Disclaimer: It's not mine.

Chapter Thirty-Seven
Estel

Dawn. Wesley rubbed his eyes as he stared up at the slope in front of him. The night had brought him to the very foot of Mount Doom. Sitting down to rest, he ate a little, and drank. He had rationed his supplies well. There was enough, he reckoned, to last if he were to climb the mountain, hike back down, and then return for at least a day the way he had come.

But there wasn't going to be a return journey. So he drank a little extra, then replaced his supplies and flung the pack over his shoulder. Then he started up the mountain.

Riker had said that an old road wrapped around the mountain. So all he had to do was find it and follow it. It would lead him to the Cracks of Doom. Then it would end. All of it would end.

Dawn. Geordi and Eowyn watched as a second sunrise filled the sky. The host in Osgiliath had advanced during the night, and, despite the sun, had begun a slow, steady march towards the City. Perhaps they hoped to reach it by nightfall.

Time had passed so strangely during the long night. Geordi couldn't place what day it was, or how far the others should be. Were they nearing the Black Gate? Still a day or two away? And Wesley and Riker – How close were they to Mount Doom? How long would the City have to hold if the Orcs attacked?

At last, Eowyn broke the silence. "When the darkness returned last night, I feared it might never lift again. But again it has passed, and dawn has returned. What does it mean, I wonder. Surely we would know if Sauron himself had been defeated.

"We would," Geordi agreed. And of course they would. If the Ring had been destroyed, he would be gone. For the first time, looking at Eowyn, he was saddened by that thought. He might disappear at any moment, without the chance to say good-bye.

"We would know," Geordi repeated. "But, still, we can take hope in this sign. Our Enemy is not as powerful, as invincible, as he would have us believe. And we are not as weak as he supposes. The darkness may return, but I believe it will always fade with the coming of the morning." He slipped his hand gently into Eowyn's. "In this hour, I do not believe that any darkness will endure."

Dawn. Data and Q watched the sunrise from a window in Denethor's upper chamber. The Palantir lay on a table behind them.

"I must leave soon," Data informed Q. "Lieutenant LaForge will be expecting me."

Q nodded. "You haven't told him you come here."

"I have not," Data admitted. "Much of what we have seen would disturb him. I saw no reason to trouble him with knowledge of events he cannot change."

Q smiled. "You can't change them, either, Pippin. And yet you keep coming back for more."

"I am not human," Data reminded Q. "I do not experience worry or anxiety."

"You don't think he's worried, anyway? Could the truth be worse than what he might assume?"

"Are you suggesting that I reveal the truth to Lieutenant LaForge?"

Q shrugged. "It makes no difference to me. It's simply an interesting side experiment, if you must know. Do you keep your fellow Halfling in the dark, or do you share with him the ghastly truth?"

Data processed that for a moment, then turned to go. "Thank you, Q. I will return shortly."

Dawn. Picard mounted his horse once more, ready for the last leg of their journey. According to Faramir's best calculations, they would reach the Black Gate sometime in the afternoon. Hopefully, before they were all destroyed, Frodo would find his way up the mountain and drop the cursed Ring in the fire.

Of course, he reminded himself, there was no guarantee. Wesley could have been delayed. They would know, Picard reasoned, if Sauron had the Ring. So Wesley had not yet been found and captured. But they could only hope that all had proceeded according to schedule.

At least one thing had. Riker had allowed himself to be captured in Cirith Ungol. Picard clenched his staff tightly, both the staff and the hand that held it shining brightly. He had never liked the plan. But Riker, who certainly liked it far less, had been unable to come up with a better idea.

Picard shook the thought from his mind. It was far too late to second-guess his choice. The pieces were all in place. The board was set. As Q had said once before, the hall was rented, the orchestra engaged. It was now time to see if they could dance.

Picard glanced over at his crew. Worf had already mounted. Troi and Dr. Crusher were repacking the last of the supplies. O' Brien rode back and forth, inspecting the men of Rohan. Faramir had already mounted, his sling removed though his arm was far from fully healed. A sling would only get in the way. They could tend to injuries later.

Later. If they survived, Picard reminded himself, he wouldn't have to deal with Faramir's injuries. Still, though he was only a fictional character, Picard wished he could order the young man to sit this one out.

Then again, unless the order were to come directly from his king, Picard doubted Faramir would listen, anyway. These were his men; he was their captain. For good or ill, he would share their fate.

Picard caught Faramir's eyes and nodded. With a signal from Faramir, the company straightened their ranks and prepared to ride. Picard took the lead, with Faramir on his left and O' Brien on his right. Once more, they rode off towards the East.

Dawn. Riker squinted in the light. They were flying over a valley, surrounded almost entirely by mountains. A road through the mountains to the south led back the way they had come. To the north, a large army waited. Thousands. No, tens of thousands. All of Mordor, it seemed, had been summoned.

