Author's note: Well…on the story goes. Sorry that it took so long. The new hard drive was, well…less perfect than one might imagine. To make a long story short, I ended up installing Windows ELEVEN separate times (and three different versions, at that), but now we're all happy again and the story is movin' along. The next chapter is in the making already (really, I promise) so please review and I'll write as fast as I can. Thanks for reading!
Where the Shadows Lie
A Tale Of The Ring
"That is not the road that you must take. I have spoken words of hope. But only of hope. Hope is not victory. War is upon us and all our friends, a war in which only the use of the Ring could give us surety of victory. It fills me with great sorrow and great fear: for much may be destroyed and all may be lost. I am Gandalf, Gandalf the White, but Black is mightier still."
Chapter Nine: Decision
Darkness haunted his dreams. Images of death, of friends long gone, and of his brother in happier times all flowed together in one grotesque view of a dreaded future. They twisted in and out of his consciousness, making him toss and turn, barely asleep, until an urgent hand gripped his left shoulder and shook him hard. Thinking battle had been joined, Faramir's eyes snapped open and his heart began to hammer in his chest. "What is it?"
His page looked at him anxiously. "Your father has summoned you to a council, Lord."
"Now?"
The page held a robe in outstretched hands. "Aye."
Faramir leapt out of beds, knowing that his father would not have him woken in the dead of night without just cause. Despite the changes recent events had wrought in Denethor, he was still the Steward of Gondor and an extremely wise man. And though Denethor did not necessarily agree with Gandalf's methods of waging the war, he was an honorable man above all else. His head might have been corrupted by the Ring, but his knowledge was still intact.
Hard on the page's heels, Faramir rushed into the night, hardly noticing the chill it immediately sent upon him. Led quickly to his father's tent, he pushed aside the entrance's flap and stepped into the candle-lit chamber. Around a low campaign table sat almost half of their command team: Dáin, Saradoc, Halbarad, and his father. Frowning, Faramir looked around himself, wondering at the missing elves and Rohirrim – always the strongest supporters of Gandalf's decisions. All his former thoughts of his father's intentions rushed out of mind, and he demanded, "What is this, Father?"
"A council, my son," Denethor replied deeply, his eyes betraying a slim ray of – is that defiance, or hope? "One most urgent."
"A small one, I see," Faramir observed cautiously, unwilling to fully contradict his father until he knew more.
"Sit down, Faramir."
He squared his shoulders, heart racing and hating to do it, but even so, feeling the need. His father's ambitions had colored far too much of this conflict already, and that had to stop. Sauron had enough corruption for all of them combined. "Not until you tell me what this council is for," he replied softly, still trying to avoid conflict, but knowing that he could not agree, "for to my eyes it seems a mutiny."
Fury danced lightly in Denethor's eyes for a fleeting moment before he replied calmly, "I ask you to wait before you make judgment." The steward paused, and then glanced behind himself. "First meet our guest."
Stepping to the side, Denethor revealed the small and cloaked figure who stood unsteadily behind him. Without question, Faramir knew that it was a hobbit, but the importance of the individual's identity was not immediately apparent, until Denethor spoke once more. "Faramir, meet Peregrin Took, onetime member of the Fellowship of the Ring, and now messenger from Sauron. The Dark Lord has offered terms."
"Peregrin Took?" Faramir echoed in a whisper, realizing immediately what that meant. A member of the Fellowship had been released…this small being was the first to leave the dungeons of Barad-dûr alive. The half-ling nodded, and while he moved, the Steward's son noticed the bruises discoloring his face and the pain in his eyes.
"Will you listen to me?" he asked in a small voice, and Faramir heard fear. Nodding silently, he took his seat and watched Saradoc rise and help Peregrin to another place at the foot at the table. Finally, Denethor nodded to the hobbit, and the messenger began to speak. "I am here," the hobbit whispered in a tiny voice, "as Sauron's messenger."
Pippin paused and trembled, but not a soul spoke a word. Had a pin dropped in that tent, its sound would have echoed most noisily – the silence was that deep. Faramir and the others waited for him to gather his courage, holding their breath; the implication of Pippin's presence was larger than they could comprehend at first though. Why, they had to wonder, would the Dark Lord send a mere, simple-minded hobbit as his messenger? Why not send one of his own, or still yet someone of more importance to the Fellowship?
Finally, the young hobbit continued uneasily. "Lord Sauron offers terms to his enemies… he offers favor to those who would stop now," Pippin gulped. "He says that if you remain neutral, he will be merciful…Or if you ally with him, he will reward you greatly."
"If he gives us terms, he must be desperate," Dáin growled. "I say we do nothing. We give him nothing."
"Besides, who is to say that he would keep his word, anyway?" Saradoc asked in agreement. "He has always been known for trickery."
