Author's note: As always…thanks for reading. Please, of course, do review, and hang in there for the rest. Till next time.
Where the Shadows Lie
A Tale Of The Ring
"Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger."
Chapter Nineteen: Exile
Gandalf stood upon once again upon the battlements of Barad-dûr, staff in his left hand and his shining white garments blowing with the growing gusts of wind. Of course, he had no true need for his reformed staff, but it was nice to hold it as a reminder of what he once had been. That was not to say that he held the same staff, for he had lost his first, his companion of thousands of years upon Middle-Earth, in the mines of Moria and had lost the second in his first battle with Sauron, but it was nice to again hold a staff of his own making in his hand. Many looked upon the staff as a symbol and tool of a wizard's power, and for Istari upon Middle-Earth, it was. He had not ever truly needed the staff, but as earth-bound Istari, each had allowed only power channeled through the staff – and thereby weakened – to be used.
In his second battle against Sauron, though, he had abandoned that. He had thrown aside all boundaries, and had fought against Sauron as Maia against Maia. Such a battle had not happened in more years than he cared to remember, but he knew that none of those watching it really understood what had happened. In truth, much of the power he had used had not been the Ring's. It had been his own.
He had to use the Ring, of course, for Sauron was a Maia as well, and every bit as powerful as he. Because of that, the One was the deciding factor; he knew not which would have won if they had fought a true battle with all power unleashed, but without outside sources of strength. Looking back upon it, Gandalf found the entire situation slightly strange – he had never, ever, wanted to use the Ring, had never even wanted to touch it – but in the end, he had been forced to. Once Sauron had regained it, the Maia had known, deep down inside in a place that where he had not admitted the knowledge even to himself, that someone would have to claim the Ring. Narya could not have defeated it, nor could even the Three combined. Nor could even a fellow Maia and a Ring of Power.
So he had reached out, knowing the price he would pay, and taken the One. Oh, and he had done so without regret, at least in the first few bare seconds of the ordeal. He had felt the awesome power of the Ring rushing through him, had felt its seductive whispers and promises of control snaking through his mind. The strength of the One had reached out and merged with his own, and he had felt then that his power, that of an uncorrupted Maia, would be far greater and more dangerous than Sauron could ever have dreamed of being, and for a moment – just one, short and blissful moment – he had wanted to believe the Ring's promise that he could use it for simple and pure goodness.
But Olórin had never been good at self-deception, and Gandalf, through his years upon Middle-Earth, had grown even worse at it. Even as the Ring's power enshrouded him, he had known it was wrong. The Ring was evil, and no amount of goodness or purity could change that. And in the end, nothing could stop him from becoming evil as well.
Oh, he had tried to fight it, and he would continue to do so until the day that the One consumed him. He had told the others that he had every intention of destroying the Ring, and he did. He just was not sure if he could do so or not, for even then, he felt the soft whispers of the Ring in his mind, felt the battle waged between Narya and the One. Narya… For some reason, the thought of the Red Ring always helped to clear his mind. Perhaps that came from the thousand years he had worn her upon his hand, bonded with her and held the Ring as a part of himself. She could not hold him against the One, but she could help him fight it longer.
I can only hope that will be long enough. He sighed and shook his head, opening the eyes he had not even realized that he had shut. Mordor was no longer as dark as the land had once been, but it would be centuries before the country was beautiful to look at again. There was still much of Sauron left to eradicate from the world…and it was time that he stopped delaying and got to doing just that.
Despite his strong words of an hour before, Gandalf had no desire to use the Ring. He laughed cynically at that thought – rather, the problem was that he had too great a desire to use it. Unlike the others, he knew exactly what it would do to him, and knew that, in the end, the Ring would win, unless he destroyed it first. But to destroy it, he had to resist the urge to use it – and to destroy Sauron completely, he had to use the Ring once more. There was no other way. So get on with it, Gandalf, he told himself sternly. It was hard, though, to deny his own fear. The Ring had already sunk its claws deeply into him, and only a fool would allow it the chance to gain more control over his heart. Call me a fool, then, I guess.
Gandalf took a deep breath, and reached his awareness into the One. Distantly, he felt the winds whip around him, and he felt the power thrumming through him, but he did not abandon himself to the Ring. Instead, he fought to remain himself, to keep a corner of his mind as his own despite the use of the Ring. It called to him sweetly, whispering lies about compassion and of how there was no need for fear, but he ignored it and clung to his own soul. A part of him was aware of Narya's efforts coming alongside his own, but he could pay the Red Ring no heed. Cautiously, he reached out into the One's awareness. It is time.
"Will you claim Gondor?" Arwen asked him softly. They sat upon a small couch that had somehow found its way into Barad-dûr, her head resting upon his shoulder and his arm around her. The two were at peace for the first time since the finding of the Ring, and they had been, for the past hour, loathe to speak of anything beside their love and relief in one another's safety, but both were intelligent beings, who knew the responsibilities they faced, and neither could run from them for long.
"I must," Aragorn responded quietly. "Sauron is defeated. I overcame the curse of my blood. It is time."
