Author's note:          Told you it was coming, so here it is.  I got over the tiny bit of writer's block I was suffering (even though I had to write ending of this part three times to do it).  So without further ado, here's my next installment.  Again, please tell me what you think!!!  (In case you haven't guessed, that's a shameless plea for reviews.  I love 'em).  Thanks again for reading.

Where the Shadows Lie

A Tale Of The Ring

"There are many powers in this world, for good or for evil.  Some are greater than I am.  Against some I have not yet been measured.  But my time is coming."

Chapter Ten: Betrayal

          Hands reached out to him in the darkness, and as pain jerked him fully into consciousness, Aragorn realized that the guards had returned for him.  He forced his eyes open, and from somewhere deep inside, summoned a glare for those who would bring him before their master.  Time, Sauron had – but Aragorn was determined to take as much of it as he could.

          But then a fist struck his face, and he blacked out once more, half thankful that he would not have to endure the trip to Sauron's chambers.

          "I wish I could do more," Círdan said softly to him, standing uneasily by his horse's side, wary eyes on his companion.  The ancient and silver-haired elf looked worried, indeed; his brow was furrowed in deep thought.

          "You have done what you can, old friend," Gandalf replied.  "Whatever faces the Alliance next cannot be your concern – you will have enough challenge in fortifying the Gray Havens before he can reach them."

          "Yet if the Alliance succeeds, there will be no need for that," the elf pointed out, but from his eyes, one could tell how unsure he was.

          "And if it does not, you will have to prepare for the flight of your people…Nay, Círdan, do not argue with me," the wizard said evenly.  "You know it will be necessary; if we lose, the elves must fly Middle-Earth…and bring all that is good and worth remembering with them."

          "I like it not, Gandalf."

          "Nor I," the Istar replied.  "But if we fail, someone will have to bring the news to the Valar.  If we fail, they are the only ones strong enough to stop Sauron."

          Círdan raised one elegant eyebrow, his eyes searching the wizard's face.  "If any go to Valinor, it should be you."

          Gandalf shook his head.  "My responsibilities lie here."  He sighed softly.  "For better or for worse, I will fulfill the task I was sent here for."

          "Five were sent, Mithrandir, yet only one remains," the elf pointed out.  "Can you do this alone?"

          Something alien and unreadable slipped across the Maia's features, and he looked away from his companion for a short moment that made the elf's heart hammer nervously in his chest.  He had already felt guilty about leaving, but his instincts told him that something importantly lay dormant under the surface of events…something dangerous.  Finally, Gandalf replied softly, "I must."

          "Are you sure you want me to leave?" Círdan asked once more, prepared to take the ultimate risk and stay.  Almost anything was better than waiting by the sidelines for success or for failure – even dying in a disastrous attempt to save the world.

          "Your people need you," the wizard replied firmly.  "Far more than I."

          Unwillingly, the shipwright nodded.  The decision was not one he would have made by free choice – but necessity guided him now, as it had so many years ago – just as it and destiny had led him to entrust Narya the Great over to a stranger from a distant and great land.  "Then this is farewell."

          They clasped hands; friends that had hardly ever known each other, yet shared an unspeakable and unbreakable bond and understanding.  One last time, Círdan looked in the wizard's eyes, trying to divine some sense of the future in them, but they remained dark and closed to him; Gandalf's guard was closed up tightly against Sauron.  However, the elf knew he should have expected that, for the wizard could not allow the Dark Lord to know who he was until the last possible moment.  His bond with Narya – far deeper than Círdan's had ever been – made that extremely difficult.  The Third was bound to the other two, and in Sauron's hands those were.  And in the other's eyes, the Elf-Lord could see the strain of hiding from him.

          "Farewell," Gandalf replied.

          Turing away, Círdan mounted his chestnut mare and urged her forward, fighting the impulse to look back as he set his course for the Gray Havens and what might become the last refuge of light in his world.

          Legolas shivered in the darkness.  He felt so alone, despite the presence of his dearest friends.  Perhaps that was because, like he, they were beaten, tortured, and chained to the walls, unable to offer each other comfort or solace.  One look at their downcast faces told him that the others of the Fellowship felt the same.  He was cold, it was dark: both on a level far deeper than the physical.  Just like the others, he had a hard time, now, fighting back hopelessness, immortal elf though he was.  Inside, Legolas had found, he was just as fragile as any human, dwarf, or hobbit.  So he wallowed in his misery, helpless as any child, but far less innocent.

