Disclaimer: Well, the story is nearing its end, and I still don't own a bit of it.
Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne,
In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all, one Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Land of Mordor
"We're close."
Faramir's words broke the anxious silence that had settled over the company. He pointed ahead along the path. Two towers, tall and dark, stood to the right of the road. "The Towers of the Teeth," Faramir said quietly to O'Brien. "The closer is called Carchost, the farther Norchost. They were built by the men of Gondor long ago to keep watch over the entrance to Mordor. Now they are watchtowers of the Enemy."
As they passed the first tower, the road forked. The left path continued straight past the second tower and on out of sight. The other turned to the right, between the towers. Beyond the towers lay great cliffs, the edge of the mountain range that the road had followed for days. The road lay between two of the cliffs. Some hundred meters beyond the towers lay a wall of black stone. A single gate with three archways stood in the center.
There at the fork in the road, they halted. Picard watched the gate for a moment, half-expecting armies of Orcs to come pouring out, and more than a little surprised that none had been there to meet them.
"Where are they?" Worf asked.
"The hook has been baited," Picard replied gravely. "All that remains is for us to cast the line. Faramir, Hama, Legolas, Gimli, Sam, come with me." Even as he said the names, something about it felt right. A representative of Rohan and Gondor. An Elf, a Dwarf, and a Hobbit. He, Gandalf the White, had come with all the free peoples of Middle-Earth to challenge Sauron. Together, they rode towards the Black Gate.
They rode past the towers and came to a halt halfway between the towers and the gate that now loomed high above their heads. Troi brought her horse up alongside Faramir's, Dr. Crusher beside her, and Worf beside O' Brien, so that they formed a single line before the Black Gate.
"Come forth!" Faramir cried in a loud voice. "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! For wrongfully has he made war on us and assailed our lands. The free peoples of Middle-Earth demand that he should atone for his evils and depart them forever. Come forth!"
They waited. How long, Picard did not know, but they soon grew restless, and still there was no answer. As Picard was about to turn and lead them back to the rest of the company, a loud and terrible horn blew, and the ground beneath them trembled. Then, with a great clang, the middle door of the gate opened, and a small company rode forth.
One – their captain, Picard guessed – rode forward to meet Picard. He was tall and thin, robed all in black, with a hood that hid his face. "I am the Mouth of Sauron," he announced coldly, then glanced over each of them in turn. "Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me? Shire-rat, Prince of a fading Elvish kingdom, Dwarf of an insignificant mountain realm, house-servant of a dead king, and younger son of the Steward of Gondor."
Picard rode a step closer. "It is unwise to underestimate your opponent, or to judge his worth solely on his place of renown. Each of my companions was hand-chosen to represent his people. These are the Captains of the West."
"So!" said the horseman. "Then thou art the spokesman, old greybeard? Have we not heard of thee at whiles, and of thy wanderings, ever hatching plots and mischief at a safe distance? But this time thou hast stuck out they nose too far, Master Gandalf, and thou shalt see what comes to him who sets his foolish webs before the feet of Sauron the Great. I have tokens that I was bidden to show to thee – to thee in especial, if thou shouldst dare to come."
Then he signaled to one of his guards, who rode forward with a bundle of black cloth. The Mouth of Sauron drew forth a sword, careful not to touch the hilt, but only the scabbard. He held it up expectantly before them.
Picard didn't glance behind him. Only Faramir, he guessed, would know the sword upon sight, and he remained silent, along with the rest. But then the messenger drew forth a small, silver horn. O' Brien checked a gasp as he realized, and Troi, sensing his shock, gave a quiet cry. Worf let out a low growl. Dr. Crusher stifled a cry of grief, assuming that, if Riker had been taken, then Wesley, too, must be lost. Only Faramir remained silent, as still as a statue, behind Picard.
"Good, good," the Mouth of Sauron gloated. "He was dear to you, I see. Or else his errand was one that you did not wish to fail. It has. And now he shall die, Master Gandalf, unless you accept my lord's terms.
Picard hesitated. This was not at all what he had expected. They had come looking for battle. But, now that they were here, the more time they could earn by talking, the better. "Name the terms," he said steadily, putting on his most ambassadorial face.
