Author's note: Well, I shall not say much. I don't think I need to, because this part seems to speak for itself – don't worry, though. I've already started the next one, so I'll try not to keep you waiting long. As always (I'm sure you know what I'll say by now), please, please, please review…makes me all warm and squishy inside. Thanks!
Where the Shadows Lie
A Tale Of The Ring
"With that power I should have power too great and terrible. And over me the Ring would gain a power still greater and more deadly. Do not tempt me! For I do not wish to become like the Dark Lord himself. Yet the way of the Ring to my heart is by pity, pity for weakness and the desire of strength to do good. Do not tempt me! I dare not take it, not even to keep it safe, unused. The wish to wield it would be too great for my strength. I shall have such need of it. Great perils lie before me."
Chapter Fifteen: SiegeThe army was in camp around Barad-dûr, and that fact, unlike anything else, had finally forced Denethor into relative silence. He seemed to be, much like the others, horrified by the vastness of the black tower and the evil that seemed to color its stone walls. Now, though, they lay in siege of the tower, having cut off all advance and retreat from it, but that seemed to be of little use. Sauron, they knew, could withstand such things for years. After all, he had done so in the past, when the Last Alliance of Elves and Men had spent eight years on the Dark Lord's doorstep, waging a war that had cost more in lives than their army numbered now. Although Sauron's army was also smaller this time around – largely due to their efforts – the siege promised to be equally as long, unless they could find a way to change the situation.
The problem was that there didn't seem to be one.
Until someone found that, the siege promised to be a long and drawn out affair that had, so far, accomplished nothing other than grating on everyone's nerves and fracturing the already flimsily relationship between the Alliance's leaders. As they waited, all they could really do was make faces at the walls and anger Sauron through their defiance in the very act of being there. Unfortunately, angered though he might have been, the Dark Lord showed no sign of budging from his safe tower, and seemed perfectly content to waste the time he knew they did not have.
While he did that, the bonds between the Alliance's leaders grew weaker and weaker. Even Thranduil and Celeborn, ancient and wise, were beginning to feel the strain, and their tempers grew shorter and shorter as time passed. For five days they had been camped outside of Barad-dûr, and they had seen no movement aside from the changing of the guard. The gates had not opened, and battle had not been sought. There was nothing, no change. It seemed that they were consigned to wait.
Until the Mouth of Sauron ventured forth upon a huge and ugly black horse, and amid drum rolls loud and deep enough to wake the dead. The gates of the dark tower opened to release him, and he rode forth, accompanied only by a small host of guards who bore a black standard, upon which the Evil Eye was depicted in red. His appearance was ghastly and frightening, but the assembled leaders quickly knew that this was no Ringwraith; rather, this was a human man, diseased and corrupted by the evil of Sauron.
"I am the Mouth of Sauron," cried he. "I come to offer terms to those worthy of negotiating with me."
As one, the leaders of the Alliance stepped forward, their backs straight and eyes hard, but Thranduil spoke before Denethor had a chance to do so. Wary, Faramir laid a hand upon his father's arm, not wishing for the Steward to ruin all they had worked so hard to attain, but Denethor only gave him a sour look and closed his mouth.
"Speak, vile creature, but first know we do not treaty with the Lord of Lies," the elf returned, looking more ancient, lordly, and powerful than Faramir had ever seen him.
"Be what may, my Master bids you to take his mercy and retreat," the corrupted man retorted. "If each of you vows to submit to Mordor's will and live as loyal subjects, Sauron the Great promises that you and yours will come to no harm."
"We have seen the effect of his promises before," the elven-king spat back with contempt. "Begone, foul mouthpiece! We want nothing of your deals or your vows! Leave, and tell your master that if he wishes us to submit, he must compel us by force!"
The Mouth of Sauron reared back with anger, his eyes flashing and his mouth curling into a snarl. "Know this, then, fool Elf-King: by your refusal, those you hold most dear will pay!"
Fear filled Faramir's heart, and he thought he heard Arwen take a pained and sharp intake of air. Those words could have but one meaning, he knew; those in Sauron's hands would suffer for the decisions that the Alliance made. Thranduil, too, must have known, but the elf showed no sign of grief, even though his son was amongst those in the dungeons of Barad-dûr.
"Take our response to your lord or rue the day that you set foot outside the Black Gates!" the King of Mirkwood replied forcefully, his eyes ablaze with fury. His figure seemed to grow, then, and Faramir suddenly understood what it would have meant to face a High Elf of old. The Mouth of Sauron, too, understood, and spinning his horse, fled back into the Dark Tower, his guards following quickly on his heels.
Pippin looked up at her with pain in his heart. He had never met someone like the Lady Arwen Evenstar, not even Galadriel of Lothlórien. Her kindness to him had been amazing; over the last weeks she had kept the youngest hobbit by her side, listening to his grief and his doubts. Not once had she voiced her own pain, and he only now realized how selfish he had been. Little did he know how much that thought marked him; Pippin had matured so much during the War of the Ring, though his mind still had not grasped that.
"I have been abusing your kindness, haven't I?" he asked her.
