Author's note:          Sorry that this one took so long…I wanted to get it just right.  Look for more soon, along with the inevitable confrontation between Gandalf and Sauron.  As always, please, please, please review… I'll beg if I've got to, but I love to know what everyone thinks.  Thanks for reading, and stay tuned!

Where the Shadows Lie

A Tale Of The Ring

"And now he shall endure the slow torment of years, as long and slow as our arts in the Great Tower can contrive, and never be released, unless maybe when he is changed and broken, so that he may come to you, and you shall see what you have done."

Chapter Eleven: Choice

          "I cannot believe you let him go," Celeborn whispered, his voice as ragged as his face was care and travel worn.  Dirt still streaked his skin and garments; the normally immaculate elf was disheveled and filthy.  His eyes, too, were changed – they were far more than sad, now…they were filled with despair and fear.  Such emotions made Arwen tremble, for she knew Celeborn of old; he was her mother's father, and she had never seen such uncertainty from him before.

          "Mithrandir made his choice," Thranduil replied softly; it was, after all, the only reply to make, the only truth in the matter.  No matter what had brought the Istar to make the decision, it had been his own.  No one, even Denethor, could have forced the wizard to submit.  The elves, having seen hints of his power and knowing the Three, knew that, though mortals could not grasp quite the innate strengths in a seemingly old, kind, and friendly being.  But Celeborn had not been there; he had not seen the Alliance fracturing before his very eyes – and he had not been amongst those, who, in the dead of darkness, had been willing to throw it all away.  Hindsight was far simpler than foresight, sometimes.

          The Lord of Lothlórien, who had only returned to the camp moments before and was clearly exhausted from his journey, closed his eyes briefly and leaned against a nearby tree in a deceptively human manner.  Sighing, he replied with despair, "And what of the Rings?  Will Sauron now hold all of them now?"

          None of the gathered leaders could find an answer to that; aside from wizard's absence, the assembly was the same as those who had once made up the Council of Gandalf.  Their positions were polarized, of course; even in the torch-lit center of the Alliance's camp, there were dividing lines.  The elves, the Rohirrim, Halbarad and Faramir stood to once side, faced by Denethor, Saradoc and Dáin on the other.  Only Pippin stood in the middle, looking lost and alone, helpless and confused.  Leaderless, they were now; there would be no further agreements amongst them, save to continue fighting Sauron.  Only that could they still do together.

          "And what of that?" Denethor finally asked.  "What good have the Rings done us, borne by elves and wizards too afraid to use them?"

          Celeborn's eyes snapped open to glare at the Steward for a long moment, but he said naught to him, turning once more to Thranduil, his fiery anger dying as quickly as it had risen.  Exhaustion and realization warred for prominence on his face.  "He knew this would happen," the elf said softly.  "That is why he asked Círdan to return to the Havens, and did not argue when I sought out Edhelklond.  He had to have known."

          The elf lords' eyes met, then, and Arwen saw fear.  Such was not an emotion that her kind knew well; timeless and ageless, the elves often took the long view on life, acting when necessary, but always aware that time could heal a multitude of wounds, and time they had to give.  Fear, then, was often overshadowed by wisdom and intelligence – but not now.  Now, Both Thranduil and Celeborn, elven lords and kings, were afraid of what the future held.  Thus, it went without saying that she was as well.  Arwen's fear, however, was different.  Her fears were not merely for Middle-Earth and her own people…her heart also grieved for one good and loving man, who she knew suffered even then at Sauron's hands.  She could not deny the longing she had felt to get him back, for her love for Aragorn was too great to still her heart against joy in his return, but even then, there was still fear for him.  Sauron, she knew, hated the Heir of Isildur with every fiber in his being.  The Dark Lord would want Aragorn to pay for Isildur's deeds in the past.

          And she feared that no man, even Aragorn, could withstand that kind of pain.

          "How could he have known?" Thranduil asked carefully.

          Celeborn only shook his head.  "I do not know…but he did.  Just as he knew that my quest to Edhelklond would be fruitless.  He knew I would find no survivors of the Hidden Kingdom there."

