Author's note:          Sorry about the delay before this chapter.  I got my new hard drive in (yippee!!) but it didn't work right (boo!!), so I had to spend time away from the story to fix the drive.  It's a little short, but bear with me – more is coming soon.  I do have a bunch of the next chapter (very important one, that) written, so it WILL be up soon.  As always, please review – this is my first LOTR fic and I'd love to know what you think of my playtime in the universe.  Is it worth it?  Should I quit?  Lemme know!  (and yes, I am begging for reviews – so please do it, k? Thanx).

Where the Shadows Lie

A Tale Of The Ring

"Sauron took the Nine Rings and other lesser works of the Mírdain; but the Seven and the Three he could not find. Then Celebrimbor was put to torment, and Sauron learned from him where the Seven were bestowed. This Celebrimbor revealed, because neither the Seven nor the Nine did he value as he valued the Three: the Seven and the Nine were made with Sauron's aid, whereas the Three were made by Celebrimbor alone, with a different power and purpose."

Chapter Eight: Strides

          "Will he live?" the voice drifted down to him, sliding around in the nothingness of his brain before taking hold.  It took him a long moment to realize it was his father's, filled with more concern than he had heard for a long while.

          "The blade was poisoned," the Lady Arwen replied.  "And has gone in deep.  All else, I can not tell you yet."

          "Why not?"  Faramir felt a cool hand touch his forehead and remain there, gentle and soft, yet it was not a touch he had ever felt before.  A strange tingling snuck up his spine, but the pain did not lessen, nor did the blackness retreat.

          "I have not enough skill as a healer to tell you more," she said softly.  "Lord Celeborn alone can answer that."

          "How much longer?" Denethor demanded.

          "I do not know."  Her voice was calm and quiet, yet Faramir thought he heard a slight annoyance…one he well understood.  Love his father though he did, the steward's son knew his temper, and his impatience.

          Suddenly, new pain rushed through him, and a different voice responded.  "Not much."

          "What?" Denethor snapped irritably as a moan slipped past Faramir's lips.  He could not see through the black pain, but he could hear – and he could feel.  Oh, he could feel…

          "Celeborn?" Arwen asked carefully, concern evident in her voice.  Why could his father not be forgiving for once in his life…?

          "He will not live much longer," the Elf-Lord said softly.  "I can only numb the pain and hold it back for awhile, but he will die."  But I don't want to die…  I don't want to die!  Despair hit Faramir hard.  Now he would not even live to see the end of the war, to see if his brother yet lived – or to see if indeed a king did return to Gondor.  There were so many possibilities for the future, but now he would miss them all.

          Denethor's voice took on surprising pain.  "You cannot let him die," he pleaded.

          "I am sorry, My Lord," the elf said sadly.  "But there is nothing I can do.  His wound is beyond my skill to heal."

          Another voice drifted through to him.  "But not mine."

          The others were silent, and the hand left his forehead, only to be replaced by another, slightly larger and more gnarled than the smoothness of the last.  Then Faramir felt agony, sharp and splitting agony, until that, too, faded amongst the blackness, and he floated along the river of his own pain-deadened mind.  How long he remained there, Faramir did not know, but finally he lost consciousness amid the alternating feelings of pain and peace.  Finally, he awoke, and realized with surprise that his eyes would now open again.  Even as he did, though, a blast of cold hit him, chilling Faramir down to the bones, yet it came on a plane that was more than physical.  Before his vision cleared, he heard a gasp, and then a cry of "Gandalf!"

          Clearness of focus rushed into him, and he saw Celeborn leaping toward Gandalf as the wizard staggered back from the overturned chair at the bedside, clutching desperately at his staff and leaning hard upon it.  The wizard's face had closed tight with concentration and strain, and he stumbled once more.  The Elf-Lord reached out quickly to steady him.

          "No!" Gandalf cried.  "Do not touch me!"

          Celeborn's hands jerked away as if burnt; the wizard's breathing grew harder as he stood frozen in time.  His eyes slid shut and he mumbled softly under his breath in words that Faramir could not understand and made the elf's eyes harden.  The Steward's son followed Celeborn's gaze as a tremor racked the old man's body for a long second.  Narya the Great blazed like a burning sun upon Gandalf's breast; it's ruby glow seemed to reach out with its warmth to all those around it, and then suddenly went dark.

