Though Gandalf warned them all to be ever wary, even before leaving the Shire, the expected trouble never materialized. The four hobbits made their way to Bree, where they met the Ranger Strider, who brought them to Rivendell, to the House of Elrond. Yet the lack of danger in and of itself set the Ranger on edge, and the hobbits with him, all of them staying quiet and close as they made their way east, and none of them felt any measure of true peace until they passed through the archway to the Last Homely House east of the sea.
Elrond, too, was both relieved and alarmed that there was no sign of the Nazgûl on the road. "Sauron must know that the Ring is moving," Frodo overheard him saying to the Ranger, and to Gandalf when he finally arrived, "so why have his servants not come forth in an attempt to reclaim it?"
"Perhaps he holds them back in reserve, in Mordor?" Strider suggested, "He knows that there is only one place where the Ring can be unmade and so guards Orodruin against all approach, thinking that in so doing the Ring will return to him before ever entering the fire?"
"That is one possibility," Gandalf agreed, taking a thoughtful drag on his pipe, "yet I feel there is more to it than that. Even though Sauron revealed himself decades ago, the Nine were abroad only for a short time afterwards. Then they seemed to vanish, one by one, and have not been seen since."
"You told us none of this before, Mithrandir," Elrond said sharply.
"I did not know it myself until Saruman told me."
"Yet can this news be trusted? You said he seemed dark and strange and reluctant to let you leave..."
"I have confirmed it myself, as much as I could. The Nazgûl are missing, and no one knows whence they have gone."
That news alarmed the rest of the Council as well, when it was brought forth together with the One Ring. The Fellowship, when it set out, remained watchful, for the Nazgûl were not Sauron's only servants - only the most terrible. They made their quiet way down to the land of Hollin, once the Elven realm of Eregion, and from there they creeped in the utmost silence through the darkened halls of Moria, once the dwarven realm of Khazad-dum.
Only when they reached the woods of Lothlórien did they relax again and permit themselves to rest.
But not for long. Galadriel came to them one morning, when the grey light of dawn had only just begun to filter through the canopy. "Ill news from the south," she said quietly as they dined on rich meat and cool greens, "In Gondor, the Ruling Steward Denethor has died unexpectedly."
Boromir almost choked on his wine, and Aragorn thumped him on the back until he could breathe again. "My lord father," he managed, "Is there news of my brother, Faramir?"
"He has assumed the mantle of Steward, unless you come to claim it yourself as is your right as the eldest child," she answered, "If the Ringbearer has the strength to turn aside into Gondor for a time, perhaps the Fellowship should see what has happened. Steward Denethor was not a frail man, and we have had no news of any sickness running rampant through the White City."
Frodo said that he did, so they went south as fast as the Anduin would carry them.
It was only after they passed the Argonath and the Falls of Rauros that they began seeing the orcs. They patrolled the eastern shore in Ithilien in groups, some dozens strong, well armed and armored for Mordor - but not one of them bore the mark of the Great Eye. Instead they had handprints painted starkly on their skin in blue or green or white, and their armor bore a red dragon, wings outstretched. Those of the Fellowship who had fought orcs before wondered at the difference, but the orcs were still a danger they could not risk.
They reached the ruins of Osgiliath a little more than a fortnight after leaving Lothlórien, and there they were welcomed by soldiers of Gondor holding the river. "Captain Boromir!" said one, offering them a hand to step out of the Elven boats, "We are glad to see you alive! When there was no word from you these past months, Lord Faramir feared the worst."
"We are all hale," the Man replied, "but please, I have heard that my lord father has died, though I left him in good health. What became of him?"
But the soldier shook his head. "I do not know, my lord," he answered, "Perhaps two months after your departure, nearly the whole army was mustered and sent into Ithilien - but we never learned our purpose for going, for Lord Denethor died suddenly and Lord Faramir recalled us to our posts. He could tell you more, if you are bound for Minas Tirith."
Horses and ponies were provided, and provisions, and the Fellowship set out for the White City as fast as they dared; they did not move in haste as if pursued, but neither did they linger in the gentle countryside they passed.