          Suddenly a voice split through his darkness, and he realized it was Boromir, whispering across their cold cell.  The man's voice was the first Legolas had heard – save Sauron's creatures – since he knew not how long.  Its sound was almost strange to his ears; the softness and worry that personified his soft voice had been absent from the elf's presence for even longer than friendly voices.

          "Aragorn?" the son of Gondor asked quietly, near-frantic concern evident in his tone; obviously, Boromir had waited long and debated longer before speaking.  Following the other's gaze, though, Legolas could see why.  No longer could the man remain silent.

          The heir of Isildur remained slumped in his chains; he had been returned to them some time ago, but had not moved since, and Legolas realized that Boromir must have watched him from that moment.  The two men had not been friends in the beginning, but by the end of their journey, despite their different feelings about the One, the two had bonded in a deep way.  That Boromir risked speaking said much about his feelings for the other, but the elf still more than half-expected to see a Goblin guard fly out of the shadows to deliver the predictable beating.  But nothing happened, and Legolas realized that they were truly alone.  Aragorn, however, did not move either.

          "Aragorn?" Boromir's voice took on a new sense of urgency, and the Ranger seemed to twitch slightly, a small movement visible only to elven eyes.  "Aragorn!"

          The man moaned, and as one, the Fellowship held their breaths.  Finally, Aragorn's eyes blinked open, and Legolas could see the old and grim determination they held – but now that was almost buried underneath the pain the Ranger's suffered.  Unfocused, Aragorn blinked dizzily, and shook his head weakly in an obvious effort to clear it.  When he spoke, his voice came out in a hoarse and raspy whisper.  "Boromir…?"

          "I thought we had lost you there," the other explained softly.  But Boromir's worried gaze was still focused on the man who would be his king.

          "Not yet…" Aragorn whispered weakly; his eyes slipped shut once more.

          A gruff voice to Legolas' left echoed the word sharply.  "Yet?" Gimli demanded.

          "A figure of speech," the human murmured.

          The elf had to wonder about that one, and worry seized him.  "You are fading quickly, my friend," he said softly.

          Aragorn's eyes found his, and Legolas could feel the silent plea: the ranger was fighting weakness and pain; he needed not to be told that.  All of a sudden, the elf felt an incredible sense of shame.  Of course Aragorn knew that.  He was living with the pain, and he had to feel that he was dying… And there was nothing any of them could do to stop it.  Legolas struggled to find appropriate words of apology, but his mind drew a blank.  Fortunately, Boromir's pained voice forestalled him; the other seemed to understand his loss for words.

          "There is something I wanted to say," he began hesitantly.  "Before…before any of the rest of us are…" He trailed off helplessly, not wanting to say what was so painfully clear, but knowing the others understood what he meant.  "I wanted to say that I am sorry."  Boromir swallowed; but it was pain he forced away, not pride.  "I got us all into this with my mistakes…I am so sorry.  Especially to you, Frodo."

          The Ring-bearer's eyes drifted aside before meeting the human's, but his gaze held no doubts.  "It is as much my fault as yours, Boromir," he replied softly.  "I made the decision.  I cannot blame you for that."

          "But it was still my idea," the steward's son whispered.  "I shouldn't have done it.  I should have listened."  The last words were directed to Aragorn, and Boromir's eyes begged him for forgiveness.  "I didn't believe you.  I ruined everything."

          Isildur's heir was silent for a long moment, then his dark eyes found Boromir's.  "I do not blame you," he said finally.  "I know the lure of the Ring…had I not known better, I might have done the same."

          "If I had listened to you, none of this would have happened."  The self-loathing in his voice could not have been more evident.

          "You do not know that," Aragorn said softly.  "And we can not afford to dwell on this now.  None of us blame you, Boromir…We understand."

          The son of Gondor's anxious eyes searched their faces, and Legolas nodded to him, for Aragorn spoke truly.  They did not blame Boromir; none of them could.  The Fellowship had stood together in the end, and blood had washed away any blame, as had Boromir's courageously foolish attempt to destroy Sauron.  His urge was easy for Legolas, especially, to understand: a prince of his own people, he would have been tempted to take the same risk.  One by one, the others nodded, and they knew no divisions could stand between them now.  For better or for worse, they would end this together.

