  I will hold strong.

          Even though Sauron could not hear the unspoken vow, he seemed to know, and the pain began again.

          He had offered her everything there was in the world – even offered to make her his queen.  But the proud and beautiful Galadriel clung to the core of her being and did not let go.  She, like Elrond, refused to succumb to pain or to despair, yet the Dark Lord, for all his powers, could not sense what it was they held to.  Despite the power of the two, Sauron could not dig deeply enough into their minds to discover the secret he knew they hid.  Thus his determination grew as the days passed, and their pain grew worse.  Through it all, though, she had a constant companion: Elrond.  She could feel him, distantly, and was sure the sensed the same.  They clung to each other in heart and soul, and would not let the other falter.  His determination was kin to her own, and he held on as well, refusing to betray their last hope.

          Galadriel only wished that the deep foreboding in her soul did not hint that someone else would.

          Steel rang hard off steel, sparks flying and glittering in the day-night.  Torches lit the battlefield for the advantage of the free peoples of Middle-Earth; Sauron’s creatures could see in the dark and needed them not, often trying to destroy them and put their enemy at the disadvantage.  But the Alliance did not falter in the darkness, fighting on and on, despite the greater numbers of the other side.  The men, dwarves, elves, hobbits, and eagles of the Alliance had an advantage over the army of Mordor.  They were fighting for not only their lives, but for their freedom.  And knew that failure would mean death, so they shoved aside their fears and fought on.

          Until the Witch King, Lord of the Nazgûl, came onto the field.

          Orcs, goblins, and other monsters shied out of his path, not wanting to be near their general any more than the enemy did.  Dwarves and hobbits cowered, despite their previous courage, terrified of his black image.  Elves, even pulled away, overtaken by the raw fear that they felt.  And humans shrank back, unable to fight him with familiar fear clutching their hearts, for he once had been one of their own.

          The Alliance’s ranks broke, and combatants retreated as quickly as they could, fleeing the Black Rider as his winged steed landed on the center of the field.  Few found the courage to stand their ground, but they were nearly trampled underneath the feet of their escaping comrades, so joined the flood of once-brave warriors.  They knew the truth in their hearts: no one could stand against the Lord of the Nazgûl, Sauron’s lieutenant and former king of men.  So the Army of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth crumbled.  Except for one.

          Gandalf the White, shimmering brightly upon Shadowfax the Great in the darkness, stood his ground.

          The Witch King cocked his head, staring at the old wizard in surprise; the Nazgûl’s steed trembled in anticipation of the kill, communicating its rider’s feelings to all those who looked upon it.  The winged monster stomped its foot, eyes burning into Shadowfax’s, but the great horse was as motionless as his rider.  The wizard straightened in the saddle.

          “Go back to the abyss prepared for you!  Go back!” he cried.  “Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master!  Go!”

          The Black Rider flung back his hood, and behold! he had a kingly crown; and yet upon no head visible was it set.  The red fires shone between it and the mantled shoulders vast and dark.  From a mouth unseen there came a deadly laughter.

          “Old fool!” he said.  “Old fool!  This is my hour.  Do you not know Death when you see it?  Die now and curse in vain!”  And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade.**

          But Gandalf stood fast, moving only to draw Glamdring, elven blade of magic, which glowed white and pure in his hand.  “Return to thy abyss, Witch King!” he cried again.  “You are past your time. Leave this world to the living!”

          “I will take you with me, wizard!”  The very air seemed to change, and a pale blue light suddenly blaze in the darkness, gleaming forth from the Witch King’s blade and arching toward Gandalf, who sat rock-still upon Shadowfax.  The moment seemed to lengthen, then, as a deadly power raced toward the White Rider, threatening to end all hopes of the Last Alliance.  Screams rose from thousands of throats as if one, and had not another power held them fast, many would have rushed forward to take the blow for their leader.  But a power greater than the hearts of armies prevented that.

          The Witch King’s spell bored in on Gandalf, resonant and thrumming with power.  Still, though, the wizard did not move.  He remained frozen as the blue light of death closed the distance.  Held less than fifty feet away, Faramir felt a worse terror than that of the Black Riders’ King.  Had Gandalf felt the same fear, and instead of fleeing, been rooted in place?  Why, then, had he spoken so confidently?  Did he not know the powers of Sauron’s Lord of the Nazgûl – or did he?

          Still closer the spell came.

          Gandalf’s bright eyes seemed to meet those of the Witch King, whose eager shifting suddenly stopped.  The gleaming crown cocked to one side, as a live man’s head would have turned in curiosity, and suddenly, the old man smiled. 

          The spell disappeared.

          The Ringwraith roared a wordless scream of anger, his headless crown snapping back in shock.  One word escaped his lips in a hiss.  “Maiar…”

          Glamdring snapped up from Gandalf’s side as the Nazgûl launched his mount into an aerial attack, glowing even brighter in the darkness.  The Witch King’s blade burned red in reply and came crashing toward the wizard’s head.  But Shadowfax skittered sideways, brining Gandalf’s blade around his opponent’s without contact.  The Maiar moved quicker than human eyes could follow, then, twisting the elven blade upwards as the black steed’s side impacted with his horse’s.  Shadowfax reared –

          And Glamdring stabbed through the Witch King’s chest.

          Power reached out and whipped through the air like a physical wind, lifting orcs, men, dwarves, goblins, elves and hobbits off the ground even as it flung the eagles higher in the sky.  They all came down together in a resounding crash; Faramir found himself clinging helplessly to Éomer, only to be torn from him as they entered flight and were separated upon impact with the ground.  Struggling upright, he saw Shadowfax and the Ringwraith’s steed both go down, their riders tangled between and beneath them.  But the great horse scrambled to his feet and away as the winged creature screamed only once more, then was silent.

          Gandalf, the lone ray of light upon the field, shook himself free of the Nazgûl’s dying body.  The wizard glanced down and moved his lips, but his words were lost in the wind before they reached Faramir.  But Gandalf shook his head, his right hand returning to Glamdring’s hilt; the blade still protruded from the other’s robed and invisible chest.

          Suddenly the wind died, and the Black Rider’s words drifted to Faramir’s ears.  The creature’s hand snaked upwards even as Gandalf made to remove his blade, reaching for what hung upon the wizard’s chest.  It hissed softly, “Narya…”

          Its fingers made to close around the ring, but Gandalf reacted fast, thrusting his enchanted blade back down with amazing force.  The Witch King’s next word died in a screech of frustrated desire and then he lay silent.  Removing his blade, the wizard stepped back and watched Sauron’s army break.  The death of their leader was the last straw; all links forged between the forces of the enemy weakened and broke.  Goblins and orcs fled as had men, dwarves and hobbits only minutes before, eyes glancing with frantic fear at the White Rider, at whose feet lay the Lord of the Nazgûl.

Pain.

          He’d known it for some time now – hours, days, weeks or months that seemed like eternity.  The days bled together and distinction between them had grown well nigh impossible as time crept, or swept (which, he knew not) by.  How long he had been a prisoner, he did not know, but forever would have been less time.  He swallowed hard, wishing for an end that he was too afraid to ask for.  He did not want to leave the world, and yet he knew that it could not be long now.  There was not enough left of his soul to resist, for the fear knawed at him constantly.  I don’t want to die like this, his heart reminded him.  I don’t want to die.

          Legolas groaned and shifted slightly in his chains.  Oh, but he did wish he was dead.  That would be so much easier…even if it did mean endless blackness rather than the blissful light of the West.  He could have sailed over the sea many years ago, but he had never felt the urge.  The prince of Mirkwood had always felt he had something left to do for Middle-Earth – and now he had found it.  Found it in failure.  Oh, Frodo, WHY?  His soul lamented for the Fellowship’s mistakes.

          But Frodo had not failed them, not really.  The hobbit had been alone and afraid, terrified of being overpowered by the Ring, and what had he done to help him?  Nothing.  Nothing at all.  No, the Fellowship had failed Frodo.  Yes, they had protected him, but none of them had realized, in the beginning – even Legolas, hundreds of years old and supposedly wiser than the rest – that they could not protect themselves from the Ring.  They could not protect Frodo from themselves.  And so they had failed, and the Ring had gone to Gondor.

          Unwittingly, his blurry eyes found Boromir.  My friend…he thought.  Greatly though I love you, and view you as a brother in arms, you should have listened to Aragorn.  He saw the clearest of all of us, for he saw your intentions early on.  Or rather, should I say that he better understood the Ring?  All of us, save he, the Heir of Isildur – the one, supposedly, who would have been corrupted by it so easily! – did not understand.  I thought I knew what the Ring was when I offered to carry it, but I had no idea.  The Council of Elrond seemed so long ago now, left as it was back in the shadows of the past.  Everything before the pain seemed a surreal dream to him.

          Looking at Boromir did not make him feel any better.  The Captain of Gondor seemed to have shriveled and shrunk in size; Legolas imagined that guilt was eating him up inside.  Sauron, had, of course, found all their weaknesses and played upon them; he knew Boromir’s guilt just as he knew the elf’s fear of death by slow and never-ending torture.  Legolas had been a warrior for more years than any of his companions had lived, and yet he had only rarely been injured.  Twice, it had happened, to be exact.

          And never had it been like this.

          Pain made it hard to concentrate.  Pain made it hard to breathe.  Pain made it hard to keep believing… What hope did they have?  Legolas did not know the answer, but something made Elrond and Galadriel hold on.  He did not understand what, but both fought the Dark Lord with everything they had, and that had to be important.  Both, Legolas knew, had been through far more than he would ever suffer.  They were the Ring-bearers, holders of the ancient Elven Rings, and Sauron wanted, needed, their power.  His hunger for their submission was great.  Surely, it would have been easier for either of them to give in or to die.  But they did not.

          And while they fought, so would Legolas.  He did not know their reasons, but he had his own, and he was as much of the Eldar as they.  The same blood and strengths ran through his body; if they could hold out, so could he.  And he would do it – not for an obscure concept like hope, of which he had none, but for his friends.  For the Fellowship.

          He’d never such known absolute trust and dependence before joining the Nine Walkers.  He had not thought it existed in his world – and certainly not between men, hobbits, an elf and a dwarf!  Despite themselves, they had bonded deeply, a link forged hard as mithrl and just as tough to break.  Even now, weakened as they all were, they continued to draw upon their bond; Legolas would not be the first to let go.  None of them had asked him to fight on, but none of them had to.  Every day he prayed that none of his companions would give up, and he was sure they all did the same.  Perhaps it was a futile battle, but they all fought it, these people of supposed lesser and weaker races.  He’d be damned if he’d be the first to break.

          Even though he was sure that he would break in the end.

          Deeper they moved into Mordor, boldly striking forth onto land that no free creature had walked upon for years.  The Alliance’s spirits were high, though, despite the black sky in which one could not tell day from night.  The Witch King – Sauron’s chief lieutenant – was dead; that was the first step taken for victory.  The first battle, too, had been won, and men, elves, hobbits, and dwarves alike started looking forward to a future that no longer looked so bleak.

          So it was that they met their second battle, two weeks hence, in high spirits and with confidence.  Both seemed justified in the beginning, for the forces of freedom, though outnumbered, easily overcame the armies of Mordor.  Goblins and orcs fell easily beneath bloodied blades, and even the Ringwraiths remained in the sky, far above the encounter, only seeking out the eagles for battle in rare occasions.  Though their presence inspired fear, all knew what the Black Riders avoided, for none wished to suffer the fate of their leader.  So all watched, and waited, observing their newly declared enemy, the bearer of Narya, which their master desired greatly.

          Oh…and Sauron’s eye had touched upon that ring.  He could not reach out through it, could not feel it, for its owner was wiser than that – but he knew where it was.  Although he did not know who held it, the Dark Lord’s focus was upon it.  And he would wait until the right moment to seize it.  Until then, the Ringwraiths would watch the mysterious White Rider and report all of value to their master.

          Thus their presence, though alarming, could not sway the outcome of the battle, and free creatures fighting for their lives and freedom were far stronger than slaves of evil.  Courageously led and unwilling to give up, the Alliance pushed the dark tide back, assuring their own victory.

          But no battle plan goes perfectly.

          In the enemy’s last wave, Faramir, son of Gondor, fell mortally wounded by an orc’s poisoned blade.  He landed hard upon the rocky ground, barely aware of the screams and shouts around him.  Vaguely he heard the call of Dáin beside him, but he never felt the hands that dragged him to safety before he blacked out.

** Excerpt from The Lord of the Rings.  Page 811.

Chapter Text

“Sauron took the Nine Rings and other lesser works of the Mírdain; but the Seven and the Three he could not find. Then Celebrimbor was put to torment, and Sauron learned from him where the Seven were bestowed. This Celebrimbor revealed, because neither the Seven nor the Nine did he value as he valued the Three: the Seven and the Nine were made with Sauron's aid, whereas the Three were made by Celebrimbor alone, with a different power and purpose."

          “Will he live?” the voice drifted down to him, sliding around in the nothingness of his brain before taking hold.  It took him a long moment to realize it was his father’s, filled with more concern than he had heard for a long while.

          “The blade was poisoned,” the Lady Arwen replied.  “And has gone in deep.  All else, I can not tell you yet.”

          “Why not?”  Faramir felt a cool hand touch his forehead and remain there, gentle and soft, yet it was not a touch he had ever felt before.  A strange tingling snuck up his spine, but the pain did not lessen, nor did the blackness retreat.

          “I have not enough skill as a healer to tell you more,” she said softly.  “Lord Celeborn alone can answer that.”

          “How much longer?” Denethor demanded.

          “I do not know.”  Her voice was calm and quiet, yet Faramir thought he heard a slight annoyance…one he well understood.  Love his father though he did, the steward’s son knew his temper, and his impatience.

          Suddenly, new pain rushed through him, and a different voice responded.  “Not much.”

          “What?” Denethor snapped irritably as a moan slipped past Faramir’s lips.  He could not see through the black pain, but he could hear – and he could feel.  Oh, he could feel…

          “Celeborn?” Arwen asked carefully, concern evident in her voice.  Why could his father not be forgiving for once in his life…?

          “He will not live much longer,” the Elf-Lord said softly.  “I can only numb the pain and hold it back for awhile, but he will die.”  But I don’t want to die…  I don’t want to die!  Despair hit Faramir hard.  Now he would not even live to see the end of the war, to see if his brother yet lived – or to see if indeed a king did return to Gondor.  There were so many possibilities for the future, but now he would miss them all.

          Denethor’s voice took on surprising pain.  “You cannot let him die,” he pleaded.

          “I am sorry, My Lord,” the elf said sadly.  “But there is nothing I can do.  His wound is beyond my skill to heal.”

          Another voice drifted through to him.  “But not mine.”

          The others were silent, and the hand left his forehead, only to be replaced by another, slightly larger and more gnarled than the smoothness of the last.  Then Faramir felt agony, sharp and splitting agony, until that, too, faded amongst the blackness, and he floated along the river of his own pain-deadened mind.  How long he remained there, Faramir did not know, but finally he lost consciousness amid the alternating feelings of pain and peace.  Finally, he awoke, and realized with surprise that his eyes would now open again.  Even as he did, though, a blast of cold hit him, chilling Faramir down to the bones, yet it came on a plane that was more than physical.  Before his vision cleared, he heard a gasp, and then a cry of “Gandalf!”

          Clearness of focus rushed into him, and he saw Celeborn leaping toward Gandalf as the wizard staggered back from the overturned chair at the bedside, clutching desperately at his staff and leaning hard upon it.  The wizard’s face had closed tight with concentration and strain, and he stumbled once more.  The Elf-Lord reached out quickly to steady him.

          “No!” Gandalf cried.  “Do not touch me!”

          Celeborn’s hands jerked away as if burnt; the wizard’s breathing grew harder as he stood frozen in time.  His eyes slid shut and he mumbled softly under his breath in words that Faramir could not understand and made the elf’s eyes harden.  The Steward’s son followed Celeborn’s gaze as a tremor racked the old man’s body for a long second.  Narya the Great blazed like a burning sun upon Gandalf’s breast; it’s ruby glow seemed to reach out with its warmth to all those around it, and then suddenly went dark.

          The wizard collapsed back into the wall, caught by Celeborn only before he slumped to the floor.  Wordlessly, the elf righted the fallen chair with one hand and helped Gandalf to sit in it.  Although he nodded his thanks, the wizard still gripped his staff tightly, his eyes half-shut and his breathing finally slowing.  For his part, Faramir could only stare in confusion…Gandalf seemed to age years in just a few seconds.

          “Are you all right?” Celeborn finally asked.

          “I think so,” Gandalf replied heavily, his eyes blinking open and his left hand leaving his staff to finger Narya lightly.  “He is gone for now.”

          “Sauron?” Faramir gasped in surprise.  But how…?

          “Yes,” the wizard sighed, his tired eyes scanning Faramir’s face in understanding.  “He tracked me through the Ring, and when I opened myself to heal you, he attacked.”

          “You defeated him?”  Was the old and seemingly weak wizard that powerful?  Could he truly defeat Sauron in such a short battle?  The younger man gaped at him.

          Gandalf must have seen the hope in his eyes. “Nay, Faramir,” he said softly.  “I merely drove him away.  Since I am not wearing Narya, he could not gain a hold on me.”

          Celeborn frowned.  “Yet still he tried.”

          Gandalf rose, his mannerisms now steady and sure again.  “It’s becoming a war,” he said distantly, then seemed to snap out of whatever otherworld he was in.  “But no matter.  How are you feeling?”

          “I feel fine,” the young man replied, surprised to find out it was in fact true.  The pain and dizziness had left him; Faramir actually felt healthier than he had in some months.  “Thank you.  You saved my life.”

          The wizard chuckled.  “There was much life left in you, Faramir.  I merely kindled it and chased it back to the surface.”

          The steward’s son was silent for a long moment, then asked, “May I ask you a question, Gandalf?” as curiosity seized him.  He needed to know, had to know…and had wondered for a long, long, time.

          “Of course.”  Gandalf had always been patient with him, Faramir reflected, always willing to teach and to answer.  That was what had made the wizard such a valuable mentor and friend in his younger years, after all…The fact that Gandalf was never too busy to answer his questions.  In all the time he had known him, though, there was one thing he had never dared ask.

          “Why are you here?”

          “Here?” the wizard chuckled once more, clearly making light of the situation.  “Well, my dear boy, I am here for the same reasons you are, of course – to fight Sauron.”

          “But you do not have to be,” Faramir objected.  “You are not like us.  You are not human, nor elf, dwarf, or hobbit.  Yet here you are, leading us in a war that isn’t yours.  Why do you do it?”

          Gandalf’s face became thoughtful, and he was silent for a long moment, clearly weighing his words carefully and deciding what to say.  Finally, he responded, “Years ago, five Istari – or wizards, as you call us – were sent to Middle-Earth out of Valinor.  We came not to face Sauron directly, whom we knew of old, but to lend our power and our leadership to those who would stand against him.  We were meant to oppose him.  More I can not tell you.”

          Faramir nodded, still curious, but knowing he would get nothing else.  Gandalf had never spoken of himself or his roots before; in fact, Faramir had learned more about his old friend and mentor in four sentences than he had known in a lifetime of acquaintance.  “I understand.”

          “Do you?” Gandalf challenged him suddenly.  “For if you truly do, Faramir, you are one of the wisest creatures upon Middle-Earth.”

          The silence was almost more frightening than the presence of the Dark Lord himself.  It was not so empty as it was deadly, anyway; full of danger, pain, and betrayal to come.  In that room, the hobbit sensed, may convictions had been abandoned and lost.

          Sharp footsteps sounded behind him, and Pippin spun fearfully just in time to see two Ringwraiths come through the arched doorway.  Their armor clanked menacingly as they moved to flank Sauron, ignoring how Pippin’s goblin guards hurried to skitter out of the way.  They remained silent and wooden, frightening enough in themselves to a young hobbit, alone and far away from home. However scary they were though, the Ringwraiths were still less menacing than their lord, whose presence alone had caused hardened warriors to crack.  Pippin struggled to contain his trembling, tried to appear brave, but it was so hard.  He wasn’t like Frodo, or Sam –

          Oh, Sam…!

          From somewhere deep inside, the young hobbit found a reserve of strength he hadn’t known he possessed.  He found the courage to stare Sauron in the eye.  He whispered,

          “I will not betray my friends.”

          Laughter was his only answer.

          “You can torture me, but I won’t do it,” Pippin was surprised that his voice did not shake.  Perhaps his convictions lent him strength that he had not had before.  One of the Ringwraiths hissed in anger – or amusement – behind the Dark Lord, and Pippin knew he should have stopped there, but he found himself repeating, “I won’t do it.”

          “Foolish half-ling,” Sauron finally hissed.  “Pain is the least of your worries, but it will be your fate if you refuse to be my messenger.”

          Despite himself, Pippin squeaked, “Messenger?”

          He slumped into the small chair, pain pulsing through his body, yet comforted by the darkness and the loneliness.  While it was true when he’d mentioned his inability to feel physical, human, pain, this was an entirely matter.  This agony came from mental exertion and psychological battles – and his own overconfidence.  He hadn’t expected Sauron to act so quickly, and now that pushed every plan he’d ever made into overdrive.  All his expectations were shattered…what came next was now a mystery to him.  He had never expected the war to go exactly as planned, of course, but he had counted on anonymity for a little while longer – and he’d been careful to guard his identity.  He had said nothing that Sauron did not know.

          Except for now.  When the Lord of the Nazgûl had reached for Narya, he had feared the worst, although the prospect of Sauron knowing that the wearer of the Third was amongst his enemies had never bothered him.  No, it was the fact that Black Rider had identified him both as a Maiar and as the bearer of Narya that bothered him.  For if Sauron knew both, he might guess who the being behind Gandalf really was, and that would spell doom for Middle-Earth.  Surprise he had counted on – but he now might very well have been unmasked.  The very idea of that made a chill run down his spine.

          With an effort, he turned away from his fears.  Had Frodo only listened to his heart!  Everything was so much more certain then… But now they had not the chance to destroy the Ring and take Sauron down with it.  Without the Ring, the Dark Lord was merely another Maiar – with it, he was far more.  True, he needed the Ring to complete his powers, but with it he was far stronger than any other of his kind.  Otherwise, Gandalf reflected bitterly, he would have never made the Ring in the first place.  It might have held the risk of his destruction, but it also had the effect of doubling the Dark Lord’s powers.  And any pupil of Melkor could never resist the temptation to do that.

          So Sauron knew the bearer was with the Alliance.  It was time to get over that.  There was much more to worry about.

          Such as Sauron’s quick reaction, his attack upon Gandalf, even as he called forces into play to heal Faramir.  That alone could tell a great many things, and it was time to learn from mistakes rather than just lamenting them.  His confidence may have been shaken, but all things healed, given time.  I know him of old.  If anyone can predict him, I can.

          One – the bearer of a Ring of Power was forever marked by its signature.  Gandalf had known that from the beginning; only his other powers shielded Sauron from noticing that in the first place.  He must have let his guard down to heal Faramir; in truth, he had done so consciously, for he’d realized what effect the young man’s death would have had on the Alliance.  Denethor was skirting the edge of madness already; it would not do to have his son’s death push him over the edge.  They needed him yet, for without a Steward or a King, the people of Gondor would crumble. 

          Two – Sauron had been searching for the Third.  It was an obvious fact, but one that still bore paying close attention to.  The fact that he had reacted so quickly, upon so little notice and so soon after the Witch King’s discovery, told Gandalf that Narya was important to the Dark Lord.  Both knew, however, that Narya could never defeat him, even if its bearer could withstand the pain of donning the ring while the One lay in the Dark Lord’s possession.  The powers of the Three were different from the One; each had their own purpose, none of which were to destroy.  So either Sauron was becoming paranoid in his old age, or he just feared leaving loose ends behind.

          Three – Sauron had learned from the first time.  He had lost, and had had countless centuries to contemplate it.  So he was moving more carefully now, far more carefully… That was why no armies had come forth from Mordor.  The Dark Lord was willing to wait, or to make his enemies come to him.

          Until he’d known of the Third.

          And knowing that, he had not sent an emissary for his enemy to defeat – for surely he knew that the slayer of the Witch King was the Third Bearer – he had used his own power, and had reached through the one and through Narya to bring the Third under his control.  And in fighting him off, Gandalf had shown some of his own power, had given Sauron a measure of himself to think upon.

          Four – the Dark Lord’s will was now bent upon the Third Elven Ring.

          And he would stop at nothing to get it.

Chapter Text

“That is not the road that you must take.  I have spoken words of hope.  But only of hope.  Hope is not victory.  War is upon us and all our friends, a war in which only the use of the Ring could give us surety of victory.  It fills me with great sorrow and great fear: for much may be destroyed and all may be lost.  I am Gandalf, Gandalf the White, but Black is mightier still.”

          Darkness haunted his dreams.  Images of death, of friends long gone, and of his brother in happier times all flowed together in one grotesque view of a dreaded future.  They twisted in and out of his consciousness, making him toss and turn, barely asleep, until an urgent hand gripped his left shoulder and shook him hard.  Thinking battle had been joined, Faramir’s eyes snapped open and his heart began to hammer in his chest.  “What is it?”

          His page looked at him anxiously.  “Your father has summoned you to a council, Lord.”

          “Now?”

          The page held a robe in outstretched hands.  “Aye.”

          Faramir leapt out of beds, knowing that his father would not have him woken in the dead of night without just cause.  Despite the changes recent events had wrought in Denethor, he was still the Steward of Gondor and an extremely wise man.  And though Denethor did not necessarily agree with Gandalf’s methods of waging the war, he was an honorable man above all else.  His head might have been corrupted by the Ring, but his knowledge was still intact.

          Hard on the page’s heels, Faramir rushed into the night, hardly noticing the chill it immediately sent upon him.  Led quickly to his father’s tent, he pushed aside the entrance’s flap and stepped into the candle-lit chamber.  Around a low campaign table sat almost half of their command team: Dáin, Saradoc, Halbarad, and his father.  Frowning, Faramir looked around himself, wondering at the missing elves and Rohirrim – always the strongest supporters of Gandalf’s decisions.  All his former thoughts of his father’s intentions rushed out of mind, and he demanded, “What is this, Father?”

          “A council, my son,” Denethor replied deeply, his eyes betraying a slim ray of – is that defiance, or hope?  “One most urgent.”

          “A small one, I see,” Faramir observed cautiously, unwilling to fully contradict his father until he knew more.

          “Sit down, Faramir.”

          He squared his shoulders, heart racing and hating to do it, but even so, feeling the need.  His father’s ambitions had colored far too much of this conflict already, and that had to stop.  Sauron had enough corruption for all of them combined.  “Not until you tell me what this council is for,” he replied softly, still trying to avoid conflict, but knowing that he could not agree, “for to my eyes it seems a mutiny.”

          Fury danced lightly in Denethor’s eyes for a fleeting moment before he replied calmly, “I ask you to wait before you make judgment.”  The steward paused, and then glanced behind himself.  “First meet our guest.”

          Stepping to the side, Denethor revealed the small and cloaked figure who stood unsteadily behind him.  Without question, Faramir knew that it was a hobbit, but the importance of the individual’s identity was not immediately apparent, until Denethor spoke once more.  “Faramir, meet Peregrin Took, onetime member of the Fellowship of the Ring, and now messenger from Sauron.  The Dark Lord has offered terms.”

          “Peregrin Took?” Faramir echoed in a whisper, realizing immediately what that meant.  A member of the Fellowship had been released…this small being was the first to leave the dungeons of Barad-dûr alive.  The half-ling nodded, and while he moved, the Steward’s son noticed the bruises discoloring his face and the pain in his eyes.

          “Will you listen to me?” he asked in a small voice, and Faramir heard fear.  Nodding silently, he took his seat and watched Saradoc rise and help Peregrin to another place at the foot at the table.  Finally, Denethor nodded to the hobbit, and the messenger began to speak.  “I am here,” the hobbit whispered in a tiny voice, “as Sauron’s messenger.”

          Pippin paused and trembled, but not a soul spoke a word.  Had a pin dropped in that tent, its sound would have echoed most noisily – the silence was that deep.  Faramir and the others waited for him to gather his courage, holding their breath; the implication of Pippin’s presence was larger than they could comprehend at first though.  Why, they had to wonder, would the Dark Lord send a mere, simple-minded hobbit as his messenger?  Why not send one of his own, or still yet someone of more importance to the Fellowship?

          Finally, the young hobbit continued uneasily.  “Lord Sauron offers terms to his enemies… he offers favor to those who would stop now,” Pippin gulped.  “He says that if you remain neutral, he will be merciful…Or if you ally with him, he will reward you greatly.”

