Author's note:          Here's the longest chapter yet… Hope you like it.  I'll return to Mordor in the next chapter (look for another interesting encounter there), but for now here's what I have.  Enjoy (please) and - As always, please review!!! (Things like that are what keep people like me writing).

Where the Shadows Lie

A Tale Of The Ring

"And it is not our part here to take thought only for a season, or for a few lives of Men, or for a passing age of the world."

Chapter Five: Mistrust

          A long wooden table adorned the center of the empty room.  It looked to be made of oak, polished and shiny, but few of the attendees cared.  Upon entering the conference room, they looked uneasily at one another, hackles raising on the backs of many necks.  Old alliances and ancient rivalries immediately came to mind, and the assembled representatives instinctively aligned themselves along these lines, four of the humans grouping together as a wall between the four elves and the Dwarf, who stood beside the lone Hobbit representative.  Only one man stood separate from his own kind, remaining by the door and eying the others distantly, taking part in none of the suspicious whispers drifting around the room.  The atmosphere grew more and more strained, and finally, when the tension in the room seemed ready to snap, the door opened.

          Gandalf the White stepped inside.

          His appearance shocked even those who had traveled with him or had known him long.  No longer was he the bent and tired old man they had seen before, nor was he garbed in drab and neutral gray any more.  Now he was clothed in shimmering white, which was not even hidden by his old gray cloak.  He stood tall and strong, a silver staff in hand but not leaning upon it at all.  The only glimmer of color on his body was the thin silver chain around his neck, from which was suspended a silver ring with a fiery red stone.

          "Friends."  Gandalf gestured, flinging his arms wide to welcome them all.  A slight smile flirted with his features, but it was a grim smile.  The old twinkle was absent from the wizard's eyes, replaced with a deeply ingrained worry.  "Please be seated.  You will find names placed before your seats."

          Many seemed ready to argue, but after a moment's hesitation, the guests all made their ways to their appointed locations.  The arrangements seemed to have been tailored to break up alliances and friendships, for none of the same race or nation sat beside each other.  Gandalf sank wordlessly into the chair at the head of the table, leaning his silver staff against the wall beforehand.  There was silence as all settled into their positions, until, Denethor, Steward of Gondor, sitting opposite of the wizard, cleared his throat.  "I thank you all for coming to our aid in the time of Gondor's greatest need.

          "As you all know, Sauron has regained the Ring of Power, had has captured all those of the so-called 'Fellowship of the Ring,' including my son and heir Boromir.  Therefore, as I see it, our first priority must be not only to recover the Ring, but to also save the prisoners."

          "Your pardon, Lord Denethor," Théoden interjected.  "I believe that this Council has been formed by Lord Gandalf.  Perhaps it is for him to say what our goals are."

          "With all respect, Théoden King," the Steward of Gondor replied frostily, "I say this.  "Regardless of who summoned you to this 'Council of Gandalf,' Gondor is its host, and my country has suffered much.  I believe I have every right to speak."

          Dáin II, King of the dwarves of Erebor interjected before anyone could quell the rising fire.  "Other nations besides Gondor have suffered," he snapped gruffly.  "You are not the only one who has lost kin!"

          His words stirred up powerful emotions fast.  Angry voices spat forth in agreement or argument, and the hastily-formed Council stood a firm chance of fading before it had even begun, until Gandalf's hand slapped down hard on the tabletop, startling the others.  "Enough!" he cried in a terrible voice, rising from his seat.  There seemed a power in him then that none had ever seen before – and an anger, accompanied by strong disappointment.  "Sit down, Dáin, of the House of Durin.  We have larger matters to discuss than the troubles of one or two nations!"

          Chastised by the power and urgency in the wizard's voice, the Dwarven King regained his seat.  However, he did spare a moment to shoot a hostile glance at Denethor out from under his busy brows.  The Steward of Gondor ignored him, but all present could feel the renewed tension in the air.  Then Gandalf sat down once more, the power and anger fading from him as if they never existed.  "I see we will have to start this in a way I did not intend," he sighed.  "So I help you to understand one another, as you must, if we are to find victory.

          "To my left is Faramir, son of Denethor and brother to Boromir."  The young man nodded to the assembly, studying them all in turn.  The handsomeness of his face could not hide the newly formed lines etching into it, though he did not know they existed.  All he knew was that arguing would accomplish nothing, though his heart told him there would be much more of that to follow.