          The wizard collapsed back into the wall, caught by Celeborn only before he slumped to the floor.  Wordlessly, the elf righted the fallen chair with one hand and helped Gandalf to sit in it.  Although he nodded his thanks, the wizard still gripped his staff tightly, his eyes half-shut and his breathing finally slowing.  For his part, Faramir could only stare in confusion…Gandalf seemed to age years in just a few seconds.

          "Are you all right?" Celeborn finally asked.

          "I think so," Gandalf replied heavily, his eyes blinking open and his left hand leaving his staff to finger Narya lightly.  "He is gone for now."

          "Sauron?" Faramir gasped in surprise.  But how…?

          "Yes," the wizard sighed, his tired eyes scanning Faramir's face in understanding.  "He tracked me through the Ring, and when I opened myself to heal you, he attacked."

          "You defeated him?"  Was the old and seemingly weak wizard that powerful?  Could he truly defeat Sauron in such a short battle?  The younger man gaped at him.

          Gandalf must have seen the hope in his eyes. "Nay, Faramir," he said softly.  "I merely drove him away.  Since I am not wearing Narya, he could not gain a hold on me."

          Celeborn frowned.  "Yet still he tried."

          Gandalf rose, his mannerisms now steady and sure again.  "It's becoming a war," he said distantly, then seemed to snap out of whatever otherworld he was in.  "But no matter.  How are you feeling?"

          "I feel fine," the young man replied, surprised to find out it was in fact true.  The pain and dizziness had left him; Faramir actually felt healthier than he had in some months.  "Thank you.  You saved my life."

          The wizard chuckled.  "There was much life left in you, Faramir.  I merely kindled it and chased it back to the surface."

          The steward's son was silent for a long moment, then asked, "May I ask you a question, Gandalf?" as curiosity seized him.  He needed to know, had to know…and had wondered for a long, long, time.

          "Of course."  Gandalf had always been patient with him, Faramir reflected, always willing to teach and to answer.  That was what had made the wizard such a valuable mentor and friend in his younger years, after all…The fact that Gandalf was never too busy to answer his questions.  In all the time he had known him, though, there was one thing he had never dared ask.

          "Why are you here?"

          "Here?" the wizard chuckled once more, clearly making light of the situation.  "Well, my dear boy, I am here for the same reasons you are, of course – to fight Sauron."

          "But you do not have to be," Faramir objected.  "You are not like us.  You are not human, nor elf, dwarf, or hobbit.  Yet here you are, leading us in a war that isn't yours.  Why do you do it?"

          Gandalf's face became thoughtful, and he was silent for a long moment, clearly weighing his words carefully and deciding what to say.  Finally, he responded, "Years ago, five Istari – or wizards, as you call us – were sent to Middle-Earth out of Valinor.  We came not to face Sauron directly, whom we knew of old, but to lend our power and our leadership to those who would stand against him.  We were meant to oppose him.  More I can not tell you."

          Faramir nodded, still curious, but knowing he would get nothing else.  Gandalf had never spoken of himself or his roots before; in fact, Faramir had learned more about his old friend and mentor in four sentences than he had known in a lifetime of acquaintance.  "I understand."

          "Do you?" Gandalf challenged him suddenly.  "For if you truly do, Faramir, you are one of the wisest creatures upon Middle-Earth."

          The silence was almost more frightening than the presence of the Dark Lord himself.  It was not so empty as it was deadly, anyway; full of danger, pain, and betrayal to come.  In that room, the hobbit sensed, may convictions had been abandoned and lost.

          Sharp footsteps sounded behind him, and Pippin spun fearfully just in time to see two Ringwraiths come through the arched doorway.  Their armor clanked menacingly as they moved to flank Sauron, ignoring how Pippin's goblin guards hurried to skitter out of the way.  They remained silent and wooden, frightening enough in themselves to a young hobbit, alone and far away from home. However scary they were though, the Ringwraiths were still less menacing than their lord, whose presence alone had caused hardened warriors to crack.  Pippin struggled to contain his trembling, tried to appear brave, but it was so hard.  He wasn't like Frodo, or Sam –

          Oh, Sam…!

          From somewhere deep inside, the young hobbit found a reserve of strength he hadn't known he possessed.  He found the courage to stare Sauron in the eye.  He whispered,

          "I will not betray my friends."