          “If he gives us terms, he must be desperate,” Dáin growled.  “I say we do nothing.  We give him nothing.”

          “Besides, who is to say that he would keep his word, anyway?” Saradoc asked in agreement.  “He has always been known for trickery.”

          “I would not believe him.”  Faramir nodded slowly.  Still, though, he had to wonder why his heart remained in his throat.  There had to be something yet to come…

          “Aye,” Halbarad replied softly.  “That is true.  I doubt he released a member of the Fellowship merely to make us empty offers.”

          Dáin snorted.  “His doing this shows the contempt he holds us in,” he snarled.  “He means not to give us anything.”

          “We need to return Peregrin to him with an answer, do we?” Saradoc suddenly wondered, worry evident on his face. 

          “If we are not bargaining with him, I would say no,” Faramir replied, even though all did not feel right.  His heart clenched like a rock in his throat.

          “Hold,” Denethor said abruptly; his confident voice told them that he already knew what was to come, a fact that only increased Faramir’s worries.  “Hear the rest of what Peregrin Took has to say.”

          All eyes again went to the beaten hobbit, who shivered and hesitated before speaking.  “Sauron says that he will release the Fellowship of the Ring…” he trailed off uneasily.

          Sharp foreboding rose like spicy bile in Faramir’s throat, even as Halbarad seemed to hold his breath.  The Ranger’s eyes closed over with worry and his lips turned white has his teeth bit into the insides of his mouth.  Frowning, the other man watched the hobbit with – not quite suspicion, but warily all the same.  The Steward’s son demanded, “In exchange for what?”

          Pippin frowned in confusion, his still-innocent eyes wondering.  “The bearer of the Third Elven Ring?”

          “What?” Halbarad’s voice snapped out like a thunderclap.  Fire raged through the Ranger’s eyes as the hobbit continued, his voice a fearful half-plea:

          “And the Ring itself…”

          Faramir saw the others’ eyes turn thoughtful and began to feel sick inside.  His father’s head nodded sagely, and Dáin chewed on his lower lip – and Saradoc, too, looked as if he was considering the implications of the offer.  Only Halbarad, the most unlikely of allies, seemed unswayed, and even angered, by the idea.  For a moment, Faramir forced himself to view the situation objectively, in terms of gains and losses.  While they would receive eight ill-fated heroes, in return they would lose the leader and mover of the war against Sauron…But some of the others would not be entirely disappointed by that possibility; ill will and jealousy had followed Gandalf from the beginning.

          “Would he return them all to us?” Denethor asked to fill the short silence, his face tight and unreadable – but Faramir saw anticipation in his eyes.

          Pippin opened his mouth to speak, but Halbarad’s hand slapped down on the table with force enough to spill Denethor’s glass of wine.  He shot to his feet, fuming with anger.  “I will not hear of this!” he thundered.  “Such dishonor mocks all we are fighting for!”

          Upon saying this, he spun and stormed from the tent, followed only by Faramir’s call of “Halbarad!” in his wake.  But the Ranger did not stop, leaving the Steward’s son to lament in his absence – alone with his opinion and the undeniable wrongness of the situation.  Now he stood single-handed, one against three who might very well turn against all they believed in…all for an easy way out.  Did Faramir trust Sauron for an instant?  No.  Did they?  Probably no more than he, but still they considered – the lure of their loved ones’ return was too strong.  Faramir frowned to himself; he felt the longing, too!  Why could the others not see…?

          “He will not release Lord Elrond or the Lady Galadriel,” Pippin’s small voice continued.  “Because they were not part of the Fellowship.  But the others he will return.”

          “How do we know he speaks the truth?” Dáin asked, and Faramir reflected upon the irony of his words.  Five minutes ago, the dwarven king had advocated giving nothing to Sauron.  Now, desire had overtaken him and he had snapped up the bait.

          “Lord Sauron wishes to end the war,” Pippin whispered, his voice still shaking, and Faramir had to wonder what the poor hobbit had gone through…he had clearly been hurt badly and frightened – so what treatment did that mean the rest of the Fellowship had received?

          “What do you think?” Denethor asked suddenly and with uncharacteristic compassion.  Faramir looked at him with surprise, wondering when the last time he had heard such feelings from his father had been.  What was it that brought such things out from under years past – power to make decisions?  Or was it merely a matter of convenience?  Faramir did not know, and while he yearned for its return, such things made him worry.

          “I don’t know,” the hobbit admitted.  “He wants the Third Ring a lot.”

          Denethor nodded thoughtfully, but Faramir forestalled his answer, earning a sharp and displeased look from his father, saying, “All the more reason not to give it to him.”

          “But what good has the Third Ring done us?” Saradoc wondered.

          “What good has Gandalf done us?” the dwarf added gruffly.  His eyes narrowed under bushy brows.  “I do not trust wizards.”

          All the others, save Faramir and Pippin, nodded in agreement – and that was when he knew all was lost.  Still, though, he had to try.  “What good?” he challenged, but could not keep the pleading tone out of his voice.  “He had led us to victory not once or twice, but in four separate battles!  He has brought us further than any dared dream we could go – and he understands Sauron.  Is not that important?”

          “By making himself a target, Dáin pointed out.  “And what has he done with that ring?  Nothing, I tell you.  He hasn’t used it because he’s afraid to!”

          “I would hardly call Gandalf afraid,” Faramir said dryly, trying desperately to still the worry inside himself.  “Cautious, yes – but afraid, no.”

          Denethor snarled contemptuously.  “Cautious, then, if you prefer that word,” he stated.  “Regardless, his caution keeps him from using the only tool we have against Sauron.  Pah!  I say it is time to take some risks!”  Dáin and Saradoc nodded in reply; Pippin only continued looking on with frightened eyes.  Faramir opened his mouth go object, but Denethor continued, “Even if it means trusting Sauron.”

          “But who are you to decide that?”  The arguments came out of him in a rush, almost without conscious thought.  Why could they not see how wrong this was?  Why would they squander the only chance that Middle-Earth had?  Faramir’s heart teetered on the edge of a precipice, screaming out that everything would be lost – “Where are Thranduil, Théoden, and Éomer?  Where is the Lady Arwen, or our leader, Gandalf?  Should they not have a say in this?”

          Denethor’s voice became acid and aloof.  “Your thoughts are noted, my son, but I need not explain myself to you,” he replied.  Then, with deceptive calm and slowness, he turned toward the chamber’s entrance, calling, “Guards!”
          Four of the steward’s guards entered the tent in a flash, and without being told, moved to flank Faramir.  Their faces were set like the stone states of kings of old; if they were unhappy about the situation, it was impossible to tell.  But the most important fact was that they knew.  They had known whom to arrest before even entering the tent…which meant that Denethor had planned out every moment with especial care.  Faramir looked between the guards with distress, feeling betrayed not only by those he had held as friends, but also by his own father – his own father!  It was comforting to be used and discarded as a pawn to his father’s ambitions.

          Sighing, Faramir allowed his arms to be taken; all hope deserted him then.  It was no longer worth fighting… Was that what Darkness did to the world?  Did it remove all honor from all he knew?

          “I am sorry, my son,” Denethor said, but his tone held neither regret nor pain.  “But I cannot allow you to interfere.  What I do is for the best.”

          Sadness weighed heavy upon his heart, and Faramir whispered in reply, “I hope so.”

          He allowed the soldiers to lead him out; their hands were hardly gentle, but nor were they cruel.  He still possessed their respect – but that meant little to him now.  As they led him away, Faramir stole one last look over his shoulder at the honorable but misguided faces of those he had once held as friends or family.  Amongst them, the one that stood out the most was Pippin’s; the hobbit’s frightened and hurt eyes were focused on him with a strange kind of despair, and suddenly the Steward’s son realized that Peregrin Took’s desire mirrored his own.  He wished that they had said no.

          Halbarad rushed into the darkness, red-hot fury warring with the need for control.  The coolness of night – was it truly night, or merely dark outside? – forced a deep breath into him, though, and gave him a moment to think.  Yes, he had made the right decision; nothing he could have done would have changed their minds.  The odds had been two against three, but Faramir loved his father.  The Steward’s son would make the right decision, but his feelings would make him hesitate.

          And as in any battle, a second’s hesitation could mean death.

          A ragged sigh escaped the Ranger’s tight chest.  Oh, the offer was tempting, so  tempting – was there any reason he would not desire the return of his liege?  Halbarad had no ambition save to see his kinsmen on the lost throne of Gondor and Arnor; he’d worked all his life to see the Heir of Isildur return home, even before he had known Aragorn, who he had come to love as a brother.  But as much as he desired his leader’s return, he would not do it like this – not even had the entire council of men, dwarves, hobbits, and elves concurred.  Even had it been Gandalf’s choice, the Ranger would not have agreed.  Aragorn would not have wanted it that way.

          However, the decision had not been one of a unified council; it had been made in shadows and secrecy worthy of Mordor itself.  Also, no doubt upon Denethor’s treacherous orders, the camp was closing up and securing itself.  The Steward of Gondor meant to act…and to the doom of all, he would do whatever he pleased.  Denethor the Deceiver was clearly determined to defend his decision and go through with his mockery of justice.

          Someone, Halbarad mused, would have to say no to the man.

          Pippin was gone.  Dead, perhaps – he knew not – but gone.  The youngest and most innocent of the hobbits had been taken by their guards several hours ago, and had never returned.  But for all he knew, days could have passed since then.  Consciousness blurred illusively in and out; it was hard to tell time in that painful place.  There was no light, only darkness…agonizing and oppressing darkness, all blending together and never ending.  He found it hard not to lose himself in despair because of that; such was the war he fought in every waking moment.  Inevitably, his would be a loosing battle, but still he fought on.

          Aragorn blinked, struggling to focus through the pain.  With a start, he realized that all their guards were gone.  The Fellowship was alone.  A shudder ripped though him, then, as he noticed something else.  They were alone, truly alone.  Elrond and Galadriel, too, were missing, taken time ago and undoubtedly still living, if only for the same reasons as he: for Sauron’s pleasure and because he had the time to spend breaking them.  Forming them.  Bending them to his will.

          The heir of Isildur smiled grimly.  In the end, the Dark Lord might win, but he’d make him pay the price.

Chapter Text

“There are many powers in this world, for good or for evil.  Some are greater than I am.  Against some I have not yet been measured.  But my time is coming.”

          Hands reached out to him in the darkness, and as pain jerked him fully into consciousness, Aragorn realized that the guards had returned for him.  He forced his eyes open, and from somewhere deep inside, summoned a glare for those who would bring him before their master.  Time, Sauron had – but Aragorn was determined to take as much of it as he could.

          But then a fist struck his face, and he blacked out once more, half thankful that he would not have to endure the trip to Sauron’s chambers.

          “I wish I could do more,” Círdan said softly to him, standing uneasily by his horse’s side, wary eyes on his companion.  The ancient and silver-haired elf looked worried, indeed; his brow was furrowed in deep thought.

          “You have done what you can, old friend,” Gandalf replied.  “Whatever faces the Alliance next cannot be your concern – you will have enough challenge in fortifying the Gray Havens before he can reach them.”

          “Yet if the Alliance succeeds, there will be no need for that,” the elf pointed out, but from his eyes, one could tell how unsure he was.

          “And if it does not, you will have to prepare for the flight of your people…Nay, Círdan, do not argue with me,” the wizard said evenly.  “You know it will be necessary; if we lose, the elves must fly Middle-Earth…and bring all that is good and worth remembering with them.”

          “I like it not, Gandalf.”

          “Nor I,” the Istar replied.  “But if we fail, someone will have to bring the news to the Valar.  If we fail, they are the only ones strong enough to stop Sauron.”

          Círdan raised one elegant eyebrow, his eyes searching the wizard’s face.  “If any go to Valinor, it should be you.”

          Gandalf shook his head.  “My responsibilities lie here.”  He sighed softly.  “For better or for worse, I will fulfill the task I was sent here for.”

          “Five were sent, Mithrandir, yet only one remains,” the elf pointed out.  “Can you do this alone?”

          Something alien and unreadable slipped across the Maia’s features, and he looked away from his companion for a short moment that made the elf’s heart hammer nervously in his chest.  He had already felt guilty about leaving, but his instincts told him that something importantly lay dormant under the surface of events…something dangerous.  Finally, Gandalf replied softly, “I must.”

          “Are you sure you want me to leave?” Círdan asked once more, prepared to take the ultimate risk and stay.  Almost anything was better than waiting by the sidelines for success or for failure – even dying in a disastrous attempt to save the world.

          “Your people need you,” the wizard replied firmly.  “Far more than I.”

          Unwillingly, the shipwright nodded.  The decision was not one he would have made by free choice – but necessity guided him now, as it had so many years ago – just as it and destiny had led him to entrust Narya the Great over to a stranger from a distant and great land.  “Then this is farewell.”

          They clasped hands; friends that had hardly ever known each other, yet shared an unspeakable and unbreakable bond and understanding.  One last time, Círdan looked in the wizard’s eyes, trying to divine some sense of the future in them, but they remained dark and closed to him; Gandalf’s guard was closed up tightly against Sauron.  However, the elf knew he should have expected that, for the wizard could not allow the Dark Lord to know who he was until the last possible moment.  His bond with Narya – far deeper than Círdan’s had ever been – made that extremely difficult.  The Third was bound to the other two, and in Sauron’s hands those were.  And in the other’s eyes, the Elf-Lord could see the strain of hiding from him.

          “Farewell,” Gandalf replied.

          Turing away, Círdan mounted his chestnut mare and urged her forward, fighting the impulse to look back as he set his course for the Gray Havens and what might become the last refuge of light in his world.

          Legolas shivered in the darkness.  He felt so alone, despite the presence of his dearest friends.  Perhaps that was because, like he, they were beaten, tortured, and chained to the walls, unable to offer each other comfort or solace.  One look at their downcast faces told him that the others of the Fellowship felt the same.  He was cold, it was dark: both on a level far deeper than the physical.  Just like the others, he had a hard time, now, fighting back hopelessness, immortal elf though he was.  Inside, Legolas had found, he was just as fragile as any human, dwarf, or hobbit.  So he wallowed in his misery, helpless as any child, but far less innocent.

          Suddenly a voice split through his darkness, and he realized it was Boromir, whispering across their cold cell.  The man’s voice was the first Legolas had heard – save Sauron’s creatures – since he knew not how long.  Its sound was almost strange to his ears; the softness and worry that personified his soft voice had been absent from the elf’s presence for even longer than friendly voices.

          “Aragorn?” the son of Gondor asked quietly, near-frantic concern evident in his tone; obviously, Boromir had waited long and debated longer before speaking.  Following the other’s gaze, though, Legolas could see why.  No longer could the man remain silent.

          The heir of Isildur remained slumped in his chains; he had been returned to them some time ago, but had not moved since, and Legolas realized that Boromir must have watched him from that moment.  The two men had not been friends in the beginning, but by the end of their journey, despite their different feelings about the One, the two had bonded in a deep way.  That Boromir risked speaking said much about his feelings for the other, but the elf still more than half-expected to see a Goblin guard fly out of the shadows to deliver the predictable beating.  But nothing happened, and Legolas realized that they were truly alone.  Aragorn, however, did not move either.

          “Aragorn?” Boromir’s voice took on a new sense of urgency, and the Ranger seemed to twitch slightly, a small movement visible only to elven eyes.  “Aragorn!”

          The man moaned, and as one, the Fellowship held their breaths.  Finally, Aragorn’s eyes blinked open, and Legolas could see the old and grim determination they held – but now that was almost buried underneath the pain the Ranger’s suffered.  Unfocused, Aragorn blinked dizzily, and shook his head weakly in an obvious effort to clear it.  When he spoke, his voice came out in a hoarse and raspy whisper.  “Boromir…?”

          “I thought we had lost you there,” the other explained softly.  But Boromir’s worried gaze was still focused on the man who would be his king.

          “Not yet…” Aragorn whispered weakly; his eyes slipped shut once more.

          A gruff voice to Legolas’ left echoed the word sharply.  “Yet?” Gimli demanded.

          “A figure of speech,” the human murmured.

          The elf had to wonder about that one, and worry seized him.  “You are fading quickly, my friend,” he said softly.

          Aragorn’s eyes found his, and Legolas could feel the silent plea: the ranger was fighting weakness and pain; he needed not to be told that.  All of a sudden, the elf felt an incredible sense of shame.  Of course Aragorn knew that.  He was living with the pain, and he had to feel that he was dying… And there was nothing any of them could do to stop it.  Legolas struggled to find appropriate words of apology, but his mind drew a blank.  Fortunately, Boromir’s pained voice forestalled him; the other seemed to understand his loss for words.

          “There is something I wanted to say,” he began hesitantly.  “Before…before any of the rest of us are…” He trailed off helplessly, not wanting to say what was so painfully clear, but knowing the others understood what he meant.  “I wanted to say that I am sorry.”  Boromir swallowed; but it was pain he forced away, not pride.  “I got us all into this with my mistakes…I am so sorry.  Especially to you, Frodo.”

          The Ring-bearer’s eyes drifted aside before meeting the human’s, but his gaze held no doubts.  “It is as much my fault as yours, Boromir,” he replied softly.  “I made the decision.  I cannot blame you for that.”

          “But it was still my idea,” the steward’s son whispered.  “I shouldn’t have done it.  I should have listened.”  The last words were directed to Aragorn, and Boromir’s eyes begged him for forgiveness.  “I didn’t believe you.  I ruined everything.”

          Isildur’s heir was silent for a long moment, then his dark eyes found Boromir’s.  “I do not blame you,” he said finally.  “I know the lure of the Ring…had I not known better, I might have done the same.”

          “If I had listened to you, none of this would have happened.”  The self-loathing in his voice could not have been more evident.

          “You do not know that,” Aragorn said softly.  “And we can not afford to dwell on this now.  None of us blame you, Boromir…We understand.”

          The son of Gondor’s anxious eyes searched their faces, and Legolas nodded to him, for Aragorn spoke truly.  They did not blame Boromir; none of them could.  The Fellowship had stood together in the end, and blood had washed away any blame, as had Boromir’s courageously foolish attempt to destroy Sauron.  His urge was easy for Legolas, especially, to understand: a prince of his own people, he would have been tempted to take the same risk.  One by one, the others nodded, and they knew no divisions could stand between them now.  For better or for worse, they would end this together.

          A long, but no longer uncomfortable, silence filled the cell, until Merry’s innocent words filled it.  “We need to get out of here,” the hobbit said earnestly.

          Surprisingly enough, none of the others contradicted him immediately.  He had spoken most truly, and yet…all except Merry understood the impossibility of the situation – even if it was extremely necessary.  Left alone, Legolas knew, Sauron would eventually kill them all one by one – the bodies of both Sam and Saurman told them that – or worse.  There were, the elf knew, worse fates than death… Fates of the type that Elrond and Galadriel undoubtedly suffered now, wherever they were – and fates like the one Aragorn faced if they did not escape.  Was there yet hope…?

          “There is no way,” Frodo’s lifeless voice crushed all faith in an instant.  There was an emptiness in the former Ring-bearer that seemed to suck the soul out of the Fellowship, and his words, too, were true.  “We cannot escape.”

          “I know,” Merry admitted sadly, but Legolas wished he might have argued.  That, at least, might have rekindled the ghost of a hope any of them might still have…but who was he fooling?  None of them would survive this, not as they were.  Any that lived would be thoroughly corrupted and would, in the end, be Sauron’s creatures.

          And though that was not a future that the elf relished, he saw no other way.

          “Is there anything we can do?” Merry asked quietly, and Legolas could have wept for him.  For all the hobbits, actually, for one of them, not even Frodo, former Ring-bearer though he was, had understood what they were getting in to.  Not in the beginning…Nor ever, did he believe, until they were captured.  They had merely been caught up in the quest through a great kind of courage that he could not understand, and yet they had not asked for this.  The others had known the dangers far more than they.  The elf sighed.  None of them deserved this, especially Sam…and Pippin now, gone to where he knew not.

          This time, Aragorn answered, seemingly struggling against the pull of unconsciousness.  “No,” he said softly.  “He guards us more carefully than you know, Merry.  No one leaves Barad-dûr against Sauron’s will.”

          “Even if we could, not one of us is in any shape to make it out of Mordor,” Gimli pointed out.

          “Then what do we do?” the small hobbit asked pitifully.

          Sorrow filled Aragorn’s words.  “We wait,” he whispered, his eyes slipping shut once more.  “We hope…”

          “For what?” Boromir asked with doubt – not doubt in Aragorn, but with a loss of faith in the world.  Faith was too hard to hold in Barad-dûr, even for the greatest of heroes.

           But the other would not say; Aragorn had slipped back into blackness.

          Faramir sat listlessly in his own tent, well guarded, yet still very alone.  However, he refused to dwell on the horrid feeling of betrayal living deep inside his soul.  His father had planned this…and with his ambitions, would ruin the world.  Someone had to warn the others, especially Gandalf, but how?  There were none loyal enough to him to do so, for though his father was ambitious, he was also well-loved by the men of Gondor.  Disaster, then, seemed inevitable.

          Until a soft thud sounded outside the entrance to his tent.  That would not have been too out of the ordinary, but it was followed by a muffled groan, and then another thump.  Listening carefully, Faramir stood cautiously, curious, but not willing to throw chance away in an instant –

          But then Halbarad burst in, thrusting a blade into his hands.  “We have to move quickly,” the Ranger snapped without waiting for a reaction.  “Gandalf is nowhere to be found, and your father’s guards are scouring the camp for me.”

          “Then why did you come here?” Faramir looked at him quizzically.  That seemed to him the least intelligent and useful thing to do.  “Surely they will realize who released me.”

          Halbarad shrugged with a casualness that clearly underrated the situation.  But he glanced cautiously around the tent, always watchful, as Faramir donned light armor as quickly as he could.  “A basic tenet of the Rangers.  When outnumbered, attack.”

          Annoyed by his cavalier manner, Faramir shot back, “Is another one of those to walk straight into the enemy’s stronghold?”

          But the Ranger only grinned.  “If he’s not paying attention, yes.”

          “Let us go, then,” Faramir smiled despite himself, shaking his head.  Halbarad he hardly knew, but the other was clearly a man of action, although he was not nearly so deliberate about it as the steward’s son cared to be.  Then again, there were times that caution had to be thrown to the wind.

          Together, they burst into the night.

          Elrond let his head roll listlessly against his chest, trying desperately to find a center of peace within himself.  Such acts grew harder and harder as Sauron gained more and more control of Vilya.  Vilya…Oh, he could feel her pain.  Could feel the taint of darkness ever intruding on her purity and strength.  Could feel Sauron gaining control of her…and consequently, of Elrond’s mind.  He had never before realized what a large part of him the Ring had become – until now.  Until it was too late and the Dark Lord wore her on his finger.  But the half-elf could still feel her, and he missed her greatly.

          With a start, Elrond jerked his focus back onto reality.  His mind drifted far too easily, now…there would be no escape inside himself.  He couldn’t trust himself that far anymore – if he let go, there was no telling if he would come back or not.  With that though, he shivered in the darkness.  He was close to the end, now…too close.  Soon enough, it would be over, no matter how hard he fought – but it would do so anyway.  Such was his nature, and such was his vow.  After all, he had heard Galadriel’s promise, and had made one of his own.  So long as he had the strength to resist, he would do so.

          There was no other choice.

          “My Lady!”

          There was no time for formality, and Faramir shook her urgently in the darkness.  Improper though it had to be, he could not afford to care.  Time was of the essence, and he and Halbarad needed all the allies they could get.  Círdan and Gandalf, the Ranger had already told him, were nowhere to be found; so in the meantime, they find everyone else and – hopefully, Faramir prayed – resolve the situation before Denethor could doom the world. 

          Arwen Evenstar rolled toward him, sighing sleepily and blinking her eyes open.  Confusion tore across her beautiful features.  “Faramir?”

          “Aye.”

          “What troubles you?” Arwen asked perceptively, sitting up and quickly throwing her legs over the side of the bed.  “Has something happened?”

          “Yes, a terrible thing…” Faramir sighed.  So much was happening at one time – his head would have spun in circles, had his body the energy to spare for that.  “We have not the time now, but you must come.”

          Her eyes locked with his for a moment, and she nodded, rising.  “I will come.”

          They met in Gandalf’s tent in a deadly parody of Denethor’s Council of less than an hour before.  Gathered together were Faramir, Halbarad, Arwen, Thranduil, Éomer, and Théoden: all those save Gandalf and Círdan who would definitely stand against Denethor and the others.  All were armed and armored with faces grim; they knew that the Alliance would be shattered by their actions, but could not in good conscience do any differently.  Their instincts told them that this was wrong… So they had to act.  There was no choice.  Honor sometimes demanded great sacrifices.  In rushed detail, Faramir and Halbarad told their story; Thranduil was the first to speak after they had finished.

          “I like not what you have told us, friends, but I see no way to change the Steward’s mind,” he said softly.  “So we must decide quickly what to do.”

          “Clearly we must oppose him,” Théoden replied.  “But to do so under force of arms will wreck the Alliance…and doom all we are fighting for.”

          “But we cannot let him have his way!” Éomer objected, worry disfiguring his handsome face.

          “Nay, we can not,” the elven king agreed quietly.  “But I can understand how Denethor and the others are tempted by Sauron’s offer…it is hard to refuse to rescue those you love.”  Thranduil’s face grew dark for a moment, and they all knew that his thoughts were on Legolas, his son and heir…He, just like Denethor, had to be tempted – but he, instead, chose the path of honor.  The King of Mirkwood swallowed.  “The question remains, though: how do we oppose him?  Do we fight, or try reason one last time?”

          Worry rolled around heavily in Faramir’s gut; as much as he wished to be back in a time far simpler and more truthful than this, he was stuck in the present, for good or evil.  Was there any way to change that, or did they have to accept the cold grasp of fate?  Was there even use in fighting? “I know not, Lord,” he admitted.  “But he cannot be dissuaded.  I have tried.”

          “So that leaves armed resistance,” Halbarad said flatly.  “Civil war.”

          “Then we doom Middle-Earth,” Arwen’s soft voice interjected.  “For by warring with each other, we will shatter the Alliance, thereby serving Sauron’s purpose after all.  Either way, the Alliance will be no threat to him.  Only unified can we stop him.  Alone, he can deal with us at his leisure, and take us one by one, thereby covering the world in a Second Darkness.”

          Thranduil sighed once more, and a heavy weight seemed to descend upon his shoulders.  Resignation filled his voice.  “But we have no other choice.  We must oppose Denethor.”

          A deep voice suddenly came from the tent’s entranceway; its cold and calm determination sent a chill down Faramir’s spine.  Fear and relief whipped through him then, simultaneously; relief for the fact that tragedy had been averted – and fear for the possibilities for that very same tragedy to play itself out.  Fate, it seemed, rested upon the very tip of a dagger, and should any of their company stray from the path set before them, all would be lost.  In that moment, hope seemed very hard to hold.

          “That choice is not yours to make, my friends.”   

          “Gandalf!” Faramir managed in his surprise.  The others, too, he saw, were equally shocked and relieved; when they had been unable to find the wizard, all had feared the worst… Yet here he was, clearly not under the control of Denethor, and clearly able to defend himself.  As always, Gandalf stood tall and proud, strong and confident.

          But Thranduil’s worried gaze took away nearly all joy at the wizard’s return.  The king asked quietly, “What do you mean?”

          “The breaking of the Alliance would destroy Middle-Earth.”  Gandalf’s deep eyes found them each in turn and seemed to probe deeply into their souls, understanding far more than he said, and somehow rekindling hope in their hearts.  “We can not allow that to happen.  I know what Sauron desires, and have always known that he would reach for it eventually.  Perhaps it is best that this is resolved now.”

          Faramir found himself shuddering in astonishment.  Could the wizard truly be saying what he seemed to be, or was his mind merely playing tricks on him?  Gandalf was their last and only chance for victory, and every being within that tent had been willing to sacrifice everything to give the wizard the opportunity he needed to create victory.  After all they had been through, was he ready to give up?  After all they had done, how far they had come, could he really submit to Denethor’s ambitions?

          While the others all looked on in frozen alarm, unable to speak, Arwen finally broke the silence.  Her words, however, were not a question.  They were a statement of fact, little though she liked it at all.  “You wish to accept Sauron’s offer.”

          “I must,” the wizard replied softly.  “I was not brought to Middle-Earth to face him, but now I must.”  He was silent for a long moment, seemingly carefully considering his next words.  After several long seconds, Gandalf let out a barely-audible breath and continued, “I will tell you what none of this world other than Círdan, Elrond, Galadriel, and myself know: Sauron was once of the Maiar.  He was what I am.

