An Unexpected Ring

Interlude I

From West to East

Saruman

A fool: that is what Gandalf was. An old fool! An ignorant, naive, blithering idiot. Did he not see the end had come? Did he not see the writing on the wall? Was he so blind to think that there was even a chance of defeating Sauron? No, he could not be so stupid. Stupidity implied innocence. Gandalf the Gray was simply stubborn. Somehow, that infuriated the former Istari more.

A grumble tumbled from his lips as he slammed a heavy tome closed. The sound of the leather binding snapping together echoed through Orthanc's cavernous library. How could Gandalf think he knew best? He knew nothing! He wandered, smoked his leaf with the halflings, and did his little good deeds, not accomplishing anything of merit or note in Middle-Earth. Only Radagast seemed to be of smaller consequence, and that was because he cared more for animals. Yet another fool.

But, Saruman the White, Saruman the Wise, Saruman of Many-Colors now… he was no fool. He was a loremaster. A wise and powerful counselor to the greatest beings in Middle-Earth. For centuries, the likes of Elrond Half-Elven, King Thranduil of the Greenwood, the Stewards of Gondor and Kings of Rohan, and even the Lady of Light Galadriel herself heeded his words and listened. But Gandalf always countered him. He always played the enemy's advocate. He always sought to undermine him.

With a snarl, Saruman rose from his seat. His heavy staff clacked against the stone floors of Orthanc as he marched toward the library exit.

Despite his irritation with the Gray Wizard, he had to give Gandalf some credit: he was craftier than Saruman anticipated. Not only did he manage to cultivate a relationship with Gwahir and the Eagles under his nose, but he also managed to steal away the One Ring and keep it hidden within his base in the Shire. True, he had no idea what he had found until Sauron had started to stir, but even then, a magical trinket of such power should have been immediately reported to Saruman. If Gandalf had done his job, Saruman would have the One Ring. Saruman, not Sauron, would be the Master of Middle-Earth!

He marched down the stairs of Orthanc towards the observation deck. When he stepped out, his anger morphed into twisted pleasure. The trees of Fangorn forest groaned with pain as his Orcs hacked them down with axes and pulled them free from the earth with massive ropes and pulleys. The fires of industry burned in the pits of Isengard. Joining the belching smoke and fumes came the cries of Orcs working and breeding. His army was growing. Soon, it would be ready.

But, soon was not fast enough. He knew what Gandalf would do next. After escaping from Isengard, he would flee to Rivendell. Elrond Half-Elven was a powerful ally to have, and the secret way to Imladris meant no attacking orc army could get close without suffering catastrophic losses, unlike Lothlorien and Lady Galadriel's domain, which sat out in the open, ripe for the plunder. Gandalf would seek Elrond's counsel, and he would make sure the One Ring arrived there safely.

Then, and only then, would Gandalf come to the same conclusion Saruman came to. The Ring could not be hidden. It could not be kept away from Sauron. The Ring has a will of its own. It wants to be found. It is trying to heed its master's call. So, only two things could be done: it could be used, or it could be destroyed.

But, destroying it was impossible. To take it to the Crack of Doom would be to take the Ring to Sauron's lap and present it to him upon a silver platter. Doom would come for all then. To use the Ring would be to play into Sauron's hands further. For only Sauron had the strength and will to govern his own power.

So, better to play on the side that held everyone in checkmate. Saruman had joined Sauron, not only because it was the prudent, wise decision to make, but because it allowed Saruman to learn more about the Dark Lord. It allowed him access to the Dark Lord's tools, secrets, and weapons both physical and magical. In a way, he would be to Sauron like Sauron was to Morgoth, only far more dangerous. Because, unlike Sauron, Saruman did not feel bound by loyalty or fear to his master. This was a relationship of opportunity, not fealty. And, when the opportunity arose to supplant Sauron, Saruman would take it.

He smiled as he turned away from the industry of Isengard and regarded the Palantir sitting on its pedestal. The seeing stone with its obsidian complexion and glossy shell hummed. The darkness within warped. Sauron's eye formed.

Saruman's master -no- his partner had orders for him. He moved to the Palantir and hovered his hand over it, connecting him to the other side.

Sauron's black speech hit his ears. His sharp mind instantly interpreted it, just as it had when Sauron commanded him to build an army worthy of Mordor.

"Find my ring. Deliver it to me. Kill the bearer…"

"... find the one called Tiki. Bring her before me."