Their entry into Minas Tirith was unimpeded. The guards recognized Boromir in an instant and welcomed him home with his companions as the men of Osgiliath had, calling for stableboys to take the reins of their horses when they dismounted.
The Fellowship chose to walk the city rather than ride, in order to gauge the mood of the people to see what kind of welcome they could expect in the palace. Nothing seemed amiss - until Frodo grabbed a fistful of Gandalf's robes, then pointed.
There was a Ranger of Ithilien, still in his field leathers, talking and laughing with one of the guardsmen in the market as he provisioned himself for a journey. Both of them bore the mark of the White Tree - and both of them also had the rough shapes of a red dragon, wings outstretched, sewn onto the sleeves of their shirts.
And they were not alone. Most were subtle, as if an accent rather than true heraldry, but there were a few people who bore the dragon symbol proudly, alongside the White Tree as if that mark was equal to it. They were few, and strangers to Boromir, but they grew more numerous the closer the Fellowship came to the palace.
They stopped in a narrow but well concealed alley in the tier below the palace. "Are we betrayed?" Legolas asked softly, adjusting the hood of his cloak again to hide his pointed ears, "Has Gondor been conquered without our knowledge?"
"I'd like to know that myself," Boromir replied just as low, glancing up at the palace looming over them, "There has been no word of an army or a slaughter, and the city still stands together with her people. Yet these dragon marks as the orcs wore are here in the heart of Gondor where I have never seen them before."
"Or perhaps not noticed," Aragorn said, "If we had not seen the orcs with them, and if Frodo had not pointed them out, I doubt we would have paid them any mind, at least on those who are not open and notorious about wearing them. But, as you say, Minas Tirith is - mostly as you left her some months ago. We shall simply have to be watchful, and ready."
Boromir nodded. "I know the secret passages through the city better than anyone save Faramir," he said, "If we need to escape quickly, there are a number that would serve us well."
"Then let us see what might be seen."
Only one of the guards at the palace gate wore the dragon openly, a stranger, but two others who knew Boromir well had the shape of it subtly worked into their sleeves, just visible over their gauntlets, having gone unnoticed until now. Still, they all welcomed him and his companions as the others had, and sent them into the palace unmolested.
Faramir was seated on the Throne below the Throne, holding court and looking like he wanted to die. The Fellowship never found out exactly what the courtiers were speaking to the Steward about that made him so upset, because the moment he spotted his brother, Faramir nearly shot to his feet and ran to him, the two wrapping each other in fierce and laughing hugs.
They released each other with reluctance, and Faramir said, "Welcome home, brother."
"It is good to be home," Boromir answered, and waited until the Steward had adjourned the court to speak again. "Faramir… what has happened?"
"Too much to speak of here," the other Man answered grimly, "The walls have ears. Come."
He led them all to his study and sent some servants for food. Then he sighed and turned to them. "Boromir," he said, "you are my brother and I love you more than my own life, but you must swear to me that you knew nothing of our father's madness, else I cannot protect you."
"On my life, on my honor, on everything I hold dear," Boromir answered, "I have absolutely no idea what you are referring to. What 'madness'? What has happened?"
Faramir sighed. "A few days after you left to seek answers concerning our shared dream," he replied, "an Elf came to the court. An Elf assassin - but she came to warn rather than kill.
"Those of us who have fought on the frontier have long known that although Sauron has returned to Mordor and declared himself openly, he has not sent forth his armies because some unknown agent has been holding him in check. The Elf came as a representative of that agent, and that was how we learned.
"There is a Man of Gondor keeping the stalemate within the walls of Mordor. He has claimed lordship of Minas Morgul and fights the long defeat on Gondor's behalf - and wields one of the Nine Rings of Power against Sauron, for so long as his strength lasts.
"But he was discovered by the then-Lord of Cair Andros, who felt that the Lord of Minas Morgul cannot rise above his common birth and should surrender the Ninth to one more worthy of its power." Faramir scowled and shook his head even as the rest of the Fellowship murmured. "When Minas Morgul would not give it willingly, Cair Andros gathered his men and sought to take the Ring by force.
