Author's note: I tried to upload Chapter 5 last night, but it didn't seem to like me much. So I got a jump start on Chapter 6, and surprisingly enough, finished it this afternoon. Please let me know what you think… I realize it's been a bit slow, but it all builds up to something. Really. I promise… Anyway, it's been fun, but now I must move on to Chapter 7. And of course please review and tell me what you think!!! (Things like that are what keep people like me writing).
Where the Shadows Lie
A Tale Of The Ring
"It would destroy you. Did not Gandalf tell you that the rings give power according to the measure of each possessor?"
Chapter Six: Premonitions
Her voice sang softly within his mind, feeding the agony and attempting to give him an inner peace at the same time. She whispered to him from afar, holding their bond steady – yet he could feel the darkness and the corruption sinking in. She was strong, but even the most ageless of powers had their limits. Even she could not last forever. And through her, he could feel laughter, sinister laughter that told him that he knew. But of course Sauron knew. He was powerful enough to sense the messages following between the ring and her owner.
Her. Well, Elrond had always thought of Vilya as female, at least in the private corners of his own mind. When Gil-galad had bequeathed the ring to the Half-Elven, there had been no explanation attached – there had been no time, then. And never, after that moment, had he spoken of bearing the Ring, not even to Galadriel, Gandalf – or long ago, Círdan. To speak of it was forbidden; the secrecy and silence was part of the unspoken bond with the rings. The High Elven Rings were masters of disguise, and were only noticed when they wished themselves to be…Or by the eyes of a fellow ring-bearer. To Gandalf or Galadriel he had never needed to say a word. They understood.
But he had to wonder if they heard the voices of Nenya or Narya. Was it the same for them, or did each Bearer react differently to their own ring? Frodo had certainly heard the voice of the One, but the One was different. That one was a far more sinister Ring, one who only bonded with its bearer to accomplish its greater goal – the return to Sauron. So maybe his relationship with Vilya, his companion since the Last Alliance, was different.
Such curiosities hardly mattered, though. The end result was the same: mental torment for every second that his Ring was worn on the Dark Lord's hand.
His mind swam, suddenly, and forced him back to the present. His ability to distance himself from the world always worked for a little while; for a certain amount of time, Elrond could focus his mind on Vilya and remove himself from the pain of reality. But that time grew shorter and shorter as time grew on. Something contacted with his ribs, making him grunt.
Pain was a feeling that the immortal were not well accustomed to, though Elrond was more used to it than most. Still, if he had not been so inordinately stubborn – as his wife had called him, long ago – he would have probably cracked under the pressure. In actuality, had he not been so determined to hold on, he would probably have gone insane the moment that Sauron placed Vilya on his finger and attempted to sever the Elf's bond with it forever. So far, the Dark Lord had been unsuccessful, but Elrond knew it was only a matter of time before the One Ring controlled the Two…and with them, the Third.
Agony tearing though his body – it seemed never ending; one Orc simply replaced the last when that one grew tired of beating him – he forced his focus back to Vilya, despite the longing and pain that caused. He couldn't let go. He had to hold to her. He had to keep the bond strong for as long as he could…and buy Middle Earth time.
And on the other side of the cell, he knew that Galadriel was doing the same.
Alone, in the darkness, he stood. Deep in the shadow of Minas Tirith, he gazed at the armies gathering beyond her gates, and sighed. The world was changing; he could feel it in the air. Great things were coming, be they for good or for evil. After this time, nothing would ever be the same – especially if he failed.
Fire glinted upon his breast, yet it was not a reflection of any star or moonlight. Neither of those found a home in Sauron's dark and corrupted sky. There was not a place for light in this world; there would be no dawn come morning. The sun had fallen beneath shadow, and the Second Darkness had begun. Still, though, the fire glowed, heedless of disaster looming on the horizon. There was hope, there, he knew, hope to rekindle the hearts of those who dug deep inside their hearts and opposed the Dark Lord, no matter what the cost to themselves. Many in the army that he saw would not live to see the future, whatever it became. But that was still preferable to abandoning all hope and encountering the Second Darkness.
Such a small and insignificant thing, he thought, looking down at the ring. To hold such power. But his mind was on another Ring. His mind was far away, far from the towers of Gondor. And yet, which of us, if any, has the strength to wrench the One from his finger and destroy it?
A shiver ran down his spine. Can any of us do it without succumbing to temptation ourselves? He could feel the evil in the air. Sauron had learned from his mistakes. There would be no victory unless the Ring could be taken from him, and no lucky chance would accomplish that. Had there been a plan to take the Ring from him in the Last Alliance? He knew not; the Maiar and the Valar had not been involved in that conflict – save for Sauron himself, the traitor, the dark one. Had they simply left it up to luck, or had their leaders, unknowing what Sauron was in truth, trusted the strengths of Gil-galad and the Eldar to defeat him? There was no way to know the answers to those questions; even Círdan could not provide them.
But he did know that no power of Middle-Earth could defeat Sauron, except the Ring itself.
