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Chapter Text

January, in the year 3018 of the Third Age, Mordor

Gollum woke to a black sky. He did not know where or what he was. Everything hurt, and the world was cruel. He curled into a ball, shivering and shaking, and tried not to remember anything.

The sound of footsteps penetrated his misery, and he lifted his head and looked around with bleary eyes.

Gollum was curled up in the middle of dirty, dusty lands caked with ash. He was outside the dreadful tower, somehow, rather than inside it. He could not remember how he got out. He rubbed at his eyes. They hurt. The sun was far away over the cloud of ash, but the memory of fire and torment burned behind his eyes just like the sun did. He squinted, and saw that the footsteps approaching him belonged to a man.

The man was tall, with light brown hair that fell to his shoulders, and stubble on his chin to match. He was booted and cloaked, in coarse brown travel-stained fabric, wearing gloves and carrying a small knife at his hip. His gray eyes were fixed on Gollum.

It was a very strong, very dark, and very evil will that looked upon Gollum from those eyes. Gollum knew this hostile power intimately by now. He shrank away from the man's approach. He ought to flee, he needed to flee, but he could not. Something held him in place.

"Sméagol," the man declared, coming to stand and loom over where Gollum was curled in the dirt. "I've had a splendid idea."

"Don't," Gollum whimpered. "Sméagol is gone, lost. He is gone, it's not right for you to call us that."

The man seemed amused. He crossed his arms and peered down at Gollum with a funny little unkind smile.

"What would you like to be called, then?"

"Gollum, gollum," Gollum coughed.

"An awful name," the man declared. "But Gollum it is, then. I've decided we shall go on an adventure together. Doesn't that sound fun?"

"No," Gollum said, and started weeping. "No adventures, please, mustn't hurt us anymore. We told you everything we know. Gollum."

"The adventures won't hurt," said the man. "Much."

"Have pity," Gollum whimpered. "Leave me alone. Don't look at me. I don't know where it is, I can't find it."

"No, indeed," the man agreed. He was still smiling that slightly cruel smile. "But I think we can find it together. What say you?"

"No," Gollum said, giving a great shudder. "You are trying to trick me. It won't work, precious it won't. You didn't look like this before, but I know who you are. You mustn't get it. You will swallow us all if you do."

"Cheer up," the man said bracingly. He extended a foot and nudged Gollum with the end of his boot, but it was much gentler than expected. It was only a nudge. "It could be worse. There's always the dungeons again as your other option."

"No!" Gollum wailed. He pulled his hands into his chest to cradle them protectively. "Have pity. No, it hurts, it burns us, nasty cruel fires, we told you everything we know. Make it stop, please! Make it stop. Leave me alone, gollum. Leave us alone!"

"Enough of this," the man said, making a faint moue of distaste. "You will come with me."

"We won't help you, no we won't. You mustn't ever get it. Sméagol will die first, yes he will, torment and death and fire first." The memory of fire burned inside his fingers and he licked at them, trying to put it out.

"That's always still on the table," the man said, switching back to cheerfulness instantly.

"I hate you!" Gollum found the energy to spit out with a sudden passion, and his weeping ceased. "The precious is mine." He hunched his shoulders protectively against the pain he feared was coming.

"Ah," said the man. "You have little choice in this matter, I'm afraid."

The words were cruel, but the pain did not come. He did not strike or kick or hurt Gollum. He did not make fires burn underneath Gollum's skin. He only kept smiling that awful smile.

"We don't know where it is," Gollum repeated. "We can't find it. They stole it from us. Thieves, liars, tricksy, false!" He gave a great sniffle.

"I don't know where it is either," the man said. "But I am going to find it. I am going to find your Shire and your Baggins. And you must dog my steps, or else I might find the ring before you do. And you don't want to risk that, do you?"

Gollum peered up at him, shivering and hurting.

"You don't want to risk not being there when it's found, do you?" the man prodded.

Slowly, very slowly, Gollum lifted his head and shook it.

The man smiled again. Apparently satisfied that Gollum would follow despite his protests, the man turned and started walking away from the dreadful black tower. Gollum rubbed at his eyes again, gave a great shudder, and pushed himself up from the ground. He coughed, and he wept a little more, but he followed.

They walked and they walked and they walked. Gollum understood that the compulsion to follow the man was of the same sort that took Gollum to Mordor in the first place. He did not want to follow—he knew he oughtn't—but to fight it would have required more effort than he could muster.

The journey seemed quite endless, but Gollum did not cry or complain. He was kept silent by both fear and exhaustion. Gollum's presence did not seem to be noticed by his companion one bit, and he thought it might be better that way. The man set a steady walking pace—steady, at least, for his own long legs—and left Gollum to follow in his wake as best he might.

They walked and they walked, but the land didn't change. It was dirt and ash and deep fearful crevices, although the man knew the land better than Gollum did and chose a route that stayed mostly level and steady. Gollum knew that there was a road from the dreadful tower to the gates exiting this land—the orcs had dragged Gollum in that way. But the man was nowhere near the road. They walked strange paths through the dark, threading unknown obstacles and pits in the ragged ground.

Gollum was tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and pained from his long days of torture. His hands hurt dreadfully, sending pain through his wrists when he put weight on them. Though he was hardier than anyone could have imagined him, eventually he could go no more.

He collapsed on the ground, and whimpered pitifully, with no coherence to his words.

The man did stop at that, and turned back for him. "Oh, I see," he said, and his voice was almost kind. "I have tired you out. Shall I carry you?"

"Don't touch me," Gollum cried. "Gollum, gollum. No more. We cannot bear it anymore."

The man laughed. That he could laugh in such conditions was exhausting. His laughter stabbed Gollum like knives, and Gollum shivered and cried.

"Look," the man said, and took something off his back and placed it on the ground. It was a large, sturdy pack, made of strong canvas of a dirty gray color with a good stout frame. "Ride on this, and we need not touch anyone we don't wish to."

Gollum was too far gone to protest. His will was sapped. If this man got his ring back, it would be utter disaster, but Gollum had nothing left with which to defy him. He managed to crawl on top of the pack, and the man swung it carefully back onto his shoulders, without dislodging the new occupant. Thus there was a little spot for Gollum to curl up and nest in, and the man's gait was soothing and steady, and soon Gollum knew no more.

Gollum woke. They were still under the ashy cloud, and there was no telling what time of night it was. The man was walking in the low foothills of a taller, darker mountain range off to their right.

Gollum was still curled up on the man's pack, and he was not quite so tired, but he was aching with hunger and thirst. His position was cramped and uncomfortable now that he was awake.

The man apparently heard or felt him stirring, and called back a cheerful-sounding inquiry as to how Gollum fared.

"Put me down," Gollum begged. "Please, put me down, we don't like it."

To Gollum's very great surprise, the man stopped at once. He took the pack off, and lowered it to the ground. Gollum crawled off of it and fell face-down on the ground, crying in relief.

The man gave him a few moments to relieve himself, and then started walking again. Gollum coughed and shivered but slunk along behind him, keeping low to the ground. It was less ashy, in these hills; the dirt was more like dirt. But it was slightly harder going, up and down and up and down in gully and crevice and cliff.

After a while, they climbed higher in the hills, but all the hills had become smaller; the dark towering peaks of the taller mountains were behind them now. They started passing entrances to dark tunnels and caves, and Gollum paused to sniff around them. He found some bones to gnaw on, which helped with the hunger and thirst a little. The man patiently waited during his poking around in the caves for a time, but always kept walking before Gollum was ready.

Once, Gollum poked his head in a cave and found it occupied. A great roar came from the rear of the cave, a troll screaming that it would eat the intruder's bones. Gollum shot out of the cave like an arrow and cowered down in the shelter of the man's feet.

The troll came out of its cave, swinging its heavy club and yelling about filth and scum and thieves.

The man laughed, scooped Gollum up in his arms, and ran.

It was the last thing Gollum expected him to do, and it was a horrible, jostling sort of way to move. He closed his eyes and put his hands over them and whimpered.

The man eventually stopped running, and crouched and gently placed Gollum back on the ground. Gollum did not hear the troll anymore. Gollum had stopped whimpering, but he was still disoriented. He licked his hands again, shuddering. The man had touched him, with those horrible hands that burned. Though he had not made any new fire, the memory of old fires was strong.

The man, for his part, was still laughing. "You didn't think the hills around Udûn were empty, did you?"

So that was where they were. Gollum shivered. It made sense, if the man wanted to head north to look for the ring. Although Gollum still didn't understand why they were not down on the road.

"Maybe stop poking your head into the caves," the man suggested, his laughter lingering in his words.

"Why does it go through the hills," Gollum muttered. "The way is tricksy and nasty and full of things that want to eat you. There are solid paths down below, not so hard."

"Our errand is very secret," the man said. "Enemy spies may be watching. I will not open the Black Gates for their eyes to see our exit. It is a tad ostentatious, in retrospect. Either way, we cannot use any roads unless we are a long way from Mordor. Do you want the elves and wizards to get the ring?"

"No," Gollum said, coughing again. "Gollum. Not the nasty elves and wizards, precious, never. We will never let them have it."

Gollum managed to follow the man a little longer, padding along behind him, but soon the man turned and started climbing sharply uphill in a narrow gully, scrambling up enormous rock walls and treading over sharp thorns and brambles. Gollum collapsed weakly after just a mile of this. He was so hungry and thirsty.

Without saying anything, the man turned and crouched and held out his pack. Gollum had just enough energy to crawl on top of it again and curl up and pass out.

When he woke again, they weren't under the black ashen sky anymore. He could see stars. He hated the stars.

As soon as he stirred, the man instantly sat the pack down on the ground. The ground was wet. It was squishy and marshy. Gollum shuddered. The marshes were not much better than the ashy dirt inside Mordor. Dead things were in the marshes. But Gollum was by this point driven mad by thirst, and he crept forward until he found water, and lowered his head.

"Don't do that!" the man cried, alarmed, and leapt forward and grabbed Gollum by the shoulder to haul him away from the water. "That's disgusting. You can't drink from there—you will fall in and become one of them."

"So thirsty!" Gollum whined. He writhed and wriggled and tried to get away from the hand, the horrible Black Hand. The man let go at once. "Endless thirst, it burns, don't care about the dead things."

"I have clean water," the man said, in exasperation. "Come here." The man bent, took something out of the pack, and held it out to Gollum.

Gollum snatched at it. It was a canteen of water, generous and cold and clear. He poured it down his throat greedily, shivering and sniffling and still crying a bit.

"You needn't try to eat the dead things either," the man said, smiling his funny and mean little smile again, the kind that said the man knew a good joke at your expense you didn't know anything about. "Here." He reached into the pack again and pulled out strips of dried meat.

Gollum tore at them and swallowed them without breathing or chewing. It was salty, tough, and stringy, but he ate it all in an instant and then gulped down more water.

"You'll make yourself sick," the man declared, but he made no move to stop Gollum's gluttony.

"Maybe if the Eye hadn't starved us," Gollum said reproachfully, finding a little of his spirit back after the sleep and the food and water, enough to sass even this man. "We wouldn't be this way now."

"The Eye," the man repeated, as though tasting the words. His eyes were actually warm and human looking and not particularly cruel, but Gollum was not fooled. His tormentor looked out at Gollum from inside them. "Oh, yes. Very cruel."

Gollum shivered. He did not know if the man was making fun of him or not. "Always awake, always looking at us, a gaze rimmed with fire. He knows, he sees. Don't! Don't make us talk about it."

"Terrible," the man agreed, shaking his head.

"We have other names for him, but we won't share, no, we are not stupid," Gollum added, inclined to be sly all of a sudden.

The man threw back his head and laughed heartily. "I'm sure I can guess at them."

He took the water canteen from Gollum and placed it back in the pack, then straightened up and shouldered it again. "Shall we continue?"

Gollum lifted himself off the ground and sat up. He shivered. The night air was very cold. "We don't know where it is, precious," Gollum repeated, and started weeping again.

The man gave a great, dramatic sigh and lifted his eyes to the sky for a moment. Then he crouched down until his face was level with Gollum.

"I believe you," he said patiently, almost gently. "I believe that you told me all you know. I am going to find Baggins and the Shire, and we're going to start by looking for the land of the halflings along the banks of the Gladden. See? We are investigating. Together."

"I don't want to investigate with you," Gollum whimpered. He gave another great sniffle. "The precious is ours. It was our birthday-present, it's mine, it came to me. My own, my precious. It's mine! It's not yours! We hate them all. Thieves, liars, they stole it from us!" He finished on a howl.

"Well, my patience is up with this sort of talk," the man announced. He stood, then turned and started walking away.

The man threaded his way through the marshes without hesitation, finding the firmest ground without ever slowing his stride. If he was bothered by the dead things with lights, he made no sign of it. Gollum padded after the man on tender, painful limbs.

Gollum endured the journey through all of the marshes without asking to be carried again. Everything hurt, and movement was agony, and worse, the moon peeked out from behind the clouds a few hours into the night. Still it was better than curling on the man's pack like a dog. Gollum was not his dog. Gollum was not anyone's dog. Oh yes, they would all find out and they would all be sorry for how they had treated Gollum.

But his energy and even his spite were fading by the time they reached the cliffs of the Emyn Muil. The man knew the best paths through here, too, even though the land was twisted and confusing and broken. It was hard going, suddenly very steep, and the rock beneath his hands and feet was cold and sharp. The man he was following seemed to need no rest, nor food, nor drink. It was too much for Gollum, and he started falling behind.

Once again the man stopped and came back for him.

"Just say something when you are too tired to go any further," the man said, sounding a little frustrated. The man handed Gollum the canteen of water and more strips of meat. "No need to martyr yourself."

Gollum ate, and drank, and consented once again to curl up on the pack and sleep.

When he woke, it was bright out. Much too bright. Gollum buried further into the pack, hiding from the harsh light in the sky, and slept again.

Gollum alternated walking during the nights and hiding in the pack during the days. The passage through the Emyn Muil was miserable enough that he walked only seldom. At long last, they came to lower hills giving way to brown lands ahead of them, and Gollum could smell the great river winding to their left. It was blessedly dark; Gollum had slept through the day and the moon had not risen.

A little delighted to be on decent ground again, and far away from the horrible lands of his torment, Gollum kicked up his heels a little and raced down to the streambank. He swam, and found fish, and tore into them happily.

When he looked back up for the man, he was standing beside the bank of the river, giving Gollum a smile that was not cruel. His eyes were warm and friendly.

"Do you want one?" Gollum offered, a little shyly. He held out a fish he had not yet torn into.

"Thank you," the man said, laughing. He bit into the fish raw, like Gollum did, spitting out the scales and little bones. "Delicious."

"Very tasty," Gollum agreed, and smiled back for the first time.

Gollum's newfound ease persisted. He still consented to ride during the days when the sun was out, but came to enjoy prancing along the riverbanks on the ground during the cool nights. The man never faltered in his stride or seemed to want to pause for anything but Gollum's needs, but he remained surprisingly patient with those.

Gollum did not forget his torment in the man's dark dungeons, but nor did he dwell on it. He was not built to dwell on such things, for his thoughts—as they always did—centered around the ring. Though he did not know it, he had this in common with the man traveling beside him.

Gollum began to think that perhaps the man was right. They would find the ring, working together, and when they did—Gollum would be there.

They crossed the brown lands without incident over the course of a few days, or maybe a week—Gollum had no concept of measuring and keeping track of time. This had made the questioner in the dungeons very angry, that he did not know when he found or lost the ring. But he truly had no notion that his life had lasted nearly six centuries or that he encountered Baggins many decades ago but less than a century. Time was meaningless. There was only himself, distant memories of another self, and the pull of the ring.

After some amount of time, the man left the banks of the river, climbing uphill towards the eaves of the dark forest that was looming ahead of them on their right.

"This is an evil place," Gollum whimpered, as they drew a little too close to the trees for his taste. Gollum shivered, and stopped walking. He sank to the ground. Unfriendly eyes were everywhere. "It lurks in the trees and does not sleep."

"Don't worry," the man said, flashing the almost-kind smile down at Gollum that Gollum had grown to like. "The stronghold is empty."

"It's not empty," Gollum contradicted. The man at his side might not be in residence, but the dark tower on the hill was still riddled with terrible dark things that would eat you from the inside out.

"But it is. The wraiths have been sent away. They have gone south, to draw unfriendly eyes to them, and away from our journey."

"It won't ever be empty again," Gollum argued. "We won't go near it, no precious we won't. Torment and death and ash."

"Nienna grant me mercy!" the man exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "I thought you knew who I am. What do you think is there that will threaten you if you are with me?"

"Don't make us do it," Gollum whimpered, cowering. "Have pity, have pity! Poor Sméagol, the Eye is very cruel to poor Sméagol, who is only trying to help his investigations."

"We have little choice," the man said curtly. "We mustn't get too close to the river in this area."

"Nasty elves on the other side," Gollum agreed, choking a little on the word 'elves'.

"Nasty elves on the other side," the man echoed, with no trace of irony. "They cannot learn of our errand."

The man stooped down, picked Gollum up, deposited him on top of the pack without ceremony, then stood up and continued walking north, choosing a path that was just underneath the dreadful canopy of tainted trees. Gollum did not struggle or try to get down to the ground, but burrowed into the pack and refused to look out of it again for a very long time.

They passed away from the area of great evil without anything coming after them. Gollum relaxed only once it was long behind them and the man finally consented to walk closer to the river.

It was bountiful country, here, as long as you didn't fear an attack by orcs or wild wolves. Gollum did not know whether the man controlled the creatures all the way up here, but whatever the reason, nothing attacked the travelers. There was fresh flowing water, with plenty of fish, and other crawling things that were nice to eat. The ground was steady and the lands were empty. If Gollum had been traveling on his own, he would have kept to the foothills of the Misty Mountains on the other side of the great river, but he didn't mind the path the man chose as long as he could hide when the sun was out.

They journeyed through the green vale for many days, perhaps weeks. Eventually, they swam across the river and found the swampy marshlands that were, once upon a long time ago, the home of Sméagol's people.

The man explored the Gladden for a while, beginning with the marshes at the confluence with Anduin. They lingered here and there, rustling bushes and treading through great fields of tall grasses and peering into deep bowls of the land. Gollum slept during the days, and explored with the man at night. They found dragonflies and frogs and other tasty things, but no halflings.

The man eventually reached the rocky edges of the Misty Mountains, far away from the great river and no longer a nice place to live in.

"These lands are very empty," the man observed as they stood on a small, bare hill beside the stream that gave them a view of the wide, empty lands: the marshes below them, the green vale east of the great river, and the vast forest beyond that.

His voice was very quiet and calm.

Gollum sank to the ground on his belly and cowered.

The man settled down cross-legged onto the ground. He took measured, even breaths. He rested his gloved hands lightly on his thighs. It was all very non-threatening. But Gollum tried to slink backwards, away from the man, towards the safety of the great mountains behind them.

The man did not move. He did not lift a finger. Yet Gollum did not get very far before his limbs gave out. He lost all feeling in them. They refused to move. Gollum collapsed in a limp heap.

"You told me you thought the halfling was from a place called the Shire, which in turn was near to the places you once dwelt beside the banks of the Gladden," the man reminded him, very softly.

Gollum wept a great storm; he hiccuped and he coughed and he cried.

The man sat very still and did not move. If Gollum was weeping because he anticipated more torture, the pain did not come.

"You lied, I see," the man said at length. "Tell me the truth." His voice was almost gentle. He was not smiling; neither his cruel smile nor the nice smile. His face was soft. He might have been wearing an expression of pity.

Gollum's tormented brain fell back into the patterns it had developed under torture. He cried, and he babbled the same story he'd repeated over and over again in the dungeons, before he'd eventually given up the name Baggins.

"Elves and wizards," he whimpered. "They tricked us, they stole it, they put us to fire and they have it, too powerful, poor Sméagol, they stole it and they hurt him. Elves and wizards!"

Even Gollum didn't know why this was the story he'd picked to tell. It was likely a combination of a wizard being involved in Baggins' thievery, and the hope that 'elves and wizards' were such lofty targets that the Enemy would destroy himself going after them.

It had not, however, fooled the Enemy for even a second. He knew 'elves and wizards' did not have the ring. They would have used it against him already if they had.

"If you say 'elves and wizards' one more time, I will kill you," the man said very evenly, for he had heard this phrase fifty thousand times before and was thoroughly sick of it. "I do not need your company on this journey that badly."

But he still did not make any moves to pierce Gollum with fire, and he wasn't even directing the terrible dark force of his will at Gollum.

The man simply sat there.

Gollum sobbed, but he managed to stop babbling. He bit down on his hand every time he felt an urge to start talking again.

They waited each other out in protracted silence.

In due time, the sun rose in the east. As the first rays of its light shone on the hill, Gollum was forced to bury his head in the grass. "It burns," he whined. "It hurts us, precious, make it go away!"

The sun did not go away. It burned hotter and brighter as the day wore on. Gollum cringed from it but could not escape it. He wailed his displeasure.

He eventually grew too weary to continue in this fashion, and his sobs dissipated into gasping coughs and ragged breathing. He was drained of every emotion.

Gollum never knew how long he resisted. Hunger and thirst grew in him. The sun set; Gollum had outlasted that foe. For now. It would come again. And he knew, deep in his bones, that he could not win against this man. His stubbornness carried him even past that realization, until he simply could outlast the terrible enemy no longer.

"We met Baggins deep in the roots of the Misty Mountains," Gollum said with a sniffle, staring at those very mountains as he lay on the ground shivering. "Beneath the home of the Great Goblin, the chieftain of Goblin-town by the High Pass. He stole the precious from us there. Baggins came from a realm far away over the mountains."

"Very good," the man said softly. "Let us travel to the High Pass, then."

He rose, and Gollum found he could move again as well. But his arms and legs didn't feel right. They tingled, numb and weak. The man strode to him, gathered Gollum in his arms, and deposited Gollum back on top of his pack and left him to rummage for strips of meat and the water canteen.

They went north.

The man eventually let Gollum down from the pack to drink and fish and hunt. Gollum didn't dare to go far. He had learned his lesson. His helplessness in the face of that terrible, powerful silence was nearly as bad as the torment of the dungeons.

They walked through the wild country north of the marshes without finding another nice path. The journey was full of ravines and crevasses, ups and downs, great big rocks and trackless wilderness, and it was hard.

Eventually, after what seemed to be a very long time, they came upon the Old Forest Road.

Gollum avoided roads at all costs, normally. But the man stepped onto the road without fear, gave it a look both east and west, and turned west and kept walking just as he always did.

Gollum moved a little more carefully, holding his head lower and crawling alongside the edge of the road. The man made no comment, but slowed his pace slightly to accommodate the new gait of his companion.

As soon as he realized they were not alone, Gollum swiftly disappeared into the shadows.

"Greetings, traveler!" a man's voice rang out. Not the man's voice; another, different one. Someone who was actually a man, Gollum thought. Someone who was carrying a lantern, of all absurd things. Gollum cringed away from it. "You walk a long road."

"I come from the south," the man said, stopping and lifting a hand in friendly greeting to the second voice. "Things go ill down there. I may not be the only traveler you see in the near future."

"There isn't much to the west of us," the second voice said. "You'd do better to head east, and look for Dale."

"I believe I have family in the west," the man said. "It is my goal until I discover otherwise. Is the High Pass open?"

"It is. There have been a few snowstorms lately, but it's clear today. I wouldn't advise climbing in the dark. You'll want to camp before the path leaves these plains."

"Noted," the man said in a mild voice, although Gollum knew he would do no such thing. "I thank you."

"You will see some of my fellows up there," the second voice added. "There is a toll. For all the work we do to keep the pass free of snow and other dangers."

"Noted," the man said again. "Where do you hale from? Dale?"

"Nay, we live in this region. We always have. I hoped we always will. But I fear the dark tidings you bring from the south may eventually reach us here. This is not the first I have heard of them."

"They may," the man said, his voice mild and very neutral. "Only time will tell. Do you have any information about the road west of the pass?"

"There is a great elven realm at the base of the mountains. I have never walked that valley, but I hear the road goes by it. Of course, you will never see elves if they do not wish you to see them."

"And west of that?"

"No," the second voice said. "I do not know anything about the road west of that."

"Thank you anyway," the man said, very politely.

The man strode forward without further ado. Gollum followed, keeping well out of sight of all the other people with lanterns lurking around the area.

When they got to the base of the High Pass, the spot where the path began to climb steeply into the mountains, the man began pestering Gollum with more questions. Where was his old home in the tunnels of the mountains, where and when did he encounter Baggins, where did the orcs live around here, where had he lost the ring exactly, on and on until Gollum began crying again.

"I don't know," he said, sobbing softly. "We don't remember. Please don't hurt us!"

"I am not going to hurt you," the man said, his voice very patient. It was not at all like the dark, terrifying voice that had questioned Gollum in the dungeons. But Gollum knew it was the same one, and it had hurt him, very much, and he wept at the memories.

"The sun is rising," the man pointed out. "Enough. We will talk more later."

And Gollum was very glad to crawl into the pack and shut out the world with sleep.

When Gollum woke, it was dark but also it was not: they had encountered more people with torches. The man had stopped walking, and was conversing quietly with them. Gollum burrowed deeper into the pack, wishing to hide from their eyes.

Eventually Gollum understood that the man was asking for food and drink, and Gollum slipped out of the pack when the man turned and left the path for an area blazing brightly with more torches.

Gollum was left to lurk in the dark alone. It was very bleak. The pass was windswept and it was the coldest part of the night. Gollum shivered and huddled in the lee of the rocks, and wished the man would come back so they could keep going.

Then the thought occurred to him that now was his chance. The man was busy! Gollum could leave. It was the ideal place for an escape: he could creep into the tunnels of his old haunts and get far away from the man. He could continue west on his own, avoiding the road. He could find Baggins and the Shire, and the ring would be his—

But even as he thought it, a great dark force seemed to press on him physically. It was the Eye, and it was always watching. Gollum trembled and his limbs lost all strength. Gollum cringed and cowered and knew he would not be able to move.

So be it, then. He would continue to follow the man. But it would be Gollum who got the ring at the very last second, on the edge of desperation. Then they would all see.

Chapter Text

Sauron, meanwhile, was finding his quest laughably simple.

The men camped in the High Pass were hostile only to orcs, and welcoming to seemingly human travelers. They didn't question his wish to stop for food and drink before tackling the top of the pass, and as long as he had coin, they were more than willing to share what they had. Their tents were warm and they had barrels of ale, and these things were enjoyable to one who was corporal again.

"Oh, aye," one of the men was saying, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "Bilbo Baggins! Yes, he's legendary around these parts."

Sauron had carefully refrained from using this name—it wouldn't do for anyone listening to get suspicious about an inquiry that was too specific—but with ale loosening everyone's tongue, he had invited their tales of heroism and great deeds, and the tale of Baggins and Smaug was apparently the first and foremost thing they liked to talk about.

Gollum had shared some of this story, after his own fashion, which meant his tale had been confusing and incoherent. Immediately after Gollum first consented to tell it, Sauron had considered making inquiries of the dwarves that were the subject of the tale. He would have done this if he'd had no other choice, but in retrospect, his present quest was a better way. He did not need it splashed all over Middle-earth that Sauron was looking for hobbits.

The Beornings were very compelling storytellers, in contrast to Gollum. Sauron listened to a startling amount of detail about dragons and arrows and barrels and dwarves, and found it an entertaining story. And also unlike Gollum, they knew the year it had happened—about seventy-five years ago.

Most crucially, the end of the tale—everyone agreed—was that Bilbo Baggins went back where he came from, loaded with jewels and treasure.

"Where'd he come from?" Sauron asked, taking a long draft of ale.

"The west," it was universally agreed. No one had more specifics than that, but it was enough to be going on with.

Sauron parted from them with generous handfuls of gold and declined their invitation to stay the night, expressing that he was perfectly fine sleeping under the stars. He shook many hands, embraced a few drunk men, and stumbled out into the night.

He was a little tipsy himself. Their portions of ale had been generous. Above him, the sky seemed to spin. The clouds had set in very low and the stars could not be seen.

That would make his wretched traveling companion happy.

"Let's go," he said cheerfully to the thing huddled behind the pile of rocks on the side of the trail, gently toeing the sad shivering creature in the ribs to rouse him.

"I want to go home," the creature said with a little whine.

"You just told me you don't even remember where 'home' is," Sauron pointed out.

But all that produced was a storm of weeping.

So it was a bad night, then.

"Do you want me to carry you?" he asked patiently. Patience was not in his nature, but he could cultivate it by will when necessary. He had so much patience these days. His goal was so close. He would not let it slip from his fingers by being hasty.

"No," Gollum cried. "Don't touch us. Gollum, gollum."

"Let's go then," Sauron said, striding forward. He half-feared that Gollum would either refuse to move, or make another escape attempt, but after a second or two of delay, he crawled along in Sauron's wake, cringing and crying softly.

Some might have called him mad, to voluntarily endure this creature's company on his road. When he had determined to set off alone in search of his ring, he had originally indeed thought to go alone. With a task as important as this, he could not entrust it to anyone else's incompetence. He finally, finally, had information to act on, and he was perfectly capable of setting out for it himself. Which he knew he must do. While any of the Nine could be counted on absolutely to place the One Ring in Sauron's hand without desiring to keep it for themselves, the Nine were... well, they moved with all the force of a hammer when Sauron had to thread a needle.

He had resolved to go by foot even before he got the idea of a traveling companion. It was inconspicuous and his enemies would never suspect it of him. If he was careful enough, no one would even know he was out walking Middle-earth in search of his lost treasure.

But as soon as he was prepared to leave, the idea had struck him.

He had spent a great deal of time with Gollum, and learned many things that Gollum did not consciously reveal. When the creature first appeared near Mordor, the orcs told Sauron they had caught a slinking thief. It was a strange tale; it was not clear what thief would dare try to infiltrate the dreaded stronghold of Mordor. Sauron's thoughts were so consumed with finding the ring to the exclusion of all else that he almost didn't bother investigating. Sauron was about to tell the orcs to just kill the thing, and that was still his intent when he ventured out to look at the creature—and their eyes met.

And he'd known. He'd known it, like an electric shock to his spirit: this creature had possessed the ring. Sauron had felt something he hadn't felt in three thousand years.

Hope.

Sauron took Gollum away from the orcs immediately. At first, he was patient, and generous. He brought Gollum fresh fish, and gave him whatever else he desired, even letting him kill and feast on an orc. He listened to Gollum's rambling tales of woe for a very long time. Gollum was sly; careful to conceal information about the ring itself from Sauron. But he revealed more than he realized.

Gollum had possessed, or been possessed by, the ring for a long time. He was consumed by it. It was the influence of the ring trying to reunite with its master that drew Gollum to the borders of Mordor in the first place. It was all he could think about. Sauron was sure the creature could sense it, could smell it or feel it in the air. His life belonged to the ring, and that connection might prove vital.

Yes, the ring wanted to return to its maker, not this cringing thing—but Sauron wasn't consumed by his own ring, so.... There was a chance that this creature would know of its presence before Sauron did. It was the kind of chance he was willing to go to a little trouble for, in any event.

And the creature had not been that much trouble. He was almost... cute, sometimes.

They had been together many long weeks on the road. Much longer than other means of travel available to him. He was particularly annoyed at the waste of time searching the Gladden. He ought to have known better; he had sent servants to search the area a few decades ago, seeking evidence of Isildur's end, and they had found nothing that had been worth reporting to Sauron.

But he reminded himself he had to be patient. He'd always known this journey would have to be an exercise in forbearance. There were spies everywhere, and not all of them answered to him. He nurtured his patience and kept walking at a steady pace.

As they mounted higher and higher in the pass, Sauron gradually sobered from the overindulgence of the ale, and he realized the conditions were mildly uncomfortable. The wind had picked up. He tasted snow on the air. They continued to climb, and the snow became thicker. Sauron was fine; his body was a little cold but he could sustain it through much worse than this. Gollum was not all right. He got slower and slower, shivering and teeth chattering, and finally curled up into a ball and gave up.

And he had been getting so much better about saying when he needed a rest.

Sauron sighed, turned around, and scooped up the thin body in his arms. It was very cold to the touch. Sauron took off his cloak and wrapped it around the creature. Sauron bundled it close to his chest, to share his body's warmth, and kept walking.

He crested the pass in cold and bitter conditions, but did not lose the way. The slope of the path gentled west of the High Pass. The storm subsided as soon as they started to descend, and Sauron decided the creature in his arms would live.

Gollum revived a bit midday after they fully escaped the storm, but he did not want to walk. Sauron shifted Gollum back onto the pack, which made for easier walking for Sauron, and allowed the creature to better hide from the sun.

In another day, the path gentled even further, and Sauron knew that just around the bend lay the valley controlled by Elrond. He warned Gollum that they would have to be extremely careful and sneaky. Sauron shifted Gollum into his arms again, drew his cloak around them, and pulled his hood up. He stepped very carefully, and felt tempted to hold his breath as he walked beside the valley controlled by a dreadful enemy.

Nothing happened. Everything was quiet. As the Beorning on the old road had said, you would never see elves unless they wanted you to see them.

All the same, he relaxed noticeably, once they had left the area and forded the Bruinen. An encounter with Elrond would certainly delay his quest... or threaten its entire existence. Sauron shuddered a little at the thought.

Gollum, too, grew more cheerful once they were away from Elrond's domain. He was pleased to be on his own feet again. He pranced a little down the path, caught some more fish when they crossed the next large river, and even offered to share one.

Sauron accepted a fish in the spirit it was offered; that is, he did not need the nourishment, but it was hospitable and friendly, like sharing the men's ale. He chewed on the meat thoughtfully. He accepted that he had no idea where he was going now. 'West.' How far, he had no idea. The road was heading more or less in that direction, so he supposed he would follow it, and see.

He knew he was now passing through what used to be the realm of Arnor, but its history was a little misty to him. He'd been very distracted—busy seething in impotent rage and trying to get a body back—during the rise and fall of this kingdom of men. He had a vague notion that the Witch-king had made war on the place, but he had no idea where the survivors had congregated.

The road was endless. And empty. For more than two weeks he walked alone except for Gollum. He saw traces of other past travelers—probably dwarves—but no one was on the road with him. He began to doubt his purpose out here, but Gollum was fast in his own certainty that they were going the right direction.

He trusted Gollum about as far as he could ensorcell him, but he did trust that Gollum desired the ring above all else.

Sauron ran out of the food he'd packed for the creature, but Gollum was resourceful. He brought down birds, mice, and even a rabbit. It slowed their journey only a little, and Gollum's instincts in ring-finding were likely worth the delay.

It was during one of these times when Gollum had strayed from his side that the road was suddenly not empty.

It was the middle of a moonless night, the only time Gollum was willing to hunt. A very fast movement on the north side of the road caught Sauron's eye. He turned and saw a slinking black shape in the ditch on the side of the road; blacker than the night, it seemed to draw all starlight and swallow it. It was not Gollum, but what it was, Sauron had no idea.

Sauron put a hand on the hilt of his knife, but hesitated. He was not sure a knife would be useful against it.

The black shape darted out of the ditch and pounced on Sauron. It was very nearly faster than he was. He raised an elbow to block its jump, and long sharp teeth scraped down his arm. He grunted and threw the creature off of him. It landed neatly on what might have been four feet, rebounded, and came for him again. Whatever it was, it was emaciated and hungry, and it craved a new body.

This time he drew his knife, and the creature's jump impaled itself on the knife. It wriggled and screeched, its scream eerie and chilling, and did not die. Its snarling and snapping only seemed to grow greater and fiercer.

With the creature's chest impaled on his knife, Sauron reached out and jammed his hand down the creature's throat. He scraped his hand on the creature's teeth again, but ignored it. He yanked. He found the creature's long-undead spirit, and with a great wrench, forcefully separated the spirit from the body.

The spirit shrieked again, a greater and more terrible shriek, but it had become substanceless. It was blown away and scattered on the wind, cursing him in futile hatred.

"Gross," Sauron said out loud to the empty night. He looked down at his hand and arm. He was bleeding, and covered in phlegm from the creature's mouth. He concentrated and reformed the skin whole again, stopping the bleeding. His shapeshifting, however, could not clean up the blood and saliva all over him. He made a face at the mess. He wiped his arm off on his cloak, somewhat ineffectually, and then bent to examine the body.

It might, at one time, have been a wolf. It did have four legs—although they were twisted and two were backwards—and a body and a head. Its head was squashed and deformed, and it had wrinkled skin rather than fur. It was torn to pieces and inert; a wholly unsuitable house. The spirit would not be returning to it.