          A long, but no longer uncomfortable, silence filled the cell, until Merry's innocent words filled it.  "We need to get out of here," the hobbit said earnestly.

          Surprisingly enough, none of the others contradicted him immediately.  He had spoken most truly, and yet…all except Merry understood the impossibility of the situation – even if it was extremely necessary.  Left alone, Legolas knew, Sauron would eventually kill them all one by one – the bodies of both Sam and Saurman told them that – or worse.  There were, the elf knew, worse fates than death… Fates of the type that Elrond and Galadriel undoubtedly suffered now, wherever they were – and fates like the one Aragorn faced if they did not escape.  Was there yet hope…?

          "There is no way," Frodo's lifeless voice crushed all faith in an instant.  There was an emptiness in the former Ring-bearer that seemed to suck the soul out of the Fellowship, and his words, too, were true.  "We cannot escape."

          "I know," Merry admitted sadly, but Legolas wished he might have argued.  That, at least, might have rekindled the ghost of a hope any of them might still have…but who was he fooling?  None of them would survive this, not as they were.  Any that lived would be thoroughly corrupted and would, in the end, be Sauron's creatures.

          And though that was not a future that the elf relished, he saw no other way.

          "Is there anything we can do?" Merry asked quietly, and Legolas could have wept for him.  For all the hobbits, actually, for one of them, not even Frodo, former Ring-bearer though he was, had understood what they were getting in to.  Not in the beginning…Nor ever, did he believe, until they were captured.  They had merely been caught up in the quest through a great kind of courage that he could not understand, and yet they had not asked for this.  The others had known the dangers far more than they.  The elf sighed.  None of them deserved this, especially Sam…and Pippin now, gone to where he knew not.

          This time, Aragorn answered, seemingly struggling against the pull of unconsciousness.  "No," he said softly.  "He guards us more carefully than you know, Merry.  No one leaves Barad-dûr against Sauron's will."

          "Even if we could, not one of us is in any shape to make it out of Mordor," Gimli pointed out.

          "Then what do we do?" the small hobbit asked pitifully.

          Sorrow filled Aragorn's words.  "We wait," he whispered, his eyes slipping shut once more.  "We hope…"

          "For what?" Boromir asked with doubt – not doubt in Aragorn, but with a loss of faith in the world.  Faith was too hard to hold in Barad-dûr, even for the greatest of heroes.

           But the other would not say; Aragorn had slipped back into blackness.

          Faramir sat listlessly in his own tent, well guarded, yet still very alone.  However, he refused to dwell on the horrid feeling of betrayal living deep inside his soul.  His father had planned this…and with his ambitions, would ruin the world.  Someone had to warn the others, especially Gandalf, but how?  There were none loyal enough to him to do so, for though his father was ambitious, he was also well-loved by the men of Gondor.  Disaster, then, seemed inevitable.

          Until a soft thud sounded outside the entrance to his tent.  That would not have been too out of the ordinary, but it was followed by a muffled groan, and then another thump.  Listening carefully, Faramir stood cautiously, curious, but not willing to throw chance away in an instant –

          But then Halbarad burst in, thrusting a blade into his hands.  "We have to move quickly," the Ranger snapped without waiting for a reaction.  "Gandalf is nowhere to be found, and your father's guards are scouring the camp for me."

          "Then why did you come here?" Faramir looked at him quizzically.  That seemed to him the least intelligent and useful thing to do.  "Surely they will realize who released me."

          Halbarad shrugged with a casualness that clearly underrated the situation.  But he glanced cautiously around the tent, always watchful, as Faramir donned light armor as quickly as he could.  "A basic tenet of the Rangers.  When outnumbered, attack."

          Annoyed by his cavalier manner, Faramir shot back, "Is another one of those to walk straight into the enemy's stronghold?"

          But the Ranger only grinned.  "If he's not paying attention, yes."

          "Let us go, then," Faramir smiled despite himself, shaking his head.  Halbarad he hardly knew, but the other was clearly a man of action, although he was not nearly so deliberate about it as the steward's son cared to be.  Then again, there were times that caution had to be thrown to the wind.

          Together, they burst into the night.