"The Lord sent his head - and that of his son, who felt as his father did - to Minas Tirith as a warning for the nobility to stay in line and that while he is fighting for Gondor, he will not tolerate his homeland trying to stab him in the back as he does so.
"But he has held Sauron at a stalemate. Our father - and several other nobles - thought they could do better."
"So they mustered the army and sent it after the Ninth," Aragorn whispered in growing horror.
Faramir nodded. "I was sent to scout Ithilien and the Morgul Vale to see what might be seen. After I returned and made my report…"
It felt like he'd barely fallen into bed before he was hauled out of it by rough hands. Faramir struggled reflexively - and struggled harder when he realized that his assailants were orcs.
Orcs in the White City.
But even one such as he, who was of strong Númenónean descent, couldn't hope to fight off half a dozen orc captains with no weapons and wearing nothing but his nightclothes. One of them in assassin's garb produced a strong rope and bound his arms tight against his back, saying, "Tough little thing, aintcha? You remind me of the Boss - maybe if you live, you can grow into that spitfire spirit of yours."
Then they shoved him ahead of them through the halls to the throne room.
The room was dark, darker than he'd ever seen it, even on moonless nights, as if every shadow in the city had been drawn inside. Blue-tinted green flames flickered in the sconces, casting sickly light through the cavernous space and throwing evil shadows over the walls and pillars, leaving pools of deep black where no light touched.
Some of the shadows moved independently of the balefire lights, sending whispering tendrils through the darkened hall.
There was a figure kneeling with their head bowed at the foot of the king's throne, sword drawn with the tip braced against the stone floor almost like a crutch, the length of the blade faintly glowing the same balefire green. The figure didn't move as Faramir was forced to his knees some distance behind, nor when he tried to fight back again - only to have a human woman grab his hair and yank his head back, holding a long knife to his throat. "Hold still," she growled at him, "One way or another, this will be over soon." To the figure, she said, "Ada, he's here."
The figure stirred, rose, and turned, and Faramir's blood turned to ice.
The Man before him was like no other he'd ever seen. He was ghastly pale even in the dark, the balefire giving him even more of a sickly look, and black corruption writhed like a living thing under his skin, flowing like blood through his veins with every agonizingly slow beat of his heart - if indeed it did beat. His armor was black steel plate, sharp and angled, jagged and fell, worn over a gambeson and mail hauberk he recognized as of Gondorian make, and over his shoulders was a long hooded cloak, the edges ripped and shredded.
His eyes glowed like hellfire, and so did the evil Ring on his finger.
The Lord of Minas Morgul kept his sword naked as he approached, the blade just as dark and wicked-looking as its master, and Faramir shuddered when the Ringwraith touched his face with the hand that bore the Ring.
Its glow brightened, and suddenly he felt the other Man in his mind, his presence at once biting cold and boiling heat, so strong as to be irresistible, examining his most recent memories with unnatural stillness of thought that spoke more of utter lack of emotion than an enforced calm.
But there was emotion on occasion; the Ringwraith lingered over his father's disdain at his report on Ithilien, calling it substandard work and saying that Boromir would have done better, even though Faramir knew it was a lie. He had written the reports from both of them and simply gotten his brother to sign them, and their father had accepted them without comment or question.
And for just the briefest of instants, a flicker of incandescent rage burned in the Lord's heart, along with a thought - I killed him too quickly.
But it was gone just as fast as it had come, so fast that Faramir thought he had imagined it, and the Ringwraith withdrew, returning his sword to its sheath over his back. "He knew nothing," he said, his voice hollow and metallic and devoid of all inflection, "Release him."
In the blink of an eye, the woman had pulled the blade away from his throat and let go of his hair, and a second after that, his arms were free as well. He rubbed his wrists even as the woman and the orcs stepped away to give him space, then he looked up at the wraith. "What brings you to Minas Tirith, my lord?" Faramir half-demanded as he stood, trying to subtly straighten his sleepwear to appear more presentable to the Lord of Minas Morgul.