Arwen's smile was bittersweet and sad. She no longer shown in the slight glow of torchlight, rather, she seemed to have dimmed a little. "No, Pippin," she said softly. "You have been through much."
Even a hobbit was wise enough to know that the elven princess only said those words to make him feel better. The pain in her eyes could not be missed, even by one such as he. "So have you," he pointed out, trying to match her gentle tone and not succeeding. "You lost your father, Galadriel, and…Strider. Aragorn, I mean. Whoever he is, anyway."
"Yes, I did." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "But I try not to grieve for myself, Pippin."
"Why not?"
"Because we stand to loose everything…not just friends and family." Arwen glanced away, and he could tell she was trying oh so hard to be strong. "If we fail, the world as we know it ends."
Fear gripped Pippin, and he had to ask, even though he was sure that he would not like the answer. "Do you think we will fail?"
"I don't know," she responded softly. "But I do not think this is over. Not yet…there is something left to come, Pippin. I do not know what, but I feel that in my bones."
"Is that good or bad?" the hobbit whispered. Something in her voice frightened him; it made her sound ancient and strong, and so wise. Her eyes, too, were terrifying, for they held knowledge that was clearly beyond his understanding.
"I don't know," she repeated. "But I fear for them, Pippin. I fear for him."
The hobbit nodded once in the silence. Only later did he think to ask who he was…at first he assumed Strider, but Elrond was her father. Either one could be the he she feared for, yet Arwen had not said who, and two hours later, in the dead of Darkness, there was no time to ask who she meant. In fact, by the time that there were moments to spare, so much had happened that Pippin, nor Arwen, would not spend the energy to care about cryptic worries or spoken words. In fact, by then it was too late to matter.
"Look!"
A voice cried out in the Darkness, high pitched with worry and despair. It caused all eyes in the camp to swivel around, searching for threats and for enemies. But the camp was quiet, as was the night. In fact, all seemed to quiet; scarcely any animals or noise-making life existed on the barren plains of Mordor. A heavy blanket of stillness lay suffocatingly over the Alliance's camp, isolating them in a frightening world all of their own. They seemed trapped, immobile and alone, until a cry split the night.
"The battlements!"
Eyes snapped upwards to stare at the dark tower of Barad-dûr, where, upon the first level of battlements, a scarce fifty feet above the rocky ground, figures appeared. First came the Urk-Hai, armed and armored to the teeth, who rushed forward to ring the landing's edge, eyes trained warily outwards. Then an honor guard of two Black Riders emerged, followed by the Dark Lord Sauron himself. Even from a hundred yards away, the monster was terrifying; the men, dwarves, hobbits, eagles, and elves of the Alliance could feel his sick satisfaction and his gleeful anticipation. His smile, of course, they could not see, but their eyes could register those who were brought out from the Dark Lord's hells. As his prisoners, beaten and defeated, came those they held most dear.
Frodo was the first, symbolically as well as literally, and Faramir felt himself gasp. The once sweet and innocent hobbit, who he had known only briefly, was beaten and bloodied, limp in the arms of the two Urk-Hai who carried him, one grasping each arm. Had Frodo been taller, his feet would have dragged on the ground; as it was, he dangled helplessly in the air. Seeing this, the Steward's son felt a rock-hard lump of dread form in his throat, and he had no doubt that the one-time Ringbearer was typical of his fellows, who filed out one by one, dragged or carried by the Urk-Hai.
Next came Boromir, and Faramir heard his father's muffled gasp from nearby as the leaders of the Alliance gathered mutely together behind him. The Captain of Gondor, his father's pride and joy, looked terrible, nearly as bad as Frodo, and Faramir understood Denethor's pain. After Boromir came Legolas; he hardly knew the elven prince, but he already grieved for Thranduil, looking upon his bloodied son. Gimli the Dwarf came next, slumped and seemingly barely conscious, with blood matting his thick beard. The small form of Merry followed him, also held from the ground by his guards and squirming helplessly. Last of the Fellowship came Aragorn, whom Faramir had met only once – and then as Strider and not knowing that he was his King. But the Heir of Isildur was limp, bloody, and tortured in the Urk-Hai's tight grasp. He seemed more dead than alive.
Directly behind Aragorn, though, came the remaining six Ringwraiths, two each dragging one of the bearers of the Three. A bloodied yet still beautiful elven queen was the first, and Faramir assumed this to be Galadriel, disfigured as she was by blood and grime. Second was Elrond, as abused and bad off as Aragorn. Last though, came Gandalf the White, largely intact in the physical sense, but unconscious and paler than a ghost. Blood, too, trickled down his face from his right temple.
As Sauron's creatures halted, displaying their burdens for all to see, the Mouth of Sauron once more emerged from the gates, causing the Alliance's leaders, as one, to move their hands to weapons' hilts. Eyes narrowed ominously, and Faramir felt his own fury rise. Oh, the meaning of the Mouth's treat was clear now…painfully clear. Sauron's lieutenant, though, only grinned at their impotent anger. He clearly knew they could not act; the gates had closed behind him, and even as the only available target, he was untouchable. If he died, many others would go with him.