The Nazgul flew to the north end of the valley, dropped Riker, and landed by the edge of the Orc army. Riker groaned and turned his head in time to see a man clad in black riding towards him on a black horse. At first, he assumed it was another Nazgul, but, as the man rode closer, Riker didn't feel the same presence. This was no wraith. Flesh and blood lay beneath his robes and hood.

The rider was followed by several Orcs, but they kept a safe distance. The rider dismounted and approached without fear, not shrinking even from the Nazgul. He rolled Riker over onto his back with a single kick, and Riker couldn't check a quiet groan of pain. "So this is the King of Gondor," the man scoffed. "Fool. It takes more to make a king than an Elvish blade. Did Gandalf truly believe that, because thou art a king, he could send thee as a spy whithersoever he wished, and thou wouldst come to no harm? Thou art arrogant fools."

Riker caught his breath. "Then we have something in common. And if it is to be my undoing, then so shall it be yours."

The man laughed, a cold, evil laugh. "Thy threats are in vain. I should kill thee now, lying in the dust like a wounded animal. But then thou wouldst never know the depth of thy folly, nor taste the fullness of thy defeat." He nodded to the Orcs and then stepped back, mounting his horse once more.

Two Orcs came forward with a long coil of rope. With one end, they tightly bound Riker's wrists, then rolled him over so that he lay face-down in the dust. Then they attached the other end of the rope to the back of the rider's saddle.

The rope tightened, and Riker was dragged towards the Orc army. The Orcs parted to allow the rider through. Riker turned his head to look just as he reached the army. A whip lashed across his back. A club struck his legs. Slowly, the rider dragged him onward through whip and club and claw, over dust and rocks and fresh horse dung.

Riker closed his eyes as he was rolled over onto his back. Whips dug into his arms and legs; the Orcs were making an effort to avoid blows to his chest, lest they kill him too quickly. Jagged rocks dug into his back as he was dragged across the valley, staining the ground red with his blood. Just as he thought the pain would send him into unconsciousness, he was rolled over again, and dragged forward on his chest.

Over and over. On they rode, until Riker was certain that every Orc in Mordor had struck him. The sun grew hotter, and Riker no longer had the strength even to cry out. His throat was parched, and his lungs ached from the dry, burning air.

Once, he dared to open his eyes. There seemed to be no end to the Orcs. Every time he thought he would faint, some new pain jolted him awake. The smell of blood and sweat and dung and the victorious cry of thousands of Orcs filled the air.

Rocks dug into his back, then his chest. His body was smeared with dung, then dragged through the dust. Whips lashed around his arms and legs, tearing through what remained of his flesh.

"Please," Riker whispered, though to whom, he did not know, nor did he know if any could hear the words or if he only imagined speaking them, his mouth moving, trying to give voice to his body's anguish. "Please, just let me die."

The horse stopped. After a moment, so did the blows. "So!" the rider said quietly, stepping towards Riker. "Thy arrogance is not eternal. What dost thou wish? A little louder, perhaps."

Riker looked up into the man's eyes, cold and pale beneath his hood. They mirrored the triumph in his voice. He had won. The King of Gondor lay helpless at his feet, begging for death. Riker closed his eyes, catching his breath, gathering his thoughts amid the chaos. No. No, he did not wish for death. But, within hours, he knew, he would have it. He was losing blood. His wounds were infected. He had been given no water, and the day would only grow hotter. Even if he could last until the Ring was destroyed, even if they returned to the Enterprise, he was no longer certain that even Dr. Crusher would be able to do anything for him.

One breath. Then another. He opened his eyes. The horseman was waiting for an answer. If he asked for death, Riker wondered, would the rider give it? Would he show that mercy?

"I will do it," the rider assured him, drawing his sword as if to make his point. "You have but to ask."

Riker swallowed hard, gazing up at the sky. As he watched, cloud passed over the sun. A large, grey cloud. He could see several more in the distance, off to the north.

Then he felt a drop of … but it couldn't be. Rain in Mordor? It was only a drop, but, from the looks of the clouds, it would not be the last. It was absurd. So absurd that Riker smiled, and tried to laugh, though it came out as more of a choking cough. "Thank you," Riker whispered hoarsely.

"What?" the horseman asked.

Riker's gaze flew to the man beside him. In his surprise, he had nearly forgotten the rider's offer. "No," Riker said softly, then repeated Brooke's words once more. "Onen i-estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim." This time, he understood, and translated. "I gave hope to men. I have kept no hope for myself."

"So be it, then." The rider turned and mounted. Again Riker was dragged forward, but only an occasional Orc struck him. Most followed behind as they were led down the road and farther through a pass in the mountains. Cirith Gorgor, Riker knew in the back of his mind. The Haunted Pass.

As they neared the end of the pass, they were met by more Orcs, along with several trolls, and the remaining Nazgul. They all gathered around to see the spectacle, cheering and laughing at their prisoner, bloody and filthy and helpless.