"More of Gondor's nobility - including your lord father - decided to try for my Ring, despite my warning," the Ringwraith answered before he could say anything further, "and I responded as I said I would." He swept the hand with the Ring out to one side, the evil jewel brightening again, and the sickly torchlight flared higher - revealing the still corpse of his father lying in a pool of dark blood, his head a body length away from his neck.
Faramir knew that he should not have felt relief on seeing the Man dead, but he did anyway.
He looked back to the Ringwraith, who still watched him with that same disturbingly empty expression. "I do not want the throne, neither the king's nor the steward's, nor do I want Gondor as a vassal state or to send me tribute," said the wraith, "Recall the army, keep the nobles under control and out of Ithilien, and you will have no further trouble from us."
Faramir nodded. That was more than fair. Though hard-won, the Ringwraith had such ease with his power that the Man did not doubt for a second that if the Lord was willing to let his stalemate with Sauron go slack for a time, he could utterly ruin Gondor beyond all hope of rebuilding.
"Idril," the wraith said to the woman as he swept away towards the great doors to the courtyard where the White Tree stood withered, "choose some men you trust and help Gondor's new Steward organize his household; I don't want another Kin-strife over this."
The woman nodded. "As you say, ada. Send Naredir and his men to start, and I will call others as needed."
The orcs fell into step behind the Ringwraith, and later Faramir could not have said for love or money what made him speak, only that the question fell from his lips before his mind even realized it was coming.
"What has become of the other Nazgûl?"
The Lord of Minas Morgul paused at the doors and turned his head just slightly, just barely visible in the dark.
Faramir swallowed but forged ahead. "You bear one of the Nine - they must have emerged from wherever they slept for you to take it from the one who wore it before you, yet we have seen no sign of them for many long years. Are you containing them as well as Sauron, or do we need to be watchful for their return?"
There was a long moment of silence before the Ringwraith spoke again. "There are no others," he said, "Idril slew the Witch-king on the field of battle-" Faramir shot a wide-eyed look at the woman in question, but she did not react except to draw herself up straighter, lifting her chin and staring back at him as if daring him to challenge the Lord's claim. "-and I killed the rest, one by one. For lack of any other options, we threw their Rings into the fires of Mount Doom, where they were destroyed.
"There are no other Nazgûl. Not anymore."
Then he pushed the doors open. The sickly green flames went out at once, the fell darkness vanishing in the blink of an eye. Moonlight spilled in, washing the throne room in silver, the polished white marble nearly glowing in the soft light.
There were several massive creatures lying in the courtyard - dragons, but much smaller than the legends said. Most of them gave a careful berth to the White Tree, though one of them sniffed at some of the lower branches until the Ringwraith sent a warning "Tsst!" in its direction. It withdrew at once, and the other dragons rose as well, scales hissing over stone.
The largest of the dragons swung its great head around to distinctly nuzzle the Nazgûl when he drew near, and he murmured a soft, "Sweetheart," as the orcs started climbing into the saddles on the others' backs, strapping themselves in. The dragon let out a rumbling purr at the wraith's gentle touch, an armored hand smoothing over its scales, then lowered itself for him to swing up into its own saddle with the grace and ease of long experience.
And then they were gone, winging their way back towards Mordor.
"Destroyed," Gandalf said in disbelief, puffing hard on his pipe, "The other Eight all slain, their Rings destroyed, and Sauron contained - by a Ringwraith!"
"I have seen and heard nothing to dispute the claim," said Faramir, "Idril has even shown me the scar from a wound she says the Witch-king dealt her during their final fight, and I must say it does not look to have come from any mortal weapon."
"Is what he said true?" Boromir asked his brother, "Did our lord father want the Ninth for his own?"
Faramir nodded grimly. "He had it all written down, planned out as much as possible, right down to the number of men and arms he thought it would take to finally throw down the Dark Tower - more than Gondor could even hope to field since the Great Plague over a thousand years ago now. He thought the Ring would make up for the lack."
The other son of Denethor rubbed his hands wearily over his face.
"Do you think the Lord of Minas Morgul will grant us safe passage into Mordor?" Aragorn asked the Steward, "We have an urgent errand to run there; it would put us at ease to know we will not need to sneak."
After a moment's thought, the Steward answered, "That question would be better answered by Idril, who knows him best."