"Behold the anger of Sauron!" he cried, and his awful voice sent a shiver down Faramir's spine. "My Lord sets forth these terms: submit to his will and none others shall die. Else, loose those dear to you one by one!"
From the corner of his eye, Faramir saw his father lurch forward a few steps, and though he tried to reach out and stop him, he was too late.
"Tell your master the free peoples of Middle Earth will not treaty with slave makers!" he roared, his eyes blazing with fury finally directed at the right enemy. Faramir felt a sigh of relief rattle in his own chest as Denethor continued. "Do what you may, Lord of Darkness! We will fight you until the end!"
A great cheer rose from the army behind them, and Faramir heard the scrape of swords coming from scabbards and the clank of weapons at the ready. In the time of the greatest adversity, the peoples of Middle Earth had indeed united…but most did not realize that they could not reach the enemy. The reply of the Mouth of Sauron was lost in the din; he shrugged, then, and simply looked upwards. Few seemed to notice this; the army was drunk on Denethor's courage and defiance, inspired and united for the final time. The Steward's son, though, stood frozen, his eyes moving to the battlements of Barad-dûr in mute anticipation.
The Ringwraiths brought Gandalf forward.
With a start, Elrond realized who Sauron's first target would be. Foolishly, the elf had expected it to be one of the hobbits, or even Boromir or Gimli – innocents or those there with kin who might, might, give in under the pressure. Elves, and by proxy, Gandalf, he had simply not taken into the equation, for he knew that Arwen, Celeborn, and Thranduil would not break, no matter how badly they were hurt, and he knew, somehow, that they were amongst those gathered at the gates of Barad-dûr. Likewise he discounted Aragorn, for though heartbroken she would be, Arwen would not take that path, nor would any Ranger sent to the alliance arrayed before them. He had assumed, though, that Sauron would depend upon emotional connections when he chose his victim.
He had not thought that the Dark Lord would go for simple impact and display of power.
But Sauron was wise, and he knew who the biggest threat amongst them was. It was not the army, nor even Elrond, who had faced him before, all those years ago. No, it was Gandalf, the only one of them who had the strength, the power, and the courage to actually do battle with him. It mattered not that the wizard had lost; all that mattered was that he had fought Sauron. Such an affront did not only anger the Dark Lord, though. It seemed to have pissed him off, and dictated who he would kill, salving his anger and eliminating the greatest danger at the same time.
Elrond felt his heart break. Unconscious, and held tightly by the most powerful Ringwraiths remaining, Gandalf, Mithrandir, stood not a chance. Especially with Narya upon Sauron's left hand… Sauron's taking of the Third Ring had hurt Gandalf far greater than the taking of Nenya or Vilya had hurt Galadriel or Elrond. The elf-lord knew not why, for both had held their rings longer than he, but he suspected the strength of that bond had something to do with the wizard's…other powers. Though Elrond had never seen the fully unleashed powers of an unencumbered Maia, he never made the mistake of assuming that just because he had not seen them, they were not there. Sauron was, after all, of the same origins as Gandalf. And once Sauron knew that, there was no way the wizard could defend against him.
The first war the wizard had survived, mind and soul intact and hidden away beyond the Dark Lord's power to reach. The second, though – the second – had succeeded in breaking through every barrier Gandalf had created. It had succeeded in breaking through to his soul, and Elrond had felt the Maia's pain when Sauron achieved his victory. Merciful, it had been, when the other had slipped into unconsciousness from which Elrond did not expect him to waken. In many ways, he hoped that the wizard would not wake, not be there to see the end. For then he would grieve as I do, for all is lost. At least, though, it was ending, and they would not spend an eternity as Sauron's trophies and play toys.
The world seemed to move slowly as the Dark Lord approached Gandalf with the One Ring burning brightly upon his right hand, in which Sauron held his own dark blade, reforged and reborn of old. His intentions, then, were clear; though Elrond knew not how to slay a Maia, it was clear that Sauron, once one of their own, did, and he would do so. Cries sounded from the base of Barad-dûr, but the elf paid them little heed as despair threatened to overcome his heart. If Gandalf falls, Middle Earth will fall with him, he knew.
Suddenly, Gandalf's head snapped up, and though Elrond could see the pain swimming in his eyes for the first instant, a cold determination seemed to banish it as quickly as it could rise. The Dark Lord growled softly and raised his blade, but to the elf's surprise, the wizard did not fight. He simply stood straighter and looked his enemy in the eye. Several long seconds passed in power-strained silence, and then Sauron smiled. He swung.
"No!" The cry came out of nowhere, but from the corner of his eye, Elrond saw a flash of movement –
And Frodo, broken loose from his Urk-Hai guardians, flew into the Dark Lord, knocking his sword aside even as it swept forward in the beginning of its deadly arc. Snarling, Sauron twisted aside, and grasping the hobbit in his left hand, made to twist his blade around and end the nuisance of Frodo, once and for all. But the hobbit clung to his right hand, struggling for the Ring.
With a roar, the Dark Lord ripped his hand away from his small opponent, and raised his blade for the killing blow.
Thunder, it was later said, seemed to crack in the sky, as the world threatened to end.