          “I had hoped to wait longer before confronting him, but I will not risk the Alliance to do so.  No power of Middle-Earth can face him.  So I must.”

          The next silence was deafening.  Finally, Faramir found the courage to ask the question that was gnawing at them all.  “Can you defeat him?”

          “I do not know.” 

          Fire burned as the two gazed at one another; to call their encounter a battle of wills would be to discredit both’s strengths.  Their eyes remained locked for several long moments of eternity, heedless of all the onlookers and the assembled leaders of the Alliance.  Sparks seemed to flash between them, and as Gandalf’s chin rose, Narya gleamed brightly upon his breast.  Finally, he spoke softly, with no ire and no blame, but his words were as hard as mithril. 

          “I hope you know what you have done, Denethor, in forcing my hand,” the wizard said to the steward.

          “I acknowledge it,” the other replied loftily and not without pride.  “You are wise, maybe, Mithrandir, yet with all your subtleties you have not all wisdom.  Counsels may be found that are neither the webs of wizards or the haste of fools.  I have in this matter more lore and wisdom than you dream.”**

          “Only the end shall tell the truth of that,” Gandalf replied.  “But you will take any advice from me, take this: remember your mission is not one of power.  Unity alone will destroy Sauron.”

          And with those words, Gandalf the White departed from the Alliance and joined the escort of Nazgûl that awaited the bearer of the Third Ring.  He did not look back, nor did his carriage betray any fear at all, but there was something different about him now.  To Faramir, he seemed older; to Thranduil, more worried and burdened than ever before.  But to Arwen, he seemed to carry the weight of Middle-Earth on his ancient shoulders, and she had to wonder how long he could bear it.  Amongst the Black Riders he rode, shimmering and alone, the White Rider whom none of Sauron’s creatures would dare touch.  Shadowfax, it seemed, refused to be left behind, for the great steed had awaited his rider, and now bore him with pride.

          Faramir dug deep within his heart, watching and trying to find light within the darkness.  Soon, the Fellowship would be returned to them – at least, all save Pippin, and now Gandalf.  The others, including Boromir, would be with them soon… Although he supposed he should have found joy in that prospect, all he felt was despair.  There had been too much resignation in Gandalf’s eyes, in his voice.  The wizard knew that he was riding to his death.

          And the rest of them knew that their world would die with him.

** Excerpt from The Lord of the Rings.  Page 795.

Chapter Text

“And now he shall endure the slow torment of years, as long and slow as our arts in the Great Tower can contrive, and never be released, unless maybe when he is changed and broken, so that he may come to you, and you shall see what you have done.”

          “I cannot believe you let him go,” Celeborn whispered, his voice as ragged as his face was care and travel worn.  Dirt still streaked his skin and garments; the normally immaculate elf was disheveled and filthy.  His eyes, too, were changed – they were far more than sad, now…they were filled with despair and fear.  Such emotions made Arwen tremble, for she knew Celeborn of old; he was her mother’s father, and she had never seen such uncertainty from him before.

          “Mithrandir made his choice,” Thranduil replied softly; it was, after all, the only reply to make, the only truth in the matter.  No matter what had brought the Istar to make the decision, it had been his own.  No one, even Denethor, could have forced the wizard to submit.  The elves, having seen hints of his power and knowing the Three, knew that, though mortals could not grasp quite the innate strengths in a seemingly old, kind, and friendly being.  But Celeborn had not been there; he had not seen the Alliance fracturing before his very eyes – and he had not been amongst those, who, in the dead of darkness, had been willing to throw it all away.  Hindsight was far simpler than foresight, sometimes.

          The Lord of Lothlórien, who had only returned to the camp moments before and was clearly exhausted from his journey, closed his eyes briefly and leaned against a nearby tree in a deceptively human manner.  Sighing, he replied with despair, “And what of the Rings?  Will Sauron now hold all of them now?”

          None of the gathered leaders could find an answer to that; aside from wizard’s absence, the assembly was the same as those who had once made up the Council of Gandalf.  Their positions were polarized, of course; even in the torch-lit center of the Alliance’s camp, there were dividing lines.  The elves, the Rohirrim, Halbarad and Faramir stood to once side, faced by Denethor, Saradoc and Dáin on the other.  Only Pippin stood in the middle, looking lost and alone, helpless and confused.  Leaderless, they were now; there would be no further agreements amongst them, save to continue fighting Sauron.  Only that could they still do together.

          “And what of that?” Denethor finally asked.  “What good have the Rings done us, borne by elves and wizards too afraid to use them?”

          Celeborn’s eyes snapped open to glare at the Steward for a long moment, but he said naught to him, turning once more to Thranduil, his fiery anger dying as quickly as it had risen.  Exhaustion and realization warred for prominence on his face.  “He knew this would happen,” the elf said softly.  “That is why he asked Círdan to return to the Havens, and did not argue when I sought out Edhelklond.  He had to have known.”

          The elf lords’ eyes met, then, and Arwen saw fear.  Such was not an emotion that her kind knew well; timeless and ageless, the elves often took the long view on life, acting when necessary, but always aware that time could heal a multitude of wounds, and time they had to give.  Fear, then, was often overshadowed by wisdom and intelligence – but not now.  Now, Both Thranduil and Celeborn, elven lords and kings, were afraid of what the future held.  Thus, it went without saying that she was as well.  Arwen’s fear, however, was different.  Her fears were not merely for Middle-Earth and her own people…her heart also grieved for one good and loving man, who she knew suffered even then at Sauron’s hands.  She could not deny the longing she had felt to get him back, for her love for Aragorn was too great to still her heart against joy in his return, but even then, there was still fear for him.  Sauron, she knew, hated the Heir of Isildur with every fiber in his being.  The Dark Lord would want Aragorn to pay for Isildur’s deeds in the past.

          And she feared that no man, even Aragorn, could withstand that kind of pain.

          “How could he have known?” Thranduil asked carefully.

          Celeborn only shook his head.  “I do not know…but he did.  Just as he knew that my quest to Edhelklond would be fruitless.  He knew I would find no survivors of the Hidden Kingdom there.”

          Silence reigned for a long moment, but Arwen’s heart demanded it be filled.  She could not bear the emptiness and desolation any longer.  She said softly, feeling the burden they carried with every word, “So it falls to us.”

          “Nay.”  Celeborn’s deep eyes found hers.  “Our fate now lies in Mithrandir’s hands.  As he goes, so will we.

          “And so will Middle-Earth.”

          Pippin sat quietly upon a log in the shadows, surrounded by the bustle of the camp, but never more alone in his life.  Even deep in the dungeons of Barad-dûr he had not felt so abandoned; even there, he had the Fellowship to keep him company.  No matter what had been done to him, how afraid he had been, the others had always been there for him.  It had been an unspoken vow they had made to each other.  No matter what came, they would be together.  From the beginning, it had been that way, and without that comfort he felt lost.  It would almost have been better to still be there with them, to still be a prisoner, facing pain and torture.  At least then he would not have been so lonely.

          And Gandalf would not have to die.

          Tears entered the hobbit’s eyes.  If he only had known who carried the third ring before, if only he had known what would happen…he would have said no.  He would have refused to be Sauron’s messenger, and have paid the price.  Something inside his heart told Pippin that it shouldn’t be like this, and he wanted to scream because everything had gone wrong.  Everything had gone so wrong.  He was free, healed of pain, but the others were still prisoners.

          At least they’ll be coming back soon, he told himself.  At least it will be over for them, too.

          But somehow it still didn’t feel right, and he sensed that nothing would ever be the same again.  Everything had changed when Frodo had inherited the Ring from Bilbo – everything.  Now the world was different: undeniably more complicated, and also more cruel.  He could not deny that he had learned much, but even the young hobbit sensed that some lessons were best left untaught.  Some terrors were best left in the world of half-remembered nightmares; it did not pay to recall them.  But it paid even less to live them.

          That’s what life was to him, then: a nightmare.  Even though he would soon be united with his friends, it was still a nightmare.  Everything was still wrong.  Only seven remained of the Fellowship now; only seven of the nine who started, minds full of hopes and dreams of defeating the undefeatable Sauron.  Sam was dead.  Gandalf would soon be dead.  The great elves, Elrond and Galadriel, were prisoners.  They’d be dead soon enough, too.  And so would Middle-Earth.  His friends, his family, the Shire… All would be destroyed by Sauron in the coming months.

          And Pippin wept for all that he would never have again.

          Galadriel squinted in the light.  It was the first time that she had encountered any type of brightness in…how long?  She knew not, now…but then awareness slapped into her, and with a glaring start, she felt Elrond nearby.  For a moment, she doubted her own senses, for Sauron had kept them separate for so long, but no, it was true.  Elrond was there.  He was very close.

          She forced her eyes open, and realized that she had been returned to the old cell and was again surrounded by the Fellowship.  The former bearer of Vilya looked to be in the same condition as she, and was, again, mirrored in image by Aragorn, to the other side of the cell’s door.  Both were beaten and bloody, but only Elrond, she suspected, had been given the same chances as her.

          By the look of him, he had held out as well.

          She was not surprised; she could not be.  Galadriel  had made her vows just as Elrond had made his.  He could not afford to break any more than she, so he would not.  Both had endured much pain, constant pain, for days and weeks on end, though – and now it had stopped.  That had to mean something, but for the life of her, she could not figure out what.  That was a puzzle she could not solve, and her lack of success only added to the feeling of helplessness Galadriel had felt for so long.  But she could not afford to dwell on that now.

          Elrond’s eyes met hers’, then moved away to scan their companions.  None looked as bad as Aragorn, but all looked terrible.  Quickly, Galadriel noticed Saurman’s dead body, but she was incapable of being surprised by that.  The fact that Sauron would dare kill a fellow Maiar would have shocked her once, but no longer.  No, what nearly made her cry out was that Pippin was missing.  Missing – not dead.  The body would have been left, she was sure…After all, Sam still lay amongst them, still as if he were merely sleeping.  But Pippin was simply gone, and that meant that the Dark Lord had some other, more sinister purpose in mind.  Without thinking, she whispered, “How long has he been gone?”

          The others’ gazes came to her, and she saw mixtures of fear, courage, pain, and determination that would have been out of place anywhere other than Barad-dûr.  All of them, though, had changed since she had seen them last.  Boromir, for one, seemed less shattered than before, but Aragorn seemed simply spent.  Frodo still was disheartened, but his eyes held even less hope than before.  Gimli’s anger and frustration had not lessened, but sorrow equal to Legolas’ filled his face.  The Silvan elf looked back at her, older and more worried than she had ever seen Legolas’ strong face.  Merry, too, had lost all pretense at innocence, and now gazed upon her without hope.  Finally, though, it was Aragorn, still the natural leader, who answered, weakness evident in his voice.

          “Too long,” he replied softly, pain echoing behind every word.  “We cannot tell time here…but he has been gone for days, at least.  Maybe weeks… I fear for him.”

          Silent nods were the others’ only replies, until Elrond spoke, and Galadriel blinked upon hearing his scratchy voice.  That an elf-lord could be brought through such pain and suffering…little did she realize that she looked and sounded much the same.

          “Sauron is planning something,” the half-elf said softly.  “Else we would not be together again…and left alone.”

          “Perhaps he has lost interest in us,” Gimli replied gruffly; but, to Galadriel’s surprise, there was no hope in his eyes.  There was only blank despair.  He spoke the words merely out of habit.

          She hated to contradict him, but still she had to.  “In the bearers of the Three?” the lady countered, and could not help a humorless laugh.  “Not when he still does not own the rings or our hearts and minds.”

          “Nay, Galadriel,” Elrond said suddenly.  “I sense the Dark Lord has found something far more interesting than us.”  He took what was intended to be a deep breath, but she heard it rattle weakly in his chest and saw the pain in his eyes.  “What worries me is for us, but for what he now concentrates upon.”

          Shadowfax trembled underneath him, and Gandalf felt his fear.  The Black Riders did not notice this, if indeed they had eyes to see the physical world at all; rather, the Nazgûl kept their distance from the White Rider, comprehending that he who seemed only a old man on the outside was in reality far more.  Though they knew not what Gandalf truly was, had been, they did know he was dangerous – extremely dangerous – and what fear they were capable of feeling, they did.  Only a greater terror, that of Sauron, kept them escorting him at all.  Had they realized, though, that Gandalf was one of their own lord’s kind, all eight would have refused to accompany him to Barad-dûr at all.  Slayer of the Witch King he was; this seemingly harmless old man had destroyed the Lord of the Nazgûl, whom prophecy claimed would be slain by no man.  Thus, they held their guards high and carefully.

          But Gandalf did as well, for Shadowfax the Great was not the only one who sensed the coming battle.  Oh, it was coming…and though he rode toward fate willingly and with head held high, he had not sought this – not like this.  No, never like this…

          His kind had been brought to Middle-Earth for one reason alone: to oppose Sauron.  But none of them had ever been meant to face him – they had been tasked with leading the resistance against him should he come again.  Many in Valinor had deemed that possibility a big if, but he had always known that the Dark Lord would not give in after only one defeat.  So the “Istari” were sent to Middle-Earth to rekindle hearts in the war against Darkness.  Their mission had been one of the deepest secrets of Valinor, for Sauron – none of their kind referred to him by his real name, now, for he had dishonored that long ago – still had spies in the Undying Lands, and it was feared that they might reveal the purpose of the Istari to him.  So the Five had set forth, cloaked and disguised as old men, as humans with simple magical powers.  Rarely did they reveal strength, so great was their mystery, for in their new forms they were forbidden and unable to utilize their full powers, thus revealing who they were.

          Such revelations could only be deadly.  None of them were ever meant to face Sauron – all precautions had been taken so that they would not have to.  The Dark Lord, after all, had been a student of Melkor, the greatest evil that their world had ever known, and he knew well the black powers.  Sauron was also an extremely powerful Maia in his own right, even before the forging of the One Ring.  And after… Shadowfax shuddered underneath him again.

          He had not wanted to come, Gandalf remembered, thinking not of the horse, but of himself.  Somewhere inside, he had realized it would come to this in the bitter end.  It was not that he was afraid, but he had known that he would come to love Middle-Earth and her creatures even as he loved his own home – and it would hurt that much more to admit defeat.  Right he had been, too, for he had grown very close to this world with each passing year – and he had spent many centuries amongst Middle-Earth’s creatures.  Círdan’s gift, upon the shores of the Gray Havens so long ago, had not helped matters, either.  It had only bound him closer to Middle-Earth.

          And fate brought him now to Sauron.

          He had to wonder if somewhere, someone, was somehow laughing at the irony.  Of the Five he was the last, the one who had not come by choice, whom the others had not desired the company of.  And of the Five who had been meant to counter Sauron, united and from a distance, he stood alone, soon to be before the Dark Lord himself.  Thinking of that, uncertainty stole its way in a chill down his spine – and he could not deny the shadow of fear that went with it.  The others thought he was riding to his death, even the elves, who might have thought otherwise, knowing what they did, knowledge born of long and immortal lives.

          The problem was that they were right.

          Gandalf the White could not defeat Sauron the Black, even with Narya, the Red Ring, as his companion.  Especially with Narya; as powerful as she was, even the Great Ring was subject to the One Ring’s hold.  Gandalf the Gray, on the other hand, stood not a chance.  Gandalf the Gray would have been slain by the Witch King, for he was human enough to fail.  Fortunately, he was as such no longer…his fall into Moria had saved him that fate.  However, the possibilities now were not much brighter.  It would end soon.  Gandalf the White would be slain by Sauron.

          The wizard let his eyes slide shut for a fraction of a second, blocking out the burnt and ashen landscape of Mordor.  Yes, he had to remain who he was.  He had to bury his identity deep inside and appear – if not human, at least half-elven or as a being Sauron would view as lesser.  He had to hide Olórin.  The knowledge of a Maiar on Middle-Earth aside from Curumo, who Sauron had possessed the gall to kill, would be far too dangerous in the Dark Lord’s hands.  He had to keep that from him as long as he could, for it would endanger far too much… So Olórin he had to hide.  He could not reveal himself in a battle he was sure to lose, for Sauron had once been the most powerful of the Maiar, and no mere Maia with a lesser Ring could stand a chance.

          Thus Gandalf the White rode onto death, Gwaihir the Windlord flying high above him in the sky.

          Elrond closed his eyes against the pain, trying desperately to ignore it and to hide it.  He had to appear strong for his fellow prisoners…for they all, even and especially Legolas, looked for leadership from he, Galadriel, and Aragorn.  What leaders they were…two ancient elves who had experienced the Darkness before and once held Rings of Power – and the other, the heir of great kings and of humanity’s greatest failure.  Together, though, the three fought the pain, vying to hold out as long as they could against the pressure, against Sauron’s torture and Sauron’s temptations.  But even as they struggled, they began to crumble.  Elrond could feel it in his bones, and knew none of them could last much longer.

          Black despair invaded his heart, but in the end he knew that Sauron would gain a ninth Nazgûl and a black Queen –

          New awareness suddenly slashed through the agony, and he felt Vilya sing out.  His ring, his age-old companion, suddenly cried out in innocent recognition, yearning for a bond even deeper than the one he had held with her for so long.  Vilya’s urgency grew as she called to her kin from the beginnings of it all – and Elrond nearly screamed as he felt his heart break.  Vilya’s song grew stronger, and he felt Narya grow closer.

          Not far away, he felt Galadriel’s twin pain, akin to his own.  Oh, she knew it, even as he did – and Elrond felt, rather than saw or heard, her tears begin as she wept silently for the one impossible hope they had held for so long.  All his previous strengths and resistance crumbled to dust beneath the pain and despair; Elrond suddenly felt that he had nothing left to give.  It was over, now… The slim chance given by the freedom of the Third Elven Ring was gone, wasted by whatever cruel twist of fate.  And Elrond and Galadriel both felt it as the bearer of the Third came forth, beaten by fate and walking to death.

          In the back of his mind, the Half-Elven heard Sauron laugh.

Chapter Text

“Before him stood the old figure, white, shining now as if with some light kindled within, bent, laden with years, but holding a power beyond the strength of Kings.”

          The Black Riders stopped, and amid the dark and barren terrain of Mordor, Gandalf found himself looking upon Barad-dûr.  It was a singularly ugly and dark tower, nothing like the bright and white of Minas Tirith, and the wizard could almost feel the pain resonating from inside it.  The Fellowship was close…he could not sense them, but he could feel Elrond and Galadriel.  They were close, and they were in pain.  In that instant, he knew that they felt him as well – and he would have shared their despair, had not his mind been so sharply focused on his purpose.

          Narya burned bright upon his chest.

          It was as if the Ring knew that the One was near; Sauron’s presence burned into the back of Gandalf’s mind as well, drawing ever so closer…His evil was great enough that it left a sour taste in the wizard’s mouth, and made him feel cold even in the desert heat.  In the distance, the Dark Lord emerged from his black tower, striding forward confidently with the air of one who knew he had won.  And so he had, the wizard reflected grimly.  In more ways than one.  But he would not make victory come easily.  If he were the last to resist, he would do so.  Such was why he had come in the first place; such was his duty.  Such was his destiny.

          Narya’s flame grew sharper, and he could feel the heat, the power, coming from his Ring.  His Ring…for the next few moments.  Then it would be over; that much he knew.  There was no avoiding defeat – he could only chose how to bear it, and what route he would follow after.  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the Nazgûl clear the path before him, leaving nothing between the Dark Lord and his prey.  Four of the eight dismounted their winged beasts to cut off any possible retreat, and all bowed as Sauron came within fifty feet.  With one last glance up at the sky, Gandalf riveted his eyes on the Dark One.  Fear and fire washed through him, but he let a deep breath out and remained still.  Long ago he had faced this same power, cloaked in the guise of the Necromancer as it was, and though he had returned shaken from the pits of Dol Guldur, he had returned.  He knew what he was facing.  He had always known.  All we have to do is decide what to do with the time that is given us.

          Gandalf dismounted. 

          Shadowfax stood next to him, head held high and strong, but even then, he felt the horse’s fear.  Though the greatest of his kind, even Shadowfax had reason to tremble before the Dark Lord.  No living begin upon Middle-Earth could avoid that fear – even Gandalf the White, who deep down inside, was still more human than the rest of his kind.  Perhaps the years had changed him.  Perhaps his once-mortal body had corrupted him.  Whatever the reason, though, the tinniest glimmer of fear was there.  Tiny, but true, even as he denied it and stood strong.  His fear was not for himself; no, it was only for failure.  He could not afford to fail.

          Slowly, he turned to Shadowfax, laying a gentle hand upon the stallion’s neck.  Their eyes met, and Gandalf nodded to his mount.  “Fly, my friend,” he said softly.  “Leave this place, and wait for me, whatever may come.”

          One last glance from Shadowfax asked him if he was sure; seeing there was no doubt in his eyes, the great horse stepped back, cautiously eying the enemies around him, then wheeled and sprinted away, faster than the wind could fly.  His form faded rapidly in the distance, and the wizard only turned away after his friend had disappeared.  A slight chill ran through him, half from fear and half from anticipation…but whatever the reason, he was alone now.  The only allies he had were prisoners or high in the sky, out of reach and out of time.  Part of him wished to escape the way Shadowfax had, but in his heart, he knew that he was where he had to be.  For good or for worse, it had begun.

          It had begun.

          Sauron stopped a mere fifteen feet away from him, and the Dark Lord smiled.  Gandalf felt him, then, reaching out to Narya, testing and gauging powers.  But without his hands on the Ring, Sauron could not control her – not yet.  One of them had to wear it to make that possible.  The moment was coming…just not yet.  And the wizard was willing to wait for it, was willing to make Sauron come to him.  The Dark Lord, he knew, would not disappoint.  Long had it been since Sauron had been willing to wait for anything, and this was no exception.

          “Gandalf the Grey…” Sauron hissed, his voice dark and cruel in the language of Mordor.  Long ago, it had been said that Sauron had created the language himself, simply to give voice to his hatred and evil.  “But changed.”

          A deep breath ran all anxiety out of him, and he descended into a razor sharp focus as he simply inclined his head to the other in response.  Gandalf stood loosely, Glamdring sheathed at his left side and staff in his right hand.  He wore no cloak to disguises himself now, and was the single ray of light upon the dark plains of Mordor.

          “So it is you,” the fallen Maia mused, his eyes darkening a deep and dangerous red.  Anger flowed there, hard and strong – there was nothing Sauron hated more than defeat, save being fooled, and Gandalf had done that more than once in the past years.  Realization, too, joined the anger quickly enough as the Dark Lord realized who the mover behind events had been for nearly a century – from the driving out of the “Necromancer” to the finding of the One Ring, Gandalf had had a hand.  For his part, the wizard merely met Sauron’s livid gaze evenly, waiting.  “I might have known.”

          Yet you did not, the Maia had the sense not to say.  Thus, another victory for the light.  You cannot have everything, Sauron.  Someone will always resist you, even those you do not expect.  He held the other’s gaze, and he saw fury blossom, then, and remembered the other’s legendary lack of self-control.  His opinions must have been that obvious from his silence, but he cared not.  The cards were on the table now; it was only left to see who would make the first move.

          But Gandalf the White had always had more patience than Sauron the Black.

          “Gandalf the White,” the other spat contemptuously.  “Foolish as ever, I see.”

          Something was coming.  His heart threatened to pound in his chest, but he contained it well.  He’d years of hiding his true emotions behind a wall; this was no different.  Instead, he merely arched one eyebrow with curiosity. 

          “You have given yourself up for nothing,” Sauron gloated, a feral gleam entering his eyes and making it impossible for a mere mortal to look upon him.  “The ‘Fellowship’ lies still in my hands and will remain as such.  And you bring me the Third – in exchange for nothing.”

          Despair might have overtaken him, but Gandalf had expected this.  Perhaps Denethor had actually believed in the Dark Lord’s promises – if he had, the Steward knew not the history of the nine kings of men well at all – but the wizard never had.  Sauron’s guarantee of returning the Fellowship had never been a part of his decision.  From the beginning, he had known.  There would be no other way.  There could not have been.

          “I always knew you had no honor, Sauron.”

          The Dark Lord laughed; Gandalf had known that would not insult him, though the calmness with which it was spoken seemed to give the other a slight pause – and the wizard would take every victory he could get.  In the long run, they might just add up and be worth something…or not.  Either way, he was in for a challenge like he had never faced before – and a power that he could technically not defeat.  But Sauron blinked quickly, almost imperceptivity, when the wizard replied in the language of Mordor itself – a tongue that elves would not utter, and men knew not.  Sauron stared at him for a long moment before replying, covering his confusion with easy and mocking laughter.

          “And so you bring me the Third Ring…” Again, he smiled.  Narya burned so brightly that the wizard could feel the fire and the power upon his chest, despite the layers of cloth between him and the Ring.  “Will you save yourself pain and surrender it of your own free will?”

          “No.”

          Such a simple word – no.  Though Gandalf kept his voice low, a thunderbolt could not have struck Sauron with more shock and force.  A wide array of emotions flashed across his face, ranging from astonishment to disbelief to fury, and the Dark Lord fairly well shook with rage.  Power surrounded him, and seemed to crackle in the air as he glared at the wizard who was foolish enough to defy him so openly.

          “So you choose the way of pain…” A slow smile spread across Sauron’s face, and Gandalf suddenly got the feeling that the Dark Lord was going to enjoy this.  The more rational part of the wizard’s psyche reminded him that his was probably not the best idea…but he was committed, and would resist until the bitter end. 

          Sauron stepped forward.

          Finally, Gandalf allowed his eyes to narrow and acted, forestalling his opponent by mere seconds and willingly making what he knew would be the biggest mistake of his life.  His left hand reached up and tore Narya’s chain from his neck.  He felt the silver chain break, but there was no pain.  Slowly, the chain slipped through the Ring and fell to the ground, pooling in a silver puddle at his feet.  He paused for a moment to gather himself and look Sauron in the eye, but his mind was made up.  In one smooth motion, Gandalf switched his staff to his left hand.

          He placed Narya upon his right, bracing himself for war and for pain.

          Elrond felt it the instant it began, and centuries of control flew out the window as he felt the onrush of power that heralded an inevitably loosing battle.  For one moment a different type of power tore out to meet the blackness that was Sauron, but then that, too, dissipated into nothingness, defeated, and the Darkness rose.  The Darkness rose…

          Within his heart, Vilya wailed in broken and blackened agony, finally understanding.

          Within their cell, Galadriel sobbed out the cry of “No!”

          His own scream was wordless, but he felt it end.

          Both hands gripped his staff with a deadly hold, clinging to it for dear life as Gandalf buffeted himself against the rising winds of power, his eyes tightly shut and his heart and mind focused on Narya.  He could feel Sauron’s might reaching for him; it scythed like claws through his mind, but he called upon his own strengths to keep his soul his own.  A gust of magic swept into him and almost knocked him off of his feet, but he braced himself and held on, warring for control of his own mind with everything he had.

          Pain tore through his body, then, as Sauron resorted to brute force, and he felt the evil hands tearing into and raping his mind.  His wordless cry of agony and determination was lost in the tornado ripping around his body; a corner of his consciousness recognized that his garments were whipping wildly in the wind, but quickly, he was forced to retreat into a level both below and above conscious awareness, fighting Sauron on the level only a wizard – or a Maia – could.  Angered, the Dark Lord threw more and more power at him, creating miniscule cracks in his defenses.  As he felt the final push meant to break through his defenses, Gandalf shoved back.

          Part of him must have known that Sauron staggered backwards, just for a moment, before agony split through his mind.  Desperately, he clung to consciousness, always aware that there was another level of power to reach for, but unable to do so.  He was Gandalf the White, and he had to hold to the Third.  Narya… 

          But he knew he was fading fast.

          With the last of his strength, Gandalf erected a wall around his mind, a fence around his soul.  He poured his all desperation and desire into the effort, resisting the temptation to just give in, and shoved the deepest secrets of himself into a recess that no other could reach without ruling him first.  Struggling now, he propelled his sense of self into a hole that he prayed Sauron could not reach, taking his bond with Narya down with it.  Using her power, and his own, he shielded himself, even though he knew it would not last.  Still, though, he had to hold on.  There would be nothing left if he let go.  Narya…

          Finally, Gandalf raised his head and looked Sauron in the eye, communicating the depth of his defiance and his resolve before he sunk into blackness.

          An eagle’s screech split the sky, and Celeborn turned his head upwards to scan the heavens.  Worry weighed heavily upon his heart, though he’d not spoken of its source to any of the others yet.  Let them hope, he had decided.  Even if only for a little while longer.  He had nothing concrete to prove that his fears were well founded; only a feeling in the pits of his heart that he had felt since learning Gandalf was gone.  I should never have set out on that fool’s quest, he thought bitterly to himself.  But I guess, like the others, that I was searching for hope of any kind.  And finding my people would have given us allies, along with reuniting me with those long lost.  That, and it would have been proof that not everything lies against us.  Celeborn sighed; there was nothing to be done now, save wait.  He shielded his sensitive eyes from the light of nearby torches, and squinted, finally spotting Gwaihir as the eagle spiraled down from the dark sky, returning from his mission of shadowing the wizard to the end. 

