Author's note: Well, well, well… My hard drive got fried. Sorry this was a bit delayed; I actually had the first four pages of Chapter 4 written, and then my hard drive went kablooey. Not a pleasant thing, I tell you, and I sincerely hope that you never experience. Well, there went a month or so's work… But enough of my whining, and here's the next part. As always, please review!!! (Things like that are what keep people like me writing).
Where the Shadows Lie
A Tale Of The Ring
"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."
Chapter Four: Inflexibility
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.