As he was kneeling over the body and prodding at it, he heard footsteps running towards him. It wasn't Gollum—it was someone running on two feet and heavier than Gollum. Sauron was moving a little slowly after the fight, and he stood and readied his knife rather than fleeing to the side of the road to hide.

The footsteps turned out to belong to a man. He was tall, and wearing a hood and a cloak that would have blended in very effectively in these surroundings. Sauron probably could have passed him on the road and not noticed him, if he had been trying to hide.

"Hello," said the man, coming to a halt. He had a small axe in his hand, and a slender bow in the other. He was lowering them at the sight of the inoffensive-looking, ordinary man he thought he saw in the road. "Are you all right? Did you kill it?"

He sounded bewildered at this last part.

"Definitely not," Sauron said. "It was a spirit and left this body, very much as angry and vengeful a spirit as ever. What was it?"

"We call them werewolves," the man said. "They are remnants from an evil sorcerer who used to haunt these lands, and conducted many experiments of this sort—forcing fell, unhoused spirits into the bodies of animals. As you observed, we can't kill them."

"He did a lousy job of it," Sauron grunted, wiping his knife on his cloak and sheathing it. "This is the work of the Witch-king? It's sloppy and ugly."

Sauron used to do much more elegant work of this kind, and he thought he'd taught the Witch-king better.

The other man laughed, and put away his axe, keeping only the bow in his hand. "Most people's first reaction to seeing one is not that they are ugly. How did you defeat it?"

Sauron grunted again. "I guess it was tired," he said halfheartedly. "I put up more of a fight than it expected."

"Well done," the man said, looking and sounding impressed. His gaze lingered on the dirt, slime, and blood coating Sauron's arm, which had been smeared around rather than cleaned when he'd tried to wipe it off. "I had been tracking it, though I had no expectation that it was going to find a traveler on the road. These parts are not exactly safe!"

"Nothing is safe these days," Sauron pointed out. "Where are you from? Is there any town nearby?"

"These lands are my home. The people who live here call us Rangers. Yes, there is a town not too many days to the west of here. Follow the road, you won't miss it. And as you have discovered, take care if you decide to travel at night!"

"Indeed," Sauron agreed.

"I am Halbarad. I intend to keep moving, and look for the spirit—they are rather good at finding and inhabiting animals."

"I'm Halbrand," Sauron said, with a small laugh at the similarity of the names.

"Good solid name," Halbarad said with a smile of his own. "Where are you from? This road is not much used these days, save for dwarves."

"The south," Sauron said evasively. "I was following some inaccurate directions at the beginning, and came the long way round. I hope to find some of my family west of here."

"Good luck," Halbarad said politely.

"Good luck on your quest to find, ah, the spirit. Have a good night."

The Ranger bid him good-night in return, and disappeared off into the wilds south of the road. Sauron shook his head after him. There was little chance he would be successful in finding that formless spirit. Sauron himself probably wouldn't have had much success trying.

Gollum slunk out of the shadows after the Ranger departed, looking more sullen than usual. "Nasty spirit wolves," Gollum spat. "We hates them."

"Not very impressive," Sauron said caustically. "Though I suppose it would have taken you without a problem, wandering all over the place by yourself like that."

"The Eye doesn't know," Gollum muttered. "Doesn't know anything about us, precious, no, we are not food for nasty spirit animals, we can handle ourself."

Sauron gave Gollum a smile that showed all of his teeth, and Gollum shuddered.

"Well, it sounds like we're close to civilization," Sauron said, in a more cheerful voice. "Let's keep going west."

After another few days on the road, Halbarad's information proved correct. Sauron and Gollum found themselves approaching an actual town, full of men. It seemed the height of civilization after so many weary weeks on an empty road. There was even an inn!

Sauron secured a room, and left Gollum in it to sleep. He went down to the common room, to drink and be generous with his coin and gossip and make merry. And gather information.

The people of this area were certainly talkative. With no effort on his part at all, he heard all about hobbits. There were many who lived in this town, in fact, and some were pointed out to him drinking at a separate table. He learned about the doings of every hobbit family from here to the two nearest towns. None named Baggins, although the folk of Bree (as he learned the town was called) didn't mingle much with the folk of the Shire.

The Shire.

It was a mere sixteen leagues down the road. Populated exclusively by hobbits. He got an earful of their society, their history, and their most important customs. None of it was objectively very interesting, but every bit of it warmed his heart.

The next morning, he explored the town and found a shop that fashioned hobbit-sized clothing. He purchased some, overpaying for it lieu of supplying an explanation for why he wanted it. Then he returned to rouse Gollum from sleep and feed the creature, and they set off west.

Gollum was visibly excited, even under the sun that he hated. He had a surfeit of energy, prancing along the road, causing Sauron to pick up the pace in an attempt to tire him out again. They both understood they were getting close.

Somewhere outside the eastern borders of the Shire, Sauron stopped and stepped off the path. He took off his larger-sized clothing. He hadn't the slightest notion how to genuinely take the shape of a real hobbit, but he figured he could get by with some adjustments to his current shape. He shrunk the body to half its size and adopted some cosmetic changes to enhance the illusion, such as reshaping his ears, removing his facial hair, shaping the hair on his head to be curlier, and growing hair on his bare feet. He pulled on his newly acquired clothing, which unfortunately lacked gloves. He hadn't wanted to waste the time looking for a hobbit glove maker. But he was otherwise set.

He was confident he'd picked up enough information about hobbits in Bree to pull this off.

"Look at that," he said laughing, when he returned to Gollum. "I am not so much taller than you now. I shan't be able to carry you like this."

Gollum sniffed at him, and his mouth turned down. "Why does it change its shape," Gollum wondered out loud. "Tricksy, horrible thing, we don't like it."

Sauron laughed some more, and slung an arm across the creature's shoulders, feeling almost affectionate. The world was very funny from this perspective.

Gollum shuddered, but endured the touch without crying and cringing away. They had made considerable progress on this front.

The Shire was an idyllic, pastoral place of rolling hills and considerable natural beauty. Gollum made himself scarce while Sauron visited taverns and listened to gossip. He continued to pretend to be seeking information about his distant family, and without having to mention the name specifically, soon learned as much as he'd ever wished to know about the Baggins family.

Bilbo Baggins was famous. Everyone called him "Mad Baggins." Some seemed to mean this affectionately, and others seem to genuinely think him a demon. Either way, he was long gone. He had departed in a cloud of scandal, turning invisible in front of everyone's eyes during his one-hundred-and-eleventh birthday party. (And wasn't that a fascinating story!) He had left his home and all his worldly possessions to a young cousin, Frodo Baggins.

No doubt was left in Sauron's mind. He had traced Gollum's ring thief to his home. Sauron deemed it virtually impossible that Bilbo would have given up possession of the ring while he lived. But perhaps he was dead. And if he was not, Frodo was the most likely one to know of the whereabouts of his dear cousin. And so Sauron directed his steps to Frodo's home, Bag End.

It was a bright sunny morning when he arrived. Sauron thought it might be March by now, although he wasn't certain about that. It might have been late February. In any event, it was unseasonably warm, a beautiful day.

He rapped politely on the adorable round door. He was aware of Gollum slinking around to the back of the property, but ignored it for the time being.

The door opened, and a cheerful hobbit with dark curly hair answered it. "Hullo!" he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Terribly sorry to bother you," Sauron lied. He was the least sorry he'd ever been. "I have traveled all the way from Bree, seeking news of my family. We have been separated for many years. I heard you might know something," he said, and rattled off a list of family names that he had learned Frodo Baggins was indeed related to, if very distantly.

"Oh, my," Frodo said, a bit taken aback. "How unusual. Well, you'd better come in, and have some tea."

It was a generous, though not unexpected, offer. Sauron came in, beaming and complimentary about everything he saw. Frodo smiled graciously, brewed and poured the tea, and disappeared to gather some books and notes he had on families of the Shire.

After Frodo was gone some number of minutes, there was a disturbance towards the back of the house. Frodo shouted something, in alarm but not fright, and Sauron leapt up to investigate.

What he found was Frodo sprawled on the floor in a study, unconscious. The back window was open. Gollum slinking along the side of the room, purring to himself.

And, oh—Sauron's instincts had been right about Gollum. Sauron had been sitting mere feet away from his ring this whole time, and had no idea of it. But Gollum, Gollum had known. While Sauron was sipping tea, Gollum had apparently sneaked around the back, pried a window open, and crept into the house. As soon as Frodo left Sauron's presence, Gollum had jumped him, snatched the ring away, and slid it onto his finger.

It was his ring.

Gollum was invisible to most eyes, but Sauron saw him more clearly than ever. Gollum froze when Sauron entered. He looked at the ring's true master with limpid pools in his pale eyes, perceiving and instantly understanding that he was utterly helpless even though the ring was on his own finger. Or more correctly—though he did not know it—because the ring was on his own finger. He sank to the floor, trembling.

If it was a wordless plea for mercy, it availed him nothing.

It was but a step or two for Sauron, and he was upon Gollum: a squeeze, a moment or two and no more, with supernatural strength he choked the life out of the creature he'd traveled all this way with.

Gollum was limp beneath his hands. The ring had given him the true sight of Sauron's power, which the dungeons of Barad-dur and their journey together had not entirely managed to convey. He expired quickly and quietly.

Breathing hard, Sauron stripped the ring off the creature and slipped it into his own pocket, then straightened up and turned to Frodo. He frowned as he examined Frodo, gingerly feeling through his hair and finding a bump on his head. He must have hit something (or been hit with something?) and passed out.

This hobbit showed no signs of being a ringbearer of the One, not like Gollum when Sauron had first set eyes on him in Mordor. Sauron found this very curious. Had he never put on the ring? Was he a fundamentally different creature from Gollum, to be resistant to its effects? Or was it a product of the difference between the work of centuries and the work of a decade?

These questions would remain unanswerable. Sauron felt a bit regretful about Gollum's attack on Frodo, but Frodo was breathing normally. He was not dead. Sauron judged there was not much anyone could do other than wait until he came around. And Sauron would not be waiting for that.

Sauron hefted Gollum's body out the window, retrieved his pack from the parlor, climbed out of the window himself, and closed it behind him.

A very strange feeling was upon him. He had never taken a lot of thought for his actions upon recovery of the ring. He had only desired it, desired it so strongly that he had thought of little else for more than three thousand years—such as what he would do after getting it. He now felt himself at a bit of a loss.

His first task was to disappear from the Shire, he supposed, if he did not want to stay in faux-hobbit shape. He hefted Gollum's body over his shoulder, and made his way to what looked like wilder country in the northeast.

He found shelter in a small ravine, with a clear clean stream running at the bottom of it.

He enlarged his height and discarded the hobbit modifications until he was back in the shape he had favored for millennia when he wished to look human—the rugged-looking man with shoulder-length hair. It fit him like a pair of old boots, comfortable and familiar and easy. He pulled on the larger clothes he'd carried with him, and transferred the ring from the old pocket to the new.

Sauron built a fire, and burned Gollum's body. He lent some sorcery to the fire, to suppress the smoke and so that it burned hotter than normal, until everything—even the bone—was ash.

He spoke a few words of farewell in an ancient language over the ashes. If it was some twisted tribute to the creature who had reunited him with his ring—burning the body with ceremony rather than leaving it to rot—it was not one that Sauron consciously understood.

He left his knife, the pack, the fire, and the hobbit-sized clothes where they were.

He wandered upstream in a daze.

He had it. He had it. Three thousand and seventeen—or was it eighteen, now?—years later, he was reunited.

He was treading through a field of spring daffodils growing alongside the river. They were a bright gold, yellower than the ring, and he looked on them with a new appreciation for everything that was beautiful in the world. His head spinning, he fell on his knees among them, reaching out a hand to feel along the tops of the blooms. They bounced back upright in the wake of his touch, full of life and joy. He lay down among them, staring at the blue sky overhead, and drank in their scent.

He pulled the ring out of his pocket and rested it in his palm, admiring the look and feel of it.

And he stayed there in that manner until recalled to the present by a few songbirds interrupting the silence of the glade. A glance at the sky revealed that Sauron had been lying there staring dumbly at the ring for hours—without even realizing it.

That was not promising. What was next, would he start calling it his precious?

The ring was a problem, notwithstanding its recovery. It was not a problem he could handle alone. He needed help.

Chapter Text

Elven voices raised in song were always the balm of her heart. She stood at the trunk of a great tree, and listened to her people, and allowed herself to feel peace.

Every moment here was fleeting, and she had learned to appreciate them all.

The song tripped upward and lilted downward, and everyone sang out in a chorus, and she knew where it was heading and might have joined in on the next note—

Something flashed across her vision that did not belong there.

It was an open palm, a sun-weathered hand, a hand that had once been almost more familiar to her than her own. And on the palm lay a band of pure gold, simple and unadorned.

The message could not be mistaken. It was Sauron's hand, and he was holding the One Ring.

Galadriel swayed, and nearly swooned. She closed her mind to the connection as fast as it had opened. The song completely forgotten, she stumbled to the nearest divan, and collapsed upon it, head in her hands, breathing hard like she'd been running.

She had not spoken to him in thousands of years. Oh, he had tried to reach her—but she had slammed that door closed when he forged the One, and kept it shut for all the ages since.

But this time—this time, he had offered quite the bait as his opening gambit. He was probably confident she would not disregard such a vision; and he would be right. She could not.

Slowly, she lowered herself until she was stretched out on the divan. She slipped her own ring off her finger, and placed it on the ground next to her. She took one last glance at the boughs of the tree overhead, then closed her eyes, and let her mind be pulled away.

She opened her eyes to find herself standing in a field of daffodils. A small brook rippled and tripped over stones on her right, and trees with new spring buds lined the slope of the hill to her left. The sun was shining and birds were singing. It was beautiful—astonishingly so.

She cast her eyes over the scene and found him lying in the field of flowers. Even after all these years, when he took this form, she thought of him by that old name—Halbrand. He was as gorgeous as ever, tugging at her heart and making her feel all the things she should not feel.

She had never expected to see him in this form again, not even while walking in thought. Sauron had made it quite clear to her that whatever had been between them in the past would avail her nothing. He had wrecked Middle-earth, killed her friends and her kin, and would do it all over again in a heartbeat. She could not let him deceive her.

"How charmingly idyllic," she remarked, gathering her skirts up and stepping through the flowers to his side. She tried to keep her voice remote and frosty. "Most unlike you. Where are we?"

He opened his eyes. They changed color every now and then—or they had done, anyway, back when he took the body of a man more often—and today they were a light, soft, lovely gray. She never could look at them and feel nothing.

"The Shire," he said, with a broad smile that said he was both very satisfied with himself and also genuinely happy. "I think it the loveliest place on earth."

She looked around with a slight frown. Was Sauron referring to that little realm of halflings that Gandalf took so much care for? If so, Galadriel ought to get out of his mind and send an urgent summons to Gandalf.

But first, she needed to know about the ring. If he truly had it back in his possession, that changed everything.

She hiked up her skirt a little so she could sit on the ground next to Sauron. His hand was clenched around something.

"My ring was here," he explained. His voice was unexpectedly gentle. "It's been here for many decades. It's a hilariously long story, although I don't mind sharing if you've got the time."

As she sat, he opened his palm, and showed her the same thing he'd sent her an image of earlier: the One Ring. Unmarked, perfectly shaped, of purest gold. She hated it and feared it and admired it all at once. Her stomach clenched and her heart sunk very low. She wanted to cry, or scream, or slap him, or—

"Yes," she said instead, carefully in control of herself. "I believe I do have the time."

She knew some of the ring's story, from Saruman and Gandalf, but she did wish to hear it from Sauron.

"Isildur took it from me after Elendil and Gil-galad defeated me," he said simply, betraying no lingering anger or pain in telling this story. "He did not destroy it. He kept it with him until he was slain by orcs, and lost it beneath the surface of Anduin near the Gladden Fields."

"How do you know any of this?" she wondered. She knew it, but she wondered who would have told Sauron these details.

"Isildur took the ring from my very person," Sauron said, a bit testily. "I may have been lying there weak and helpless and out of it, but I was not dead. I perceived him as he cut off my finger with that blasted sword, and took the ring, and then argued with Elrond and Círdan about it."

Sauron paused, then laughed suddenly. He pursed his lips together, then spoke in a mocking, high-pitched voice. "'Isildur!'" Sauron repeated in a shrill voice that didn't sound remotely like Elrond. "'Cast it into the fire! Destroy it!'"

Then Sauron grew mock serious, and pitched his voice much lower. He mimed sliding a ring onto a finger. "'No! This I will have as weregild for my father, and my brother.'"

Sauron's voice grew normal, and he laughed again. "And so Elrond and Círdan left Isildur with the ring. Did they seriously think I knew none of this?"

Galadriel was fighting not to smile at his silly reenactment of this drama. She bit the inside of her lip, hard. "I do not know what they thought," she managed to say.

"Obviously, Isildur did not destroy it. And Isildur's death is a story well known. The ring falling in the river is an assumption whose truth is borne out by later events, which I am about to relay."

She inclined her head.

"This area near the Gladden Fields was settled thereafter by a race of halflings, a riverside people of fishers. Some centuries ago, a pair of halflings found the ring while diving in the river. One of them murdered the other, and kept the ring. He hid himself away for a very long time in the tunnels of the Misty Mountains, and became a rather nasty sort of creature, twisted and misshapen."

"And how do you know this?" she marveled.

"This creature endured as long as he possessed the ring, and was still alive to tell me this story last year. About seventy-five years ago, he lost the ring in some kind of riddle game—I'm unclear on the details. My source was rather unreliable even when he was not intentionally lying."

"Why would the creature share this story with you?" she said, the ache in her chest worsening. Many in Middle-earth were interested in the ring, and every one of them knew better than to entertain discussing it with Sauron!

He raised an eyebrow. "The creature found himself in Mordor, drawn by the influence of the ring desiring to reunite with me. I'll leave the rest of the details to your imagination."

Her insides went cold. She did not betray it, but instead shot him her best unimpressed look. "Ah, I see. You were being your usual charming self."

"I am charming," he protested. "And I did try to charm the story out of him first. It worked only partially. Anyway, as a result of the riddle game, the ring was recovered by a different halfling—a halfling Gandalf dragged out of the Shire on some mad adventure to slay a dragon. I suppose he thought I would rue the loss of the dragon for my war or something."

Sauron broke off his story and laughed. "Imagine trying to drag that old monster away from his treasure hoard! I don't know if Morgoth himself could have managed it."

Galadriel narrowed her eyes. "The dragon had killed many people and threatened to kill many more. Could that not have been the only reason for this quest?"

Sauron shrugged as though he did not care in the slightest about deaths in dragonflame. He probably did not. At least he had stopped laughing. "Regardless, the halfling returned to his home with the ring, and kept it until he, too, apparently went a bit mad and disappeared before hundreds of eyes at a party. He left the ring in his home, where his young cousin now lives. I visited the young cousin just this morning."

"Ah," Galadriel said sadly. "And what, pray tell, have you done to the poor halflings who had your ring for all this time?"

"The nice young cousin invited me into his home for tea very graciously. There was a slight scuffle, but the young halfling lived and will be perfectly fine. I'm afraid the wretched creature who bore it for centuries did not survive its finding, but that was the only casualty."

"And what now? Shall I wake up next week to news that you have burned the Shire to the ground and enslaved all the inhabitants?"

"All by myself?" he asked with a startled laugh that seemed entirely genuine. "You and Gandalf both think me capable of much greater feats than I really am, it appears. And," he said with sudden warmth, "I'm exceedingly fond of this place. The site of my reunification! And a lot of good ale and some decent tea, too."

"Is it over, then?" she asked, looking down at the ring, the ache in her chest feeling like grief. "There is no hope for Middle-earth?"

"Ah," he said. His voice took on a cautious note. "That depends on your definition."

"You know my definition," she said, already weary of his mind games and half-truths, even before they began.

"I do not, actually. I do not know the answer to the question I'm about to ask you."

"Do not play games with me," she said, looking back up into his eyes. "I beg of you. If I ever meant anything to you, be frank."

"I am in earnest," he protested. "Look!" He looked away from her, down at the ring on his palm. "I have not put it on."

She hummed noncommittally. She was only here in thought and could do nothing to stop him if he did put it on.

"I know now—now that I have spent three thousand years parted from my own self," he said, sounding frustrated. He was frowning, his brows drawn heavily. "I risked losing everything for good if I never recovered it. I cannot go through that again, Galadriel. I cannot bear to ever part with it again. I must do something.

"But if I were to put it on, I know this memory would fall from my mind, and I would forget about it, and proceed just as I had been before I lost it. And so I ask for your help."

"Whatever do you think I can do to help you?" she demanded. "I tried to help you before you made the wretched thing, and you despised me for it."

"I know," he said, and he was suddenly very tired. "I know, darling. I am sorry. I want to un-make it."

"Throw it in the fires of Mount Doom," she proposed, unmoved by his apology. She had received many such apologies from him in the past. It had never stopped him from doing more terrible things after apologizing.

"Don't be absurd," he said, closing his hand over it protectively. "That would destroy it, and me with it."

"Indeed," she said, giving him an arch look.

"You cannot think that is my goal."

"It would be nice if it were," she said wistfully.

"Enough," he said, a little too peremptorily for her liking. "No. I want to unmake it and reabsorb its powers, returning me to the state I was in before I made it."

She digested this for a little bit, deeming it worthy of taking seriously. Sauron was the most notorious deceiver that walked Middle-earth, but he had always gone to great lengths to avoid saying words to her face that were literally false. So she considered whether he might actually mean this.

It was the deepest wish of her heart! That the One Ring had never been wrought, that Sauron had never walked such an evil path. And therefore she mistrusted it; for Sauron had ever offered her exactly what she most wanted—but always with a catch.

"Is that possible?" she asked slowly.

"I have no idea," he said. "I was hoping you would help me figure out."

She searched his face. His old, dear, beloved face—that almost gentle contour, the rugged stubble on his cheeks, the soft light of his eyes. He was so very handsome. She fell for it every time, and although she had not seen it for three thousand years, she was falling again. How tediously predictable of her.

"I did not realize you could still take a fair form," she said, a deliberate non-sequitur. "Or can you do so only in our minds?"

It had been her understanding that he had lost the ability to take a fair form, and when he had reformed a body in this Age, it was black and terrible, his exterior reflecting what was in his heart. So Gandalf had surmised.

He smiled crookedly. "If you agree to work with me, perhaps you shall find out."

That was so typically Sauron.

"I do not know how to reabsorb what you have placed into a ring of power," she said, consenting to return to the subject of conversation he desired. "If only the great elven smiths who made them were still alive, to consult with."

"I am a better smith than any of them ever were," he said dismissively. He did not show a trace of regret for what he'd done to the smiths of Eregion, not that she had expected any. "But I—"

He stopped, and looked at her. Emotions were brimming in his eyes, and she was falling for it. Again.

She reached out a hand and cupped his cheek. Something in her that had been dead a long, long time was awakening again, and she was not sure that was a good thing.

"I fear if I go it alone, I will succumb," he whispered. "I will put it on, and never again think of unmaking it. It is the embodiment of all my very worst qualities, and it has a power over me, too."

"I understand you," she said, and she did. If she had the ring in her palm, she understood that she, too, might put it on and wield it, and become the Dark Queen of Middle-earth. "But you cannot expect me to help you. We are long past that sort of arrangement, and you must realize it."

This did not deter him one bit. He gave her a crooked little smile that made her heart skip a beat. "You can either chose to help me unmake it, or watch me put it on and destroy Middle-earth. How much of a choice is that, really?"

"I choose a third option," she said stubbornly, tracing her hand behind his ear and brushing away a few strands of his hair. "We will continue to fight you and resist your tyranny until you are nothing but a shadow in the void."

"That is not really a choice before you," he said. He held up the gold band in front of his face and squinted at it. "Unless you suppose I am lying to you about having recovered it in the Shire, and possessing it as we speak."

"I do not think you are lying," she admitted.

He met her eyes again. Deliberately, slowly, he took her hand, pried her fingers open, and placed the ring in her palm.

She winced a little at the contact, but it did not hurt. It was just a band of gold. She felt nothing at all.

"I can resist it for a while, as long as it is near me and I have a plan," he explained. He closed her fingers tightly around the ring. "But I will need your help to get it done."

She felt nothing as she clutched the One Ring in her palm. She did not know if that was because he was lying to her and this was all illusion, or because the ring would lie inert until slipping it on a finger. It was further unclear to her whether she could actually feel a ring in thought when her body was almost a thousand miles away. She assumed he would not have placed it in her hand were there even the smallest risk of her wielding it.

He was right. He had not left her much choice.

"I will look into it," she promised.

He lifted his head and kissed the white, taut knuckles of her hand, and she had to close her mind and flee before she lost all ability to resist this fallen angel.

Chapter Text

Positioned on the top of Bree Hill in anticipation of this very event, Aragorn was the first to catch a glimpse of the traveler coming from the south. He could make out just enough detail to confirm his instincts: it was Gandalf the Grey.

Aragorn immediately discarded his other thoughts and plans, and sprang to his feet. He ran lightly down the hill, tracing paths he knew by heart, and was at Gandalf's side as swiftly as he could manage.

"My friend," Aragorn said, intercepting Gandalf's path on the road. He reached out an arm, and Gandalf clasped it. "Do you remember what year we met?"

"Twenty-nine fifty-six," came the hearty reply, sounding exactly like Gandalf. The ache in Aragorn's chest loosened a little. "Why do you ask?"

There was no sense in beating around the bush.

"I have a theory that a shapeshifter is walking Middle-earth. For all I know, he could take your appearance," Aragorn said, falling into stride alongside Gandalf north, heading back to town. "I have much to tell you, old friend!"

Gandalf made a surprised and interested noise, but he did not speak. He made a gesture for Aragorn to continue.

"After we parted from each other, I continued searching for a long time. I despaired at last and determined to head home. It was then that I found Gollum's path. I picked up his trail at the skirts of the Dead Marshes on January 20. His trail led not to Mordor, but away from it. And Gandalf—he was not alone. He went north accompanied by footsteps that belonged to a man about my weight, perhaps not quite my height."

"But why a shapeshifter?" repeated Gandalf, his tone puzzled and not yet concerned. "You do not believe it was possible for an ordinary man to be walking that accursed land?"

"I had no such suspicions at the time," Aragorn responded. "After all, I am a man and I was walking it. Hear me out! The travelers went north for a long time, choosing hidden paths rather than roads. Sometimes, I believe, the man carried Gollum. And they made much better time than I did on their tail. Their tracks rapidly grew older every day I continued, even though I had first spotted them when they were perhaps a week old."

"A man who travels faster than you, and without a horse? But I suppose that is not terribly odd, if you were busy paying attention to tracks and he knew where he was going."

"Yes. But there were other things that were odd. They chose a path as far from the borders of Lórien as possible, and instead walked under the very eaves of the forest by Dol Guldur. A strange route for Gollum to pick, but there was no doubt of the tracks."

"Yes, I would have expected him to avoid that area," Gandalf agreed.

"I would expect almost anyone to avoid it if they had a choice," Aragorn said grimly. "I have only one exception in mind."

Gandalf cast Aragorn an askance look, but he did not say anything.

"They crossed Anduin near the Gladden Fields. I perceived that their tracks lost purpose at this point, and became directionless. They lingered there. Who do you suppose still has an interest in the Gladden Fields, Gandalf?"

"Not Gollum," Gandalf said, shaking his head. "He knows the ring lies far away from there."

"Not Gollum," Aragorn agreed. "I took a chance and passed over the Gladden Fields quickly. I, too, knew they would find nothing there. And I was right. The tracks continued north, on paths closer to the Misty Mountains than the river.

"I gained my first concrete information about the traveler accompanying Gollum when I reached the Old Forest Road and spoke to the Beornings living there. They had indeed seen a lone man traveling on his own two or three weeks prior, about my weight and a little shorter than me. There had seen no sign of a crawling creature accompanying him, but he had passed through during the night and they conceded they might have missed it.

"For a few coins, they shared his business with me. The traveler claimed he was coming from the south, fleeing unrest, and heading west to search for his family. He inquired about the settlements of men west of the High Pass, but that was his only question. They deemed it mildly surprising that he would travel alone, but had no suspicions of him in their hearts. They said he looked fair, strong, and hardy."

Aragorn paused, but Gandalf still said nothing.

"The Beornings camped at the High Pass had more to tell," Aragorn continued, a little darkly. "One of them told me the traveler was indeed accompanied by a crawling creature who lurked out of sight. The creature and the traveler spoke to each other, though my source could not hear the words."

Aragorn drew a deep breath, a little shaky. "The traveler was friendly. He purchased food and ale and drank with them in their tents. He was full of good cheer, interested in their stories, and an attentive listener. When they told him the tale of Smaug, he wanted to know where Bilbo Baggins' home was."

Gandalf visibly stirred in reaction to this, but he still did not say anything to interrupt the tale.

"'In the west,' they told him! And immediately after that, he took his leave, although the pass was dark and it was starting to snow."

Aragorn reached into his cloak and handed Gandalf a piece of paper. Gandalf unfolded it, and examined the drawing set upon the paper.

"I sketched his likeness, with their help," he said. "Do you recognize the man?"

"No," Gandalf said, handing the sketch back to Aragorn. "Did you?"

"No," Aragorn said. "The snowstorm buried everything and left no tracks to follow, but at this point I had other clues. I went west. I stopped only briefly at Rivendell to inquire of the watch whether they had seen these travelers. They had not seen any travelers at all. I regret my hastiness in not staying and showing Lord Elrond this sketch, but I had not yet developed my suspicions about shapeshifting. Because the watch had seen nothing, I pressed on.

"Halbarad encountered the traveler on the road between Weathertop and Bree. The traveler had been attacked by a werewolf, and defeated it. Halbarad was shocked at how handily it had been defeated, with no visible damage done to the traveler. And the traveler demonstrated a knowledge of the Witch-king and familiarity with the concept of spirits inhabiting bodies that are not their own. I found this disturbing, but Halbarad did not agree with me. He, too, insisted the traveler was fair and strong and friendly. He gave his name as Halbrand, and stated again that he was traveling from the south looking for his family."

"Halbrand," Gandalf murmured, tasting the name. "Now why does that sound familiar?"

"The inhabitants of Bree also recognized the sketch. The traveler stayed at the inn for a night. He still claimed to be looking for his family. He was interested in stories about hobbits, both those of Bree and those of the Shire. Nob told me he kept a small, strange pet in his room. A hairless, skulking creature that gave Nob 'the willies'."

"Gollum."

"Gollum. But listen. The traveler purchased a set of hobbit-sized clothing."

"How long ago?" Gandalf asked, his voice sharp and interested now.

"This was back in late February," Aragorn said regretfully. "I was a full month behind them by the time I entered Bree. The other Rangers saw him enter and leave Bree, but they didn't see him approach the Shire. I think they would have stopped him—or at least kept a close watch over him—if they had. But they do not stop hobbits who enter the Shire, not even if they have never seen the hobbit before."

Gandalf cast a look of deep concern at Aragorn. "Should we be running, rather than walking, that direction?"

"The damage, if there is any, is long done," Aragorn said bitterly. "As I told you, I was far behind them. I lost the man's trail on the road between Bree and Buckland. Gollum's steps were no longer accompanied by the prints of a man. They were now accompanied by smaller prints—bare feet, no boots. Almost too light to detect, unless you get lucky with a soft patch of dirt. Footprints of a hobbit."

Gandalf drew a sharp breath. "A shapeshifter! This does indeed bode very ill!"

"I entered the Shire and bypassed the usual areas of inquiry. I set out directly for Bag End at once. There had been an altercation at the back window. A body had lain on the ground there."

"Frodo," said Gandalf urgently. "Did you speak to Frodo?"

"I did not speak to him. He does not know me! But I assure you I saw him safe and well when I was there. He appeared perfectly fine."

Gandalf relaxed minutely.

Aragorn continued. "The hobbit's footsteps—but more easily traced now, as he was laden with additional weight—led away from Bag End to the northeast. On the banks of a small stream, I found an old fire. It contained ashes that were not from wood, but were once a living creature. Beside the fire pit was a pile of hobbit-sized clothing, a blade, and a travel pack. The pack held an exceptionally generous amount of gold coin, an empty water canteen, a pair of boots, and another set of travel clothing—sized for a man slightly shorter than me. No food at all. No blanket, nothing to sleep on. The blade was either the size of a short knife for a man, or a sword for a hobbit. The ashes of the fire, like everything else, were at least a month old."

"What were the ashes?" Gandalf asked.

"They were almost certainly once Gollum," Aragorn said sorrowfully. "His footsteps led to the window behind Bag End and never away from it. Meanwhile, the prints of the hobbit—and the man, too!—were all over the riverbank. He wandered through fields of flowers and stayed a while. His trail was cold by the time I got there... yet I am certain his prints never left that glade."

Aragorn had searched and overturned everything. He had buried the ashes and marked Gollum's gravesite with a simple cairn and a few flowers, and chanted a funeral song. Even Gollum had deserved a better end than that.

"So the worst has happened. Gollum found the ring at Bag End," Gandalf surmised. "And his travel companion killed him for it."

"Alas, Gandalf!" cried Aragorn. "I concluded the man became a bird and flew away, leaving everything he had brought with him—save one thing. The ring went with him. For it was nowhere to be seen in that glade."

Aragorn had stayed in the glade several days in a fog of despair, only returning to Bree after accepting there was nothing more he could do.

"There are not many shapeshifters who still walk these lands," Gandalf said slowly. "I believe the evidence and your ability to read it correctly, but—to shift from a man, to a halfling, and possibly a bird complete with the power of flight—I know of none who can achieve this."

"Do you not?" Aragorn cried. "I have heard the tales, Gandalf. The tales of the one who fought Lúthien and deceived the smiths of Eregion. He was ever a talented shapeshifter. It fits all the evidence, Gandalf. He captured Gollum in Mordor, tortured him for information, then released him to lead the way to the ring."

Gandalf looked at the path ahead with grave eyes, and was silent for a time. Then he shook his head, very slowly.

"It has long been thought that he has lost his ability to take a fair form," Gandalf explained. "The wisest have all agreed on this. And—most importantly—if he had the One, we would know it. In fact, I would perceive it instantly if anyone put it on with the intent to rule the other rings." Gandalf lowered his voice even further. "The Keepers of the Three would be the first to know."

"Hearing you say that eases my mind considerably," said Aragorn.

"And this would not be his way. If he wanted to scour the land for Gollum's thief without brooking any resistance, he would unloose the Nine. And they are not cheerful shapeshifters who are generous with gold and free with smiles."

"It was certainly not one of the Nine," Aragorn agreed.

"No. They are down in Minas Morgul. And nor would Gollum have cooperated with the Enemy!" Gandalf declared. "Think what you will about him, but he knows. He knows how dangerous the Enemy would be if reunited with his ring."

Aragorn shook his head. He remained uneasy. He had never supposed that Gollum had guided anyone to the ring willingly.

"Perhaps, then, this ring was not the One," Aragorn said. "A ring of power, yes, but not the ruling ring."

Gandalf sighed. "I did learn something in Gondor that would have been useful," he said. "A test, to determine whether it is the One. But if it is missing, I fear I only wasted my time when I should have been here. We shall be in just as much doubt about the matter as we ever were. Will you give me that sketch of the traveler? We can at least determine whether the strange hobbit resembled the strange man."

Aragorn took the drawing out of his pocket and handed it to Gandalf. "Yes. You must go see Frodo as quickly as you can."

"I will go there now!"

They parted outside the walls of Bree. Gandalf hurried off to the Shire, and Aragorn resumed his habitual watch of the lands and his people. He was still sick at heart, but felt less despair than he had prior to Gandalf's reassurances that the Enemy most certainly did not have the One.

Aragorn's patrols were uneventful while Gandalf was absent. More strangers came up the road from the south, refugees fleeing the lengthening shadow of Mordor. They did not have any useful news, save that Mount Doom was active, the land in darkness, and the wise in Gondor fearful.

None of the refugees had the slightest interest in the Shire or hobbits. Aragorn deemed them to be what they claimed.

When Gandalf returned to Bree, it was a windy, brisk day in mid-April. Aragorn met him in the Prancing Pony, and Gandalf shared what he had learned.

"Frodo was indeed visited by a strange hobbit on the first of March," Gandalf muttered in a corner over a pint of ale. "Frodo recognized the sketch, agreeing it greatly resembled the hobbit. Though our shapeshifter had paid attention to detail: his hair was curly, and he had no facial hair, unlike in this sketch of him as a man."

