Where the Shadows Lie

A Tale Of The Ring

"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!"

Chapter Two:      Beginnings

          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.