Author's note: Drum roll please…. Well, here it is – "Confrontation" – and the title makes it easy to guess exactly what that might be about. I'm working on the next part as we speak (type), so stand by for that, too. Please let me know what you think of this one – I hope I got it right, cause I did it quite a few times. Please Review!!!
Where the Shadows Lie
A Tale Of The Ring
"Before him stood the old figure, white, shining now as if with some light kindled within, bent, laden with years, but holding a power beyond the strength of Kings."
Chapter Twelve: Confrontation
The Black Riders stopped, and amid the dark and barren terrain of Mordor, Gandalf found himself looking upon Barad-dûr. It was a singularly ugly and dark tower, nothing like the bright and white of Minas Tirith, and the wizard could almost feel the pain resonating from inside it. The Fellowship was close…he could not sense them, but he could feel Elrond and Galadriel. They were close, and they were in pain. In that instant, he knew that they felt him as well – and he would have shared their despair, had not his mind been so sharply focused on his purpose.
Narya burned bright upon his chest.
It was as if the Ring knew that the One was near; Sauron's presence burned into the back of Gandalf's mind as well, drawing ever so closer…His evil was great enough that it left a sour taste in the wizard's mouth, and made him feel cold even in the desert heat. In the distance, the Dark Lord emerged from his black tower, striding forward confidently with the air of one who knew he had won. And so he had, the wizard reflected grimly. In more ways than one. But he would not make victory come easily. If he were the last to resist, he would do so. Such was why he had come in the first place; such was his duty. Such was his destiny.
Narya's flame grew sharper, and he could feel the heat, the power, coming from his Ring. His Ring…for the next few moments. Then it would be over; that much he knew. There was no avoiding defeat – he could only chose how to bear it, and what route he would follow after. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the Nazgûl clear the path before him, leaving nothing between the Dark Lord and his prey. Four of the eight dismounted their winged beasts to cut off any possible retreat, and all bowed as Sauron came within fifty feet. With one last glance up at the sky, Gandalf riveted his eyes on the Dark One. Fear and fire washed through him, but he let a deep breath out and remained still. Long ago he had faced this same power, cloaked in the guise of the Necromancer as it was, and though he had returned shaken from the pits of Dol Guldur, he had returned. He knew what he was facing. He had always known. All we have to do is decide what to do with the time that is given us.
Gandalf dismounted.
Shadowfax stood next to him, head held high and strong, but even then, he felt the horse's fear. Though the greatest of his kind, even Shadowfax had reason to tremble before the Dark Lord. No living begin upon Middle-Earth could avoid that fear – even Gandalf the White, who deep down inside, was still more human than the rest of his kind. Perhaps the years had changed him. Perhaps his once-mortal body had corrupted him. Whatever the reason, though, the tinniest glimmer of fear was there. Tiny, but true, even as he denied it and stood strong. His fear was not for himself; no, it was only for failure. He could not afford to fail.
Slowly, he turned to Shadowfax, laying a gentle hand upon the stallion's neck. Their eyes met, and Gandalf nodded to his mount. "Fly, my friend," he said softly. "Leave this place, and wait for me, whatever may come."
One last glance from Shadowfax asked him if he was sure; seeing there was no doubt in his eyes, the great horse stepped back, cautiously eying the enemies around him, then wheeled and sprinted away, faster than the wind could fly. His form faded rapidly in the distance, and the wizard only turned away after his friend had disappeared. A slight chill ran through him, half from fear and half from anticipation…but whatever the reason, he was alone now. The only allies he had were prisoners or high in the sky, out of reach and out of time. Part of him wished to escape the way Shadowfax had, but in his heart, he knew that he was where he had to be. For good or for worse, it had begun.
It had begun.
Sauron stopped a mere fifteen feet away from him, and the Dark Lord smiled. Gandalf felt him, then, reaching out to Narya, testing and gauging powers. But without his hands on the Ring, Sauron could not control her – not yet. One of them had to wear it to make that possible. The moment was coming…just not yet. And the wizard was willing to wait for it, was willing to make Sauron come to him. The Dark Lord, he knew, would not disappoint. Long had it been since Sauron had been willing to wait for anything, and this was no exception.
"Gandalf the Grey…" Sauron hissed, his voice dark and cruel in the language of Mordor. Long ago, it had been said that Sauron had created the language himself, simply to give voice to his hatred and evil. "But changed."
