Author's note: Well, here's the next part… it would have been up last night, but my school's network went down (but since it's been unusually reliable this year, I can't complain overmuch). But that being said, look for Chapter 8 really soon (almost done, just need to do second draft and pop it onto the computer). I probably shouldn't write so much in class, but hey, the professors don't care… Well, off with the gripes and off-hand comments, here's what you've all (I hope) been waiting for. Promise more will be up soon. And of course, I beg you as always – please review!
Where the Shadows Lie
A Tale Of The Ring
"Dangerous! And so am I, very dangerous: more dangerous than anything you will ever meet, unless you are brought alive before the seat of the Dark Lord."
Chapter Seven: Forward
Rank after rank of elves, men, dwarves, and hobbits struck forth from Minas Tirith in the greatest offensive Middle-Earth had seen in the span of an Age. The great eagles soared above them, scouting ahead for any obstacles or dangers and reporting back anything they found amiss. People lined the roads as they passed, some cheering, but still more silent and with fearful hopes in their eyes. All knew this was their last chance for freedom on Middle-Earth, yet they still looked upon the great army with awe. At the head of the van, though, were those who drew the most attention from friend and foe alike.
United for the last time, the former members of the Council of Gandalf, the kin of the Fellowship, rode ahead of their armies. Their faces were noble and grave; each knew the risks they took but knew they had no choice but to take them. Fate hung in the balance, treading on a path the width of only a thread. Still, though, those of the great army set forth with hope in their hearts; it was hard to do otherwise when led by the bearer of Narya the Great, rekindler of dreams and faith. For Gandalf did lead them, strong, glimmering, and garbed in white. In the past two weeks, always energetic and wise, he had become their banner, and their ray of hope.
For many, it became hard to think of losing with him at the front.
But not for Gandalf. He knew there was something dark before them. He knew there was something left to go terribly wrong. In his heart, he felt that not all was what it seemed, and not all was right. Oh, how he hoped to be wrong…but he knew he was not. Sauron had an unseen trick left in reserve.
"I will not serve you," she whispered through the pain, scrunching her eyes shut tighter against the oppressive darkness around her. Always, in the past, no matter how dire her situation, she had been able to concentrate on an inner light and hold steady to her course – but not now. Now, all Galadriel felt was darkness. Hands touched her face and there was pain again, but this time it was of a different kind; invisible hands of power raked her exposed mind. She fought the urge to scream, but clung to the deepest and most secret parts of her mind as her own. Despite that, despair still threatened to overcome her, but she pushed it aside with difficulty and forced her eyes open. "Sauron…" she hissed through gritted teeth.
"You can rape my mind and you can scar my soul…but in the end, I will remain Galadriel."
There. She had renounced him once and for all, and no matter what the cost, she would remain herself. Silently, she made Elrond a promise, knowing that he could feel it, wherever he was. Millennia of kinship through the Rings guaranteed that. I will not break, she swore. I will hold strong.
Even though Sauron could not hear the unspoken vow, he seemed to know, and the pain began again.
He had offered her everything there was in the world – even offered to make her his queen. But the proud and beautiful Galadriel clung to the core of her being and did not let go. She, like Elrond, refused to succumb to pain or to despair, yet the Dark Lord, for all his powers, could not sense what it was they held to. Despite the power of the two, Sauron could not dig deeply enough into their minds to discover the secret he knew they hid. Thus his determination grew as the days passed, and their pain grew worse. Through it all, though, she had a constant companion: Elrond. She could feel him, distantly, and was sure the sensed the same. They clung to each other in heart and soul, and would not let the other falter. His determination was kin to her own, and he held on as well, refusing to betray their last hope.
Galadriel only wished that the deep foreboding in her soul did not hint that someone else would.
Steel rang hard off steel, sparks flying and glittering in the day-night. Torches lit the battlefield for the advantage of the free peoples of Middle-Earth; Sauron's creatures could see in the dark and needed them not, often trying to destroy them and put their enemy at the disadvantage. But the Alliance did not falter in the darkness, fighting on and on, despite the greater numbers of the other side. The men, dwarves, elves, hobbits, and eagles of the Alliance had an advantage over the army of Mordor. They were fighting for not only their lives, but for their freedom. And knew that failure would mean death, so they shoved aside their fears and fought on.
Until the Witch King, Lord of the Nazgûl, came onto the field.
Orcs, goblins, and other monsters shied out of his path, not wanting to be near their general any more than the enemy did. Dwarves and hobbits cowered, despite their previous courage, terrified of his black image. Elves, even pulled away, overtaken by the raw fear that they felt. And humans shrank back, unable to fight him with familiar fear clutching their hearts, for he once had been one of their own.
The Alliance's ranks broke, and combatants retreated as quickly as they could, fleeing the Black Rider as his winged steed landed on the center of the field. Few found the courage to stand their ground, but they were nearly trampled underneath the feet of their escaping comrades, so joined the flood of once-brave warriors. They knew the truth in their hearts: no one could stand against the Lord of the Nazgûl, Sauron's lieutenant and former king of men. So the Army of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth crumbled. Except for one.
