Author's note:          Many apologies for the long wait…I had a bit of difficulties in deciding how to do what I want to do.  It's been quite a while since I've worked on a story that seems to write itself, though this one has acquired a personality all of its own!  That aside, here is Chapter Thirteen (otherwise known as Fourteen, since FFN doesn't have the ability to put in a Prologue as a different entity, but you know what I mean).  Bear with me, for I know it seems to be growing oh so slowly (trust me, I want to know what happens as much as you do!), but the next chapter, tentatively entitled "Conflict" is incoming and should answer a lot of questions.  Well, I'll just shut up now and let you read the story… so please review!!! (Please?).  Thanks again for reading my humble work.

Where the Shadows Lie

A Tale Of The Ring

"It is time for all to depart who would not be slaves."

Chapter Thirteen: Recognition

          "I see not who placed you in charge of this council!" Denethor's voice snapped out like a whip, fury and disappointment coloring his face.  His lips pealed back in an ugly snarl of disagreement, and he glared at his opponent, openly hostile.

          Again, they were seated around a portable, old, and fragile campaign table, though the composition of the council had changed as much as the table's shape.  Seated in a circle, starting from Denethor's right, were Saradoc, Pippin, Gwaihir (perched on the floor rather than on a chair, of course, but present all the same), Dáin, Halbarad, Faramir, Arwen, Celeborn, and Thranduil.  They stared at one another with varying emotional reactions, but all shared one precise feeling – they were lost.  Their last hope had been shattered and whisked away by Sauron's treacherous hands.  Where to go and what to do had abruptly become mysteries to the Council; all they knew as that they had to oppose the Dark Lord.  Promises of his meant nothing – as elves, men, and dwarves had learned so long ago.  Nothing that Sauron said could be trusted, and they only other agreement the council members faced was that they could not dare to trust him again, even if the Dark Lord brought forth another offer.  It just was not worth the risk.

          Celeborn brought his eyes up to squarely meet Denethor's, a molten flame burning within his gaze that none of them had ever seen before.  Even to Arwen, this glare was a mystery, and she had known her mother's father of old.  Still, though, he answered calmly, "I act out of necessity, Steward of Gondor," he replied with only the slightest of bites in his voice.  "Power, nor control, will never be a goal of mine.  My people have left this earth – my only allegiance is to stop an evil I have seen growing for far more years than you have lived.  I speak, then, Denethor, for the good of all."

          "We need not the likes of you to defeat the Dark Lord!" the Steward spat back angrily, bristling at the elf-lord's mildly admonishing tone.  His eyes flashed with return fire and his face tightened down viciously. 

          "You need the likes of the one you betrayed!" Celeborn thundered suddenly, his long-held control and fury breaking.  "I will not assume the role of a leader amongst you, but I will tell you what you must do if you wish for anything aside from slavery to Sauron himself!"

          The Steward blinked once, shocked by the so unlikely outburst from the normally cold elf, uncomprehending for a brief and unbelievable moment.  He moved to speak quickly, though –

          "Nay, Denethor!" Celeborn snapped.  "You have said quite enough, and you will abide by the will of the Council.  No longer will you crawl in the darkness, deceiving and misleading as if you were one of the Dark Lord's own creatures.  What the Council decides, the Alliance will do!"  The elf seemed to bite his ire back with an effort before turning to his right and asking:

          "Now, Thranduil, what would you suggest?  Be quick in your words, for we have not much time."

          The Elven King's eyes glazed over for a moment, but he spoke clearly enough.  "I will not dwell upon mistakes past," he said quietly.  "What is done is done."  He took a deep breath, and his eyes deemed to scan the others with a great and ancient weariness.  "Sauron now possesses all the Rings of Power remaining in this world.  Long has he had the Nine and those remaining of the Seven; at the beginning of our war he gained the One; and through that he has gained the Three.

          "His strength is growing, and though I am no student of Ring-Lore, I do know this: once he gains complete control of the Three and their bearers, we can not stand against him.  Nothing can."

          "Are you saying all is lost, then?" Pippin whispered, his voice small and uncertain.  His eyes darted from Denethor to Celeborn and then back to Thranduil, and the young hobbit looked frightfully lost in this battle that he had not chosen to join and this war he knew not how to fight.  His innocent face turned to them all with worry, then, and it seemed that he was the very personification of all they were fighting to protect in Middle-Earth.

          "Nay," Thranduil said softly, his eyes meeting Celeborn's for one brief instant.  "But our chances grow slighter with each passing hour."

          "Then what?" Halbarad drove the point home.  "If you say we have not much time, do we move now and risk everything?"