"I know." Gently, she kissed him on the cheek. "Whatever you do, I am with you, Aragorn."
He smiled at her, and their eyes shone as they met. Long had they been at war, with precious little time for peace. Now, though, all their dreams had been given a chance at realization. Long ago, he had argued against her choice, but Aragorn knew that although he could never have asked her to sacrifice immortality to be with him, she would not have it any other way. He whispered, "Thank you."
Footsteps sounded which they both tried to ignore, but Elrond's voice floated down to them flatly. "I see you have made your choice."
Both looked up at the half-elven, unashamed of the encounter that they had dreaded for so many years. "I have, Father," Arwen said softly, her heart still pounding in her chest nonetheless.
"Just as I knew you would," Elrond agreed, then surprised them both by dropping to one knee before them and taking their hands in his own. "My dear daughter, I would never dream of denying you this, for I have known your heart for far too long in this matter. And Aragorn…long have I loved you as a son. I will keep my word to you both. When I see you crowned king in Gondor, I will give you my daughter's hand in marriage."
"Thank you, Father," Arwen replied. "That means a great deal to us."
"I think, daughter, that I would have failed in stopping you had I tried," he responded. Elrond stood and gave them a half-smile. They stood together and shared a smile as he continued. "I am not one to stand in the way of fate. Now, come. There is still much to be done. Galadriel is–"
Suddenly Elrond's head snapped around to his right and he went pale. "Gandalf!" he cried, leaping forward and rushing from the room.
With hardly a glance at one another, Aragorn and Arwen ran after him, following the bearer of Vilya up a flight of winding stairs and onto the very battlements where Aragorn and the others had nearly met their deaths scant hours before. There they found the wizard on his knees amid dying winds, with the One Ring glowing brightly upon his right hand. All three rushed to him, but only Elrond dared to touch the other's shoulder, even then drawing his hand away as if burnt. "Gandalf?"
The Maia blinked once and stared at Elrond blankly before he recognized him. Wordlessly, he struggled to his feet, leaning greatly upon his new staff, and said in a heavy voice. "That which remained of Sauron is no more."
"What happened?" Elrond asked even as the others noticed that, indeed, Mordor looked still brighter than it had before…and the sun was dawning in the east.
"The Ring does not take kindly to those who will not surrender themselves to it." Gandalf snorted in strained laughter.
Fear touched Elrond's eyes. "You have not?"
"No." Only then did Arwen realize that the wizard was trembling with the effort from the battle he had waged. The Ring gives limitless power, she realized, but only to those who will take that power by the Ring's terms. "But I dare not wield it much longer if I wish to remain myself."
Again, Gandalf looked at the Ring, and Arwen could read the conflicting emotions on his face. He wanted to use the Ring – but he feared it. He feared what he would become if he gave into that desire, and, for the first time, Arwen was immensely glad that Gandalf had taken the Ring. Others, she knew, would not have had the strength to resist.
"We are with you until the last," her father replied softly.
"Not all of you," Gandalf snorted.
Aragorn spoke. "No," he admitted. "But those that matter are. We know you will not become like him."
"I am glad for your trust, my friends," the Maia said softly, but Arwen saw pain in his eyes. "Unfortunately, there are many who do not share it."
Arwen found herself nodding. She, unlike her father and her love, had been amongst the leaders of the Alliance against Sauron, and had seen the tensions developing beneath the surface. It was fitting, for some, that when victory was so close, they would waste precious strength on petty differences. She asked, "Denethor?"
"Nay," was the surprising response. "He matters not." Instead, Gandalf gestured to a lone rider fast approaching the tower in the distance. "Others have not your confidence."
They stood together for perhaps the last time in the Great Hall of Barad-dûr. Not all had been summoned, of course, but men such as Denethor would never allow themselves be left out. None of them knew who they were waiting for, yet all had come, especially those who were not welcome. But what truly mattered was the presence of Galadriel, Elrond, and Aragorn. Of course, allies such as Thranduil and Celeborn and Frodo did not hurt, but those three – and especially Galadriel and Elrond – were the most important. Even now, his fellow Ring Bearers stood behind him in a clear show of support and trust, and Aragorn stood between Arwen and Boromir not far to his right. The others of the Fellowship clustered near the king, with their allies – those welcome and not – also close at hand. But Gandalf did not spare attention for them. After all, none of them could help him in what was to come, and he dearly feared the consequences of his actions now.
The rider had entered the hall moments before, and was fast striding toward him – but still, there was a hesitation in the other's stride. Regardless, the rider had come close enough to now see the brown hooded cloak that he wore, and the Maia had to wonder if any of the others had guessed the significance of that. Elrond, perhaps had, but Galadriel had for sure. He had heard her quick intake of breath when her sharp elven eyes registered the color of the newcomer. However, even Galadriel the Wise could not fathom the purpose of the other.
Denethor shifted impatiently to his right, and Gandalf resisted the urge to tell him to leave. He had only invited Galadriel, Elrond, Aragorn, and Arwen to accompany him, and a large part of him wished to force the others to leave so he could face this alone. But he could not. To do so would be to belittle the sacrifices they had made and disrespect the pain many had gone through to reach this point. The wizard took a deep breath and stepped forward a stride to meet his old friend, pain already rising in his heart.