"These are the terms," the messenger said, then continued as if reciting a long-rehearsed speech. "The rabble of Gondor and its deluded allies shall withdraw at once beyond the Anduin, first taking oaths never again to assail Sauron the Great in arms, open or secret. All lands east of the Anduin shall be Sauron's forever, solely. West of the Anduin as far as the Misty Mountains and the Gap of Rohan shall be tributary to Mordor, and men there shall bear no weapons, but shall have leave to govern their own affairs. But they shall help to rebuild Isengard, which they have wantonly destroyed, and that shall be Sauron's, and there his lieutenant shall dwell: not Saruman, but one more worthy of trust."
Picard found it a strain not to remark that this was the most ridiculous set of terms that had ever been demanded for the release of a single prisoner. They needed to keep talking as long as they could.
"If we agree to your terms," he began, "what assurance do we have that Sauron will keep his word? How do we know that your prisoner is still alive? For that matter, how do we know that you even have a prisoner, that you did not find these tokens discarded along the road and invent this story? Where is this prisoner? Let him be brought forth, and we will consider your demands."
Picard met the Mouth of Sauron's gaze. He had taken part in enough negotiations to accurately play the role of a squabbling delegate. They could go back and forth for hours, arguing about whether or not a prisoner even existed, or whether or not Sauron would keep his word, with neither of them making any headway.
Instead, the Mouth of Sauron nodded to the guard, who rode back through the gate. "Very well, Master Gandalf," the messenger sneered. "We shall bring forth the prisoner."
Riker groaned weakly as the Orcs lifted the poles from the ground, jolting the spikes about, digging into his arms and legs. The poles were removed, and the eye turned and held aloft so that, if his legs had been able to support him, he would have been standing. As two Orcs held him there, whips delivered blows to his back, chest, and limbs, deepening his wounds. Riker cried out in pain as new blood began to flow, dripping to the ground. Orcs smeared his body with dirt and dung, preparing their trophy for display.
Then the eye was lifted once more onto poles, the front two shorter this time than the back, allowing him to see in front of them as four Orcs bore him forward and through the Black Gate.
He could see first the horseman and his guards, some dozen in all. But they were all eclipsed by a white light, bright and beautiful. The light surrounded six riders, but shone the brightest around Gandalf the White. Captain Picard. Even his skin seemed to glow. Riker could, at first, barely bring himself to look. He closed his good eye, then reopened it, hardly believing what his pain-clouded senses were telling him.
The Orcs stopped only a few paces from the riders, and the poles were thrust into the ground. For once, Riker was grateful his energy was spent; what should have been a loud scream came out only as a low, hoarse moan. For a moment, his vision blurred completely, and he was sure he would lose consciousness.
Then the light shone brighter, and Riker's vision cleared as he caught Picard's gaze. His Captain's expression was smooth, unreadable, but his eyes told a different story. Riker had tried to warn him. But even Riker hadn't fully known beforehand the depth of the darkness into which he had now traveled. He had glimpsed the nightfall but had not foreseen the cloudy, starless midnight. Picard hadn't been prepared for this.
Faramir rode forward beside Picard and placed a hand on his arm. At the touch, Picard's gaze turned from Riker. For a moment, he and Faramir spoke in hushed tones, and Riker's gaze drifted to Troi. It was taking all her effort not to weep. Beside her, Dr. Crusher was trying to mask her concern for Wesley, fearing that he, too, would suffer the same fate.
On the other side of the group rode a man clad in the armor of Rohan, his helm and shield a magnificent green, both bearing the emblem of a horse. Eomer was supposed to have ridden with the company, so it took Riker a moment to even recognize O' Brien. Two eyes stared out from the helm, and Riker expected him to look away, as Hama the door-warden or even O' Brien the transporter chief might have done. But the man who gazed back at him without fear was neither. He was the Captain of Rohan's forces and their representative at the Black Gate.