          "I think we must."  Surprisingly, it was Dáin who replied to the Ranger's question.  The Dwarf-King's face was taut with sorrow and regret, and none had to ask to know he had accomplished much serious soul searching in the hours following Denethor's midnight council.  Without Sauron's treachery, he might forever have maintained that he was right; after events past, the stubborn dwarf had no qualms with admitting his mistakes.  Rather, he (and all the others, save Denethor), had possessed the courage to face the others and express their heartfelt apologies.  Such actions could not have been easy for such a strong being, but Dáin had borne the burden like a true king.  He continued, "The only choice I see is the option of old – to lay siege to Barad-dûr itself."

          A low mummer of anticipation and fear worked its way around the table until Faramir spoke.  "But the last siege lasted eight years," he pointed out with despair.  "From what Lords Celeborn and Thranduil have said, we have not that much time."

          A shake of Celeborn's head might have crushed that hope had Arwen not spoken.  "But what other choice do we have?" she countered.  "It seems better to me to fail in taking the Dark Tower than to fail to try at all.  Truly, what do we have to loose?  Our lives?  They are already forfeit if Sauron wins, for he will not tolerate opposition.  We have marked ourselves through our previous courage.  Let that not fail us now, when we most need it."  Her dark eyes focused on them all, one by one.

          "Let it instead carry us through the Darkness to come, and let it give us hope."

          Gimli twisted in his chains to look upon the Lady Galadriel.  Once great, beautiful, and strong, the Lady of Lothlórien was now as ragged, dirt-covered, and bloody as her fellow prisoners.  However, that was not what drew the dwarf's attention.  No, his eyes traveled to her not to see the physical damage he already knew of – and accepted, albeit angrily; he looked to her rather with a heart full of concern.  Only moments before, the Lady had cried out as if in great pain, her voice fraught with despair.  Elrond, too, had let loose a awful cry, and now the elf lord simply stared blankly at the cell wall before him, his eyes distant and vacant; he seemed not to notice anything save his own desolation.  But Gimli's eyes traveled to Galadriel because of the broken tears streaming down her face.

          She had always been so strong, had always refused to break, no matter what Sauron did to her – but not now.  For some reason, her strength had left her.  He spoke his question softly.  "My lady?"

          She did not respond; only the shudder tearing through her body told him that Galadriel had heard him at all.  Her eyes remained closed tightly against some evil that only she and Elrond could feel, and she shook helplessly, tears streaming down her face.  Gimli frowned.

          "Lady Galadriel?"

          Finally, her eyes blinked open, and the dwarf could almost feel the pain running through them.  She breathed the word out in reply, "Gimli…"

          "What happened, Lady?"  Part of him hated to ask, for it clearly caused her pain, but he had to know.  The Fellowship needed to know.  A feeling in his heart told him that it mattered…something that could affect two such ancient and powerful beings was certainly a threat to them all.  Somehow, the future seemed to depend upon her reply.

          Galadriel's eyes closed again, and her tears were his only answer.  As the dwarf watched, the elf seemed to retreat into herself, silent and pained in ways he could not understand.  She remained silent, then, refusing to reply and simply allowing her head to drop listlessly upon her chest.  All brightness seemed to have left the Lady of Light, now; all that she once was now was no more.  Even to Gimli's once admiring eyes, Galadriel seemed to be not even a shadow of her former self.  Had one who had not lasted through those changing and torturous times with the Fellowship seen her, they could easily have failed to recognize the once great elven lady, for she had changed so much.  Even Gimli could hardly believe she had become like this – and so quickly, too.  Only hours before, Galadriel had been resolute and unyielding, resisting to all of Sauron's evil.  Now, though, when the Dark Lord had not even lifted a hand, she had been crushed.

          And nothing in him could understand why.

          "My Lady?" he repeated.  "What happened?"

          Galadriel shuddered and did not answer.  Only her tears came harder, and she sho9ok her head, her tangled and blood-matted hair swiping unevenly across her bruised face.  Finally, the strangled whisper escaped her lips.  "No…"

          "My Lady?" Concern threatened to tear Gimli's heart, but she would not answer.  A chill ran down the dwarf's spine, and one glance around told him that the others of the Fellowship were as frightened by this new development as he.  None, however, dared to speak as they exchanged uneasy glances.

          In the long silence, though, another did.

          "He has gained the last of the Three Elven Rings," Elrond whispered, and as Gimli's head snapped to face him, he saw the black despair on the half-elf's face.  Oh, the other was strong – he was burying his own pain deep inside and struggling to hold out against its pressures – but he clearly had no hope.  Not now.  "Narya's bearer was betrayed, and has fallen into Sauron's hands… They have battled, but he has lost…" Elrond let out a shaky sigh.  "Now there is nothing.

          "Nothing at all."