          "Following him is Lord Círdan of the Gray Havens, who fought long ago in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men.  He is one of the Eldar Lords of old, who lived in the days of the forging of the Rings of Power.  He felt, from afar, the taking of the One Ring, and comes from the Western shores of Middle-Earth to bring forth tidings."  The silver-haired elf nodded as well, his eyes saddened and a seemingly great weight resting upon his slim shoulders.  He hardly looked to be as ancient as Middle-Earth, but he was one of the first, Faramir knew, the Shipwright of the Gray Havens.

          "Next to him is Théoden, King of Rohan, whose army has joined us here in Gondor for the final war against Sauron."  The old king met Denethor's eyes briefly, communicating a subliminal message before returning the gaze of the rest of the council.  His bearing was a surprise to some; he no longer seemed frail, nor so old as much as he seemed distinguished and noble, with fire raging in his eyes.  There was much more to him now than there had been in a long time.

          "Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien follows," Gandalf continued.  "His land is often known to men and dwarves as the Golden Wood.  He comes with a force of his people, bringing all who remain following Sauron's attack on their home.  He is the husband of the Lady Galadriel, whom the Dark Lord holds in Balad-dûr."  Celeborn remained still and silent, but to some there seemed agony in his eyes.

          "Halabard Dúnedain is a Ranger of the North," the wizard said of the next man.  "He comes here in the stead of his captain, Aragorn son of Arathorn, who set out with the Fellowship as a sworn guardian of the Ring and its bearer."  Neither Faramir or Denethor reacted to the name, though Halabard's dark eyes watched them both closely as Gandalf spoke.

          "All know Denethor, Steward of Gondor, who sits across from me and has graciously allowed this council to be held on the front lines of Mordor, within the walls of Minas Tirith."  The Steward nodded once, outwardly gracious but clearly impatient.

          "To his left is the Lady Arwen Evenstar of Rivendell, here as a representative of her people.  Her father, Lord Elrond, was also taken in an attack by Sauron.  She, too, brings forth a host of Elven Warriors to combat the Dark Lord."  The beautiful elf nodded gracefully to them all, her eyes bright but haunted.  Her gaze flickered once to the wizard, and something unknown seemed to pass between them.

          "Dáin II is the King of the dwarves of Erebor, and cousin to Gimli, one of the Fellowship taken by Sauron.  He also brings a force of elite Dwarven warriors ready to stand beside us."  Eyes on the wizard, now, the dwarf-king nodded as well.

          "Thranduil is the King of the Elves of Mirkwood, and is also the father of Legolas.  His army is the largest Elven host assembled in this Age, as his lands have not yet been attacked.  He has taken great risk in coming here and leaving his people behind."  The Elven king remained distant as well, exchanging one glance with Halabard, of all people, before returning his gaze to Gandalf.

          "Éomer is the nephew and heir of Théoden King," the wizard continued.  "He is also the friend of Boromir and a valiant warrior."  The fair-haired Rohirrim gave a half-smile to them all, his lips twitching ever so slightly at Gandalf's compliment, and his eyes grateful to the wizard for deeds past.

          "Last, and to my right is Saradoc Brandybuck, a Hobbit from the Shire.  He is the father of Merry Brandybuck, and the cousin of Frodo Baggins, the Ring-bearer.  In an unprecedented action, he has brought a force of Hobbits – or Half-lings, as some would call them – forth to war, who will reach Gondor within two weeks.

          "As for I, I am Gandalf the White, whom some of you have known as Gandalf the Gray.  I was amongst the Fellowship of Nine, but was separated from my companions in the Mines of Moria.  There I faced and destroyed a Balrog who sought the One Ring.  As previously stated, my companions, unfortunately, made their way here, and attempted to use the Ring.

          "They failed."

          Silence hung heavy for several long minutes, as the council members digested Gandalf's fateful words on their own.  Such a simple phrase – they failed – brought with it such a taste of doom that it was hard to swallow.  The elves at the table were the quietest, for with the exception of Arwen, all had been alive the last time that Sauron had held extreme power, and each feared to see it again.  Their people were not as strong as they once were, and men were fragmented, without leadership.  What would defeat him this time, without the likes of Gil-galad, Elrond, Galadriel, Elendil, and Isildur?  The worry was plain on their immortal faces, and ran much deeper there than it did for mortal men – save Halabard, who understood far too much.

          Finally, Denethor spoke again.  "It is good to know these things, but the question remains: what are we to do?"

          They were all too drained for anger; besides, none had ideas.  A long moment passed in silence, and what might have been annoyance flickered over the wizard's features.  "That is the question," Gandalf agreed.  "But some facts remain to be found, so I first ask Círdan to speak."

