Sorry about the delay! Here's chapter eight – the long-awaited council! WOOT WOOT! ... and extra-long to make up for its late arrival. This chapter is kind of serious-like, and I had to quote the book rather a lot. Sorry about that! I swear that it won't be the format for future chapters; you'll be getting nothing but new material.

Sorry about the lack of dialogue in the first half of the chapter; I might change that later, but to me it seemed too long already.

Just some quick shout-outs:

Catta-mese: Ack! Do you know how terrified I was when you said in your first review that you trusted me not to do anything too uncanon?? I actually considered changing the plotline... But thank you for sticking with it! I promise Tanneth will not overshadow anyone or steal anybody's thunder.

Galatyn Renner: Glad you like it! And keep up that story of yours – it's good stuff!

Hooloovoo: I don't believe you actually read this. Bad friend. No biscuit.

Dread Lady Freya: WOOT! Thanks for always reviewing; you're the best!

Nymredil: Thanks so much for the wonderful review!! If I was allowed to advertise other fics in this story I would tell everyone to go read The Mind's Entanglement, but that would be wrong... so I won't. ;)

ALSO THANKS TO...

Oracle, sapphire2988, madzles, crazyrabidfangurl, Adsol, Voldie, Ruwne, elven-dreamer and jujubee!! YOU GUYS ROCK MY SOCKS!! I would give you all individual messages but this chapter is way too long already...

In the days before I was initiated into permanent adherence to the Code of the Elignias, I never left the compound, but spent all my time cleaning, cooking, and tending to the various sick or injured men left in our care. It was the last of these tasks that taught me to wake early, without bidding. A sick man, you see, becomes obsessive-compulsive: his body is in disarray, and the last ordered thing in his life to which he can cling is his schedule. He expects you to turn him, to tactfully clean his sheets, to bring him breakfast at exactly the same time every day. If you fail at this, he becomes miserable and frustrated with you, and a miserable man cannot heal, no matter the high price of the ointment you rub into his chest every evening.

It was only natural, therefore, that on the morning of the twenty-fifth of October, in the year thirty-eighteen of the Third Age, I awoke minutes after dawn despite my late evening the previous night. There was a brief moment of pleasant, floating obliviousness during which I hadn't the faintest idea why I shouldn't simply shut my eyes and float off to sleep once more. And then the memory resurfaced – "Your attendance is requested at a meeting..." I was out of bed in an instant.

I tugged on my clothes – the same ones I wore every day – reflecting all the while that I really ought to give them a thorough washing after the business today. Sprinkling chalk powder to absorb the smell simply doesn't do the job after more than a month.

Sador snorted in his sleep in the next room in the small guests' apartment, and for a moment I paused. He certainly wouldn't be happy about being forced to spend the day alone – but then, how long would this meeting actually be? Perhaps not more than an hour or two, in which case I wouldn't pity him. But if it lasted all day...? I sighed. Well, it was time Sador put his shyness towards the elves to rest, after all.

I meandered out into the small courtyard that our building embraced on three sides. The grass crumpled under my boots, and it occurred to me that in order to enjoy the real elf-haven experience, one must walk barefoot. I pulled off my boots, set them near the doorway, and wandered about in naked-soled ecstasy. Today will be a good day, I decided, and smiled at nothing in particular.

But how to distract Sador...? To tell him the truth would not be in keeping with the conspiratorial nature I wished to bestow upon this secret meeting. I could suggest he go for a hike, but he'd want me to accompany him. I might introduce him to one of the elves or hobbits, but who knew whether he might become bored of the new friend within an hour and proceed to seek me out? How embarrassing it would be for him to interrupt a secret meeting out of childish boredom!

In the end I decided that I would find a book in the library – one in Adûnaic, a language Sador's better-educated mother had taught him as a child – and would ask him to translate it for me. That would surely fill the greater part of his day, and (as such work always did) would make him too sleepy to come and look for me. If this failed, however, I'd simply have to tell him to entertain himself and not to go looking for me. He hadn't actually been invited to Imladris, after all – what right did he have to complain over a lack of entertainment?

My plans ended up, surprisingly, working perfectly. When Sador did at last wake up, he complained that his head hurt and that he wouldn't be up to much today. With no reluctance whatsoever, I found him a comfortable couch to lie on and presented him with a pile of unread books. He thanked me and apologized for his condition. Naturally, I forgave him graciously, humbly dismissing his praise and courteously allowing him to believe that he had the sweetest, most generous daughter in all the world.