          Silence reigned for a long moment, but Arwen's heart demanded it be filled.  She could not bear the emptiness and desolation any longer.  She said softly, feeling the burden they carried with every word, "So it falls to us."

          "Nay."  Celeborn's deep eyes found hers.  "Our fate now lies in Mithrandir's hands.  As he goes, so will we.

          "And so will Middle-Earth."

          Pippin sat quietly upon a log in the shadows, surrounded by the bustle of the camp, but never more alone in his life.  Even deep in the dungeons of Barad-dûr he had not felt so abandoned; even there, he had the Fellowship to keep him company.  No matter what had been done to him, how afraid he had been, the others had always been there for him.  It had been an unspoken vow they had made to each other.  No matter what came, they would be together.  From the beginning, it had been that way, and without that comfort he felt lost.  It would almost have been better to still be there with them, to still be a prisoner, facing pain and torture.  At least then he would not have been so lonely.

          And Gandalf would not have to die.

          Tears entered the hobbit's eyes.  If he only had known who carried the third ring before, if only he had known what would happen…he would have said no.  He would have refused to be Sauron's messenger, and have paid the price.  Something inside his heart told Pippin that it shouldn't be like this, and he wanted to scream because everything had gone wrong.  Everything had gone so wrong.  He was free, healed of pain, but the others were still prisoners.

          At least they'll be coming back soon, he told himself.  At least it will be over for them, too.

          But somehow it still didn't feel right, and he sensed that nothing would ever be the same again.  Everything had changed when Frodo had inherited the Ring from Bilbo – everything.  Now the world was different: undeniably more complicated, and also more cruel.  He could not deny that he had learned much, but even the young hobbit sensed that some lessons were best left untaught.  Some terrors were best left in the world of half-remembered nightmares; it did not pay to recall them.  But it paid even less to live them.

          That's what life was to him, then: a nightmare.  Even though he would soon be united with his friends, it was still a nightmare.  Everything was still wrong.  Only seven remained of the Fellowship now; only seven of the nine who started, minds full of hopes and dreams of defeating the undefeatable Sauron.  Sam was dead.  Gandalf would soon be dead.  The great elves, Elrond and Galadriel, were prisoners.  They'd be dead soon enough, too.  And so would Middle-Earth.  His friends, his family, the Shire… All would be destroyed by Sauron in the coming months.

          And Pippin wept for all that he would never have again.

          Galadriel squinted in the light.  It was the first time that she had encountered any type of brightness in…how long?  She knew not, now…but then awareness slapped into her, and with a glaring start, she felt Elrond nearby.  For a moment, she doubted her own senses, for Sauron had kept them separate for so long, but no, it was true.  Elrond was there.  He was very close.

          She forced her eyes open, and realized that she had been returned to the old cell and was again surrounded by the Fellowship.  The former bearer of Vilya looked to be in the same condition as she, and was, again, mirrored in image by Aragorn, to the other side of the cell's door.  Both were beaten and bloody, but only Elrond, she suspected, had been given the same chances as her.

          By the look of him, he had held out as well.

          She was not surprised; she could not be.  Galadriel  had made her vows just as Elrond had made his.  He could not afford to break any more than she, so he would not.  Both had endured much pain, constant pain, for days and weeks on end, though – and now it had stopped.  That had to mean something, but for the life of her, she could not figure out what.  That was a puzzle she could not solve, and her lack of success only added to the feeling of helplessness Galadriel had felt for so long.  But she could not afford to dwell on that now.

          Elrond's eyes met hers', then moved away to scan their companions.  None looked as bad as Aragorn, but all looked terrible.  Quickly, Galadriel noticed Saurman's dead body, but she was incapable of being surprised by that.  The fact that Sauron would dare kill a fellow Maiar would have shocked her once, but no longer.  No, what nearly made her cry out was that Pippin was missing.  Missing – not dead.  The body would have been left, she was sure…After all, Sam still lay amongst them, still as if he were merely sleeping.  But Pippin was simply gone, and that meant that the Dark Lord had some other, more sinister purpose in mind.  Without thinking, she whispered, "How long has he been gone?"