          Elrond let his head roll listlessly against his chest, trying desperately to find a center of peace within himself.  Such acts grew harder and harder as Sauron gained more and more control of Vilya.  Vilya…Oh, he could feel her pain.  Could feel the taint of darkness ever intruding on her purity and strength.  Could feel Sauron gaining control of her…and consequently, of Elrond's mind.  He had never before realized what a large part of him the Ring had become – until now.  Until it was too late and the Dark Lord wore her on his finger.  But the half-elf could still feel her, and he missed her greatly.

          With a start, Elrond jerked his focus back onto reality.  His mind drifted far too easily, now…there would be no escape inside himself.  He couldn't trust himself that far anymore – if he let go, there was no telling if he would come back or not.  With that though, he shivered in the darkness.  He was close to the end, now…too close.  Soon enough, it would be over, no matter how hard he fought – but it would do so anyway.  Such was his nature, and such was his vow.  After all, he had heard Galadriel's promise, and had made one of his own.  So long as he had the strength to resist, he would do so.

          There was no other choice.

          "My Lady!"

          There was no time for formality, and Faramir shook her urgently in the darkness.  Improper though it had to be, he could not afford to care.  Time was of the essence, and he and Halbarad needed all the allies they could get.  Círdan and Gandalf, the Ranger had already told him, were nowhere to be found; so in the meantime, they find everyone else and – hopefully, Faramir prayed – resolve the situation before Denethor could doom the world. 

          Arwen Evenstar rolled toward him, sighing sleepily and blinking her eyes open.  Confusion tore across her beautiful features.  "Faramir?"

          "Aye."

          "What troubles you?" Arwen asked perceptively, sitting up and quickly throwing her legs over the side of the bed.  "Has something happened?"

          "Yes, a terrible thing…" Faramir sighed.  So much was happening at one time – his head would have spun in circles, had his body the energy to spare for that.  "We have not the time now, but you must come."

          Her eyes locked with his for a moment, and she nodded, rising.  "I will come."

          They met in Gandalf's tent in a deadly parody of Denethor's Council of less than an hour before.  Gathered together were Faramir, Halbarad, Arwen, Thranduil, Éomer, and Théoden: all those save Gandalf and Círdan who would definitely stand against Denethor and the others.  All were armed and armored with faces grim; they knew that the Alliance would be shattered by their actions, but could not in good conscience do any differently.  Their instincts told them that this was wrong… So they had to act.  There was no choice.  Honor sometimes demanded great sacrifices.  In rushed detail, Faramir and Halbarad told their story; Thranduil was the first to speak after they had finished.

          "I like not what you have told us, friends, but I see no way to change the Steward's mind," he said softly.  "So we must decide quickly what to do."

          "Clearly we must oppose him," Théoden replied.  "But to do so under force of arms will wreck the Alliance…and doom all we are fighting for."

          "But we cannot let him have his way!" Éomer objected, worry disfiguring his handsome face.

          "Nay, we can not," the elven king agreed quietly.  "But I can understand how Denethor and the others are tempted by Sauron's offer…it is hard to refuse to rescue those you love."  Thranduil's face grew dark for a moment, and they all knew that his thoughts were on Legolas, his son and heir…He, just like Denethor, had to be tempted – but he, instead, chose the path of honor.  The King of Mirkwood swallowed.  "The question remains, though: how do we oppose him?  Do we fight, or try reason one last time?"

          Worry rolled around heavily in Faramir's gut; as much as he wished to be back in a time far simpler and more truthful than this, he was stuck in the present, for good or evil.  Was there any way to change that, or did they have to accept the cold grasp of fate?  Was there even use in fighting? "I know not, Lord," he admitted.  "But he cannot be dissuaded.  I have tried."

          "So that leaves armed resistance," Halbarad said flatly.  "Civil war."

          "Then we doom Middle-Earth," Arwen's soft voice interjected.  "For by warring with each other, we will shatter the Alliance, thereby serving Sauron's purpose after all.  Either way, the Alliance will be no threat to him.  Only unified can we stop him.  Alone, he can deal with us at his leisure, and take us one by one, thereby covering the world in a Second Darkness."

          Thranduil sighed once more, and a heavy weight seemed to descend upon his shoulders.  Resignation filled his voice.  "But we have no other choice.  We must oppose Denethor."