"Unsurprising, if he became acquainted with hobbits here in Bree first."

"He used a similar story in the Shire. A hobbit looking for his family! I wonder why he picked that."

"It's a story that is innocuous enough," Aragorn said, with a slight shrug. "Everyone seems to have fallen for it."

"Yes," Gandalf said darkly. "Frodo had the same sort of things to say about this strange hobbit as everyone did your human traveler. He was friendly, cheerful, generous with coin—although Frodo turned it down—and seemed strong and fair in aspect. Frodo left the hobbit in the sitting room at one point, and went to his study to look for information on families of the Shire. There he found Gollum."

"Oh, dear."

"Yes. Gollum attacked him, with a surge of strength Frodo found shocking and unexpected. Gollum knocked Frodo's head against a desk leg, and he fell unconscious."

"And Frodo's ring?"

"When he woke, it was gone. Along with Gollum and the strange hobbit. His beltloop, where he had attached the ring by a chain, had been torn away from his trousers."

"So it is as we most feared," Aragorn said, his heart sinking.

"Aye," Gandalf said. "Whether Bilbo's ring was the ring or not, it is no longer in Frodo's home. And no one has seen or heard word of the strange hobbit seeking his family, since that day."

"It is ever so strange," Aragorn murmured. "The hobbits are all safe?"

"All safe and fat and happy," Gandalf confirmed. "Frodo is in some distress about the theft, but he was not under the ring's spell so much as Gollum, or even Bilbo. He will be all right."

"That is something to be grateful for. But mostly I feel this is dreadful," Aragorn said. "After all our years of watching, to lose the ring now. While both of us were occupied elsewhere! It is very hard."

"The worst has not yet come to pass," Gandalf reminded Aragorn. "Our task is now to identify this stranger."

"Identify a shapeshifter!" Aragorn said with a humorless laugh.

Gandalf hesitated. "We know the ring leaves traces wherever it goes," Gandalf finally said. "We are well accustomed, now, to recognizing those traces. We shall consult with everyone—those of my Order, the elves, the birds and the animals and the trees themselves, if we can."

"You sound as though you are about to leave again!"

"I am," Gandalf said. "Will you let me keep that sketch of the traveler? I shall consult with Lord Elrond, and Saruman the White. It is at least a first step."

"Yes, of course. I will remain here. I fear for the safety of the Shire still, especially after the traveler made inquiries about it along the whole road from here to Anduin. It draws attention where no attention should be drawn."

"I know you still believe in your heart it may have been the Enemy himself. We shall not turn a blind eye on the Power that has returned to Mordor. We must prepare for war," Gandalf acknowledged. Then he paused, and spoke even lower. "One detail Frodo almost didn't mention, until I questioned him very carefully about the hobbit's appearance."

"What detail is that?"

"The mysterious hobbit was missing the index finger on his right hand."

Aragorn drew in a sharp breath. "Narsil cut this finger from his hand!" he said. "And you still don't think it was him?"

"Do not imagine that I've ruled it out," Gandalf said slowly. "Merely that… if he has the One, I assure you he is not wielding it. And it is difficult to conceive of him having it and choosing not to wield it."

Chapter Text

Galadriel did not spend any time lying to herself about whether she was going to help Sauron. She knew she was, she just hadn't figured out how. Her first instinct was to consult with Círdan and Elrond, to explore the lore of her own people collected for millennia in these tiny surviving realms.

Yet she shied away from facing them. Here she was, working with Sauron again, and she certainly could not say so to them. She had never once confessed to them how closely she had worked with Sauron in the past, or how intimate they had once been. They would never understand. Really, she did not understand it herself, except to deplore a weakness that had existed in her since she first met Sauron, without hope of actually changing it.

Anyone who was acquainted with Galadriel and her pride would not have believed it, but she chose instead to journey up Anduin and to the east, through Mirkwood, to the halls of dwarves and the town of Dale.

None of them were accustomed to hosting an elf, but they were nothing short of fully welcoming of the Lady Galadriel, to her face. She spoke to them of everything except that which she was really interested in. They spoke of the shadow in the south, the power that had reentered Mordor, and discussed hope for another alliance between men, elves, and dwarves. She toured and admired the parts of their realms they were willing to show her.

And finally, late one evening, she was drinking alone with an old dwarven smith. Very old, for a dwarf; he had been around to remember the dwarves' possession of some of the Seven. He was also, surprisingly, willing to talk about rings of power with Galadriel.

"Oh, aye," he mused, staring at her over his pint of ale. "Given what we know now, I do heartily wish we could have shipped them back to Eregion for their undoing."

"Did you not try it yourselves?" she asked. She felt nervous, and was fiddling with her own mug in a way that did not befit her age or position.

"I wish," he said. "I wish they had never been made in the first place."

"So do we," Galadriel said, squeezing her eyes shut briefly. "Believe me, so do we. But we did not know how to undo them without entirely destroying their powers of protection, after we found out how costly a mistake it had been."

"Did you not?" the dwarf said with a small laugh. "The famous smiths of Eregion?"

"Not to my knowledge," Galadriel admitted.

"Well, it's simple," the dwarf said, not laughing anymore. "The makers of the rings of power could have undone them easily enough as long as they felt remorse for their making. The power would be released back to the maker rather than destroyed." He gave a sharp nod. "Toss it into the fire and take the remorse upon your soul and pray to Aulë for forgiveness. Just like any other dreadful weapon we've made over the ages."

Galadriel made her way back to Lothlórien after that. The old dwarf was almost assuredly correct. It fit everything she knew of sorcery and rings of power and wickedness in general.

But she did not believe, in her heart of hearts, that Sauron could feel remorse for anything. He might feel that he made a mistake that had been personally very costly to himself and regret it for that reason. But to take the wrongdoing upon his soul, to truly feel the pain that he had inflicted on others?

She never had been convinced he could feel such things.

Nonetheless, she found herself hiding away from everyone after she returned home, kicking off her shoes, and stretching out on another divan looking up into her beloved silver-green trees.

Tentatively, she opened her mind to Sauron.

He was open to her immediately. She received a feeling of heavy weariness from him and the fleeting sense of a black tower covered in scaffolding, but when he coalesced around her in an image, they were in that field of daffodils in the Shire. He was standing among the golden flowers looking beautiful again.

She laughed at him, though she made no attempt to resist the change of scenery. "You are not still in the Shire, and the early spring daffodils are definitely not still blooming in July."

"But it is nice, is it not?" He had gray eyes again today, although as she approached, she decided they had more blue in them than last time.

"It is nice," she agreed with a sigh.

"What do you wish from me?"

Briefly, she outlined what the old dwarf had told her, and added her judgment that it was correct.

He scowled, and slipped a hand in his pocket, closing a fist over an object inside it. "Pray to Aulë," he repeated in a mocking voice.

"Or perhaps your choice of the Valar," she said with a sigh. "I did not realize you hated Aulë."

"I do not hate him at all," Sauron said, suddenly going soft and tired. "I miss him."

"Then what is the problem?" Galadriel asked, raising her eyebrows slightly.

"You're well aware what the problem is," he said, looking down at the flowers and scowling again.

She sighed, and put a hand to her forehead. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"I will help you," she pledged.

"Will you," he said, with a skeptical laugh. "You will travel to Mordor and meet me in Mount Doom and help me undo my greatest mistake?"

"Yes," she said. "Elbereth help me, I will."

She announced to a startled and disapproving Celeborn that she was going to take a boat to Mordor.

"I have heard from Gandalf that he has business in the area," she said, which was not a lie but also definitely not the true reason for her journey. Goodness, she had picked up a thing or two from Sauron over the ages. "I hope to ease his burden in searching for a thing that will never be found."

Which was also technically true. Gandalf was no doubt seeking information about the One Ring wherever he traveled, and if her business was successful, Galadriel would eventually confess to her allies what she had done, and that they should search no more.

Eventually.

Celeborn was never in the habit of gainsaying her, but her announcement worried him terribly. She could not blame him for it. He was withdrawn and unhappy as she left, and she felt the weight of it on her shoulders.

The journey down Anduin was uneventful. There were orcs in the foothills of the Misty Mountains that could have threatened a passage by boat after leaving Lothlórien, but Galadriel was an accomplished sorceress who had hidden her doings from orcs for a very long time. They did not see or smell her as she traveled down the river.

She stopped only briefly to sleep and eat. She portaged around Sarn Gebir and again around the falls of Rauros, on paths made when Gondor was young. She put back in the river and continued to paddle until she was past the marshes and just shy of Cair Andros. She pulled the boat up on the east bank, and tucked it into a fold of the land where it would hopefully remain hidden.

She had a good view of Mordor from this vantage point. It was enough to discourage the heart of even the stoutest Elven traveler. Orodruin had indeed woken again and thrown ash into the sky until all was in shadow. Lightning pierced the black clouds as she watched, and thunder rumbled overhead.

Most of the time, Galadriel did not waste her emotions or her energy on anger. She was philosophical about her mistakes and her weaknesses, and also those of her enemy. She had endured a long time despite it all, and would endure longer still.

Yet as she gazed on the newly awakened land of shadow, she felt very angry.

Sauron was just the worst.

She did not want to help him. It would involve tangling her emotions with his again, opening herself up to his manipulations and charm. It was the last thing she could afford, with Middle-earth on the brink of another war with him. But he was right, curse him: any eventuality that was not Sauron putting on the One Ring and destroying Middle-earth beyond repair was the option she would pick.

She elected to approach through the forests of Ithilien. She did not encounter any rangers of Gondor, though they would not have seen her if she had. She found her way to the feet of the low hills south of the Morannon, before the Ephel Dúath grew tall. Durthang (or what was left of it) would be somewhere ahead of her, on the other side of the hills.

Her heart in her throat, she began climbing. It was not easy going, the hills broken and bare and unfriendly, but she trusted her sorcery to keep her from enemy eyes. She had not worn Nenya on her finger since March first, and dared not even bring it with her when entering Mordor; she had left it at home. But she did not lack power of her own, and she employed it in full today. She passed many a cave and tunnel that was no doubt home to orcs and wargs and trolls, but either they were empty, or she was successful at concealing herself from them.

Eventually she gained the crest of the hill, and her judgment proved sound: she was standing above the ruins of the castle Durthang, and looking beyond it to the plain of Gorgoroth. In the distance, Orodruin burned.

It was every nightmare of hers from the First Age brought to life. Ruing her decision to come, she began making her way down the hills to Durthang. She had not gotten far when a great beast appeared in the sky to the east. It was a black void, a monstrous featherless bird, and it stank of evil.

It was also headed right for her.

She stepped behind a rock, which was a bit of a silly thing to do, for if the beast had seen her despite her sorcery, a rock would do no good. But as the beast approached and grew larger, she realized it was not alone. Upon it sat a great figure, wearing a silver crown adorned with sweeping horns. A long black cape fluttered in the wind behind him.

It was, admittedly, very dramatic and impressive.

She did not move as the beast flew towards the ground, banked steeply, and landed with claws out. She was still standing as though frozen when its rider dismounted with a startlingly graceful jump.

He landed on light feet, and turned to face her directly.

She could not, then, hide from him while walking upon his own land. And now she was caught in the act of having tried. She sighed regretfully, and stepped out from behind the rock.

He was dressed in fine black silks patterned with red; rich, elaborate fabric and intricate designs. He was unnaturally tall—two or three feet taller than her, and she was not short—and his face was unnaturally pale. It was a long face, and fierce looking, with dark, unforgiving eyebrows and coal-black hair falling to his shoulders. His cheekbones were too sharp, and his lips were thin and colorless. He had a long, fine scar running from beneath his right eye all the way to his right ear.

His eyes were yellow, with black slits for the pupil. The same eye she had perceived roving over the land when he was but a formless spirit.

Galadriel's eyes were drawn to him and she could not look away, even had she wanted to. She had never dealt with Sauron in this aspect before. She had not faced him or Morgoth in the First Age, and had not directly faced him as the warrior lord during the wars of the Second Age or the Last Alliance that ended the Second Age. Nor had he ever attempted to appear to her in thought looking so fearsome.

It was not really a human shape. The best she could describe it as was vaguely humanoid. She could not see a trace of Halbrand in him. It was as though he had shaped this form to be as evil as he had shaped Halbrand to be fair.

"You came," he said. His incisors were pointed, invoking the image of fangs. His voice rumbled deep and dreadfully. She did not like anything about it.

"I regret it already," she said, with brutal honesty. "It is enough to make me wish I had never crossed the Helcaraxë."

"Well," he said, and stood considering that. "You can always go back." Whether he meant to Lórien, or Aman, she could not tell. Then he lifted one shoulder. "However, if you mean to go on... would you like a ride?"

She had been planning to cross to Mount Doom herself, and then let him know she was there. She was not excited about taking a ride on this fell flying beast. But she supposed it would be churlish and cowardly to refuse.

"Thank you," she said, lifting her chin.

"This is Ishnûk," he said, turning back to the fellbeast. "He will be kind to you if you are kind to him."

She surveyed the beast with misgivings, but tried to swallow them. "Very well."

He lifted her up by the waist and set her on the beast with ease, his grip and his arms shockingly strong to her, even though she was well acquainted with his physical strength. He climbed on up the beast after her, sitting just behind her, and murmured something to it in his dreadful invented speech. With a lurch that shook her stomach, they took off.

Ishnûk flew swiftly. She estimated they crossed twenty leagues in an hour. She breathed and tasted ash. Wind beat at her face, and swept her hair back from her head, probably whipping it across Sauron's face. If so, he did not complain. They landed on the slopes of Mount Doom, which were deserted. Sauron helped her dismount, and led the way inside the mountain.

In no time at all, they stood at the very Cracks of Doom. The lava spat at her, hissing as though it sensed she was not friendly to it. She stopped at the edge of the rock, and did not move.

"Do you mean to... jump into the fire along with the ring?" she asked, very doubtful about the merits of this plan.

"Oh, yes," he said. "The fires of Orodruin cannot hurt me."

As he spoke, he was stripping off his clothing. As he removed his black gloves, she saw it: he was missing a finger on his right hand. Fascinating. His ability to take shape again was somewhat limited.

He scratched at the skin of his neck as though relieved to be free of the weight of the heavy, elaborate garments, a gesture she finally recognized Halbrand in.

Then he removed his undershirt, and she saw it. Around his neck was a chain of fine metal links, and on it hung the One Ring.

As she watched, he reached up and tugged at it. It broke, and the ring came away in his hand. He did not pay it any attention as the metal chain fell to the ground.

He looked at her rather than the ring. His gaze was heavy, and everything in her wished to shrink from it. She did not know where she found the will to stand tall and meet his gaze head-on.

"I am afraid," he confessed.

This gave her the courage to draw a deep breath, step forward, crane her neck upwards, and place her hand on his cheek as she had done a thousand times before, when he wore a prettier face. His skin was hard and cold to the touch, like marble.

He lowered his head until his forehead was touching hers. Their noses met. She breathed deeply, and closed her eyes.

For a moment, they were one. He was remorseful, deeply so. In defiance of all her long-held beliefs on the topic of his repentance: he repined. Greatly did he regret the One Ring and wish that he had never made it. Yet he was also afraid of the remorse and the repentance, and his fear—and the thing in his hand!—was holding him back.

For she had also become aware of the will of the ring he held in his hand—like a living thing, pulsing and glowing, beating against the walls of her mind with its power.

It called to her. The power to do everything she'd ever wanted, right here in the form of this wondrous golden band. Order all of Middle-earth in beauty and goodness; bring back the devastated forests of Eriador and restore the Brown Lands to the Entwives and cleanse the Eryn Galen and cast down all the dark creatures and resurrect the sunken continent of Beleriand, and—and—and!

Everything would be beautiful and perfect and it would be hers, to remake exactly as she saw best.

"Ah," she gasped, struggling for breath. She placed her hand on top of his clenched fist. "It does not want you to do this."

He shook his head without opening his eyes or letting go of the ring.

She realized she was crying. She was gripping his hand with all of her strength, but he barely felt it. She did not have the ability to get the ring away from his hand, which was closed like an iron clamp, and that alone may have saved her. She was able to draw a deep breath, and reject the influence of the ring. She pushed at his mind, fighting his fear with everything she had, and she sensed rather than felt or saw that tears began rolling down his own cheeks.

He took a deep breath, drew away from her, clenched his hand yet more tightly around the ring, and teetered on the edge of the shelf of rock.

Her mind clear and entirely her own in the second after his withdrawal, she stepped forward and pushed him.

He was already off balance, and it was all that was required. He fell. As he fell, he twisted and became a fiery spirit, burning brightly and terribly, and a shriek escaped her quite against her will. The desire to jump in after him and save the ring flared in her for a moment. She took another deep, unsteady breath, and the madness passed.

One moment passed, or a hundred thousand; she did not know. A black, desiccated shape emerged from the fire, crawling like an animal, and no larger than a cat. It was pitiful, and she did pity it. She collapsed onto the ground at its side. It crawled onto her lap, curling up like a cat, and passed out.

It seemed to be a long time before he stirred again. She had brought a little food and drink with her, and subsisted, but it was deeply unpleasant to sit at the Cracks of Doom by herself in the full horror of the fires and the dread of this place. What she would do if any of Sauron's terrible servants came by to see what was going on, she did not know.

At long last, he stirred. He crawled off her, and stretched and melted back into the shape of the terrible pale figure of evil.

"You're alive," she observed dryly.

"I'm alive," he said with a sigh. He was stretched naked on the rock, eyes closed and voice scratchy.

"Did it work?"

"I suppose so," he said. "The ring is gone, and I am not. I do not feel as wane as I did during the long years of its absence. But I am very weary. I am beset by many angry voices and cannot sort it all out."

"I would like to go home now," she requested, highly impatient with this moping and brooding.

"All right," he agreed, and opened his eyes in conjunction with a wide yawn. "Would you like a ride?"

She debated the merits and drawbacks of accepting a ride on the fellbeast versus paddling upriver for weeks combined with steep portages uphill, and accepted his offer.

He put on the black tunic and trousers again, but left the heavy outer robes and the cloak were they were. They went outside to the slopes of the mountain. Ishnûk was not there, but Sauron gave a long, loud whistle, and the beast arrived without delay.

He smiled as it landed, and ran his hands fondly down its terrible neck, and crooned softly at it in words she did not know.

She also would not previously have guessed that he had affection for anything under his care in these lands.

They rode together into the north, flying high above the lands where the wind was cold and hurt her face. The sun set during their journey, but the beast flew unerringly, and eventually landed on the steep slopes of the Misty Mountains, close to the source of the Silverlode.

She was relieved that he had not tried to get any closer to her realm. Without her in its center, it would be easier for him to penetrate it, and she greatly appreciated that he did not even try.

She dismounted, feeling an ache in her legs from the stiff position on the back of the beast, and watched as Sauron, too, dismounted and swayed off-balance.

"What will you do now?" she asked.

"I cannot think," he answered. He did sound very tired. "Be free of it all, I suppose, if I can."

He clucked affectionately at Ishnûk, then stepped back as it suddenly took off and disappeared into the spires of the mountains above them.

He did not say anything else to her as he turned and disappeared into the canyons of the mountains himself.

Her heart hurt as she watched him go, but there was nothing more she could do. She turned and began walking. A cheerful hearth and a happy home awaited her, and for a time, she would try to avoid carrying the events of this day back with her.

Chapter Text

In late August, a message arrived in Lothlórien from Rivendell: Lord Elrond begged the presence of the Lady Galadriel in his house.

Galadriel dreaded facing him and confessing her deeds. Her allies would not understand why she had consented to do something that increased Sauron's power and removed all hope of his final defeat. She was secure in her decision and confident they could not have again taken the ring from Sauron after he'd reunited with it. She did not, however, expect everyone to agree with her.

Either way, it was probably best to get it over with. She took a very small company of seven with her, leaving Celeborn in charge of Lórien, and they traveled swiftly with all the endurance they could muster. She deemed it safe to wield Nenya again, and its sorcery protected them and guided them on their way. They arrived at the Old Forest Road and crossed the High Pass without incident, and arrived in Rivendell before September waned.

Despite her dread at the task ahead of her, her heart lightened as it always did in the valley of Rivendell. It was almost as dear to her as her own realm. She left her horse at the stables and shed the cares of her journey with every step towards Elrond's hall. Awaiting her was her dearest and oldest remaining friend, Lord Elrond, and his three children, who were also her beloved grandchildren. She kissed many cheeks and returned many embraces.

She had just sat down to relax with a cup of wine in her hand, when someone else entered the courtyard.

The new elf strikingly resembled Arwen—long, straight dark hair pale framing a delicate pale face, a tall and willow figure, with a fey quality about her that was heightened even for an elf. But it was not Arwen. The eye color was wrong. And Arwen was sitting right beside Galadriel.

Galadriel's jaw dropped, and she stared.

"Celebrían," she said. Her eyes welled with tears. "Celebrían! Am I dreaming!"

It was Celebrían. She too was crying, and she opened her arms. Galadriel's cup fell to the ground with a clang as she sprung from her seat and barreled into her daughter's arms with a glad cry.

They wept over each other, clinging to each other for a long time, heedless of the fact that the rest of the family were watching with small, indulgent smiles.

"But you're supposed to be in Valinor," was the first coherent thing Galadriel said, not that it was very coherent.

Celebrían took her hand, and led her to sit back down beside Arwen. Celebrían reached out to Arwen, and they squeezed each other's hands, while Galadriel refused to let go of her daughter. Celebrían ended up somewhat crushed between them, but she only smiled and cried and did not complain.

"My dear, darling, lost daughter, is it really you?" Galadriel demanded.

"It's me," Celebrían said, still crying softly. "It's me. I'm back."

"This is quite the trick," Galadriel said, trying to cast a stern glance at Elrond. Its effect was no doubt diminished by her soggy happiness. "Lord Elrond begs the presence of the Lady Galadriel in his house, indeed! With nary a word about his returned wife!"

Elrond chuckled. "She wished for it to be a surprise."

"Yes!" Celebrían exclaimed, squeezing Galadriel's hand. "I wished to see the look on your face for myself, Mother."

"I cannot begrudge you that," Galadriel said, although in truth she might have been a little grudging. To have had her daughter back in Middle-earth, and to not have known! "But sweetheart, are you well? How are you back? Why are you back? You look so well!"

Celebrían had been captured and tormented by orcs when attempting to cross a mountain pass, and though she had survived, she had never healed. She had looked diminished, drawn, and distant when she left these shores to seek healing in Valinor. She had been fading, and everyone knew it. Now she looked radiant, vividly and vitally alive; it was undoubtedly her own dearest daughter somehow whole and well. And back in Middle-earth!

"I departed these shores with life still in me," Celebrían started to explain. No doubt she had already been through the whole story with her family. "But it was not long before I passed away into the Halls of Mandos. There I dwelt for years uncounted until reembodiment. Your mother and father are well," she said with a sweet smile, "and so are my uncles, whose spirits Mandos released long ago."

"Oh," Galadriel said, starting to openly weep again. "Oh! I am so glad."

"I did not tell anyone I was returning to Middle-earth, save your mother Eärwen, princess of the Teleri, so I do not have messages from anyone else. Eärwen asked me to give you all her love and assure you not to hurry back, unless it is your own wish. Your father is High King of the Noldor, and he probably does wish you would hurry back, but he did not say so to me."

"Is he really," marveled Galadriel. She had not seen her parents in over seven thousand years, and had stopped finding the separation hard after falling in love with Middle-earth. She had not even thought of them in at least a thousand years. How strange it was, to imagine them alive and thriving in Aman. And her father, the youngest of the three brothers, as High King of the Noldor! How very strange. "Are his older brothers and all their sons still in the Halls of Mandos, then?"

"That is only half the story," Elrohir put in impatiently, before Celebrían could answer. He was far less interested in the doings of elves in the Blessed Realm he had never met, and could not imagine ever meeting. "Tell her about coming back to Middle-earth."

Celebrían laughed merrily. "My hot-headed son," she said, releasing her grip on Arwen and leaning forward to run her fingers through his hair. "How I missed you!"

"And we you," his twin Elladan said, his voice very low but containing no doubt that he meant it with all his heart.

"There is not that much to tell," Celebrían said with another laugh. "I healed, but I was not content there. I felt I still had business here. And so I left the harbor of Alqualondë, and sailed the Straight Road home."

Galadriel laughed disbelievingly, her eyes going wide and her heart skipping a beat. "You did what?"

"Oh, my dearest mother, unlike on your journey, the ship was freely given and no blood was spilled," Celebrían said with another merry, silver laugh. "Eärwen taught me to sail and parted with her ship willingly, though she advised me not to go."

Galadriel merely continued to stare.

"I promised her that I would send it back to Aman with the next group of elves leaving Middle-earth," Celebrían continued. "I have left it with Círdan, who faithfully pledged to do so."

"But did the Valar say you could go!" Galadriel asked with disbelief, still hung up on that part.

"They did not forbid it," Celebrían said, in a very soft voice. Her tone promised a great story, but she did not continue to speak. The silence seemed conspicuous and deliberate.

"What a tale," was all Galadriel could think of to say.

"Enough of this weeping," laughed Elrohir. He leapt to his feet and grasped Galadriel by both hands, taking her away from Celebrían. He hauled her up without waiting for her cooperation, and she laughed and did not resist. "Our mother is back! This is no time to dwell on things of the past! It is time to make merry!"

Everyone laughed at him, but no one disagreed. The newly reunited family feasted and sang and rejoiced through the night. The shadow of the Enemy was the furthest thing from any of their thoughts.

A few days into Galadriel's visit, Celebrían requested they take a walk together. Suspecting nothing amiss, Galadriel threw a cloak over one shoulder and followed her daughter upstream, deep into the mountains. They walked until Galadriel could feel the veil of Elrond's power falling away from them.

Celebrían walked a little further, and then took a seat on a stone. She turned to survey her mother, her skirts spread around her in a wide circle, her black hair falling around her shoulders in a pool of silk. She looked like a queen.

"Much is revealed in the Halls of Mandos," Celebrían said, her voice suddenly deep and her silver eyes darkened. "All truths are known. Nothing is hidden to those who dwell there. It is a place of self-reflection, of healing or grieving depending on your needs and your nature. Most crucially, there are no deceptions that outlast that place."

Galadriel looked into the eyes of her daughter. Her heart was thudding loudly in her chest. She understood what Celebrían was going to say before she said it.

"Celeborn is not my father," Celebrían declared. "And my unfinished business here relates to him that is."

Galadriel stood still. She did not look away. She breathed through the shock and the pain and the fear and the heartache. She was silent, mastering herself until she could speak without a tremor.

"Are you very angry with me?"

"I am not angry with you at all," Celebrían said gently. "I love Celeborn and will for all of my days as the one who raised me to be what I am. And I love you, very dearly, from the bottom of my heart."

"I see," Galadriel said, slowly lowering herself to sit on the ground. She peered up at her daughter, and marveled. "You are very calm."

"I have had centuries to come to terms with it," Celebrían reminded her. "I spoke to Mandos and Elbereth concerning him for a very long time. I made my peace with it in Valinor."

Galadriel heaved a great sigh. "They must think very ill of me."

"Although I cannot say what their judgment would be should you ask it of them, I can say that they were very kind to me."

"Have you not told anyone else?" Galadriel asked. "Your husband and children?"

"Only Elrond," Celebrían said. "But I shall not be hiding it from the rest of them."

Galadriel sighed again. "I suppose you think I should not have hid it from you."

"I am not here sitting in judgment on you, Mother," she said, very gently. "I am here to understand what it means."

"I do not know what it means," Galadriel said bitterly.

"I have but a single question," Celebrían said, shaking her head. "Did you love him, or was it a matter of deception or force?"

Galadriel buried her face in her hands, and wept.

"I loved him," she confessed. "I believe I love him still."

Celebrían let her weep in silence. It took a long time, but Galadriel eventually composed herself.

"What you must think of me!" she marveled.

"I do not think anything in particular of you as of yet, as I do not know him," Celebrían said, a small smile on her lips. "How did you get to know him so well?"

Galadriel wanted to tear her hair out, or scream, or throw herself on the ground and have a nice fit. She took a deep breath, and forced herself to do none of these things.

"I cannot recite the entire story, start to finish, for you," Galadriel said. "I barely understand it myself. I will say this. I was deceived by him in a fair form—at first. But even after I knew, I could not sever the connection. We danced around each other constantly; sometimes lying together in pleasure and sometimes trying to hack each other's heads off with our swords."

She sighed.

"The revelation that he had forged the One Ring finally gave me the strength to put a stop to it, and we have only been enemies since then. I—I am sorry. I was determined to tell no one, ever. Sauron himself does not know that my daughter is his own. I had thought to keep the secret until my death."

Celebrían was giving her a calm, reassuring look. She did not appear frightened or disgusted.

"But what now?" Celebrían asked. "Now that he has re-declared himself the Enemy in Mordor and wishes to open war on us once again."

Galadriel gave a shrill little laugh, like she was finally giving into hysterics. "Oh, I have no idea what he's doing!" Galadriel cried, her composure in shreds.

"Do you not? Elrond said he is in Mordor, building an army...."

"I helped him undo the One Ring," Galadriel blurted out.

"Come again?" Celebrían asked delicately, as though she had not heard.

So Galadriel came clean to someone—finally—about what she'd been up to since March first.

"Fascinating," Celebrían said when she was finished. "No," she added sharply at the look on her mother's face, "I am not mocking you. I told you I felt compelled to come back here. I think I begin to understand why."

Galadriel was lying on her back in the dirt, although she did not remember how she got this way. She sighed, and looked up at the sky. She did not know what to say to that.

"I want to meet him," Celebrían announced.

"No," Galadriel said, instantly, horrified, bolting upright.

"You have just met with him, in the heart of his very own land, and you are fine," Celebrían pointed out gently.

"I was helping him," Galadriel hissed. "He begged me to come and help put himself together again. And I did! Any hope we had of permanently defeating him by destroying his ring is gone, thanks to me! Of course he was not going to hurt me."

"He will not hurt me," Celebrían said with complete certainty.

"Celebrían," Galadriel said scathingly, giving her daughter her sternest glare. "You are the daughter of the Lady of Lothlórien and by marriage you are the Lady of Imladris. Elrond has been one of his most hated enemies since the moment they laid eyes on each other. You are intimately connected to two of the Three Rings, which for all we know, he covets still!"

"He did not take your ring from you," Celebrían objected.

"I did not bring my ring with me to Mordor," Galadriel said, still as scathingly as she could manage. "I am not insane. I think you might be insane, most beloved of my heart."

"Galadriel," Celebrían said gently. She did not usually address Galadriel by her first name, and it was startling to hear it from her lips. Galadriel blinked. "I acknowledge your greater experience with him. But since the Halls of Mandos, I have been steadfast in my certainty that he would not hurt me."

"Celebrían," Galadriel said in return, blinking back tears. "He does not even know he has a daughter. I do not think he would be happy, if he knew. He—he does not like elves," she said, biting her lip at the magnitude of this understatement.

"He will like me," Celebrían said simply.

"His orcs tortured you," Galadriel hissed, a thing she immediately could not believe she'd said, the moment she'd uttered it. She bit her lip again and wished it unsaid. Dragging up such a terrible, sensitive subject—

But Celebrían only laughed lightly. "He did not send them specifically to harm his own daughter," she said. "The notion is absurd."

"Is it?" Galadriel asked quietly.

"Well, it certainly is not a possibility if he does not even know I exist," Celebrían replied, a little more tartly than she'd said anything else so far. "Mother. I insist."

Galadriel steepled her fingers and contemplated her daughter. She meditated for a time on the undoing of the One Ring, what she had found in Sauron's mind, and all that it could possibly mean.

In the end, Galadriel found that she still believed that the elves and men of Middle-earth should prepare for war with Sauron. But perhaps... if he agreed to meet her here, on the borders of Elrond's land, alone—perhaps they would all survive the encounter.

"I... let me see," she said, with a heavy sigh.

Galadriel let her eyes fall shut and her mind fall open.

Sauron was harder to seek out, this time. He was not listening for her. She walked through deep darkness, and eventually discovered it was because he was quite literally sitting in the dark. He was a black, shapeless form of the night, and he was...

He was huddled alongside a shape of even deeper shadow. A great, ancient terror of the First Age, a Balrog of Morgoth that fled to the depths of the earth to escape the fall of Angband.

Galadriel's breath caught in her throat, and she almost closed the connection in fright, even though the Balrog could not hurt her while she walked in Sauron's thoughts.

The shapeless dark of Sauron lifted his head, or what might have passed for a head, and conveyed a question without speaking.

"Will you come find me? Alone?" she asked, nearly whispering. "I am in the valley of Rivendell, just outside the borders of Elrond's realm. I would like to tell you something."

He conveyed reluctance. He was busy sulking and brooding with his old friend, a fellow corrupted Maia that Morgoth inflicted on Middle-earth. They had been through much together in the First Age, and were really quite fond of each other. He'd found comfort here, and safety. There was also a numbness in the dark. He did not really want to be thinking about anything right now.

Apparently he had been down here since she parted from him on the eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains.

"Please," she said.

He resisted another moment, then gave in. He would be there in a day or two.

With a sense that she was doing wrong, Galadriel lifted a set of clothing from the laundry that she knew would fit Sauron if he took the form of Halbrand. She found a pair of boots as well, and a belt, and she and Celebrían made their way back upstream with their stolen goods.

"I am the Lady Celebrían," her daughter said, laughing when Galadriel expressed these sentiments. "And this is my realm. It is hardly stealing."

They deposited the clothing in a copse of trees. Both Galadriel and Celebrían wore swords under their cloaks, and as far as Galadriel understood, Sauron would not be able to travel with a weapon if he was shapeshifting. Still, she found herself twisting her hands together in apprehension as they waited.

When the crow swooped down from the sky, Galadriel immediately knew it for him.

In short order, a man with shoulder-length brown hair and stubble on his chin walked out of the copse of trees towards them. Galadriel cast a critical eye over him. He had indeed not lost the ability to take a fair form, even in reality and outside her thoughts... but he did not look well. He looked as thin and starved as he had on that raft when they first met. The Elven clothes hung on him shapelessly, slightly too large.

He looked distinctly unimpressed to see her standing there alongside her daughter. Galadriel judged that he recognized Celebrían, but if he had any notion that she was supposed to be gone from Middle-earth, he did not show it.

"Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien," he said, executing a small bow towards her that she suspected of being ironic. His voice also had that drawl to it that always came across as sarcasm or mockery. "Lady Celebrían of Imladris. To what do I owe the honor."

Galadriel and Celebrían looked at each other. Then Celebrían nodded, and stepped forward. She gave Sauron a beautiful, bright smile.

"Good morning, Father," she said merrily.

Sauron only raised a single eyebrow, and gave Galadriel a sardonic look.

"Oh, I suppose I forgot to tell you," Galadriel said, a little airily. She hid her hands behind her back; they were shaking. "Celebrían is your daughter, not Celeborn's."

"You are mad," Sauron said. His own voice was very even.

"Did you forget that we slept together?" she asked, archly. She was being too arch about this. But she was barely hanging on and suppressing the desire to fall into hysterics; she did not feel capable of taking any other approach to the matter.

Sauron took a small step towards Celebrían. His eyes matched hers today, almost perfectly—they were both silver. He lifted his four-fingered hand, and it was trembling. He placed it on her cheek, while she stood very still. Every line of Galadriel was tense and prepared for anything, but for a few moments, they all simply stood there.

"But," he said, and fell silent.

No one else said anything.

He tried again. "But you are perfect."

Celebrían placed her own hand over Sauron's, and smiled. Her eyes were a little watery. "So was Lúthien," she reminded him.

Galadriel winced, a lance of fear surging through her at Sauron's many possible reactions to that name.

But he did not look remotely angry or upset. He lifted his other hand, and felt Celebrían's hair. He ran it in between his fingers, then let it fall. He stared at it for a while.

"Melian was in the body of one of the Eldar for a long time," he said doubtfully. "And I am...."

He trailed off. No one was inclined to finish this sentence for him.

All of a sudden, he snatched both his hands away and clasped them behind his back. He stepped away from Celebrían.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"I am sure," she said, meeting his eyes very steadily. "Will you let me show you?"

He hesitated, then nodded.

They walked in thought together for a long time, and what they shared, Galadriel did not know. Nor did she ever in the future ask about it.

Eventually, they broke eye contact. Sauron shifted a little on his feet, and looked away. His eyes settled on Galadriel instead.

"You were never going to tell me," he said quietly.