          Quickly, the great eagle landed before the elf-lord, his presence drawing others like moths to a flame.  Faramir and Halbarad approached together, followed by Arwen and Pippin, side by side.  Then there were Dáin and Thranduil, an unlikely pair, but together all the same – and the Lord of Lothlórien had to wonder what those two might have been speaking of.  Bode it good or evil, though, such trivialities hardly mattered at the moment.  There were far more important things to consider now.  The eagle bowed his head in hurried greeting, but his eyes were dark.

          “Gandalf the Great has fallen,” Gwaihir stated flatly, and, almost as if to prove his point, Celeborn’s sharp eyes picked up Shadowfax fast approaching in the distance, alone and riderless.  “He battled with the Dark Lord for control of the ring Narya, and lost.  Into the dark tower he has now been taken.”

          A sigh escaped the elf’s lips as he allowed his eyes to slide shut; suddenly, he felt so tired, and he had never been more drained in his life.  A soft voice, Arwen’s voice, asked from behind him as Saradoc approached:

          “And the prisoners?”

          The eagle’s beak twitched in what might have been a snarl in another animal.  “They are to remain.”

          Celeborn opened his eyes.  “It is as I would have expected, then,” he said flatly, ignoring the mummers of surprise and anger that sounded around him.  He had always feared this would all be for nothing, but it did his feelings no good to know that his worst suspicions had been realized.  He turned to Faramir, and his voice grew hard.  “So go tell Denethor that his gambit has failed.  We meet in council now, again and united, to decide how to salvage what hope is left in this world.”

Chapter Text

“It is time for all to depart who would not be slaves.” 

          “I see not who placed you in charge of this council!” Denethor’s voice snapped out like a whip, fury and disappointment coloring his face.  His lips pealed back in an ugly snarl of disagreement, and he glared at his opponent, openly hostile.

          Again, they were seated around a portable, old, and fragile campaign table, though the composition of the council had changed as much as the table’s shape.  Seated in a circle, starting from Denethor’s right, were Saradoc, Pippin, Gwaihir (perched on the floor rather than on a chair, of course, but present all the same), Dáin, Halbarad, Faramir, Arwen, Celeborn, and Thranduil.  They stared at one another with varying emotional reactions, but all shared one precise feeling – they were lost.  Their last hope had been shattered and whisked away by Sauron’s treacherous hands.  Where to go and what to do had abruptly become mysteries to the Council; all they knew as that they had to oppose the Dark Lord.  Promises of his meant nothing – as elves, men, and dwarves had learned so long ago.  Nothing that Sauron said could be trusted, and they only other agreement the council members faced was that they could not dare to trust him again, even if the Dark Lord brought forth another offer.  It just was not worth the risk.

          Celeborn brought his eyes up to squarely meet Denethor’s, a molten flame burning within his gaze that none of them had ever seen before.  Even to Arwen, this glare was a mystery, and she had known her mother’s father of old.  Still, though, he answered calmly, “I act out of necessity, Steward of Gondor,” he replied with only the slightest of bites in his voice.  “Power, nor control, will never be a goal of mine.  My people have left this earth – my only allegiance is to stop an evil I have seen growing for far more years than you have lived.  I speak, then, Denethor, for the good of all.”

          “We need not the likes of you to defeat the Dark Lord!” the Steward spat back angrily, bristling at the elf-lord’s mildly admonishing tone.  His eyes flashed with return fire and his face tightened down viciously. 

          “You need the likes of the one you betrayed!” Celeborn thundered suddenly, his long-held control and fury breaking.  “I will not assume the role of a leader amongst you, but I will tell you what you must do if you wish for anything aside from slavery to Sauron himself!”

          The Steward blinked once, shocked by the so unlikely outburst from the normally cold elf, uncomprehending for a brief and unbelievable moment.  He moved to speak quickly, though –

          “Nay, Denethor!” Celeborn snapped.  “You have said quite enough, and you will abide by the will of the Council.  No longer will you crawl in the darkness, deceiving and misleading as if you were one of the Dark Lord’s own creatures.  What the Council decides, the Alliance will do!”  The elf seemed to bite his ire back with an effort before turning to his right and asking:

          “Now, Thranduil, what would you suggest?  Be quick in your words, for we have not much time.”

          The Elven King’s eyes glazed over for a moment, but he spoke clearly enough.  “I will not dwell upon mistakes past,” he said quietly.  “What is done is done.”  He took a deep breath, and his eyes deemed to scan the others with a great and ancient weariness.  “Sauron now possesses all the Rings of Power remaining in this world.  Long has he had the Nine and those remaining of the Seven; at the beginning of our war he gained the One; and through that he has gained the Three.

          “His strength is growing, and though I am no student of Ring-Lore, I do know this: once he gains complete control of the Three and their bearers, we can not stand against him.  Nothing can.”

          “Are you saying all is lost, then?” Pippin whispered, his voice small and uncertain.  His eyes darted from Denethor to Celeborn and then back to Thranduil, and the young hobbit looked frightfully lost in this battle that he had not chosen to join and this war he knew not how to fight.  His innocent face turned to them all with worry, then, and it seemed that he was the very personification of all they were fighting to protect in Middle-Earth.

          “Nay,” Thranduil said softly, his eyes meeting Celeborn’s for one brief instant.  “But our chances grow slighter with each passing hour.”

          “Then what?” Halbarad drove the point home.  “If you say we have not much time, do we move now and risk everything?”

          “I think we must.”  Surprisingly, it was Dáin who replied to the Ranger’s question.  The Dwarf-King’s face was taut with sorrow and regret, and none had to ask to know he had accomplished much serious soul searching in the hours following Denethor’s midnight council.  Without Sauron’s treachery, he might forever have maintained that he was right; after events past, the stubborn dwarf had no qualms with admitting his mistakes.  Rather, he (and all the others, save Denethor), had possessed the courage to face the others and express their heartfelt apologies.  Such actions could not have been easy for such a strong being, but Dáin had borne the burden like a true king.  He continued, “The only choice I see is the option of old – to lay siege to Barad-dûr itself.”

          A low mummer of anticipation and fear worked its way around the table until Faramir spoke.  “But the last siege lasted eight years,” he pointed out with despair.  “From what Lords Celeborn and Thranduil have said, we have not that much time.”

          A shake of Celeborn’s head might have crushed that hope had Arwen not spoken.  “But what other choice do we have?” she countered.  “It seems better to me to fail in taking the Dark Tower than to fail to try at all.  Truly, what do we have to loose?  Our lives?  They are already forfeit if Sauron wins, for he will not tolerate opposition.  We have marked ourselves through our previous courage.  Let that not fail us now, when we most need it.”  Her dark eyes focused on them all, one by one.

          “Let it instead carry us through the Darkness to come, and let it give us hope.”

          Gimli twisted in his chains to look upon the Lady Galadriel.  Once great, beautiful, and strong, the Lady of Lothlórien was now as ragged, dirt-covered, and bloody as her fellow prisoners.  However, that was not what drew the dwarf’s attention.  No, his eyes traveled to her not to see the physical damage he already knew of – and accepted, albeit angrily; he looked to her rather with a heart full of concern.  Only moments before, the Lady had cried out as if in great pain, her voice fraught with despair.  Elrond, too, had let loose a awful cry, and now the elf lord simply stared blankly at the cell wall before him, his eyes distant and vacant; he seemed not to notice anything save his own desolation.  But Gimli’s eyes traveled to Galadriel because of the broken tears streaming down her face.

          She had always been so strong, had always refused to break, no matter what Sauron did to her – but not now.  For some reason, her strength had left her.  He spoke his question softly.  “My lady?”

          She did not respond; only the shudder tearing through her body told him that Galadriel had heard him at all.  Her eyes remained closed tightly against some evil that only she and Elrond could feel, and she shook helplessly, tears streaming down her face.  Gimli frowned.

          “Lady Galadriel?”

          Finally, her eyes blinked open, and the dwarf could almost feel the pain running through them.  She breathed the word out in reply, “Gimli…”

          “What happened, Lady?”  Part of him hated to ask, for it clearly caused her pain, but he had to know.  The Fellowship needed to know.  A feeling in his heart told him that it mattered…something that could affect two such ancient and powerful beings was certainly a threat to them all.  Somehow, the future seemed to depend upon her reply.

          Galadriel’s eyes closed again, and her tears were his only answer.  As the dwarf watched, the elf seemed to retreat into herself, silent and pained in ways he could not understand.  She remained silent, then, refusing to reply and simply allowing her head to drop listlessly upon her chest.  All brightness seemed to have left the Lady of Light, now; all that she once was now was no more.  Even to Gimli’s once admiring eyes, Galadriel seemed to be not even a shadow of her former self.  Had one who had not lasted through those changing and torturous times with the Fellowship seen her, they could easily have failed to recognize the once great elven lady, for she had changed so much.  Even Gimli could hardly believe she had become like this – and so quickly, too.  Only hours before, Galadriel had been resolute and unyielding, resisting to all of Sauron’s evil.  Now, though, when the Dark Lord had not even lifted a hand, she had been crushed.

          And nothing in him could understand why.

          “My Lady?” he repeated.  “What happened?”

          Galadriel shuddered and did not answer.  Only her tears came harder, and she sho9ok her head, her tangled and blood-matted hair swiping unevenly across her bruised face.  Finally, the strangled whisper escaped her lips.  “No…”

          “My Lady?” Concern threatened to tear Gimli’s heart, but she would not answer.  A chill ran down the dwarf’s spine, and one glance around told him that the others of the Fellowship were as frightened by this new development as he.  None, however, dared to speak as they exchanged uneasy glances.

          In the long silence, though, another did.

          “He has gained the last of the Three Elven Rings,” Elrond whispered, and as Gimli’s head snapped to face him, he saw the black despair on the half-elf’s face.  Oh, the other was strong – he was burying his own pain deep inside and struggling to hold out against its pressures – but he clearly had no hope.  Not now.  “Narya’s bearer was betrayed, and has fallen into Sauron’s hands… They have battled, but he has lost…” Elrond let out a shaky sigh.  “Now there is nothing.

          “Nothing at all.”

          Celeborn sighed quietly in the darkness as he watched the Allied Army prepare to move out.  At least he was alone, where no one could hear or see his fears…or his expectations.  The nearest beings were at least twenty feet away, and he stood in a clump of trees that camouflaged him well.  Anyways, an elf who did not want to be found was not easily spotted…and he was feeling rather anti-social at the moment.  He had no desire whatsoever to speak to anyone else, be they council member or not.  His spat with Denethor had left him feeling frayed and drained; he had hardly expected one idiotic, prideful, and power-hungry human to be so much trouble!  Of course Denethor was not just any human, and he did mean well, but that did not take any stress away from the situation.

          He felt old.

          That, however, was an understatement.  He felt ancient.  One might say that he felt his years, but elven-kind was as timeless as they were immortal.  No power of Middle-Earth should have been able to make him feel like this – and yet the war had.  He let loose a soft chuckle at his own nature.  For years the elves had said that their time on Middle-Earth was over, that the time of men had come…and he had believed them.  He had wanted to, even knowing as he did that Sauron would not give up without a fight.  Thus, the only thing that had kept Celeborn in that world was his love for Galadriel.  She had needed to stay, needed to see it through…and he had promised to do so by her side.  But he had never envisioned fighting this war.  He had never expected to have to go on without her.  And he had never, ever, imagined facing off with Sauron himself.

They were going to have to, though.  That was the only chance they had left – to go the route of old, and pray that luck was with them.  Perhaps they could get the Ring from him…somehow.  He doubted that, but it could happen.  Perhaps.  Even though they had no heroes of the likes of Gil-galad and Elendil.  He and Denethor made poor substitutions for such legendary figures, and he knew that neither of them had the strength to stand up to Sauron, to fight him to the last… Despite the fact that Denethor would clearly like to think himself capable of it.  Then again, the Steward had a burning desire to be the savior of humanity and rule Gondor, not as keeper, but as king. 

He shook his head to clear it.  That threat had passed for the moment.  Celeborn had little doubt that it would arise once again, after this was all over – but for now, he could not afford to dwell upon Denethor’s infuriating ambitions.  They had not the time, and he had not the energy.  He was too tired for that.  He felt too old.

And he felt a nagging and painful truth in his heart.

It wasn’t going to work.

It couldn’t.  Sauron could not possibly be so stupid as to allow himself to be destroyed twice in the same manner.  Blind luck had guided Isildur’s hands the first time, and Celeborn knew that the Alliance would find no such gift for a second try.  Nothing they could do would change that, either, and though they had to try, they would fail.  The Alliance would fail, and Middle-Earth would fall.

He’d had to give them hope, but he felt none himself.

“You look troubled,” a soft voice suddenly came from behind him, and Celeborn felt a gentle hand lay suddenly upon his elbow.  Without turning, he knew it was Arwen, the invisible binding force between so much of the Alliance: betrothed of Aragorn, daughter of Elrond, granddaughter of he and Galadriel.  There was much more to her than beauty, he knew, but others often had a hard time looking past that.

An elf who did not want to be found was not easily spotted…except by an elf who knew exactly what to look for.

Wordlessly, he nodded.  She knew, of course.  Arwen could not miss his worries and his fears.  His daughter’s daughter had always been intelligent and pragmatic, even where those she loved were concerned.  She stood to loose the most out of all of them, and yet she still seemed to hope.  But looking in her eyes, now, he saw his own emotions reflected.  Arwen knew.  She knew there was no chance.

“You worry,” she continued softly when he still did not speak.  “You worry as I do, but far more.  Why?”

Celeborn sighed again.  “I did not feel this way in the beginning,” he replied finally.  “I almost felt hope, then… But that was when I understood it all.  That was when things made sense.”

It went without saying that nothing did now.  “What is it that you can not understand?”

“Mithrandir has fallen…as he knew he would.”  To no one else would he have ever dared to voice his doubts, but Arwen was his only remaining kin, and he knew he could trust her.  Young as she was – and rash, though some labeled her – Elrond’s daughter possessed wisdom far beyond her years.  “He knew that just as he knew that Sauron would not keep his word.  So what I do not understand is why he allowed himself to be taken.  Why did he throw everything away?”

“Maybe he had no choice,” she replied.

Celeborn forced a half smile in ironic amusement.  “My dear Arwen, I know not much of the Maiar, but I know enough of Mithrandir…had he decided to remain, no mere man could have forced his hand.  Especially changed as he is now.”

“So then you wonder why.”  Realization dawned in her eyes, and his granddaughter nodded. 

“Yes,” he admitted.  “And not knowing that makes me very afraid indeed.”  The elf-lord took a deep breath, and continued, “I am almost tempted to hope…but I fear that he did have no choice…and that Denethor has doomed us all.”

Chapter Text

“I cannot use it.  I dread the pain of touching it.  And I have not yet found the strength to bend it to my will.  My pride has fallen.  It should go to the Keepers of the Three.”

          Amongst their number he had come once more, which would have finally reunited the Fellowship if it were not for the absence of Pippin.  Yet though he lived still, the old wizard lay unmoving and limp in his chains.  The others looked to him with concern and fear, for his chest barely rose and fell, and his skin was a most unnatural white color.  He seemed to be holding to life by only the thinnest of threads, and for all of them, Saurman immediately came to mind.  The other wizard, or Maia, as Elrond called them both, had been Sauron’s first victim.  There seemed nothing to keep Gandalf from being the next.

          Hours had passed, though, and he still breathed.  The prisoners had been silent, for the most part, during that time, save for their initial surprise after two Ringwraiths had brought him into the cell.  But Sauron’s creatures had left quickly, somehow frightened of the unconscious wizard.  They had chained him hurriedly and then bolted, glancing futilely over their shoulders with nonexistent eyes that could not see as they left.  That action alone struck Legolas as strange, for he had not know that the Black Riders could feel fear.  Dead men, he had always supposed, felt nothing. Yet they did fear Gandalf, and he did not know why.

          Elrond did, clearly, but he did not speak.  He remained as silent as Galadriel now, his eyes riveted on the wizard’s still form, as if he could will the other back to consciousness – or to life.  The only information the others had been able to glean from him was that Gandalf the Gray had been the bearer of Narya, the Third Elven Ring.

          Now that, Legolas could believe.  Somehow – he knew not – the wizard had lived through his confrontation with the Balrog, only to return and to be betrayed.  Elrond had said that he had battled Sauron, and fallen… But if Mithrandir could not defeat Sauron, Legolas doubted that any could.  Although the wizard had never shown any awesome strength, somehow the elven prince had known he was stronger than any other.  But both Saurman and Gandalf had fallen, now… Such thoughts brought painful doubt into Legolas’ mind.  For some reason, he had held to hope, but Elrond’s despair was contagious.  The Lord of Rivendell knew the Rings far better than Legolas could ever dream to, and if he believed all was lost…

          Yet Elrond still stared at Gandalf, waiting for…for what?  Hope?  Or did he merely wait for the end to come?  The prince of Mirkwood knew not, but his heart darkened as he pictured a future under the Dark Lord’s sway.  In that way, he almost hoped that Mithrandir did not recover, for the wizard would hate what Middle-Earth would become if Sauron controlled it.  Perhaps it was better to die than to endure the millennia to come. 

          For a moment, Legolas wished he were mortal.

          Arwen stood upon the hilltop, glancing up at the starless sky and striving for calm.  The army had stopped for the night – or at least, the period of hours that would have been nighttime had not every moment of every day contained the same blackness – and she had to be alone.  In only two “days” time, they would reach Barad-dûr, and before that time came, Arwen needed to prepare herself for what was surely to come.  Oh, this was so hard…it was nearly impossible to seem impenetrable and strong, always ancient and sure of herself.  She stood to loose so much if their world was destroyed…and not only her people or her future.  There was her father, Elrond, whom though she had had differences with over the years, she loved more than the world; Galadriel, her mother’s mother, who had been the rock Arwen leaned upon when both she and her father were devastated by her mother’s departure for the West; and then there was Aragorn.  Aragorn… She missed him so.  There were not words to describe it, nor would she try.  She simply yearned for him as for half of her own soul.

          Footsteps in the darkness approached, then, and she knew who it was before he spoke.

          “My Lady?” Faramir whispered as if afraid to disturb her.  But what was he afraid of interrupting?  There was no peace left.

          “Lord Faramir.”  Arwen forced a smile for him as she turned to face the son of Denethor, for they had become fast friends over the past hard months.  Faramir was a good man, nothing like his father, and very dear to her.  In many ways, he reminded her of Aragorn – strong, noble, and willing to do the right thing, no matter what the personal cost.

          “You asked for me, Lady?”

          “Yes.”  She nodded lightly.  “Will you walk with me?”

          “Of course,” Faramir replied, but she could see a matching darkness in his eyes.  The entire camp had been affected by Denethor’s foolish ambition, and now hope was in short supply…even for those who should not have felt the rising evil that brushed against Arwen’s heart.

          Together they set forward, moving through the Alliance’s camp at a deceptively calm pace.  To many, the man and elf seemed well matched, and there were not a few men of Gondor who hoped to see them together someday.  Perhaps even Denethor shared that desire, though neither cared if he did.  Faramir, unlike many of the Alliance’s leaders, knew of her love for Aragorn.  He had noticed that from the very beginning, and was content to remain friends.  In fact, many of their conversations consisted of the steward’s son trying to learn of he who would be his king, but Arwen told him little.  Aragorn he would have to meet for himself.  For the moment, Faramir would have to be content with knowing her.

          As friends, that was a simple task.  Not so, however, was what she had set out to say.  Their comfortable silence finally became uneasy after several moments’ walking, though, and Arwen felt compelled to speak.  She asked, “You realize what you have done, do you not?”

          Faramir’s piercing eyes met hers, and she saw sadness, but no regret.  “Aye,” he responded.  “If you mean in breaking with my father.”

          “I do.”

          “I’ve thought of it much as of late,” he said slowly.  “But it was the right thing to do.”

          Arwen felt her heart grieve for this man, so honorable, and yet so lonely.  “He will not forgive you for it.”

          “I know.”

          There was pain in his voice that even a man such as Faramir could not hide, especially to elven ears.  He loved his father, truly and fully, even though he knew what Denethor was – and what the man dreamed of being.  The difference was that Faramir knew his father never could have held the Ring.  He knew that it would have destroyed him…and that Middle-Earth would still have been lost.  Still, though, Denethor’s anger hurt him deeply.  She whispered to him, “I am sorry.”

          “We all do what we must, Lady.”  Faramir shrugged.  “Besides, you, also, have lost much.”

          “That does not change your own pain.”

          “Nor does it change yours,” she countered evenly.  Faramir worried her sometimes…his sense of honor could destroy him if he wasn’t careful, for he was bound to act, but his heart would bleed every time another hated him for his actions, no matter how right they were – and there would always be someone to hate him.  Good men always had to live with that.

          His eyes drifted away from hers for a moment, and Arwen could sense that he did not want to talk about this.  Indeed, he far rathered bury his pain inside where no one, especially a nosy elf, could see it, and where no one could bother him.  He might not have felt so bad had there been any hope for success, but his actions could save no one, and that only made him feel worse.  He had done all the right things, but that had not helped at all.  Unfortunately for him, Arwen Evenstar considered him a friend, and thus felt honor-bound to help him, if he wanted it or not.  Though there was little she could do, she would still try.

          He spoke lightly, trying to distract her.  “You worry for a mere man?”

          Arwen looked him in the eye.  She was not letting him out of this, no matter how much he squirmed.  “I worry for a friend.”

          “A friend, lady?”

          “A friend, indeed.”  Arwen stopped and laid a gentle hand on his arm, startling him slightly.  “I know your pain, Faramir,” she said softly, “and though I can not change it, I can tell you to hold on.  Do not give up yet… I know that there seems no hope, but something in my heart tells me this is not over.  Perhaps your sacrifices will not be for naught.”

          “But what if it is?” His eyes, suddenly lost and hurt, turned to her, searching for answers he knew she could not give, for answers she could not possibly have.  Faramir was grasping at straws now, yearning for reasons to continue on with this hopeless battle, but finding it harder than anyone would have guessed, because, for him, doing the right thing had always cost far too much.

          Arwen took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

          “Then we die knowing that we did our best.”

          Pain was the first thing he felt, though it also was the last.  Consciousness was fleeting; for only seconds he felt it, only long enough to feel his heart and soul throb, long enough to know that Narya was gone.  He was a Maia, and thus could not feel mortal pain…but he could feel the rents in his soul.  His mind, the most sacred abode for his people, had been invaded by an evil few could comprehend; in its wake there was only pain, and a gleaming emptiness.  Had he lost…?  Was it truly over, then?  A sudden dizziness swept through him, then, and he felt himself fading once more.  His last conscious realization was that his mind was still his own.

          His defenses had held.

          The doors burst open once more, but this time, the intruders were not Ringwraiths alone.  No, much to Frodo’s surprise, Sauron himself entered their cell.  Preceded by two Ringwraiths and followed by two others, the Dark Lord presented a towering and frightening sight; despite himself, the hobbit shrank back, pressing his slender body into the moldy cell wall in a futile and subconscious attempt to escape Sauron.  Distantly in his mind he heard the Ring’s voice singing to him, but even that longing faded beneath this greater fear.  What could Sauron want now?  Victory had to be in his grasp, so why did he persist in tormenting the Fellowship?  Where they truly to be his trophies, kept in torment and pain for all eternity?  Frodo shuddered and tried to bite back his fear, but it was no use.

          Sauron, however, did not even spare him a glance.  Although he had once delighted in tormenting Frodo, he seemed not to care now.  Nor was he looking at Aragorn, Galadriel, or even Elrond.  Rather, the Dark Lord’s eyes were focused upon Gandalf, and his timing seemed to have been perfect.

          The wizard stirred slightly and moaned, seeming deceptively human to Frodo’s eyes.  Anticipation seemed to seep from Sauron, then, and the hobbit would have sworn the monster licked his lips, had he been able.  The Dark Lord shifted impatiently as he watched Gandalf, waiting for the other to awake – though for what purpose, Frodo could not fathom.  What more could Sauron want?  There was nothing left for him to take; upon one hand he wore the One Ring, and upon the other gleamed Vilya, Nenya – and Narya.  Everything was his.

          Gandalf’s eyes snapped open and his head jerked up, his eyes, formerly so kind and peaceful, burning into Sauron’s.  Frodo blinked at the change, for it was more pronounced even than the unexplained difference in the wizard’s ‘color’; this deadly and focused glare bespoke of more than the casual, kindly wizard had ever revealed of himself.  He shifted in his chains, testing them carefully; his actions marked him as the only one in that cell who did not fear the Dark Lord.  Still, though, there was a grogginess to Gandalf’s movements that made him seem extremely weary or drugged.  Long seconds of silence ticked by and the other prisoners waited with baited breath to see how the two would face off.  Finally, Sauron was the first to speak.

          “Olórin,” the Dark Lord hissed contemptuously, and Frodo saw the tiniest flicker of surprise flash through Gandalf’s eyes before they hardened to cold flint once more.  “Oh, yes…I know.  Although I admit I am surprised to find you, of all our people, here on Middle-Earth.  Curumo I could believe, but you…you I thought would not care enough in your superior wisdom.”

          The wizard met the other’s gaze evenly and did not reply, leaving the hobbit puzzling over Sauron’s words.   Curiosity almost overshadowed fear, then, as Frodo struggled to figure out exactly what the Dark Lord meant.  What was Gandalf?

          “They once called you the wisest of us all,” Sauron mocked him.  “Although your powers have proven no match for me, in the end, Olórin.  Or is it that your time amongst weaklings has transformed you so much?  Either way, you have lost…”  The Dark Lord grinned suddenly, sending a shiver down Frodo’s spine.  Then he raised his left hand, upon which the Three Elven Rings glittered in the pale light.  “Everything.”

          For the first time, the wizard seemed to flinch.  Frodo imagined that Gandalf felt a calling similar to – if not stronger than – the one he felt.  The One called to him…would that not mean that Gandalf’s Ring, which the wizard had surely borne longer than Frodo the One, called to him, too?  The hobbit could see his own pain and longing reflected in the wizard’s eyes, but something stronger flashed past that, and seemed to overcome the desires that Frodo himself still could not move beyond.   A shaky breath emerged from Gandalf as he forced his eyes away from his ring and to meet Sauron’s once more.  He spoke softly.  “You have not won yet.”

          “A matter of time,” the Dark Lord gloated.

          Gandalf said nothing.  He merely looked at the other with a calm determination that seemed to say that it was not over.

          Rage rolled off Sauron in physical waves, and Frodo heard him hiss in anger and frustration.  His left hand came up and clenched into a fist, and the hobbit heard the bitten-off cry that came from the wizard as his head slammed back into the wall.  Power surged then; it came on so strongly that Frodo did not need his connection with the Ring to feel it, and he heard the rest of his companions gasp from its force.  Something deep and fierce rushed forward, and he felt evil reaching out through the third ring and into Gandalf.  Both Elrond and Galadriel cried out in alarm and helpless fury, then, as the Dark Lord reached into the wizard’s mind.

Chapter Text

“With that power I should have power too great and terrible.  And over me the Ring would gain a power still greater and more deadly.  Do not tempt me!  For I do not wish to become like the Dark Lord himself.  Yet the way of the Ring to my heart is by pity, pity for weakness and the desire of strength to do good.  Do not tempt me!  I dare not take it, not even to keep it safe, unused.  The wish to wield it would be too great for my strength.  I shall have such need of it.  Great perils lie before me.”

          The army was in camp around Barad-dûr, and that fact, unlike anything else, had finally forced Denethor into relative silence.  He seemed to be, much like the others, horrified by the vastness of the black tower and the evil that seemed to color its stone walls.  Now, though, they lay in siege of the tower, having cut off all advance and retreat from it, but that seemed to be of little use.  Sauron, they knew, could withstand such things for years.  After all, he had done so in the past, when the Last Alliance of Elves and Men had spent eight years on the Dark Lord’s doorstep, waging a war that had cost more in lives than their army numbered now.  Although Sauron’s army was also smaller this time around – largely due to their efforts – the siege promised to be equally as long, unless they could find a way to change the situation.

          The problem was that there didn’t seem to be one.