"You say she calls him ada, 'father,'" said Legolas, "Is she his blood-kin?"
"She is not. Actually, truth be told, Boromir and I are her closest living relatives aside from her own children," Faramir told them, "She is the daughter of Castamir of House Rían."
"Valar, there's a name I haven't heard in a while," Boromir hummed.
"And you likely won't again. She does not like to speak of him - she says he betrayed Minas Ithil to the Witch-king in an attempt to save her life," the Steward said grimly, "She would rather claim kinship to the Lord of Minas Morgul, who, in her words, 'is at least honest about what kind of monster he is, and does the best he can for his people regardless'. Well, she used considerably more curses than that, but that is the gist of it."
The servants brought food for them all, and Faramir sent one to find Idril, who joined them soon after. It was then that the Fellowship revealed their mission, though not who carried the One Ring, but even so Idril made a gesture to ward off evil and murmured avert under her breath, then said, "Ada has been waiting for ones such as you for a long time - we all have. He may wish to question you regarding how much you knew of your late father's actions, cousin, but if you are as innocent as your brother, then you will have nothing to fear. I will send a message ahead to let him know you are coming."
The Fellowship stayed the night in Minas Tirith, then returned to Osgiliath, and then crossed to the eastern shore of the Anduin and kept heading eastward. Before long the Morgul Vale loomed ahead of them, the clouds overhead deepening and darkening to the point that barely any sunlight filtered through, leaving the vale illuminated only by the corpselight coming off Minas Morgul itself.
The citadel was visibly corrupted, but it did not radiate malice or evil intent - nor did the mix of orcs and Men guarding the gate. "Boss said Idril said you'd be coming," said one of the captains, "He's up top." Then he waved them in with barely a second glance.
The city within was not at all what they expected. People moved through the streets with barely a second glance at the sinisterly glowing city around them, Men and orcs and even the odd Elf and dwarf alike going about their business as if it was perfectly normal - and for them perhaps it was. The Fellowship walked through a thriving market square on their way up to the Tower, and there they beheld dozens of traders hawking their wares to anyone who took even a moment to listen, displaying fine cloth and pottery and paper, herbs and spices, food and drink from all corners of the world. Through the rest of the city, they saw people at work and at play, and even children running through the streets, laughing and playing games and doing chores and living.
The Fellowship was stunned to silence by the time they reached the Tower. There they were met by a very old Haradrim man who introduced himself as Baranor, Idril's husband, and he led them past a number of small dragons and into the Tower.
The central hall was illuminated by the corpselight coming off of the walls - revealing a pedestal at the back of the hall, a round shape covered in cloth atop it. Gandalf threw out an arm at once, bringing the others to a sudden halt, and he eyed the thing with great suspicion.
"Saruman has not turned his attention this way in quite some time."
They all looked up.
There was a pool of deep shadow spilling over the sill of a window high above, the outline of an armored figure just visible in the dim light coming through the glass. "It's fortunate that nothing happened while you were in Isengard, Mithrandir," said the Lord of Minas Morgul, darkness writhing faintly around him, "but you should know that Saruman's loyalty to the Far West holds on by only the barest of threads. If Sauron could move from a position of true strength, I do not doubt for a second that he would go over. And Sauron himself has bigger problems - you have nothing to fear from my Palantír. For now, at least."
Gandalf nodded with reluctance and lowered his arm. "They told you why we have come."
"I would have known even without Idril's message. The One made Itself known to me the moment you entered the Vale." His head turned away, voice darkening. "I can feel It searching for me... crawling blind through the Unseen World with hands outstretched…"
He shuddered, and them with him. Then he continued, "Mithrandir. Heir of Isildur."
The Fellowship jolted at that. They had not told Idril or Faramir of Aragorn's bloodline, yet it seemed that the Ringwraith knew anyway.
"Will you vouch for this son of Denethor?" the Lord continued "That he knew nothing of his father's plans?"
Aragorn stepped forward without a moment's hesitation. "I will."
Gandalf agreed also, and they saw the wraith nod. "I will arrange for safe passage into Mordor, and cover for your approach to Orodruin. Rest easy here tonight, and know that you are safe."