"No," Galadriel admitted. "I feared for her—and for my—safety."

"Why now?"

Galadriel shrugged. "She insisted."

"Well," Sauron said with a sigh, looking back at Celebrían. "Tell me about yourself," he said, and settled down cross-legged on the ground.

Sauron and Celebrían spoke for a long time. Celebrían told him how she was injured, a story he had no reaction to at all. She told him how she walked the Halls of Mandos and returned; he told her the story of his first meeting with Galadriel, and other carefully-selected, pleasant things about their past. Celebrían spoke about her childhood and her own children. They assiduously avoided the topic of war and other fell deeds.

As the day faded and the stars came out overhead, Celebrían took up a small lyre, and she sat in the glades above Rivendell and sang to them, of love and hope and family and joy and finding that which had been lost. Galadriel found herself holding Sauron's hand as they listened to their daughter sing and play, and her heart swelled with joy, and a hope she had seldom before allowed herself to feel.

There was power in Celebrían's song, just as strong as beautiful and moving as Lúthien's. Galadriel marveled at the success of her deception; how had no one ever suspected Celebrían of being part Maia? It was terribly obvious, if one were looking for such things.

Eventually, Sauron stood, seeming to let go of Galadriel's hand only reluctantly.

"I cannot stay in this valley," he said to Celebrían. "My presence here, even if well-intended, will draw evil. But I will—I am willing to see you, if you wish to see me again."

"I do wish that," she said, in her voice that was crystal clear and rang like a bell.

He kissed her on the cheek, and then disappeared into the dark of the night.

"Well," said Celebrían, turning to Galadriel. "We should return. My family will be wondering where we've been."

"Yes," Galadriel agreed, her heart sinking. "I suppose it is time to tell them."

"It is," Celebrían said serenely, without faltering a beat.

"You said Elrond already knows," Galadriel remembered. "What was his reaction?"

"Elrond seemed to have half-suspected it of you all along," Celebrían said with a faint laugh. "He was there, wasn't he? In Eregion while you were having your affair?"

"He was," Galadriel confirmed. "But I thought I hid it better. And I can't imagine he would have simply let it go, if he'd known who Sauron was!"

"No," Celebrían agreed. "He and Celebrimbor did not know until the forging of the One Ring. But he knew you were drawn to the strangely powerful smith."

Galadriel sighed.

"Elrond switched very quickly into asking me how I am coping," Celebrían continued. "That is his only care... for now."

"Very well," Galadriel said. "I shall face your children."

The children were scattered around the valley, but gathered readily for a family meeting called by their suddenly-no-longer-absent mother. All three kissed Celebrían on the cheeks merrily, but appeared a little put off by Galadriel. Galadriel supposed her manner had gone eldritch and strange. She did not know how else to do this.

She stood, her spine very straight, and stared at her daughter, her son-in-law and dearest friend, and her three grandchildren.

"During the forging of the rings of power," Galadriel said, hearing her voice as though someone else was speaking, "Sauron took a fair form to deceive the smiths of Eregion. I was not deceived for long. I knew him for who he was. Nonetheless, I laid with him, more than once, and willingly."

The grandchildren stared at her, uncomprehending, not yet anticipating where she was headed.

"I chose to become pregnant after we laid together," Galadriel said, distantly and calmly. "Celebrían was born of our union. I have never told anyone this truth before. Before her journey to Valinor, Celebrían did not know. She has never lied to you."

They continued to stare.

Elladan cracked first. "Ah—ha ha? That's a funny prank?"

"It is not a prank," she said.

Elrohir gave a laugh that turned into a choking cough. "Wait," he said. "Wait. Sauron is a real person? He has a cock?!"

"Watch your language," Galadriel snapped, mustering her best Lady of Lothlórien stare and directing its full force on him.

"But—" Elrohir started to protest, and broke off when his twin grabbed his arm. They exchanged a look for a moment, then as one, Elladan and Elrohir swung their heads to stare at their parents.

Celebrían nodded. Elrond looked sorrowful, and made no motion and spoke no words.

Arwen likewise said nothing. She looked like she was about to pass out.

"I am sorry for deceiving you," Galadriel said stiffly, and then turned and walked away.

As apologies went, this one was woefully inadequate. But it was all too much. She needed to flee and be alone and hide from her problems for a while.

It had always been too much, and now it was all coming back with a vengeance.

Chapter Text

Gandalf's consultation with Saruman did not go well.

Saruman had no reaction to the sketch of the shapeshifter walking Middle-earth. The man had apparently passed unnoticed by Saruman's spies. Saruman was instead adamant that Gandalf knew—and continued to know—where the ring was.

Gandalf, by that point, deemed it better not to tell Saruman that the man in the sketch probably had the ring. He traded barbs with his former friend about joining the Enemy, and found himself imprisoned on the top of Orthanc.

After escaping Isengard on the back of an eagle and finding a horse in Rohan, Gandalf rode north.

Shadowfax's hooves pounded swiftly up the old North-South road. In quick succession, Gandalf crossed the Isen and the Greyflood, and then he had a decision to make. He could go back to Aragorn at Bree, but without anything useful to report. And he deemed the Shire out of any immediate danger. More important was seeking counsel with Lord Elrond. And so Gandalf directed Shadowfax northeast, up the banks of the Mitheithel until the Bruinen split from it, and headed for Imladris.

Gandalf reached Rivendell on October first, after a mere ten days of riding from Edoras.

He placed Shadowfax in the care of the stables and sought out Lord Elrond immediately.

"I have much to tell you," Gandalf declared, thrusting open the doors of Elrond's library.

But what Gandalf found there was entirely unexpected. It was Elrond—along with his wife, Lady Celebrían.

Gandalf's intentions of launching immediately into his tale about the shapeshifter and Saruman melted away. He greeted Celebrían with a kiss on her cheek.

"I am surprised to see you," he said, mustering all the mildness with which he was capable of making such a statement.

She gave him a charming, dimpled grin, and invited him to sit with a glass of wine. He accepted readily, and then listened to Celebrían's story.

"I have not heard of a second coming to Middle-earth for an Elda after passing through the Halls of Mandos," Gandalf murmured when she was done. "Save one!"

"Now two," she agreed with a mysterious smile.

"But I do not understand what motivated you to do it," Gandalf sputtered. "No one in Aman wants to come back to Middle-earth."

He certainly had not, himself. But Manwë had talked him into it!

"I came to Middle-earth for the same reason you did, Olórin," Celebrían said, looking at Gandalf very gravely.

"To fight Sauron?" Gandalf asked, doubting that he really understood.

"To fight him, or talk sense into him," Celebrían said softly, and she rose and laid a hand on Gandalf's shoulder. "For in the Halls of Mandos I learned that he is my father."

For a long time, Gandalf did not say anything. He looked at her, and shook his head, and his heart protested.

"Sauron and my mother were in love for some period of the Second Age," Celebrían explained. "I now deem it important that everyone know this, as we look for a path forward."

"The Lady Galadriel!" Gandalf exclaimed.

"Yes," Celebrían said. "She is here, if you wish to speak to her. If she will speak to you. She is keeping her own counsel and refuses to speak of it. I think she is reeling from sharing the news with all of us, as much as everyone else is reeling from hearing it."

"Dear me. Dear me! My own news seems horribly dull in light of your revelation," Gandalf said. He withdrew the sketch from where he had kept it safe all this time. "Do you recognize this man?"

Celebrían smiled at the sketch. Gandalf understood, then, that she was fond of this being who she now knew had sired her.

"Oh, it is him," she said, and handed it to Elrond.

"The shape he wore to deceive the smiths of Eregion," said Elrond, sounding disgusted. He was not so fond. "Yes. I remember it all too well. Where did you get this, Gandalf?"

"Aragorn drew it from descriptions of a traveler recently passing through these lands," he explained. "How is it that Sauron can shapeshift again? We had all thought he lost the ability to take a fair form."

"Yes," Elrond said slowly. "We were quite certain of it. After the downfall of Númenor, we thought him finished by Ilúvatar himself. That was untrue, but—then we thought, at least he had been robbed of his ability to take a fair form. He certainly looked fearsome enough during the War of the Last Alliance."

They both looked at Celebrían, who lifted a shoulder. "The Halls of Mandos reveal only truths that pertain to oneself. I do not know the answers to these questions you pose. I suppose he escaped the fall of Númenor. Perhaps he understood what was coming, and stowed away in disguise on one of the ships of the Faithful. Or—simply left as a spirit before the very end."

"And then you suppose that he just... chose not to shapeshift in the years after that, to continue looking fell and dreadful of his own choice?" Gandalf asked slowly.

"It may be that his efforts at deception had not borne the fruit he desired, and it remained to him only to seek to appear as fearsome as possible," Celebrían said, her eyes distant and thoughtful.

"And then, of course, he lost the ring—and his body with it—for thousands of years," Elrond put in. "But we have been gravely mistaken! We knew he gathered shape in Mordor again, but we thought he remained confined to his terrible, black form."

"We have indeed been gravely mistaken," Gandalf agreed.

He told them the whole story of Aragorn's tracking of Gollum from the Morannon to the Shire, and Aragorn's suspicions that the shapeshifter was the Enemy himself.

"And he was correct!" Gandalf cried. "I tried to convince him otherwise. I owe him quite the apology when I see him again."

Then he explained how he, Gandalf, had been deceived by Saruman and held captive.

"Saruman seeks the One Ring," Gandalf concluded grimly. "He thought I could help him find it. I don't suppose it would have cheered him to hear that Sauron most likely has it. If it was the One Ring which Bilbo found and brought to the Shire."

"Mmm," Celebrían said slowly. "You should ask my mother about the One Ring."

"Does she know!" cried Gandalf, astonished.

"Yes," Celebrían said. "And it is her you must hear it from."

Galadriel, however, was nowhere to be found. She was mysteriously absent from meals and the halls of song in the evenings.

"Not so mysterious," said Elrond with a sigh when Gandalf made this observation. "No one here is much pleased with her. I don’t know if I would want to face us either."

Compounding the mystery, Celebrían disappeared without a word shortly after Gandalf's arrival. Even Elrond was not quite sure where she had gone.

"I do not know what to do next," Gandalf confessed to Elrond, as they stood on his balcony and looked over his valley. "Gondor is to be besieged any day now. Saruman threatens Rohan. We have lost the One Ring. Your wife believes that she can talk sense into Sauron."

"I know," Elrond said heavily. "I do not know what to do either."

Chapter Text

It was October the tenth, and there had been no sign of Gandalf since April. Not that Gandalf wasn't frequently in the habit of disappearing for great lengths of time, but when they'd parted, Aragorn had been under the impression that Gandalf meant to hurry back with news of... well, anything.

He had not. Aragorn walked his usual patrols, consulted with his companions, and saw nothing at all unusual. The news from the south remained the same: Mordor lay under shadow, but nothing had spilled over its walls.

Yet.

Aragorn was walking the streets of Bree, his heart heavy and his mind a thousand miles away, when his world was upended.

Coming toward him on the street was the man from the sketch. Brown hair, shoulder length; a stubble of a beard; exactly the height Aragorn had expected, but slightly skinnier, as though he had lost a great deal of weight in a short amount of time. He was fair and strong-looking, Aragorn had to agree, but he did not appear cheerful or friendly right now. He was dressed in the clothing of the men of Bree with an apron that had seen much use, and he looked worn and weary.

Aragorn stopped, and stared, and marveled.

Was it because of the ring? Had the ring worked such ill on him in these short months?

As Aragorn watched, the man turned and disappeared inside a smithy. The door shut behind him with a solid click.

Aragorn stared at the door in bewilderment for far too long, before going to make inquiries.

Butterbur was more than happy to tell Aragorn all about the stranger.

"He came into town maybe a week ago. Wanting work, like everyone else. Somehow, he found it where no one else did. They say he's a very talented smith."

Aragorn's heart misgave him again at these words. A talented smith. Oh, no.

"Name's Halbrand," Butterbur continued. "He came in here to borrow a book. You know how few others have them in this town. He traded a nice cooking knife for the loan of it."

"What book?" Aragorn asked guardedly.

"A history of the old northern kingdoms," Butterbur said, with a laugh as though he could not imagine what anyone would want a book on that topic for.

Aragorn did not laugh. He took a room at the inn, with no doubt in his mind that he must stay in Bree while the stranger was here.

It was a madness that took him. Perhaps had Gandalf been here, he could have stopped it.

But Gandalf was not here; he had left Aragorn to his own counsel. Aragorn's heart was heavy, and he knew in his soul that this was not simply an ordinary mortal man who had happened to encounter Gollum at the Black Gates of Mordor, travel the length of Middle-earth with such a companion, and wind up at Bag End where a magic ring just happened to live.

And so Aragorn was outside the smithy the next day, leaning against the wall, wrapped in his traveling cloak and waiting for the stranger.

The stranger came down the road shortly after Aragorn took up his post. He gave Aragorn a passing glance but no further notice. He simply disregarded the unknown man standing by the door as though he were not even there, and went to push the door open.

With one sudden movement, Aragorn lifted his cloak away from the hilt of his sword. His hand was nowhere near the hilt; it wasn't a threat to draw the weapon. It was only a motion to reveal the sword to this stranger's eyes.

The stranger froze in his tracks. His eyes were drawn to the sword handle, became glued to it. At the same time, he made a funny movement with his right hand, clenching it like it hurt and drawing it protectively up against his chest. Aragorn noticed that the index finger of the glove did not move when the rest of the fingers did. It was… it certainly was as if there was not actually a finger inside that part of the glove.

The stranger's eyes lifted to Aragorn's face, and they stared at each other. He had brown eyes, and Aragorn could not read what was in them.

Aragorn's heart was racing. He strongly feared that his death was at hand. He was moved to pray in his deepest heart. But he said nothing out loud. And he did not touch the broken sword.

The stranger's eyes slid away from Aragorn. He shook out his hand like he was irritated with himself that he'd ever moved it strangely, and opened the door. He went into the smithy. He shut the door firmly behind him. Aragorn heard the lock turn.

Aragorn let out his breath in a whoosh, but he did not move from where he stood. He remained there all day, watching the goings and comings of the town, his mind completely blank.

It was very late into the night before he finally left his post. He needed food, and rest. He needed to think. He could not think. He honestly could not sort it out in his head.

The Enemy—the Enemy—was in Bree. He could assume a fair shape, despite Gandalf's beliefs on the topic. He was... working. As a smith.

Ironic. Aragorn could only hope he was not forging magic rings here.

He liked books? Books about the history of a kingdom he must have missed, while cowering as a spirit in the dark reaches of the world after his defeat.

He must be in possession of the One—all the evidence pointed to it. He had used Gollum to find it, and then slayed Gollum, while leaving the hobbits be—safe and secure and happy. Yet he was not wielding the One.

Or was he?

And then... then he had looked into the face of Isildur's heir, and undoubtedly understood exactly who he was, and... turned his back on it all and went into the smithy.

Why was he not in Mordor, raising an army and breeding orcs and other foul things, preparing to attack Gondor?

Aragorn tried to convince himself again, that he could be wrong about who this shapeshifter was.

Yet he was not wrong. He remembered the look and feel of the man when Aragorn revealed his sword. It was a look from one who had known Narsil. He had lost a finger on his right hand to Narsil, three thousand years ago. And it was still missing despite his shapeshifting abilities.

Then there was all the evidence Aragorn had collected while tracking him—passing far away from Lórien and under the eaves of Dol Guldur; spending all that time in the Gladden Fields; walking invisible under the normally keen eyes of Rivendell watch; handily defeating a werewolf on the road. The complete and thorough disappearance from that glade in the Shire.

Aragorn did not get much sleep that night. Wherever Gandalf was, he needed to be here. The next day, Aragorn sent out the Rangers on a desperate errand to find him. If they could not find him, they must go to Elrond at Rivendell and beg for his help or for one of his sons, or another Elven lord.

Someone had to do something.

The next evening, the man—ah, no, Aragorn would have to stop calling him that in his head—departed from Bree. He slipped out just before the gates closed for the night, booted and cloaked but carrying nothing at all except a long sword on his hip.

The sword looked new. Aragorn eyed it with misgiving. He guessed Sauron had made it for himself, just now in Bree's smithy.

Although why he wanted it when he surely had dozens, if not hundreds, of swords and maces and knives and other foul weapons waiting for him in Mordor, Aragorn could not imagine.

After a suitable amount of time had elapsed, Aragorn jumped over the walls of Bree and followed Sauron down the road to the east. It felt like the most surreal mission of Aragorn's life.

Sauron walked without stopping. Aragorn understood exactly now why Sauron had traveled roughly two days for every one day Aragorn progressed, back when Aragorn only thought himself tracking Gollum. He did not need food, he did not need water, he did not need sleep; it appeared he did not need any rest at all.

Aragorn, meanwhile, needed all these things. He ate sparingly from food he had packed, and slept only a couple hours each night when he feared he might drop unconscious if he did not.

Sauron was not exactly difficult to track. He stuck to the road. He did not make a single detour. His course was so unerring that Aragorn grew complacent, and nearly overlooked the traces of him stepping off the road to the north.

Aragorn looked at the land ahead, and beheld the ancient ruins of the watchtower of Amon Sûl. Someone was on top of it.

With dread in his heart and soul, Aragorn moved silently to follow. Wrapped in his cloak, he thought that even Sauron might not detect him, unless he were paying very careful attention—or using powers of sorcery that Aragorn did not begin to understand.

Aragorn eventually crept into place behind the stones of the old watchtower, and settled down to his vigil.

Nothing happened all day. Sauron was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the flat area on top of the hill. His eyes were closed. He might have been meditating.

Did Dark Lords who were nothing more than evil spirits in physical form actually know how to meditate?

Night fell, and the moon rose, bright and sharp tonight. Sauron did not stir, and neither did Aragorn. He could be as patient here as long as required. Whatever Sauron was up to, Aragorn could not simply leave him be. In the middle of Aragorn's own lands and people. Lands and people he would give his life to protect, if he thought it a useful thing to give.

After nightfall, a great evil seemed to creep over the land's peace. Aragorn shivered. It occurred to him that it was strange that he had detected nothing from Sauron before. But then, with a flash, Aragorn understood that it was not Sauron's evil he was sensing.

A great black figure, hooded and cloaked, with metal gloves for hands and a face in deepest shadow, was gliding up the slope. It was dreadful and frightening, everything that was horrible and corrupted. Aragorn stiffened, and almost made to flee—but it was not coming for him.

Sauron had risen fluidly to his feet and drawn his shiny new sword. He swung it a few times, then laughed softly.

"You have come all alone, knowing how this will end," Sauron said to the approaching black figure, in the Black Speech of Mordor. "You have no hope against me."

The black-robed figure, who Aragorn strongly suspected to be one of the Nine, drew his own sword and leapt forward. With a loud clang, the swords scraped against one another. They fought, circling and swinging and parrying. The Nazgûl's energy seemed dauntless, and Sauron appeared tired in comparison, diminished in this relatively ordinary human form compared to the once-great lord of men in front of him.

But in the end, it was Sauron who was victorious. An arrow—an Elven arrow—came speeding out of the darkness and buried itself in the Nazgûl. The Nazgul cried, and missed a step in his duel.

Sauron swept forward at the opportunity, bringing his sword crashing down on top of the Nazgûl's metal gauntleted hand. The Nazgûl screamed, and smashed his sword against Sauron's; both went clattering to the ground. At the same time, Sauron grabbed the gauntlet and clawed something off of the Nazgûl's finger. He then slid the item—a ring, Aragorn presumed—onto the middle finger of his own hand.

The Nazgûl gave another great cry, a piercing shriek to the skies that chilled Aragorn deep in his bones. The Nazgûl started to fade before his eyes, screaming and crying and wailing.

"Be at peace," Sauron murmured. Whatever had animated the Nazgûl disappeared. The cloak and armor fell lifeless and shapeless to the ground.

Sauron stepped over it, and picked up the arrow that had pierced the Nazgûl. It dissolved in his hand as he held it.

"Excellent shot," he said in the common tongue, raising his voice and turning to the east side of the watchtower. "It injured him."

An Elven lady stepped out from the shadows. She was so lovely that Aragorn's heart hurt to look at her. She had long dark hair, and her movements were as graceful as any elf he'd ever seen. She resembled Arwen; she could have been an immediate relation. She appeared ageless, but he deemed her older than Arwen.

"Thank you," she said prettily, and her voice was music.

"What are you doing here?" Sauron asked her.

"I was tracking the—that thing," she answered. "It came from the east, and passed near Rivendell. I was concerned."

"And you came after it alone?" He seemed alarmed and unhappy about this. "Did you tell no one where you were going?"

"I do not fear them."

"You ought to," he admonished. "And your gamble has resulted in being left alone with me!"

"I do not think it so much of a gamble."

"Your trust is unbelievable," Sauron said with a groan. "And I mean that literally, I cannot believe it. What have I done to deserve such from you?"

She tilted her head, and gave him a mysterious smile. "I do not think I would fare so poorly if we were to fight. You have a bad record concerning half-Maia, do you not?"

And Aragorn understood, with a chill that pierced his spirit, that this elf knew perfectly well who she was talking to.

Sauron let out a sharp and short burst of laughter. "You seem to be lacking a Valinorian wolf, an essential ingredient for such fights."

"Never mind all that; we shall not fight. Tell me what it was you were fighting tonight."

"You know what it was," he answered, his voice dropping low. "Nazgûl."

"So I thought at first," she agreed. "Yet then I saw it attack you. Why would a Ringwraith attack you?"

"They have awoken from my control since I unmade the One," he said solemnly, and Aragorn silently suffered another shock. Unmade? The One Ring? "They know, now, that I tricked them and held their wills in servitude to mine for thousands of years. You would be angry at me too, if you were them."

"Undoubtedly," the elf said.

Sauron gave a great sigh, and displayed his hand to her. She appeared to find the sight sobering.

"So that is his ring."

"One of the Nine," Sauron agreed.

"Why did you put it on?"

"The ring binds his life. Wielding it myself, I took it from him."

"What will you do with it now?"

"Destroy it, of course," he said, his tone light. "Come, we'll build a fire."

She turned slightly away from him to peer into the night. There was no movement to be seen anywhere. "Are there more of them?"

"There are eight more," Sauron said with a little smirk, like he knew that wasn't what she meant and thought it funny anyway.

"I mean here," she said, and her tone was exasperated but fond.

"I do not think so," Sauron said, serious again. "I felt this one call out to challenge me as soon as he came over the High Pass, probably the same time you detected him. I don't feel any of the others. I think he was... seeking his end. He would have cheerfully ended me if he could, of course, but... he deliberately threw himself on a higher power to provoke his own destruction."

The elf nodded, but did not reply. She helped Sauron walk around and collect wood. Neither of them came anywhere close to Aragorn's hiding place.

Sauron lifted a stone off of the floor of the old watchtower, revealing a cavity underneath it. He piled wood into the hole in the ground, and set it aflame. He adjusted the stone back over the top, leaving a few gaps for airflow.

"We'll let it burn slow and hot as in an oven," Sauron explained, "and then I will give it an extra push. We need more than an ordinary fire to destroy one of the Nine, but luckily we do not need Mount Doom itself."

The elf laughed at that, understanding some joke in there that Aragorn did not.

They watched the fire glow under the stone, until Sauron deemed it sufficient at some point that Aragorn felt was rather arbitrary. He pushed up his sleeve, stripped off his gloves, and put a hand directly into the flames. He didn't wince, but adopted a look of great concentration.

Nothing happened, to Aragorn's eyes. The fire continued to burn. Sauron withdrew his hand, and he and the elf watched very solemnly.

"Well, that's done," Sauron said with a sigh.

He did not place the stone back over the fire pit, and the flames grew, dancing high and casting shadows on the old stones.

"What were you doing before the Nazgûl caught up to you tonight?" the elf asked.

"I was in Bree," he answered right away, and truthfully to Aragorn's knowledge. "Forging this sword."

She settled onto the ground by the fire, and tilted her face up to the night air. "What are you doing wandering these lands that prompted you to want a weapon?"

"Soul-searching," he said, displaying a reluctant smirk.

She laughed. "Did you find it?"

He reached over and elbowed her arm, playfully and not a hard shove. "Ha, ha," he intoned.

"I'm serious," she said. "We assumed you'd returned to Mordor. Will you not tell me what your plans are?"

"Oh, Celebrían," Sauron started to say, with a great sigh.

Aragorn moved despite himself, losing his poise. He had held very still for the entire unlikely battle between Sauron and one of his most devoted servants, for the revelation that one of the High Elves had some secret understanding with the Enemy, and for this absurd conversation about rings and soul-searching—but he could not help his reaction at that name. He moved involuntarily, and his foot scraped across the ground.

Whatever Sauron had been about to say was cut off abruptly. He crouched, picked up his sword again, and crept over towards Aragorn's direction.

Aragorn froze, but it was too late.

When he was about ten feet away, Sauron relaxed. He threw back a laugh over his shoulder at Celebrían.

"It's just a Ranger," he said to the elf. "The one with the broken sword. He is stalking me, I suppose."

"The broken sword?" Celebrían asked, a new edge to her voice. "Truly? Narsil?"

"It is definitely that," Sauron said, his smile bitter. "Imagine carrying a broken heirloom around for three thousand useless years."

Contemptuously, Sauron sheathed his sword, turned his back on Aragorn, and returned to the fire.

But Celebrían had risen to her feet, and there was a fierce light in her eyes. She approached Aragorn, and when she saw him, she held out both of her hands.

"You must be Aragorn," she said, her expression warm and lively. "Foster son of my husband, and beloved of my daughter's heart. It's so nice to meet you."

Aragorn could not resist such a plea; he stepped out from his hiding place and placed his hands in hers. She squeezed his hands as though every bit as delighted to meet him as she claimed.

"The Lady Celebrían has departed these lands," he said carefully.

"I did," she agreed easily. "I walked the Halls of Mandos for a time, and was reincarnated. I returned to Middle-earth only recently. I had unfinished business here."

"Interesting," Aragorn said neutrally. "Do you—perhaps you might tell me what your daughter's favorite song is."

Celebrían's face broke into another lovely smile, and she squeezed his hands again. She hummed a few bars from what was indeed Arwen's favorite song—had been since her childhood—and Aragorn had no choice but to smile back at her.

Then he looked at Sauron, and grew grave again.

"Lady," he said. "Why are you in league with Sauron?"

"Oh, my," she said, taken aback, but she did not lose her smile. "I see how you arrived at that conclusion." She stepped a little closer to the fire, without letting go of his hands, with the result that he was drawn to Sauron's side.

Almost unwillingly, Aragorn's eyes went to Sauron's ungloved hand. It was as Aragorn had thought: the first finger on his right hand was just a stub.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Isildur's heir," Celebrían said, her tone warm but her words slightly formal. "Please meet my father, who prefers to be called Halbrand when he is in this form."

Aragorn stared. He doubted, did a double take, and stared some more.

Sauron was not laughing. Celebrían was not laughing. It did not appear to be a joke.

"Your father is Lord Celeborn," Aragorn protested, his voice a bit weak even to his own ears.

"Celeborn raised me lovingly and patiently, and taught me well and guided me through the young ages of my life, and he will always be beloved to me. But, genealogically speaking, he is not my sire. I am half-Maia."

Aragorn continued to stare.

"Oh, do sit down," Sauron said, sounding irritable. "You'll sorely try my patience if you stand there all night."

Aragorn sat, though he was not quite sure if he sat by his own will or another's. Celebrían finally released his hands, but she too settled down by the fire, looking perfectly comfortable.

"My mother had a bit of an adventurous life in the Second Age," Celebrían explained. "These two have been in love, though perhaps sometimes mingled with hate, for a very long time. I do not apologize for or condemn her choices. They are what they are. And now I am here, having returned from Aman, to make my own choices with what is given to me."

Aragorn only continued to stare. He wasn't processing anything, until—"Sauron is Arwen's grandfather?"

Sauron's mouth twitched. "And my granddaughter is apparently betrothed to Isildur's heir. What a world."

"Does she know?" Aragorn asked Celebrían.

"As of now, yes," Celebrían said. "No one, save my mother, knew before that."

"How is she?" Aragorn asked urgently.

"She keeps her cards close to her chest," Celebrían said gently. "You must know how it is with my daughter. Perhaps she will confide her feelings in you where she will not with me."

"You think I should visit her?" Aragorn asked. "But—" he broke off with a look at the man-who-was-not-a-man sitting on the other side of the fire.

"But you find it very important to keep stalking me," Sauron agreed wryly.

Aragorn scowled. "You stole into these lands in disguise and took the ring and slayed Gollum," he accused. "Of course I want to keep an eye on you."

Sauron seemed to find this funny. "Oh, you call him Gollum too? How amusing."

"There is nothing amusing about it," Aragorn said bitterly. "He was—maybe he was not exactly innocent, but he was childlike and defenseless and you tortured him for years and then slaughtered him for the most base of motives."

Sauron raised an eyebrow. "How do you know all that?"

Aragorn swallowed. "I tracked you and him from the Morannon to the Shire," he admitted. "I was not far behind you the entire journey."

"Fascinating," Sauron said. "I had thought I was being too stealthy to track. Well, it does not matter. With the ring gone, I care not who else knew about this journey."

"But you cannot mean that!" Aragorn exclaimed. "It is not possible that you have destroyed the ring."

"Oh, I did," he said. A veil fell over his eyes. "I took its powers back into me. It was melted in the fires of Orodruin, and I am as I was before its making."

Aragorn drew in a breath sharply at that. That was decidedly not what he expected to hear, and he struggled to understand what it meant.

"If you took its powers into you, why did you lose control of the Nine?"

Sauron scowled. "Obviously, I made it in the first place for a reason," he said darkly. "It greatly enhanced my power over the world and the things in it. Many things, but especially the other rings. Without it, I do not rule them. As soon as I unmade the One, the Nine entered Barad-dûr and took their rings back. They answer only to themselves now."

"And what of the Three?" Aragorn asked. "Is their power broken?"

"I do not know. You will have to ask your elf-lord friends. The Three have been hidden from me for a long time."

"And you—what does this have to do with soul-searching?" Aragorn asked scathingly.

Sauron shifted uncomfortably, and scratched at his beard. "I don't know," he repeated. "The search has yet to uncover any answers. I feel—I feel as though I am recovering from a great sickness. My physical destruction, the separation from the ring for so long, its unmaking—"

He stopped.

Celebrían reached out and took his hand.

They all sat in silence for a while.

"All right," Aragorn said finally. "All right. As long as you're here, pretending to be human and relatable, tell me this. Do you plan to attack and enslave Middle-earth, starting with the Kingdom of Gondor?"

Sauron gave himself a little shake, looking very discomfited. He took his hand back from Celebrían and stared into the fire. "No," he said, his voice gloomy. "I do not."

Aragorn exchanged a glance with Celebrían, and found to his relief that she looked as skeptical as he felt.

"So you intend to wander the northern lands and... search your soul, until the rest of the Nine come for you?"

"Oh, no," he said, looking up at Aragorn. "They will not all come to me. I shall have to seek out the Witch-king if I wish to deal with him."

"Why is that?"

Sauron shrugged slightly. "He is holed up in Minas Morgul. Trying to decide if he wants to attack Mordor or Gondor first."

Aragorn suddenly sat up very straight. "Wait. So there is a threat to Gondor looming on its borders."

"Of course there is," Sauron said with a humorless laugh. "There has been ever since I moved back to Mordor and gathered the Nine to me. You knew this."

"But you—" Aragorn started, intensely frustrated, then stopped and took a deep breath. What were his priorities here? It was not getting into a verbal sparring match with the Dark Lord. "Yes. Of course Gondor cannot have missed that the Nazgûl are in Minas Morgul. But you just said the Witch-king might be making up his mind to attack now. This is the kind of threat Gondor should know about."

"They already know it," Sauron said dismissively.

"But we—but I should go," Aragorn said. "Does he have an army? How strong is he after all these years?"

Sauron shrugged again. "I do not know."

Aragorn closed his eyes briefly and took another deep breath. "Are you being deliberately unhelpful, or do you not understand how you sound?"

Sauron lowered his eyes to the fire. It was a while before he answered.

"It would... behoove us to be patient with one another," he said eventually. "I understand you are rightly skeptical of my motivations and my presence and my story. I ask for your understanding that this is uncertain ground for me as well. My mind and heart feel as though they are encased in deep fog."

"But you—surely you know helpful information about the Witch-king," Aragorn pressed, unable to find the asked-for patience.

"I know him well, and I know his mind," Sauron said, very slowly. "He hates and fears me above all else. He is enraged by my deception and his millennia of slavery. But he envies Gondor and believes it should be his, and he might decide it presents an easier target. I truly do not know how many of what sort of an army he has in his tower."

"You couldn't have attacked and subdued him before destroying the ring?" Aragorn said, impatient and goaded.

Sauron lifted his eyes to Aragorn; something dark and terrible and ageless flashed in them. If there had been any lingering doubt in Aragorn that he was talking to the ancient and powerful Enemy of Middle-earth, it was utterly dispelled.

"You would have me return to dominating and enslaving wills so soon after I clawed my way free of it?" Sauron demanded.

Aragorn felt shame. He lowered his head. "I take your point," he said softly.

"If I'd thought about this problem even for a second while I held the ring, I would have put it on, and it would all be over," Sauron said. He was breathing hard. "Let us never speak of this again."

"Gladly," Aragorn said, and meant it.

"Look," Sauron said, picking at a scab on his hand. "If you want to march into Gondor and claim the kingship and fortify it against the Witch-king, that's your affair. I wish you luck. You'll need it."

"Yes," Aragorn said acidly. "I certainly would not expect you to help."

"That isn't even what I mean," Sauron said moodily, digging harder at the scab. "You have no idea what is going on in Gondor these days. Lord Denethor is Steward, and he would cast you out of the city without hesitation if you tried to claim you were the long-lost king."

Aragorn hesitated. "You seem very well-informed about the mind of the Ruling Steward of Gondor."

"I am," Sauron answered simply. His eyes flickered up to Aragorn's, then back down to his hands. "Denethor has a palantír," he continued, sounding somewhat reluctant to explain. "And he has depended upon it too much in recent times."

Aragorn was puzzled, and sought to understand. "Lord Denethor is a noble man, of the blood of Westernesse. I am neither surprised, nor alarmed, that he has one of the Seven Seeing Stones. He would have the right to it."

Sauron laughed, another grim humorless laugh. "Not if his enemy, with a will greater than his, also possesses one of them."

"Oh," Aragorn said, drawing a sharp breath. He understood instantly. "You have the Ithil-stone. You have used it to cloud his sight and control his visions. And set him firmly against the day of my coming."

"He did that last bit all on his own," Sauron said, back to picking at his scab. "But yes, I have been toying with him for quite some time now. I cannot send falsehoods through a palantír, but I can control which truths Denethor sees. It's been... effective."

"In preparation for your invasion of Gondor," Aragorn said.

Sauron nodded without looking up.

"I don't understand," Aragorn said plaintively. "Why do you sit here now and tell me you changed your mind? What happened?"

"You certainly do not understand," Sauron agreed darkly. "And you never shall, unless you come to accept that I never wished for the destruction of Middle-earth, and that I... lost my way, shall we say. Moving against Gondor seemed like self-defense, at the time, when I was separated from the ring."

Sauron finally tore off the scab, and his hand started bleeding. He grimaced, then lifted his hand to his mouth and sucked on it.

"What prompted you to seek your way again?" Aragorn asked, finally attempting to muster the requested patience.

"Selfishness," Sauron admitted freely, taking his hand from his mouth. He pressed the end of his sleeve into the cut to stanch the bleeding. "I held the ring in my hand, and looked on it, and knew I could not bear to lose it again. As long as it existed, I could lose it. And so it simply could not exist anymore."

Sauron sighed. "I know I have done great evil and forsaken any goodwill I might once have merited. You do not have to remind me. I do not seek anyone's forgiveness. But no, as I sit here, I do not wish to invade Gondor and kill men."

Aragorn looked over at Celebrían again. She was very grave and thoughtful. She held Aragorn's gaze for a while, then nodded.

He understood her meaning. They would proceed as though they believed Sauron to be wanting to avoid a war.

"Very well," Aragorn said to Sauron. "I would like to request something of you. Will you give me the Ithil-stone?"

"Certainly," Sauron said immediately and without any reluctance, to Aragorn's surprise. "It is yours if you want it. I should warn you, before you try to use it, that Saruman also has a palantír."

"Saruman the Wise?" Aragorn asked. "I do not find that any more alarming than I did Denethor's possession." But even as he spoke, a heaviness fell on him, and he anticipated what Sauron would say next.

