Author's note: I think that I'll stay quiet and not bother with apologies…but, of course, I am sorry this is taking so long! The writer's block has finally deserted me, though, so I DO actually know what comes next (finally!!!). In other words, stay tuned, and here's the next part for your reading enjoyment. Thanks for all the reviews so far, and please keep 'em coming! (In case you haven't guessed, I love reviews. They encourage me to write that much faster….) Thanks again for reading.
Where the Shadows Lie
A Tale Of The Ring
"I cannot use it. I dread the pain of touching it. And I have not yet found the strength to bend it to my will. My pride has fallen. It should go to the Keepers of the Three."
Chapter Fourteen: ConflictAmongst their number he had come once more, which would have finally reunited the Fellowship if it were not for the absence of Pippin. Yet though he lived still, the old wizard lay unmoving and limp in his chains. The others looked to him with concern and fear, for his chest barely rose and fell, and his skin was a most unnatural white color. He seemed to be holding to life by only the thinnest of threads, and for all of them, Saurman immediately came to mind. The other wizard, or Maia, as Elrond called them both, had been Sauron's first victim. There seemed nothing to keep Gandalf from being the next.
Hours had passed, though, and he still breathed. The prisoners had been silent, for the most part, during that time, save for their initial surprise after two Ringwraiths had brought him into the cell. But Sauron's creatures had left quickly, somehow frightened of the unconscious wizard. They had chained him hurriedly and then bolted, glancing futilely over their shoulders with nonexistent eyes that could not see as they left. That action alone struck Legolas as strange, for he had not know that the Black Riders could feel fear. Dead men, he had always supposed, felt nothing. Yet they did fear Gandalf, and he did not know why.
Elrond did, clearly, but he did not speak. He remained as silent as Galadriel now, his eyes riveted on the wizard's still form, as if he could will the other back to consciousness – or to life. The only information the others had been able to glean from him was that Gandalf the Gray had been the bearer of Narya, the Third Elven Ring.
Now that, Legolas could believe. Somehow – he knew not – the wizard had lived through his confrontation with the Balrog, only to return and to be betrayed. Elrond had said that he had battled Sauron, and fallen… But if Mithrandir could not defeat Sauron, Legolas doubted that any could. Although the wizard had never shown any awesome strength, somehow the elven prince had known he was stronger than any other. But both Saurman and Gandalf had fallen, now… Such thoughts brought painful doubt into Legolas' mind. For some reason, he had held to hope, but Elrond's despair was contagious. The Lord of Rivendell knew the Rings far better than Legolas could ever dream to, and if he believed all was lost…
Yet Elrond still stared at Gandalf, waiting for…for what? Hope? Or did he merely wait for the end to come? The prince of Mirkwood knew not, but his heart darkened as he pictured a future under the Dark Lord's sway. In that way, he almost hoped that Mithrandir did not recover, for the wizard would hate what Middle-Earth would become if Sauron controlled it. Perhaps it was better to die than to endure the millennia to come.
For a moment, Legolas wished he were mortal.
Arwen stood upon the hilltop, glancing up at the starless sky and striving for calm. The army had stopped for the night – or at least, the period of hours that would have been nighttime had not every moment of every day contained the same blackness – and she had to be alone. In only two "days" time, they would reach Barad-dûr, and before that time came, Arwen needed to prepare herself for what was surely to come. Oh, this was so hard…it was nearly impossible to seem impenetrable and strong, always ancient and sure of herself. She stood to loose so much if their world was destroyed…and not only her people or her future. There was her father, Elrond, whom though she had had differences with over the years, she loved more than the world; Galadriel, her mother's mother, who had been the rock Arwen leaned upon when both she and her father were devastated by her mother's departure for the West; and then there was Aragorn. Aragorn… She missed him so. There were not words to describe it, nor would she try. She simply yearned for him as for half of her own soul.
Footsteps in the darkness approached, then, and she knew who it was before he spoke.
"My Lady?" Faramir whispered as if afraid to disturb her. But what was he afraid of interrupting? There was no peace left.
"Lord Faramir." Arwen forced a smile for him as she turned to face the son of Denethor, for they had become fast friends over the past hard months. Faramir was a good man, nothing like his father, and very dear to her. In many ways, he reminded her of Aragorn – strong, noble, and willing to do the right thing, no matter what the personal cost.