          "I have little to say, Mithrandir," the elf said slowly, "save that you have all my support.  Even at the Gray Havens, we have felt the change in Sauron's power – I especially, when he took the One Ring.  The Havens are safe for now; they will be the last to fall if the defenses Middle-Earth fail, so I will remain here and lend what knowledge and experience I can to this mission.  The only thing that I must say for all here to understand is this: Sauron must be stopped."

          The Eldar bowed his head briefly, glancing at his folded hands.  When he looked up, his voice was haunted.  "You have not seen a world overpowered by his shadow," he whispered.  "I have, and I fear few here understand his real power.  He must be stopped, and the Ring must be destroyed."

          Black foreboding stole its way through Faramir's vision.  "If he is so powerful, what is the use in fighting him?" he wondered aloud.  "I ask not because I am afraid, but because I wish to find hope for our people.  Gondor has been fighting many long years, alone – but if what you say is true, My Lord, we stand no chance against him now, even with all the strength of Middle-Earth's free peoples aiding us."

          "There is no certainty in war," Arwen responded, bringing all eyes to her fair face.  "But he was defeated once.  It can happen again.  It must happen again."

          "Who, then, will have the courage to cut the Ring from him this time?" Denethor asked.  He continued relentlessly, then, but without sorrow.  "Isildur is long dead, as are all those of his blood."

          "Nay, Lord – what you say is wrong," Halabard suddenly interjected.  "The Heir of Isildur lives, yet.  But perhaps not for long."

          "What say you, Ranger?"

          "Have you not listened, Steward of Gondor?" Halabard asked calmly.  "Lord Gandalf spoke of 'Aragorn son of Arathorn, who set out with the Fellowship as a sworn guardian of the Ring and its bearer.'  The Heir of Isildur set out with Narsil reforged, but is now a prisoner of Sauron."

          Denethor's features flashed between anger and relief, but all those who saw chose not to comment, knowing the old feud – and Arwen and Gandalf remembered the words of Boromir, what seemed an age ago: Gondor needs no king.  Many had to wonder if the same words were running through the Steward's mind, but all knew that it was not the time to ask.  Too much was at stake to resort to the petty squabblings of one nation or another.  Faramir, though, had to marvel at the words – a heir to Isildur, alive?  Gondor had many wounds in need of healing, and not all of them his father could, or would, fix.  What might a King's leadership mean to the fragmented remains of Man's once great empire?  For his part, the Steward responded honestly, seeming to set his ambitions aside.  "That bodes ill for us all."

          "Worse than you know," Arwen whispered, but even as Denethor and the others looked at her, she would say no more on the subject.  However, she swallowed quickly and continued.  "The Elves of Rivendell understand that it may not be possible to rescue those who are in Sauron's hands…but we would ask that it is tried – both for my father and for Aragorn.  But we do not ask for miracles."

          "I think, Lady, that it may take a miracle to win this war," Thranduil said softly.  "I also recognize that we may not be able to rescue my son or the others, but we have to try."

          "And try we will, Lord Thranduil," Gandalf said softly.  "But let us move forward.  I believe that you the facts well enough.  We know of the army that the Dark Lord gathers to him.  We know that Saurman has betrayed us.  We need not dwell on that.  What you may not realize is this:

          "Sauron possesses the One Ring.  He controls the Nine Rings through the Nazgûl.  He holds the three that remain of the Seven Dwarven Rings.  And now he two of the Three Elven Rings."

          Heads around the table snapped to Gandalf in shock.  "How is that?" Halabard demanded.  "The Three were hidden from him, were they not?"

          Gandalf and Círdan exchanged glances.  "They were," the Elf-lord replied softly.  "From the beginning, those who wore them knew Sauron's power, and when he forged the One Ring, they knew his purpose and removed their own Rings before he could discover their identities.  But it was not so this time, and in donning the Ring, Sauron was able to see the minds of the Ring-bearers.

          "Thus, he attacked both Galadriel and Elrond, taking them captive and their rings for his own."

          Silence ensued again as each council member fought the turmoil of their own thoughts.  After giving them several moments to collect themselves, Gandalf spoke once more, his voice heavy.  "So now you know why we must act quickly," he said.  "As soon as the army assembles, we must move to defeat him.  We must invade Mordor."

          Some nodded, others merely shivered in fear, but Denethor demanded, "Why must we act quickly?  Nothing you have said tells me that we cannot afford to wait.  Perhaps that is what we ought to do – to pause and gather our strength, not heedlessly rush into death!"

          "Sauron is weaker now," the wizard explained patiently, if tiredly.  "Wrenching the rings from both Elrond and Galadriel will have taken much of his strength.  You forget that he did not forge the Elven Rings.  They were made long ago, and never polluted by his hand until now.  They, like the One, still call to their rightful owners.  In time, that will change, and Sauron will gain control of them for eternity.  That is why we must act now.  Controlling the those rings by force takes away from his power."