"You ought to," Sauron said lightly. "For he is also under my sway by means of the stone. Much more directly! Denethor I have only frightened and driven to the edge of madness. His will remains his own. Saruman has vowed to serve me."

"But this is dreadful news," Aragorn said, a pit of despair where his stomach used to be. "Gandalf went to seek his counsel months ago! And where is Gandalf now?" he demanded.

"Gandalf the Grey, your friend the Istar?" Sauron asked. "I assure you I do not know. Nor do I care. His existence ceased to matter as soon as I had the ring."

"This is dreadful," Aragorn repeated, and rubbed his face. He realized he was exhausted. "I must sleep," he said. "I am the limit of my endurance. It is very late and I have slept only a few hours for weeks now."

"I would also like to sleep," Celebrían chimed in. "We can make a plan to fetch the palantír in the light of morning."

"Where is your palantír?" Aragorn asked Sauron, dreading the answer.

"Barad-dûr, of course."

Aragorn's heart sunk very low. Aragorn and Celebrían exchanged another look. This time, Aragorn was not sure what Celebrían was thinking. She appeared grave and pensive, and her eyes seemed to hold centuries of sorrow.

Aragorn wrapped himself in his cloak and went to lie down against one of the stones lining the edge of the hill.

Celebrían stayed by the fire. She had in her hands a small lyre and started to sing, a song that sounded as though it were her own invention. She sang of war, and peace, and beauty, and destruction. It was powerful; she might have been weaving a spell with her song. If so, for Aragorn it was a lullaby. He fell asleep as she lamented the lost memories of a time without evil.

He slept very soundly. His body would not allow him to fret over Sauron's presence and plans when he desperately needed the sleep.

When he woke, dawn was breaking in the east. Celebrían was already up, and she handed him a piece of waybread and her canteen.

He accepted at once. Elven fare was much more nourishing than the supplies he'd brought from Bree. He felt refreshed and his heart felt lighter after partaking.

They got to their feet. Sauron was standing on the other side of Weathertop, looking east. He seemed softer, somehow, in the light of morning than he had by firelight in the dark of the night. He looked wistful and lonely and vulnerable. With a sudden enlightenment, Aragorn understood how he had fooled so many throughout history into trusting him.

And, over the course of their heart-to-heart last night, Aragorn had slowly found himself trusting Sauron too. To an extent, anyway.

Ugh. He would have to proceed very carefully.

Aragorn placed a hand on the pommel of his broken sword, and approached Sauron.

"Good morning," Sauron greeted him pleasantly.

"Good morning," Aragorn answered after a moment of hesitation. Beside him, Celebrían echoed the words more cheerfully.

"What is the plan?" Sauron asked.

Aragorn cleared his throat. "I suppose we're traveling to Mordor," he said without enthusiasm.

"Delightful," Sauron said. "Do you wish to lead the way? Which road do you prefer?"

Aragorn took a deep breath. It was difficult to believe he was contemplating this. And why? For a magic rock?

For Gondor, and all the races of men, he tried to remind himself. What was the alternative? Leave Sauron to pace the Northern Kingdoms while Aragorn watched uselessly, and the Witch-king attacked in the south?

"I suppose, in light of your news about Saruman, we should avoid the Gap of Rohan."

"Yes," Sauron said immediately. "Saruman is not likely to obey me if he is no longer afraid of me, and I am not very fearsome right now. We should definitely avoid him."

"That leaves the High Pass as the best option," Aragorn said. "The Redhorn Gate and the Gladden Pass can be difficult this time of year."

"There is Moria," Sauron suggested.

A shudder ran through Aragorn. "No one has heard from the dwarves of Moria in a very long time."

"That is because dwarves do not dwell there," Sauron said. "They awoke a Balrog, who remains awake to this day, and prowls the stone halls. But the passage would be perfectly safe if I am with you."

Aragorn's eyes went very wide. "A Balrog of Morgoth," he repeated in a voice that came out more fearful than he liked. "You must be mad."

"I am also a Maia of Morgoth," Sauron reminded Aragorn, sounding a bit testy. "I claim kinship with the Balrog, and unlike Saruman, he is a friend no matter how I go adorned or whether I wish to fight wars."

"We are not going through Moria," Aragorn said, as firmly as he could. The idea was utter madness.

"As you wish," Sauron said, waving his hand through the air dismissively. "The High Pass it is. Oh, and you can see your Elven sweetheart on the way. Very convenient."

Aragorn felt his lips thinning with impatience and dislike of being teased by this particular being, but took a deep breath and attempted to let it go. "It will also ease my mind to consult with Lord Elrond about our errand."

Sauron laughed. "Yes. I cannot wait to hear what he thinks about you trotting off to Mordor with me to fetch a palantír!"

"He will trust Aragorn's judgment," Celebrían said mildly.

Sauron cast her an oblique look. "Elrond and I have hated each other for millennia."

"He is my husband and I love him," Celebrían said serenely.

"Elves," Sauron muttered, like it was an imprecation. "So be it. I will be civil to him if he can be civil to me."

"I believe in you," she said, very sweetly and perhaps even sincerely.

Chapter Text

At the base of Weathertop, Sauron found the Nazgûl's horse. The Nazgûl had left her burdened with saddle and bridle. She was not tethered to anything, but nor was she likely to leave the place he had asked her to stay.

Sauron approached her, holding out a hand for her to sniff. "Hello, dear one, you beautiful, magnificent, lovely creature," he crooned in the Black Speech.

She recognized him and his words, and came to him and snorted into his hand. She was disappointed he did not have food.

"I do not know what to do with her," Sauron said to Aragorn and Celebrían in the common tongue. He started unbuckling the saddle. "It is not much use having one horse for three travelers with little baggage, and she will only be a burden to us when we leave the roads. Do you suppose it's safe for her to be wild in these lands?"

"Not really," Aragorn said. "There are trolls, and other evil things that endured the fall of Angmar and would be hungry for horseflesh."

"Send her to Bree?" Sauron asked, removing the saddle and starting to unbuckle the bridle.

"To be taken up by the first greedy eyes that spot her?" Aragorn asked.

"She can come to Rivendell," Celebrían said, a soft pity in her eyes.

"Your husband will not like that," Sauron said. "She was born and bred in Mordor, and responds only to the Black Speech."

"I gathered as much," Celebrían said. "Still, is she not just a horse?"

"She is just a horse," Sauron agreed, removing the bridle. She had stood very still for him, and now stretched and shifted her feet a little, glad to be free of her burdens. He ran a hand down her back and her flanks and her legs, making sure she was not injured. He left the tack piled on the ground behind a tree. He was certain the elves would not want anything to do with it. "Very well. We will bring her with us to your home."

Celebrían and Aragorn were sturdier, swifter, and more interesting travel companions than Gollum. They kept up with Sauron's walking pace without whining, lagging, or begging for rest.

Aragorn seemed disinclined to speak, but Celebrían took up a cheerful conversation that picked up where she and Sauron had left off in Rivendell. Sauron had never imagined he would find details about an elf's childhood to be interesting, but, well. Here he was.

They walked all day and well into the night. Eventually, Aragorn admitted that he needed sleep, and Celebrían agreed that she would like to stop as well.

They stopped at a little grassy bowl on the side of the road, where the horse happily fell to grazing. Sauron watched them settle in, then rested a hand on Celebrían's bow.

"May I borrow this?" he asked.

"Certainly," she said, and promptly fell asleep.

Aragorn eyed him with more pronounced distrust, but he too dropped asleep almost as soon as he laid down.

Sauron took the bow and one arrow, and spent the next few hours stalking the woods to the south of the road. It was not plentiful country; the bushes and trees seemed to be stunted and wilted, and he stumbled onto large barren patches in between the thickets. The animal life was not plentiful either, but he finally spotted and took down a rabbit with his arrow.

He hefted it back to the grassy bowl of their campsite, repaired the arrow, skinned and cleaned the animal, started a fire, and was cooking when his companions stirred.

"That smells delicious," Celebrían said. "Are you roasting meat?"

"Rabbit," he answered, in case they had misgivings about what sort of meat he might be likely to find them.

Both of them were quite hungry; they ate the rabbit with their fingers and picked it clean. Aragorn gave a heavy sigh, then dipped his head at Sauron.

"Thank you," he said stiffly.

"Ah," Sauron said, rising and adjusting the sword on his hip. "Let's acknowledge that you don't have a lot to thank me for, the meal notwithstanding, and skip the pleasantries."

Aragorn gave Sauron another nod, even more stiffly. And they said nothing else to each other all day.

Their journey continued in the same manner each day. Aragorn had not really thawed by the time they reached Rivendell at the end of October, but he was not actively hostile either.

Sauron had been trying to puzzle out why he wanted the palantír so far as to consent to journey to Mordor with Sauron to obtain it. Sauron did not think it likely that Aragorn, son of Arathorn, wished to use the palantír for the same purpose Sauron had: to break another man's will.

He hadn't reached any conclusions by the time they arrived at the valley. Sauron stepped off the path just before the hidden entrance that would take his companions up to Elrond's house.

"I will wait for you here," he told them.

Celebrían stepped forward, kissed his cheek, and wished him luck on his journey.

"Follow them," Sauron said to the Nazgûl's horse in the Black Speech. "Be good for them and they will be good to you."

With a soft nicker, the horse trotted after Celebrían and Aragorn as they disappeared uphill.

He waited and stared blankly into the distance.

There was nothing else to do. He wished for the oblivion of sleep. His spirit was wearied beyond anything, but his body was not tired enough. He had slept after fighting the Nazgûl on Weathertop, while Aragorn and Celebrían also slept. It was not possible to sleep again so soon.

He waited, blank and tired, for roughly a day. At sunset, he detected movement on the hidden path, and looked up. He had not expected them back so soon.

Celebrían was descending towards him, moving as gracefully and ethereally as only an elf could. She was dressed much more finely than she had been for the road. Her robes of long silver were adorned with strings of tiny jewels, and a long train swept out behind her. She had more jewels sparkling in her dark hair.

"Father," she said, sounding formal again. "As Lady of Rivendell, I would like to invite you to enter my home."

He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

She inclined her head to the side.

"It is my realm and my invitation," Celebrían said carefully. "Though I make it on behalf of my mother."

"Oh," Sauron said softly, and he stepped forward. "She is still here, then."

Celebrían nodded.

He licked his lips. "Do you pledge my safety while I'm in your realm?"

"Yes, Father," she said, her eyes a little sad. "If your actions in it are peaceful."

Sauron hadn't meant to make her sad, but she was married to his worst enemy, or one of them anyway.

When he didn't say anything else, she turned and walked up the path. He followed.

Rivendell was very fine. The valley it was tucked into rose steeply from the stream to the peaks behind it. The elven structures had found purchase over waterfalls and clinging to the hillsides. They spanned the valley and rose in slender arches. It was beautiful, and moved Sauron despite his millennia of resentment and frustration over this specific place.

Celebrían swept up the path, avoiding what looked like the main house on the hill, and showed him to a smaller hall of rooms on the edge of a small cliff.

"I will let her know you are here," Celebrían said, opening the door to one of the rooms. "Would you like anything to eat?"

He shook his head. He was not hungry; moreover, he did not want to eat any of Elrond's food.

"Elrond has deferred giving Aragorn any advice until the morrow," Celebrían explained. "He wishes to hold a meeting for the wise to take counsel." She gave Sauron a rather thin smile. "He says he has questions for you, but I will not ask you to attend if you do not like."

"I cannot think of anything I would like less," Sauron said, feeling a little grouchy. "But you may tell him I will be there."

Celebrían placed her lantern in the notch outside the door of his room, and then turned and departed.

He entered the room and hung up his cloak on a peg by the door. He kicked off his boots and threw himself onto a chair, where he slouched down and surveyed the room with ill humor.

He hated elves. He did not quite understand how he'd been roped into coming here.

He sat there and watched the light slowly darken in the valley. He resigned himself to sitting there bored all night, when there was a sound at the window.

He rose and investigated. The window overlooked a steep ravine. Underneath the window, perched precariously on a small outcropping of rock, stood none other than the Lady Galadriel.

"What on earth—" Sauron asked, and then sputtered to a stop when she grabbed his arm, hauled herself up, and sprang over the window frame and into the room. She landed lightly on her feet, spun towards him, and laughed.

"Hello," she offered.

She was truly stunning. Her perfect golden hair fell in waves down her shoulders and she was wearing fine white lace. Around her head was a small band of beautifully crafted silver. Her eyes were deep blue, like her mirror that revealed the future.

She really looked nothing like Celebrían with her raven hair and silver eyes. Lúthien had been the same, now that he thought of it: shadowy black hair and silver-gray eyes, daughter of an elf with bright silver hair and blue eyes. It was very strange, and Sauron would have liked the leisure to have studied it better.

"This feels like the most illicit thing I've done in ages," he said to Galadriel. "A paramour sneaking into my chambers. Whatever shall her father say?"

"Finarfin would no doubt have many things to say about all of my life choices," Galadriel said wryly. She kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto his sofa with a sigh. "But you are right that I did not want my family to know I was coming here."

He sighed, and sunk back down into his chair. He put an elbow on his knee and rested his chin in his hand.

"Do they all really know about us?" he asked, his heart heavy. He brooded again on his very great dislike of elves. He did not want to think about how he apparently had a whole family of elves in this valley.

Family. Trust this elf to have caught him up in a web of family. He was an ageless being of spirit that was bound to no ties but those of his own making, and did not ever have or need or want a family.

"I told Celebrían's children about her parentage," Galadriel was saying while he was brooding, "and I advised them she was not a product of force or deception. I have said nothing else."

"Were they angry?"

"The Eldar are not supposed to be capable of infidelity. It was shocking to their worldview. Elladan and Elrohir were angry. They have departed, riding out on an unexplained errand. Arwen is quiet and withdrawn. Celebrían says that Elrond seemed to have half-suspected it of me all along."

Sauron shuddered a little at Elrond's name. "What am I doing here?" he asked, a little plaintively. "What do you want with me?"

Galadriel linked her hands beneath her head, and peered at him. "You tell me," she said softly. "What is your end game? What do you seek?"

He closed his eyes briefly, and sighed. "I understand why everyone keeps asking that," he said. "But I tell you very sincerely, I do not know! I am lost, Galadriel, bitterly lost and in a crisis of conscience. I do not know the way forward."

"And of course, your crisis of conscience is more important than the fate of the free peoples of Middle-earth," she said sardonically.

"Yes—no—Galadriel, that is not fair," he said helplessly.

"Not fair!" she cried, and gave a great bitter laugh. "No, indeed, it is not fair. That you can be so childish and selfish after all this time, and there is nothing anyone can do about it."

"No, I... Aragorn wants the palantír the Witch-king took from Minas Ithil," he explained slowly. "I have no reason to keep it from him. There is nothing I could want from it that is not devious. So we journey together to find it. That is all... so far."

"Meanwhile, you have made enemies of your own servants," Galadriel said evenly.

"I see the news has spread," he said, resigned. "Yes. The Nine are no longer under my control."

"You have worked a great evil upon Middle-earth," she pronounced.

"I know it."

"You must undo it," she said. Her eyes bore into his. "You must find the Witch-king and unman him."

He hesitated.

She sat upright, and her eyes flashed. She was very beautiful, fell and fey. She robbed him of breath.

"Decide!" she cried. "Either aid Gondor in being rid of him, or go back to Mordor and raise your armies of orcs against us. But do not suppose you can wander the earth for all time uncertain in your goals. We have strength enough to harry you away from peace in that respect, I think."

Sauron took his chin out of his hand and rubbed his knuckles against his forehead. He had a headache.

"I will work with you to be rid of the Nine," he said, after a time. "If I can. But what comes after that, I do not pretend to know."

Galadriel gave a great sigh, and collapsed back down again. "Well," she said weakly. "That is something."

He stood, approached her, and then knelt beside her on the stone floor. He lifted his face to hers, and offered her his hands. He was shaking slightly, and he was not sure why.

She examined his hands without taking them, then carefully peeled the gloves off. She ran her finger lightly over the stub on his right hand where his index finger was missing.

"You hid this from me," she said. "When we spoke in thought in the glade of daffodils."

"I did," he agreed. He had made himself look better than he really was in several aspects.

"Why can you not reshape it?"

He stared at it. "I don't know."

"Morgoth could become permanently wounded because he bound his power to Arda," Galadriel reminded him.

"I have not done that," Sauron snapped. "I am not Morgoth, I do not think like him, and I do not want what he wanted. I—if I have a similar weakness, it related to the ring. And the ring is no more, yet my injury remains."

"You unmade the One," she agreed. "But you have not, and cannot, unmake all its scars."

"I really am sorry for making it," he said, uselessly and foolishly.

She glanced up to look at him.

"Yes," she said. "I know. I felt it. Are you sorry for anything else?"

He closed his eyes. "Please don't ask me that."

"I think you are," she said quietly.

"The consequences of it would be too much to bear," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

"Ah," she said, her voice soft and warm. "I understand."

"I cannot believe you admitted to your family that I neither tricked nor forced you," he said, his heart aching. He opened his eyes again. Her face was still quite close to his.

She narrowed her eyes. "I would never to do that to Celebrían. Can you imagine how that would make her feel?"

"But what must they think of you," he whispered.

"We have not had that conversation yet," she admitted. She lifted her hand from his and ran her fingers through his hair. "Celebrían is a creation of love. That matters."

He closed his eyes yet again. "I never deserved your love."

"You definitely do not," she agreed, sounding amused. He opened his eyes as she leaned over and kissed the tip of his nose. "My love never improved you and it does me no good at all."

"You have not loved me in a very long time," he accused, in response to her use of the present tense.

"You have done horrible things to my people," she said, but she was still caressing his hair.

"Yes," he agreed.

"Seventy years ago, you established yourself in Mordor once again, just as though you meant to go on as you always had been. It feels like that was only yesterday," she said, frowning. "I struggle to understand why you are feeling any remorse now."

"You saw it happen for yourself," he said, cross that they had been though it together and she still had not understood. "I was seeking the ring. For thousands of years it was all I could think about, and everything I did was with the design of reuniting with it. But as soon as I had it, I knew I could not use it. And now here we are."

"You are the least trustworthy being I have ever met," she said. "It would be very wrong of me to counsel anyone to trust you on this matter."

"You have done many things that are wrong," he said lightly. "For instance, do you suppose I do not know that elves only fall pregnant when they wish to?"

She gave him a crooked little smile. "I am sure you do know that."

"Why did you do it?"

"I wanted something beautiful from you," she breathed. "Beautiful and perfect and ours... and untouched by your ambition and greed."

"It was wrong of you to do so without my knowledge or consent," he said.

"What's this?" she asked, her mouth turning down. She withdrew her hand and sat back on the sofa a little further away from him. "A lecture on ethics from the Dark Lord of Mordor?"

"All my wrongs together would not make yours right," he insisted.

She looked at him very gravely. "You are attracted to me because I do wrong sometimes."

"When I am not the victim," he stipulated. "Perhaps."

"Victim!" she repeated. "That's rich, coming from you."

"All right," he said softly. "I will not argue with you about this anymore. But I hope you did not come in here hoping to lie with me again."

She gave him a soft, sad smile. "It is definitely best if we do not."

He took her hand and kissed her fingers, just as he had Celebrían's. His desire for her was not at all diminished, but he could not trust her.

Elrond's meeting was held on the porch of the grand house on the hill, with a spectacular view of waterfalls and the peaks of the mountains above the valley.

Sauron slunk into the porch, with body language radiating his desire to be anywhere else. He threw himself into a chair and slouched down in it, elbow on the armrest and chin in his palm.

He stared openly at Elrond. They had not come face-to-face since the battle that ended the Second Age. Elrond was timeless, as always—if looking perhaps a little more careworn and less filthy with battle-stench than he had three thousand years ago. He was dressed in fine robes, although with less adornment than Celebrían's, and a silver circlet on his head that was plainer than Galadriel's.

Elrond looked about as pleased to see Sauron as Sauron was to be here. He gave one disdainful sniff, conveying without words that he could not believe Sauron's audacity in appearing in the same form he'd worn to deceive the smiths of Eregion into making the Rings of Power, then looked away.

Glorfindel of Gondolin, Gandalf the Grey, and Aragorn were also gathered here. Glorfindel gave Sauron a surprisingly civil nod; Sauron deigned to lift his chin and nod in return. Gandalf was leveling Sauron an inscrutable stare. Aragorn's lips had thinned slightly at Sauron's entrance, but he kept a neutral face.

Elrond spoke without preamble. "Gandalf arrived here at the beginning of the month," he announced. "This summer, he went to Saruman to seek advice as to the fate of the ring and the war. Saruman stated he was joining with the new power rising in Mordor, and counseled Gandalf to do so as well. He declared his intent to eventually direct that power, to control it—to bide his time, deploring evils done by the way, but approving the high and ultimate purpose: Knowledge, Rule, Order."

Sauron smiled, despite himself. "That sounds like him all right."

Elrond did not smile. "Saruman believed Gandalf knew where the ring lay, and held him captive at Orthanc until he would speak of it. Gandalf observed that Saruman is building an army. Isengard is now a land of smoking pits and fiery forges, crawling with wolves and orcs."

"How big an army do you suppose he has?" Sauron asked interestedly.

"There is no telling," Gandalf answered in Elrond's place. "If you do not know, none of us have any hope."

Sauron shook his head. He had no idea. "I have not looked in my palantír since last December. Saruman will be slowly losing his fear of me with every day."

"Aragorn has shared with us all that you told him," Elrond said. "Yet, you understand, I doubt its truth."

"Mmm," Sauron said, in lieu of saying something much more uncivil.

Glorfindel gave Sauron a very long look. Sauron tilted his head and returned it without blinking. The elf's gaze seemed to sear Sauron's spirit; there was something about him that felt more like one of the Powers of Valinor than an elf. The elf did not open his mind to Sauron; what he thought of Sauron, Sauron could not tell. He supposed he could guess easily enough; it was likely the same as what everyone else thought of him.

"What I especially do not understand—and do not believe—is the matter of the ring," Gandalf put in. He was shaking his head. "It seems entirely outside the realm of possibility that you would recover it and decide—not only not to wield it, but to actually unmake it!"

Sauron lifted his chin from his palm and used two fingers to rub up and down the creases of his forehead, soothing away an ache.

"Believe whatever you like," he said curtly. He would not be explaining himself or opening his innermost heart to Manwë's chosen and beloved representative, specially sent to Middle-earth to thwart Sauron.

"I, too, remain skeptical," Elrond said. "Will you repeat to us what you said to Aragorn?"

"No," Sauron said, flatly with no inflection. Opening up to Aragorn and Celebrían over the fire that night had been a sort of healing balm, like drawing poison out of a wound. But he was done. He was seriously not up for any more heart-to-heart chats with his enemies.

For one moment, Elrond's eyes blazed in anger and fury. They contained thousands of years of hatred, scorn, and wrath for the being he was looking at, unleashed in a moment and then gone the next. His face went smooth and blank again, and he looked away from Sauron without another word.

Sauron smiled, a softly unpleasant smile. The enmity gave him energy and gladdened his heart. It was entirely mutual.

"Our task is the same whether he means it or not," Glorfindel announced, speaking for the first time. "If he says he wishes to walk a new path, it is our duty to help him if we can."

The smile vanished from Sauron's face, and he shot Glorfindel a sharp look. Glorfindel was still examining him carefully. Sauron had not expected support from any quarter, and he did not know what to make of it.

Aragorn frowned thoughtfully. "I take heart from Glorfindel," he said. "Yet I doubt myself. I know what I want—and I want it badly—and the wanting may be compromising my judgment."

"This is a profitless debate," came a new voice.

Galadriel rounded the corner, her dress fanning out behind her, and stared them all down with an imperious look in her eye. "The One Ring is gone, melted away in the fires of Mount Doom. It was I who discovered the method to do it, and I helped him accomplish it."

Everyone stirred at this, and gave her great looks of wonder.

"Those gathered here, all of you especially, should appreciate the courage and conviction—and true remorse—that he mustered to do such a thing," Galadriel declared. "To have held it in your hand with all its promises of endless power and yet to step over the precipice where it would be unmade."

That was... not exactly what happened. He would not lie or pretend to himself that it would have happened had he stood in the Sammath Naur alone. Yet Galadriel was looking directly at him, her clear blue eyes piercing his soul, and she seemed to believe what she was saying: she thought him courageous and his remorse over its making to be genuine.

It made his chest hurt.

"The One Ring is no longer our greatest threat, nor our only hope of victory," she continued. Galadriel drew up even straighter, and she looked on Sauron with a sterner eye. "Sauron is as he was before he made it, save that he must now process the truth of just how far he followed his evil master on the same ruinous path down to the Void."

Sauron looked away from her. It was suddenly very difficult to breathe.

"What he does with that truth cannot now be told. The decision before you is Aragorn's," she reminded everyone. "Where he leads men, the elves can only counsel and provide support before we depart forever."

"I will go to Mordor," Aragorn said, "and look into the palantír."

Chapter Text

They did not set out right away. Aragorn was not ready to depart this land when his heart told him it would be the last time he ever saw it.

Aragorn reunited with his fellow Dúnedain who he had sent here to ask Lord Elrond's help; they listened to his mission with wonder but did not protest when he asked them to go back to Arnor and continue to protect its lands.

Aragorn requested that elvish smiths forge Narsil anew. Elrond and Gandalf both thought the re-forging a very good idea. They were only concerned that Bilbo, who had been living at Rivendell for many years now, be kept far away from Sauron in the interim.

"We are not setting out right away," Aragorn told Sauron. "Will you stay in Rivendell for the duration, or meet us on the road?"

"I will not stay in Rivendell another minute if I can help it," Sauron declared, solving that dilemma neatly. "I will wait for you on the road. How long do you intend to remain here?"

"I am not sure. The Elven smiths are reforging Narsil before I depart."

At those words, Sauron gave Aragorn what could only be described as a very sulky look. He then transformed into a crow in front of Aragorn's eyes, his clothing falling away and his sword clattering to the ground with a sudden noise. The crow flew high and disappeared into the upper reaches of the mountain peaks behind them.

"He can be very childish sometimes," Galadriel advised, bending down to gather his clothes. "Six and a half thousand years without anyone to answer to but himself. I would let it go."

Aragorn's eyes lingered on the crow's path in the sky. He had no idea what to say to her. The things unsaid seemed to lie heavy in the air. She took his silence as her cue to leave.

"It is not that I want to cut off the rest of his fingers with the sword," Aragorn told Arwen that evening at they sat and sang at her hearth. They had finally found time to be alone together. "Although I wouldn't mind doing so if it came to it. But bringing the Sword of Elendil with me to Gondor will be vital to winning their hearts and stirring their courage."

"You are right," Arwen said, smiling. "But you ought to give it a new name, for its new purpose."

"I have already thought of it," he answered. "Andúril, Flame of the West."

"That is perfect." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, setting his heart ablaze. "But Aragorn... why did you ask for his palantír?"

As of yet, no one in Rivendell had asked him that. He would have given anyone else a truthful but incomplete answer; with Arwen, however, he could share anything and everything.

"Sauron has been using it to poison the Steward of Gondor's mind," he answered. "Sauron warned me that Denethor will be set against the coming of the king. If I declare myself through the palantír, Denethor will know its truth. In addition, I will be able to test what Sauron says about his mind, before I enter Gondor's gates. And it is my heritage and my right to claim and use the stone!"

Aragorn paused, then smiled a little sheepishly. "Plus, it felt like an outlandish thing to ask. I both wanted to see how he would respond, and it occurred to me that if it was my outlandish idea, it was less likely to be part of a scheme he'd already come up with."

"You do not, I hope, actually intend to... walk into Mordor with him," Arwen said with a small shiver.

"No... that does sound ill-advised. I suppose I will go most of the way and ask him to bring it to me, after a point." He caught up her hand in his, very suddenly. "Give me your counsel, Arwen," he begged. "Am I walking the right path?"

"The future is not known to me," Arwen answered. "Yet I have no quarrel with your reasoning. And there is no one whose judgment or mind I trust more. Believe in yourself, Aragorn, as I do."

He bowed his head, and clung tightly to her hand.

"Are you doing all right?" he asked after a while. He had not yet asked her this.

"I mislike it greatly," she said, understanding perfectly well that he was referring to the matter of her lineage.

"Have you seen him?"

"No!" she cried. "And I do not wish to. I do not know how you bear his presence."

Aragorn thought back to the night sitting around the fire on Weathertop.

"He does a fair emulation of appearing fragile and emotional," Aragorn tried to explain. "But I do not know how to answer your question. At least half of me believes that Sauron is deceiving us, while the other half... I feel desperately sorry for him."

"I do not know what to do," Arwen lamented. "My brothers rode up into the mountains to slay orcs to work off their anger. I ought to have joined them!"

Aragorn smiled, although Arwen did not.

"How could my grandmother do this to us!" Arwen cried. "She dropped the news on us without warning or explanation, and then simply disappeared. She left it to Mother to reassure us that we are all still elves, still one and whole and ourselves, and that the knowledge changes nothing about who we have always been. That is... less comforting than I suppose she hoped it would be."

Aragorn slid onto the floor, and knelt before her chair. He gripped her hand in both of his and looked up into her eyes. He did not really know what comfort or advice he could give to someone who had discovered her heritage was such direct evil. And it was far beyond him to criticize the Lady Galadriel. He could only—

"It does change nothing," Aragorn said, his voice coming out urgent and low. "It changes nothing about who you are and how I feel about you."

"That is what Mother said as well," Arwen said, but her eyes were terribly sad. "I cannot understand her. She is so unperturbed and serene about it all."

"It cannot be surprising that such serenity is gained in the Halls of Mandos," Aragorn ventured.

"I suppose I shall never find out," Arwen said, because the Gift of Ilúvatar was that mortal men should never linger in those halls, and she was steadfast in her choice.

"Dearest of my heart," Aragorn began, and they did not have cause to speak of Sauron again.

Narsil was reforged; supplies were packed; the selection of travelers was finalized. Gandalf would travel with Aragorn, of course. The elf-lord Glorfindel also announced he would accompany them, to Aragorn's great surprise.

"Manwë sent me here for a purpose, like Gandalf," Glorfindel answered Aragorn's unspoken question. "We have agreed it is best for the two of us to keep watch over Sauron as he claims to wish to walk a new path."

Joining them temporarily were Galadriel, Celebrían, and their seven warriors. This company planned to travel through the High Pass, then south to Lórien. Gandalf and Glorfindel would accompany Aragorn beyond, to wherever he journeyed.

It was mid-November, and the journey would be long and cold.

Aragorn sat in silent meditation before departing; Gandalf fussed about forgotten items at the last minute to give him some time and space. Aragorn said good-bye to this valley, his beloved childhood home, and to Arwen, who kept his heart. He would not see her again unless he succeeded.

His forebears had waited thirty-nine generations for this. He tried to focus on that, and not on whether he was mad for riding south at Sauron's side.

He strode out from the gates of Rivendell accompanied by Gandalf, Glorfindel, and the party from Lórien. They encountered Sauron not far up the road. He fell into step with them without comment.

The Beornings at the High Pass were awed to see the Elven party of a lord and great ladies and their raiment, and barely noticed the rest of the company. Their awe did not, however, prevent them from collecting the toll.

Celebrían let out a merry laugh once they were out of earshot of the men, and glanced back at the pass behind them. "Do you suppose they collected the toll from the Ringwraith who passed this way?"

Aragorn thought of the evil, oppressive feeling that moved in the Ringwraith's wake, and imagined being high up in a mountain pass, with reinforcements very far away. He shivered, and could not find it funny.

Sauron, of course, found it very funny. "No," he said, chuckling. "No, I don't imagine he paid the toll."

Galadriel shot them both a severe look, and their merriment were quelled. Aragorn was grateful. He could not understand how Celebrían was so easy in her banter with Sauron.

The travelers made it to the base of the pass without incident, and paused for rest on the road somewhere shy of the Old Ford.

"Do we cross the river here?" Aragorn wondered. "Whether we take the east or west bank, the path has many perils."

"We ought to cross," Sauron said. "The way is easier on the east. There is no path at all on the west, and orcs and wargs live in the mountains. It is winter and they are hungry."

"I will not willingly cross the river and walk under the eaves of that poisoned forest," Galadriel said. "And my home is on this bank. We are not burdened with baggage or horses such that we cannot traverse a trackless land. Nor should we fear attack; we are a strong party."

"Isildur had two hundred men," Sauron reminded her, with a cruel little smile that made Aragorn's stomach clench.

"Isildur was not attacked by orcs because it was winter and they were hungry," Galadriel said scathingly. "They were drawn by the evil will of your ring which called out for their aid."

"Well, I noted you have not employed the sorcery you usually travel under," Sauron said mildly. "I thought we might avoid peril by choosing the other bank. I care not; someone else make the call."

"We will take the west bank," Aragorn said, because he too would not walk under the shadow of Dol Guldur again unless he had no other choice. 

"I am sorry," Galadriel apologized to Aragorn later, when they had stopped to rest for the night and Sauron had disappeared into the hills for reasons he did not bother to explain to anyone. "He is right. I usually travel hidden from enemy eyes and worry not for my company's safety. But I dare not employ the powers of one of the Three within his sight. Not even now."

"It is all right," he told her. "We have the strength to withstand unorganized bands of roving orcs or wargs."

"I fear I am irritated and off-balance around him," she confessed, "and do not always retain proper perspective and judgment."

"Yes," Aragorn said. "He does rather have that effect."

They stayed closer to the slopes of the mountains than the banks of the river; the area by the river would grow marshy and make for challenging travel further south.

This trade-off, of course, did mean increased risk of attack by mountain dwellers.

Aragorn was keeping the watch one night as Sauron disappeared into the hills again. Although Sauron did not sleep, none of the company wanted him in charge of the watch, and so the others traded off the duty.

Aragorn decided to intercept Sauron when he came back to camp.

"Where do you go?" Aragorn asked. He kept his voice low, so as not to disturb the others. "While the rest of us sleep."

Sauron gave Aragorn a long look, as if debating whether to answer. "Scouting for dangers," he finally said. "And I would rather not have this conversation if you are going to look at me with such skepticism."

Aragorn tried to smooth out his expression into neutrality. "And what dangers have you found?"

Sauron raised an eyebrow. "You needn't humor me. You do not trust me, you can just say so."

"I find you immensely frustrating," Aragorn said simply, and truthfully. "But I would like to hear your reports, if you are scouting in the hills to protect our journey."

"We did pass a great band of orcs lurking in the hills a few days ago," Sauron answered. "I think they are the same ones that frequently raid Mirkwood. We went by their camp in the bright noon sun and they deemed it not worth their while to try to catch up after darkness fell. But word is spreading, I think, of our journey."

"Can you not command the orcs?" Aragorn demanded.

"Not in this form," Sauron said, a smile curling the edge of his mouth. "It is as deceptive to orcs as it was to the Elven smiths."

"I thought you controlled the orcs by bending them to your will regardless of your shape," Aragorn said, trying to ignore the jibe about the smiths.

Sauron made a sudden, jerky movement with his hands, as though warding off an unwelcome thought.

"We have had this discussion," he reminded Aragorn. "I am no longer walking that path."

At sunset, a week after turning south, the company was bearing southwest to match the angle of the route along the foothills. They were fast approaching the Gladden River.

After so much talk of it, Aragorn would have been surprised if the company had completed its journey without an attack. At any rate, he was not taken off guard when a great band of wargs sprang suddenly out of the foothills ahead of the party, cunningly taking advantage of the last rays of the sun shining in the company's eyes and partially blinding them.

Glorfindel, Celebrían, and the seven Lórien elves were armed with bows. They swiftly drew together and felled several wolves before the attack reached the rest of the company.

The wolves outnumbered the company and were larger and crueler, but every member of the company was strong in heart and valiant in deed. Aragorn drew his sword, slashing at the first wolf's face and then stepping quickly aside when the wolf gave a great jump through the air and tried to snatch him in its jaws. He slashed at a second wolf, then jumped on top of a third and from that vantage point, buried a knife into its neck.

Aragorn moved seamlessly to the rescue of a Lórien elf that had fallen to the ground, snatching up a fallen spear and running it through the wolf that was chewing on the elf's thigh.

Aragorn spun just in time to evade another attack, sweeping his sword down the flank of the wolf that had charged him. It whined and skidded to an instant stop. It turned to leap towards Aragorn again. Aragorn slashed at it, but it snatched Andúril in its jaws and wrenched the sword from Aragorn's grasp, spitting it to the side. Caught off balance, Aragorn fell to his knees. He swiftly drew another knife and threw it into the creature's face.