          Celeborn sighed quietly in the darkness as he watched the Allied Army prepare to move out.  At least he was alone, where no one could hear or see his fears…or his expectations.  The nearest beings were at least twenty feet away, and he stood in a clump of trees that camouflaged him well.  Anyways, an elf who did not want to be found was not easily spotted…and he was feeling rather anti-social at the moment.  He had no desire whatsoever to speak to anyone else, be they council member or not.  His spat with Denethor had left him feeling frayed and drained; he had hardly expected one idiotic, prideful, and power-hungry human to be so much trouble!  Of course Denethor was not just any human, and he did mean well, but that did not take any stress away from the situation.

          He felt old.

          That, however, was an understatement.  He felt ancient.  One might say that he felt his years, but elven-kind was as timeless as they were immortal.  No power of Middle-Earth should have been able to make him feel like this – and yet the war had.  He let loose a soft chuckle at his own nature.  For years the elves had said that their time on Middle-Earth was over, that the time of men had come…and he had believed them.  He had wanted to, even knowing as he did that Sauron would not give up without a fight.  Thus, the only thing that had kept Celeborn in that world was his love for Galadriel.  She had needed to stay, needed to see it through…and he had promised to do so by her side.  But he had never envisioned fighting this war.  He had never expected to have to go on without her.  And he had never, ever, imagined facing off with Sauron himself.

They were going to have to, though.  That was the only chance they had left – to go the route of old, and pray that luck was with them.  Perhaps they could get the Ring from him…somehow.  He doubted that, but it could happen.  Perhaps.  Even though they had no heroes of the likes of Gil-galad and Elendil.  He and Denethor made poor substitutions for such legendary figures, and he knew that neither of them had the strength to stand up to Sauron, to fight him to the last… Despite the fact that Denethor would clearly like to think himself capable of it.  Then again, the Steward had a burning desire to be the savior of humanity and rule Gondor, not as keeper, but as king. 

He shook his head to clear it.  That threat had passed for the moment.  Celeborn had little doubt that it would arise once again, after this was all over – but for now, he could not afford to dwell upon Denethor's infuriating ambitions.  They had not the time, and he had not the energy.  He was too tired for that.  He felt too old.

And he felt a nagging and painful truth in his heart.

It wasn't going to work.

It couldn't.  Sauron could not possibly be so stupid as to allow himself to be destroyed twice in the same manner.  Blind luck had guided Isildur's hands the first time, and Celeborn knew that the Alliance would find no such gift for a second try.  Nothing they could do would change that, either, and though they had to try, they would fail.  The Alliance would fail, and Middle-Earth would fall.

He'd had to give them hope, but he felt none himself.

"You look troubled," a soft voice suddenly came from behind him, and Celeborn felt a gentle hand lay suddenly upon his elbow.  Without turning, he knew it was Arwen, the invisible binding force between so much of the Alliance: betrothed of Aragorn, daughter of Elrond, granddaughter of he and Galadriel.  There was much more to her than beauty, he knew, but others often had a hard time looking past that.

An elf who did not want to be found was not easily spotted…except by an elf who knew exactly what to look for.

Wordlessly, he nodded.  She knew, of course.  Arwen could not miss his worries and his fears.  His daughter's daughter had always been intelligent and pragmatic, even where those she loved were concerned.  She stood to loose the most out of all of them, and yet she still seemed to hope.  But looking in her eyes, now, he saw his own emotions reflected.  Arwen knew.  She knew there was no chance.

"You worry," she continued softly when he still did not speak.  "You worry as I do, but far more.  Why?"

Celeborn sighed again.  "I did not feel this way in the beginning," he replied finally.  "I almost felt hope, then… But that was when I understood it all.  That was when things made sense."

It went without saying that nothing did now.  "What is it that you can not understand?"

"Mithrandir has fallen…as he knew he would."  To no one else would he have ever dared to voice his doubts, but Arwen was his only remaining kin, and he knew he could trust her.  Young as she was – and rash, though some labeled her – Elrond's daughter possessed wisdom far beyond her years.  "He knew that just as he knew that Sauron would not keep his word.  So what I do not understand is why he allowed himself to be taken.  Why did he throw everything away?"

"Maybe he had no choice," she replied.

Celeborn forced a half smile in ironic amusement.  "My dear Arwen, I know not much of the Maiar, but I know enough of Mithrandir…had he decided to remain, no mere man could have forced his hand.  Especially changed as he is now."

"So then you wonder why."  Realization dawned in her eyes, and his granddaughter nodded. 

"Yes," he admitted.  "And not knowing that makes me very afraid indeed."  The elf-lord took a deep breath, and continued, "I am almost tempted to hope…but I fear that he did have no choice…and that Denethor has doomed us all."