          The others' gazes came to her, and she saw mixtures of fear, courage, pain, and determination that would have been out of place anywhere other than Barad-dûr.  All of them, though, had changed since she had seen them last.  Boromir, for one, seemed less shattered than before, but Aragorn seemed simply spent.  Frodo still was disheartened, but his eyes held even less hope than before.  Gimli's anger and frustration had not lessened, but sorrow equal to Legolas' filled his face.  The Silvan elf looked back at her, older and more worried than she had ever seen Legolas' strong face.  Merry, too, had lost all pretense at innocence, and now gazed upon her without hope.  Finally, though, it was Aragorn, still the natural leader, who answered, weakness evident in his voice.

          "Too long," he replied softly, pain echoing behind every word.  "We cannot tell time here…but he has been gone for days, at least.  Maybe weeks… I fear for him."

          Silent nods were the others' only replies, until Elrond spoke, and Galadriel blinked upon hearing his scratchy voice.  That an elf-lord could be brought through such pain and suffering…little did she realize that she looked and sounded much the same.

          "Sauron is planning something," the half-elf said softly.  "Else we would not be together again…and left alone."

          "Perhaps he has lost interest in us," Gimli replied gruffly; but, to Galadriel's surprise, there was no hope in his eyes.  There was only blank despair.  He spoke the words merely out of habit.

          She hated to contradict him, but still she had to.  "In the bearers of the Three?" the lady countered, and could not help a humorless laugh.  "Not when he still does not own the rings or our hearts and minds."

          "Nay, Galadriel," Elrond said suddenly.  "I sense the Dark Lord has found something far more interesting than us."  He took what was intended to be a deep breath, but she heard it rattle weakly in his chest and saw the pain in his eyes.  "What worries me is for us, but for what he now concentrates upon."

          Shadowfax trembled underneath him, and Gandalf felt his fear.  The Black Riders did not notice this, if indeed they had eyes to see the physical world at all; rather, the Nazgûl kept their distance from the White Rider, comprehending that he who seemed only a old man on the outside was in reality far more.  Though they knew not what Gandalf truly was, had been, they did know he was dangerous – extremely dangerous – and what fear they were capable of feeling, they did.  Only a greater terror, that of Sauron, kept them escorting him at all.  Had they realized, though, that Gandalf was one of their own lord's kind, all eight would have refused to accompany him to Barad-dûr at all.  Slayer of the Witch King he was; this seemingly harmless old man had destroyed the Lord of the Nazgûl, whom prophecy claimed would be slain by no man.  Thus, they held their guards high and carefully.

          But Gandalf did as well, for Shadowfax the Great was not the only one who sensed the coming battle.  Oh, it was coming…and though he rode toward fate willingly and with head held high, he had not sought this – not like this.  No, never like this…

          His kind had been brought to Middle-Earth for one reason alone: to oppose Sauron.  But none of them had ever been meant to face him – they had been tasked with leading the resistance against him should he come again.  Many in Valinor had deemed that possibility a big if, but he had always known that the Dark Lord would not give in after only one defeat.  So the "Istari" were sent to Middle-Earth to rekindle hearts in the war against Darkness.  Their mission had been one of the deepest secrets of Valinor, for Sauron – none of their kind referred to him by his real name, now, for he had dishonored that long ago – still had spies in the Undying Lands, and it was feared that they might reveal the purpose of the Istari to him.  So the Five had set forth, cloaked and disguised as old men, as humans with simple magical powers.  Rarely did they reveal strength, so great was their mystery, for in their new forms they were forbidden and unable to utilize their full powers, thus revealing who they were.

          Such revelations could only be deadly.  None of them were ever meant to face Sauron – all precautions had been taken so that they would not have to.  The Dark Lord, after all, had been a student of Melkor, the greatest evil that their world had ever known, and he knew well the black powers.  Sauron was also an extremely powerful Maia in his own right, even before the forging of the One Ring.  And after… Shadowfax shuddered underneath him again.