A deep breath ran all anxiety out of him, and he descended into a razor sharp focus as he simply inclined his head to the other in response. Gandalf stood loosely, Glamdring sheathed at his left side and staff in his right hand. He wore no cloak to disguises himself now, and was the single ray of light upon the dark plains of Mordor.
"So it is you," the fallen Maia mused, his eyes darkening a deep and dangerous red. Anger flowed there, hard and strong – there was nothing Sauron hated more than defeat, save being fooled, and Gandalf had done that more than once in the past years. Realization, too, joined the anger quickly enough as the Dark Lord realized who the mover behind events had been for nearly a century – from the driving out of the "Necromancer" to the finding of the One Ring, Gandalf had had a hand. For his part, the wizard merely met Sauron's livid gaze evenly, waiting. "I might have known."
Yet you did not, the Maia had the sense not to say. Thus, another victory for the light. You cannot have everything, Sauron. Someone will always resist you, even those you do not expect. He held the other's gaze, and he saw fury blossom, then, and remembered the other's legendary lack of self-control. His opinions must have been that obvious from his silence, but he cared not. The cards were on the table now; it was only left to see who would make the first move.
But Gandalf the White had always had more patience than Sauron the Black.
"Gandalf the White," the other spat contemptuously. "Foolish as ever, I see."
Something was coming. His heart threatened to pound in his chest, but he contained it well. He'd years of hiding his true emotions behind a wall; this was no different. Instead, he merely arched one eyebrow with curiosity.
"You have given yourself up for nothing," Sauron gloated, a feral gleam entering his eyes and making it impossible for a mere mortal to look upon him. "The 'Fellowship' lies still in my hands and will remain as such. And you bring me the Third – in exchange for nothing."
Despair might have overtaken him, but Gandalf had expected this. Perhaps Denethor had actually believed in the Dark Lord's promises – if he had, the Steward knew not the history of the nine kings of men well at all – but the wizard never had. Sauron's guarantee of returning the Fellowship had never been a part of his decision. From the beginning, he had known. There would be no other way. There could not have been.
"I always knew you had no honor, Sauron."
The Dark Lord laughed; Gandalf had known that would not insult him, though the calmness with which it was spoken seemed to give the other a slight pause – and the wizard would take every victory he could get. In the long run, they might just add up and be worth something…or not. Either way, he was in for a challenge like he had never faced before – and a power that he could technically not defeat. But Sauron blinked quickly, almost imperceptivity, when the wizard replied in the language of Mordor itself – a tongue that elves would not utter, and men knew not. Sauron stared at him for a long moment before replying, covering his confusion with easy and mocking laughter.
"And so you bring me the Third Ring…" Again, he smiled. Narya burned so brightly that the wizard could feel the fire and the power upon his chest, despite the layers of cloth between him and the Ring. "Will you save yourself pain and surrender it of your own free will?"
"No."
Such a simple word – no. Though Gandalf kept his voice low, a thunderbolt could not have struck Sauron with more shock and force. A wide array of emotions flashed across his face, ranging from astonishment to disbelief to fury, and the Dark Lord fairly well shook with rage. Power surrounded him, and seemed to crackle in the air as he glared at the wizard who was foolish enough to defy him so openly.
"So you choose the way of pain…" A slow smile spread across Sauron's face, and Gandalf suddenly got the feeling that the Dark Lord was going to enjoy this. The more rational part of the wizard's psyche reminded him that his was probably not the best idea…but he was committed, and would resist until the bitter end.
Sauron stepped forward.
Finally, Gandalf allowed his eyes to narrow and acted, forestalling his opponent by mere seconds and willingly making what he knew would be the biggest mistake of his life. His left hand reached up and tore Narya's chain from his neck. He felt the silver chain break, but there was no pain. Slowly, the chain slipped through the Ring and fell to the ground, pooling in a silver puddle at his feet. He paused for a moment to gather himself and look Sauron in the eye, but his mind was made up. In one smooth motion, Gandalf switched his staff to his left hand.
He placed Narya upon his right, bracing himself for war and for pain.
Elrond felt it the instant it began, and centuries of control flew out the window as he felt the onrush of power that heralded an inevitably loosing battle. For one moment a different type of power tore out to meet the blackness that was Sauron, but then that, too, dissipated into nothingness, defeated, and the Darkness rose. The Darkness rose…
Within his heart, Vilya wailed in broken and blackened agony, finally understanding.