          "And what of rings?  They have done us only evil before," Denethor pointed out.  "We clearly can not claim the One, so what is the use of dwelling on who has them and who does not?  I say that we ignore the rings, and we simply war with him by force of arms.  Is that not how they won the first time?"

          "We cannot defeat him by armies alone, Denethor."

          "And how would we know, unless we try?" Denethor demanded.  "It seems to me our only chance.  Let us wait and build our strength before acting.  Let our greatest military leaders plan a campaign and bring war to Sauron.  Surely that is our best chance."

          "It will not work," Gandalf whispered.

          "For what reason?  Simply because a broken-down old wizard says it will not?" The Steward snarled coldly.  "There are other sources of wisdom, Gandalf, and they tell me that we can and will win this way."

          "You see, Denethor, what he wishes you to see," the wizard said softly, making Faramir frown.  But the old man's next words sent a jolt of shocked fear through the young man's body.  "The palantir are but another of Sauron's many toys."

          "So you say – but you could not stop him from gaining the Ring."  Denethor retorted.  Then he turned to the rest of the council, who had merely watched in silence before.  Dáin's eyes were light with curiosity, though, as were Saradoc's.  The other humans at the table were swaying, as well, toward the Steward's arguments; only the elves remained untouched.  "Why do we blindly follow his advice?  He has no greater insight than any of us."

          Dáin nodded energetically.  "Given time, I am sure that other Dwarven houses would rally to our cause."

          "We could even enlist the men in the South," Faramir added.

          "You poor fools," Celeborn said suddenly, making many angry eyes turn to him.  Unaffected, he sighed.  "It can not be done that way.  You can not give Sauron time!"

          "Fools, you call us?" Denethor spoke for the insulted members of the council, and Faramir found himself sighing quietly.  While he could see the merits on his father's side of the argument, he could also quickly see the lines forming in their supposed alliance: humans, dwarves, and hobbits together against the elves – and Gandalf, who was either jumping to their tune, or different from what Faramir had always thought him to be.  His father continued angrily, "We may not be of the Eldar race, but that is not to say that we can not see clearer than you!  If we are to risk our lives – we, who cannot simply run away to the West – we will do so only in a conflict that we have a chance of winning!  I, for one, will not simply throw away ages of work in one reckless attack."

          But Celeborn only sighed and turned to Gandalf.  "I told you that this would happen," he said mournfully.

          Círdan spoke before the wizard would reply.  "Lord Denethor, you misinterpret what was said.  We call you not fools because you wish for care, but because you will not listen.  Did you not hear: in time, Sauron will fully control the Two, and then he will find the Third, and all will be lost."

          "Even if we must act quickly," Dáin put in, "I agree with the Steward of Gondor.  Let military leaders run the campaign, not some wizard."

          Thranduil disagreed.  "You will soon need all the insight that you can get."

          "There are insights other than that of an old man who simply knows magic," Denethor said scornfully.

          Surprisingly, Gandalf chuckled.  He cocked his head.  "Is that what you think I am?"

          "Regardless of what you are or claim to be, there are other ways," Denethor responded.

          "Nay, Lord Denethor," Círdan put in, his voice deep and resonant.  "Why should you listen to him, you say?  I respond that you should because you have no other choice.  For if there is any who can stand face to face with the Dark Lord, it is Gandalf the White.  At the beginning of this Age, the five Istari came from over the sea as emissaries of the Valar, sent to fight Sauron, should he rise again.  Of the five, one has fallen, another is disinterested, and two have been lost.  Yet by our side we have the last, and fail us he will not."

          The eyes of mortals swiveled to Gandalf; the elves remained impassive – having long lives and long tradition, they had not forgotten of those who came from the West.  To men, hobbits, and dwarves, though, such things were not known.  Each of them had always assumed that Gandalf was mortal, despite the rumors that had always circulated about him, and despite the fact that he had been 'around' as long as any of their people could remember, never changing and never aging.  Of course, he seemed ancient already, so even if he had looked older, it would have been extremely hard to tell.  In fact, the only change any of them had ever seen from him had come very recently…when he became Gandalf the White, and no longer Gray.

          "That is true," the wizard confirmed calmly.  "As is the fact that Sauron's origins are close to my own.  I know him not, nor does he know me, but I am capable of opposing him, should that be our last chance."

          "How is that?" Faramir asked quietly, careful to sound respectful.  He had known the wizard since he was young, and had always wondered what was different about him.  Now he knew, and yet there was still much to fear.  There were so many unknowns… "With all due respect, Lord Gandalf, Saurman fell to his power, did he not?"