Then he vanished, and the One Ring thrummed with anger as he slipped through Its fingers.
Baranor showed them to rooms in the tower and had hot food brought, and they all slept deeply and without dreams.
The Lord was still gone by the next morning, but a mixed group of Gondorian Rangers and orcs took them "the short way" through the Ephel Dúath. This apparently involved a very harrowing encounter with Shelob, daughter of Ungoliant, who dwelled with her brood in the tunnels under the mountains, but the massive spider let them all pass without a major incident.
The sun went down behind the mountains, but it wasn't too much longer before the Tower of Cirith Ungol loomed out of the dark overhead. The Overlord of the fortress also had rooms ready for them. "Boss said you were coming. Hope you know how to ride."
He definitely didn't mean horses. The creatures the orcs rode were called caragors, massive cat-like animals with hide like segmented armor, but these seemed tame enough and barely blinked when the Fellowship mounted up, joining a mixed-people train of traders and guards swinging north and east into Gorgoroth. Yet despite outward appearances, all of them had the look of soldiers, armed and traveling light, watching the skies and the surrounding land for any potential attacks.
But they made it to the fortress in Gorgoroth without incident - and noticed right away that the fortress was emptying as fast as it could, the people following the road further east. Their caravan joined the evacuation effort, and a number of dragons - the people of Mordor called them fire drakes - flew in from other regions to aid in the evacuation. "We've seen what happens when Rings of Power are destroyed," said the Overlord of Gorgoroth, an Olog, who grabbed a protesting orc and threw him skyward, where he was snatched out of the air by a dragon and carried off, "The One's gonna be worse, and we don't wanna be here if it's gonna bring the fortress down on us."
Sauron seemed to realize what was happening, because he threw absolutely every orc he had left at the fortress, sending them marching swiftly down Sauron's Road towards them - to no avail.
There was a roar overhead that was almost a shriek, and the Lord of Minas Morgul came swooping down out of the dark clouds covering the plateau, riding the largest dragon of them all. The blood red beast plunged low over the road and spat a long stream of white-hot flame as it went, setting a good length of the road ablaze together with the orcs on it. Then it broke off the assault and angled back towards the fortress. More of the dragons took flight to pick up where it left off, harrying the orcs and then the grey dragon-like things that looked to be the drakes' distant kin.
The red drake landed not far away, the Lord of Minas Morgul turning his burning gaze their way. "If you truly mean to destroy the One, you must do it now," he said to them, hands tight on his mount's reins, "The drakes will be able to pick you up once Sauron's threat is ended, but only a few; the rest of you must go with the evacuation. And Ringbearer."
Frodo looked up, and met the Ringwraith's gaze.
"Don't stop," said the wraith, "Don't think - just run, and throw."
Frodo nodded, and the Lord spurred his drake back into the skies.
The destruction of the One ended up being both the easiest and the hardest part of the journey. The air was bitterly cold in Gorgoroth, hidden from the warm light of the sun by the dark clouds overhead, but the ground under Frodo's feet was hot enough to burn as he, Sam, and Gandalf raced for the Cracks of Doom, ignoring the shrieks of the flying beasts overhead as they fought, the battle cries of the orcs, and the grating screams of Sauron as he helplessly watched their progress. Gandalf's staff was lit with brilliant white light, and Frodo clutched the Phial of Galadriel to his chest together with the One Ring, hoping that the Phial's own light would keep the Ring's snarling darkness at bay. He could feel it clawing at his mind, trying to grab hold, but its grip kept slipping.
Before long, the Sammath Naur loomed before them, and Frodo stumbled inside on now-bleeding feet, the blistering cold of Gorgoroth turning to the boiling heat of the volcano within a few steps. He shivered and shook with the shock of the sudden change, and though his body wanted to stop a moment and rest, adjust, he knew he could not.
Don't stop.
The interior of the chamber was full of evil statues and wicked carvings half-buried by rock - cool magma from previous eruptions. He briefly wondered if that was what the orcs had experienced when the other Rings of Power were cast back into the mountain, but then he forced that thought from his mind.