The bell rang at last. It certainly seemed a long time coming: anticipation – in me, at least – does not inspire patience. I hurried, in as dignified a manner as I could manage, to the porch I'd been told of the previous evening, and despite my haste I was apparently one of the last to arrive. I took one of the only remaining seats and glanced about me.

It took seconds – if not less – for me to decide that I'd been invited into company far above my station. Not only was Elrond present, but so was the golden elf who'd sat near him the previous night, along with another high-looking elf I'd never seen before, and a company of dark-haired Eldar. Gandalf was there as well, as were Frodo and another hobbit – a very aged on – whom I didn't recognize. The Dúnedan ranger – the one called Strider – was also present, and near him sat yet another elf. This one was different than the others, less golden and luminous and more wild and earthy. He was younger, I suspected, but that wasn't the only thing – his semi-translucent skin was tinged with the mysterious greenish shadows of the Silvan elves. Two dwarves sat side by side, one of them the very one who'd sat next to Frodo the previous evening, and the other apparently younger and of lower rank. And then there was another man, one I hadn't seen before. This was surprising, as men stand out like sore thumbs among the elves of Rivendell. He was certainly a nobleman of the South, judging by his garb, but his clothes were muddy and faded, as though he'd traveled a very long way in them. Something in his face was vaguely familiar. I watched him finger his beard a moment, noting the distracted, inward look in his eyes. Perhaps he knows the reason for our secretive gathering, I reflected.

It seemed I'd no sooner sat down than Elrond began introducing the members of our council. Frodo himself was the first to be mentioned, as "Frodo son of Drogo", and his companion was known as Bilbo Baggins. The golden elf was Glorfindel – the one who, I remembered, had chased the Nazgûl from the Bridge of Mitheithel – and the other high elf was introduced as Galdor, an envoy from Círdan the Shipwright. The elves with these two were various counselors of Elrond's house, the greatest of whom was known as Erestor. The Silvan elf was called Legolas, and was introduced as the son of Thranduil, King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood. A prince, then, I thought, impressed in spite of myself.

"And this," Elrond continued, "is Urwen Tanneth of the Elignias of Belfalas, who has come this great distance at the bidding of her matron, Philindraphar the Wise."

For a moment I actually looked about, trying to guess who he'd introduced, before realizing it was me. I blushed ridiculously and managed nothing more than a curt nod in acknowledgement of the introduction.

Elrond then seemed for some reason to aim the last introduction at Gandalf, a curious fact which I continue to contemplate to this day.

"Here," he said, referring to the southern nobleman, "is Boromir, a man from the South. He arrived in the grey morning, and seeks for counsel. I have bidden him to be present, for here his questions will be answered."

I hardly heard the end of the introduction. Boromir, son of Denethor! The heir to the Stewardship of Gondor! I'd seen him before, at that, in parade – but then his head had always been hidden beneath a helmet, which disguised its shape and shadowed his eyes. No wonder his face had seemed familiar, though: every steward's statue in Minas Tirith had that face, one with a nobility of bearing to rival Strider's. (For I did not realize until later that the ranger was the only one among us to remain anonymous at that time.) I peered at Boromir curiously, but his eyes were fixed on Frodo and Bilbo.

"We have much to discuss," Elrond went on, "and before the day is through the fate of many may be decided. However, let us begin by addressing the state of our lands, beginning with the South."

There were a few silent seconds before I realized they were all looking at me. Oh, is that why I'm here? I thought.

"Yes... Well," I began. "Perhaps I'm not the one to talk about political matters – you ought to have someone more official, perhaps from the Prince – but I've seen security measures becoming increasingly tight, that much is certain. There're Corsairs threatening the coast – I know that for a fact, and the Prince is building up the defenses in the river towns as well as the coastal ones..."

I was made to talk for what seemed like ages on this topic, with Elrond, Gandalf and the other elves questioning me repeatedly until my stores of information were deemed utterly exhausted. I don't mind saying it was a stressful process; we Elignias are not accustomed to being centres of attention. I was extremely grateful when the talk finally turned to the subject of the dwarves' encounter with one of the Nazgûl, which, though fascinating, is best described by Frodo in his own writing.