Saruman's eyes opened. Tiki? The manakete? The girl who claimed to be a dragon? The one the dwarves of Erebor, in their idiotic superstition, believed to have transformed into such a powerful beast and slew the mighty Smaug? Illusions, nothing more. So if that was true, then why did Sauron have an interest in her?

More black speech hit Saruman, stealing his breath. Sauron awaited an answer.

"It will be done."

Tauriel

Tauriel watched the fellowship depart.

Then she departed Rivendell as well, this time in strange company. While she walked alongside a small group of her kinsmen from Mirkwood, she also traveled with the King Under the Mountain and his group of companions. Normally, such a journey, across the northern passes of the Misty Mountains and into the sprawling hills and plains at the feet of Mirkwood, was filled with light banter and firelit stories. A part of her was keen to reminisce on days gone by. Days that seemed far simpler than the present.

I do miss the days when the most dangerous thing to cross my path, other than orcs, was a company of dwarves and an invisible hobbit.

"We should be at the pass by morning," she heard Gloin grunt from across the fire they all shared. "By then, we best stick close together. The North is no longer safe."

"The Enemy moves, that is certain," Thorin nodded in agreement. His eyes drifted to one of Tauriel's kinsmen, then they roved to her. There was a depth to his gaze. A wisdom the king had lacked eighty years previous. He knew who would give him honesty in this group. "What does your King think of the tidings arriving at his door?"

Tauriel's lips thinned. "His majesty has grown a bit reclusive of late. He's often caught up in his thoughts. I worry that he might be missing the dangers that come."

"Lady Tauriel!" One wood elf cried, only for her sharp glare to silence him.

"However," she continued, "I do think he knows the Enemy is awake and moving. The Battle of the Five Armies both kindled his fury as well as dealt a heavy blow to his heart. I think it reminded him all too much of the wars he fought in the first and second ages when he was but a prince and a young king. He's wisely biding his time, I hope."

"You hope?" Thorin pressed, leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees as he stared through the flickering flames.

"We are not numerous. Not anymore," Tauriel admitted. "No elven land is at full strength in this day and age. Rivendell is undoubtedly the most steadfast holding, but even it is fading. Lothlorien's golden woods grow duller by the year. And Mirkwood remains, well, murky." A few of the dwarves chuckled, making her relax a little. "The Eldar will not be the ones to fight or win this war."

"So, you intend to sit it out?"

"I do not know what my King or my kinsmen intend on doing," Tauriel retorted. She then patted the bow that leaned against her thigh. "I, however, have already been fighting this war. I do not plan on stopping now."

Thorin grinned across the fire. He gave her a nod of approval and then turned his attention to the other wood elves present.

"Erebor has been visited by the enemy's emissaries several times. Once they sought Master Baggins. The second, they sought friendship, if the Enemy is even capable of such a thing. The third… they brought a warning. Stand against the Eye of Sauron and die. Join him and be rewarded." He spat into the dirt, a snarl on his lips. "If they come a fourth, I intend to give them something back, an arrow in the eye and an ax in the gut. No one threatens my people, and no one delivers an ultimatum to the dwarves of Erebor. We will be going to war. If Dol Guldur, Mirkwood, and Gundabad are infested again, then we shall be the tip of the spear against them and the shield that will guard the North. However, it is not something we can accomplish alone. When you return to King Thranduil, can you deliver him a message for me?"

"Speak it," Tauriel replied.

"Ask him to stand with us. Firm, in full strength, armored, and battle ready. This will not be a simple hunting party tasked with chasing down a roving band of Orcs. There will be battle lines. There will be blood and death. I need to know if the mighty King of the Greenwood still has the stomach for such a thing, or if I must turn to others for aid."

Tauriel nodded. She would deliver the message. However, she was not certain of the reply. Thranduil confided so little in anyone anymore. Even Legolas told her that he had grown withdrawn and secluded, even to him. The grief of the coming war might be overcoming him. Already, the King had weathered the last days of the Wars of the Beleriand, the War of the Last Alliance, and now he was on the brink of witnessing a third great battle for Middle-Earth. Perhaps he had become weary? Weak even?

Tauriel shook her head. No, she would not think that way. Thranduil was not weak. He was cautious now. Measured. He did not so lightly toss lives away anymore. He knew the cost the coming war against Sauron would incur, and he would not spend precious Sindaran blood in fruitless campaigns. Not when their home needed to be guarded by ever-growing threats coming from Dol Guldur.

"There's another chink to all of this we haven't considered," Gloin interrupted. "Two in fact."

"That being?" Thorin asked.