          Until someone found that, the siege promised to be a long and drawn out affair that had, so far, accomplished nothing other than grating on everyone’s nerves and fracturing the already flimsily relationship between the Alliance’s leaders.  As they waited, all they could really do was make faces at the walls and anger Sauron through their defiance in the very act of being there.  Unfortunately, angered though he might have been, the Dark Lord showed no sign of budging from his safe tower, and seemed perfectly content to waste the time he knew they did not have.

          While he did that, the bonds between the Alliance’s leaders grew weaker and weaker.  Even Thranduil and Celeborn, ancient and wise, were beginning to feel the strain, and their tempers grew shorter and shorter as time passed.  For five days they had been camped outside of Barad-dûr, and they had seen no movement aside from the changing of the guard.  The gates had not opened, and battle had not been sought.  There was nothing, no change.  It seemed that they were consigned to wait.

          Until the Mouth of Sauron ventured forth upon a huge and ugly black horse, and amid drum rolls loud and deep enough to wake the dead.  The gates of the dark tower opened to release him, and he rode forth, accompanied only by a small host of guards who bore a black standard, upon which the Evil Eye was depicted in red.  His appearance was ghastly and frightening, but the assembled leaders quickly knew that this was no Ringwraith; rather, this was a human man, diseased and corrupted by the evil of Sauron.

          “I am the Mouth of Sauron,” cried he.  “I come to offer terms to those worthy of negotiating with me.”

          As one, the leaders of the Alliance stepped forward, their backs straight and eyes hard, but Thranduil spoke before Denethor had a chance to do so.  Wary, Faramir laid a hand upon his father’s arm, not wishing for the Steward to ruin all they had worked so hard to attain, but Denethor only gave him a sour look and closed his mouth.

          “Speak, vile creature, but first know we do not treaty with the Lord of Lies,” the elf returned, looking more ancient, lordly, and powerful than Faramir had ever seen him. 

          “Be what may, my Master bids you to take his mercy and retreat,” the corrupted man retorted.  “If each of you vows to submit to Mordor’s will and live as loyal subjects, Sauron the Great promises that you and yours will come to no harm.”

          “We have seen the effect of his promises before,” the elven-king spat back with contempt.  “Begone, foul mouthpiece!  We want nothing of your deals or your vows!  Leave, and tell your master that if he wishes us to submit, he must compel us by force!”

          The Mouth of Sauron reared back with anger, his eyes flashing and his mouth curling into a snarl.  “Know this, then, fool Elf-King: by your refusal, those you hold most dear will pay!”

          Fear filled Faramir’s heart, and he thought he heard Arwen take a pained and sharp intake of air.  Those words could have but one meaning, he knew; those in Sauron’s hands would suffer for the decisions that the Alliance made.  Thranduil, too, must have known, but the elf showed no sign of grief, even though his son was amongst those in the dungeons of Barad-dûr.

          “Take our response to your lord or rue the day that you set foot outside the Black Gates!” the King of Mirkwood replied forcefully, his eyes ablaze with fury.  His figure seemed to grow, then, and Faramir suddenly understood what it would have meant to face a High Elf of old.  The Mouth of Sauron, too, understood, and spinning his horse, fled back into the Dark Tower, his guards following quickly on his heels.

          Pippin looked up at her with pain in his heart.  He had never met someone like the Lady Arwen Evenstar, not even Galadriel of Lothlórien.  Her kindness to him had been amazing; over the last weeks she had kept the youngest hobbit by her side, listening to his grief and his doubts.  Not once had she voiced her own pain, and he only now realized how selfish he had been.  Little did he know how much that thought marked him; Pippin had matured so much during the War of the Ring, though his mind still had not grasped that.

          “I have been abusing your kindness, haven’t I?” he asked her.

          Arwen’s smile was bittersweet and sad.  She no longer shown in the slight glow of torchlight, rather, she seemed to have dimmed a little. “No, Pippin,” she said softly.  “You have been through much.”

          Even a hobbit was wise enough to know that the elven princess only said those words to make him feel better.  The pain in her eyes could not be missed, even by one such as he.  “So have you,” he pointed out, trying to match her gentle tone and not succeeding.  “You lost your father, Galadriel, and…Strider.  Aragorn, I mean.  Whoever he is, anyway.”

          “Yes, I did.”  Her voice was barely above a whisper.  “But I try not to grieve for myself, Pippin.”

          “Why not?”

          “Because we stand to loose everything…not just friends and family.”  Arwen glanced away, and he could tell she was trying oh so hard to be strong.  “If we fail, the world as we know it ends.”

          Fear gripped Pippin, and he had to ask, even though he was sure that he would not like the answer.  “Do you think we will fail?”

          “I don’t know,” she responded softly.  “But I do not think this is over.  Not yet…there is something left to come, Pippin.  I do not know what, but I feel that in my bones.”

          “Is that good or bad?” the hobbit whispered.  Something in her voice frightened him; it made her sound ancient and strong, and so wise.  Her eyes, too, were terrifying, for they held knowledge that was clearly beyond his understanding.

          “I don’t know,” she repeated.  “But I fear for them, Pippin.  I fear for him.”

          The hobbit nodded once in the silence.  Only later did he think to ask who he was…at first he assumed Strider, but Elrond was her father.  Either one could be the he she feared for, yet Arwen had not said who, and two hours later, in the dead of Darkness, there was no time to ask who she meant.  In fact, by the time that there were moments to spare, so much had happened that Pippin, nor Arwen, would not spend the energy to care about cryptic worries or spoken words.  In fact, by then it was too late to matter.

          “Look!”

          A voice cried out in the Darkness, high pitched with worry and despair.  It caused all eyes in the camp to swivel around, searching for threats and for enemies.  But the camp was quiet, as was the night.  In fact, all seemed to quiet; scarcely any animals or noise-making life existed on the barren plains of Mordor.  A heavy blanket of stillness lay suffocatingly over the Alliance’s camp, isolating them in a frightening world all of their own.  They seemed trapped, immobile and alone, until a cry split the night.

          “The battlements!”

          Eyes snapped upwards to stare at the dark tower of Barad-dûr, where, upon the first level of battlements, a scarce fifty feet above the rocky ground, figures appeared.  First came the Urk-Hai, armed and armored to the teeth, who rushed forward to ring the landing’s edge, eyes trained warily outwards.  Then an honor guard of two Black Riders emerged, followed by the Dark Lord Sauron himself.  Even from a hundred yards away, the monster was terrifying; the men, dwarves, hobbits, eagles, and elves of the Alliance could feel his sick satisfaction and his gleeful anticipation.  His smile, of course, they could not see, but their eyes could register those who were brought out from the Dark Lord’s hells.  As his prisoners, beaten and defeated, came those they held most dear.

          Frodo was the first, symbolically as well as literally, and Faramir felt himself gasp.  The once sweet and innocent hobbit, who he had known only briefly, was beaten and bloodied, limp in the arms of the two Urk-Hai who carried him, one grasping each arm.  Had Frodo been taller, his feet would have dragged on the ground; as it was, he dangled helplessly in the air.  Seeing this, the Steward’s son felt a rock-hard lump of dread form in his throat, and he had no doubt that the one-time Ringbearer was typical of his fellows, who filed out one by one, dragged or carried by the Urk-Hai.

          Next came Boromir, and Faramir heard his father’s muffled gasp from nearby as the leaders of the Alliance gathered mutely together behind him.  The Captain of Gondor, his father’s pride and joy, looked terrible, nearly as bad as Frodo, and Faramir understood Denethor’s pain.  After Boromir came Legolas; he hardly knew the elven prince, but he already grieved for Thranduil, looking upon his bloodied son.  Gimli the Dwarf came next, slumped and seemingly barely conscious, with blood matting his thick beard.  The small form of Merry followed him, also held from the ground by his guards and squirming helplessly.  Last of the Fellowship came Aragorn, whom Faramir had met only once – and then as Strider and not knowing that he was his King.  But the Heir of Isildur was limp, bloody, and tortured in the Urk-Hai’s tight grasp.  He seemed more dead than alive.

          Directly behind Aragorn, though, came the remaining six Ringwraiths, two each dragging one of the bearers of the Three.  A bloodied yet still beautiful elven queen was the first, and Faramir assumed this to be Galadriel, disfigured as she was by blood and grime.  Second was Elrond, as abused and bad off as Aragorn.  Last though, came Gandalf the White, largely intact in the physical sense, but unconscious and paler than a ghost.  Blood, too, trickled down his face from his right temple.

          As Sauron’s creatures halted, displaying their burdens for all to see, the Mouth of Sauron once more emerged from the gates, causing the Alliance’s leaders, as one, to move their hands to weapons’ hilts.  Eyes narrowed ominously, and Faramir felt his own fury rise.  Oh, the meaning of the Mouth’s treat was clear now…painfully clear.  Sauron’s lieutenant, though, only grinned at their impotent anger.  He clearly knew they could not act; the gates had closed behind him, and even as the only available target, he was untouchable.  If he died, many others would go with him.

          “Behold the anger of Sauron!” he cried, and his awful voice sent a shiver down Faramir’s spine.  “My Lord sets forth these terms: submit to his will and none others shall die.  Else, loose those dear to you one by one!”

          From the corner of his eye, Faramir saw his father lurch forward a few steps, and though he tried to reach out and stop him, he was too late. 

          “Tell your master the free peoples of Middle Earth will not treaty with slave makers!” he roared, his eyes blazing with fury finally directed at the right enemy.   Faramir felt a sigh of relief rattle in his own chest as Denethor continued.  “Do what you may, Lord of Darkness!  We will fight you until the end!”

          A great cheer rose from the army behind them, and Faramir heard the scrape of swords coming from scabbards and the clank of weapons at the ready.  In the time of the greatest adversity, the peoples of Middle Earth had indeed united…but most did not realize that they could not reach the enemy.  The reply of the Mouth of Sauron was lost in the din; he shrugged, then, and simply looked upwards.  Few seemed to notice this; the army was drunk on Denethor’s courage and defiance, inspired and united for the final time.  The Steward’s son, though, stood frozen, his eyes moving to the battlements of Barad-dûr in mute anticipation. 

          The Ringwraiths brought Gandalf forward.

          With a start, Elrond realized who Sauron’s first target would be.  Foolishly, the elf had expected it to be one of the hobbits, or even Boromir or Gimli – innocents or those there with kin who might, might, give in under the pressure.  Elves, and by proxy, Gandalf, he had simply not taken into the equation, for he knew that Arwen, Celeborn, and Thranduil would not break, no matter how badly they were hurt, and he knew, somehow, that they were amongst those gathered at the gates of Barad-dûr.  Likewise he discounted Aragorn, for though heartbroken she would be, Arwen would not take that path, nor would any Ranger sent to the alliance arrayed before them.  He had assumed, though, that Sauron would depend upon emotional connections when he chose his victim.

          He had not thought that the Dark Lord would go for simple impact and display of power.

          But Sauron was wise, and he knew who the biggest threat amongst them was.  It was not the army, nor even Elrond, who had faced him before, all those years ago.  No, it was Gandalf, the only one of them who had the strength, the power, and the courage to actually do battle with him.  It mattered not that the wizard had lost; all that mattered was that he had fought Sauron.  Such an affront did not only anger the Dark Lord, though.  It seemed to have pissed him off, and dictated who he would kill, salving his anger and eliminating the greatest danger at the same time.

          Elrond felt his heart break.  Unconscious, and held tightly by the most powerful Ringwraiths remaining, Gandalf, Mithrandir, stood not a chance.  Especially with Narya upon Sauron’s left hand… Sauron’s taking of the Third Ring had hurt Gandalf far greater than the taking of Nenya or Vilya had hurt Galadriel or Elrond.  The elf-lord knew not why, for both had held their rings longer than he, but he suspected the strength of that bond had something to do with the wizard’s…other powers.  Though Elrond had never seen the fully unleashed powers of an unencumbered Maia, he never made the mistake of assuming that just because he had not seen them, they were not there.  Sauron was, after all, of the same origins as Gandalf.  And once Sauron knew that, there was no way the wizard could defend against him.

          The first war the wizard had survived, mind and soul intact and hidden away beyond the Dark Lord’s power to reach.  The second, though – the second – had succeeded in breaking through every barrier Gandalf had created.  It had succeeded in breaking through to his soul, and Elrond had felt the Maia’s pain when Sauron achieved his victory.  Merciful, it had been, when the other had slipped into unconsciousness from which Elrond did not expect him to waken.  In many ways, he hoped that the wizard would not wake, not be there to see the end.  For then he would grieve as I do, for all is lost.  At least, though, it was ending, and they would not spend an eternity as Sauron’s trophies and play toys. 

The world seemed to move slowly as the Dark Lord approached Gandalf with the One Ring burning brightly upon his right hand, in which Sauron held his own dark blade, reforged and reborn of old.  His intentions, then, were clear; though Elrond knew not how to slay a Maia, it was clear that Sauron, once one of their own, did, and he would do so.  Cries sounded from the base of Barad-dûr, but the elf paid them little heed as despair threatened to overcome his heart.  If Gandalf falls, Middle Earth will fall with him, he knew. 

Suddenly, Gandalf’s head snapped up, and though Elrond could see the pain swimming in his eyes for the first instant, a cold determination seemed to banish it as quickly as it could rise.  The Dark Lord growled softly and raised his blade, but to the elf’s surprise, the wizard did not fight.  He simply stood straighter and looked his enemy in the eye.  Several long seconds passed in power-strained silence, and then Sauron smiled.  He swung.

“No!”  The cry came out of nowhere, but from the corner of his eye, Elrond saw a flash of movement –

And Frodo, broken loose from his Urk-Hai guardians, flew into the Dark Lord, knocking his sword aside even as it swept forward in the beginning of its deadly arc.  Snarling, Sauron twisted aside, and grasping the hobbit in his left hand, made to twist his blade around and end the nuisance of Frodo, once and for all.  But the hobbit clung to his right hand, struggling for the Ring.

With a roar, the Dark Lord ripped his hand away from his small opponent, and raised his blade for the killing blow.

Thunder, it was later said, seemed to crack in the sky, as the world threatened to end.

Chapter Text

The previously light wind had stilled to nothing.  No stars shone in the sky, nor did a moon; the day-night was dark.  The cries from the base of Barad-dûr had quieted now, and a foreboding silence filled the air alongside the rumbling, until the thunder’s roll was split by Sauron’s howl of rage.

But their hearts were torn by Frodo’s scream.

The hobbit flew away from Sauron, sailing through the air in seemingly slow motion.  He hit the ground hard, bounced twice, and came to a stop, rolled tightly into a ball, as if a child trying to shield himself from the frightening world outside.  Frodo lay still, then, a shivering and pale light in the darkness.  Looking upon him, the sudden and irrational hope lifting within Aragorn’s heart crashed back down.  And when Sauron shrieked in absolute fury, he knew it was over.

The Dark Lord spun, his blade rising for the kill.  Murderous anger rolled from him in waves, making Aragorn, despite his strength, recoil involuntarily in his guards’ grip.  He almost wept, then, for the world they had failed.  If such a small and meaningless act of defiance could win such anger from the Dark Lord, Middle-Earth had no chance.  Her once free peoples would suffer for all eternity.  Despair gripped him then, in the small moments before Frodo’s death, for he knew who had failed them the most.  Indeed, blood did run true… But then he noticed something.

The Ring was missing from Sauron’s hand.

The Heir of Isildur’s eyes snapped to the balled up hobbit on the ground.  Frodo’s right fist was shut tightly…could it be?  Could he have taken the Ring once more?  But he did not move, did not flinch.  He only seemed to brace himself for the inevitable ending, so still that he could very well have been dead already.  His eyes opened, though, to look at Sauron, frightened – oh, so frightened! – but determined and unwavering.  A final roar from Sauron brought his dark blade slashing down.

Move, Frodo! Aragorn’s mind screamed helplessly, and he heard his voice echo the cry.  “Move!”

Simultaneously, to his right and seemingly so far away, he heard Merry scream, “No!”

Time seemed to slow.  There seemed interminable moments to feel the pain of failure, but not enough to stop it.  Uselessly, Aragorn struggled against the Urak-Hai gripping his arms.  Even though he knew he was too weak, even though he knew that even if he could escape, he would never reach Frodo in time to save him, he had to try.  He sensed more than saw that the others were doing the same, but all came to the same result as he.  They had failed.  It was over…  Time sped up.

          Sauron’s dark blade swept downwards.     

White light split the world.

          A glowing white and elven blade of power intercepted the Dark Lord’s, and power seemed to burst from the encounter.  Aragorn felt the Urak-Hai holding him recoil in shock, and as his vision cleared, the man who would be King gasped.  For the white blade Glamdring lay again in Gandalf’s hands, and the wizard stood before Sauron once more, fire burning in his eyes.  His two Ringwraith guards lay sprawled on the ground to his right and his left, unmoving and thrown there by some unknown force.  But Aragorn’s eyes were drawn once more to Gandalf.  The wizard stood straighter than he had ever seen him in their long acquaintance, his age and frailty gone.  The white of his garments seemed to shine in the darkness, creating a beacon of light and hope for the freedom of Middle-Earth, but bright though he shone, Aragorn could not look away.  He was captivated by the strength and the courage though which this seemingly old wizard could face down the greatest terror their world could know.

          Suddenly Sauron laughed.  “I do not need the One to kill you, Olórin,” he snarled contemptuously.  A cruel smile lit his face as he held up his left hand, the Three glittering helplessly in the darkness.  “I have Narya.”

          The Dark Lord’s hand thrust outwards before Gandalf had a chance to reply.  The wizard’s head snapped back with the force of Sauron’s power, and he flew into the air, Glamdring dropping from his shocked hands as he spiraled upwards.  His hand right hand flashed out, though, and Sauron staggered backwards, only to gesture once more, which slammed the wizard back onto the ground briefly before thrusting him in the air once more.  Gandalf’s voice, though, floated down even as the elven blade, once tightly held in his hand, clattered to the stone beneath him.

          “Run, Frodo!”

          The hobbit was on his feet now, having backed away when all attention, including Sauron’s, had been focused on Gandalf.  But his voice cried back with more determination than Aragorn had heard from any of the Fellowship in too long.  “I won’t leave you!”

          A cry of triumph from Sauron sounded even as his hand closed into a fist, and brought the wizard crashing down to the ground.  The Dark Lord grinned and paused, savoring the last moment before forcing himself into the Maia’s mind for the final time.  This time, he would not leave a shred of intelligence or an inkling of soul behind, for the power of Narya the Great, still linked to its bearer’s mind, would allow him to do so, even without the One.  Even with the One in Frodo’s hands, Sauron controlled his Ring, and thus he owned the Three.

          But he made one mistake.

          Faster than Aragorn would have believed possible, the wizard jumped to his feet and turned to Frodo.  Only feet separated them; they were not close enough to touch, but nearly so.  Gandalf’s eyes hardened, then, but his gaze did not move back to Sauron.  Determination was chiseled into his hard features, and Aragorn saw a decision made.

          “The Ring, Frodo!” Gandalf cried.

          Without hesitation, the hobbit spun to face the wizard, his eyes widening in understanding – and at the same time, Sauron leapt forward.  The Dark Lord’s long strides ate up the yards between himself and the Maia even as Frodo’s right hand snapped forward, his fingers splaying open.  The One Ring flew from his hand, floating through the air, spinning end over end, glowing bright and innocent gold in the shadows lying between the dark of Mordor and the light of Gandalf.  It seemed to hang there, in the air, as Sauron stretched his hand out, grasping for the one Ring to rule them all.

          But Gandalf’s fingers closed upon the Ring first.  Only as he grasped it in his left hand did he finally turn to face the Dark Lord once more, calm and serene in the face of the fallen Maia’s fury.  Sauron took a final stride, power and anger consuming him and the world, and rushed the wizard.  The two, fallen Maia and earth-bound Istar, blazed in the darkness, power radiating from their forms in this last of all battles.  Their eyes met, fury burning bright yet fading in the face of cool calm.  The Dark Lord let out a horrible bellow of challenge and leapt at the wizard.  Gandalf the White, however, did not flinch.

          Instead, he placed the One Ring upon his right hand.

          Aragorn watched Gandalf’s eyes close.  He watched his lips move silently, mouthing words that the Heir of Isildur knew not.  He watched the wizard’s right hand move outwards, slowly, with infinite grace and patience, as if he had all the time in the world.  He watched Gandalf’s eyes open, calmly, and look upon the Dark Lord with no emotion at all.  And he felt it, in his bones, as Gandalf did what Boromir could not.  The One Ring seemed to glow brighter, seemed to flash in the darkness, embracing the white light that engulfed the wizard.

          Sauron stopped.  Froze, rather; in mid stride, the Dark Lord’s momentum simply stopped.  Rage flashed across Sauron’s face, and Aragorn could see him try to move, but he could not.  A snarl slipped past the Dark Lord’s lips, which suddenly moved with rapid intensity, mumbling in the language of Mordor, as he fought Gandalf’s hold with every fiber of his dark and corrupted being.  Still, he failed.  Sauron’s eyes burned with anger as he redoubled his efforts, glaring at his opponent, and his teeth gritted as he tried to move.  Finally, Gandalf’s wrist rotated, and palm facing Sauron, he opened his hand.

          The Dark Lord’s head snapped back as if struck, and his lips moved in ineffectual curses and fury – but now his eyes held fear.  He struggled against the invisible forces holding him, but to no avail.  Silence reigned as long seconds ticked by, until the wizard spoke.

          “It is over, Sauron.”

          The fallen Maia’s eyes widened, but he had no time for words before Gandalf’s hand slashed downward, bringing Sauron’s body to the ground.  Aragorn felt a surge of something, then, and blackness erupted outwards from the Dark Lord’s now still form, sweeping across the Urak-Hai, the Ringwraiths, the Fellowship and the Bearers of the Three.  It rushed down the Dark Tower’s side, too, and rushed out over the army and out over the world.  But it faded as it advanced, and before it reached the limits of the horizon, the Darkness died in an abrupt flash of light.  When he looked again, Sauron’s body was gone.

          Suddenly, he realized his body was free, and Aragorn nearly fell as his weakness betrayed him.  The Urak-Hai, creatures of Sauron’s evil creation, lay writhing and melting upon the ground, fading into the same nothingness as their master.  The Ringwraiths, too, had fallen, but their robes lay empty now, as if no spirits had ever driven them at all.  The only remnants of the Nine were eight weapons laying upon suddenly worn and tattered cloaks.  Where Sauron had lain remained only the Three and the Dwarven Rings, alongside which the fallen Lord’s dark blade lay.

          Alone, in the midst of the emptiness, stood Gandalf, the One Ring burning brightly upon his hand.

Chapter Text

“And that is another reason why the Ring should be destroyed: as long as it is in the world it will be a danger even to the Wise.  For nothing is evil in the beginning.  Even Sauron was not so I fear to take the Ring to hide it.  I will not take the Ring to wield it.”

          They stared at him silently as wind began whipping lightly across the battlements of Barad-dûr with warmth contained in it that Mordor had not encountered in far too many years to count.  Gandalf stood apart from them all, his eyes staring blankly at where Sauron’s body had once been.  Slowly, his right hand rose once more, and his eyes fell to it; however, no expression betrayed his feelings.  He studied the One silently, perfectly still and seemingly not even breathing.  The ancient runes of Mordor glowed red once again upon its unmarred and golden surface; the Ring seemed to sparkle in the small light that had begun to dawn in the far east of the sky.  Gandalf, too, still glowed a bright and pure white, radiating power and strength.

          “Gandalf?” Frodo’s small voice split the long moments of silence, and he started toward the wizard until a strong hand reached out to stop him. 

          “No.”  That was all Elrond said before removing his hand from the other’s shoulder and stepping forward himself.  Legolas could not help but wince inside; if Gandalf proved to be the enemy, Elrond was in no shape to face him – but then again, none of them were.

          Footsteps came from his side, and he saw Boromir step forward to Aragorn’s side and, wordlessly, support his king.  The two men exchanged a silent glance, and the elf could see the pain on Aragorn’s face, and the fear.  Both he understood perfectly, for he felt them too.  One threat had ended; had another begun?  Only time would tell…and Legolas knew that the Fellowship had not the strength for another battle, especially against one of their own.  From the corner of his eye, he saw Galadriel gather herself and move forward as well, stepping to Elrond’s side with a shadow of her old grace.  The Elven lord and lady approached the wizard cautiously, and stopped when still several feet away from him.

          “Gandalf?” Elrond said softly, and the wizard’s head finally came up.  He stared at the elf-lord blankly for one moment, then he blinked and lowered his hand to his side.

          “Elrond.”

          Somewhat to Legolas’ surprise, his voice had not changed.  No, it still held the same warmth, the same kindness – and held the same world-wise and weary undertone.  In fact, Gandalf did not look so different at all…save for his straighter back, his brighter eyes, and his eerie white glow…but all those had existed before the Ring.  Outwardly, he had not changed.  Inside, however, Legolas had a feeling would be another matter entirely.

          “You have taken the Ring.”  Elrond’s statement was not really a question, but it needed to be asked all the same.

          “I have.”  Gandalf’s reply came flatly; only then did Legolas hear the hint of exhaustion in his voice.  The wizard’s eyes swept over them all, then, and his gaze touched briefly on every member of the Fellowship, reassembled in truth once more, save for the absence of Sam, whose death had scarred them all…and now seemed centuries in the past.  He continued, “As you once feared I would.”

          Elrond responded with a quick shake of his head.  “I knew you would not… Not unless there was no other way.”

          “And now you fear what I may become,” Gandalf sighed quietly.  None dared voice an objection to his observation, for their fears were very real – but they were not, as one might think, purely for Middle-Earth.  No, those of the Fellowship, Elrond, and Galadriel feared for the being who had once been their friend, and was now the Bearer of the One, the defeater of Sauron.  He still glowed in the fading darkness, white against the blackness of the world, and yet all had to wonder if that would last.  White: it symbolized goodness, purity, and power…but the alternative was Black, and they feared that mightily.  Suddenly, Legolas got a horrible feeling that, as dangerous and powerful as Sauron had been, Gandalf would be far greater.

          Even if his actions were driven by all the right reasons.

          “It battles for control of me,” the wizard spoke softly, “Even now.”  He glanced down at the Ring once more, touched it lightly with the fingers of his left hand.  His touch was gentle, and suddenly Gollum’s cries of his precious echoed in Legolas’ mind.  “It would make me into something I am not,” Gandalf continued.  “This Ring can be used for naught but evil.”

          Elrond only nodded silently, but it was Galadriel who replied.  “We have always known that much,” she said quietly, speaking coherently for the first time since before Gandalf’s original loss to Sauron.  “Even though there have been those who would believe otherwise.  The question truly is, Gandalf: can you defeat it?”

          “No.”  The shining figure shook his head.  He must have seen the fear on their faces, though, and he clarified.  “Oh, I can fight it for a time.  I can force it to my will…but even that will not last forever.  I have claimed the Ring, for good or for worse.  Sooner or later, it will claim me as well.”

          Both of the great elves nodded, and silence threatened to press them into despair until Merry asked, “Can’t you just take it off?”

          Gandalf smiled slightly.  “No, Merry,” he replied.  “I cannot.  I cannot relinquish the One any more than Sauron could have stopped searching for it…and even if I did, there would be no guarantee against it controlling me.  The Ring possesses too great a calling.  Eventually, my desire would overcome my resolve.”

          “Let us not rush too hastily to decisions,” Galadriel said suddenly.  “Let us first talk, and also speak to those who have risked all to battle the Darkness.”

          Her words brought to mind those gathered at the base of the tower, and Legolas wondered if they stared, as he did, trying to understand what had happened.  Oh, he was sure that they had seen it…but the defeat of Sauron was a difficult reality to digest.  He had been known as the enemy from far before Legolas’ time; ever since the Third Age had begun, Sauron had existed, in one shape or another, to threaten Middle-Earth.  Now that threat was gone – though it had yet to be seen if his defeat had merely heralded a still greater and more potent evil.  The Prince of Mirkwood felt his innards writhe at that thought, and he could not help but remember the long years since he had made the new Lord of the Rings’ acquaintance.  Gandalf was his friend.  He had been the leader of the Fellowship, but now he might be their enemy.  It was hard to think of without despair, but if Elrond and Galadriel, those with the most to risk, face it, Legolas was determined to do so as well.

          Elrond nodded in agreement with Galadriel.  “Let us speak to them, then,” he said, “and determine the future together.”

          Legolas watched the others nod, but before any could turn away, Gandalf spoke once more.  “Hold,” he said softly.  “There is something we must do now.”  The elven prince felt himself frown in confusion, but the wizard bent and retrieved the Three from amongst Sauron’s robes.  Once more, he turned to Elrond and Galadriel, this time striding toward them with even steps.  “I believe the both of you are missing something.”