"Radgast the Brown," he said softly. "What brings you to Barad-dûr?"
The brown wizard shook his hood off to stare at Gandalf, his eyes, usually so merry and believing, wary and mistrustful. For all the world he looked calm and collected, kindly and wise; Gandalf would have been deceived had he not noticed the white knuckles that grasped the gnarled wooden staff. There was fear, there, and the elder wizard grieved inwardly to be the cause of it, but he had known that this would come. In many ways, he had actually feared this more than the Ring itself.
"I bring a message from Valinor," Radgast responded coldly, but there was no reluctance in his voice – only well-concealed terror.
And so it begins, Gandalf thought to himself. Despite knowing the outcome, though, they had to play this thing to the very end. He replied, "I will hear your message."
"The Valar bade me to tell you two things." Radgast's voice took on the clear ring of a martyr, but he dared not to meet Gandalf's eyes; it was plain that he expected to die. Instead, the Maia studied those behind the wizard, wondering, perhaps, where they stood in the scheme of things. His fear of Gandalf was clear, especially when, by chance, his eyes found that which he had been avoiding. Gandalf watched his reaction closely, mourning for all he had lost as Radgast's gaze fastened frightfully on the Ring for a moment before he tore his eyes away. If only you knew, old friend, how little I wished for this. But Radgast continued despite his terror.
"First I am bid to tell you that you have been cast from the Order of Maiar and thus are never welcome upon the Western shores again. Valinor is forever closed to you."
Gandalf heard Galadriel's sharp gasp from behind him, and indeed, he would have been heartbroken if he had not suspected this would come. Still, though, his heart railed against the misunderstanding and a pained fury rose within him. Prior knowledge did not lessen the agony his exile caused. You sent me to defeat Sauron, and so I have, he thought bitterly. Little did you consider the cost or the means beforehand, and now, in fear that blinds all else you know, you have taken from me the one thing that really matters. Oh, and old friends, do not tell me that you had no choice, for we all know that you did. We always have.
But the wizard took a deep breath and stilled his anger. Radgast was, after all, just a messenger, and a terrified one at that. He did not deserve a onetime friend's ire, no matter what news he brought. In silence he awaited the rest of Radgast's message, dreading what it would contain, yet knowing all the same that his fate had been unavoidable from the moment he had chosen, driven by necessity, to claim the One Ring.
"I am also tasked to give you this warning," the Maia said. "If you continue upon the road which you have taken, you risk war with the Valar."
A ripple of shock tore through the assembled spectators, and Gandalf felt their fear. Not since the defeat of Melkor had the Valar entered into the affairs of Middle-Earth – but now they threatened to step forward against one of their own. An ironic smile touched Gandalf's weathered face for an instant as he contemplated the situation. The Valar had not acted directly against Sauron; rather, they had sent Five to against him. Now, though, they would move against the Maia they had sent to stop Sauron. But he stilled his smile, and said softly to his onetime comrade:
"Aiwendil, you have naught to fear from me." Radgast reacted as if struck by the use of his true name, and his eyes fastened fearfully on Gandalf's face. "Do you know me so little that you believe I would wish this thing? Once I was considered the wisest of us all. Has that no meaning, now?"
"Even the wisest may fall far," the other responded, and the wizard saw what he had already known to be true. There would be no understanding from those who should have known better. In looking upon him, all they saw was Sauron's fall… Now they would only see the truth when it came to them too late.
"Yes," he replied heavily. "They can."
Once more, his reply shocked Radgast. Confusion, too, swam in the other's eyes, and for an instant, Gandalf imagined that the Maia doubted his mission. That, though, mattered not in truth. The facts would not change, and thus the Ring had doomed him in more ways than one. But there would be time later to mourn for all he had lost.
"Have you any reply, Gandalf the Black?"
Even Gandalf was shocked and hurt by those words, especially coming from one whom had once been a respected friend. Do you know me that little? his mind raged. Does it not matter that I asked to come back here so that I may finish what others should have done long ago? Does my war with the Ring mean nothing? I have struggled to remain myself, and this is how they repay me.
It seems that perhaps I have grown past them after all, for I know duty well. He sighed and, once again, pushed aside the pain of being betrayed by his own kind. In truth, he could understand what they feared. Sauron, after all, had once been a Maia. Oh, Manwë…how far we have come. When this all ends, where will we be? Did you see this coming, all those years ago, when you asked me to come here? I hope not.
Because I plan to defy fate.
"I have naught to say to you, Aiwendil, save that I ask you to wait. All is not how it seems."
Radgast's brown eyes narrowed. "You have set your own fate, Gandalf the Black. We will not save you from it." And he turned, without a further word, and strode from the Great Hall of Barad-dûr, his footsteps echoing emptily in the stillness. Gandalf said nothing to his back, seeking not to change what he knew would not be altered save in the ways of fate.
Farewell, my friend, he thought. I will see you again, though you think not.
