Author's note:          I am so sorry that this one took so long…I was on vacation (as some of you guessed), and though I intended to write (as we authors always do), I never got around to it.  However, I've been working on this part since I got back yesterday, and I finally got it done to my satisfaction.  I'll say no more, lest I give the plot away, but please accept my apologies, and enjoy Chapter Sixteen!  (And, as always, please review).  Thank you, of course, for reading – and no, this is not the end.

Where the Shadows Lie

A Tale Of The Ring

"One Ring to Rule them all…One Ring to find them…One Ring to bring them all…And in the Darkness bind them."

Chapter Sixteen: Battle

The previously light wind had stilled to nothing.  No stars shone in the sky, nor did a moon; the day-night was dark.  The cries from the base of Barad-dûr had quieted now, and a foreboding silence filled the air alongside the rumbling, until the thunder's roll was split by Sauron's howl of rage.

But their hearts were torn by Frodo's scream.

The hobbit flew away from Sauron, sailing through the air in seemingly slow motion.  He hit the ground hard, bounced twice, and came to a stop, rolled tightly into a ball, as if a child trying to shield himself from the frightening world outside.  Frodo lay still, then, a shivering and pale light in the darkness.  Looking upon him, the sudden and irrational hope lifting within Aragorn's heart crashed back down.  And when Sauron shrieked in absolute fury, he knew it was over.

The Dark Lord spun, his blade rising for the kill.  Murderous anger rolled from him in waves, making Aragorn, despite his strength, recoil involuntarily in his guards' grip.  He almost wept, then, for the world they had failed.  If such a small and meaningless act of defiance could win such anger from the Dark Lord, Middle-Earth had no chance.  Her once free peoples would suffer for all eternity.  Despair gripped him then, in the small moments before Frodo's death, for he knew who had failed them the most.  Indeed, blood did run true… But then he noticed something.

The Ring was missing from Sauron's hand.

The Heir of Isildur's eyes snapped to the balled up hobbit on the ground.  Frodo's right fist was shut tightly…could it be?  Could he have taken the Ring once more?  But he did not move, did not flinch.  He only seemed to brace himself for the inevitable ending, so still that he could very well have been dead already.  His eyes opened, though, to look at Sauron, frightened – oh, so frightened! – but determined and unwavering.  A final roar from Sauron brought his dark blade slashing down.

Move, Frodo! Aragorn's mind screamed helplessly, and he heard his voice echo the cry.  "Move!"

Simultaneously, to his right and seemingly so far away, he heard Merry scream, "No!"

Time seemed to slow.  There seemed interminable moments to feel the pain of failure, but not enough to stop it.  Uselessly, Aragorn struggled against the Urak-Hai gripping his arms.  Even though he knew he was too weak, even though he knew that even if he could escape, he would never reach Frodo in time to save him, he had to try.  He sensed more than saw that the others were doing the same, but all came to the same result as he.  They had failed.  It was over…  Time sped up.

          Sauron's dark blade swept downwards.     

White light split the world.

          A glowing white and elven blade of power intercepted the Dark Lord's, and power seemed to burst from the encounter.  Aragorn felt the Urak-Hai holding him recoil in shock, and as his vision cleared, the man who would be King gasped.  For the white blade Glamdring lay again in Gandalf's hands, and the wizard stood before Sauron once more, fire burning in his eyes.  His two Ringwraith guards lay sprawled on the ground to his right and his left, unmoving and thrown there by some unknown force.  But Aragorn's eyes were drawn once more to Gandalf.  The wizard stood straighter than he had ever seen him in their long acquaintance, his age and frailty gone.  The white of his garments seemed to shine in the darkness, creating a beacon of light and hope for the freedom of Middle-Earth, but bright though he shone, Aragorn could not look away.  He was captivated by the strength and the courage though which this seemingly old wizard could face down the greatest terror their world could know.

          Suddenly Sauron laughed.  "I do not need the One to kill you, Olórin," he snarled contemptuously.  A cruel smile lit his face as he held up his left hand, the Three glittering helplessly in the darkness.  "I have Narya."

          The Dark Lord's hand thrust outwards before Gandalf had a chance to reply.  The wizard's head snapped back with the force of Sauron's power, and he flew into the air, Glamdring dropping from his shocked hands as he spiraled upwards.  His hand right hand flashed out, though, and Sauron staggered backwards, only to gesture once more, which slammed the wizard back onto the ground briefly before thrusting him in the air once more.  Gandalf's voice, though, floated down even as the elven blade, once tightly held in his hand, clattered to the stone beneath him.

          "Run, Frodo!"