          “Indeed?” Only a raised eyebrow revealed Elrond’s feelings, but Galadriel’s face clearly showed her surprise.

          Gandalf stopped.  “I realize the risk you would be taking,” he said softly.  “But you must remember that the same risk would be mine as well.  I am still linked to Narya, and thus can be reached by those who bear Nenya and Vilya.  Thus, view repossession of the Rings as a safeguard against the One…for I give you my oath as a Maia of Valinor that I will not use the One Ring against you.”

          Both blinked, but neither hesitated.  “Thank you,” Galadriel replied softly, replacing Nenya.  To her right, Elrond did the same with Vilya in a show of blind trust.

          “And Narya?” Elrond asked.  “Can she aid you against the One?”

          “I believe so,” the wizard responded.  “Either way, I fear I cannot let go of her…my bond with Narya runs too deep for that.”

          “We would not ask you to,” Galadriel whispered.  She reached out, suddenly, and in her courage, laid a hand on the wizard’s shoulder.  “We understand your actions, old friend,” she said, looking him in the eye.  “And we know the risks that you have taken.  Rest assured that you do not take them alone.”

          A soft smile touched Gandalf’s lips.  “Thank you, Galadriel.”

          “Together,” Elrond agreed.  “We have faced the same evil as comrades, Gandalf, and we have done so, unwavering, for many years.  The least we can do is see this to the end…whatever that might be.”

          Celeborn stared up at the battlements of Barad-dûr, hardly able to believe what he had just seen.  Oh, he did not doubt his eyes, of course, for as an elf, he could see further and more clear than any man or dwarf, but his mind could hardly comprehend what had just passed.  Despite his strong words and his determination to succeed, Celeborn had always assumed that the Alliance would fail.  He had always known that they would lose, because there had never, ever, been a way to achieve victory against Sauron.  The first time, oh so many centuries ago, had happened via a trick of fate, and humanity had squandered the chance the world had been given.  The futility of the task, of course, did not make it any less important to try, for Sauron had to be opposed, but he had always known that defeating the Dark Lord would prove impossible.  He had never believed that they could succeed.

          But what scared him the most was the way that they had.

          Unlike the whispers of the others around him, the elf-lord knew exactly what had passed.  He was not venturing guesses, nor was he hoping for the best.  He knew that Gandalf had claimed the Ring.  He knew that the Maia had had to, in order to survive, in order to defeat Sauron.  Gandalf, like he, had always known that there was no way to defeat the Dark Lord without use of the Ring, for even another Maia, such as the wizard, could not stand against one of his own kind whose powers had been augmented by the One.  No, only one of the Valar could have defeated Sauron in pitched battle.  Both Celeborn and Gandalf – and Círdan, of course – had always known that there was no way to overpower Sauron without taking the path they would not take.

          Gandalf, however, had set forth upon that road, and had dammed himself in the process.

          “Grandfather…”  Arwen’s voice came softly from beside him, and with an effort, he turned away from the scene upon the battlements – even as Elrond and Galadriel cautiously approached the new Lord of the Rings – and faced her.  Their eyes met, and she whispered, “He did, didn’t he?”
          Pain and worry stabbed through Celeborn’s heart, both for his friend and for the world.  “Yes.”

          “What will we do?”

          Celeborn shook his head, unable to help the sense of foreboding that rose within his soul.  “The real question, Arwen, is: what will he do?”

          “You do not think…” She could not bring herself to say the rest of the words, and Celeborn felt her pain, for she stood now on the brink of regaining all that she had lost…only with the risk of losing it all again.

          “I do not know what I think,” he responded truthfully.  “I do not know what the Ring will do to someone…even one such as him.  I fear, though…I fear the worst.”

Chapter Text

“I do not trust myself in this, and I refused this thing, even as a freely given gift.  You are strong and in some matters govern yourself, Denethor; yet if you had received this thing, it would have overthrown you.  Were it buried beneath the roots of Mindolluin, still it would burn your mind away, as the darkness grows, and the yet worse things follow that soon shall come upon us.”

Gandalf sat at the head of the long black table, leaning back with perfect composure in a great chair that must have once belonged to Sauron.  Its back rose darkly over the wizard’s head, a beautiful but black woodworking that looked to be of elven make.  Its presence there was certainly the product of a tragic tale, but the chair’s origins were of little interest to those filing into the Great Hall of the dark tower of Barad-dûr.  To the leaders of the Alliance, the Bearers of the Three, and the Fellowship of the Ring, the most important single object in the hall was Gandalf the White, formerly Gray, and perhaps soon to be Black.  Their eyes focused on him with trepidation as they entered the hall and grouped uneasily at the foot of the table in silence.  All hesitated before approaching Gandalf, and the fear was plain in their eyes.

The wizard sat calmly, his hands folded before him with fingers interlocked.  Upon the ring finger of each hand, glittering brightly and almost touching, were Narya and the One.

“Please,” he said softly, gesturing a graceful invitation with his right hand, upon which none could miss the glare of the Ring.  “Be seated.”

Heads snapped around as Galadriel and Elrond stepped forward as one in a clear show of support for the Maia.  Elrond stopped at the foot of the dark wood table, facing the wizard, while the Lady of Lothlórien continued forward to the seat at Gandalf’s right hand.  A short moment afterwards, Aragorn shook himself free of Boromir’s support and moved to the wizard’s left.  After only a slight hesitation – and without so much as a glance in his father’s direction – the Captain of Gondor followed his king.

Legolas came quickly after him, with Gimli close behind, elf and dwarf, side by side in fellowship that even the Alliance could not understand.  Frodo, too, stepped forward and moved beside Galadriel.  He was followed by the remaining of the Fellowship hobbits, Merry first and then Pippin, who became the first of those who had watched from the base of Barad-dûr to come forward.  Seeing this, Faramir glanced at Halbarad, and together they joined the others, with Faramir next to Pippin and the Ranger by Gimli’s side.  With an audible and skeptical breath, Denethor followed his younger son, and the King of Rohan, Théoden, trailed the Steward of Gondor even as Éomer, his nephew, moved to Halbarad’s side.  He was followed by Thranduil, after the elven king met the eyes of Celeborn, who took the seat at Elrond’s right, facing Arwen across the table.  Saradoc took the seat between Arwen and Théoden, thus completing the last major council of the Third Age.

But not one spoke a word during the process of choosing their seats.  All stood there, as well, unwilling to accept the seats they stood behind until Aragorn, with not a glance at the others, lowered himself into his chair.  He was still clearly bruised and sore, but like Elrond and Galadriel, had definitely been visited by Elven healers in the hour before the new council had been joined.  One by one, the others followed suit, and Gandalf waited until all had settled in before speaking.

“I thank you for coming,” he said softly.  “I realize what a risk you are taking.”  His eyes swept them all, and Faramir felt a chill shoot down his spine.  Mithrandir, as he had always known the wizard, had never been an evil man, nor did he seem so now.  The same kindness resided in his bright eyes, and the warm glow of white radiating from him remained.  He seemed so little different…was it possible that the Ring, an inherently evil object, could not affect one such as he?  Could the Gray Wanderer truly remain the same wise and caring soul while bearing the One?  Hope, though, no matter how tempting, did not rise within the Steward’s son.  He knew that this could only be a farce, or the Ring’s affect could merely have been delayed, but he wished desperately that it might not be so.

“Sauron has been destroyed,” Gandalf continued in a colder voice, now, his eyes strong as mithril and without an inch of give.  “The Nine no longer exist, nor do the rings they once bore.  Those remaining of the Seven have also perished, and the Three have been returned.  The threat of Sauron has been taken from Middle-Earth, but not without cost.  I have taken the One Ring.”

A chill raced down Faramir’s spine; barely had they a chance to swallow the implications of their victory before Denethor spat with contempt, “Not without cost?” he echoed angrily.  “We have succeeded in the best way possible!  If you had done this thing in the very beginning, thousands of lives would have been saved!  If you had dared to claim the Ring when its existence was discovered, this war would never have happened!”

Gandalf’s eyes grew colder than ice, but it was Elrond’s voice that cut through Denethor’s righteous anger. 

“It is not so simple as that, Lord Denethor,” the half-elven said with exquisite calm from opposite the wizard.   “The taking of the Ring is not so light a task, nor is it without risks.”

“Risks?” the Steward snarled.  “It seems to me – as I pointed out in Council long ago – that the advantages far outweigh the risks of which you speak!”

“Father!” This time it was Boromir whose disgusted tone sliced through Denethor’s anger, and Faramir saw his father blink in surprise as his heir, his pride and joy, gainsaid him.  Faramir, too, felt the same shock, for Boromir had always been their father’s son, alike with him in mind and ideas.  Now, though, he appeared to have changed.  Sitting by Aragorn’s side, Boromir seemed to have matured.  He continued, “Claiming the Ring is not so small a thing.  To tear it from the Dark Lord’s grasp required incredible strength, and to take it in the face of Sauron…” Boromir shuddered, and was silent for a long moment as they all remembered.

“Lord Gandalf was right to council that we should not use the Ring,” he finally said.  “I know that now.  Those of you who have not seen Sauron’s power cannot comprehend its horrors… For facing them, Gandalf deserves our gratitude, not our scorn.  We owe him more than we can ever repay.”

Throughout Boromir’s speech, Gandalf had remained silent.  Now, though, his cold eyes focused on Denethor, his gaze freezing the other into ice.  However, he did not speak.  He only looked at the Steward of Gondor, and the silence stretched into eternity; Faramir could feel the fear building in the Great Hall as the kind and true wizard let exhibited a hint of the power he commanded.  Finally, Strider – Aragorn – broke the stillness coldly as Denethor rolled his eyes in disbelief of his own son’s words.

“The One Ring is not a simple trinket,” he said, the calm control of his anger emphasizing his feelings all the more.  “Nor is it only a tool to be used.  Even the greatest beings of Middle-Earth feared to touch it.  Do you realize what that means?  Lord Elrond has known its power since it was taken from Sauron, and still he counseled to destroy it.  The Lady Galadriel was offered the Ring, and she refused, knowing what it would do.  And Lord Gandalf himself only reached for the Ring when he knew that there was no other way!  Do not belittle his sacrifice by underestimating the Ring.”

“Aragorn is right,” Elrond said before Denethor could reply, and the mention of the Ranger’s true name brought a fearful gleam to the Steward’s eyes.  “But what is done is done.  We cannot change that now.  This council has been formed not to discuss the past, but to decide the future.”

“I believe that depends on Lord Gandalf’s intentions,” Thranduil responded after a moment, his voice colored with true but cautious respect for the wizard – and perhaps a little, well-hidden, fear.

Before speaking, Gandalf’s eyes ought out the Ring.  When he replied, his voice was strong, yet somewhat strained.  “I have no desire to become another Dark Lord,” he said softly.  “But the Ring…” he trailed off, tearing his gaze away from the One.  Gandalf hesitated for a moment, wavering like a rudderless ship until he raised Narya to touch his lips briefly and seemed to draw strength from her.  “The Ring has other ideas.  But my conviction remains the same: the Ring must be destroyed.”

His dark voice filled the Hall with foreboding, and Faramir felt another, colder, chill run down his spine.  Could strength of will truly defeat the One?  Isildur had not even claimed the Ring, and yet it had overcome him.  Frodo had used it, without claiming it, and yet had still fallen to temptation in the end.  Could Gandalf, a being not of their world, resist the lure of the Ring simply because he was not one of them?  Or would that very fact doom him, and in doing so, destroy them all?  Gandalf had called himself a Maia, yet had also acknowledged that Sauron had once been of the same kind… And if one could fall, another might soon follow.

“Can you do it?” the question came without doubt from Galadriel’s sweet voice, and though Faramir had never seen the legendary elven “witch” with his own eyes, he found himself captivated by her strength and her unassuming beauty.  She sat at Gandalf’s right hand in a clear show of support for him and wore what Faramir guessed had to be Nenya of the Three, yet she still had the courage to ask the question they all yearned to raise.

“I do not know,” the wizard answered truthfully.  “But I cannot relinquish the Ring, any more than Sauron ever would have been able to.  Even if I could, the temptation of the Ring is too strong… Therefore, this must fall to me.”

“All things are not evil in the beginning,” Galadriel said softly.  “You said yourself that even Sauron was not so.  If we act quickly enough, perhaps you can be free of the Ring.”

“I fear, Galadriel, that quickness will not come easily,” Gandalf replied heavily.  “There are things I must before I dare destroy the Ring.  Much of Sauron still exists in this world.”

Elrond’s voice grew dark.  “You will use the Ring to destroy what he has wrought.”

“I must.”

“Gandalf, you cannot,” Aragorn spoke once more, his voice pleading with the wizard, and Faramir sensed an old friendship between the two.  “Remember what you told us – that the Ring would control you through your desire to do good!  Surely this is exactly what you meant.  There must be another way.”

The wizard shook his head slowly.  “I wish there was, Aragorn,” he said slowly.  “For you may very well be right.  But Sauron’s evil must be eradicated, else Middle-Earth will forever know the taint of his darkness.”

“But the Nine are destroyed,” Frodo spoke up softly.  “Are not all his other creations as well?”

“Nay, Frodo,” Gandalf said gently.  “When I claimed the Ring and destroyed Sauron, I claimed all that was his.  I control his creatures now, but in the first moment, my strength was not great enough to destroy them all.  The creatures here in Barad-dûr, yes, I eliminated, but there are many others left in this world.  They may not attack now, but if left alone, they will multiply and one day be a threat again.”

“And even if we fight them now, we could never find them all,” Elrond’s voice was heavy as he agreed, and the Lord of Rivendell’s shoulders slumped as he admitted the truth.

Gandalf nodded.  “The only way to do so is to use the Ring,” he confirmed.  “And then to destroy it.”

Faramir felt fear, and he saw it mirrored on many other faces.  Glancing at his brother and the others of the Fellowship, he saw outright terror, for they had each encountered Sauron, had faced his power, and they knew what Gandalf could become.  Yet none of them argued; not one spoke a word.  They merely focused on the wizard, watching him with fear and with awe, and Faramir had to wonder what had passed upon the battlements in the hours before.  Had Gandalf threatened them?  Was this truly a farce – or did they simply know the wizard better than he, and were willing to trust him because of that?

Not knowing the answer to that vital question formed a block of ice in the pit of Faramir’s stomach.  He found himself asking quietly, “Can that be done?”

“It must be.”  Gandalf said no more, but his eyes met Faramir’s, and the young man saw the conflict within them.

“You realize, Gandalf, where this may end.”  Galadriel’s voice was even quieter than before, coming barely above a whisper.  Her tone did not make it a question, but nor was it an accusation.

He turned to face her and laid his left hand on top of the Elf-Lady’s right.  To their surprise, Galadriel did not pull away, for she, alone besides Elrond, did not seem to fear the new Lord of the Rings.  The Maia replied, “I realize, old friend, far more than you know.”

Chapter Text

“Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.”

          Gandalf stood upon once again upon the battlements of Barad-dûr, staff in his left hand and his shining white garments blowing with the growing gusts of wind.  Of course, he had no true need for his reformed staff, but it was nice to hold it as a reminder of what he once had been.  That was not to say that he held the same staff, for he had lost his first, his companion of thousands of years upon Middle-Earth, in the mines of Moria and had lost the second in his first battle with Sauron, but it was nice to again hold a staff of his own making in his hand.  Many looked upon the staff as a symbol and tool of a wizard’s power, and for Istari upon Middle-Earth, it was.  He had not ever truly needed the staff, but as earth-bound Istari, each had allowed only power channeled through the staff – and thereby weakened – to be used.

          In his second battle against Sauron, though, he had abandoned that.  He had thrown aside all boundaries, and had fought against Sauron as Maia against Maia.  Such a battle had not happened in more years than he cared to remember, but he knew that none of those watching it really understood what had happened.  In truth, much of the power he had used had not been the Ring’s.  It had been his own.

          He had to use the Ring, of course, for Sauron was a Maia as well, and every bit as powerful as he.  Because of that, the One was the deciding factor; he knew not which would have won if they had fought a true battle with all power unleashed, but without outside sources of strength.  Looking back upon it, Gandalf found the entire situation slightly strange – he had never, ever, wanted to use the Ring, had never even wanted to touch it – but in the end, he had been forced to.  Once Sauron had regained it, the Maia had known, deep down inside in a place that where he had not admitted the knowledge even to himself, that someone would have to claim the Ring.  Narya could not have defeated it, nor could even the Three combined.  Nor could even a fellow Maia and a Ring of Power.

          So he had reached out, knowing the price he would pay, and taken the One.  Oh, and he had done so without regret, at least in the first few bare seconds of the ordeal.  He had felt the awesome power of the Ring rushing through him, had felt its seductive whispers and promises of control snaking through his mind.  The strength of the One had reached out and merged with his own, and he had felt then that his power, that of an uncorrupted Maia, would be far greater and more dangerous than Sauron could ever have dreamed of being, and for a moment – just one, short and blissful moment – he had wanted to believe the Ring’s promise that he could use it for simple and pure goodness.

          But Olórin had never been good at self-deception, and Gandalf, through his years upon Middle-Earth, had grown even worse at it.  Even as the Ring’s power enshrouded him, he had known it was wrong.  The Ring was evil, and no amount of goodness or purity could change that.  And in the end, nothing could stop him from becoming evil as well.

          Oh, he had tried to fight it, and he would continue to do so until the day that the One consumed him.  He had told the others that he had every intention of destroying the Ring, and he did.  He just was not sure if he could do so or not, for even then, he felt the soft whispers of the Ring in his mind, felt the battle waged between Narya and the One.  Narya… For some reason, the thought of the Red Ring always helped to clear his mind.  Perhaps that came from the thousand years he had worn her upon his hand, bonded with her and held the Ring as a part of himself.  She could not hold him against the One, but she could help him fight it longer.

          I can only hope that will be long enough.  He sighed and shook his head, opening the eyes he had not even realized that he had shut.  Mordor was no longer as dark as the land had once been, but it would be centuries before the country was beautiful to look at again.  There was still much of Sauron left to eradicate from the world…and it was time that he stopped delaying and got to doing just that.

          Despite his strong words of an hour before, Gandalf had no desire to use the Ring.  He laughed cynically at that thought – rather, the problem was that he had too great a desire to use it.  Unlike the others, he knew exactly what it would do to him, and knew that, in the end, the Ring would win, unless he destroyed it first.  But to destroy it, he had to resist the urge to use it – and to destroy Sauron completely, he had to use the Ring once more.  There was no other way.  So get on with it, Gandalf, he told himself sternly.  It was hard, though, to deny his own fear.  The Ring had already sunk its claws deeply into him, and only a fool would allow it the chance to gain more control over his heart.  Call me a fool, then, I guess.

          Gandalf took a deep breath, and reached his awareness into the One.  Distantly, he felt the winds whip around him, and he felt the power thrumming through him, but he did not abandon himself to the Ring.  Instead, he fought to remain himself, to keep a corner of his mind as his own despite the use of the Ring.  It called to him sweetly, whispering lies about compassion and of how there was no need for fear, but he ignored it and clung to his own soul.  A part of him was aware of Narya’s efforts coming alongside his own, but he could pay the Red Ring no heed.  Cautiously, he reached out into the One’s awareness.  It is time.

          “Will you claim Gondor?” Arwen asked him softly.  They sat upon a small couch that had somehow found its way into Barad-dûr, her head resting upon his shoulder and his arm around her.  The two were at peace for the first time since the finding of the Ring, and they had been, for the past hour, loathe to speak of anything beside their love and relief in one another’s safety, but both were intelligent beings, who knew the responsibilities they faced, and neither could run from them for long.

          “I must,” Aragorn responded quietly.  “Sauron is defeated.  I overcame the curse of my blood.  It is time.”

          “I know.”  Gently, she kissed him on the cheek.  “Whatever you do, I am with you, Aragorn.”

          He smiled at her, and their eyes shone as they met.  Long had they been at war, with precious little time for peace.  Now, though, all their dreams had been given a chance at realization.  Long ago, he had argued against her choice, but Aragorn knew that although he could never have asked her to sacrifice immortality to be with him, she would not have it any other way.  He whispered, “Thank you.”

          Footsteps sounded which they both tried to ignore, but Elrond’s voice floated down to them flatly.  “I see you have made your choice.”

          Both looked up at the half-elven, unashamed of the encounter that they had dreaded for so many years.  “I have, Father,” Arwen said softly, her heart still pounding in her chest nonetheless.

          “Just as I knew you would,” Elrond agreed, then surprised them both by dropping to one knee before them and taking their hands in his own.  “My dear daughter, I would never dream of denying you this, for I have known your heart for far too long in this matter.  And Aragorn…long have I loved you as a son.  I will keep my word to you both.  When I see you crowned king in Gondor, I will give you my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

          “Thank you, Father,” Arwen replied.  “That means a great deal to us.”

           “I think, daughter, that I would have failed in stopping you had I tried,” he responded.  Elrond stood and gave them a half-smile.  They stood together and shared a smile as he continued.  “I am not one to stand in the way of fate.  Now, come.  There is still much to be done.  Galadriel is–”

          Suddenly Elrond’s head snapped around to his right and he went pale.  “Gandalf!” he cried, leaping forward and rushing from the room.

          With hardly a glance at one another, Aragorn and Arwen ran after him, following the bearer of Vilya up a flight of winding stairs and onto the very battlements where Aragorn and the others had nearly met their deaths scant hours before.  There they found the wizard on his knees amid dying winds, with the One Ring glowing brightly upon his right hand.  All three rushed to him, but only Elrond dared to touch the other’s shoulder, even then drawing his hand away as if burnt.  “Gandalf?”

          The Maia blinked once and stared at Elrond blankly before he recognized him.  Wordlessly, he struggled to his feet, leaning greatly upon his new staff, and said in a heavy voice.  “That which remained of Sauron is no more.”

          “What happened?” Elrond asked even as the others noticed that, indeed, Mordor looked still brighter than it had before…and the sun was dawning in the east. 

           “The Ring does not take kindly to those who will not surrender themselves to it.”  Gandalf snorted in strained laughter. 

          Fear touched Elrond’s eyes.  “You have not?”

          “No.”  Only then did Arwen realize that the wizard was trembling with the effort from the battle he had waged.  The Ring gives limitless power, she realized, but only to those who will take that power by the Ring’s terms.  “But I dare not wield it much longer if I wish to remain myself.”

          Again, Gandalf looked at the Ring, and Arwen could read the conflicting emotions on his face.  He wanted to use the Ring – but he feared it.  He feared what he would become if he gave into that desire, and, for the first time, Arwen was immensely glad that Gandalf had taken the Ring.  Others, she knew, would not have had the strength to resist.

          “We are with you until the last,” her father replied softly.

          “Not all of you,” Gandalf snorted.

          Aragorn spoke.  “No,” he admitted.  “But those that matter are.  We know you will not become like him.”

          “I am glad for your trust, my friends,” the Maia said softly, but Arwen saw pain in his eyes.  “Unfortunately, there are many who do not share it.”

Arwen found herself nodding.  She, unlike her father and her love, had been amongst the leaders of the Alliance against Sauron, and had seen the tensions developing beneath the surface.  It was fitting, for some, that when victory was so close, they would waste precious strength on petty differences.  She asked, “Denethor?”

“Nay,” was the surprising response.  “He matters not.”  Instead, Gandalf gestured to a lone rider fast approaching the tower in the distance.  “Others have not your confidence.”

          They stood together for perhaps the last time in the Great Hall of Barad-dûr.  Not all had been summoned, of course, but men such as Denethor would never allow themselves be left out.   None of them knew who they were waiting for, yet all had come, especially those who were not welcome.  But what truly mattered was the presence of Galadriel, Elrond, and Aragorn.  Of course, allies such as Thranduil and Celeborn and Frodo did not hurt, but those three – and especially Galadriel and Elrond – were the most important.  Even now, his fellow Ring Bearers stood behind him in a clear show of support and trust, and Aragorn stood between Arwen and Boromir not far to his right.  The others of the Fellowship clustered near the king, with their allies – those welcome and not – also close at hand.  But Gandalf did not spare attention for them.  After all, none of them could help him in what was to come, and he dearly feared the consequences of his actions now.

          The rider had entered the hall moments before, and was fast striding toward him – but still, there was a hesitation in the other’s stride.  Regardless, the rider had come close enough to now see the brown hooded cloak that he wore, and the Maia had to wonder if any of the others had guessed the significance of that.  Elrond, perhaps had, but Galadriel had for sure.  He had heard her quick intake of breath when her sharp elven eyes registered the color of the newcomer.  However, even Galadriel the Wise could not fathom the purpose of the other.

          Denethor shifted impatiently to his right, and Gandalf resisted the urge to tell him to leave.  He had only invited Galadriel, Elrond, Aragorn, and Arwen to accompany him, and a large part of him wished to force the others to leave so he could face this alone.  But he could not.  To do so would be to belittle the sacrifices they had made and disrespect the pain many had gone through to reach this point.  The wizard took a deep breath and stepped forward a stride to meet his old friend, pain already rising in his heart.

          “Radgast the Brown,” he said softly.  “What brings you to Barad-dûr?”

          The brown wizard shook his hood off to stare at Gandalf, his eyes, usually so merry and believing, wary and mistrustful.  For all the world he looked calm and collected, kindly and wise; Gandalf would have been deceived had he not noticed the white knuckles that grasped the gnarled wooden staff.  There was fear, there, and the elder wizard grieved inwardly to be the cause of it, but he had known that this would come.  In many ways, he had actually feared this more than the Ring itself.

          “I bring a message from Valinor,” Radgast responded coldly, but there was no reluctance in his voice – only well-concealed terror.

          And so it begins, Gandalf thought to himself.  Despite knowing the outcome, though, they had to play this thing to the very end.  He replied, “I will hear your message.”

          “The Valar bade me to tell you two things.”  Radgast’s voice took on the clear ring of a martyr, but he dared not to meet Gandalf’s eyes; it was plain that he expected to die.  Instead, the Maia studied those behind the wizard, wondering, perhaps, where they stood in the scheme of things.  His fear of Gandalf was clear, especially when, by chance, his eyes found that which he had been avoiding.  Gandalf watched his reaction closely, mourning for all he had lost as Radgast’s gaze fastened frightfully on the Ring for a moment before he tore his eyes away.  If only you knew, old friend, how little I wished for this.  But Radgast continued despite his terror.

          “First I am bid to tell you that you have been cast from the Order of Maiar and thus are never welcome upon the Western shores again.  Valinor is forever closed to you.”

          Gandalf heard Galadriel’s sharp gasp from behind him, and indeed, he would have been heartbroken if he had not suspected this would come.  Still, though, his heart railed against the misunderstanding and a pained fury rose within him.  Prior knowledge did not lessen the agony his exile caused.  You sent me to defeat Sauron, and so I have, he thought bitterly.  Little did you consider the cost or the means beforehand, and now, in fear that blinds all else you know, you have taken from me the one thing that really matters.  Oh, and old friends, do not tell me that you had no choice, for we all know that you did.  We always have.

          But the wizard took a deep breath and stilled his anger.  Radgast was, after all, just a messenger, and a terrified one at that.  He did not deserve a onetime friend’s ire, no matter what news he brought.  In silence he awaited the rest of Radgast’s message, dreading what it would contain, yet knowing all the same that his fate had been unavoidable from the moment he had chosen, driven by necessity, to claim the One Ring.

          “I am also tasked to give you this warning,” the Maia said.  “If you continue upon the road which you have taken, you risk war with the Valar.”

          A ripple of shock tore through the assembled spectators, and Gandalf felt their fear.  Not since the defeat of Melkor had the Valar entered into the affairs of Middle-Earth – but now they threatened to step forward against one of their own.  An ironic smile touched Gandalf’s weathered face for an instant as he contemplated the situation.  The Valar had not acted directly against Sauron; rather, they had sent Five to against him.  Now, though, they would move against the Maia they had sent to stop Sauron.  But he stilled his smile, and said softly to his onetime comrade:

          “Aiwendil, you have naught to fear from me.”  Radgast reacted as if struck by the use of his true name, and his eyes fastened fearfully on Gandalf’s face.  “Do you know me so little that you believe I would wish this thing?  Once I was considered the wisest of us all.  Has that no meaning, now?”

          “Even the wisest may fall far,” the other responded, and the wizard saw what he had already known to be true.  There would be no understanding from those who should have known better.  In looking upon him, all they saw was Sauron’s fall… Now they would only see the truth when it came to them too late.

          “Yes,” he replied heavily.  “They can.”

          Once more, his reply shocked Radgast.  Confusion, too, swam in the other’s eyes, and for an instant, Gandalf imagined that the Maia doubted his mission.  That, though, mattered not in truth.  The facts would not change, and thus the Ring had doomed him in more ways than one.  But there would be time later to mourn for all he had lost.