Merry could not stop the tears from streaking down his face, and he did not care. He tried to meet Frodo's eyes, but the older hobbit turned away, deep in regret and self-recrimination. Sniffling, he fought the urge to whisper his friend's name – but he knew that would only cause trouble and pain. Always there were orcs, goblins, or other creatures in the cell with them, and they constantly watched for conversation between the prisoners. Incredibly intelligent the monsters were not, but they delighted in torture. Whether they had orders to or not, the guards concentrated on Strider, Elrond, and Galadriel. The others of the Fellowship they mostly left alone, and they ignored Saurman, the evil wizard whom Gandalf had spoken of so long ago, who lay unconscious and had been since he had been put inside with them. Merry did not know what had happened to him, but he felt little pity for the wizard.
But the sight of Saurman did make him afraid of what lay in store for him. Bored guards had beaten him along with the others, but that had been nothing compared to what Elrond, Galadriel, and Strider went through. Was that what lay ahead for the other members of the Fellowship? In despair, he glanced around himself. None of the others seemed willing to meet his eyes, either, except for Aragorn, who seemed not to focus on the hobbit at all, for his eyes were unfocused with pain, even when he blinked and seemed to look in Merry's direction. But all the others (not counting Saurman, of course) seemed conscious.
Except for Sam.
Stifling the effort to scream out, Why Sam? The reasons seemed so senseless… What rage had taken Samwise and made leap at the Dark Lord, breaking free of two orcs' hold on his shoulders? What had made him want to do that? They had already been captured, albeit after a long and hard battle – a battle that even Merry realized now they could never have won. Sauron was too powerful…So then what had made Sam try to attack him? Why Sam?
And that broke Frodo's heart, he knew. Poor Frodo. If Sauron had only taken the Ring from him, he might have survived this, but I don't think he can now.
Aragorn was right. None of them should have ever tried to wield the Ring. Even old Gandalf would have been defeated by Sauron, and the result would have been the same. But that thought did not help Merry's despair at all. We stared with nine, and now we are seven. Who will be next?
Who would be next?
Her silhouette was barely visible in the feeble torchlight. Faramir had almost missed her, but something had made him look a second time and notice her slim form standing deep in the gardens of Minas Tirith. Her carriage made the elf-maiden seem young and lost, in sharp contrast to her bearing at the Council nine days previously, and curiosity gaining the better of him, Faramir approached. "My Lady?"
Arwen Evenstar turned toward him, her sharply beautiful features captured perfectly in profile. "Lord Faramir," she responded gracefully.
"I could not help but notice that you look lost, Lady," the Steward's son said quietly, having been wandering aimlessly around the city for the past two hours, unable to sleep at all. He understood how she felt.
"Lost?" Arwen responded pensively. "No, not lost. I am merely…thinking, Lord Faramir." A sad smile crossed her face for a moment, and then she sighed.
"You seem sad," he pointed out gently.
"Perhaps," the elf replied. "But I prefer to say that I am remembering."
Somehow, Faramir did not feel it was his place to ask, but his mouth moved before his mind. "Remembering?"
"Yes."
The sadness in her voice touched him deeply. "Some things are best left in the past, Lady Arwen," he said softly, wishing he could help her but unsure if that was possible.
"And what
of those you love who you can not reach to help?" she asked suddenly. "Do we leave them behind as well?"
Boromir… His heart wept
for his older brother, and he knew he did not have an answer to her
question. "You think of your father?"
"Yes," she nodded. "And of Aragorn."
"You know him?" Faramir asked in shock. Despite himself, curiosity rose.
Pain filled her voice, and Arwen looked away. "I know him."
Suddenly, Faramir understood. What a strange twist of fate this is. The beautiful elf did not simply know the man who would have been king of Gondor. Her voice made it plain that their relationship ran far deeper than even friendship. He hardly needed to ask. "You love him."
Her eyes found him again. "You are perceptive, Faramir," Arwen said softly. "And yes, I do."
The moment seized him. "If you do not mind my asking, My Lady," Faramir said gently, "Would you tell me about him?"
"What for?"
His response came immediate and truthfully. "When we find him, he will be King."
"You will support him?" Arwen seemed slightly surprised, but Faramir would have thought nothing could surprise the beautiful princess. Then again, she had clearly known his father, and Faramir would be the first to attest to how little he resembled Denethor in all but looks, strength, and will.
"It is my duty to do so," he replied evenly, knowing that it was so – even if the man turned out to be worse than Sauron himself. Faramir had no desire for power; he only saw the stewardship as a duty to his people, who were his first concern. If the return of the king would serve them, then he would support Aragorn, son of Arathorn, with all his heart.
She smiled. "You are not at all what I expected, Faramir of Gondor," Arwen said. "And yes, I will tell you of Aragorn. I will tell you of your king."
Again, his focus shattered as Elrond found himself dropped painfully to the floor. It took him a moment to reorient himself, for the elf had not even realized that he had been taken out of the cell, but when he did, he realized that he lay bound before Sauron's throne. Two orcs grabbed his shoulders – one of which Elrond was sure had to be broken; the agony from that nearly made him cry out – and hauled him to his knees. To fight them would have been pointless even if they'd not gripped him so hard, so he raised his head with an effort and looked Sauron in the eye.