          The hobbit was on his feet now, having backed away when all attention, including Sauron's, had been focused on Gandalf.  But his voice cried back with more determination than Aragorn had heard from any of the Fellowship in too long.  "I won't leave you!"

          A cry of triumph from Sauron sounded even as his hand closed into a fist, and brought the wizard crashing down to the ground.  The Dark Lord grinned and paused, savoring the last moment before forcing himself into the Maia's mind for the final time.  This time, he would not leave a shred of intelligence or an inkling of soul behind, for the power of Narya the Great, still linked to its bearer's mind, would allow him to do so, even without the One.  Even with the One in Frodo's hands, Sauron controlled his Ring, and thus he owned the Three.

          But he made one mistake.

          Faster than Aragorn would have believed possible, the wizard jumped to his feet and turned to Frodo.  Only feet separated them; they were not close enough to touch, but nearly so.  Gandalf's eyes hardened, then, but his gaze did not move back to Sauron.  Determination was chiseled into his hard features, and Aragorn saw a decision made.

          "The Ring, Frodo!" Gandalf cried.

          Without hesitation, the hobbit spun to face the wizard, his eyes widening in understanding – and at the same time, Sauron leapt forward.  The Dark Lord's long strides ate up the yards between himself and the Maia even as Frodo's right hand snapped forward, his fingers splaying open.  The One Ring flew from his hand, floating through the air, spinning end over end, glowing bright and innocent gold in the shadows lying between the dark of Mordor and the light of Gandalf.  It seemed to hang there, in the air, as Sauron stretched his hand out, grasping for the one Ring to rule them all.

          But Gandalf's fingers closed upon the Ring first.  Only as he grasped it in his left hand did he finally turn to face the Dark Lord once more, calm and serene in the face of the fallen Maia's fury.  Sauron took a final stride, power and anger consuming him and the world, and rushed the wizard.  The two, fallen Maia and earth-bound Istar, blazed in the darkness, power radiating from their forms in this last of all battles.  Their eyes met, fury burning bright yet fading in the face of cool calm.  The Dark Lord let out a horrible bellow of challenge and leapt at the wizard.  Gandalf the White, however, did not flinch.

          Instead, he placed the One Ring upon his right hand.

          Aragorn watched Gandalf's eyes close.  He watched his lips move silently, mouthing words that the Heir of Isildur knew not.  He watched the wizard's right hand move outwards, slowly, with infinite grace and patience, as if he had all the time in the world.  He watched Gandalf's eyes open, calmly, and look upon the Dark Lord with no emotion at all.  And he felt it, in his bones, as Gandalf did what Boromir could not.  The One Ring seemed to glow brighter, seemed to flash in the darkness, embracing the white light that engulfed the wizard.

          Sauron stopped.  Froze, rather; in mid stride, the Dark Lord's momentum simply stopped.  Rage flashed across Sauron's face, and Aragorn could see him try to move, but he could not.  A snarl slipped past the Dark Lord's lips, which suddenly moved with rapid intensity, mumbling in the language of Mordor, as he fought Gandalf's hold with every fiber of his dark and corrupted being.  Still, he failed.  Sauron's eyes burned with anger as he redoubled his efforts, glaring at his opponent, and his teeth gritted as he tried to move.  Finally, Gandalf's wrist rotated, and palm facing Sauron, he opened his hand.

          The Dark Lord's head snapped back as if struck, and his lips moved in ineffectual curses and fury – but now his eyes held fear.  He struggled against the invisible forces holding him, but to no avail.  Silence reigned as long seconds ticked by, until the wizard spoke.

          "It is over, Sauron."

          The fallen Maia's eyes widened, but he had no time for words before Gandalf's hand slashed downward, bringing Sauron's body to the ground.  Aragorn felt a surge of something, then, and blackness erupted outwards from the Dark Lord's now still form, sweeping across the Urak-Hai, the Ringwraiths, the Fellowship and the Bearers of the Three.  It rushed down the Dark Tower's side, too, and rushed out over the army and out over the world.  But it faded as it advanced, and before it reached the limits of the horizon, the Darkness died in an abrupt flash of light.  When he looked again, Sauron's body was gone.

          Suddenly, he realized his body was free, and Aragorn nearly fell as his weakness betrayed him.  The Urak-Hai, creatures of Sauron's evil creation, lay writhing and melting upon the ground, fading into the same nothingness as their master.  The Ringwraiths, too, had fallen, but their robes lay empty now, as if no spirits had ever driven them at all.  The only remnants of the Nine were eight weapons laying upon suddenly worn and tattered cloaks.  Where Sauron had lain remained only the Three and the Dwarven Rings, alongside which the fallen Lord's dark blade lay.

          Alone, in the midst of the emptiness, stood Gandalf, the One Ring burning brightly upon his hand.