          “Have you any reply, Gandalf the Black?”

          Even Gandalf was shocked and hurt by those words, especially coming from one whom had once been a respected friend.  Do you know me that little? his mind raged.  Does it not matter that I asked to come back here so that I may finish what others should have done long ago?  Does my war with the Ring mean nothing?  I have struggled to remain myself, and this is how they repay me.

          It seems that perhaps I have grown past them after all, for I know duty well.  He sighed and, once again, pushed aside the pain of being betrayed by his own kind.  In truth, he could understand what they feared.  Sauron, after all, had once been a Maia.  Oh, Manwë…how far we have come.  When this all ends, where will we be?  Did you see this coming, all those years ago, when you asked me to come here?  I hope not.

          Because I plan to defy fate.

          “I have naught to say to you, Aiwendil, save that I ask you to wait.  All is not how it seems.”

          Radgast’s brown eyes narrowed.  “You have set your own fate, Gandalf the Black.  We will not save you from it.”  And he turned, without a further word, and strode from the Great Hall of Barad-dûr, his footsteps echoing emptily in the stillness.  Gandalf said nothing to his back, seeking not to change what he knew would not be altered save in the ways of fate.

          Farewell, my friend, he thought.  I will see you again, though you think not. 

Chapter Text

“The Road goes ever on and on. Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, and I must follow, if I can, pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say.”

          The dirt was warm beneath his knees.  High above shined a sun that Mordor had not known in too long; accordingly, its affect was widespread and long overdue.  Although not hot, the temperature was pleasantly warm, and the blue sky was clear, its smooth perfection marred by few clouds.  All in all, many might have called it a perfect day – and others could have termed it a rebirth, a sign of good things to come, but for some, it was a day of memory.

          Frodo hardly noticed his surroundings.  The beautiful day had no effect on him; from the moment he had awoken, it had been with a heavy heart.  The others had left him now, alone with his thoughts in respect for all he had been through.  The last to leave had been Gandalf, who, with deep sadness in his eyes, had merely laid a gentle hand upon his left shoulder with feeling that transcended all need for words.  One by one, though, they had left him kneeling in the dirt, his face wet with warm tears that flowed from his eyes like the waters of a river rapid.  Alone, they had left him, in more ways than one, but that was not their fault.  He had been alone for some time, no matter who stood with him; the press of events had only kept him from fully feeling it until now.  But still, he was alone – forever now.

          Frodo knelt in the dirt by Sam’s grave, tears flooding from his eyes in droves as he wept for the best friend he’d ever had.  It was not only Sam’s sacrifice that he mourned for, of course; he cried as he thought of the future that Sam would never have, of the adventures they would never share.  He wept because it was his fault that Sam had died.  He wept because he would never see his friend again.

          “I’m so sorry, Sam,” Frodo whispered hoarsely.  “I didn’t mean for this to happen…”

          He choked back a sob.  It was hard to know if his decisions or fate had led to this point, but that, in the end, hardly mattered.  The loss of Sam had punched a hole in his heart that nothing could ever heal.  He had come to terms with his own role in it, eventually, while still a prisoner in Barad-dûr – it was either that or go insane – but burying Sam had reopened old wounds.  He had been too busy, and too afraid, before to ever look toward the future.  Now that he could, though, he did not like what he saw.  Frodo did not want to think of a future without Sam.

          The entire Fellowship had come to the burial, had been reunited one last time.  For one final hour, the Nine Walkers had come together: Gandalf, Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, Pippin, Frodo – and Sam.  To honor Sam they had borne him to the gravesite together; eight beings from such widely differing backgrounds and cultures who were united by purpose and grief.  Each had spoken soft words in memory of Sam.  Most had cried.  Only Gandalf had remained dry-eyed, but his sorrow had been no less real as he stood by Frodo’s side, lending silent support to the grieving hobbit.  Last to speak, Frodo had found himself unable to find words to say all the things he wanted to, and had finally, only whispered, “I will miss him.”  The others understood.

          That, he knew, was why they had left him there, kneeling in the dirt by his friend’s grave.  They had given him the chance, in private, to say to Sam what needed saying.  Now, though, the words that had been so hard to form came flooding from him like his heartfelt tears.

          “I wish that Bilbo had never found the Ring, Sam…” he whispered.  “I wish it had never come to me – because then we could still be in the Shire, living life the same old way.  I wish none of this had happened.

          “Most of all, though, I wish you hadn’t insisted on coming with me.  I wish you’d gone back to the Shire.  Why did you have to be so loyal, Sam?” his voice broke.  “Why did you have to come?  Why didn’t you go back to the Shire?  If you had, none of this would have happened…”  But he knew that was not true.  Without Sam, he might very well have been dead, then, and though Frodo had wished for that once or twice, in his darker moments, he knew that he really did not want to die.  He owed Sam that much – much more than he could ever repay.  And if going on was the price of Sam’s sacrifice, Frodo would do so for eternity.

          Something inside him seemed to lift with those thoughts.  Perhaps there was a life left now, even though he had a hard time imagining the future without Sam.  Perhaps, then, there was a reason to go on, even if it was only to honor his best friend.   It would not be easy, but no Baggins had ever known how to give up on the hard stuff, and Frodo was no different.  He swallowed.

          “Or maybe it would have.”  He sighed.  “I guess I still don’t understand why you had to do it, Sam… But I’ll honor your choice.  I really will.  I know it will be hard, but I owe you that much.  I owe you my life, and I will not throw it away over grief.  Even though I want to sometimes.

          “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Sam, so please don’t take it wrong when I walk away from here with my head held high.  Maybe I’m fooling myself in thinking that you’d want me to, but I hope I know you well enough for that.  You gave me a second chance, and now that the Ring is out of my hands… Oh, Sam, I owe you so much.  I just wish you were here to share this world with me.  I just wish you could see it now…”  Frodo gulped back tears, and glanced up at the sky.  In the space of so few days, the world had changed.  Darkness had turned to light, and while there was still evil left in the world – just as there would always be – Sauron and his legacy were destroyed.

          In the end, perhaps that was Sam’s legacy.  Who knew what would have happened had Samwise not made a fateful decision and sacrificed his life to Sauron’s evil madness?  Where might they have been without him?  Frodo closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back frightening images of the darker future that he had very nearly experienced.  It was done.  Sam was dead – and the world was reborn.

          “So I guess this is goodbye.”  Frodo found, to his surprise, that his tears had dried.  It was over, and now he could look to the future – but he had to say one last thing first.  Gently, he trailed his fingers over the newly packed dirt under which Sam lay.  “I wish I had told you before, but now it’s almost too late to say that you’ve always been more than a friend to me.  I hope you can hear me now, too, because I should have said this long ago.  I love you, Sam.  You’ve always been a brother to me.  I’ve always loved you like that.”

          He withdrew his hand, rubbing the dirt gently between his fingers.  There was little warmth there, now, little of Sam, but he could almost feel something remaining of his best friend.  His brother.  He was gone, yes, but never forgotten.  Frodo would see to that; he would help Bilbo finish his book, and together they would write of the brave hobbit’s sacrifice.  Someday, too, when Frodo, Merry, and Pippin had children of their own, they would share the story with them, and ensure that which needed to be told was told.  That, Frodo decided, would be the best way to honor their lost comrade.  That would be worthy of him. 

          Slowly, he rose to his feet.  His legs were no longer shaky; in fact, they had seemed to acquire a steadiness that they had not held during the entire War of the Ring.  He felt whole, somehow, even with the gap in his heart that the loss of his friend had caused.  He took a deep breath, and looked down at the grave one last time.

          “I will miss you, Sam.”

Chapter Text

“In that hour I looked upon Aragorn and thought how great and terrible Lord he might have become in the strength of his will, had he taken the Ring to himself.  Not for naught does Mordor fear him.”

“What will you do, Gandalf?” Aragorn asked softly.  The two of them stood alone for the first time in too long, side by side in counsel as they had for many years.  Now, though, they were neither in Rivendell or inhabitants of the wild trails of Middle-Earth; they stood now in the land both had spent lifetimes fighting to free, but neither had expected to ever come to of their own free will.  Together, they stood, watching a new sun rise over the plains of Mordor in the early hours of the morning.

“The question, Aragorn, is what you will do,” the wizard replied softly.  “My intentions remain the same…to destroy the Ring.”  He glanced down at his right hand, and Aragorn found himself following the other’s eyes to the One; it glowed brightly in the rising sun, the runes upon it blazing in the shadows.  He frowned.  Still those letters glowed, despite the time Gandalf had now held it…what did that signify?  Did it mean anything?  When Frodo had held the Ring, its surface had been unmarred and smooth; even when Boromir had staked his claim, the Ring remained unchanged.  Now, though, it glowed for Gandalf.

The heir to Gondor shrugged, both in response to the other’s question and his own internal questioning.   He trusted Gandalf, no matter what had happened.  “What do you think I should do?”
          “I think that you should not delay much longer, my friend.”  Gandalf’s deep eyes seemed to pierce directly to his soul.  “I know you mean to act sooner or later, but I would advise you to move quickly.”

“I had hoped to wait until the Ring was dealt with first,” Aragorn admitted.  Despair, though, rose within him even as he spoke those words, for he knew that he could very well loose one of his oldest and best friends to the destruction of the Ring.  Gandalf would destroy the Ring; of that he had no doubt.  He only worried that the wizard would never survive the task.

“I don’t think you have that long.”  As always, Gandalf seemed to see right down into his heart, seemed to know exactly what words he would not say.  But the old man merely smiled slightly before turning serious once more.  “The longer you wait, the more hope Denethor gains.  He thinks to keep Gondor from you.  Without the Ring, it is his only path to power within this world.”

Aragorn sighed.  He had no liking for the Steward of Gondor, but he could not allow that to color his judgment.  “He does love Gondor, Gandalf,” he pointed out.  “And no matter what his faults, he is the Steward.”

“He is also a power-hungry man who has been king in all but name for decades.”  Gandalf’s eyes darkened.  “He will do whatever necessary to hold Gondor.”

“I find it hard to believe that he will not do his duty.”  But Aragorn knew he was half-lying to himself.  He had met Denethor, and had seen the hatred in his eyes.  He had seen the jealousy and the desire…Aragorn had only hoped that Denethor would rise above such petty things as power and fulfill his role as the Steward of Gondor.  It appeared, though, that Gandalf did not believe the same.

“Speak to him, my friend, and you will have no doubt.”

In the end, Aragorn sought out not Denethor, but Boromir.  There were two reasons for this; first of all, he and the steward’s elder son had built a bond over along the hard road to victory; second, if there was any who knew what Denethor would do, it was Boromir, though Boromir himself had once claimed Gondor needs no king.  Aragorn smiled at that thought.  Despite their early differences, he knew the other’s opinion had changed.  By chance he found that which he sought; unable to locate the steward’s son, Aragorn had entered the courtyard of Barad-dûr and found Boromir seated upon a crumbling marble bench that certainly come from the days before Sauron had claimed the tower.  Boromir rose, smiling, upon seeing him.

“Aragorn!” he cried.

“Boromir.”  The two clasped hands and embraced as only brothers in war could do.  “I had almost given up hope of finding you.”

As the released one another, Boromir arched an eyebrow curiously, then shrugged.  “Ah,” he commented.  “That would be because I was in close conversation with my father.”

A lump rose in Aragorn’s throat, and for a moment, his heart entertained doubts.  Could it be that Denethor had swayed his son back to his old beliefs?  Boromir was a good man, true in heart and mind, but the heir of Isildur knew him to be a loyal one.  He had been loyal to the Fellowship from the beginning, even though he had not shared their beliefs; he had been loyal to Aragorn, on the road, as the Ranger had proved himself a worthy king; and he had been loyal to Aragorn even in the halls of Barad-dûr, when faced by his father and all Denethor held to be a truth.  He had even stood against his father when Denethor had attacked Gandalf’s claiming of the Ring…But Aragorn had not lived as long as he had by taking anything for granted.

“You should know, Aragorn, that my father will not support you,” Boromir continued suddenly in a soft voice.  Their eyes met.  “He asked me to stand with him against you.  I said no.”

“Thank you.”  Aragorn swallowed hard.  Friendship, then, did hold true, and though he felt terrible for ever having doubted Boromir, he was glad he had no cause to. 

Boromir barked a short laugh.  “Don’t thank me until I tell you everything,” he snorted.  “My father is gathering the opposition against you.  He thinks that Gondor needs no king.”

“And what do you think?” Aragorn asked gently.  He hated to, but he had to ask, and he knew that his friend would understand.

“I’ll be honest with you, Aragorn,” Boromir replied evenly.  “In the beginning, I thought the same.  But knowing you, having seen what you are… I’ll support you to the end.  You are my king.”

Emotion nearly overcame the man who would be King; Aragorn had to look away for a long moment before once more offering Boromir his hand.  They grasped each other for a moment in a silence that communicated far more than any words could ever dream of, then Aragorn finally spoke once more.  “Who stands against me?”

“Not many.  Of those in Alliance, I think my father is alone – his search for power has bought him few friends.  The elves, of course, support you, as do Théoden and the Rangers, and, obviously, Gandalf.  The dwarves will do so simply because Gimli was one of us and Dáin has come to hate my father for misleading him.  And the hobbits, except for Frodo, Merry, and Pippin, of course, really only want to go home.   Besides, you do not need to worry about the Alliance nearly so much as you need to worry about Gondor itself.”

“Will the people part with your father?  I know he is well-loved.”  A lump rose in Aragorn’s throat, for he knew that this indeed was where his troubles could lie.  His greatest fear had always been to claim his throne and find himself unwanted. 

Boromir shook his head.  “He was once well-loved.  Now, though…our people worry about his desire for power as much as I do.  They will follow Faramir and I, if anything.  More, probably, for Faramir because I have always been my father’s strongest supporter… It took me a long time to see what he is becoming.” 

“Which way will Faramir go?”

“Have you not noticed?”  Boromir smiled.  “My brother has more honor than the rest of Middle-Earth combined.  He will support you – even if he hates you – because you are King.”

“I am not King yet, Boromir.”  Still, though, Aragorn felt hope rising strongly within himself.

The other shrugged, his grin growing wider.  “Then let’s change that.”

Denethor stood amidst the armies of Gondor, speaking with Beregond and several other soldiers of his guard.  The camp was orderly and well kept; although the men housed inside it were impatient to reach their home, they were soldiers and thus willing to wait for the command.  Victory, although having seemed a near impossible goal, had been reached – but now their steward hinted at another mission for them, something he claimed to be almost as important as the defeat of Sauron himself.  Beregond, for his part, listened carefully as Denethor spoke of a pretender who sought to claim the throne of Gondor, a man unworthy of the heritage of their nation.  His heart pounded in his chest as the steward went on, for such a man was indeed a grave threat to Gondor.  Suddenly, though, a clear voice carried across the camp, interrupting the steward.

“Lord Denethor of Gondor, I would have words with thee.”

Heads snapped around as a man approached, trailed by Faramir and Boromir both.  There was a mystic nobility about this man, whose head was held high and shoulders were squared with strength and pride; the light of wisdom seemed to shine in his eyes.  Upon his brow shone a simple stone, glowing brightly in the afternoon sunlight.  Beregond blinked, looking upon a man true to the blood of men of old, who reminded him so of Faramir, his beloved commander, and yet was more than even the steward’s younger son could ever be.  Beside him, though, Denethor stiffened in anger at this younger man who could call the steward’s name with such imperiousness.  Indeed, it took great courage to do so, for Denethor had a terrible temper when roused.

“I have naught to say to you, Ranger,” the steward spat.

Ranger? Beregond wondered to himself.  Was this man then not Aragorn, the chief of the Rangers of whom Halabard spoke of with such reverence?  Why then did Denethor speak with such contempt?

“But I will speak to you, My Lord Steward,” the other replied calmly, halting scarcely ten feet away from Denethor.  His eyes were sharp but not angry, rather they seemed to see everything and miss nothing.  Boromir and Faramir stopped as well, standing to either side of the Ranger, and Beregond sensed a peace between the two brothers that had not existed in far too many years.  Whomever this man was, Ranger or not, he had the allegiance of both the steward’s sons – and for a moment, Beregond wondered if this was not the man of whom Denethor spoke.

“Speak then, for I have not much time.”  Denethor spoke airily, as if above this mere Ranger who stood before him, but Beregond saw Boromir’s eyes narrow in response to his father’s arrogance.

“I come before you, Steward of Gondor, because you have refused my summons,” the other replied.  “For I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I come to claim the throne of Gondor.”

A gasp escaped Beregond, and he heard his men and all others who were gathered amongst them echo his own reaction.  A Ranger came to claim the throne of Gondor…but this man was no pretender!  His very carriage showed that he was not; Aragorn was of the blood of old, and one could almost see the elven influence upon his heritage.  Nay, this man seemed to be a true king… But then why did Denethor claim he was a pretender?

The Steward’s eyes narrowed, but he must have expected to hear this.  “Gondor,” he said slowly, “has no king.

“Gondor,” he continued, “needs no king – especially not a pretender.”  As he continued speaking, his voice grew harder and his words angrier; the fire burning in Denethor’s eyes was impossible to miss.  “You, a simple Ranger, have no right to the throne of Gondor, and I dispute your claim!”

Aragorn faced him squarely.  “I am Isildur’s heir,” he replied softly and confidently – somehow, though, his voice seemed dangerous.  “You are required by the laws of Gondor to surrender your office to the King upon his return, Steward of Gondor.  I demand that you do so now.”

 “I will not do so.”  Denethor’s head came up even as Beregond gasped once more in response to the steward’s defiance.  Again, the fire in his eyes seemed to grow, and Beregond thought he saw the echoes of madness there. 

“Very well, My Lord,” Aragorn said softly.  He seemed unsurprised, accepting even, and Beregond wondered why.  “I am then forced to relieve you of your office.  You are Steward of Gondor no more.”

“What?  You cannot!”

But Aragorn only met his eyes as Boromir stepped forward to his father from the King’s right hand.  Before Denethor could react, the Captain of Gondor reached forward and took from his father’s surprised grip the white rod that symbolized the Steward’s office.  Denethor made to speak, or to steal it back, but then Faramir was there, and with a gentle a hand, he restrained his father’s arm.  His eyes, though, were far from gentle; they seemed to be wrought of the strongest steel, and they booked no argument from Denethor.

Boromir stepped forward and knelt before Aragorn, speaking the words of ritual that none in that camp had ever expected to hear again.  “The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office,” he said clearly, holding up the white rod.

The king accepted the rod, only to return it again, saying, “That office is not ended, and it shall by thine and thy heirs’ as long as my line shall last.  Do now thy office!”

Boromir rose once more, turning to the assembled soldiers and men.  Denethor’s face was pitched with fury as his elder son did so, but Faramir still held his father back, and somehow the power of the younger son’s eyes prevented the old man from speaking in argument.  To all it was now plain the support both Faramir and Boromir had for their king, as was Denethor’s desire to keep Gondor from him.  Then the Steward of Gondor spoke in a clear voice for all to hear:

“Men of Gondor, hear now the Steward of the Realm!” Boromir cried again the words of ritual.  “Behold!  One has come to claim the kingship again at last.  Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, the Elfstone, Elessasr of the line of Valandil, Isildur’s son, Elendil’s son of Númenor.  Shall he be king?”**

The response was immediate; the army cried forth its support for the king without hesitation, and Denethor’s face crumbled as he realized that his bid for power had failed.

** Adapted from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, page 946

Chapter Text

“…the Istari or Wizards appeared in Middle-earth.  It was afterwards said that they came out of the Far West and were messengers sent to contest the power of Sauron, and to unite all those who had the will to resist him; but they were forbidden to match his power with power, or to seek to dominate Elves or Men by force and fear.”

Immortal and timeless though he was, Elrond the Half-elven could not sleep.  Countless stores and years of wisdom he possessed, but not one of them helped him now.  Darkness haunted his mind when he tried to rest, and Vilya felt as if she were burning upon his hand.  Something was happening – he could feel it in the air – and Vilya was trying to tell him what.  Long years of association, though, did not help him to fathom what his ring was trying to tell him, but he understood enough.  She knew. 

Sighing, he threw back the covers and rose from his bed.  Sleeping in Barad-dûr was strangely easy; the Dark Tower seemed dark no longer.  There was in fact great luxury in Sauron’s former abode, despite what he would have thought from inhabiting its dungeons.  Because of that, Barad-dûr had been surprisingly easy to become comfortable in.  Elrond slipped his feet into the sandals that awaited him beside the bed and shrugged his silken robe on.  Tying its sash around his slender waist, he opened the door and stepped from the room.  He knew not where to go, but Vilya would lead him.

His unplanned path through winding halls led him outside, once more to the battlements overlooking the army of the Second Alliance.  The camp was quiet and still, save for the pickets and the occasional scout; nothing there was amiss.  A chill ran down Elrond’s spine, though, looking upon that; he remembered a time when he stood very close to the spot he now occupied, held fast by two Ringwraiths and sure that the world was about to end.  He remembered the fear he’d felt then, his terror for the peoples of Middle-Earth, and remembered how it all ended, and a new fear had begun.  Only a few yards away from him was where Gandalf had claimed the One Ring, destroying Sauron forever.  Only a few feet away, the wizard now stood, his back to the Half-Elven, silent and shining in the moonlit darkness.

The Maia’s staff was before him, and his two hands rested upon its smooth white wood.  Both Narya and the One glowed there, beacons in the night – just as Gandalf himself was, bright and pure.  Despite Radagast’s words, Elrond could never have imagined Gandalf as the Black.  Unlike the other Maia, Elrond had known Gandalf of old, and knew his heart.  The whiteness of his garments, the glow of his presence in the night – both were not simply color; they were symbols of his good and pure heart.  Even with the Ring, Elrond could not envision a future ruled by an evil and dark Gandalf the White.  Suddenly, the wizard spoke without turning.

“It is time, Elrond,” Gandalf said softly.  He seemed to glow brighter in the darkness for a moment in a sudden but brief flash of light, but then he faded back to normal.  “It is time.”

“Time?” the elf repeated gently as he moved to Gandalf’s side, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Time,” the wizard confirmed.  His head bowed briefly and he seemed to take a deep breath as his forehead came to rest upon the staff.  Still as death, he was, for a moment, until his head came back up.  “The Ring must be destroyed… Soon, it will be too late.”

Elrond had known it, had not even wanted to deny it.  Yes, indeed, it was time, for the longer one bore a Ring of Power, the more ingrained it became in their selves.  The longer Gandalf held that cursed Ring, the harder it would be for him to destroy.  He did not hesitate, and asked, “When?”

“I leave for Mount Doom at dawn,” Gandalf said heavily.  Watching his face, Elrond saw his eyes darken briefly, then shine in pain.  The burden of the Ring had proved too heavy for Frodo to bear…and having claimed it, Gandalf had taken that weight upon himself.  It had to hurt him, now, as the Ring fought to be preserved – it had fought destruction for centuries, corrupting first Sauron, Isildur, then Gollum, Bilbo, and Frodo.  Would Gandalf be the next, or the last?  Had even the wisest of the Maiar the strength to destroy the One?

For a brief and self-honest moment, Elrond thanked the stars that it was not him.  “Alone?” he asked quietly, feeling a cold chill worm its way down his spine.

The wizard nodded.  “Yes.”

“I would counsel against that, old friend,” the bearer of Vilya replied.  Oh, he could feel Gandalf’s determination, his belief that the Ring had to be destroyed – Vilya and Narya were still linked despite the interference of the One, and Narya believed her bearer, but Elrond had to doubt.  He knew the power of Sauron’s dark Ring, knew the potency of its call.  And Gandalf heard it far stronger than he, the Lord of Rivendell knew, for the wizard had opened himself to its power.  He had dared to use it, and thus offered the Ring a path into his very soul.  The only remaining question was if he could resist the One far into the bowels of Mount Doom.

Gandalf finally turned to him, and Elrond say the shadow of doubt in his eyes.  “I cannot ask any one to follow me, Elrond,” the other replied in a haunted voice that came barely above a whisper.  “I know what will pass if I fail…and I cannot that to happen.”  Determination suddenly glittered in his powerful eyes.  “And I cannot allow any of you to stop me.”

“Stop you?” Elrond echoed, but even then he felt a blackness enter his heart.  Gandalf had promised to destroy the Ring, but even the wizard had admitted that was nearly an impossible task.  The One would fight desperately for survival, but Gandalf’s coldly decided voice told the half-elven that he would do whatever it took – even sacrificing his own life.

He realized, then, that the wizard’s eyes were focused upon him, watching his comprehension with detached calm.  As their gazes met, Gandalf only nodded.

“You cannot…” Elrond whispered almost against his will, a premature and keening sense of loss rising within him.  The world would seem empty without Gandalf, whom he had held as a friend for more years than all men had days in their lives.  He had been their true and faithful guiding light throughout the War of the Ring, even back in the days when no one believed that the One could still exist.  To lose him now seemed unthinkable, but the Maia seemed to know his thoughts once more.  He smiled gently.

“We all do what we must, Elrond, Lord of Rivendell,” he said softly.  “And as for me – I was the Enemy of Sauron.  Now he is destroyed and this Age is coming to an end.  The Third Age was my age, old friend.  Soon my time on Middle-Earth will be done.”

“But not like this.”  Despite himself, and his inner strength of old, Elrond could not help but plead.  He could withstand Sauron’s torture and Sauron’s temptation, but quailed at the thought of loosing still another friend.

Again, the gentle smile.  “It matters not how,” Gandalf said softly, but then his voice grew hard.  “The Ring must be destroyed.”

There, Elrond could not fault his logic; besides, he knew the lure of the Ring.  It would grasp at any within reach at the moment of its destruction and struggle to find a new bearer that it could corrupt.  Therefore, the only way to prevent that would be for Gandalf to make the journey alone – but that would also give the Ring more of a chance to win a second Maia over to its will.  Either way, defeat felt so near...which made Gandalf’s willingness to sacrifice himself all the more meaningful.  He knew that he might not be able to defeat the Ring.  “I understand,” he said softly, finding the words hard to speak.  “But I beg you, do not go alone.  There are those who would willingly share the risks, even knowing what it may cost.”

“Are there?” the wizard whispered, his eyes focusing on the horizon, which, in a few short hours, would glow with light and set him forth upon this last and perilous journey.  “Are there those who trust themselves in this matter with which I do not even trust myself?”  Then he suddenly turned back to Elrond, decision in his eyes.  “The light of Middle-Earth has not faded so much as the Valar fear, then, I think.  I would be honored, Elrond, if you were to come by my side.”

For a moment, the half-elven was startled, but within seconds, he understood.  Gandalf trusted him, for Elrond, like he, was a fellow bearer of the Three and bound to destroy the One.  Elrond, like Gandalf, could never be free while the One still existed.  Still, though, he feared the temptation of the Ring, especially in the face of the fires of Mount Doom in the place of its creation.  He feared that, in the last and crucial moment, he would not be able to resist its call, and thus make Gandalf’s sacrifice meaningless in the end.  He feared…just as his companion did.

“The honor would be mine, Mithrandir,” he found himself replying.  “I will come.”

“You know what I am asking?” Gandalf whispered softly.

Elrond took a deep breath.  You are asking me to slay you if you fail, aren’t you, Gandalf?  You fear yourself as a Dark Lord.  You know what I can only guess at; you know your power would put Sauron to shame.  “Yes.” 

“As do I,” a clear and musical voice interrupted their private conference as Galadriel stepped into the light.  “Elrond can not leave you any sooner than I can, Gandalf.  This burden is not yours to bear alone.”

Slowly, she moved forward, seeming to float over the stone of the battlements like a beautiful and white ghost.  She was one of the oldest and wisest of their kind, but still her offer startled Elrond.  She had to fear it, as he did, and yet she would take the same risks.  Her courage, as always, was astounding.  Looking into the wizard’s eyes, she laid a gentle hand upon his arm as she reached his other side, speaking once more.

“If you will take me, I will come.”

“It would be fitting, for the bearers of the Three,” Gandalf replied without hesitation.  He bowed his head ever so slightly.  “I would be honored.”

Dawn broke over Barad-dûr, slowly lighting the sky with beautiful majesty, and Aragorn awoke to shouting.  Suddenly, without warning, Éomer burst into his chamber, his hair disheveled and his armor hastily donned.  “They are gone,” he exclaimed.

“What?” Confused, Aragorn sat up in bed, his head still reeling from the dangerous and dark dreams that had haunted his slumber.  He had thought that assuming the crown of Gondor would ease his sleep, but it seemed not to be the case.  Oh, how he longed for Arwen to be at his side, but he knew that would come soon enough. 

“Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, and Gandalf have left,” Théoden’s heir explained breathlessly.  “There are riders on the horizon.  They head for Mount Doom.”

In a flash, Aragorn was out of bed and rushing for the doorway, heedless of his bare feet, only thinking that he could not allow Gandalf to face this alone.  Isildur had doomed Middle-Earth in his taking of the Ring – it was only right that one of his line help carry the burden to destruction.  It was his duty.  He bolted past Éomer, grabbing his blade as he went, taking the shortest path to the stables where his mount would await him.  He could still catch them, if he moved quickly enough.  He could still catch them.

“Aragorn, no!”

Arwen’s voice reached him suddenly, even as he rushed down the hallway, mindless to obstacles or men and guards leaping out of his way.  Vaguely, be became aware of Boromir and Faramir fast approaching together, but his head snapped around to face his love even as he skidded to a stop.

“You cannot!” she cried, hurrying to his side and grasping his hands with her immortal strength.

Anger whipped through him.  He demanded hotly, “Why not?”

“I have seen it.”  Arwen’s voice dropped to a whisper.  “I know not how or what, but you must let them go alone!  If they fail or succeed is out of our hands.”  Her desperate words, though, had little effect on his heart, for he could not bear to abandon Gandalf now.  But Arwen’s beautiful eyes bored into his, and as always, she knew his mind.  “Aragorn, you must not go,” she said forcefully.  “I have dreamt of disaster and of death, and I know that the only chance is for them to face this alone.  Do not doubt me now, after all this time.”

Her last words finally broke through his barriers built of worry and anger, and as Aragorn looked into his love’s eyes, he knew she spoke the truth.  The quest was out of his hands…the burden was not his to bear.  There was nothing he could do now but hope and pray.

Taking a deep breath, Aragorn closed his eyes and prayed.

Chapter Text

“Wisest of the Maiar was Olórin.  He too dwelt in Lórien, but his ways took him often to the house of Nienna, and of her he learned pity and patience.”

          “Must you?” Aragorn asked him softly, his eyes riveted upon the figure before him.  Danger, the King had never feared, but foolish risk of life he abhorred.  His old friend, he believed, had more than earned his share in this time of peace and light… So why, then, did he insist on risking it all?

          “I must,” Gandalf replied with a gentle smile, but even the smile could not hide the pain in his eyes or the exhaustion on his face.  A scarce three weeks had passed since Elrond and Galadriel had returned, bearing an unconscious and greatly aged Gandalf between them.  The wizard had not awoken for two of those three weeks, and the Fellowship had worried for him, despite the fact that Elrond, the greatest healer in all Middle-Earth, assured them that he would be fine.  But Aragorn, no matter how much he trusted his future father-in-law, had fretted over the Maia in the little free time he possessed.  It had been a full three weeks, though, and had included their return to Minas Tirith from the Black Tower and Aragorn’s official assumption of the kingship of Gondor.  He had been grateful that Gandalf had recovered soon enough to take part in his coronation, but the wizard still seemed to have changed greatly.  He was quieter now, and smiled less.  It seemed that he had undergone a great trial, and Aragorn still worried for him.

          “Can you not wait a little?” the King asked his old mentor, but was not surprised when Gandalf shook his head.

          “Elrond and Galadriel depart at first light, and with them I must go,” the Maia replied, his voice softer than it would have been, once upon a time.  There were additional lines, two, upon his face; although he remained Gandalf the White, he now seemed more aged and frail than Gandalf the Grey had ever been.

          Aragorn sighed.  Could Gandalf not see that it was foolish to take this risk?  Or was it that something inside him simply could not let go of the past?  The former Ranger had always respected and admired the other’s wisdom, and he prayed that it would not fail Gandalf now.  “And when you reach the Gray Havens?” he asked.  “What then?”

          “We let fate take its course.”  Gandalf’s eyes met his own, cool and steady, and Aragorn had to wonder if he knew something that they did not.

          Inwardly, though, he still was consumed by worry.  Had Gandalf not been exiled from Valinor, cast from the Order of Maiar?  The Valar had already shown how ungrateful they were for his sacrifice, had already shown how unwilling they were to understand… So why, then, would he step forward and give them an excuse to kill him?  Before he could find a way to articulate his concerns, Gandalf spoke once more, seeming to read his mind.

          And that was not the first time that Aragorn wondered if the wizard had not done just that.

          “My place, Aragorn, is not on Middle-Earth,” the wizard said gently.  “And while I thank you for your offer, I cannot stay.  I do not belong here.”

          “Why not?”  The King felt like a small child who wondered what made the sun rise and set, but he did not care.  He simply did not want to let an old friend sacrifice himself when the world owed him so much.

          “I am not a creature of your world,” Gandalf replied simply.  “I was sent here to be the Enemy of Sauron, and my time upon Middle-Earth has passed.  As much as I love this place, I do not belong here.  You are entering the Age of Man.  The time for magic has passed.”

          Aragorn swallowed.  So, he would walk to his death, then…  “But they have exiled you, Gandalf.  They will kill you if you return.”

          “Perhaps,” the Maia admitted.  Then he sighed, and the King truly saw how much he had aged.  Gandalf was tired.  “I hope that my destruction of the Ring will have taught them something.  But if not…” He shrugged his shoulders but suddenly seemed so very inhuman.  He seemed to grow in that instant, to change and to awaken – just for the moment.  “I will accept the judgment of the Valinor.”

          “What if it is death?” Aragorn had to ask.

          “I am a Maia, Aragorn.”  The soft voice took on a strength that the king had thought the Ring had robbed the wizard of for all time.  “I will meet fate as such.”

          The King opened his mouth to object, but Gandalf raised a hand to forestall him.  “For one such as I, there is no other way.”

          Sadness swept through Aragorn with the speed and strength of fire.  Either way, he would lose one of his oldest and most treasured friends – either to death, or to the Western Shores…and either way, he would lose him forever.  His voice almost caught in his throat as he said, “I wish you luck, then.”

          The wizard shocked the king by embracing him, but Aragorn returned the hug with equal ease.  Gandalf pulled back a little and smiled at him, then.  “It is you, Aragorn, who will need the luck,” he said.  “But you will make a fine king.”

          I hope so, he thought silently, but replied, “I will miss you.”

          “And I you,” the Maia replied.  “Rule well, Aragorn of Gondor.”

          Goodbyes were never easy, especially when they were for eternity.  Aragorn, Gandalf reflected, had been the hardest; Frodo or Bilbo might have had that singular honor had the two Baggins’ not been accompanying the bearers of the Three to the Havens and beyond, but the King had certainly been the most difficult to part with of those remaining.

          Pippin and Merry had been uncharacteristically quiet, too, and he sensed that the loss of both Frodo and Sam would take both of them a long time to recover from, but they would survive, the wizard knew, and thrive.  There was much work yet to be done for all the mortals they left behind, and for the immortals, as well.  Celeborn, of course, was accompanying them; he’d only been held to Middle-Earth throughout the last centuries by his great love for Galadriel.  But Celeborn would be the only one who had not been a Ring-bearer to make the journey.  All others had chosen to wait, or had been slain in the short but bloody war.

          Legolas and Gimli had been difficult as well, though not so sad; dwarves were long-lived and gruff creatures, and Legolas, of course, was an elf.  He understood, as did Thranduil and Arwen, whom Gandalf had seen shed tears in her farewells to her father, grandmother, and grandfather.  She was leaving them even as they left her, moving into another world and a mortal life.  For her, though, he had smiled, admiring, as he always had, her courage and fortitude; she and Aragorn would grow closer as time swept by, and he knew them both for what they were and what they would be: strong individuals, great leaders, and the parents of a dynasty.  

          Boromir and Faramir had asked the same questions that Aragorn had, with the same logic and emotion tying them up and swinging them in circles.  None of them understood, of course, why he had to go – and part of Gandalf was not sure if he understood himself.  But that, he knew, was Gandalf speaking.  Olórin had to go, because despite what Radagast had said, he was a Maia until the end.  He would live as one, or die as one, and accept the judgment of the Valar, whatever it turned out to be.  Besides, he was tired of war, tired of conflict and responsibility, though the second was foreign to his nature.  The One had hurt him in many ways, though, aside from the merely physical ones, although he himself had yet to identify all of them.

          If there was one thing he knew for sure, though, it was that he did not belong on Middle-Earth.

          Shadowfax tensed underneath him as the Gray Havens grew larger in the distance, and Gandalf had felt his companions’ eyes drift to him more often as they came closer to their destination.  They were all wondering, as he was, what fate held in store, and if the Valar would make good their promise of exile and war.  Thoughts like that left even Elrond and Galadriel uneasy – as well they should have been, for both were old enough to remember what was really at risk.  Frodo and Bilbo (who had miraculously recovered as soon as the Ring was taken from Sauron, a fact that the others had learned as soon as he journeyed from Rivendell to meet them when they returned to Gondor) were quieter than might have otherwise been expected; even Bilbo, who was usually so wonderfully dense that he neglected to notice that the world did not revolve around his small body, seemed affected by the elves’ silence.  Celeborn, too, only looked on with mournful eyes that reminded Gandalf that he, too, knew the risks.

          A sigh from the Maia brought Shadowfax to a halt; after their trials together, the horse knew his rider’s every move and every wish without communication.  Shadowfax, too, of course, knew where they were going and what it could cost, but he was also in this, as he had made plain, until the end.

          Slowly, Gandalf looked to the others, his eyes scanning their expectant faces.  The resolution in their eyes, though, scared him, and the Maia knew that his greatest fears were about to come to pass.

          “I thank you all for the support you have shown me,” he said softly, “but I cannot ask you to do more.  I will wait here while you ride on to the Gray Havens.”

          “But I thought you were coming with us, Gandalf?” Frodo asked innocently, but the wizard’s eyes were truly on Galadriel and Elrond – to his surprise, though, it was Galadriel’s eyes that hardened with determination as he spoke.

          From somewhere within himself, the Maia found a gentle smile.  “When I go to the Havens, Frodo, I will do so alone.”

          “But why?”

          “There are many reasons, my friend,” Gandalf responded softly.  “Chief amongst them, though, is that I will not endanger you.  Any of you.”

          Before the hobbit could press further, Elrond’s cold voice intervened.  “You think they will kill you.”

          “I think they might.”  The admission was easy to say with calm.  For some reason, though, the prospect did not frighten the Maia as it once would have.  He had faced death before, known what it felt like.  So be it, if he had to walk down that path again.

          Both hobbits looked at him with sadness and compassion, and once again, the wizard was reminded of why he loved their kind.  You could learn all there was to know about Hobbits in the space of one day…and sometime or another, they would still surprise you.  It was for their sakes, chiefly, that he wished to ride alone, for they could have no power over what was to come.  Conversely, though, he wished equally to leave his fellow bearers of the Three behind, especially Galadriel – proud and beautiful Galadriel, too strong and wise to give up or ever change her mind.

          “I’m not sure I understand,” Bilbo said after several uncomfortable moments of silence.  “You destroyed the Ring, didn’t you?  Shouldn’t that mean you are a hero to them?”

          His old friend’s naivety brought a bittersweet smile from the Maia.  “Nay, Bilbo,” Gandalf responded.  “To the Valar, and my own kind, it means I am corrupted, tainted by the Ring – forever.”

          “And you think to protect us,” Frodo whispered.

          “All of you will be welcome upon the Western Shores,” he replied.  “It is I who must pay the price for what I have done.”  A strange chill worked its way down his spine, then, and he felt the need to have this over with, to know, one way or another, how it would turn out.  It was funny, that a large part of him did not care what the outcome would be – he only wished his loyal friends to be free of it, and him.  That was the only mission he had left.

          Suddenly, though, Galadriel’s voice made his head snap around.  She spoke with startling strength and authority, something that even he had never seen from her – and her tone allowed no argument, even from a Maia.

          “Olórin,” she said, startling the others with the use of his true name.  “You have not been alone in this, from the beginning, or at the end.  Elrond and I have always known the risks, and therefore have as much to answer for as you do.   We have said that we are with you until the end.  Therefore, you will not go alone to the Gray Havens.

          “We are still with you.”

Chapter Text

"It's wisdom to recognize necessity, when all other courses have been weighed, though as folly it may appear to those who cling to false hope."

          Gandalf stood overlooking the great chasm in the depths of Mount Doom, a small figure of white set against the dark light of evil.  The fires burned beneath the precipice on which he stood, sending vapors upward that stung the eyes of his followers, Galadriel and Elrond, making them cough in the red-hot smoke.  But the wizard was unbothered by those natural elements; rather, an unnatural focus had descended upon him as he stared into the depths of the fire, his head spinning with possibilities, desires, and revulsion.  The Ring burned upon his hand, and it whispered sweetly to him.

          Why not? the One asked softly.  What have you to lose?  They have cast you from your home, from your dreams – why not make this world into what you would have it be?

          Gandalf shuddered from the pressure of its lure.  Oh, it touched his heart, hit upon his greatest desires.  The Ring’s whispers hinted at what he feared most, for if he survived its destruction, he would still be an Exile, cut off from his home and unwanted upon Middle-Earth.  He would still then be a hapless wanderer, alone and unhomed – except – except the Ring offered something more.  The Ring offered him the chance to make Middle-Earth his home.  Think of all you could do, it whispered.  You could transform this place so that it would rival the West, and then they would see what they have lost.  Your greatness would make them regret exiling you.

          You would be Gandalf the Great, respected and loved by all.  The sweetness of the Ring’s call claimed that it was not truly evil, and in the hands of one with a pure heart, it could do good.  The One could be used for the right.  Its seductive whispers wormed deeper into his soul, anchoring themselves firmly to his heart.  They would love you, it continued. 

          They would fear you.

          Awareness jerked into Gandalf’s mind like a splash of icy water, and his heart rebelled – but the Ring continued, not heeding his change.  You could make them pay for all they have put you through.  The power is yours.  Their lives are yours –

          No! his mind screamed the words, and the Maia thought that his voice echoed them, crying into the rising winds.  Only then did he notice how the air whipped around him, how the fumes rose and shielded him from his companions.  He glanced over his shoulder, searching for them, but Galadriel and Elrond were hidden from his view in the rising mists.  Deep in his soul, the Ring still cried for attention, but with an effort, he forced it away, realizing its plan now…and thanking the Valar that it had gone too far.  Temptation had come so close…  I must act soon, he realized.  Else I will not have the strength.

          But why? the Ring cried pitifully.  Why destroy something so powerful, so great?  Why throw away the chance to change the world, to remake it in your image?  But Middle-Earth was not his home; Middle-Earth was not his for the shaping.  Mistakes they might make, but mortals were the creatures of this world, and where it went was up to them…even if that path led to ruin.  He could not, would not, make their choices for them.  But you were sent to protect them, to guide them – should you not do so?  Should the Ring not make that task easier? He could not.  He would not.  Duty called for guidance, not control…

          They are weak.  They will follow. Someday, the world will thank you for this.  You must only say the words…Think the words, and the Ring will be completely yours.  Take the Ring once and for all.  Take the world.  His mind spun with sudden dizziness, and it was hard to remember why he had come to Mount Doom at all.  Certainly, he did not wish to destroy this precious thing of beauty that glowed so purely upon his right hand… Surely not.  Why would he do such a thing as that?

          We are one, the Ring whispered.  We are together.  Meant to be together.  Power is yours.  And he felt the sweetness of pure power sweeping through his body, felt it as he had before, but sensed its temptation and the abilities that it would give him…abilities that he had been foolishly afraid to use before.  What was the danger of merging with the Ring?  Why not do it?  He had claimed it; why must he keep fighting it?  The Ring was his.  His precious.  Yes…it whispered.  Together.  Show them how strong you truly are.  Break the foolish bonds that the Valar have placed upon you.  You will be greater than Sauron.  You always have been, and with the Ring…with the Ring! You will be far, far, greater.  Just step away.  Step away from the fires…

          Suddenly, the view of fumes and fire faded before his eyes and were replaced by a vision of the future.  He saw a world, his world, just and kind, one in which all beings were equal, where all had a chance to live in freedom.  There they were protected and guided through a land without strife, a land where a true hand steered mortal paths… There was peace.  Happiness.  Light.  And yet there was a current of darkness behind the perfect picture, a surge of hard power that knew no limits and only waited to be released.  Peace reigned, yes, but…but not forever.  Not for long. 

          In all light there was darkness.

          The perfect vision wavered and was replaced by chaos.  Fire.  Darkness – and he felt evil, his own evil.  Destruction and rage ran rampant; he felt dark satisfaction and white-hot fury.  The reasons escaped him, but they mattered not – he felt the ease with which he held lives in his hands; with one close of his fingers, he could crush the light of the world… And, oh the power felt sweet.  It was perfect, and it offered him the fulfillment of every Maia’s forbidden dream – the dream of complete control and power, the dream of a world to call his own.  You can, the Ring whispered, and his wickedly longing soul responded to the call.  For the first time, he understood why Sauron, fascinated with power, had reached for it, and having allowed it to corrupt him, could not break free – and then it was too late. 

          But not for you, the One continued.  It’s not too late for you.  You are stronger than Sauron, it claimed.  You can resist.  You can remain yourself because you are stronger.  Keep the Ring. Remain yourself…  And the Ring was right.  He was stronger than Sauron, and even if he merged with the Ring, his will was strong enough.  He could remain himself… And he had already proved that he could use the Ring without losing himself.  All he had to do was take one step further and abandon himself to the currents of its power… It would be so easy… And he could succeed.  He knew he could.

          Gandalf felt himself take another step away from the fires.  Vaguely, as if from a great distance, he heard two voices screaming his name, but they – who were they, anyway? – seemed so far away, so unimportant…

          All that mattered was the Ring.

          His left hand rose and touched the One upon his right, and he felt the power inherent in it, felt its pureness and its glee, felt every possibility that was or ever had been – the world was his for the taking.  The world was his.

          A sudden flash of pain tore into his body and into his mind, making him stagger.  His bond with Narya reached out to him, and shocked him back into reality.  His Ring called to him, and her voice reached him where Elrond’s and Galadriel’s cries could not.  No! she screamed, and his mind sluggishly worked over her objections.  He could not keep the Ring – he would not keep the Ring – But you can, the One whispered seductively.  You are stronger.  You are worthy of the Ring…

          Power rushed into him, but it was not the One’s.  The beauty and pureness of Narya the Great, the Red Ring, ran through him like a cleansing fire, calling to him, demanding that he defy the One – and suddenly, his heart and mind where his own.  Still, though, desire cried that he ought not to destroy something so precious – and for a single, heart-breaking and all-important moment, Narya’s insistence faded behind the seductive whispers of the One.

          Step away, it told him.  One more step.  Gandalf’s mind still worked slowly over the problem…and he wavered.  Just one more step.  But he remembered too much.  I cannot, he thought fiercely.  I will not.  There was too much to risk, too many to harm…Middle-Earth deserved its freedom, and he would not take it from them!  Still, though, the One spoke in his heart.  Take the step!  And he did take a step – forward.  Shaking his head to clear it, willing the visions of a future and power away, the wizard moved back to the precipice.  His body seemed so heavy…it was hard to take even the smallest step, but finally, he reached the edge.  The Ring’s voice suddenly lost all sweetness and took on the power of Command. Go back! it screamed at him.  Go back!

          Slowly, he reached for the Ring, knowing that he was fast losing the strength to act against its power.  Another moment, and it might be too late…

          Go back! the Ring demanded.  Step no further!  Its voice took on a slow and powerful hiss that chilled him to the very core of his immortal being.  You.  Will.  Not.  Dare.  And he struggled against its power, his mind made up, fighting the desires within his soul.  His heart replied to the Ring’s cries with force that his mind still lacked.  I will not!

          Agony suddenly ripped into him as the One made its last attack, and he screamed in pain.  The force of its power threatened to push him away from the edge, and his vision went black as he nearly passed out.  From somewhere deep inside, Gandalf found the power to fight back, and he struggled desperately to free his mind from the Ring’s grip, calling upon Narya and the long-forbidden powers that he possessed.  But the One had been forged by a Maia, and knew this well.  One Ring, it gloated in his mind, to rule them all.

          “No!” The wild cry rushed from his lips by its own accord, and with a great effort, Gandalf tore the One from his right hand.  Still, though, its influence remained, and he felt it prey upon his mind – You. Will. Not!  Body aching, and suddenly exhausted, the Maia forced his eyes open – he did not even know that he had shut them – Step away! the One’s screams were desperate and pained his mind to even feel. 

          For one last second, he stared at the One Ring.  Its beauty was unmarred, its runes glowing in the firelight…and its power as corrupted and evil as ever.  Step away! it wailed. You cannot destroy the One!  He felt his knees begin to buckle under the strain as the Ring attacked his very body, and with the last of his strength, he flung the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom.

          As he watched it fly through the misty vapors, glowing and screaming in his mind, Gandalf felt his body collapse, and topple towards the fiery lava beneath him.

Chapter Text

“…He that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.”

 Chapter Twenty-Five:   Havens

          “So it is that you seek to return to us,” Radagast said softly.  “Gandalf the Ring-bearer, Gandalf the once-Gray – fleetingly White, become the Black – seeks to return as Olórin the Once Resurrected, now the Lost.”

          Gandalf slowly brought his eyes up to meet that of his fellow Maia.  Still radiant in white, he gleamed in sharp contrast to the other’s drab and earthen brown robes.  He was unbent now, and seemingly vibrant with strength; a bittersweet smile touched Frodo’s lips as he remembered that it had not always been so.  He remembered meeting Gandalf the Gray, long ago, thinking the other only a wizard and a kind old friend.  Still, though, he had not changed in many ways; the same old smile was always readily available and the same mischief occasionally gleamed in his bright eyes.  Yet he seemed stronger, although more tired at the same time.  Gazing upon the Grey Havens, Frodo could perhaps understand why: the Ring sapped the vitality out of a being and made you desire peace.  Peace – what a seductive idea.  He hoped that Gandalf could find it here.

          There was no one in Middle-Earth who deserved it more.

          “And you would seek to liken me with Sauron the Betrayer?” the wizard asked softly; his voice held no ire.  “But yes, Aiwendil, Olórin seeks to return home.”

          Frodo thought he saw frustration and anger cross the other’s features for a split second before the brown-clothed Maia schooled his face into utter expressionlessness.  “The shores of the West have been closed to you, Gandalf the Black.”

          “I have destroyed the Ring,” Gandalf replied with extreme patience, and again, he seemed very tired, seemed almost spent by his trials.  Still, though, there was a fire in his eyes that even the burden of the One had not been able to extinguish.  “We both know that this world is no place for one of our kind.  I come now as a Maia, willing to accept the judgment of the Valar – but nay, Aiwendil, you have not the right to judge me!  You, who did not act through fear and distraction, have not the knowledge to do so, nor the understanding of the power I renounced.  You dare to call me Gandalf the Black, and yet you know, as I do, that the corruption of the Ring would show itself.”

          Radagast seemed taken aback by Gandalf’s intensity, and all he managed in reply was a weak, “You were warned, Olórin.” 

          “So I was,” Gandalf nodded slightly, but his eyes still blazed.  “But I chose to defy what you called my fate.  All you have feared I would become, I have not.  I owe no explanations to you.”

          “You will never reach the Western shores alive,” the other spat angrily, and Frodo frowned upon realizing that not all superior beings were constrained to act with wisdom and kindness.  Radagast clearly feared Gandalf, but he seemed to resent him as well.  Did he hate the other for accomplishing the impossible, or for the understated yet unmistakable power that radiated from him?  Was it Gandalf’s refusal to accept his judgment that angered the Maia so, or was it his strength?

          “That may be,” Gandalf said softly, “but if my end shall come, it will be at the hands of the Valar.  I will accept their decision.”

          “Fool!  Do you wish for death?”

          “Peace, Aiwendil,” another voice intervened even as Gandalf made to reply; Frodo felt his head turn unwillingly to look upon the newcomer and watched his companions do the same.  Seeing this new being, though, sent a chill of mixed fear and awe running down his spine.

          She was beyond beautiful.   Small and lithe in build, and dressed in the purest of white, it seemed that she could not have possessed more than a handful of years in age, but there was a quality about her that defied the innocence with which her youthful appearance was presented.  Her eyes, deep and blue, held unsurpassed strength and wisdom, and the strength of her gaze sent a flash of fear through the hobbit.  Her steps were silent; she glided forward, past Radagast, though hardly seeming to move at all, and he gave way with a feeling akin to Frodo’s terror.

          To his left, he heard Galadriel gasp.  Upon the surface, the two great beings looked similar, but something inside Frodo knew immediately that this was no Elven Lady, and no matter how great the power and wisdom in Galadriel, beside the new being, she seemed but a child in age and knowledge.  The greatness he had always sensed in the lady of Lothlórien were dwarfed by this glowing and noble lady, the likes of whom he had never seen before, even in his dreams.  Next to her, even Gandalf’s sheen seemed to fade, and the hobbit felt his gaze lock upon her, drawn like a moth to flame, even her beauty was so great that it almost hurt to look upon her.

          Before him, though, Gandalf bowed.

          “Lady Varda,” he said softly.

          “Olórin,” she responded, and to Frodo’s surprise, held her left hand out to the Maia, smiling slightly.  She seemed somehow sad as she reached out to him, but it was hard to imagine what could dismay such a lofty and terrible being.

          Seeing this, a tremor ran through the one-time Ring-bearer, for he could not imagine touching such a great and frightening being.  However, Gandalf accepted the proffered hand without hesitation, and as they stood side by side, they seemed of a kind: two glowing beings of pureness and power.  Their gazes met, then, as they touched, and her smile grew wider as joy touched her eyes.  “It seems I was not mistaken,” she said softly.  “You remain as you have always been: strong and steadfast, uncorrupted by a power that has stricken many others, even over far distances.  Manwë will be pleased.”

          Behind her, Radagast seemed to tense, but Gandalf only bowed his head in acknowledgement and thanks.  Without so much as a glance in the other Maia’s direction, she continued.

          “Your strength, though, does not surprise me,” Lady Varda said.  “We have always known your heart to be the greatest of your many virtues, and though we feared the worst, we have always hoped for the best.  What surprises me, though, is your desire to leave this land so quickly when you once desired so greatly to return.”

          “I desire only peace,” Gandalf replied softly.  “My work is done, and no matter how I love this land, I do not belong here.”

          “But having touched power as you have, can you truly desire what you seek?” she asked softly.

          “I have never asked for power, and only accepted it when there was no other choice,” the Maia said.  “I would have rathered to try and fail than to give up without battle.  Perhaps I love this world too much, but I would not plunge Middle-Earth into darkness and chaos without contest.”

          “You took the greatest of chances, Olórin,” Varda replied.  “And you very nearly made the ultimate sacrifice, though you know it was not meant to be this way.”

          “I know.” He nodded.

          “Then why?” she asked.

          Gandalf’s reply was simple:  “Because someone had to.”

          “And so you deserve peace, my old friend.”  Her smile was melancholy, but also pleased, and suddenly her gaze expanded to include them all, elves, hobbits, and Maia alike.  “As do you all.  Go now, Olórin, with the blessing and the thanks of the Valar.  I shall await you upon the Western Shores.”

          Once more, Gandalf bowed to her, and then she turned to Radagast, and the two moved away, leaving Frodo’s sight; somehow, he knew that he would never see the brown-clothed Maia again.

          Long moments, passed, then – or at least, it seemed so to Frodo, though he hardly could say why.  Finally, though, the silver gates before them swung open, and Círdan, the guardian of the Grey Havens, stepped outside of them and bowed.  “All is now ready.”

          The sky was now darkening, and the waters eerily calm; the great white ship glided forward without benefit of wind or elements.  Frodo stood alone upon its stern, staring at the fading outline of the land in which he was born.  Strangely, he did not find a overwhelming sadness gathering within his heart – he had expected as much, when their journey to the Havens had begun, but now he understood why he did not.  The Ring had changed him, he knew, had aged his soul far beyond his years and had distanced him from all those who could not understand the burden that it truly was.  What damage to him the Ring had not done to him, though, came from Sam’s death.

          I miss you, Sam, he thought silently, sending his sadness across the waves to whatever land in which his old friend now rested.  There was nothing more to say; all needing voice had already been spoken, and all else Sam would understand, wherever he was.  Grief touched him, for one moment, as Frodo remembered all else he would leave behind; faces of old friends and new flashed through his mind.  He would miss them, yes, but it was time.  He, too, no longer belonged upon Middle-Earth.

          A hand suddenly touched his shoulder, and he glanced up to see Gandalf looking down upon him.  The Maia said nothing, merely smiling gently, but Frodo understood.  Without looking back, he turned away from the railing, and toward the future.