The language of Mordor had always been a poison on his ears, yet now the sweet tone that Sauron now took seemed far worse than any anger. "Elrond the Half-Elven…"
"What do you want?" the Elf-lord asked bitterly, struggling for calm inside, but he felt fear. Once already had Sauron dug deeply into his heart, had raped his mind… It was an experience whose pain he knew would always be with him and he did not care to repeat. The mental invasion was worse than any physical torture that the Dark Lord could have done to him – but what Elrond feared the most was that he would not be able to withstand it a second time.
But he didn't fear it destroying him.
He only feared betraying Gandalf.
"The question, Elrond, is what you want," Sauron said softly, and despite himself, the elf felt the tug of the Dark Lord's words. If he hadn't known better, he might have been fooled. But Elrond knew his history, and had lived through the downfall of Númenor. He had seen kings seduced by Sauron before. He would not be added to that number.
"I want nothing from you." The arrogant words made him cough, and he felt something stir painfully in his chest. Blood trickled down his bruised cheek, and not from a split lip. Inwardly, another small jolt of fear touched his mind… Internal bleeding would surely lead to death unless he could be magically healed – or taken into the West, which was obviously not an option. If there was one thing that elves feared, it was to die long and painfully. Their immortality shielded them from all but this…
"Don't you?" the silk-smooth voice continued. "I have much to offer you, Elrond, Lord of Rivendell."
It was hard to summon the strength to say, "You have nothing I want."
"Ah, but I do." Sauron smiled at him, and a small corner of Elrond's abused mind wondered why the Dark Lord wore a mask in battle when his actual features were so frightening to look upon. "I have the power to return much to you…Such as your sons' lives. I can give them to you."
Longing pierced his heart. No father wished to outlive his sons, especially an elf…and the pain from watching his two sons die was something he would never forget, even if by some miracle he ever escaped Balad-dûr. What he wouldn't give to have them back… Gladly would he have sacrificed his life for theirs'.
"And your wife," Sauron continued. "If only you will serve me."
For the briefest and weakest of moments, Elrond considered the offer. It would be worth it, if Sauron would restore them to life, leave them to be free… His wife had departed for the West countless years ago, and he had pined for her every day, so great had been their love, remaining forever faithful and always wishing to follow her – but worldly concerns and promises had kept him in the lands of Middle-Earth. His mind cleared suddenly. But what kind of world would I leave them in? he wondered. Surrounded by Shadow, would they ever be happy? He cleared his throat, and spoke clearly. "No."
"No?" the Dark Lord repeated questioningly. "Such a small sacrifice, isn't it? Serve me and I will guarantee your daughter Arwen's safety in the coming war."
"No." The word came hard, but he could not. Elrond knew what it would mean, and he had no desire to become one of the Nazgûl.
But he had not anticipated the last hook. "I will return Vilya to you."
Elrond's breath caught in his throat. Vilya…he could still hear her voice, her pain, and her plea to be freed from Sauron. The beauty and innocence of his ring was being corrupted and overcome by the One, and she called to him to end it. Take me…she seemed to whisper. Take what is yours.
"Serve me, and I will grant all you wish, including Vilya," the monster said seductively, knowing the intense desire in the half-elf's eyes. It was so tempting that Elrond could almost feel the touch of the ring on his finger, its lightness, its power… Vilya reached out to him, her song beautiful and sweet. He felt his heart break.
"I will not." An inner reserve of strength allowed him to meet the Dark Lord's eyes. "Take your offers elsewhere, Sauron."
Anger and pain lashed out to him with such suddenness that Elrond had never seen it coming. He flew backwards, striking the distant wall of the throne room and almost blacking out from the pain. His world cleared only in time to notice Sauron standing over him. The Dark Lord hissed, "I will not give you a second chance."
Swallowing blood, Elrond forced the words through his bleeding lips. "I do not want one."
Again he stood alone, feeling pressure that no other being could feel. Pain, he felt, though it was not his own, and despair threatened to engulf him. He would resist it, of course, for he had to do so…but he knew not what came next. One step he had taken, followed by another, and now the Alliance was almost complete. In a few short days, the hobbits would arrive – and then what? He knew not the answer to that. An army he had formed, and war they would fight, but Celeborn had spoken rightly. They could not defeat Sauron by force of arms alone. They had to take the Ring from him, and even that would not destroy him.
Only the destruction of the Ring would annihilate the Dark Lord forever, and the chance for that had been wasted. Taking the Ring from Sauron would diminish his power, but it would not stop him. The moment it left his grip, every resource the Dark Lord had would be bent toward regaining the One before his enemy could destroy it, and he was far stronger now than he had been when facing the Fellowship. There were many more weapons at his fingertips…and he did not think that Sauron could be stopped from regaining the Ring a third time. Not unless something more powerful than he intervened.
And there was no power of Middle-Earth that could face him alone and hold the Ring without claiming it.
