Where the Shadows Lie

A Tale Of The Ring

Hello… Slightly longer chapter this time.  PLEASE review and tell me what you think, even if it is just to flame me.  (I like flames.  Fire is good…J).  I'm not quite sure where this going at all times, for this story just seems to write itself, so all suggestions are welcome and even desired!  Again, since it's my first LOTR fic, I apologize if some of the characters are a bit off.  I actually hadn't even read the book until a week after the movie came out (though I went through all three, the Hobbit, and the Silmarillion, and Unfinished Tales like lightening), so if I'm a bit off, forgive me.  But forgive me or not, PLEASE REVIEW!!!

"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."

Chapter Three:   Despair

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.