Don't think.
There was only one other door in the chamber, leading into the heart of the mountain. The molten rock below cast a fiery orange light through the room, more than enough for him to see as he raced for the opening. He found himself on a narrow rock spur sticking straight out over the magma pool far below, and as if sensing why he'd come, the magma bubbled more furiously still as he ran.
But Frodo noticed that only in passing.
Just run, and throw.
The One was out of his hands before he even realized he'd wound up to hurl it over the edge. Frodo watched, transfixed, as the glittering golden band spun end over end, falling towards the magma below, before plunging into the bright depths.
There was a shock of power, and the ground rolled under his feet. He windmilled his arms, frantically trying to keep his balance, even as the magma below began to rise-
Sam and Gandalf caught him just in time to stop him from pitching over the edge. He clutched at them both, and they all fled together back through the Sammath Naur, where the dragons were waiting for them on the slopes of the mountain.
"Keep breathing, Talion."
The Ringwraith would have snapped at the Elf if he could, but as it was, his throat was slit open again, making responding impossible. Maglor was bent over him, needle and thread flashing in the ruddy light from the eruption as the Elf stitched the wound shut as quickly and cleanly as possible. The fading echoes of his Ring were letting him hold onto semi-life much longer than an ordinary man, but his grip was slipping, spots of darkness blooming at the edges of his vision.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the slowly-fading pain in his throat and that athelas was somewhere nearby to keep the air clean and sweet. At one point he distinctly heard Maglor talking with the Ringbearer - "He knew what would happen when the One was destroyed. He knew the risks to himself, and sent you on anyway. Do not blame yourself if he does not survive - he would think it a just trade, one he already chose to make decades ago. His life and soul for the safety of all of Middle-earth, even if only for a time." - and at another his eyes opened to his rooms in Minas Morgul, the Ranger called Strider at his bedside. Again there was the sharp sense of recognition, the doubled-vision of Isildur's face laid over his descendant's, but he blinked it away.
"Talion," said Strider, and there was something more to it, something that pulled at bonds he'd long thought withered away, devoured by Isildur's Ring.
"My king," the Ringwraith managed, his throat on fire, but then his awareness fled again.
The Maia was with him when he finally woke up for good, leafing through one of the ancient tomes from Minas Morgul's library. His power had weakened with the destruction of the One - and his own Ring with it - but he could still shift enough into the Unseen World to see the star-bright spirit for what he was.
"You've given your people quite a scare," Mithrandir said without looking up, "It has taken the best efforts of many healers to keep you with us. Lord Elrond says thank you for looking after his surrogate father, by the way."
Talion recognized the name; Maglor had told many stories of his "accidentally" adopted sons, his pride in their accomplishments clear in his voice. It was good to know that those feelings were apparently mutual. He rasped, "He needed a lot of looking after. I hope Lord Elrond has better luck than me on that front. My people?"
"They are well. There were no deaths during the destruction of the One Ring."
Small mercies. Talion breathed a sigh of relief, then lifted a hand to his throat.
His neck was bound in clean bandages, the skin underneath warm but not feverishly hot. His hand, gouged by the Hammer so many years ago, was also bound, every finger poulticed and splinted, but he managed the barest twitches, letting him know that it was not dead weight or otherwise wounded beyond hope. Still, he asked, "How bad is it?"
Mithrandir was silent for a long moment but finally said, "Neither as good nor as bad as it could have been. Your state has complicated the healing, but you are healing."
He still felt numb inside, hollowed out by Isildur's Ring, but it wasn't the same emptiness from before, when he'd been so full of nothing that he hadn't even been able to fall into darkness. Now they would see how much of his soul was left after Sauron's and the Ring's long predation - and how much he would recover before he died a natural death.
(You cannot see inside me. Nothing of my soul remains.)
As if sensing the line of his thoughts, the Maia said, "Hope is not lost, Talion Wind-Rider. The Enemy is broken at last beyond any chance of regaining his former power, and you are still alive."
"And yet salvation may still have come too late. We shall see what fate awaits me." Talion's eyes drifted shut, and he slept without dreams.