          Laughter was his only answer.

          "You can torture me, but I won't do it," Pippin was surprised that his voice did not shake.  Perhaps his convictions lent him strength that he had not had before.  One of the Ringwraiths hissed in anger – or amusement – behind the Dark Lord, and Pippin knew he should have stopped there, but he found himself repeating, "I won't do it."

          "Foolish half-ling," Sauron finally hissed.  "Pain is the least of your worries, but it will be your fate if you refuse to be my messenger."

          Despite himself, Pippin squeaked, "Messenger?"

          He slumped into the small chair, pain pulsing through his body, yet comforted by the darkness and the loneliness.  While it was true when he'd mentioned his inability to feel physical, human, pain, this was an entirely matter.  This agony came from mental exertion and psychological battles – and his own overconfidence.  He hadn't expected Sauron to act so quickly, and now that pushed every plan he'd ever made into overdrive.  All his expectations were shattered…what came next was now a mystery to him.  He had never expected the war to go exactly as planned, of course, but he had counted on anonymity for a little while longer – and he'd been careful to guard his identity.  He had said nothing that Sauron did not know.

          Except for now.  When the Lord of the Nazgûl had reached for Narya, he had feared the worst, although the prospect of Sauron knowing that the wearer of the Third was amongst his enemies had never bothered him.  No, it was the fact that Black Rider had identified him both as a Maiar and as the bearer of Narya that bothered him.  For if Sauron knew both, he might guess who the being behind Gandalf really was, and that would spell doom for Middle-Earth.  Surprise he had counted on – but he now might very well have been unmasked.  The very idea of that made a chill run down his spine.

          With an effort, he turned away from his fears.  Had Frodo only listened to his heart!  Everything was so much more certain then… But now they had not the chance to destroy the Ring and take Sauron down with it.  Without the Ring, the Dark Lord was merely another Maiar – with it, he was far more.  True, he needed the Ring to complete his powers, but with it he was far stronger than any other of his kind.  Otherwise, Gandalf reflected bitterly, he would have never made the Ring in the first place.  It might have held the risk of his destruction, but it also had the effect of doubling the Dark Lord's powers.  And any pupil of Melkor could never resist the temptation to do that.

          So Sauron knew the bearer was with the Alliance.  It was time to get over that.  There was much more to worry about.

          Such as Sauron's quick reaction, his attack upon Gandalf, even as he called forces into play to heal Faramir.  That alone could tell a great many things, and it was time to learn from mistakes rather than just lamenting them.  His confidence may have been shaken, but all things healed, given time.  I know him of old.  If anyone can predict him, I can.

          One – the bearer of a Ring of Power was forever marked by its signature.  Gandalf had known that from the beginning; only his other powers shielded Sauron from noticing that in the first place.  He must have let his guard down to heal Faramir; in truth, he had done so consciously, for he'd realized what effect the young man's death would have had on the Alliance.  Denethor was skirting the edge of madness already; it would not do to have his son's death push him over the edge.  They needed him yet, for without a Steward or a King, the people of Gondor would crumble. 

          Two – Sauron had been searching for the Third.  It was an obvious fact, but one that still bore paying close attention to.  The fact that he had reacted so quickly, upon so little notice and so soon after the Witch King's discovery, told Gandalf that Narya was important to the Dark Lord.  Both knew, however, that Narya could never defeat him, even if its bearer could withstand the pain of donning the ring while the One lay in the Dark Lord's possession.  The powers of the Three were different from the One; each had their own purpose, none of which were to destroy.  So either Sauron was becoming paranoid in his old age, or he just feared leaving loose ends behind.

          Three – Sauron had learned from the first time.  He had lost, and had had countless centuries to contemplate it.  So he was moving more carefully now, far more carefully… That was why no armies had come forth from Mordor.  The Dark Lord was willing to wait, or to make his enemies come to him.

          Until he'd known of the Third.

          And knowing that, he had not sent an emissary for his enemy to defeat – for surely he knew that the slayer of the Witch King was the Third Bearer – he had used his own power, and had reached through the one and through Narya to bring the Third under his control.  And in fighting him off, Gandalf had shown some of his own power, had given Sauron a measure of himself to think upon.

          Four – the Dark Lord's will was now bent upon the Third Elven Ring.

          And he would stop at nothing to get it.