Beside him rode Worf, and, meeting the Klingon's eyes, Riker at last found a little strength, a little comfort. For, beneath the appearance of rage that his expression and posture suggested, Riker knew that Worf understood. The others could accept the necessity of what had happened; Worf understood it. Victory always came with a price. The Klingons understood it. The Dwarves understood it. And only one fact was clearer in Worf's expression: Victory would be theirs.
It was Faramir's voice, calm and composed, that shook Riker from his thoughts. "Your master demands much in exchange for the release of one prisoner – that he might gain by bargaining what he might otherwise fight many a war to attain."
Riker's mind raced. The horseman was trying to bargain with them. But for what? Surely Faramir realized that his release would mean nothing, that he would die soon, anyway.
That was the point. The horseman was testing them. He suspected something. He knew they had been trying to stall. If they tried to continue the discussion further – or, worse, agreed to his terms – he would know this was a diversion. A distraction from something else. Because now they surely knew that they had nothing to gain. Nothing except time.
Then Faramir looked up, and Riker knew he understood. Both he and Picard had realized it. So alike they seemed now, these two captains that men would follow – that he would follow – even here, even under the shadow of the black wings.
The horseman spoke quietly, harshly. "If you refuse my master's terms, I assure you, the prisoner will die."
Picard looked up, not allowing himself to look back, even for a moment. His eyes met Riker's, but Riker's vision was growing hazy. His head dropped back, his eyes fixed on the sky to the north.
"These we will take!" A bright flash of light revealed that Picard had come closer. "These we will take, in memory of our friend. But as for your terms, we reject them utterly! We did not come here to waste words in treating with Sauron, faithless and accursed, still less with one of his slaves." Still brighter the light shone now, and the ground trembled, making the eye shake.
The horseman decided to fish once more. "My master offers you one last chance to consider his offer, or all of you will surely—"
"Silence!" Picard cried, his voice no longer quite his own. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth! I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm until the lightning falls!"
And lightning, it seemed, did fall. The entire sky flashed a brilliant white. Thunder rolled, loud and strong across the land of Mordor, until the ground and even the air itself trembled. Rain began to fall, sudden and heavy, as a strong northern wind swept through the mountains, urging the storm onwards.
But another sound answered. There was a great clang as the other two doors of the Black Gate opened. Riker raised his head. Gandalf – no, Captain Picard – holding Anduril and a small, silver horn, led the other riders back towards the rest of their company, waiting at the road.
Riker could hear the masses of Orcs behind him. The horseman turned and addressed him. "Soon thou shall die, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. But, first, thou shall witness something far more painful: the death of thy friends."
As the Orcs charged, the eye was lifted once more, and Riker was borne forward. Immediately between the Towers of the Teeth, the horseman halted, and the poles were lifted, and others attached to hold them in place.
But, even with this view, Riker could barely see what was happening. Rain clouded the field. Images blurred together in his mind. He could make out no individual soldiers except for Gandalf. Picard. Soon, he was aware only of the pain, of the rain falling, washing blood and filth to the ground, and of a bright, white light. A reminder that the White Rider, at least, was still standing.
Rain. Wesley clenched his teeth. Of course it would be raining. Probably the first time in years that this dry, lifeless mountain had seen water. And of course it would be while he was climbing it. Q, no doubt, had made sure of that.
On he climbed, the Ring clasped tightly in his hand, as if the rain might wash it from his grasp. His other hand held Sting's hilt tightly.
One step after another, he staggered on. His legs ached. His eyes longed to close. He wanted to stop – just for a moment – but, now that he was this close, a desperate need urged him to continue. Just a little longer.
Suddenly, his foot slipped on a wet stone, and he fell forward, his right hand leaving his sword-hit to catch his fall, his left still closed tightly around the Ring. As he caught his breath, he heard a desperate cry of, "Precious!" and Gollum leapt from behind a rock in front of him.
But, even wet, tired, and caught off-guard, Wesley reached for his sword. It was drawn by the time Gollum's hands closed around his neck. Wesley thrust his sword wildly behind him. Gollum gave a startled cry but held on. Wesley struck at the creature's hands, nicking his own neck in the process. Gollum squealed and released his hold.