The horse came to a stop. An Orc stepped forward and cut the rope that bound Riker's wrists. The horseman dismounted and slowly approached, savoring his moment. He removed a small bottle from his cloak, uncorked it, and poured the liquid into Riker's mouth. Riker's throat burned as he swallowed, but his vision cleared, and his thoughts became less cloudy. They wanted him alive, aware of every moment of pain.

The rider nodded, and a large Orc stepped forward out of the masses, carrying a huge, heavy club. The Orc raised the club and brought it down with a sickening crack against Riker's leg. Riker cried out and instinctively tried to struggle, but pain coursed through his body, and he could do little more than shudder and twitch back and forth, trying to find a position that didn't result in agony. But there was none to be found.

Only once Riker's screams had died down did the Orc strike again, this time striking one of his arms. Wave after wave of pain coursed through Riker's body. The club struck his knee, then just above his elbow. Farther up his leg, then just above the wrist. The Orcs rolled him over onto his side, allowing the Orc to strike the side of his hip with a horrible crack, then propped him up so the Orc could strike his shoulders from above. More of the fiery liquid was poured down his throat. Again the Orc struck, and again, each blow connecting with splintering force. At last, they dropped him back into the dirt. There he lay, screaming, wailing, gasping. Waiting for one of the Orcs to strike a blow that would bring an end to the pain.

But none came. Clawed hands lifted him, bore him forward. The crowd parted. In front of them was a large, flat rock. On it lay a metal shape, almost a circle, perhaps a wheel. But the shape was not quite right – it was more oval, like an eye.

Yes, an eye. A long, metal beam stretched from the top of the eye to the bottom, forming a pupil that reminded Riker of a cat's. Four long, metal spikes stuck out from the eye itself – two from the top lid, two from the bottom. The Orcs bore Riker forward and held him in place above the beam.

An Orc lifted Riker's arm, and Riker could hardly believe it was his. The limb lay limp in the Orc's hands, broken and mangled. In places, fragments of bone broke the skin, and the whole arm was dirty and bleeding. The Orc stretched the arm out to the side, then above Riker's head, so that the tip of a spike pressed just above his elbow. Another Orc took his other arm and placed it the same way. Then his legs were stretched so that the spikes on the bottom of the eye lay beneath his thighs, a little above the knee.

Orcs held each of his limbs tightly, waiting. Riker braced himself, but was still unprepared for the surge of pain as the Orcs thrust downward, impaling him on the spikes. Farther they pressed, until Riker lay flat against the metal beam, the bloody ends of the spikes piercing through his arms and legs. Ropes bound him firmly to the eye, lest the spikes tear through his flesh completely.

Then the eye was lifted, Riker's broken limbs dangling limply off the edges. The Orcs hoisted the eye up onto four poles, little more than two meters off the ground, high enough to be seen by the crowd. A trophy.

It was exhaustion that finally forced Riker to stop screaming. His head dropped back, resting on top of the eye. Tears of pain mixed with the dirt and blood that coated his face.

More liquid was poured down his throat, keeping him conscious. Too late, Riker's clouded thoughts finally came together, and he realized why the Orcs were so intent on keeping him alive. It wasn't solely for their own sport. They planned to display their trophy to others.

Riker closed his eyes.

Q watched silently as the image in the Palantir faded. Beside him, Geordi and Eowyn stood speechless, staring into the black ball. "Is all hope then lost?" Eowyn asked, her voice shaky. "If Aragorn is their prisoner, then surely Frodo could not have escaped unharmed."

Data shook his head. "Actually, he did. Aragorn sacrificed himself so that Frodo would not be found."

Geordi took Eowyn's hand gently in both of his. He said nothing. What could he say? Riker lay half-dead in the midst of an army of Orcs. Wesley was alone in Mordor. Everyone else they cared about was either dead or riding to defeat at the Black Gate. And there was nothing any of them could do about it.

It was Data who at last broke the silence. "Show us Frodo."

Q passed a hand over the Palantir. A mountain came into view. A volcano. At last, they could see Wesley, stumbling upward along the slope. As they watched, he came to a road that wound around the mountain. Wesley paused for a moment to catch his breath.

As soon as he stopped, his knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed, exhausted. His clothes and skin were spattered with dirt. His hair was a mess, his face smeared with dirt and sweat. The soles of his feet were scratched and bloody.

Wesley took his water bottle from his pack and drank. Then he tucked it back inside his bag. He fingered the Ring, making sure it was still there. Last, his hand closed around the Phial of Galadriel. "A Elbereth Gilthoniel," he whispered, and his legs seemed to grow a little stronger. He got to his knees, then his feet, and stepped onto the road. Turning left, he began to follow the path up the mountain.

Geordi and Eowyn exchanged a look. There was still hope. And the end was nearer than either of them had guessed.