"I would not believe him." Faramir nodded slowly. Still, though, he had to wonder why his heart remained in his throat. There had to be something yet to come…
"Aye," Halbarad replied softly. "That is true. I doubt he released a member of the Fellowship merely to make us empty offers."
Dáin snorted. "His doing this shows the contempt he holds us in," he snarled. "He means not to give us anything."
"We need to return Peregrin to him with an answer, do we?" Saradoc suddenly wondered, worry evident on his face.
"If we are not bargaining with him, I would say no," Faramir replied, even though all did not feel right. His heart clenched like a rock in his throat.
"Hold," Denethor said abruptly; his confident voice told them that he already knew what was to come, a fact that only increased Faramir's worries. "Hear the rest of what Peregrin Took has to say."
All eyes again went to the beaten hobbit, who shivered and hesitated before speaking. "Sauron says that he will release the Fellowship of the Ring…" he trailed off uneasily.
Sharp foreboding rose like spicy bile in Faramir's throat, even as Halbarad seemed to hold his breath. The Ranger's eyes closed over with worry and his lips turned white has his teeth bit into the insides of his mouth. Frowning, the other man watched the hobbit with – not quite suspicion, but warily all the same. The Steward's son demanded, "In exchange for what?"
Pippin frowned in confusion, his still-innocent eyes wondering. "The bearer of the Third Elven Ring?"
"What?" Halbarad's voice snapped out like a thunderclap. Fire raged through the Ranger's eyes as the hobbit continued, his voice a fearful half-plea:
"And the Ring itself…"
Faramir saw the others' eyes turn thoughtful and began to feel sick inside. His father's head nodded sagely, and Dáin chewed on his lower lip – and Saradoc, too, looked as if he was considering the implications of the offer. Only Halbarad, the most unlikely of allies, seemed unswayed, and even angered, by the idea. For a moment, Faramir forced himself to view the situation objectively, in terms of gains and losses. While they would receive eight ill-fated heroes, in return they would lose the leader and mover of the war against Sauron…But some of the others would not be entirely disappointed by that possibility; ill will and jealousy had followed Gandalf from the beginning.
"Would he return them all to us?" Denethor asked to fill the short silence, his face tight and unreadable – but Faramir saw anticipation in his eyes.
Pippin opened his mouth to speak, but Halbarad's hand slapped down on the table with force enough to spill Denethor's glass of wine. He shot to his feet, fuming with anger. "I will not hear of this!" he thundered. "Such dishonor mocks all we are fighting for!"
Upon saying this, he spun and stormed from the tent, followed only by Faramir's call of "Halbarad!" in his wake. But the Ranger did not stop, leaving the Steward's son to lament in his absence – alone with his opinion and the undeniable wrongness of the situation. Now he stood single-handed, one against three who might very well turn against all they believed in…all for an easy way out. Did Faramir trust Sauron for an instant? No. Did they? Probably no more than he, but still they considered – the lure of their loved ones' return was too strong. Faramir frowned to himself; he felt the longing, too! Why could the others not see…?
"He will not release Lord Elrond or the Lady Galadriel," Pippin's small voice continued. "Because they were not part of the Fellowship. But the others he will return."
"How do we know he speaks the truth?" Dáin asked, and Faramir reflected upon the irony of his words. Five minutes ago, the dwarven king had advocated giving nothing to Sauron. Now, desire had overtaken him and he had snapped up the bait.
"Lord Sauron wishes to end the war," Pippin whispered, his voice still shaking, and Faramir had to wonder what the poor hobbit had gone through…he had clearly been hurt badly and frightened – so what treatment did that mean the rest of the Fellowship had received?
"What do you think?" Denethor asked suddenly and with uncharacteristic compassion. Faramir looked at him with surprise, wondering when the last time he had heard such feelings from his father had been. What was it that brought such things out from under years past – power to make decisions? Or was it merely a matter of convenience? Faramir did not know, and while he yearned for its return, such things made him worry.
"I don't know," the hobbit admitted. "He wants the Third Ring a lot."
Denethor nodded thoughtfully, but Faramir forestalled his answer, earning a sharp and displeased look from his father, saying, "All the more reason not to give it to him."
"But what good has the Third Ring done us?" Saradoc wondered.
"What good has Gandalf done us?" the dwarf added gruffly. His eyes narrowed under bushy brows. "I do not trust wizards."
All the others, save Faramir and Pippin, nodded in agreement – and that was when he knew all was lost. Still, though, he had to try. "What good?" he challenged, but could not keep the pleading tone out of his voice. "He had led us to victory not once or twice, but in four separate battles! He has brought us further than any dared dream we could go – and he understands Sauron. Is not that important?"
"By making himself a target, Dáin pointed out. "And what has he done with that ring? Nothing, I tell you. He hasn't used it because he's afraid to!"