Wesley turned, and, at last, he got a good look at Gollum, cowering in the mud, clutching his wounded hand. Pitiful he seemed now, and not at all dangerous. Thin and small and frighteningly pale, it was a wonder he'd had the strength to attack at all. A light burned in his eyes, but Gollum now lay, cringing in fear, as Wesley took a step closer, Sting in his hand.
But Wesley did not strike. Whether it was pity or arrogance or simply the desire not to take a life without great necessity, something stayed Wesley's hand, and he did not resist. Instead, he turned and, as quickly as he could, fled along the path, his body given strength by the sudden attack, enough strength to overcome his weariness and continue on.
Then, along the path, he saw a door in the side of the mountain – a dark, gaping door, almost like a mouth. He hesitated only a moment, then stepped inside. Sheathing Sting, he drew the Phial of Galadriel, but here, in the very heart of Mordor, even its light was dimmed.
He took a few cautious steps forward, and then a burst of flame lit his way, shooting up from the ground in front of him. But not from the ground, he realized, for he had come nearly to the edge of the Cracks of Doom. He took one more step, and he could see the lava beneath him, glowing a bright, deadly red. He opened his hand and took the Ring from its chain.
Heavier It seemed now. Heavy and throbbing with power, here, in the heart of Its Master's land, so close to the place where It had been forged. Such power. Power so great that the wise of Middle-Earth had seen no other way to defeat the one that wielded It but to destroy that power completely.
Wesley held It aloft in his fingers, grasping for the first time the full extent of that power. It was real, as real as the world where It had been forged. Here, It had power to create and to destroy, to build up and to tear down. To kill and—
To restore? Wesley's throat tightened. Was that truly the test? Q had told him that destroying the Ring would return them to the Enterprise. But what if using It could give him the power to do so much more? If he used It, if he simply put It on his finger, would he have that power? Even as he stood there, he knew, a battle was being fought. Riker was being held prisoner. But he could change that. He could win the battle with merely a thought. He could save Riker. He could bring him back from the very jaws of death.
And why should he be the only one? If, indeed, the Ring would give him power over death, then why not Brooke, as well? Yes, he would save them all. Restore everything.
And Q. Wesley stared at the Ring, wondering if It had the power to affect Q. If he had truly given Middle-Earth the power it deserved – and Wesley knew now that he had – then why not? Celeborn. Saruman. Whatever form Q was using now. He could destroy them all. He could save his friends. Destroy his enemy. The power lay in his hands. Then – and only then – he would finish the deed, and they would all return to the Enterprise, completely unharmed.
Yes. Yes, he could do it. He would do it. Wesley smiled as he slipped the Ring on his finger.
He could see everything. A battle raged at the Black Gate. Gandalf and his forces were surrounded. A voice – Sam's voice – cried, "The Eagles are coming!" But the Nazgul, instead of attacking their new foes, turned and raced towards Mount Doom. Towards him. Wesley laughed. They didn't stand a chance.
It all flashed before him in an instant, because, in the next, something fell upon him, shrieking, calling for its Precious. Wesley flailed wildly, but the thought of his Precious being claimed by another had given Gollum strength far beyond his pitiful appearance. For a moment, they wrestled, tumbling, each striking wildly, Gollum at an invisible enemy, Wesley flailing blindly in surprise at the creature behind him. Gollum's reaching fingers found Wesley's. There was a terrible, stabbing pain in his finger, and Gollum thrust him aside, holding in his pale, bony fingers the Ring, and, inside it, a finger.
But, in throwing Wesley aside, Gollum had pushed himself closer to the edge. As he stumbled about in glee, crying happily for his Precious, he tripped, and fell, and with a loud cry of, "Precioussss!" he was gone.