          He had not wanted to come, Gandalf remembered, thinking not of the horse, but of himself.  Somewhere inside, he had realized it would come to this in the bitter end.  It was not that he was afraid, but he had known that he would come to love Middle-Earth and her creatures even as he loved his own home – and it would hurt that much more to admit defeat.  Right he had been, too, for he had grown very close to this world with each passing year – and he had spent many centuries amongst Middle-Earth's creatures.  Círdan's gift, upon the shores of the Gray Havens so long ago, had not helped matters, either.  It had only bound him closer to Middle-Earth.

          And fate brought him now to Sauron.

          He had to wonder if somewhere, someone, was somehow laughing at the irony.  Of the Five he was the last, the one who had not come by choice, whom the others had not desired the company of.  And of the Five who had been meant to counter Sauron, united and from a distance, he stood alone, soon to be before the Dark Lord himself.  Thinking of that, uncertainty stole its way in a chill down his spine – and he could not deny the shadow of fear that went with it.  The others thought he was riding to his death, even the elves, who might have thought otherwise, knowing what they did, knowledge born of long and immortal lives.

          The problem was that they were right.

          Gandalf the White could not defeat Sauron the Black, even with Narya, the Red Ring, as his companion.  Especially with Narya; as powerful as she was, even the Great Ring was subject to the One Ring's hold.  Gandalf the Gray, on the other hand, stood not a chance.  Gandalf the Gray would have been slain by the Witch King, for he was human enough to fail.  Fortunately, he was as such no longer…his fall into Moria had saved him that fate.  However, the possibilities now were not much brighter.  It would end soon.  Gandalf the White would be slain by Sauron.

          The wizard let his eyes slide shut for a fraction of a second, blocking out the burnt and ashen landscape of Mordor.  Yes, he had to remain who he was.  He had to bury his identity deep inside and appear – if not human, at least half-elven or as a being Sauron would view as lesser.  He had to hide Olórin.  The knowledge of a Maiar on Middle-Earth aside from Curumo, who Sauron had possessed the gall to kill, would be far too dangerous in the Dark Lord's hands.  He had to keep that from him as long as he could, for it would endanger far too much… So Olórin he had to hide.  He could not reveal himself in a battle he was sure to lose, for Sauron had once been the most powerful of the Maiar, and no mere Maia with a lesser Ring could stand a chance.

          Thus Gandalf the White rode onto death, Gwaihir the Windlord flying high above him in the sky.

          Elrond closed his eyes against the pain, trying desperately to ignore it and to hide it.  He had to appear strong for his fellow prisoners…for they all, even and especially Legolas, looked for leadership from he, Galadriel, and Aragorn.  What leaders they were…two ancient elves who had experienced the Darkness before and once held Rings of Power – and the other, the heir of great kings and of humanity's greatest failure.  Together, though, the three fought the pain, vying to hold out as long as they could against the pressure, against Sauron's torture and Sauron's temptations.  But even as they struggled, they began to crumble.  Elrond could feel it in his bones, and knew none of them could last much longer.

          Black despair invaded his heart, but in the end he knew that Sauron would gain a ninth Nazgûl and a black Queen –

          New awareness suddenly slashed through the agony, and he felt Vilya sing out.  His ring, his age-old companion, suddenly cried out in innocent recognition, yearning for a bond even deeper than the one he had held with her for so long.  Vilya's urgency grew as she called to her kin from the beginnings of it all – and Elrond nearly screamed as he felt his heart break.  Vilya's song grew stronger, and he felt Narya grow closer.

          Not far away, he felt Galadriel's twin pain, akin to his own.  Oh, she knew it, even as he did – and Elrond felt, rather than saw or heard, her tears begin as she wept silently for the one impossible hope they had held for so long.  All his previous strengths and resistance crumbled to dust beneath the pain and despair; Elrond suddenly felt that he had nothing left to give.  It was over, now… The slim chance given by the freedom of the Third Elven Ring was gone, wasted by whatever cruel twist of fate.  And Elrond and Galadriel both felt it as the bearer of the Third came forth, beaten by fate and walking to death.

          In the back of his mind, the Half-Elven heard Sauron laugh.