"We know that the Nazgul are out and about. Which means you know who is prowling the land as well. Is Angmar alive again? Do we worry about a northern kingdom reborn, coming to plunder south? Further, there are dragons in the icy north as well. Smaug's kin." A vicious look passed over Thorin's face. "What if they decide to throw their lot in with Sauron?"

"They'll regret it," Thorin replied. "No doubt they've heard the tale of the mighty Emerald Dragon that slew their most vile spawn, Smaug-"

"Smaug is far from the vilest of Morgoth's later creations," Tauriel pointed out. "He is simply the most famous. Worse could linger to the North, content with their current plunder until the enemy reaches out to them, offering more."

"All the more reason to rouse your king with my offer. And, it is this: half the treasure of Erebor." Gloin fell backward in his seat as Thorin spoke. "If we survive this war, if we win, half the vaults beneath the Lonely Mountain will be opened to the elves of Mirkwood to help rebuild, even repopulate if they so wish."

Tauriel stared at Thorin wide-eyed. "That is generous."

"It is necessary. Gold cannot be counted if we are all dead. Will you deliver this to your King?"

"Of course."

"Good," Thorin nodded. He exhaled, relaxing, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his stocky shoulders. "Now, on to lighter matters: how has Lady Tiki been? You traveled with her for several years. She didn't visit the mountain during that time."

Tauriel opened her mouth. A part of her was quite eager to recount her journeys with Erebor's Emerald Dragon. But, what was there to tell? Tiki was her friend, she knew that. But, Tiki was even more of a recluse than Thranduil, just in a different way. Thranduil physically hid away. Tiki did not hide her presence, just her past, her story, and her feelings. All of it placed deep beneath layers of sagely wisdom garnered from thousands of years, some well-earned sass, and many conveniently timed naps. In the years she walked alongside the Manakete, she never learned much about her. She only learned snippets and slip-ups, small tidbits that managed to squeak out of Tiki's lips only for that same sieve to be silenced immediately afterward.

However, she did know one thing: Tiki was changing, drastically. It was a subtle change at first. She hadn't even detected it when Tiki was merely an old acquaintance visiting Mirkwood. But, traveling throughout the land pulled many layers back for Tauriel to see. Where once Tiki had been patient and calm she had become impulsive and even irritable, growing frustrated at some of the smallest provocations or hindrances. At first, Tauriel chalked such things up to her growing anxiety about finding a way back to her homeland and the fruitlessness of her search. Now, she began to wonder if there was something else at work. Once, she found Tiki awake in the middle of the night staring at her cracked Dragonstone in her lap. She swore she thought she saw tears. That night had been after their encounter with Tom Bombadil.

"Tauriel?" Thorin's voice caused her to snap out of her musings.

"Oh, she's… I worry for her, honestly. She hasn't been herself lately."

Thorin nodded. "I noticed that as well. She's emotional for such an ancient being, but to storm out of the council the way she did was uncharacteristic for her."

"Did you see how red her eyes were when she came back with Gandalf? The poor lady looked like she had been sobbing," Gloin muttered.

Tauriel leaned forward. "Tiki left the council meeting? She was crying?" Tiki never cried.

"Initially yes, but she returned with Gandalf in time for Elrond to finish giving us the order of events," Gloin continued. He then wagged a finger. "I'm telling you; it has something to do with that strange girl that came from Gondor. Morgan."

"Aye," Thorin agreed. "Although, from her appearance we know she is not a child of mankind. She's elvish at least. But, could she be another Manakete?"

"Tiki never said anything," Tauriel muttered, her eyes falling to the fire again.

"Tiki keeps her personal life close. She's willing to share history, but not her own," Thorin remarked. He leaned back in his seat, puffing out a long breath. "The older I get, the more I understand that notion a bit."

Maybe that was it. Maybe Tiki was starting to feel her age, and that was why she had been acting strange? It was possible. Even the Eldar changed with time. Thranduil had been, according to Tauriel's elders, a brash and impulsive prince who sought battle in his youth, which led to his scarring at the hands of one of Morgoth's Fire Drakes. Lord Elrond, likewise, had been a bit more upbeat as a young elf according to Glorfindel. He wasn't always the grim and dour person he had become. Even Lady Galadriel had apparently been proud, even arrogant, when she was Tauriel's age. The result of being related to the mighty Feanor himself.

Yes, that had to be it. Tiki was starting to change with time, just as time weathered away stone, so too would the character of a nearly immortal being.

She never expected it to occur so quickly though.