"You asked for me, Lady?"
"Yes." She nodded lightly. "Will you walk with me?"
"Of course," Faramir replied, but she could see a matching darkness in his eyes. The entire camp had been affected by Denethor's foolish ambition, and now hope was in short supply…even for those who should not have felt the rising evil that brushed against Arwen's heart.
Together they set forward, moving through the Alliance's camp at a deceptively calm pace. To many, the man and elf seemed well matched, and there were not a few men of Gondor who hoped to see them together someday. Perhaps even Denethor shared that desire, though neither cared if he did. Faramir, unlike many of the Alliance's leaders, knew of her love for Aragorn. He had noticed that from the very beginning, and was content to remain friends. In fact, many of their conversations consisted of the steward's son trying to learn of he who would be his king, but Arwen told him little. Aragorn he would have to meet for himself. For the moment, Faramir would have to be content with knowing her.
As friends, that was a simple task. Not so, however, was what she had set out to say. Their comfortable silence finally became uneasy after several moments' walking, though, and Arwen felt compelled to speak. She asked, "You realize what you have done, do you not?"
Faramir's piercing eyes met hers, and she saw sadness, but no regret. "Aye," he responded. "If you mean in breaking with my father."
"I do."
"I've thought of it much as of late," he said slowly. "But it was the right thing to do."
Arwen felt her heart grieve for this man, so honorable, and yet so lonely. "He will not forgive you for it."
"I know."
There was pain in his voice that even a man such as Faramir could not hide, especially to elven ears. He loved his father, truly and fully, even though he knew what Denethor was – and what the man dreamed of being. The difference was that Faramir knew his father never could have held the Ring. He knew that it would have destroyed him…and that Middle-Earth would still have been lost. Still, though, Denethor's anger hurt him deeply. She whispered to him, "I am sorry."
"We all do what we must, Lady." Faramir shrugged. "Besides, you, also, have lost much."
"That does not change your own pain."
"Nor does it change yours," she countered evenly. Faramir worried her sometimes…his sense of honor could destroy him if he wasn't careful, for he was bound to act, but his heart would bleed every time another hated him for his actions, no matter how right they were – and there would always be someone to hate him. Good men always had to live with that.
His eyes drifted away from hers for a moment, and Arwen could sense that he did not want to talk about this. Indeed, he far rathered bury his pain inside where no one, especially a nosy elf, could see it, and where no one could bother him. He might not have felt so bad had there been any hope for success, but his actions could save no one, and that only made him feel worse. He had done all the right things, but that had not helped at all. Unfortunately for him, Arwen Evenstar considered him a friend, and thus felt honor-bound to help him, if he wanted it or not. Though there was little she could do, she would still try.
He spoke lightly, trying to distract her. "You worry for a mere man?"
Arwen looked him in the eye. She was not letting him out of this, no matter how much he squirmed. "I worry for a friend."
"A friend, lady?"
"A friend, indeed." Arwen stopped and laid a gentle hand on his arm, startling him slightly. "I know your pain, Faramir," she said softly, "and though I can not change it, I can tell you to hold on. Do not give up yet… I know that there seems no hope, but something in my heart tells me this is not over. Perhaps your sacrifices will not be for naught."
"But what if it is?" His eyes, suddenly lost and hurt, turned to her, searching for answers he knew she could not give, for answers she could not possibly have. Faramir was grasping at straws now, yearning for reasons to continue on with this hopeless battle, but finding it harder than anyone would have guessed, because, for him, doing the right thing had always cost far too much.
Arwen took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
"Then we die knowing that we did our best."
Pain was the first thing he felt, though it also was the last. Consciousness was fleeting; for only seconds he felt it, only long enough to feel his heart and soul throb, long enough to know that Narya was gone. He was a Maia, and thus could not feel mortal pain…but he could feel the rents in his soul. His mind, the most sacred abode for his people, had been invaded by an evil few could comprehend; in its wake there was only pain, and a gleaming emptiness. Had he lost…? Was it truly over, then? A sudden dizziness swept through him, then, and he felt himself fading once more. His last conscious realization was that his mind was still his own.
His defenses had held.