"I would hardly call Gandalf afraid," Faramir said dryly, trying desperately to still the worry inside himself. "Cautious, yes – but afraid, no."
Denethor snarled contemptuously. "Cautious, then, if you prefer that word," he stated. "Regardless, his caution keeps him from using the only tool we have against Sauron. Pah! I say it is time to take some risks!" Dáin and Saradoc nodded in reply; Pippin only continued looking on with frightened eyes. Faramir opened his mouth go object, but Denethor continued, "Even if it means trusting Sauron."
"But who are you to decide that?" The arguments came out of him in a rush, almost without conscious thought. Why could they not see how wrong this was? Why would they squander the only chance that Middle-Earth had? Faramir's heart teetered on the edge of a precipice, screaming out that everything would be lost – "Where are Thranduil, Théoden, and Éomer? Where is the Lady Arwen, or our leader, Gandalf? Should they not have a say in this?"
Denethor's
voice became acid and aloof. "Your
thoughts are noted, my son, but I need not explain myself to you," he replied. Then, with deceptive calm and slowness, he
turned toward the chamber's entrance, calling, "Guards!"
Four of the steward's guards
entered the tent in a flash, and without being told, moved to flank
Faramir. Their faces were set like the
stone states of kings of old; if they were unhappy about the situation, it was
impossible to tell. But the most
important fact was that they knew.
They had known whom to arrest before even entering the tent…which meant
that Denethor had planned out every moment with especial care. Faramir looked between the guards with
distress, feeling betrayed not only by those he had held as friends, but also
by his own father – his own father! It
was comforting to be used and discarded as a pawn to his father's ambitions.
Sighing, Faramir allowed his arms to be taken; all hope deserted him then. It was no longer worth fighting… Was that what Darkness did to the world? Did it remove all honor from all he knew?
"I am sorry, my son," Denethor said, but his tone held neither regret nor pain. "But I cannot allow you to interfere. What I do is for the best."
Sadness weighed heavy upon his heart, and Faramir whispered in reply, "I hope so."
He allowed the soldiers to lead him out; their hands were hardly gentle, but nor were they cruel. He still possessed their respect – but that meant little to him now. As they led him away, Faramir stole one last look over his shoulder at the honorable but misguided faces of those he had once held as friends or family. Amongst them, the one that stood out the most was Pippin's; the hobbit's frightened and hurt eyes were focused on him with a strange kind of despair, and suddenly the Steward's son realized that Peregrin Took's desire mirrored his own. He wished that they had said no.
Halbarad rushed into the darkness, red-hot fury warring with the need for control. The coolness of night – was it truly night, or merely dark outside? – forced a deep breath into him, though, and gave him a moment to think. Yes, he had made the right decision; nothing he could have done would have changed their minds. The odds had been two against three, but Faramir loved his father. The Steward's son would make the right decision, but his feelings would make him hesitate.
And as in any battle, a second's hesitation could mean death.
A ragged sigh escaped the Ranger's tight chest. Oh, the offer was tempting, so tempting – was there any reason he would not desire the return of his liege? Halbarad had no ambition save to see his kinsmen on the lost throne of Gondor and Arnor; he'd worked all his life to see the Heir of Isildur return home, even before he had known Aragorn, who he had come to love as a brother. But as much as he desired his leader's return, he would not do it like this – not even had the entire council of men, dwarves, hobbits, and elves concurred. Even had it been Gandalf's choice, the Ranger would not have agreed. Aragorn would not have wanted it that way.
However, the decision had not been one of a unified council; it had been made in shadows and secrecy worthy of Mordor itself. Also, no doubt upon Denethor's treacherous orders, the camp was closing up and securing itself. The Steward of Gondor meant to act…and to the doom of all, he would do whatever he pleased. Denethor the Deceiver was clearly determined to defend his decision and go through with his mockery of justice.
Someone, Halbarad mused, would have to say no to the man.
Pippin was gone. Dead, perhaps – he knew not – but gone. The youngest and most innocent of the hobbits had been taken by their guards several hours ago, and had never returned. But for all he knew, days could have passed since then. Consciousness blurred illusively in and out; it was hard to tell time in that painful place. There was no light, only darkness…agonizing and oppressing darkness, all blending together and never ending. He found it hard not to lose himself in despair because of that; such was the war he fought in every waking moment. Inevitably, his would be a loosing battle, but still he fought on.
Aragorn blinked, struggling to focus through the pain. With a start, he realized that all their guards were gone. The Fellowship was alone. A shudder ripped though him, then, as he noticed something else. They were alone, truly alone. Elrond and Galadriel, too, were missing, taken time ago and undoubtedly still living, if only for the same reasons as he: for Sauron's pleasure and because he had the time to spend breaking them. Forming them. Bending them to his will.
The heir of Isildur smiled grimly. In the end, the Dark Lord might win, but he'd make him pay the price.