Gandalf the White, shimmering brightly upon Shadowfax the Great in the darkness, stood his ground.
The Witch King cocked his head, staring at the old wizard in surprise; the Nazgûl's steed trembled in anticipation of the kill, communicating its rider's feelings to all those who looked upon it. The winged monster stomped its foot, eyes burning into Shadowfax's, but the great horse was as motionless as his rider. The wizard straightened in the saddle.
"Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Go back!" he cried. "Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master! Go!"
The Black Rider flung back his hood, and behold! he had a kingly crown; and yet upon no head visible was it set. The red fires shone between it and the mantled shoulders vast and dark. From a mouth unseen there came a deadly laughter.
"Old fool!" he said. "Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!" And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade.**
But Gandalf stood fast, moving only to draw Glamdring, elven blade of magic, which glowed white and pure in his hand. "Return to thy abyss, Witch King!" he cried again. "You are past your time. Leave this world to the living!"
"I will take you with me, wizard!" The very air seemed to change, and a pale blue light suddenly blaze in the darkness, gleaming forth from the Witch King's blade and arching toward Gandalf, who sat rock-still upon Shadowfax. The moment seemed to lengthen, then, as a deadly power raced toward the White Rider, threatening to end all hopes of the Last Alliance. Screams rose from thousands of throats as if one, and had not another power held them fast, many would have rushed forward to take the blow for their leader. But a power greater than the hearts of armies prevented that.
The Witch King's spell bored in on Gandalf, resonant and thrumming with power. Still, though, the wizard did not move. He remained frozen as the blue light of death closed the distance. Held less than fifty feet away, Faramir felt a worse terror than that of the Black Riders' King. Had Gandalf felt the same fear, and instead of fleeing, been rooted in place? Why, then, had he spoken so confidently? Did he not know the powers of Sauron's Lord of the Nazgûl – or did he?
Still closer the spell came.
Gandalf's bright eyes seemed to meet those of the Witch King, whose eager shifting suddenly stopped. The gleaming crown cocked to one side, as a live man's head would have turned in curiosity, and suddenly, the old man smiled.
The spell disappeared.
The Ringwraith roared a wordless scream of anger, his headless crown snapping back in shock. One word escaped his lips in a hiss. "Maiar…"
Glamdring snapped up from Gandalf's side as the Nazgûl launched his mount into an aerial attack, glowing even brighter in the darkness. The Witch King's blade burned red in reply and came crashing toward the wizard's head. But Shadowfax skittered sideways, brining Gandalf's blade around his opponent's without contact. The Maiar moved quicker than human eyes could follow, then, twisting the elven blade upwards as the black steed's side impacted with his horse's. Shadowfax reared –
And Glamdring stabbed through the Witch King's chest.
Power reached out and whipped through the air like a physical wind, lifting orcs, men, dwarves, goblins, elves and hobbits off the ground even as it flung the eagles higher in the sky. They all came down together in a resounding crash; Faramir found himself clinging helplessly to Éomer, only to be torn from him as they entered flight and were separated upon impact with the ground. Struggling upright, he saw Shadowfax and the Ringwraith's steed both go down, their riders tangled between and beneath them. But the great horse scrambled to his feet and away as the winged creature screamed only once more, then was silent.
Gandalf, the lone ray of light upon the field, shook himself free of the Nazgûl's dying body. The wizard glanced down and moved his lips, but his words were lost in the wind before they reached Faramir. But Gandalf shook his head, his right hand returning to Glamdring's hilt; the blade still protruded from the other's robed and invisible chest.
Suddenly the wind died, and the Black Rider's words drifted to Faramir's ears. The creature's hand snaked upwards even as Gandalf made to remove his blade, reaching for what hung upon the wizard's chest. It hissed softly, "Narya…"
Its fingers made to close around the ring, but Gandalf reacted fast, thrusting his enchanted blade back down with amazing force. The Witch King's next word died in a screech of frustrated desire and then he lay silent. Removing his blade, the wizard stepped back and watched Sauron's army break. The death of their leader was the last straw; all links forged between the forces of the enemy weakened and broke. Goblins and orcs fled as had men, dwarves and hobbits only minutes before, eyes glancing with frantic fear at the White Rider, at whose feet lay the Lord of the Nazgûl.
Pain.
He'd known it for some time now – hours, days, weeks or months that seemed like eternity. The days bled together and distinction between them had grown well nigh impossible as time crept, or swept (which, he knew not) by. How long he had been a prisoner, he did not know, but forever would have been less time. He swallowed hard, wishing for an end that he was too afraid to ask for. He did not want to leave the world, and yet he knew that it could not be long now. There was not enough left of his soul to resist, for the fear knawed at him constantly. I don't want to die like this, his heart reminded him. I don't want to die.