The doors burst open once more, but this time, the intruders were not Ringwraiths alone. No, much to Frodo's surprise, Sauron himself entered their cell. Preceded by two Ringwraiths and followed by two others, the Dark Lord presented a towering and frightening sight; despite himself, the hobbit shrank back, pressing his slender body into the moldy cell wall in a futile and subconscious attempt to escape Sauron. Distantly in his mind he heard the Ring's voice singing to him, but even that longing faded beneath this greater fear. What could Sauron want now? Victory had to be in his grasp, so why did he persist in tormenting the Fellowship? Where they truly to be his trophies, kept in torment and pain for all eternity? Frodo shuddered and tried to bite back his fear, but it was no use.
Sauron, however, did not even spare him a glance. Although he had once delighted in tormenting Frodo, he seemed not to care now. Nor was he looking at Aragorn, Galadriel, or even Elrond. Rather, the Dark Lord's eyes were focused upon Gandalf, and his timing seemed to have been perfect.
The wizard stirred slightly and moaned, seeming deceptively human to Frodo's eyes. Anticipation seemed to seep from Sauron, then, and the hobbit would have sworn the monster licked his lips, had he been able. The Dark Lord shifted impatiently as he watched Gandalf, waiting for the other to awake – though for what purpose, Frodo could not fathom. What more could Sauron want? There was nothing left for him to take; upon one hand he wore the One Ring, and upon the other gleamed Vilya, Nenya – and Narya. Everything was his.
Gandalf's eyes snapped open and his head jerked up, his eyes, formerly so kind and peaceful, burning into Sauron's. Frodo blinked at the change, for it was more pronounced even than the unexplained difference in the wizard's 'color'; this deadly and focused glare bespoke of more than the casual, kindly wizard had ever revealed of himself. He shifted in his chains, testing them carefully; his actions marked him as the only one in that cell who did not fear the Dark Lord. Still, though, there was a grogginess to Gandalf's movements that made him seem extremely weary or drugged. Long seconds of silence ticked by and the other prisoners waited with baited breath to see how the two would face off. Finally, Sauron was the first to speak.
"Olórin," the Dark Lord hissed contemptuously, and Frodo saw the tiniest flicker of surprise flash through Gandalf's eyes before they hardened to cold flint once more. "Oh, yes…I know. Although I admit I am surprised to find you, of all our people, here on Middle-Earth. Curumo I could believe, but you…you I thought would not care enough in your superior wisdom."
The wizard met the other's gaze evenly and did not reply, leaving the hobbit puzzling over Sauron's words. Curiosity almost overshadowed fear, then, as Frodo struggled to figure out exactly what the Dark Lord meant. What was Gandalf?
"They once called you the wisest of us all," Sauron mocked him. "Although your powers have proven no match for me, in the end, Olórin. Or is it that your time amongst weaklings has transformed you so much? Either way, you have lost…" The Dark Lord grinned suddenly, sending a shiver down Frodo's spine. Then he raised his left hand, upon which the Three Elven Rings glittered in the pale light. "Everything."
For the first time, the wizard seemed to flinch. Frodo imagined that Gandalf felt a calling similar to – if not stronger than – the one he felt. The One called to him…would that not mean that Gandalf's Ring, which the wizard had surely borne longer than Frodo the One, called to him, too? The hobbit could see his own pain and longing reflected in the wizard's eyes, but something stronger flashed past that, and seemed to overcome the desires that Frodo himself still could not move beyond. A shaky breath emerged from Gandalf as he forced his eyes away from his ring and to meet Sauron's once more. He spoke softly. "You have not won yet."
"A matter of time," the Dark Lord gloated.
Gandalf said nothing. He merely looked at the other with a calm determination that seemed to say that it was not over.
Rage rolled off Sauron in physical waves, and Frodo heard him hiss in anger and frustration. His left hand came up and clenched into a fist, and the hobbit heard the bitten-off cry that came from the wizard as his head slammed back into the wall. Power surged then; it came on so strongly that Frodo did not need his connection with the Ring to feel it, and he heard the rest of his companions gasp from its force. Something deep and fierce rushed forward, and he felt evil reaching out through the third ring and into Gandalf. Both Elrond and Galadriel cried out in alarm and helpless fury, then, as the Dark Lord reached into the wizard's mind.