Denethor

Denethor tossed, then turned. The silken sheets clinging to his sweating form coiled like a serpent around him. They drew tighter and tighter, a noose threatening to strangle him as he panted in his sleep.

A flaming eye flashed in his mind.

He awoke with a startled gasp. Outside, thunder rumbled over the White City of Elendil. A storm brewed. The first droplets of rain pattered against the stained-glass window across the bedroom, making the portrait within the colored panes weep. Denethor sat up ragged, running both his hands over his face.

Another restless night, and he knew why.

With a grunt, he threw his legs from the sheets and rose, throwing a loose robe over his frame. At one time, in his life, the robe would have fit him snugly. In his youth, he had been a warrior, proud and mighty, but also wise and thoughtful. The very man Gondor needed to ascend to the Stewardship and preside over an ailing realm. And, when he first took his seat in the stead of his late father, Ecthelion, he thrived in the role. Gondor flourished.

Then, the Enemy returned to the ash-choked wasteland that was Mordor, and Denethor watched all of the progress and growth he enjoyed in his early years of rule slip away. Ithilien was lost. Osgiliath was besieged. The Anduin could be forded at any point by orc war bands. The coasts were being raided by corsairs for the first time in a generation. Even Harad had grown bold enough to drift northward from their deserts far to the south.

A perfect storm, much like the one that rattled Minas Tirith tonight.

Weary footfalls carried him not to the main hall that once sat kings inside of the White Tower. Instead, they drew him up a winding staircase toward that very tower's peak. At the pinnacle, in a rounded antechamber, sat a lone, white stone pedestal. A blue cloth covered a round sphere atop it. Denethor hesitated as he approached, his steps faltering as his heartbeat quickened. Part of him wanted to turn around in disgust. How could this mere rock tempt him so? However, the greater part of him urged him onward until at last, he had pulled the cloth away, revealing a Palantir.

Slowly, his hands hovered over the glossy surface. At first, nothing stirred. Then, in the back of his mind, he heard it. The gnashing speech of Mordor echoed in his thoughts, whispering through his mind like a potent poison. He gasped as images rushed into his head. The White Tree of Gondor burned. The Anduin itself was aflame. His sons, Boromir and Faramir, lay before the White Tower, the blank stare of death set in their eyes.

Denethor snarled, bared his teeth, and planted his feet. He pushed back, drawing on willpower forged by years of rule. He thought of better times. He thought of Osgiliath being retaken in full, then rebuilt into a mighty fortress straddling the Anduin. He thought of Ithilien becoming a haven for homesteaders and farmers once again. He imagined the armies of Gondor, mighty like in the days of Kings, marching upon Minas Ithil and reclaiming the city from the Enemy's grasp. He smiled. Yes, those would be good things. Boromir could become the steward of Minas Tirith, and Faramir could become the steward of Minas Ithil.

Laughter echoed in the antechamber, deep and mocking. Denethor's blood ran cold.

A flaming eye burst to life inside the Palantir. It glared at him, the slitted pupil narrowed with glee as Denethor's knees knocked beneath him.

New images hit his mind. These were not the same mental attacks as before. These were different.

He saw that strange girl, Morgan. The one his son Boromir found and took under his wing. That elven girl was standing amid a field of corpses, looking solemn and alone. Her hood was drawn. Fire still licked at her fingertips and gnawed on the bones of the fallen Gondorian soldiers.

The image shifted. A new woman appeared with emerald hair and eyes, and similar ears to Morgan. She was pale as a ghost as she knelt before the tower of Barad Dur in chains. A tattered, blood-stained standard covered her form. Denethor recognized it as Erebor's. What did the Kingdom Beneath the Mountain have to do with Sauron's designs? Who was this woman who appeared so broken at the feet of Sauron?

Then, finally, he saw something that chilled him to the bone. The Dead Marshes were the same as they always were. Eternal flames burned where the graves of elves and men resided in the bog. Slowly, one hand wearing golden elf armor arose from the muck. Strange, purple insects skittered along the scarred, torn skin, burrowing into whatever fissures they could find. Groans arose in the air. Ancient Gondorians rose from the dead alongside their elven companions. Death masks, black and hideous, with eyes glowing like blood-stained rubies, covered their faces. They shambled toward Gondor, numbering in the thousands, and behind them stood a lone figure wearing a very familiar purple and gold coat. But it was not Morgan… it was a man.

Denethor fell back. His hands left the vicinity of the Palantir. Frantically, he clawed for the cloth and then threw it over the seeing stone. Sauron's eye disappeared. The Black Speech faded.

Another rumble of thunder shook the White Tower.