Badly wounded, the creature kept coming anyway. It pounced, taking him to the ground. Aragorn scrambled for another weapon, but then the wolf gave a shriek and went limp. It collapsed heavily on top of Aragorn.

Aragorn shoved the body off him with a mighty heave. A spear was sticking out of the wolf. Aragorn looked around. He registered with profound annoyance that he had been delivered from his predicament by Sauron.

Aragorn rolled over to retrieve his sword, then leapt to his feet. Now standing back-to-back, Aragorn and Sauron stepped in circles together and lashed out at any wolf that dared approach. Sauron was extremely talented at hand-to-hand combat; swifter than thought; deadly strong; fearless and never faltering or tiring or missing a beat; perfectly in sync with Aragorn's footwork even though they had never fought together before.

They were still stepping in circles flanking each other when the surviving wolves gave up the fight as a lost cause. They tucked tail and slunk away into the dusk.

The company slowly lowered their weapons and surveyed the battlefield. Everyone had lived, although almost all of the company had lost some blood. They had also lost some supplies. The Lórien elf's leg was the most serious injury. Galadriel bent to examine it, and pronounced that it would heal in time. She bandaged it and they prepared a litter.

"We will have to be more vigilant, and set additional watches," Glorfindel advised, surveying the carnage. "They might decide we are better prey in the middle of the night."

Sauron did not say 'I told you so.' He stayed completely silent. He helped gather the remnants of their supplies and retrieved and cleaned knives and arrows from the bodies of the wargs.

Aragorn retrieved his own knives. He carefully wiped Andúril clean and sheathed it. He felt tremors pass through him with the shock and after-rush of the battle, and a dark sense he could not quite shake that fighting at Sauron's side had been exhilarating.

The company moved at the pace of the litter-bearers after that. They traversed the country between the Gladden River and Silverlode much more slowly than the previous stretches of their journey. Yet they were not attacked again, the injured elf did recover, and Aragorn did not regret the choice of road.

When they reached the Silverlode, Galadriel turned her feet and her thoughts to her own realm. She invited Aragorn, Glorfindel, and Gandalf to rest and resupply in Lothlórien, but informed Sauron he was not welcome there.

Sauron glanced at her as she said this, a long, lingering glance, and then moved his eyes to the mountaintops in the opposite direction of her realm. He said nothing.

What he was thinking Aragorn could not guess. There were no easy paths around Lórien, and Aragorn did not know which way he would choose were he to try to avoid it himself. To navigate the steep mountain cliffs or to swim across the swift and strong Great River?

"My heart would be glad to accept your hospitality and stand on Cerin Amroth once more," Aragorn said to Galadriel. "But I wonder if I would not have the strength to leave it again. I cannot decide tonight. I should prefer to camp here, and decide in the morning."

Galadriel kissed his brow, and he felt his cares soften.

"Then you should do so," she said. "My heart longs for home, and I will not delay any further. But you know the way, if you wish to follow me."

She parted affectionately from Gandalf and Glorfindel as well. She paused when she passed Sauron, returning his long, lingering look from earlier.

He offered her his hand. She clasped his arm, murmuring something Aragorn did not catch.

Celebrían came to her mother's side, and kissed Sauron on the cheek.

"I love you," Sauron said to Celebrían, startling everyone the rest of the company very greatly. "I am glad you exist. Take care of yourself."

"I love you, too," she said, very serenely. And then she and Galadriel and their company were away, down the banks of the stream.

Aragorn paced restlessly that night, unable to sleep.

"What troubles you?" Gandalf asked, who after all had known Aragorn for a long time.

He sighed, and looked into the southeast. It was dark and nothing could be seen, but he knew it was the direction of Mordor.

"It would be foolish not to accept the hospitality of Lórien. But from there, I begin to think we should head for Edoras," Aragorn explained. "Your report of King Théoden lying under the evil of Saruman's spell troubles me. It seems to me we must act. And what a thing it would be to ride into Gondor with horsemen to swell their ranks! Yet that would require bearing straight south, and then west. While a route to Mordor must begin to turn east from here."

Unlooked-for help came in the form of Sauron, who had been sitting a little apart from them. He rose to his feet, and approached.

"Go to Théoden," he suggested. "I will detour to Mordor on my own, and meet you in Edoras with the palantír. This plan also solves your dilemma of whether to enter Lórien without me and somehow meet on the other side."

Aragorn looked at Sauron with misgiving. This suggestion was greatly appealing to him, and therefore he mistrusted it. If Sauron was offering something that seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

Sauron completely ignored this hesitation. He unbuckled the sword from his hip, and laid it flat across his palms. He sighed as he looked at it.

"I am something of a magpie," he admitted, in the tone of a guilty child caught eating too many sweets. "I like bright, shiny things, especially if I have made them myself."

Aragorn looked at the sword as well. It was a fine sword, slender and deadly and sharp and bright. It was much better than anything else he'd ever seen come out of Bree.

"I called this Gûlnatar," Sauron said, putting the emphasis on the long vowel of the first syllable like 'ghoul,' pronouncing the middle as a short-vowel 'nah' sound, and finishing with 'tar' like the word for ruler in Quenya. It could have been a name in the Black Speech, but if so, Aragorn was not sure what it meant—save that 'gûl' was the part that meant 'wraith' in the word for Ringwraith. He supposed that, as the inventor of the language, Sauron likely felt free to make up new words whenever he wanted.

"I fashioned it especially to be deadly to the Nine. The earth in Bree remembers the Witch-king, even if the men do not. It will not perish if it pierces Nazgûl flesh. Will you please keep it safe for me, until we meet again?" Sauron asked, holding out the sword to Aragorn.

Astonished, Aragorn picked up the sword from Sauron's hands, moving by instinct rather than conscious thought. It was perfectly balanced and vastly more lightweight than it appeared.

"I will," Aragorn said, wondering that he should be asked such a thing.

"Don't bother about the clothes," Sauron said, shifting into his crow shape after he spoke. He launched himself into the air, indeed leaving nothing but a pile of empty clothing.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow at Gandalf.

"Don't look at me for answers to this," Gandalf said a little darkly, shaking his head.

Aragorn stared at the sword in his hands.

"I begin to actually believe I might soon look into the lost palantír of Minas Ithil," he marveled.

The remnants of the company entered Lórien the next day. They were met by a trio of Elven guards Galadriel had sent to accompany them into the heart of the realm. The party rested at Cerin Amroth overnight, where Aragon separated from the rest of the party and stood at the base of the hill alone with his memories. Arwen seemed very far away tonight.

The next day they entered Caras Galadhon. Neither the lord nor the lady of the land received them formally; they were instead led to a small pavilion on the ground set aside for visitors.

"How long shall we stay here?" Glorfindel asked Aragorn. "I have friends here I would visit and take counsel with, if you are not in too much of a hurry."

Aragorn hesitated, and looked to Gandalf.

"I could use a rest," Gandalf admitted. "It is not likely we shall have the opportunity for another one so fair!"

"I do not object to staying a while," Aragorn said with a sigh.

That night, to his surprise, he received a message from Lord Celeborn who wished to dine with Aragorn. And it was only Lord Celeborn at the table; neither Galadriel nor Celebrían were anywhere to be seen.

"It has been some years since you have visited us," Celeborn said. His hair was bright silver like the stars. Galadriel's was golden like the leaves of the mallorn trees. Aragorn wondered how anyone had ever thought Celebrían's coal-black hair was a product of this union.

Arwen's soft brown hair, he had always assumed to be from her father. Aragorn still judged that likely to be true.

"This land is unchanged to my eyes," Aragorn replied. "And here my heart will stay here unless there is another light down a path I cannot see the end of."

"Tell me about your path," Celeborn said. His eyes were deeply troubled, and he poured himself more wine.

Aragorn trusted Celeborn's wisdom and judgment with his entire being. He unburdened himself to this elf lord, telling him everything from start to finish—his decision many years ago, in consultation with Gandalf, to look for Gollum; and everything that had followed finding Gollum's trail, including the Enemy unburdening his heart to Aragorn on Weathertop.

Celeborn was silent for a very long time after Aragorn had finished.

"Galadriel wishes to gather a company of elves and stand with Gondor," he said finally. "She has heard from the sons of Elrond that they are gathering a force as well. She even believes dwarves might come down from their northern mountains."

"And all of this hinges on my judgment that we are not being led into a terrible trap set by Sauron," Aragorn said unhappily.

"Yes," Celeborn said simply. "Galadriel has said the answer to that question is hidden from her."

"And what do you think?" Aragorn asked, looking carefully at the elf lord.

"I cannot say," Celeborn said, sounding grim and fell all of a sudden. "My judgment is deeply compromised in this matter."

Aragorn fell silent, and stared at the table. He finished his meal without tasting it.

"It gladdened my heart to see Celebrían again, who remains dear to me," Celeborn shared as Aragorn rose to depart. "But you should know that part of why Galadriel is gathering a company to fight... is that I have asked her to leave Lórien."

Aragorn bowed his head, but Celeborn said nothing else. He was pouring another glass of wine.

Aragorn fled back to the pavilion, where he did not tell his companions about this conversation. In fact, he did not ever tell anyone about it.

The night before they were to leave, Galadriel came to Aragorn.

"Will you look into the Mirror?" she asked him.

He debated silently, but eventually nodded and followed her into her garden. She poured water into the basin, and he stepped up to look in it.

It reflected the branches of the trees overhead, and nothing more.

He looked up at Galadriel. She stood there serenely, grave and beautiful, seemingly as wise and remote as ever.

"What does it mean?"

"I do not know," she confessed. "So it has appeared to me since the first day of March, when Sauron again held his ring in the palm of his own hand. I had... thought you may be able to use it where I could not."

They shared a heavy glance.

"Was it—" Aragorn ventured. He feared to ask such things, but—"Was it tied to the power of the Three, and are they diminished?"

"It may be they are diminishing," she said, her eyes turning past him to look at something far away. "But they are not diminished yet."

She lifted her hand, and pressed something into his palm. "When Arwen departed this land, she left this in our care to be given to you, should you pass through."

He opened his hand and looked at it. "The Elfstone of Eärendil!" he exclaimed, his heart doubting he was worthy of it.

"It is hers to give to whom she will," Galadriel reminded him. "You must not doubt it if you do not doubt her heart."

"That I could never doubt," Aragorn agreed. He pinned the stone to his breast, and stood a little taller.

"She gave me this to give to you, and warned me that you might be upset," Galadriel added, taking something else and pressing it into his hand.

It was the Ring of Barahir. The world fell apart as he looked at it.

"She does not mean by it to break your troth," Galadriel reassured him. "She remains yours. But she thought you might need this when you come to Gondor and make your claim."

"No," Aragorn said instinctively.

"She knew you would not take it if she tried it give it to you," Galadriel said with a smile. "But you can hardly wish to leave it here with me instead."

"It was your brother's originally," Aragorn pointed out. "You would have every right to want it."

Galadriel closed his fingers around it, and removed her hand. "It represents his love for the Edain, your forefathers. It would mean nothing staying in this realm. Take it. Arwen's heart told her it will be useful to you. And that is exactly what my brother would have wanted."

Chapter Text

Sauron flew straight east to avoid Lothlórien, then turned south once he was on the other side of the river. He flew high and straight. He did not need rest in crow form any more than he did in human form. He flew a hundred leagues without stopping, over brown plain and broken land and dead marsh until he was beneath the shadow of Orodruin's ash.

He banked sharply and landed on Barad-dûr. Although construction was not completely finished—that was his fault; he kept coming up with new ideas for things he wanted done to it—there was a good, solid landing platform at the top of the tower in between its great horns, which would support anything from a crow to his flying beasts. Or maybe even a dragon.

As he landed, he shifted into the shape the orcs would recognize. It was a relic of the First Age, originally shaped to resemble Morgoth. He had worn it for so many years that it, too, was comfortable, and required less energy to assume than other possible shapes.

The orcs sensed his arrival. A few of their number scrambled up to meet him, scraping and bowing low. If they were a little surprised to see him so differently than he'd left—without his flying beast and wandering naked—they did not show it.

"I left some things in the Sammath Naur," he told them peremptorily. "Have someone fetch it here. I am headed to my chambers. Have Pagûl and Ummog meet me there."

He descended the staircase into Barad-dûr, feeling comforted to be here again. He had been gone since August seventh. And prior to that, he had been uneasy in his residence since March.

He had looked at and touched the ring every hour, finding it impossible to think about anything else. The ring didn't fight him or seek to control him, of course; to the extent it had a will of its own, it was a product of his will. It loved him and desired what he desired. But the ring wanted to be useful; it wanted to be used. It was a constant reminder that together, they could accomplish anything.

He'd thrown himself into physical work—hefting and carving stone and shaping metal; making weapons and other implements of war; joining the orcs on the scaffolding in the tower's reconstruction, startling and frightening them badly. It had all been a distraction from what he really wanted to do: put on the ring and wield it.

He was honestly not clear in his mind how he had navigated and survived those days. He felt better now: his mind clearer and his focus stronger. He was not distracted with dreams of the unattainable.

Sauron proceeded directly to the room with the stone column where the palantír rested. He sighed in resignation and dislike of this task. Then he removed the cloth covering the stone, and he willed its sight to Orthanc's palantír.

Saruman was extremely surprised, and even more displeased, to be summoned so. He appeared in Sauron's thought as slowly as he possibly could.

As he had the previous times, Sauron chose to appear as though he were in Saruman's own throne room in Orthanc. He appeared in his pale humanoid shape, adorned in sweeping black satin robes and his lovely fearsome crown of mithril, the circlet sweeping up in horns that matched the ones atop his war helmet.

Sauron took a seat in Saruman's great chair, sitting in it primly. He crossed one leg over the other and rested his arms gracefully on the sides of the chair.

All of this because he knew it irritated Saruman greatly.

Thanks to the connection forged by the palantír, he did not need Saruman's consent to appear and shape these surroundings exactly as he liked, unlike when he walked with Galadriel in ósanwë.

"My lord," Saruman intoned, clearly wishing he were able to disregard the summons of the palantír, but finding himself unable to. "What brings you to speak to me after such lengthy silence?"

Sauron bared his sharp teeth. "I have been occupied with more important things. Give me a report of your doings. You have been building an army."

"Yes, lord, for your service of course."

"Of course," Sauron agreed with as much sincerity as Saruman had delivered the line. "Well, report."

"I am preparing to attack Rohan. We can take the two kingdoms of men in a pincer movement, and crush them between us. We will prevail without question."

"Where are you getting orcs from? And how many do you have?"

Saruman hesitated, and Sauron read evasion in his eyes. "The wild orcs from the Misty Mountains are uniting under me," he said. "We are a thousand strong already."

It was a lie. Sauron extended his mind and bent all of his strength through the palantír. His eyes blazed with fire.

"Do not lie to me!" he roared. "I see you! I see all!"

Saruman screamed; the connection he had allowed through the palantír engendered physical pain when Sauron brought enough force to bear on him.

"Ten thousand," Saruman managed, sweating and shaking. The beads of sweat seeping out of the pores on his face were tinged with blood. "I have bred ten thousand orcs in the pits here."

Sauron released his hold. "Come to Barad-dûr," he ordered. "Bend your knee to me. Then we can talk about the plans for your army."

Saruman slumped sideways onto the ground. He was still shaking, but he managed to grab the palantír and throw it into a trunk. He slammed the lid of the trunk down on the palantír, shutting it in darkness.

The vision ended. Sauron was back in his own room in Barad-dûr. He placed the cloth back over his palantír.

"I guess that's a 'no,' then," he said out loud. He picked up the palantír and cloth, and left the room.

Pagûl had arrived and was waiting for him outside the room.

His very distant kin the Noldor would have called Pagûl a dark elf, one of the Avari. Pagûl was not dark of features; he was pale and slender and slight and short. Pagûl had been born in Mordor some ten thousand years ago during the Sleep of Yavanna, when life was harder for the elves who did not go to Aman. Though separated many times since then, Pagûl had always returned to Sauron's side when there was one to return to.

"I have drawn a bath for you, lord," he said. He had a robe draped over his arm, which he helped Sauron into. "Will you take wine or food?"

"Wine," Sauron agreed. "And find me all the information we have on Saruman."

"Of course, lord," Pagûl agreed, then hesitated, on the brink of further speech.

"Out with it," Sauron ordered.

"The Nazgûl visited in late August," he said. His eyes moved to the floor as they walked. "The Witch-king asked me to unlock the secret cupboard in your chambers."

"I know," Sauron said.

"Was it by your orders, then?" Pagûl asked, looking up hopefully.

"No," Sauron said, and the elf's face fell. He stopped walking. Sauron sighed, and came to a halt as well.

"I told him I could not unlock it without your permission. That you instructed me that none but yourself should access the cupboard," Pagûl said. He licked his lips, shivered, and spoke to the wall behind Sauron. "He... forced me. The other Eight were with him."

"Yes," Sauron said.

"They took... their rings," Pagûl finished in a voice barely above a whisper. "Only their own. The remaining three of the Seven are still in the cupboard."

"I know," Sauron said again. "There is nothing you could have done."

"I have failed you," Pagûl said, trembling harder. He knelt, and pressed his forehead to the stone floor. "I should have thrown myself off the top of this tower."

"I am glad you did not," Sauron said mildly. "I need you. And it is on me, for abandoning this tower when I should have known they were coming. Do not take it on yourself. I am going to bathe now."

He left Pagûl there.

He wondered whether he himself would have been able to stop all Nine from obtaining their rings even had he been here. He knew they feared him and may not have dared to force such a confrontation with everything still so raw after the unmaking of the One. But if they had… all Nine together? He feared them in return, if he was honest with himself.

The most effective course would have been to destroy the Nine rings—ideally before unmaking the One, dropping them in the fires of Orodruin just before diving in himself. But he'd meant what he told Aragorn: he didn't regret that this problem hadn't occurred to him while he still possessed the One. Would he have had the strength to destroy the Nine rings of power, or would he have given in to temptation, putting on the One and cementing his servants' will as his own?

Or perhaps there had been a window to retrieve and destroy the Nine, immediately after the One's unmaking. But Sauron had not had the presence of mind or indeed any notion that he needed to do it. Unmaking the One had nearly ended him, and the emotional recovery had been hard.

Sauron had bathed and dressed in a clean robe, and was rummaging through the rest of his clothing when Ummog arrived. Ummog was the commander of the armies of Barad-dûr, and tough as nails even by the standards of his race. He was short, squat, and half his face was twisted with scars and burns. He could only see through one eye.

"My lord," the orc said, bowing low. "You summoned me?"

Sauron turned and surveyed him. Ummog was regarding Sauron with a careful, distant wariness.

"How many orcs are still in Mordor?" Sauron asked without preamble. He crossed the room to pour some wine for Ummog, who accepted it but refused to sit when Sauron did.

"About five thousand," Ummog said, holding himself a little stiffly, as though he expected Sauron to punish him.

It was an unhappily diminished number.

"The Witch-king ordered me to empty the tower," Ummog explained. "After conferring with Pagûl, I refused. He took most orcs anyway—all but those who you specifically assigned to my command for the garrison of Barad-dûr. Those would not leave without orders directly from me or you, and the Witch-king did not spend a lot of time trying. He also took a flying beast that was roosting in the tower here, and seven others took their horses."

"How many orcs went to Minas Morgul?" Sauron asked.

"Roughly forty thousand. And maybe another five thousand took the opportunity to flee into the wilds." Ummog clutched his wine goblet tightly, without drinking from it. "I did not try to stop the Witch-king. I did not know whether he acted under your orders or not. Pagûl said not."

"Pagûl was right," Sauron said with a sigh.

Ummog went pale as death, and he lowered himself to the ground. He set aside his wine goblet and prostrated himself on the rug. "Forgive me, lord. Or order me to cast myself off the tower, and I will do it."

Sauron lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Spare him from all his servants who wanted to kill themselves!

He was well aware that this was his own doing. His moods could be mercurial, and at his most tyrannical, his servants could save themselves fiery torture and torment by offering to kill themselves over some perceived fault. But right now, it was just irritating.

"Do not do that," he said sternly. "I need you. And you could not have stopped the Nine. We will see about getting the troops back," Sauron added, though without a great deal of hope. He had no idea what the orcs would do when faced with a showdown between the Lord of Barad-dûr and the Lord of Minas Morgul, each issuing contradicting orders. "And stand up," he snapped at the orc.

"Yes, my lord," said Ummog, standing very slowly and reluctantly. He left the wine on the floor. "What should we do? Will you call the men from the south and the east to your service?"

Sauron thought about it, drumming his fingernails on the wine table next to him.

He shook his head slowly. Stirring men to march from their peaceful homes unto war, destruction and death in faraway lands. He knew he could not walk his current path and do such things anymore.

"Why are you at odds with the Witch-king?" Ummog blurted out.

Sauron surveyed Ummog for a while. He was—unlike many orcs—loyal to Sauron personally, rather than following him out of fear, or because his own will had been stripped away. He would serve until he died. He wanted Sauron's victory as his own. He was one of the toughest orcs Sauron had ever met, withstanding Sauron's presence in a way most could not. Even now, he stood quiet and still, without fidgeting under Sauron's stare after asking such a question.

He had certainly earned the right to ask it. But Sauron did not know how to answer.

"He has left me," Sauron said eventually. "He wants to claim all these lands for his own."

Ummog stared at the floor unhappily. "But you are the lord of the earth," he protested. "You are the greatest and strongest of them all. He has served you for millennia. What happened?"

"It doesn't matter," Sauron deflected. "I will kill him."

"It does matter," Ummog contradicted in a low voice. "The remaining troops are all talking about it nonstop. You have been... gone at an important time. Your absence has been deeply felt."

It was not the absence of his physical presence that had been felt; it was the absence of the imposition of his will. Only fear held the remaining orcs in place.

"Yes, yes," Sauron said, testily. "I will gather the troops and speak to them. I will tell them what we are doing."

"What are we doing, then?" Ummog said, finally lifting his head and squinting at Sauron through his one good eye.

"Punishing traitors," Sauron said without enthusiasm.

While waiting for the troops to gather in the parade yard, Sauron reviewed the books on Saruman which Pagûl brought him. They told him nothing he had not already known.

He summoned his flying beasts to take stock of their locations and health. Sauron had bred nine of them. The Witch-king had stolen one, Lashak. (Yes, the original idea had been for the Nazgûl to ride the beasts... but at this point, Sauron considered it stealing.) Ishnûk, the one Sauron had left in the Misty Mountains, had not returned—perhaps he had found he enjoyed the mountains. If so, Sauron didn't begrudge him that enjoyment. That still left seven beasts to roost in the Ered Lithui, and they were happy and healthy and delighted to see him.

When his audience had finally gathered, Sauron donned his mithril crown and a set of sweeping, impressive garments, and Pagûl retrieved his tall staff from wherever it had been stashed. Sauron stepped onto a balcony halfway up the tower. He fed them the usual spiel about claiming land of their own and being free of the wicked ways of elves and men. In a slight change, he emphasized rebuilding: rebuilding of structures, rebuilding of ties of loyalty, rebuilding their society.

He told them to prepare to march on Minas Morgul, and withdrew.

Ummog followed in his wake as Sauron returned to his chambers and ordered one of the orc lieutenants to find his great war armor.

"Such an attack requires a plan," Ummog said, a bit plaintively. "Logistics—food—weapons—troop movements—coordination of departure and arrival times and marches—and we are badly outnumbered—"

"I expect everything to be ready by the time I return," Sauron interrupted, without heat.

"Yes, of course," Ummog agreed, subsiding and bowing his head. "What about the wild orcs in the hillsides, and the wargs and trolls?"

"Can you muster them without me?" Sauron asked skeptically.

"I can make the attempt," Ummog said stoutly.

"Don't bother," Sauron decided. Ummog might just lose troops in the attempt. Orcs, wargs, and trolls were not inclined to organization and order without his fearsome eye gazing upon them. Or without him erasing their own wills.

Sauron retrieved the palantír and placed it in a bag along with a set of man-sized travel clothing and boots. His next destination was one of the smithies. He took up great hunks of gold bars and filled up another bag, then hefted the bags over his shoulder and met up with the orcs carrying his armor up to his chambers.

He required two orcs to help him don the armor. It was a seriously involved process. It consisted of great, overlapping plates of scaled metal. Each plate was heavy and finicky and had to be placed in precisely the right order. The shoulders displayed spiked horns; smaller horns dotted the rest of it, all the way down to the boots, which were heavy, metallic, and fearsomely scaled. The outfit culminated in a helmet that covered his entire face and swept up tall into many horns.

He liked the effect, but it was such a pain to get on and off.

When the orcs were finished, he dismissed them and began climbing up to the top of the tower. He had not put on the helmet; he carried it in his hands instead.

"You are leaving again," Ummog accused.

Sauron glanced back at Ummog. "Yes," Sauron said.

"Why?" Ummog asked, sounding pained. "I am no substitute for your presence here. We need you."

"I must deal with Saruman. Then I am going to talk Gondor into attacking the Witch-king at the same time as we do," Sauron answered. "I will return here before we launch the actual attack."

Ummog sputtered incoherent disbelief.

Sauron looked back over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at the orc.

Ummog ceased his sputtering and bowed his head. But he looked shaken. "That sounds like an impossibility. Even for you."

"Well, maybe it is," Sauron said lightly. "We shall see."

He left Ummog and made his way to the top of Barad-dûr, where he whistled for one of the flying beasts. In no time at all, Alnaka was winging her way to him. She knew him even inside the heavy armor, and when she landed she nuzzled Sauron's arm affectionately. Sauron rubbed her neck and smiled.

"Hello beautiful," he crooned at her in the Black Speech. "My dear Alnaka, how gorgeous you are."

She gave him an affectionate lick across his face. He laughed, removing a hand from his metal glove and wiping off his face with the end of his sleeve. He replaced the glove, settled the helmet on his head, mounted Alnaka, strapped the bags to her flanks, and they were off.

They flew high, where the air was very thin and cold. The dark of night and the great heights would protect them from unfriendly eyes or arrows. Alnaka flew strongly and swiftly. She could fly eight hours without stopping, and the journey over Mordor, the valley of Arnen, and the spine of the Ered Nimrais from Mindolluin to Edoras took her roughly that long. Sauron directed her to land in the hills west of Harrowdale a few hours after sunrise.

She was very weary; it would be some time before she could complete another such journey. But she could fend for herself in the mountains, seeking water and game, and did not need his help to recover.

"Wait for me a day or two," he murmured to her, and unburdened her from the bags that had been strapped to her.

Sauron stripped off his armor—a finicky, frustrating task—and shifted into his comfortable, unassuming human shape. He changed into appropriate travel clothing and took up the bag with the palantír. Everything else—the armor and the gold—he left in the cleft of the mountains.

He had set himself down at least ten leagues outside Edoras. He walked swiftly, and covered the distance before lunchtime.

The guards at the gates of Edoras challenged him, and he spoke to them in their own tongue, telling them he was from the north and sought other men from the north.

"There are none such men here," they informed him. "How is it that you speak our tongue?"

"I dwelt for some years in the Eastemnet," he lied. The truth was there was no tongue in Arda he could not pick up from someone's mind as long as the mind was not closed, but to say such a thing would reveal him as a sorcerer of great power, and he was uninterested in that path for the moment.

He talked his way into Théoden's golden hall, but stopped short of requesting an audience with the king. He confirmed that Aragorn was not here; nor were his companions. There was absolutely no expectation of their coming; the people in Edoras had no messages from them or indeed had ever heard of such persons.

"I am Éowyn, the king's sister-daughter," said the lady clad in white who had appeared to greet him and hear his questions. She looked grim and regretful. "I wish I knew more to tell you, Halbrand. Yet allies from the ancient kingdoms of the north seems like a thing out of the old tales, and hardly can be supposed to be real."

He accepted her offer of food and wine, and tried to decide what to do. Why had Aragorn tarried so long in Lórien? It was irritating. Sauron had things to do, places to be.

Then he accepted that he had, perhaps, moved too hastily; while he could travel swiftly through the air nearly anywhere he desired, Aragorn was coming from Lórien on foot.

"Fair lady of the Rohirrim," he addressed her, coming to a decision. "I believe my companion from the north will come here soon. Will you give this bag to him? And I would like to leave a letter as well."

"I am willing to be a messenger," she said. "It is an easy enough task. Although I will only believe your tale when I see all these strong men arrive from the north with my own eyes!"

She found him ink and paper. After a short internal debate, he began to write in Quenya. He thought extremely unlikely that anyone in Edoras could read it.

Aragorn—S has at least ten thousand orcs. He claims he wants to attack Rohan, although I do not know if that is true. He may still be seeking the ring. I am going to get an army and deal with him. If you wish to help, bring as many horse-lords to Isengard as swiftly as you may. If you do not,

Here Sauron paused in his writing. He put his pen down and put his head in his hands.

What was he doing? What did he want Aragorn to do?

Sauron had promised Galadriel to work with her to deal with the Nine. He had made no similar commitment, much less even suggested such a thing, to Aragorn. In fact, Sauron had been dismissive of Aragorn's desire to ride to Gondor and rouse its forces against Minas Morgul—ridiculed it, even. And then he had been very rude to everyone at Elrond's council. Aragorn would probably not believe him if he wrote that they should plan an attack from Mordor and Osgiliath in coordination.

good luck in Gondor. Ask the lady Éowyn for the palantír.

He learned the date from Éowyn, and wrote it at the bottom along with the name 'Halbrand.' He folded the paper but did not ask for anything with which to seal it. It would either be deciphered or it would not. He put it inside the bag containing the palantír, then handed it to Éowyn.

"The item in the bag is, perhaps, dangerous," he advised, as an afterthought. "I would keep it safely away from all eyes if I were you, until Aragorn should come."

She did not appear inclined to question this.

"I cannot stay," he apologized. "My business is very pressing. Farewell, lady of the Mark, until we meet again."

He kissed the back of her hand, and she permitted him to do so with a steadiness that said she appreciated his manners, but was not especially moved by the regard of most men.

All in all, Sauron thought as he left the golden hall, Edoras seemed to be particularly vulnerable. Their grand capital was but a small dwelling. He had read a grim, unhappy hopelessness in Éowyn's eyes, and he hadn't even discussed the threat of Saruman with her. If they had great numbers of horse-warriors, they were far away right now.

He directed his steps back up into the mountains and decided to put it out of his mind.

He went to battle with Saruman because Saruman had wished to steal the ring and dared to raise an army against him and defied him to his face.

If the fate of the Rohirrim moved him at all, he would keep that to himself.

His journey up into the mountains lasted the rest of the day and into the night. He found his armor in the mountain cleft where he left it. He traded his comfortable human shape for his—it had to be admitted—heavy and uncomfortable armor which only fit the much taller, vaguely humanoid body. It was an extremely complicated and tedious task putting it on by himself, and sorely tried his patience.

Why hadn't he crafted something less onerous for the purpose of putting fear in the hearts of the people of Middle-earth?

Alnaka had gone off exploring, but responded promptly to his whistle. He reattached the bag of gold to her side, and they were off.

She was tired. He supposed he had not given her a long enough rest while in Edoras. They crossed Rohan to the north, but he was obliged to set down again in the feet of the Misty Mountains, a little too close to Isengard for his liking. He did not wish Saruman to know he was here until he had an army, and here he was, traveling clad in this highly recognizable armor in lieu of any other practical way of carrying it with him.

In normal times, he would not have gone on this errand himself. He would have sent an emissary—not another orc like Ummog, that wasn't impressive enough. The Nine had been ideal tools for this purpose: terrifying, unquestionably his representatives, powerful and indestructible.

Alas.

Once he sat his feet on the ground and Alnaka curled up into sleep, he realized he felt some weariness himself. It had been a long time since he had felt tired enough to sleep. He had been pushing himself relatively hard in the interim. Such frequent and complicated shape changes as he had been doing were taxing on him physically and emotionally, and tended to expend his power rapidly.

He stretched out on the mountainside, his head resting on Alnaka's flank, and despite his sense of urgency in raising an army, he fell asleep.

Chapter Text

They lingered in Lórien for ten days, until Gandalf's gentle encouragement that they look to their mission again. As when departing Rivendell, Aragorn felt in his heart that he would not walk these woods again. But he departed without a backwards look.

They set off for Edoras through the pathless lands south of Lórien. They avoided skirting Fangorn too closely, and trod through the empty plains of northern Rohan for many a mile without seeing any traces of activity other than their own.

After they crossed the Entwash, Gandalf whistled for the horse that had carried him from Rohan to Rivendell, the horse he had sent south again prior to crossing the Misty Mountains. Shadowfax could not bear all three travelers, but it gained them time all the same. Shadowfax was surefooted and knew the lands better than anyone. They bypassed the firmer tracks in the north and made a straight course for Edoras, through wild grasses and riverlands.

In all their travels through Rohan they encountered neither nomads nor horse-warriors nor orcs. Although they did not know it, this was because no orcs had yet spilled over the walls of Mordor, Moria, or Isengard. The horse-lords in Rohan knew they were preparing for war, even if their king did not, and they had withdrawn the herds and herdfolk from these lands—but they were not yet certain whether it was war with Sauron or Saruman, and they were still in the tentative stages of scouting around the banks of the Isen.

Aragorn and his companions arrived at the golden hall of Théoden fourteen days after departing Lórien. The mystery of Théoden's earlier hostility to Gandalf was unraveled with the discovery of Saruman's creature, Wormtongue, whispering lies in the king's ear. Gandalf broke the spell over the king, who rose and went outside to look on his city for the first time in many years.

The king expelled Wormtongue from the city, raised his own sword again over his head in amazement, and gathered his people who had remained loyal to him through all these dark times.

"Father!" cried his son, Théodred, in loud gladness upon seeing the king walking outside the golden hall. "Command us! We are yours."

"I hardly know what to command," Théoden said, in a tone of marvel. "Gandalf, you said that you had counsel to give, if I would hear it. What is your counsel?"

"We must address the threat of Saruman," Gandalf said gravely. "I fear it is most pressing and cannot be avoided."

"We will decide our course over food and drink," Théoden declared.

Waiting upon the king and his guests was the lady Éowyn, pale and cold and fair, clad in white.

"I have a message for you, Lord Aragorn," she advised when she saw him. "A friend of yours from the north was here eighteen days ago."

"A friend of mine from the north?" Aragorn asked, all astonishment. Could the Dúnedain Rangers have come this far south seeking him?

"He left you a letter."

Éowyn handed it to him. Aragorn unfolded it, taking in the very fine writing and perfect elvish script with considerable surprise. He was not less astonished after reading it.

"Gandalf," he said, his voice rather weak. "Gandalf, read this."

Gandalf perused the letter, his bushy gray eyebrows climbing higher and higher as he read.

"Ten thousand," he repeated, handing the letter back to Aragorn. "That is extremely grave news."

"My, er, 'friend' from the north reports that Saruman has ten thousand orcs in Isengard," Aragorn explained to the king. "He reports that Saruman expressed a purpose of attacking Rohan, although he does not know whether that is true or Saruman has some other secret intention in mind."

"Ten thousand orcs!" cried the king's sister-son, Éomer. "We must ride to the relief of the men at the Isen immediately. We cannot brook a single second of delay!"

"Their lives are in very great danger," Glorfindel agreed. "How many are stationed there?"

"Only a few hundred horsemen and scouts," Théodred said, his look and his mood black. "I was aware this threat was growing in the west. Saruman is mustering an army, and he does not mean us well. He has tested our borders in small ways without revealing his full strength. I had planned to ride out that way regardless, with all the companies I could muster from the Westfold. But now I fear we may be too late and bring too little, even if we set off at once with all the companies in Rohan."

"We will set off at once with all that we can," the king declared. "Théodred, Éomer, gather your companies immediately, every rider you have. I can raise a thousand here in Edoras under Grimbold; Elfhelm shall stay here for the protection of Meduseld."

"The greatest possible muster we can raise in a day shall place us at five thousand spears, at most," Théodred said.

"And I hardly know how we are to assault Isengard, if that is our object," Éomer added. "It is a fortress, an impenetrable stronghold, and we are no besiegers, prepared for a lengthy standoff."

"We will ride to the Isen and decide there," Théoden said. "If we do not go, all the Westfold will fall to him. If we must stay in the Hornburg and fortify against a sally from Isengard, then we will do exactly that."