          A deep voice suddenly came from the tent's entranceway; its cold and calm determination sent a chill down Faramir's spine.  Fear and relief whipped through him then, simultaneously; relief for the fact that tragedy had been averted – and fear for the possibilities for that very same tragedy to play itself out.  Fate, it seemed, rested upon the very tip of a dagger, and should any of their company stray from the path set before them, all would be lost.  In that moment, hope seemed very hard to hold.

          "That choice is not yours to make, my friends."   

          "Gandalf!" Faramir managed in his surprise.  The others, too, he saw, were equally shocked and relieved; when they had been unable to find the wizard, all had feared the worst… Yet here he was, clearly not under the control of Denethor, and clearly able to defend himself.  As always, Gandalf stood tall and proud, strong and confident.

          But Thranduil's worried gaze took away nearly all joy at the wizard's return.  The king asked quietly, "What do you mean?"

          "The breaking of the Alliance would destroy Middle-Earth."  Gandalf's deep eyes found them each in turn and seemed to probe deeply into their souls, understanding far more than he said, and somehow rekindling hope in their hearts.  "We can not allow that to happen.  I know what Sauron desires, and have always known that he would reach for it eventually.  Perhaps it is best that this is resolved now."

          Faramir found himself shuddering in astonishment.  Could the wizard truly be saying what he seemed to be, or was his mind merely playing tricks on him?  Gandalf was their last and only chance for victory, and every being within that tent had been willing to sacrifice everything to give the wizard the opportunity he needed to create victory.  After all they had been through, was he ready to give up?  After all they had done, how far they had come, could he really submit to Denethor's ambitions?

          While the others all looked on in frozen alarm, unable to speak, Arwen finally broke the silence.  Her words, however, were not a question.  They were a statement of fact, little though she liked it at all.  "You wish to accept Sauron's offer."

          "I must," the wizard replied softly.  "I was not brought to Middle-Earth to face him, but now I must."  He was silent for a long moment, seemingly carefully considering his next words.  After several long seconds, Gandalf let out a barely-audible breath and continued, "I will tell you what none of this world other than Círdan, Elrond, Galadriel, and myself know: Sauron was once of the Maiar.  He was what I am.

          "I had hoped to wait longer before confronting him, but I will not risk the Alliance to do so.  No power of Middle-Earth can face him.  So I must."

          The next silence was deafening.  Finally, Faramir found the courage to ask the question that was gnawing at them all.  "Can you defeat him?"

          "I do not know." 

          Fire burned as the two gazed at one another; to call their encounter a battle of wills would be to discredit both's strengths.  Their eyes remained locked for several long moments of eternity, heedless of all the onlookers and the assembled leaders of the Alliance.  Sparks seemed to flash between them, and as Gandalf's chin rose, Narya gleamed brightly upon his breast.  Finally, he spoke softly, with no ire and no blame, but his words were as hard as mithril. 

          "I hope you know what you have done, Denethor, in forcing my hand," the wizard said to the steward.

          "I acknowledge it," the other replied loftily and not without pride.  "You are wise, maybe, Mithrandir, yet with all your subtleties you have not all wisdom.  Counsels may be found that are neither the webs of wizards or the haste of fools.  I have in this matter more lore and wisdom than you dream."**

          "Only the end shall tell the truth of that," Gandalf replied.  "But you will take any advice from me, take this: remember your mission is not one of power.  Unity alone will destroy Sauron."

          And with those words, Gandalf the White departed from the Alliance and joined the escort of Nazgûl that awaited the bearer of the Third Ring.  He did not look back, nor did his carriage betray any fear at all, but there was something different about him now.  To Faramir, he seemed older; to Thranduil, more worried and burdened than ever before.  But to Arwen, he seemed to carry the weight of Middle-Earth on his ancient shoulders, and she had to wonder how long he could bear it.  Amongst the Black Riders he rode, shimmering and alone, the White Rider whom none of Sauron's creatures would dare touch.  Shadowfax, it seemed, refused to be left behind, for the great steed had awaited his rider, and now bore him with pride.

          Faramir dug deep within his heart, watching and trying to find light within the darkness.  Soon, the Fellowship would be returned to them – at least, all save Pippin, and now Gandalf.  The others, including Boromir, would be with them soon… Although he supposed he should have found joy in that prospect, all he felt was despair.  There had been too much resignation in Gandalf's eyes, in his voice.  The wizard knew that he was riding to his death.

          And the rest of them knew that their world would die with him.

** Excerpt from The Lord of the Rings.  Page 795.