Legolas groaned and shifted slightly in his chains. Oh, but he did wish he was dead. That would be so much easier…even if it did mean endless blackness rather than the blissful light of the West. He could have sailed over the sea many years ago, but he had never felt the urge. The prince of Mirkwood had always felt he had something left to do for Middle-Earth – and now he had found it. Found it in failure. Oh, Frodo, WHY? His soul lamented for the Fellowship's mistakes.
But Frodo had not failed them, not really. The hobbit had been alone and afraid, terrified of being overpowered by the Ring, and what had he done to help him? Nothing. Nothing at all. No, the Fellowship had failed Frodo. Yes, they had protected him, but none of them had realized, in the beginning – even Legolas, hundreds of years old and supposedly wiser than the rest – that they could not protect themselves from the Ring. They could not protect Frodo from themselves. And so they had failed, and the Ring had gone to Gondor.
Unwittingly, his blurry eyes found Boromir. My friend…he thought. Greatly though I love you, and view you as a brother in arms, you should have listened to Aragorn. He saw the clearest of all of us, for he saw your intentions early on. Or rather, should I say that he better understood the Ring? All of us, save he, the Heir of Isildur – the one, supposedly, who would have been corrupted by it so easily! – did not understand. I thought I knew what the Ring was when I offered to carry it, but I had no idea. The Council of Elrond seemed so long ago now, left as it was back in the shadows of the past. Everything before the pain seemed a surreal dream to him.
Looking at Boromir did not make him feel any better. The Captain of Gondor seemed to have shriveled and shrunk in size; Legolas imagined that guilt was eating him up inside. Sauron, had, of course, found all their weaknesses and played upon them; he knew Boromir's guilt just as he knew the elf's fear of death by slow and never-ending torture. Legolas had been a warrior for more years than any of his companions had lived, and yet he had only rarely been injured. Twice, it had happened, to be exact.
And never had it been like this.
Pain made it hard to concentrate. Pain made it hard to breathe. Pain made it hard to keep believing… What hope did they have? Legolas did not know the answer, but something made Elrond and Galadriel hold on. He did not understand what, but both fought the Dark Lord with everything they had, and that had to be important. Both, Legolas knew, had been through far more than he would ever suffer. They were the Ring-bearers, holders of the ancient Elven Rings, and Sauron wanted, needed, their power. His hunger for their submission was great. Surely, it would have been easier for either of them to give in or to die. But they did not.
And while they fought, so would Legolas. He did not know their reasons, but he had his own, and he was as much of the Eldar as they. The same blood and strengths ran through his body; if they could hold out, so could he. And he would do it – not for an obscure concept like hope, of which he had none, but for his friends. For the Fellowship.
He'd never such known absolute trust and dependence before joining the Nine Walkers. He had not thought it existed in his world – and certainly not between men, hobbits, an elf and a dwarf! Despite themselves, they had bonded deeply, a link forged hard as mithrl and just as tough to break. Even now, weakened as they all were, they continued to draw upon their bond; Legolas would not be the first to let go. None of them had asked him to fight on, but none of them had to. Every day he prayed that none of his companions would give up, and he was sure they all did the same. Perhaps it was a futile battle, but they all fought it, these people of supposed lesser and weaker races. He'd be damned if he'd be the first to break.
Even though he was sure that he would break in the end.
Deeper they moved into Mordor, boldly striking forth onto land that no free creature had walked upon for years. The Alliance's spirits were high, though, despite the black sky in which one could not tell day from night. The Witch King – Sauron's chief lieutenant – was dead; that was the first step taken for victory. The first battle, too, had been won, and men, elves, hobbits, and dwarves alike started looking forward to a future that no longer looked so bleak.
So it was that they met their second battle, two weeks hence, in high spirits and with confidence. Both seemed justified in the beginning, for the forces of freedom, though outnumbered, easily overcame the armies of Mordor. Goblins and orcs fell easily beneath bloodied blades, and even the Ringwraiths remained in the sky, far above the encounter, only seeking out the eagles for battle in rare occasions. Though their presence inspired fear, all knew what the Black Riders avoided, for none wished to suffer the fate of their leader. So all watched, and waited, observing their newly declared enemy, the bearer of Narya, which their master desired greatly.
Oh…and Sauron's eye had touched upon that ring. He could not reach out through it, could not feel it, for its owner was wiser than that – but he knew where it was. Although he did not know who held it, the Dark Lord's focus was upon it. And he would wait until the right moment to seize it. Until then, the Ringwraiths would watch the mysterious White Rider and report all of value to their master.
Thus their presence, though alarming, could not sway the outcome of the battle, and free creatures fighting for their lives and freedom were far stronger than slaves of evil. Courageously led and unwilling to give up, the Alliance pushed the dark tide back, assuring their own victory.
But no battle plan goes perfectly.
In the enemy's last wave, Faramir, son of Gondor, fell mortally wounded by an orc's poisoned blade. He landed hard upon the rocky ground, barely aware of the screams and shouts around him. Vaguely he heard the call of Dáin beside him, but he never felt the hands that dragged him to safety before he blacked out.
** Excerpt from The Lord of the Rings. Page 811.