Aragorn, meanwhile, was rereading the letter from 'Halbrand.' What army was Sauron going to raise? There had been no sign of a crossing of orcs from Mordor to Isengard when Aragorn had traveled through the plains of Rohan, and that would be the route they would have needed to take.

In this strange time of his quasi-alliance with the allegedly soul-searching Lord of Mordor, Aragorn considered for half a second that Sauron meant to gather elves to march on Isengard, but he discarded it just as quickly. Celeborn had advised that elves might come to aid Gondor under Galadriel's command, yet no such muster had been gathering when Aragorn left Lórien fourteen days ago. And Aragorn could not remotely envision Celeborn cooperating with Sauron.

No, Sauron definitely meant an orc army. Which meant Aragorn had to consider whether Sauron's army would turn on Rohan once it had disposed of Saruman. If Sauron had been here and visited with Éowyn—and if he meant well—why had he not warned Rohan of their danger?

"Lady Éowyn," Aragorn said finally, "did the man from the north leave an object in your keeping?"

She disappeared, and came back bearing a round object wrapped carefully in a rough cloth. Aragorn received it, and it was heavy and strange in his hands. A curious feeling overcame him, and he almost wished to drop it rather than look at it.

"He said it could be dangerous," she warned Aragorn.

"It astonishes me that you would accept strange objects from unknown persons," Aragorn said to Éowyn, somewhat dismayed.

"He seemed fair and strong and honest," Éowyn said, startled at the admonishment.

"Ah," Aragorn said, a bit darkly. So too had Celebrimbor thought! "I forgot that was his way."

Aragorn stood. "King Théoden, lords of the Mark," he said. "I beg you will excuse me. I ask for half an hour's leave to think on my options and what course seems wisest while you muster your riders. Then I will decide if I will ride to Isengard with you."

Aragorn asked Éowyn for some privacy, and she led him to a small room in the back of the golden hall.

Aragorn unwrapped the cover around the object, realizing that it had been a small canvas sack. Inside it was revealed the eerie power and majesty of one of the lost seeing stones, dark but containing fire and mystery in its depths.

Aragorn closed his eyes, steeled himself, and ran his hands over the palantír of Minas Ithil.

"Denethor is fey and grim and miserable," Aragorn reported to Gandalf and Glorfindel, taking private counsel with them. "He believes there can be no victory against the power of Mordor, and that we must flee these shores if we do not wish to be its slaves."

"Grim indeed," Gandalf agreed.

"He does not want our help or think it can make any difference. He did not disbelieve my claim, yet it did not impress him. He stated I was 'but of the line of Isildur.'" Aragorn paused, then forced himself to continue. "He accused me of wanting to 'supplant' him; and proclaimed he would not step down to be the 'dotard chamberlain of an upstart' or 'bow to the last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity'."

Glorfindel's eyebrows climbed higher and higher as Aragorn spoke, and he let out a low whistle when Aragorn was finished.

"Imagine speaking in such a manner to the heir of Elendil! A descendant of the beloved Lady Idril and Lord Tuor! And of course, he is wrong; you are of the House of Anárion as well."

"All this Denethor knows," Aragorn said. "It does not matter to him. I fear he is also... he has been resentful of me personally, his entire life."

"How had that come to pass, if he knew not that you existed?"

"I was in Gondor for some time under an assumed name," Aragorn sighed. "I did not recognize his envy, or I would have moved to abate it. I did not know it until we spoke just now."

"He has indeed envied you long before he was ensnared by Sauron," Gandalf agreed, shaking his head sadly. "But there was little you could have done to assuage it. You never acted incorrectly."

"The palantír of Orthanc, meanwhile, was silent and dark," Aragorn reported. "We shall not discover Saruman's deeds through it."

"What is your decision, Aragorn?" Gandalf asked.

"I will not go directly to Gondor if my claim will only serve to divide it," Aragorn said. "I will ride with Rohan to make war on Saruman. If we prevail, perhaps King Théoden will send aid to his allies to fight Minas Morgul. If so, I may ride as one of his party without inviting strife from Denethor."

"And if Sauron has brought an army to Isengard as well, but means us no good?" Gandalf asked.

"Then we will fight two armies," Aragorn said grimly.

The Rohirrim of Edoras were mustered. Théoden gave Shadowfax to Gandalf, and Aragorn and Glorfindel were given horses by Éomer. The army rode west directly, raising a muster through the Westfold as they went.

On the third morning of their ride, they arrived at the Fords of Isen. The company at the fords had no more intelligence than they had already reported to Théodred: their scouts had seen orcs around Orthanc, but they were dismayed and horrified to hear the army was ten thousand strong.

Erkenbrand was called up to join them from the Hornburg. By noontime, the predicted five thousand spears were assembled at the Ford. Théoden took counsel with his lords, and they decided to march on Isengard. What they would find there, no one could tell. But they would send a strong and clear message to Saruman that Rohan was not his for the taking.

Théoden rode to the front of his army, and drew his sword.

"Forth Eorlingas!" he cried, and spurred his horse forward, its hooves splashing into the Isen and racing for the west bank.

They turned up the road north, to war.

Chapter Text

Sauron completed the flight to the Dimrill Dale overnight.

Sauron had been hoping to see a sign of Ishnûk, the other flying beast he had left in the vicinity. There was no obvious trace of him, and Sauron didn’t have the leisure to investigate. He bid Alnaka to depart in turn, but asked her not to go far. She would have plenty of time to find food and rest while he was underground.

He had landed not far from the Dimrill Gate, the eastern entrance to Moria. Although anyone paying attention would have seen the great flying beast land here, he hoped no one had been paying attention. He used his arts to conceal his presence and his steps as he mounted the stairs of Moria and entered the great mines.

The doors at the entrance were broken and cast down. If orcs sometimes guarded the passage, they were not doing so now. Sauron traversed the easternmost hall of Moria, descended through the narrow passage and stairs, and crossed Durin's Bridge.

There was no sign at all of the Balrog or the orcs. Everything was very quiet, and Sauron took care that his own footsteps should not echo.

He did not want the orcs to know he was here until he was upon them.

Moria was a vast, complicated maze, and Sauron had ever before passed through it only as spirit or a shapeless form of the night. It felt very different, to turn south and thread his way through grand halls and small tunnels and confusing passages with physical feet. And the way had not been designed for someone of his current height or breadth. He descended lower and lower, walking for many hours until he was roughly halfway between the west and the east gates.

Here in the deeps, he found Arillon emerging out of an abyss. His flames were but softly glowing embers.

Sauron's stealth and his sorcery had not been invoked against this being, who would probably have seen him clearly even if he bent every power he had to the effort of hiding.

"You are much improved from when I last saw you," the Balrog observed, speaking in Valarin. Arillon knew the common tongue, of course, and many other languages beside; but he liked speaking in his native tongue best, to those who also knew it.

"Don't start," Sauron said with a sigh. He held out a hand, and Arillon rubbed his head against it to scratch his ears just like a cat. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Where do you go now?"

"To find an army."

"They have all grown complacent and lazy down here," Arillon said with disdain. "Nearly useless."

"They are conveniently placed," Sauron explained. "I seek to defeat Curumo. He is causing trouble for me."

"Oh," Arillon said, coming to a stop and seeming to perk up. Sauron came to a halt as well. "Do you really?"

Arillon looked hungry.

"Yes," Sauron answered, a slow smile curling his lips.

"I do not desire to fight in any more great battles with orcs and elves," Arillon said. "But should you prevail, I want him."

"As you wish," Sauron said, scratching the Balrog's head again. "Meet us at the very end of the Misty Mountains. I will see you there."

Arillon disappeared into the shadowy depths. Sauron went on, climbing down ladders and other makeshift structures that had not existed when the dwarves lived here, until he found himself at the edge of the maze of orc tunnels.

He passed a few orc sentries on silent, invisible feet. He supposed it was very likely that Arillon was right; that the orcs had grown complacent and sleepy down here, undisturbed by the outside world and absorbed in their own doings since Balin had been defeated over two decades ago. They still sent Sauron gifts of mithril, though, and he knew they engaged in trade with the orcs in the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains, so they were presumably alive and thriving in some sense.

They better be, anyway.

He found his way to a great cave, larger than the rest of them, with many living areas carved in its walls, containing snoring orcs.

Sauron put his helmet on. He took the great staff from where it was slung crosswise against his back, and slammed it very hard into the stone floor. The nature of his sorcery changed from concealment to a loud, brutal announcement of his presence that would be felt for miles.

"Awake!" he screamed at them in the Black Speech. "Your master summons you! Gather to me!"

Chaos was unleashed. The orcs awoke immediately, screeching and squealing. They scrambled around without any semblance of order; some fled but most threw themselves into the middle of the cavern and pressed themselves flat onto the ground in abject, terrified obeisance.

They squeaked and they squawked in a cacophony of loud, shrill voices, but no one actually had the courage to address Sauron until a great chieftain arrived from the other end of the cavern, clad in a long sleep shirt but carrying a huge mace.

"Lord of the Earth," the chieftain intoned, pressing his way through the throng of orcs and going to a knee before Sauron. "You honor us by your very great presence. How can we serve you?"

"Gather your strength and arm yourselves for a journey. We march to war. You will earn the favor of the Lord of Mordor, and some of his gold besides."

"Yes, lord," the chieftain said. He rose, backed slowly away from Sauron, and started barking sharp orders at everyone in hearing range, an edge of frenzied panic to the orders.

Sauron stood still and watched the furor sweep around him.

This was by no means the only cavern where the Moria orcs lived, and the chieftain in front of him, it seemed, was not undisputed chief of them all. Within four or five hours, a group of ten chieftains collected in a nervous clump. They were now all dressed in light traveling armor. They approached Sauron, and bowed low.

"I am Nazog," said the chieftain who had first addressed Sauron. He straightened up to his full height, although he was vastly shorter than Sauron even so. "These are the other nine chiefs of the tribes of Moria and together we are the voice of the people."

The chieftain's command over the Black Speech was not very fluid. His ancestors, centuries ago, would have been fluent, but Sauron was not surprised it had diminished or evolved. Sauron normally did not deign to use other Orkish languages, instead instilling the Black Speech in orcs with fear and great punishments for failing to use it, or getting it wrong. He still thought it a clever and beautiful language, and worth the effort to learn. But under the present circumstances, he judged honey to be a better tactic than vinegar. Sauron had been paying close attention to the Orkish around him, and now switched into their dialect.

"May you burn slow and live long," Sauron replied, in what was considered to be a polite greeting in some versions of Orkish.

"May you rule forever," Nazog replied, relaxing fractionally as he too switched to his own dialect. He bowed very low again. "We welcome you to Moria."

Nazog straightened, shifted uncomfortably on his feet, glanced at the other chieftains briefly, then cleared his throat. "How many soldiers do you want, lord?"

"How many do you have?"

Nazog made a small sound of distress. He could not quite bring himself to look up all the way to Sauron's helmet; he addressed Sauron's torso. "There are ten tribes living here. Each tribe is roughly forty cohorts strong. A cohort is four to five dozen fighting uruks; the size varies according to whether the cohort fights alongside the trolls or not. Four tribes ally with trolls and six do not."

Sauron paused and did the math in his head. It was frustrating that the orc could not simply say '19,200 to 24,000 strong.' Everything with orcs was overly complicated if you just wanted to get at the heart of military logistics; they thought in terms of family ties and tribal identities rather than the faceless numbers that a Dark Lord did when he marched to war.

Sauron took off his helmet, sat cross-legged on the floor, and gestured at the orcs to sit as well. They scrambled to do so. He sighed, and did something he had never done before in all his years of commanding them: he asked the orcs for their opinions.

"Saruman the White has raised an army against me and seeks to conquer Middle-earth," he explained. "As you know, he lives in a great fortress of stone at the southern end of these mountains. I do not have concrete intelligence about his forces, only what he told me under duress. He said he bred ten thousand orcs in his pits. No doubt he has also allied with the Dunlendings and tempted wolves into his service. I do not expect orcs to take Saruman himself down; that is my task. Yet I must have an army to set against his. It is tempting to move against him with the full strength you can muster. However, we must also move as swiftly as possible across difficult terrain, and we do not want to risk giving up dominion of Moria while you are gone. How many do you think we should bring?"

The chieftains were startled, shocked, dismayed, and not altogether pleased to be asked for their opinion. They stared at each other a while, fretting visibly, until one of the smaller chieftains stirred, and chose to speak up.

"I am Zagad," she said. "Perhaps twenty-five cohorts from each tribe would be sufficient, lord." She could not quite meet Sauron's eyes, but spoke to his chin. "Roughly five thousand with a hundred trolls, plus nine without. More than the enemy, but without emptying our home."

He was very pleased with this answer. It was honestly more than he expected from an orc. Quick-thinking logistics, expressed in hard numbers, and a balance of factors informing her judgment.

"Is there an objection?" Sauron asked.

Everyone else shook their heads slowly.

"I approve," he said to Zagad. But he avoided smiling his approval at her. Orcs did not communicate in smiles.

It took some time for the orcs to be ready to march. A few of the tribes—notably, those who were not coordinating with trolls—were better prepared than others, and those Sauron directed to proceed to the west gate as soon as they were ready. There were many bottlenecks in Moria, so it was best to move in a stream rather than a wide flood.

"I shall need a standard-bearer," Sauron told the chieftains. "Someone who is not afraid of great heights."

No orc would admit to being afraid of heights, but it was a tough sell to persuade one to volunteer for a task that required such a thing. It was Zagad again who spoke first.

"My daughter, Zishi," she said. "She is strong and fierce but nimble and climbs everywhere. She will serve you as standard-bearer if you will extend her that honor."

Zishi was indeed small, lithe and agile for an orc. She was tongue-tied and awed and incoherent in Sauron's presence until he asked her whether the orcs here had standards or banners, or if they should have to fashion one.

"Oh, yes, lord, of course we do," she said, finding her tongue in the offense of the implication that they could be so primitive. She showed him to a workshop with a great array of implements of war other than weapons, including great banners with a fearsome red eye.

His fearsome red eye design, of course. He was ever so pleased that the orcs of Moria had kept their allegiance to it even though he had ignored them for so long.

"It's perfect," he said. "Each cohort must have one, although it shall not be unfurled until we are on the edge of battle. Choose the best one for yourself."

It turned out there were not enough for each cohort to bear one. He had to let that idea go.

It was a full three days and nights before every orc had exited the West Gate of Moria. There was no room for the full host to congregate on the small shelf between the lake at the base of the gate and the cliffside; they had continued to move in a long line with the swiftest cohorts already far south, in the hills east of the Sirannon.

Sauron was the last one through, and the orcs pushed the gate shut behind him. He directed everyone except Zishi to march. He stayed on the narrow ledge and called for Alnaka.

He waited. Zishi, although no doubt confused, also waited in silence, betraying no hint or impatience or questioning. Sauron decided he liked her.

Alnaka winged swiftly to him from the other side of the mountains, soaring over the peaks and banking down sheer rock walls, calling out to him in eagerness. Zishi froze in visible alarm, and stood like a statue as Alnaka landed and crooned into Sauron's ear.

"You must tell me now if you do not wish to ride," Sauron told Zishi. He settled his helmet on his head and slung his staff across his back. "I do not want to hear you change your mind later."

Zishi lifted her spear and slammed its butt on the ground, hard. She had the red-eye banner, which was twice as tall as her, wrapped up and strapped across her back. She wore a knife hanging from her waist; he suspected she had more hidden elsewhere on her person. She threw her head back to face the night sky. A fierce light gleamed in her eye.

"It would be the greatest honor of my life to ride with you, lord."

They marched only at night, of course. Happily, it was late December and the days were short. Sauron estimated it was around three hundred miles as the crow flies, maybe more; in any event considerably more when following the twists and turns of the contours of the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Marching hard, with the fear of their dread commander on them, Sauron hoped the orcs would cross the distance in two weeks.

Sauron largely stayed on Alnaka as they marched, flying from hilltop to ridgeline, up and down the march of orcs. He also sent out scouts ahead and to the side of them, but it was an unnecessary precaution for a long time: these lands were empty.

When the orcs rested by day, Sauron released Alnaka to hunt. He sat on the stones above the host, and looked over the lands to the west, and brooded.

Not long into the march, he found himself feeling very lonely, though surrounded by thousands of snoring orcs, and pensive. He gave in and sought Galadriel in thought.

She did not utterly close her mind to him, as had been her wont for most of the Third Age. Sauron had ever tried to reach her, but he wandered in darkness, huddled against closed doors, lonely and sad and regretful and shapeless.

After so long, it was actually unbalancing to have her answer and appear.

She took shape in his thoughts, standing on the hillside with him at noon, overlooking Enedhwaith.

Rather than looking at him, she cast a sharp glance around his surroundings and drew in a hissed breath between her teeth.

"What are you doing!" she cried. "Are you marching at the head of an army on Eriador?"

It had been a very long time since Sauron had marched at the head of a host in Eriador. So long that he would have lost count of the years had someone else not been keeping track of them for him. It was the year 1701 of the Second Age since he had last made war in and been chased out of this land; four thousand seven hundred and fifty-eight years ago.

It had also been more or less that long—or possibly a little longer, if he was being honest, dating from the forging of the One Ring—since Sauron had commanded orcs without resorting to erasing their wills and substituting his own. He feared he did not really remember how to do it.

"Oh, no," he assured her. "I mean, I can see why you think that, but I am south of Eriador, headed to Isengard."

Her eyes darted around to his surroundings, which he had revealed to her in truth—the orc camps, the trolls sleeping in caves, the vast line of troops for miles north and south of him.

"Where have all these orcs come from?" she asked, wary and unhappy.

"Moria."

"Moria!" she cried, dismayed and sounding bewildered. "Moria hosts thousands and thousands of orcs who are willing to leave it at your command?"

"Of course," he said, confused as to why she was so confused. "Who did you think occupied Moria after the dwarves were driven out?"

Galadriel was breathing fast, and she placed a hand over her heart. "All this time," she marveled. "You had such an army on my own doorstep?"

He looked at her for a while. Her dress was blowing around her in a slight breeze, and she was wearing jewels in her hair and on her throat. She was magnificent.

"Even at my lowest," he said softly, "I would never have done that to you."

She took a step back, and leveled a piercing stare on him. "I do not believe you. What if the One Ring had come to my realm, and I kept it there?"

He went silent, and his silence said enough.

She let that sit for a second, then added: "Why Isengard?"

"I... look," he said. "You have bent the powers of your ring to preservation and concealment and... gardening, and growing things and creating beauty. Saruman has pretended to join with me, but secretly means to overthrow me and become lord of Middle-earth himself. One of these things I can coexist with. The other I cannot. Surely you see the difference."

"The powers of my ring," she repeated, afraid and amazed. "How did you know?"

He snorted in laughter. "You really thought I had no idea where the Three were? Lindon, Rivendell, Lothlórien—the last strongholds of the elves, hidden and cloistered and enduring through the ages. Their powerful masters, Círdan, Elrond, Galadriel. But no! What a total mystery as to what became of the Three!"

"Sarcasm does not become you," she said, leveling another stare at him.

He did not quail under the stare. "You have not been as clever as you thought," he said disdainfully. "But it does not matter. My quarrel is not with the elves today."

She sighed. She seemed to soften fractionally. "What has Saruman done, exactly, to cause you to empty Moria?"

"Moria is not empty," he said pointedly, "lest you get any ideas."

"Fine," she said. "I care not. It is not the Eldar who seek to dwell there. Will you not answer my question?"

"I ordered him to come to Barad-dûr and bend his knee to me," Sauron said with a grim, unkind smile. "He refused. This is the consequence."

"Oh, Elbereth! What would you do with him if he did come to Barad-dûr?"

"Who knows," Sauron said, idly. "We could play chess, and talk war strategy, and orc breeding, and progress and learning and the mysteries of the ages. We used to be friends once, you know. A very, very long time ago. But we both remember it."

"Right," she said faintly. "An honored guest in your cozy little tower."

"Sure," he said. "Why not?"

Galadriel raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, if he didn't cause any trouble for me, I wouldn't hurt him," Sauron protested.

"And if he did?"

"He oughtn't cause trouble for me," Sauron said, avoiding the question.

She stared at him with an unreadable expression.

"So," she said finally. "This is the fate of anyone who refuses to bend the knee to you?"

He shrugged. "What else did you expect?"

Her eyes flashed. "I will not be traveling to Barad-dûr to fall to my knees before you, in case you were wondering."

"Oh, no," he said softly. "I would never ask. I would much rather go to my knees before you, with better pleasures in mind."

This disarmed her; she colored a little and seemed to lose the rigidity in her stance.

"Don't be crude," she said, although he knew she was tempted by the offer. "And swear to me you are not marching on Lórien," she added, nonsensically and absurdly—he was on the opposite side of the Misty Mountains.

"Not now," he agreed. "Not ever."

She drew a deep breath, gave him a look he could not possibly decipher, and faded away out of his thought.

After that pleasant diversion, he tried to focus on the business ahead of him. The next time the orcs stopped and camped during the daylight, he gathered the orc chieftains to meet with him and discuss the day's march and that which would lie ahead on the next.

"Lord," said one of them in a low voice. They were no longer so frightened of him that they started in terror when he looked their way, but they were still timid of asking questions or expressing ideas. "Can you not cast a cloud over the sun, and let us march by day?"

"I have that power," he agreed. "But it is not as though you can march day and night without rest. You would need to stop at some point regardless."

"We could go a little longer and faster than we are, though," the chieftain suggested.

"Hmm," Sauron said, thinking about it. "No, I would rather keep our march hidden as long as possible. Using sorcery to alter the weather would be the most obvious calling card I could use to Saruman's eyes."

"But lord," said Zagad, and then she caught herself, turned deep red, lowered her head, and apologized profusely.

"But what?" he asked patiently.

"I only meant—I am sorry, pardon me, but... Saruman has spies everywhere. The birds. The wolves. The men in the wild lands ahead of us. How can we hope to hide this march from him?"

"Yes," Sauron said. He was again surprised; she was well-educated about the lands outside Moria, and she was correct on this point. "Saruman's spies I have been using sorcery against. It is much more subtle. He will not know it unless he specifically searches for those traces."

The chieftains all cast him looks of deep admiration and reverence.

The wild hills of Dunland, however, were virtually empty when they passed though. Sauron feared that meant the men had already left their homes and responded to Saruman's call. Those left behind—the ones who were not warriors—would naturally make themselves as scarce as possible when orcs crossed their lands.

After they rounded south of the tall white peak of Methedras, Sauron led the orcs uphill. There were many caves and tunnels beneath these mountains, and it was these deep places in the earth which he was counting on to exploit Saruman and his own tunneling beneath Isengard.

When the first cohort reached the mouth of the caves, Sauron called a halt to the march, and explained his battle strategy to the chieftains.

Chapter Text

Saruman was yet a month out, in his reckoning, from marching on Rohan. He had a strong, hybrid orc army and his summons from Dunland had been answered; but he was still fashioning machines of war and weapons and armor for his great host. And he was also working on bringing down Edoras from within. He needed but a little more time for it to all come together.

Until his army was ready to march on Rohan, his primary focus had remained on the hunt for the ring. Gandalf had abandoned the Shire as soon as he'd escaped his captivity on top of Orthanc; he'd run to Elrond's valley instead. Saruman's spies found nothing when they combed the entire Shire, and Saruman turned all his attention to Gandalf, who was soon traveling from Rivendell to Lórien for reasons unknown.

That was Saruman's focus, at least—until Sauron's summons had arrived through the palantír.

It still hurt to remember his conflict with the Dark Lord of Mordor.

Since that day, Saruman had redoubled his efforts and his watchfulness. He was constantly on edge and growing worse by the day. That conflict had been more than three weeks ago, and Sauron had shown no sign of moving against him. Saruman hoped he was busy with Gondor, or looking for the ring himself, and that Saruman was very low on his list of priorities.

Perhaps by the time Sauron moved against him, Saruman would have the One Ring. Or own all of Eriador and Rohan. Or both.

As it turned out, that was very wrong.

Late in the day, a week into January, Saruman was overseeing machinery in the caverns under Isengard when the screaming started.

It was coming from the orcs and the men on the surface overhead. Saruman raced up the winding pathways to the surface as fast as he could. Breathing hard, he emerged from the caverns to survey his land within the ring of stone.

The last rays of sunlight had sunk beneath the mountains to the west, but it would still be light enough to see by for half an hour or so. A comfortable time for orcs to move, although Saruman's uruk-hai of course did not need any such accomodation.

At first, he did not see the source of the disturbance. The men and the orcs were cowering on the ground. Some had gone quiet; a few were still screaming. Then Saruman lifted his eyes, and scanned the walls surrounding Isengard.

A great beast, like a wyvern or a flying worm, had landed on top of the wall to the north of Orthanc. The wall was twenty feet high; the wingspan of the beast was longer. It had a searching, stretching neck, thin compared its great body, and a fearsome head with a great many teeth at the end of it. The wyvern's claws were resting on the stone wall while it craned its neck down almost to the ground, snapping at those unlucky enough to be nearest that section of the wall.

Yet this was not the worst of it. Saruman lifted his eyes a little higher, and sitting on the flying worm, Saruman beheld a great figure—clad in horned plates of dark armor from head to toe, carrying a great mace, a banner with the red eye streaming behind him. From within the spiked helmet shone a pair of horrible eyes, glowing with the fires of Mordor.

Saruman stood frozen as though riveted to the ground. It was not possible; what he was seeing was not possible. Sauron was a twisted black shape, shrunken and weak. The Council of the Wise had agreed on this since the Downfall of Númenor. Sauron did not have a humanoid body to wear his great set of armor; nor would he ever have left Mordor even if he had. Sauron had ever sent servants and lesser beings to do his bidding.

Was Saruman looking at a deception, an illusion?

Either way, it was a working of very great evil, and his orcs and men knew that it was. Little wonder that they were cowering.

"Great lord," Saruman called, modulating his voice for friendship and courtesy. "Welcome to Orthanc. Will you come inside and speak with me?"

Saruman's voice seemed to have no power over Sauron. The great armored foe's voice echoed through all of Isengard when he replied. "The time for that is long past, Saruman," he rumbled, his voice fell and deep. The orcs and men beside Saruman trembled where they'd fallen. "You have one last chance to fulfill your oath to me. Bend the knee and come to Barad-dûr as I ordered you, or I will destroy you and all your works shall perish."

Right. Come to Barad-dûr and you'd never leave again—at least not with your sanity intact! Saruman's imagination was probably not creative enough to encompass the scope and the reality of the horrors of Barad-dûr.

That was not an option, just like the first time Sauron had asked it.

It was just... flatly impossible that Sauron had come to Orthanc. Saruman wanted to refuse to believe it.

And it made no sense.

Sauron clearly did not have the ring—otherwise Saruman's servants would be empty shells to Sauron's will, not cowering in fright of their own accord. And Saruman had been wandering the plains of Rohan on his own two feet for a great many days and weeks. He would stake his life on the fact that Sauron had not marched an army of orcs from Mordor to Orthanc.

Was Sauron so far gone in his pride and his hubris that he thought he alone could vanquish Saruman and thousands of troops?

For Saruman's troops would not turn their coats, Saruman would also stake his life on that. He had bred them to dislike Mordor almost as much as they disliked elves and the men of Westernesse; as long as they had their wills, they would fight for Saruman. Saruman needed only to waken them from their stupor, and they would attack.

If Sauron was here with a physical body, that body could be destroyed.

Saruman curled his lip.

"You and what army, Sauron?" he asked contemptuously. It was a deliberate insult; Sauron did not permit his servants to use that name, and Saruman had dropped the title of 'lord.'

At these words, an orc Saruman had not noticed before, who was also sitting on the flying worm, lifted a horn and blew a clear, loud note to the sky. In the same moment, the worm moved like lightning, snapping its head forward and catching nearby uruk-hai in its jaws. The worm tossed the uruks like they weighed nothing, slamming them down fifty feet away into a crowd of men.

"Attack that thing!" Saruman screamed. "Archers of the second company, form your lines, shield bearers in front; third and fifth companies arm yourselves at once, and get on the wall!"

His men stirred from their stupor and drew their courage from his own. They rushed to obey his orders. All was hustle and bustle and hurry, shouted orders and chaos, until several companies did manage to line up and draw their bows. The worm on the wall didn't retreat or flinch. The arrows all clattered harmlessly to the ground before reaching it, as though some great will opposed their flight.

And then he saw the rest of Sauron's plan. There was a great rush of movement on the hills to the north, and Saruman lifted his eyes to see hundreds, and then thousands, of orcs running down the slopes of the hills, running downhill as fast as their legs could carry them with loud cries of war.

"Orcs of Moria," Saruman said to himself. "Of course."

He had been wandering Rohan looking the wrong direction for Sauron's army. Still he was not worried; the orcs of Moria were insignificant cave orcs, two-thirds of the size of Saruman's fighting uruk-hai, and at least two of them would fall for every one of Saruman's.

As the last light of day faded, Saruman walked among his companies, sorting them out and barking orders at them, until they were organized in an array against the foe. Arrows continued to fly at Sauron's position, and they continued to fall short. Saruman directed a thousand orcs up the stairs in the walls to gather on the walls and mount both a defense and bring an offense to the foe. Spears forward, they lined the walkway on top of the walls in rows of five, and advanced.

But the enemy had not been idle while Saruman had organized this charge. The Moria orcs set great ladders against the outside walls, tucked securely underneath the worm's wingspan, and dozens of orcs were crawling up them, swarming on the wall underneath their master's feet and rushing to meet the charge of the uruk-hai.

The armies clashed together at two separate points on top of the walls. From the east and the west Saruman's armies pressed against the invaders, but they made no headway. The worm swept away all the arrivals from the west—and indeed there were not many of them, as the wall left the sheer cliff of the mountainside not far from where the invaders stood; there was only one small stair at the base of the cliff in that vicinity. To the east, the opposing breeds of orcs met in battle in earnest. The ladders of the invaders underneath the beast remained so secure that hundreds continued to pour on top of the walls to reinforce their fellows.

Still no arrow could touch the beast. Saruman gritted his teeth and prepared to engage Sauron in sorcery. He really, truly did not want to, in fact dreaded it deep down in his very core... but the sooner this flying worm was felled, the sooner Saruman would win.

He need not attack Sauron with sorcery directly, he thought. It would suffice to help his archers meet their marks.

Just as Saruman brandished his staff and spread his arms, however, messengers came rushing to his side from the caverns.

"Oh Great White Hand!" the orcs cried. "An army has broken through inside the caverns and attacked!"

Saruman abandoned the battle on top of the wall at once. He hurried down into the caverns, and saw the truth of it for himself.

While Saruman had been distracted with Sauron's presence, the orcs of Moria had blasted their way through stone and wall and came through the bowels of the mountains into the pits of Isengard.

"How did they get through?" he shrieked.

Saruman had known there was a cave system under Methedras, but it had been inhabited by small, leaderless tribes of raiding orcs that had joined Saruman as soon as Saruman had decided to start building an army. The caves had been left empty, which Saruman had not deemed to be a problem. Saruman had indeed greatly expanded the workings underneath Isengard, but it would never have occurred to him to fear attack through this channel.

"They had spies, possibly," said one of his commanders. "Or snuck in some other way while we were fighting the worm. The balls of blasting fire were we preparing to use on the horse-riders are missing."

It was a grievous blow. Underground, this was the domain of the Moria orcs, and they knew it. They came with axes and spears and maces and arrows—and cave trolls, too, great big hulking fools that would take ten men to bring down.

There were thousands of them streaming into the depths of his caverns.

Saruman cursed under his breath. He began to be less sure who would prevail when morning came, but it was now too late for anything but charging forward. He screamed orders and moved among the men, pulling the uruk-hai down into the caverns and leaving the fight on the surface to the men and their wolves.

He discovered that the Moria orcs had aimed for his machinery first. They had pulled apart his wheels and exploded his boilers and tore down his scaffolding and burned and scattered his stores and supplies and extra weaponry. And yet. Now that Saruman had caught onto them, their victory was by no means assured: the uruk-hai were strong and fearless, and bigger and fiercer than a cave orc; they chose to simply jump into the pits to land fifty feet below, crushing the cave orcs and screaming with the fierce, fey laughter of battle.

Under most circumstances, this breed of cave orcs were cowards. Even if they outnumbered a foe, they would flee upon meeting a strong and organized resistance. But not tonight. Tonight, the will and the fear of Sauron drove them, and Saruman knew they would not turn and flee until he permitted them to.

Saruman spent the next few hours alternating between the caves and the surface. The battle in the caves went better for him. He suffered great losses of infrastructure down there, which he would sorely rue if he survived this day. But on the other hand, his uruk-hai were more than a match for the Moria orcs and their trolls.

Sauron, meanwhile, slowly gained on the surface. Still no weapon could touch him or his worm, and he had personally protected the ladders from all attempts to wrestle them down. Reports from Saruman's commanders estimated that at least three thousand Moria orcs had swept over Isengard's walls and were doing battle with men and wolves on the wall tops and inside Isengard itself.

Saruman found himself obliged to draw his own sword and give fight himself several times when he tried to step from company to company on the surface to coordinate them. Both Saruman and his foes had lit many torches, but it was nonetheless a treacherous business, walking upon the surface of Isengard after it had been riddled with shafts and tunnels. Saruman had changed it so much, so recently, that he himself did not fully know the best paths in the dark.

"We're losing ground," the Dunlending commander reported when Saruman stumbled into him. "We cannot go on like this. The men are like to try to flee through the gates if this continues."

A good reminder for Saruman to bar the gates from the inside, he noted to himself. They were of course securely fastened against the outside, but no threat had arrived from the south.

At that very moment, the flying worm threw its head back and gave a terrible, screeching battle cry. It was an eerie, fearsome, horrible sound. A great chill ran through Saruman, and a momentary fright passed through to his very bones. The worm spread its wings and gave a great hop, abandoning the walltop and landing on the ground inside Isengard. Its rider drew his awful mace and began swinging it in a wide circle on either side of his perch from atop the beast, felling everything that could not get out of his path quickly enough.

"Yes," Saruman said faintly, watching this spectacle. "I'll draw reinforcements back up from inside the caverns."

He ordered a full-scale, but organized, retreat from the caverns. The uruk-hai climbed up the ramps backwards, fighting the Moria orcs for every inch they retreated. They were superior in height (except as against the trolls) and superior in this vantage point: reaching down to slice and stab with ease for every step the Moria orcs had to struggle to gain.

When Saruman emerged back on the surface with several companies of uruk-hai, Sauron had won for himself an entire pie slice of Isengard; almost a third of the space in the northern part of the enclosure.

And abruptly, Saruman found himself face-to-face with Sauron.

Somewhere in the chaos, the Dark Lord had descended from his mount, and he was on his own two feet, still tirelessly swinging his mace and killing ten with every sweep of it. The orc carrying his terrible banner darted in and out between his feet, more nimbly than Saruman had ever seen an orc move, stabbing and slicing where any got through the longer reach of Sauron.

Saruman had no time to second guess his own actions, if he didn't want to be hurled away by the mace himself. He planted his staff in the ground and screamed his rage, his sorcery, and his defiance.

A great wall of flames leapt up and surrounded the Lord of Mordor. They jeered at him and laughed at him and pressed in on Sauron, while Saruman scrambled to reorder his troops—and himself—into battle lines with the reinforcements still streaming up from the caverns.

Saruman expected—well, he wasn't sure what he expected, probably to get flames thrown back in his face that were more feral and dangerous than his own. But as it happened, the flames were simply extinguished; they vanished into nothingness like they were never there. Untouched, Sauron stepped over the circle they'd burnt into the ground.

Instead of charging Saruman, he ignored him completely. Sauron only stepped sideways to where his own orcs were drawn in battle lines, outlining the territory inside Isengard they'd gained, and they advanced together in an unbroken line.

Well. All right. If Sauron was going to ingore his existence, that was great. Saruman too would focus his attention on command where it was most needed.

The frontlines of the battle ebbed and flowed inside the walls of Isengard for hours. Saruman did not attack Sauron with sorcery again, while Sauron did not appear inclined to use any of his power except to defend his own person. Saruman eventually became aware his troops were pressed from both sides—the orcs in the caverns had reached the lip in the wake of the retreating uruk-hai, and Sauron's lines had not given much ground despite the uruk-hai reinforcements from below.

Yet hope endured. The faintest sliver of dawn was now showing on the eastern horizon. The orcs of Moria hated sunlight. Oh, they would continue to fight if their commander required them to, but they would be severely—and fatally—weakened. The uruk-hai could round them up and finish them off and toss them into the pits.