And then the question – why we were here at all – began to be answered. Elrond it was who introduced the topic of the One Ring, and though I knew nothing of the subject to begin with, the very mention of the thing made my stomach clench uncomfortably. I listened to the Elf-lord's account of the Battle of the Last Alliance, in which he fought beside Gil-Galad and saw Sauron overthrown.

"... and Isildur cut the Ring from his hand with the hilt-shard of his father's sword, and took it for his own," Elrond stated, his grey eyes dark with terrible memory.

"So that is what became of the Ring!" Boromir interjected, suddenly animated. "If ever such a tale was told in the South, it has long been forgotten. I have heard of the Great Ring of him that we do not name; but we believed that it perished from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! That is tidings indeed."

Frodo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and I noticed Gandalf watching him with half-disguised concern. The hobbit did listen to the continuation of Elrond's story – I was sure of it – but he seemed to want to collapse into himself, shrinking back into the wood of the chair. I pretended not to have noticed the little fellow's discomfort, and directed my attention towards Elrond, who was now speaking of the role of the Men of the South in the containment of Sauron in Mordor. Presently, the Elf-lord finished his speech, and silence descended upon our Council.

Then Boromir stood began to speak. In this case as well, Frodo has already documented his words far better than I could, and so I shall leave you to seek out a copy of his work. I was more taken with the man's manner of speaking than with the actual words: he paced and shifted, gesturing with his hands and making eye contact with no one in particular. I sensed a sort of inner excitement in him, or perhaps even torment.

"... a dream came to my brother in a troubled sleep; and afterwards a like dream came oft to him again, and once to me," he explained, pacing and gesturing, then covering his mouth with his hand as though the thought he expressed was a complicated one. "In that dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice..."

I was never a great believer in prophecy, but to hear the words from his mouth – to hear his voice, so obviously unaccustomed to poetry – working its way around the words he'd heard in a dream, I could not doubt the sincerity of the message. Seek for the Sword that was broken; In Imladris it dwells... My brow wrinkled pensively. The son of the Steward was summoned here by a dream, I by a premonition of my matron... Great deeds were near at hand, this much was obvious.

Strider then stood and cast his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond. It clattered against the stone, cloven in two. He then seemed to echo the words of Boromir's prophecy: "And here in the House of Elrond more shall be made clear to you. Here is the Sword that was Broken!"

If this had been the greatest surprise of the day, it would have been enough.

"What, in the charge of a ranger?" I spoke aloud.

"Who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?" asked Boromir, apparently thinking along the same lines.

"He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk," Elrond said solemnly.

"But then he is the rightful King of Gondor!" I cried, too surprised to contain myself. "For centuries the land has been kingless, ruled over by the Stewards, and all along there have been kings away in hiding to the North!"

Frodo started, and jumped up. "Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!" he exclaimed. Though I had no idea what it was, for the first time in my life I began to have the inklings of a premonition, and it was by no means a pleasant one.

"At this moment in history I am nothing more than a ranger," Aragorn said to me, his gaze sharp and steady, but hinting at something deeper – loss, reluctance? "I would have you treat me as such. And, Frodo – it does not belong to either of us." Here he paused as though something had suddenly occurred to him. "... but it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while," he finished.

And at last Gandalf spoke.

"Bring out the Ring, Frodo."

The One Ring is easy enough to describe in a physical sense. A gold hoop, a shining circuit, a yellow band. If one were to make a perfect replica, not even the most minor of princes would give this reproduction a second glance. The Ring is beautiful, genius, perfectly humble and perfectly glorious. The hole in it, the emptiness, is the weapon: it's the part that you fall forward into, tipping without realizing it into the calm, warm waters of surrender – no... Not the emptiness; the gold is more beautiful: the shine, the reflection – it's a liquid thing, painfully, shyly exquisite, virginal, begging to be pressed against flesh...

I am Man, then. Frodo held the thing between his fingers and the world lurched into an illogical whirlpool. It was like a dream – or after that time I was hit over the head with the side of an axe, and for days I couldn't tell whether someone was actually speaking to me or if it was all my imagination. A part of my brain – somewhere in the back – that had apparently remained dormant until that moment in my life sparked into animation while the rest of my mind floated in bewildered delirium. Strange thought patterns. Heat. Desire. A sick feeling numbed by an insubstantial drug. Evil. Ambition. Desperation and confusion. ...None of these at all; only dreamy satisfaction.

The Ring is Evil!