The Nazgul had left. The Eagles had come. But the tide of the battle had not turned. Picard stood back-to-back with Faramir; both of their horses had been slain. Not far away, Worf was facing down a large troll, and was slowly being driven away from the rest of the battle. Troi was limping as she fought, her armor pierced by an Orc's blade. O' Brien lay motionless beneath the body of his horse; if he was still alive, he was probably safer there, Picard guessed, than most of them were now. Dr. Crusher was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, Faramir was no longer behind him. A blow struck Picard across the back, knocking him to the ground. He rolled over to see a huge, ugly Orc standing over him, knife in hand. He brought it down, but another blade met it. "For Frodo!" Dr. Crusher cried, her blow giving Picard time to get to his feet and sever the Orc's head. Then he glanced down. Faramir lay at his feet, plucking an arrow from his side. Protected for a moment by Dr. Crusher, Picard reached down and took Faramir's hand, helping the young captain to his feet.
Faramir regained his balance in time to block one blade that came towards him, but the second made it past his defenses, striking him hard against his side, and another arrow plunged into his shoulder, the force bringing him to his knees. This time, he stayed down. Picard and Dr. Crusher moved at once to shield him, but they couldn't last forever. A sword made it past Picard's defenses and struck deep into his arm. His sword fell. He raised his staff to block the next blow.
But the next blow never came. At that moment, there was a deep rumbling, like an earthquake. For a moment, Picard thought he saw red, in the distance, beyond the Black Gate.
Then everything vanished.
Middle-Earth had disappeared, but they were not on the Enterprise. As near as Picard could figure, they weren't anywhere at all. There was no ground, no sky; they were floating in light. He looked around. Dr. Crusher stood beside him. Worf and Troi stood together beside O' Brien, who was wounded and unconscious, but still breathing.
In a flash of light, Riker appeared, still bound to the eye, barely conscious, unaware of what was happening. Dr. Crusher rushed to Riker's side, even as Wesley appeared, kneeling in pain, clutching his left hand. Blood flowed from where his finger should have been. Picard quickly tore a piece of cloth – still shining – from the sleeve of his robe and bandaged Wesley's hand, well enough to stop the bleeding.
Data and Geordi appeared, side by side, Data's arm in a sling, which was curious, but, otherwise, both appeared to be all right. Another flash of light, and Guinan appeared, startled. Her dress was spattered with dirt and blood, but she appeared otherwise unharmed.
Last of all, Q appeared, still in the guise of Denethor, smiling with tremendous satisfaction. "Well done! Well done, all of you! The game is ended. Middle-Earth has been saved. I commend your performance, all of you, but special credit must go to our worthy Ringbearer, our White Rider, and our long-awaited King of Gondor. Bravo! Huzzah! Praise them with great praise!"
Picard strode forward, staff in hand. "Enough of this, Q! Our bargain was that you would return us to the Enterprise. So do it!"
"All in good time, Mithrandir," Q nodded. "There is a reason I have not yet sent you back." He turned to where Dr. Crusher was examining Riker.
Picard's tone softened. "Doctor? Will he live?"
Dr. Crusher looked up. "I'll do what I can, Captain, but I can already tell you … it won't be enough."
There was nothing Dr. Crusher could do. There was nothing any of them to do, though Wesley knelt by Riker's side, babbling incoherently about how he could have changed it. If they returned to the Enterprise now, Riker would die. But was there any hope in staying?
Suddenly, Picard felt something appear on his hand. He looked down. There, on his finger, was a ring, golden and embedded with a small, flaming red ruby. Picard turned back to Q, and he understood. "Please, Q," he said. "Take us to Rivendell."
Something akin to pride flashed across Q's face for a moment. Then it was gone, and only his usual, playful grin remained. "Take yourselves there."
He snapped his fingers, and they were flying, flying away from Mordor on the wings of eagles. Picard looked back to see Mount Doom erupting in flames, Barad-dur collapsing as if struck by an earthquake, tumbling to the ground below. Orcs fled in every direction. What remained of the army Picard had led was lifted by eagles and borne away to the west. All except for one eagle, which turned and followed Picard to the north.
Picard couldn't help smiling when he saw who their extra companion was. The eagle flew up beside Picard's. "Where are we going, Mithrandir?" Faramir asked, his voice weak as he fought to remain conscious long enough to hear the answer.
"Rest, Faramir," Picard said kindly. "You're safe. We're going to Rivendell." Faramir closed his eyes, and his body went limp, as Picard added, "We're going to save your king."