          "Yes," Gandalf replied slowly.  "But Saurman's fall was long in the making.  Looking back upon things, I realize that he desired the One Ring for many years.  He was simply waiting to it to appear."  He scanned their faces with his deep eyes, and seemed to realize the need to reassure them.  "I, on the other hand, have never possessed a desire for the Ring.  I have never wanted such a great power.  Saurman was intended to do what I now must, but he fell to temptation.  Therefore, I am now what he should have been.  Upon returning to this world, I was Gandalf the White – White to oppose Black."

          The mortals of the council were quiet, seeing, for the first time a quiet strength and power inside him.  A sadness hung in his eyes, but it did not control him. There was something about his bearing that made them set aside all other concerns and think, made them consider the words that had been said.  Too much, indeed, was at stake to make this a power game.  Again, it was Círdan who broke the silence, creases of worry marking his face that Faramir sensed were not from the same concerns as the others'.  He said, "We can not ask you to face him, but we do ask for your leadership."

          It seemed that Denethor was the only one unaffected by the wizard and elf's words.  His eyes narrowed, and Faramir felt a stab of fear then, realizing that this was not the father he had known for so many years.  The change, before now, had been gradual; the lust for power had been hidden beneath the need to defend his nation.  Sorrow filled the young man, then, as his father spoke.  "Your advice I will accept, but in a battle for the lives of all inhabitants of Middle-Earth, I see not why you should lead," the Steward of Gondor said evenly – but there was suspicious fire gleaming in his eyes.  "This war is for our future.  Let us win it."

          "You do not trust me, Denethor," the wizard said suddenly.  "And you never have.  Why?"

          The older man's eyes narrowed.  "I have been warned about you."

          "Have you now?" Gandalf snorted a laugh.  "By whom – or what?  The palantir?"

          "Such things are not your business, wizard."  More contempt could not have forced its way into Denethor's voice, and Faramir shivered.  Who was this paranoid creature masquerading as his father?  Was the lure of the Ring that strong?  He had only seen it for a moment, in Boromir's ill-fated hands, but Faramir had, even then, heard its call.  Had his father, who had looked deeper into the subject, been seduced by it and all it offered?

          "Such things are my profession, Steward of Gondor," the other replied evenly.  "And I know them well – and the risks of utilizing them."

          Denethor turned to look at Círdan.  "I will not commit my forces to any army under his command," he said.

           "Father?" Faramir hissed in surprise.  It was one thing to argue for the sake of power, but when the fate of their world was at stake, did it matter who led them?  Gondor would still be Gondor in the end, and Denethor still her Steward – but only if they survived!  Only if they survived…

          "Will you risk everything, then, simply for the sake of your pride?" Arwen asked suddenly, her voice remorseful and her eyes dark.  A great sorrow seemed to pierce the elf's heart, and she wore it upon her face for all to see.  Something was eating at her, Faramir noticed; deep down in her heart there was a pain that could not be erased – a pain that his father's arrogance only worsened.

          "I risk nothing."  Denethor's chin came up proudly, and Faramir fought the urge to groan and bow his head.  The Ring…it had to be the Ring.  Nothing else could have made his father act like this, made him touch powers that he could not control.  Was he lost forever?  Only time would tell.

          Dáin's voice rose in time with his huge eyebrows. He began, "Lord Denethor–"

          "I see no proof that Gandalf will fare better than Saurman," the Steward cut him off, voice sharpening.  "I see no reason why Gandalf the White should desire the Ring no less than Saurman, the White."

          His words rang false, yet they still sent a wave of fear though the council.

          "But I do desire the Ring," the wizard said softly.  "I desire it greatly."  His eyes sharpened, and bored straight into Denethor, seeming to see right through his body and into his heart.  But they snapped away quickly enough, his intense gaze taking in the entire council.  "But I know what it would do to me!  Through me, the Ring would gain far too great a power, for I am not what you are."

          "Should that reassure us?" Dáin clearly had to ask, but his normally loud voice was scarcely above a whisper.

          "No.  But this should:"  Gandalf's right hand rose to lightly touch the ring hanging from his neck.  Using only the tips of his fingers, he drew it away from his chest for the others to see.

          "I would gain nothing by turning to Sauron, for I am who he searches for.  I bear the Third Elven Ring, Narya the Great, the Fire Ring.  Its powers, as well as my own, allow me see the Vilya of Elrond and Nenya of Galadriel.  I am bound to this Ring as they are to their own, and Narya is bound to the others as they are bound to it.  Through the Third Ring I gain a sense of Sauron; through my own powers, I hide myself from him."