Thank Eru for the voice of reason. Now I had a weapon with which to counter this drunken lust. I closed my eyes and repeated those four words to myself, drowning out the salacious voice at the back of my brain. The Ring could give me nothing. Nothing! I had to remember that I had no desires, no ambitions, I was no one. I would be swept away in the sands of the ages, and that was all I wanted: to be good, and then to be forgotten.

Dim voices were speaking. How, how could they go on so sanely when that thing was right there in front of them? They were talking about something ridiculously banal – Aragorn's kingship? The role of the Dúnedain? Then it was the hobbit, Bilbo, speaking, and then Frodo – I couldn't listen; their stories were too long, and totally irrelevant. And now it was Gandalf, speaking of Saruman – Saruman become evil. So we are all to fall, I despaired. It will all go dark, the world is spent, resistance is futile...

...No! I shook my head. The Ring was too clever; it had assumed a new voice in me. It would defeat me by destroying my hope. I clutched at my hair. Why didn't it end? Why wouldn't they just let me go?

Now they speak of a creature from Bilbo's tale, Gollum, and now the green elf – Legolas, that's it – says he's escaped... I listened distractedly, as though not involved. I was terrified and sick. I had no place here.

Now they speak of a new creature, a man in the wood, who was stronger than the Ring... Stronger than all the world, then! ... And he would not take it? Then he deserves to die in flames and torment! Coward and traitor!

But even this was the voice of the Ring! It had disguised itself even in my hatred of the thing itself! Never did I think violent thoughts, never did I wish death or pain upon anyone... Never had I been so acutely aware of my own weakness.

Now the elf – Erestor – was speaking:

"...there are but two courses, as Glorfindel already has declared: to hide the Ring forever, or to unmake it..."

No, came a voice again, there is another choice... I clenched my teeth and refused to even imagine using the Ring.

And at last Elrond's voice:

"We must send the Ring to the Fire."

A burden lifted in me. Yes. There is a way to end it. A long journey, and then goodbye. It will be alright, after all.

But Boromir was shifting in his seat, still eyeing Frodo.

"I do not understand all this," he muttered. "Saruman is a traitor, but did he not have a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he most fears, I deem."

"But that is the Ring speaking!" I cried – for the voice, though it came from his mouth, was all too familiar. "Can you not feel its evil in you? Resist, and do not translate its whispers into words for all to hear!"

The son of the Steward glared at me. "It is of my own thoughts I speak, and no evil of Sauron's! It has no power over us here!" He twisted in his seat, clutching at a horn on his lap. "A weapon is a weapon, whether it be sword or Ring. Those who have the will may wield it, and cowards and weaklings with fear in their hearts will fall before it!"

I couldn't help but assume he alluded to me at the end of his speech. The mood was tense now, and Frodo looked between me and Boromir, and then at Gandalf.

Elrond took his turn. We cannot use the Ruling Ring... I fear to take the Ring to hide it. I will not take the Ring to weild it. And then Gandalf: Nor I. Boromir had been sinking deeper into his seat through the elf's speech, looking spiteful, almost childish. When Gandalf put an end to the matter, the man bowed his head. So be it.

And then there was talk of the other rings. The Three were in hiding. The Seven were lost. The Nine were corrupted, no more than shackles about the twisted fingers of the Wraith Kings. But here was the One, and the One must be... I couldn't even think the word.

Who was to take the Ring? Bilbo offered, taking responsibility for bringing it into our lives. Boromir laughed, but only for a moment. The hobbit was braver than any of us, after all. Gandalf turned down the suggestion, however – Bilbo's role had been played out in its entirety, in his opinion. Someone else would have to come forward.

The silence was painful. Only Bilbo was free from the guilt of cowardice, being the only one to have already offered himself up for the task. I twisted my toes – only then did I realize I still wasn't wearing my boots – and waited. I would not offer my services as the Ring-bearer. If I had learned anything today, it was that I was nowhere near strong enough to remain stable and sane in close proximity to the One Ring.

Of course anyone who reads this knows how it ends. Among the greatest of the Great of that age, among elves and leaders of Men and a wizard of the ancient world, a tiny voice spoke out.

"I will take the Ring," said Frodo, "though I do not know the way."

That's it for now!! Yes, I know that in the book the only people who were introduced were the ones Frodo didn't already know, but I thought he might have changed that in his own version of the story to disguise the fact that Tanneth was there... clever little hobbit.

Now it's time to review!! Get to it!!