Within their cell, Galadriel sobbed out the cry of "No!"
His own scream was wordless, but he felt it end.
Both hands gripped his staff with a deadly hold, clinging to it for dear life as Gandalf buffeted himself against the rising winds of power, his eyes tightly shut and his heart and mind focused on Narya. He could feel Sauron's might reaching for him; it scythed like claws through his mind, but he called upon his own strengths to keep his soul his own. A gust of magic swept into him and almost knocked him off of his feet, but he braced himself and held on, warring for control of his own mind with everything he had.
Pain tore through his body, then, as Sauron resorted to brute force, and he felt the evil hands tearing into and raping his mind. His wordless cry of agony and determination was lost in the tornado ripping around his body; a corner of his consciousness recognized that his garments were whipping wildly in the wind, but quickly, he was forced to retreat into a level both below and above conscious awareness, fighting Sauron on the level only a wizard – or a Maia – could. Angered, the Dark Lord threw more and more power at him, creating miniscule cracks in his defenses. As he felt the final push meant to break through his defenses, Gandalf shoved back.
Part of him must have known that Sauron staggered backwards, just for a moment, before agony split through his mind. Desperately, he clung to consciousness, always aware that there was another level of power to reach for, but unable to do so. He was Gandalf the White, and he had to hold to the Third. Narya…
But he knew he was fading fast.
With the last of his strength, Gandalf erected a wall around his mind, a fence around his soul. He poured his all desperation and desire into the effort, resisting the temptation to just give in, and shoved the deepest secrets of himself into a recess that no other could reach without ruling him first. Struggling now, he propelled his sense of self into a hole that he prayed Sauron could not reach, taking his bond with Narya down with it. Using her power, and his own, he shielded himself, even though he knew it would not last. Still, though, he had to hold on. There would be nothing left if he let go. Narya…
Finally, Gandalf raised his head and looked Sauron in the eye, communicating the depth of his defiance and his resolve before he sunk into blackness.
An eagle's screech split the sky, and Celeborn turned his head upwards to scan the heavens. Worry weighed heavily upon his heart, though he'd not spoken of its source to any of the others yet. Let them hope, he had decided. Even if only for a little while longer. He had nothing concrete to prove that his fears were well founded; only a feeling in the pits of his heart that he had felt since learning Gandalf was gone. I should never have set out on that fool's quest, he thought bitterly to himself. But I guess, like the others, that I was searching for hope of any kind. And finding my people would have given us allies, along with reuniting me with those long lost. That, and it would have been proof that not everything lies against us. Celeborn sighed; there was nothing to be done now, save wait. He shielded his sensitive eyes from the light of nearby torches, and squinted, finally spotting Gwaihir as the eagle spiraled down from the dark sky, returning from his mission of shadowing the wizard to the end.
Quickly, the great eagle landed before the elf-lord, his presence drawing others like moths to a flame. Faramir and Halbarad approached together, followed by Arwen and Pippin, side by side. Then there were Dáin and Thranduil, an unlikely pair, but together all the same – and the Lord of Lothlórien had to wonder what those two might have been speaking of. Bode it good or evil, though, such trivialities hardly mattered at the moment. There were far more important things to consider now. The eagle bowed his head in hurried greeting, but his eyes were dark.
"Gandalf the Great has fallen," Gwaihir stated flatly, and, almost as if to prove his point, Celeborn's sharp eyes picked up Shadowfax fast approaching in the distance, alone and riderless. "He battled with the Dark Lord for control of the ring Narya, and lost. Into the dark tower he has now been taken."
A sigh escaped the elf's lips as he allowed his eyes to slide shut; suddenly, he felt so tired, and he had never been more drained in his life. A soft voice, Arwen's voice, asked from behind him as Saradoc approached:
"And the prisoners?"
The eagle's beak twitched in what might have been a snarl in another animal. "They are to remain."
Celeborn opened his eyes. "It is as I would have expected, then," he said flatly, ignoring the mummers of surprise and anger that sounded around him. He had always feared this would all be for nothing, but it did his feelings no good to know that his worst suspicions had been realized. He turned to Faramir, and his voice grew hard. "So go tell Denethor that his gambit has failed. We meet in council now, again and united, to decide how to salvage what hope is left in this world."