Everyone fighting for Saruman knew it, too. The dawn brought hope to everyone in Saruman's lines. Their limbs found a new strength; they stood taller and straighter; and they fought with renewed ferocity.

The first rays of sun spilled over the horizon, and the horn of the Moria standard-bearer sounded once more. The Moria orcs fled the field. Moving as one enormous mass, they descended into the caverns with much chaos and loud screeching, although they did not go far. They merely advanced into the shadow, hiding from the oncoming sun, and threw up pikes and shields as a barricade against any who would follow.

Saruman looked around warily for Sauron, who would not have any issues with the sun. As his orcs retreated into the caverns, he had apparently found his flying steed again and hopped back to his original perch atop the northern wall of Isengard.

As predicted, he was retreating.

Saruman lowered his sword, resting its tip on the ground, and drew a deep breath. Around him, his troops were also relaxing. The sounds of battle died down.

But they had relaxed too soon. As soon as the clanging of metal stopped inside Isengard, they could hear it.

The sound of horses' hooves.

The Moria orcs, Saruman now perceived, had wrenched open and torn down the gates in the southern wall of Isengard before they retreated. In through the empty gap now streamed the riders of Rohan, ten abreast and fresh and strong and ready to slaughter orcs. They broke over Saruman's forces like a great wave, hewing and carving and felling as they spread out and fanned across the surface of Isengard.

Saruman was not sure of the precise numbers of his remaining troops after the losses of the night. Less than half were still upright, and they were all spent and exhausted. They had been looking forward to sweeping up the tired enemy hiding from the sun. There was not enough left to take down a fresh new foe.

Here and there, a few troops of Saruman's men and uruks tried to rally, to take a last stand, but they were mown down.

The Moria cave orcs retreated further into the caverns. Where the uruk-hai tried to retreat from the horses into the caverns, they fell upon the Moria pikes, and were slaughtered.

Saruman turned and ran.

He ran up the steps of Orthanc, wrenched open the doors, then slammed and barred them shut behind him.

He ran up several flights of stairs, and finally halted to peek through a window to observe the rest of the battle.

It was already over. The men had surrendered to the Rohirrim. Shockingly, King Théoden was on the field himself, looking hale and hearty and all a king should be. He announced that the Dunlenders' lives would be spared and they would help repair Isengard from Saruman's machinations, then be permitted to return home as free men.

Meanwhile, the uruk-hai surrendered to the Moria orcs. They knew the horsemen would simply slaughter them, to the last orc; whereas they could hope that they might be allowed to live if they swore to serve Sauron. Sauron, for his part, remained silent and watchful on his perch, and said and did nothing in response to the surrender or in opposition to the horsemen.

Saruman frowned, waiting for either Sauron or Rohan to decide to attack the other first.

Instead, there was a stir beneath the caverns. A shudder swept through the Moria orcs, a collective tremble passing from below to the ones near the surface. They drew back to the edge of the walls, clinging to ladders and the side of the ramps, leaving a great aisle of space to travel from the depths to the surface.

Saruman peered at the scene without understanding for many minutes.

Then fire belched from the caverns.

Not the fire of torches. The fire of a great and terrible sorcery.

Saruman knew real fear.

A creature of shadow and flame was approaching. It stood tall under the sun, unafraid; its fires more terrible than Arien's. It threw its head back and roared out a challenge to Saruman in the language of the Valar.

Saruman trembled, and could not move.

Outside, horses screamed and reared into the air. The riders retreated, gathering away against the walls, leaving the Balrog a wide berth.

Sauron did not retreat, nor did he advance. He set silent and still on the wall. He waited, and watched.

Saruman choked back a sob. He retreated up the stairs, and far below him, heard the Balrog wrenching apart the iron bars on the balcony over the front door and breaking the window.

Saruman started running. The Balrog was on his heels before he got far. It reached for him up the stairway with its whip of flame, which lashed Saruman on the calf as he ran.

Saruman screamed, and ran faster.

Eventually the stairs spilled out into the roof of Orthanc, and Saruman could run no further.

Out of choices, he held his staff in one hand and his sword in the other, and turned and fought. He cast spell after spell, and the Balrog took them and twisted them, mightier and angrier than he. He swung his sword, cutting through shadow, and the Balrog burned more brightly in response.

They circled and fought until Saruman was bereft of both his staff and his sword. They clattered into the distance and fell off the edge of the roof to the ground far below.

"Mercy," Saruman screamed. He cowered on the edge of the root and shouted to Sauron. "Mairon, my old friend, have mercy! Have we not walked all the ages together, did we not build and shape many fine things of this world together! Have pity and spare me for the sake of our old friendship!"

The Balrog advanced, and reached out for Saruman.

"It is not my mercy that matters anymore, Curumo," Sauron said, his fell voice carried up to Saruman on the wind.

Saruman could not remember if the Balrog ever had a name and could not have appealed to it even if he had remembered. This ancient foe remembered only Morgoth and cared nothing for the struggles of the present Age. The Balrog leapt on top of Saruman. The flames burned him, and he wrestled with the creature who was as strong as the earth. They fell off the top of Orthanc, and struggled with each other for a five-hundred-foot freefall.

The Balrog landed on top of Saruman, and enveloped him in flame and darkness. Saruman was finally vanquished. He fell out of thought and time, and he was no more.

Chapter Text

Sauron watched, feeling grave and solemn, as Arillon sunk away and returned to the depths of the caverns. The Moria orcs, along with their prisoners, had fled from the Balrog's path; no one but Sauron and the horse riders were there to see the last of Arillon's flame in the depths.

Sauron had known this would happen, planned on it and counted on it, but he found that a great weight lay on him. As everyone else in Isengard slowly stirred back to life, Sauron chanted a song of mourning for Saruman the Wise.

The Valarin language was not shaped for funeral songs, as a rule because of the nature of the Valar, but Sauron adapted some lines from Nienna's weeping for the lamps, and found it fitting. As he sang, another voice added to his; supplying harmony to his melody, until the rising and the fall of the song ended in the final acceptance that something that was once good was gone forever.

When they finished and the once-green vale lay in smoke and silence, Sauron turned and directed Alnaka into the skies.

"What was that song?" asked Zishi as they flew.

"It was a song of loss, of lament from Valinor," Sauron answered quietly. "Once, there were two great lamps in the north and the south of Arda. They lit the world, and many things grew because of them, and they were beautiful. For a time."

"What happened to them?"

"They were destroyed," Sauron answered. They were destroyed by Melkor because Sauron had told him how to do it. He could not bring himself to say that out loud. "Arda was marred. It will never be the same again."

"That sounds very sad," Zishi said, with all the innocence and nativity of a child.

"Saruman's fate was sad too," Sauron told her. "Although he was my enemy today, he said rightly that we used to walk Arda in kinship under Aulë. It was a very, very long time ago. Yet any loss of one of the Ainur is a sad thing."

Although this was no doubt a great many names and things she did not understand, she fell quiet and did not ask anything else.

Sauron met back up with his troops on the other side of the caverns under Methedras. Their losses had been stiff but not as great as Saruman's; the timing of their retreat into the caverns had saved many of them. Sauron bid them return to their homes, paid them their gold, and permitted them to take Saruman's orcs back to Moria as slaves in further payment.

Sauron remounted Alnaka and was winging his way back to the ring of hills around Isengard when he realized he still had a companion.

"You should have gone home," he told Zishi, slightly exasperated. He brought Alnaka down to land in the nearby hills. "Though... as you're here, you can help me get this stuff off."

She sprang to help him with the armor, and she was a lot more help than he expected given her unfamiliarity with how it fit together. She was a quick study, and soon he was free of it. He rubbed his sore shoulders with a hand, and looked at her ruefully.

"Are you not uncomfortable traveling out in the day?"

"It's very bright," she agreed. "Some things are too bright to see very well. But I'm all right."

"There is no reason for you to endure it. I will send you back to Moria on Alnaka," he proposed.

"Please, lord," she said, falling to her knees. "I do not want to go to Moria. Please do not send me from your side. Have I not earned the right to serve you?"

"It isn't that," he said, exasperation rising in him. "Where I am going now, I cannot take an orc."

"Yes, lord," she said, but she remained on her knees with her eyes cast to the ground.

"Oh, very well," he said, giving up without much of a fight. "You can run an errand for me."

She looked up at him, a new light in her eyes. "Thank you, lord! Anything!"

He removed the long tunic and pants made of black silk he had been wearing under the armor, and traded them for the man-sized travel clothing and boots Alnaka had been carrying. He switched from his tall, eerie humanoid shape to ordinary man, the shape he thought of as Halbrand. It would be more welcome to the men now occupying Isengard, and it was always comfortable to settle into. The battle had been long, and he was tired and sore.

Zishi stared at him with wide eyes for this shapeshifting, but kept her mouth very tightly shut. She then scrambled to help him string the armor, staff, and mace securely to Alnaka's back.

"Rest in the mountains during the day today," he instructed Zishi. "Alnaka is tired from the fighting and will not be ready to fly until nightfall anyway. Then—do you know any of the Black Speech?"

"Some," Zishi said, coloring slightly, toeing the ground in slight abashment.

"Do you know how to ask her to take you to Mordor?"

"Thrak-in Mordor-u?"

Which was, surprisingly, more or less correct. To be sure, she said 'bring' rather than 'take'; she used the common name for Mordor rather than its translation in the Black Speech; and her intonation made it a question rather than a command. Nonetheless, it was better than he'd expected. The grammar was correct, the import was clear, and Alnaka would understand her.

Sauron nodded. "Tell the commander there, Ummog, everything that happened today. He will not be pleased to see you instead of me. You will survive. Ask Pagûl for work."

"Yes, lord," she said, glowing at his unspoken approval of her Black Speech. If she was nervous about traveling to the dreaded lands of shadow by herself atop a great flying beast to meet a displeased orc commander, it did not show.

Sauron made his way down to Orthanc on foot.

The gates at the south end of the stone ring were utterly torn apart. Sauron stepped over the rubble carefully, then mounted the stairs to stand on top of the wall and survey the situation.

Sitting on top of the wall he found Gandalf, sunning himself and smoking a pipe with all the leisure in the world.

"You," Gandalf muttered, barely stirring. His voice was slow and somewhat slurred, like he was tired or just could not be bothered to speak clearly at the moment.

"Me," Sauron agreed, coming to sit on the wall next to Gandalf.

"You delivered the Ithil-stone as promised," Gandalf mumbled. "Didn't expect to see you again like this. What do you mean by it?"

"Aragorn has my sword," Sauron pointed out.

"Oh, the only sword available to you in the world, I suppose," Gandalf muttered. But he sounded, and looked, very relaxed and comfortable. His intentions seemed peaceful enough. He rummaged around in his robes, and offered something to Sauron. "Saruman, it seemed, had a secret trade with the hobbits of the Shire this whole time," Gandalf continued. "Remarkable."

Sauron accepted the items automatically, before he understood what they were.

"Er, thanks?" he said, finding himself holding a pipe and a small leather pouch of tobacco. He stared at them.

"Never smoked a pipe before?" Gandalf asked, seeming to find this funny.

Sauron shook his head, smiling a little at the admission.

Gandalf showed him how to load the bowl and light it and breathe in the fumes. Sauron coughed a little, causing Gandalf to laugh merrily. After a few tries, he got the hang of it.

He stood there, smoking the pipe and observing the activity in Isengard. The horsemen were flinging bodies into the pits; what was being done with them in the depths Sauron could not tell. Everything was in ruins; Saruman's machinery of war was broken.

"The pipe weed is from the Shire?" Sauron asked, mentally catching up to what Gandalf had been saying earlier.

"Aye, Longbottom Leaf. Only the finest for Saruman, it seems."

"How long has he had an interest in the Shire?"

Gandalf was silent and grave for a moment, then suddenly laughed. "About when he realized I had an interest in it, I reckon."

"Let me venture a guess," Sauron said. "Seventy-five years ago, give or take. Ever since Bilbo Baggins returned from the Misty Mountains."

"Something like that," Gandalf murmured.

Sauron puffed out a breath of smoke and watched as it drifted away. It made him wonder what it would be like to take the form of a dragon.

"You really knew where the ring was for seventy-five years and just... slept on it?" Sauron asked Gandalf in wonder.

"I knew it for a Ring of Power," Gandalf said. "I did not realize it was the One."

Sauron stared at Gandalf in incomprehension. "You didn't try to put it on and find out?"

Gandalf shook his head.

"Unbelievable."

Gandalf cocked an eyebrow. "And you really possessed it once more, for six entire months, without putting it on?"

"Yes. Well. Not quite. Just over five months."

"Unbelievable!" Gandalf said in return, but with a smile that was crinkly on the edges and, improbably and absurdly, looked kind.

"Let us speak of something else," Sauron requested. He did not want to like Gandalf.

"You didn't need to bring a Balrog here," Gandalf said eventually. The best topic he could have come up with for chasing away any possibility of liking each other!

"One does not bring a Balrog anywhere, unless one is Morgoth," Sauron said quietly. He didn't turn to look at Gandalf. "They come and go as they will."

"It wouldn't have come but upon your invitation," Gandalf said, accurately enough.

"He was hungry."

Gandalf was silent a while. "He might have hungered for me too."

"He might've," Sauron agreed, without further comment. He took a deep breath. The pipe weed seemed to be... mellowing him. He felt very relaxed, despite the topic.

"The lament was well done," Gandalf said, after another long silence.

Sauron gave a light laugh. "I should have known the harmony was you, ancient student of Nienna!"

"Aulë will mourn him too," Gandalf murmured. "Despite his fall."

Sauron did not dignify that with an answer. He did not care what Aulë would or would not do. He didn't.

"Why did you sing it?" Gandalf asked, his voice a very low rumble.

Sauron closed his eyes. Even Zishi had not asked why he had sung a lament!

"I am not ready to talk about an answer to that," he said, trying to keep his breathing steady.

There was a pause. Sauron was afraid Gandalf would press the point and ruin everything. Then—

"Where did all your orcs go?" Gandalf asked instead, in a more normal voice.

"Back to their home."

"Moria?"

"Yes."

"Will you leave Orthanc to Rohan, then?"

"Rohan, Gondor, you. Whoever wants it," Sauron said indifferently, opening his eyes again. "I care not. It would be good if someone took charge of it. I wouldn't like to see it become a fortress of one of the Nine."

"Indeed!" Gandalf said with a sudden start, as though the possibility had not occurred to him.

"How is it you came at just the right time?" Sauron wondered. "I would have defeated him in another night, probably. But I was preparing a ceasefire for the daylight."

"Théoden camped for the night an hour south of here," Gandalf said. "His scouts returned and reported that Saruman was beset by forces of Moria led by Sauron, and likely to break under them. His aim, of course, was to let you two fight it out as long as possible and wipe up the survivors."

Sauron smiled. "Of course. I don't suppose he expected Moria to retreat after Saruman fell."

"It wasn't only Théoden who was surprised," Gandalf said mildly.

"I don't want Orthanc or Rohan," Sauron said disdainfully. "I attacked Saruman because he aspired to rule all of Middle-earth. Such ambitions had to be checked."

"Yes, of course," Gandalf said. "If anyone is to rule Middle-earth, it must be you."

"You laugh," Sauron said, "but you know that is what I think. Why do you suppose Ar-Pharazôn's fate was as terrible as it was?"

"Yes," Gandalf said. "I know."

If Sauron left Middle-earth, he would not be leaving behind some other warlord with continental-scale ambitions. For some reason, this thought did not send him into a spiral of panic, as it had before; the pipe weed really was miraculous.

Gandalf did not ask him any more questions, which was very nice. Sauron puffed away at the pipe. It seemed to transport his head into the clouds, somewhere pleasantly far above them. He closed his eyes and let the sun shine on his face. It was all very nice indeed.

His serenity was interrupted by the approach of many horses, their hooves ringing on the stones of the main path through Isengard. Sauron opened his eyes and looked. Aragorn and Glorfindel were riding towards them, accompanied by many lords of the Mark. Aragorn drew up short in front of the wall, and stared at Gandalf and Sauron.

"Are you two smoking together?" Aragorn asked, all astonishment.

Gandalf blew a great ring of smoke in Aragorn's direction, and let out a very deep chuckle. It dissolved well before it reached Aragorn, but Sauron couldn't help it; he burst out laughing at the look on Aragorn's face.

"And if we are?" Gandalf asked.

"A Balrog, Gandalf," Aragorn hissed, but his words were not enough to check Gandalf's mood. Gandalf chuckled again, and took a great pull from his pipe.

Sauron clutched his sides and laughed.

"We are gathering supplies to feed everyone from Saruman's stores," Aragorn said, a bit coldly. "Then I am going to return to searching the interior of Orthanc. Come find me when you are sober."

Aragorn spun his horse around and trotted off to the tower at the center of Isengard with the rest of the company.

"Oh, curse me," Sauron said to his retreating back. "I forgot to ask for my sword. Does pipe weed slow one's mind?"

Gandalf did not answer this. He finished his pipe-smoking at his leisure, which was to say he did not leap to go explore Orthanc with Aragorn. After a suitable amount of time, Gandalf groaned, gave a great stretch, and stood up.

"Are you coming?" Gandalf inquired, pausing at the top of the stairs.

"Me?" Sauron asked in surprise. "I don't want anything in Orthanc. Aragorn can have two palantíri for his collection now."

"It's not—he isn't collecting them, as though they are mere trophies," Gandalf said, narrowing his eyes. "You make it sound farcical."

"Why shouldn't he collect them? They were given to Númenor."

"Exactly!" Gandalf said, then seemed to internalize that this argument was petty and pointless. He set his jaw, jammed his hat back on his head, descended the stairwell with as much dignity as he could muster, then turned his steps to Orthanc.

Sauron finished smoking the pipe, and was forced to conclude that he understood the appeal. It was relaxing, and seemed to diminish the importance of his cares and worries. It was a beautiful day; the winter air was crisp and cold but the sunlight made it comfortable. If he hadn't slept so recently, he could have taken a nap.

Instead, he leaned back against the stones of the wall and watched the sky.

The sun was much lower in the sky when he was disturbed by Gandalf again, coming back out of Orthanc and returning to stand before the wall where Sauron was resting.

"We cannot find the palantír," Gandalf explained, craning his neck to look up at Sauron. "You are certain Saruman kept it here?"

"Hmm," Sauron murmured. "I am sure it was here a month ago. And where would he have moved it since then?"

"Aragorn has been searching since we entered Orthanc this morning," Gandalf said, shaking his head.

"Well, I could have a look around to see if I can identify the room he was using it in," Sauron offered. He rose, descended the stairs, and set off in stride with Gandalf to the tower.

"How did you get the doors open?" Sauron wondered as they mounted the steps to the front entrance of Orthanc. The doors were not destroyed, but were standing wide open as though someone had unlocked them properly.

"The Key of Orthanc was found on his body," Gandalf said with a quiet sigh. "We also recovered his sword and his staff, and buried him with them."

"What would you have done to him, if it had been up to you?" Sauron asked curiously.

"Broken his staff and left him inside his tower to stew in his own failures," Gandalf said. "It would never have occurred to me to try to send him to the void."

That was interesting. Sauron wondered if Gandalf would try that on him, eventually, at the conclusion of this business.

"No," Sauron said out loud. "I hadn't thought it would."

Gandalf gave a shudder. They passed through the doors of Orthanc, and dropped the topic by unspoken agreement.

They passed through Orthanc's many, many rooms; Sauron rejected each one immediately after only a brief look. About halfway up the tower, however, he found it: the very tall, very dark, circular room of stone with Saruman's great chair at the end.

"Here," Sauron said, with a decisive nod.

"It seemed fitting, and so we searched it carefully," Gandalf said.

"It's probably inside this," Sauron said, coming to stand by a small trunk that was haphazardly pushed up against the wall.

"No one could get it open."

"Did you try using blood? He was bleeding when he sealed it."

"Do I want to know how you know that?" Gandalf demanded.

Sauron shrugged. "He swore to serve me and then defied me. The consequences were predictable."

Gandalf gave Sauron a very measured look, dripping with disapproval. "You use your blood, then."

"Do you have a knife?" Sauron asked, looking down at the trunk.

"You don't?" Gandalf asked, sounding shocked. But he withdrew a very small knife—the size of a finger—from his bag and handed it to Sauron.

"Do I look like I'm carrying any weapons?" Sauron demanded.

He was not here to fight anyone. If they attacked him while he was walking around as a human, he would just turn spirit and leave. If he were to give up his shape voluntarily rather than suffer it to be destroyed, it would only take him a few weeks or so to take shape again, now that he was healed from the making of the ring. Hopefully, anyway.

He extended a hand over the trunk, and pricked his thumb. Three drops of blood fell on top of the trunk.

"Open," Sauron ordered in Quenya.

The trunk lid creaked and groaned. Sauron stooped, and lifted the lid. Inside was the palantír of Orthanc.

He looked up at Gandalf with a grin. He flipped the knife around and offered it back to Gandalf, handle-first.

"Yes, yes, very impressive," Gandalf muttered, accepting the knife. "I will go tell Aragorn."

Sauron strode to the window to look out of it while he waited. He was several hundred feet above the ground, with a good view of the activity in Isengard. Men were scurrying around moving stones and dirt, presumably trying to fill in the caves and tunnels that Saruman had delved. Many of the horse-warriors had already departed; only enough remained to stand here and there as sentries.

Eventually, Aragorn, Gandalf, and Glorfindel entered the room together. Sauron turned away from the window to watch them. Aragorn bent over the chest and took up the palantír. He did not look at it, but placed it in a bag he had slung over one shoulder.

"What else have you found here of note?" Sauron asked Aragorn.

"Many stolen jewels which shall be returned to Edoras. There are heirlooms from the north as well, from the burial grounds of old kings, and from the Shire. I shall have to have others confirm it, but I believe he has stolen from the dwarves as well."

Aragorn hesitated, then continued.

"Gandalf found a very secret chamber. Within it was—items once belonging to Isildur, which were thought to have been lost along with his body. There is no sign of the body itself. But Saruman must have been searching for the ring for a long time."

"A very long time," Gandalf agreed. "Two hundred years ago he began to search the Gladden Fields!"

"He was far ahead of me on that score," Sauron said ruefully. "The deceitful, two-faced wretch. Or three-faced, if you will!"

"And yet only one of you has perished into the void," Aragorn said, an edge to his voice.

Sauron inclined his head and did not argue the point. He changed the topic. "May I have my sword back?"

Aragorn shrugged it off of his shoulder. He had been wearing Gûlnatar slung across his back, along with the palantír bag. Without any hesitation, and although he still looked very cross with Sauron, Aragorn stepped forward and handed him the sword.

"Thank you," Sauron said softly. He strapped the sword across his own back, and immediately felt better. One of the Nine could never have killed him while he was weaponless, but he would have had to turn spirit and flee, and that would have been mortifying. Very bad for his own morale, and very good for theirs.

"Was that all you wanted?" Aragorn asked, suddenly wary and watchful. He was on edge as he spoke; he balanced ever so slightly on the balls of his feet, as though expecting to fight or flee any second now.

"How did it go with Denethor?" Sauron asked, in lieu of launching straight into his desire to enlist Gondor's help against the Witch-king.

Aragorn's face darkened. "Very poorly," he said, and did not elaborate.

"Would you like my advice?"

"No," Aragorn said coldly. "No, I don't think so."

Sauron paused. "Well, I." He stopped, and looked around the room. "I only have five thousand orcs in Mordor," he admitted. "I do not think it is enough to attack the Witch-king on my own."

Aragorn rocked back on his heels, visibly astonished. He blinked a few times, and exchanged an incredulous look with Glorfindel.

"Five thousand? I imagined you had ten times that!"

"I used to," Sauron said, holding one arm defensively across his chest. "But, I. Well. You know."

"No," Aragorn said. "I do not know what you mean at all."

"Their wills are their own again," Sauron reminded him for what felt like the hundredth time.

"But this is absurd! How am I to believe you can raise over ten thousand orcs in Moria in two weeks, and yet have half that in your own land?"

"Such feats require my presence and direct attention," Sauron explained honestly. "The Witch-king came to Barad-dûr while I was gone and took forty thousand of my troops to Minas Morgul."

He supposed he could have marched the Moria orcs through Rohan to Mordor to swell its population, but they would have... resisted.

He could have forced them to do it.

He would have had to harry them every step of the way, instead of coming back to Isengard to talk to Aragorn. Then he would have needed to remain in Mordor to force cohesion between the two armies of Moria and Mordor. He shuddered at the idea of the effort it would take to bring the orcs together without resorting to the erasure of their wills.

Aragorn sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "You puzzle me exceedingly," he said, his tone sounding helpless. "You want Gondor's help to attack your most fearsome lieutenant?"

"It would be more effective than attacking on my own."

"I don't know what to say," Aragorn said. He looked to the others for help. Gandalf shook his head, while Glorfindel had stepped to a window to look out of it, and did not turn to look at Aragorn.

"You said you were done with war, then immediately left to raise an army and attack Isengard," Aragorn said, addressing Sauron again. "I can have little trust in anything you say."

"I said no such thing," Sauron said, irritated. "On Weathertop, I said it was not my present intent to enslave Middle-earth, starting with the Kingdom of Gondor. A defensive war on someone else who intends to enslave Middle-earth is hardly the same thing."

Aragorn made a sound of frustration and clenched his hands. "Will it always be like this? That you will say something and mean precisely what you say, yet fully intend for your audience to misread you?"

"For we have never forgotten the tale of Gorlim," Glorfindel cried, demonstrating that he was paying very careful attention to this conversation.

"If this is the nature of our shared path, I will not walk it," Aragorn said, stern and proud like the kings of men of old. "Go back to Mordor! I will do what I must, in turn."

Sauron rubbed his arms uncomfortably.

"I did not, and do not, intend to treat with you in that matter," he said stiffly.

Gorlim the Unhappy! He wished he had never done it. At the time, he'd thought himself very amusing and clever; looking back on it now, he could only see a naïve Maia desperate for his Vala's approval. But what was done could not be undone. He could only try to explain himself now as best he could.

"I could not have promised no more war, because I still have many battles ahead of me to undo what I did. But I cannot see how it was unreasonable or deceptive of me to move against Saruman—an enemy of yours as well as my own. Perhaps you and your horse-lords could have defeated him without the help, despite the great disparity in your numbers. And I do not know how the horse-masters would have taken this fortress of stone. But you need never find out, for it was I who bore most of the losses and made safe Isengard—and Rohan, at almost no cost to its inhabitants!"

He thought back on the grim, hopeless, nearly defenseless city of Edoras.

"I thought it would... please you," he finished quietly.

"Please me!" Aragorn cried. "You have not understood my character at all, then, if you thought unleashing a mortal terror and casting my enemy into the void would please me."

"This is about the Balrog?" Sauron asked incredulously. "Very well. If my friendship and alliance with Morgoth's ancient servants—of which I am one—is your moral limit, then we indeed have nothing more to say to each other."

Aragorn swallowed, and clenched his hands again, and seemed to lose his proud sternness. He was but an ordinary man, confronted with something he did not know how to handle.

"Is this how you plan to deal with the Witch-king, too?"

"Of course not," Sauron said scornfully. "You saw me handle one of the wraiths. I removed his ring and sent him to the place he should have gone long ago, but for me. That is all. If you have a better idea for handling them, I should like to hear it!"

Aragorn swallowed yet again. "Do you regret it? What happened to Saruman? Do you regret anything?"

Sauron turned away. He went to another window, and pressed his forehead against the glass.

"I am not ready to answer that," he repeated, his voice thick. The urge to turn into a crow and fly away was nearly overwhelming. He supposed the effects of the pipe weed did not last all that long.

The room behind him was silent.

"No more Balrogs," Aragorn said, very quietly, but as if it were a command.

"A ridiculous notion," Sauron scoffed, turning back to face the room. "He hungers for revenge against the Ainur who cast down Morgoth—Saruman was one of them, as you might know—and perhaps some of the Eldar he recognizes from that time."

Sauron cast a cool eye over Gandalf and then Glorfindel; he knew that either one (or Eru forbid, both together) would have given Arillon a tougher contest than Saruman had.

"But," Sauron concluded, "he has no interest in corrupted men, or any of my other problems."

"Fine," Aragorn said, sounding very tired. "Let us finish with Isengard, and then repair to Edoras, where we can discuss sending help to Gondor."

Without waiting to hear Sauron's response to this, Aragorn turned on his heel and marched downstairs.

They all proceeded outside, to meet with the remaining horse-lords of Rohan, who wished to consult with Aragorn as to how best to secure Orthanc after Saruman's defeat.

"The king has asked me to take charge of it," Erkenbrand reported to Aragorn, looking resigned and unhappy. "It is not a task that pleases me, but it shall be done. Lord Aragorn, which enemies do you expect to seek its occupation?"

"The Nazgûl are a very real possibility," Gandalf answered on Aragorn's behalf. "They are not confined to Mordor anymore. We do not know where they are, but they may be seeking to create strongholds of their own."

Sauron did not say anything to contradict this. He thought the Nazgûl were in Minas Morgul, but he could have been wrong, and he didn't necessarily think Rohan should feel safe and complacent about it.

Predictably, Erkenbrand looked shocked and dismayed by Gandalf's words. "The Ringwraiths? The Nine, the Black Riders, the corrupted and evil fallen men of legend? But they are a myth!"

"They are not," Aragorn and Sauron said in unison.

"Then—it is also true that they are indestructible, impossible to kill?"

"For you, yes," Sauron said.

"Not by the hand of man shall he fall," said Gandalf, with a smile at Glorfindel.

"I ought never have said it," Glorfindel said, sounding rueful. "I fear its saying made it true."

"You have fought the Ringwraiths before?" Erkenbrand asked Glorfindel.

"I have faced the Witch-king of Angmar," Glorfindel said, his eyes looking at something far away. He didn't spare so much as a glimpse towards Sauron. "It is not a war I ever thought to repeat. The twists of fate prove hard, sometimes."

"How are we to fight them?" Erkenbrand asked.

"They don't like fire," Sauron advised. "It will not hurt them, but it will distress them. And most of them won't cross water if they can help it. Cross blades with them if you must, but stabbing their flesh will hurt only yourself."

"Very well," Erkenbrand said, looking pale. "I suppose we shall bring back the small stream that once formed a lake inside the grounds."

"A good plan," Gandalf said approvingly. "We must leave you now, I'm afraid, and travel back to Edoras as swiftly as we may."

Aragorn and his company made ready to depart; Gandalf had a very fine horse of the Mearas and Aragorn and Glorfindel were on horses given to them by Rohan.

Éomer, whose éored had stayed in Isengard to help secure it, announced that he would accompany them back to Edoras, and leave his éored under Erkenbrand's command.

To Sauron's surprise, rather than mounting his own horse directly, Aragorn led one to Sauron and offered him the bridle.

"I find myself obliged to admit you did help Rohan, considerably," Aragorn said. "Are still helping. Thank you."

"Oh," Sauron said, thoroughly taken aback. He accepted the bridle, and mounted the horse. What would be the proper thing to say to that? "You are welcome."

Aragorn pursed his lips, shook his head, mounted his own horse, and called to everyone to be off.

They rode to Edoras. King Théoden had called a muster, an assembly of all in Rohan that could bear arms.

"And yet," the king told Aragorn when he and his company arrived, "I cannot send help to Gondor until they request it. Do they not know their own peril?"

"They know it," Aragorn said grimly. "Denethor sees what I see in the palantír, and that is tens of thousands of orcs gathered in Minas Morgul."

"There can only be one reason for the orcs to gather there," the king agreed.

"Perhaps some prodding is needed," Gandalf suggested. "Shadowfax can bear me there in two or three days, and I am assured of admission to the White Tower. It will take you at least as long to make your muster—and I will advise them to send the Red Arrow."

"Do as you think best," Théoden said. "I will prepare either way, because I see that the forces of darkness will threaten my own borders sooner or later."

"Will you ride with Gandalf?" Éomer asked Aragorn.

"No," Aragorn said. "A companion of my size would only slow him down."

Gandalf parted from the company with few words of farewell, and was away on Shadowfax before half an hour had passed since he first suggested it.

Théoden had many things to arrange in advance of the muster, and he left Aragorn and his company to drink and take a meal with Éomer and Éowyn as hosts.

Sauron removed his gloves to eat, and pretended not to notice everyone else at the table staring openly at his missing finger.

Éowyn recovered first. She had a pretty smile for the stranger from the north who had first advised her of the tidings of change in the land, and greeted Sauron warmly in remembrance. Yet it was Aragorn where her focus always seemed to return.

"What will you do now?" Éowyn asked Aragorn. Her eyes lingered on him longer than necessary. "Will you ride to Gondor with the hosts of Rohan?"

"I do not know," Aragorn said. "All paths are veiled to my eyes, and I do not know what is best."

Sauron sighed, shoved his plate a little away from him, folded his arms on the table, and buried his head in them.

No one else said anything for a little while.

Finally, Aragorn gave a very heavy sigh. "You want to give me your advice," he said to the top of Sauron's head. "Very well. What is it?"

Sauron lifted his head and peered at Aragorn. He propped his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow on the table.

"Go to Denethor's sons," he suggested. "Faramir commands rangers in northern Ithilien and Boromir commands the garrison at Osgiliath. That is where the hammer blow will fall first. Your arrival and knowledge of the enemy forces will be most welcome. And unlike their father, they will love you if you prove yourself to them."

"How do you know all this!" Aragorn marveled. "For I have looked into the palantír and seen none of these answers."

"From the mind of Denethor, of course."

"Of course," Aragorn echoed, his voice sounding hollow. He thought about it quietly as he ate.

Éomer and Éowyn gave everyone curious looks, but did not ask any questions.

"If I do this thing, it would be solely on the strength of your counsel," Aragorn said carefully. "I have no reason of my own to consider this."

"You know the reputation of Boromir and Faramir," Sauron argued. "You know all I say is plausible."

"I find it highly plausible," Aragorn agreed. "And that is what bothers me. Did not Lord Celebrimbor view your advice in this same fashion?"

"Aulë give me strength," Sauron groaned, putting his forehead in his hand and staring down at the table. "If you are going to drag me through this, I am leaving."

"It is something you will have to answer for eventually," Glorfindel cut in.

"Eventually," Sauron agreed, surprising even himself by this answer.

Everyone fell silent again. Sauron picked at a small, rough whorl in the wood of the table and avoided everyone's eyes.

"I like it better than sitting here waiting for the Rohirrim to muster," Aragorn said after a while. "Unfortunately, liking it is all the more reason to mistrust it."

He sounded just like Galadriel, although Sauron deemed it would not help the situation to say so.

"I have given you my advice," Sauron said instead. "I will say nothing further on the subject."

"Why is it that you will not go to the front gates of Minas Tirith?" Éomer asked Aragorn, after it was clear that no one else was going to say anything.

"Denethor opposes my coming," Aragorn explained simply. "I will not divide Gondor between the two of us in its hour of need."

"And why is it you will not offer your aid to his sons instead, if they are in the field and in need of it?"

"Because I—" Aragorn started to say, then stopped and looked at Sauron.

Sauron lifted his head and returned the look steadily.

"Éomer, son of Éomund," Aragorn declared, although he was still staring directly into Sauron's eyes, "you speak rightly. I will go to Denethor's sons, and if all I can do is join them in battle as one sword against Minas Morgul, then that is what I will do."

"And I will go with you," said Éomer, "assuming I can get leave from my king. For they should know that Rohan's help is near as well."

"I would be honored by your company," Aragorn said.

Sauron thought that no one else observed the very grim, and very displeased looks of the Lady of the Rohirrim. She did not want them to go—or if they did go, she envied them. But if she begged Aragorn to be allowed to accompany him, she did not do it in Sauron's presence, and he thought no more of the lady in white.

Éomer successfully secured leave of his king to accompany them, and all the company had leave to continue riding on the horses of Rohan that had been lent to them. They departed Edoras only a little after they arrived, and but a few hours after Gandalf departed.

They were riding in the same direction as Gandalf, although not as far as the city of Minas Tirith. They expected to be on the road for nearly four days—twice as long as Gandalf's journey to go less far.

Each night they stopped, Aragorn looked in the Ithil-stone. He did not again try to speak to Denethor, but wished to look beyond, to scry far away. He never appeared to gain more intelligence beyond the forces gathering at Minas Morgul, which Denethor was focused on to the exclusion of all else.

"Have you tried the Orthanc-stone?" Sauron wondered aloud the second night they camped. "It ought to be more far-seeing; the Ithil-stone was primarily for communication with the Anor-stone, after all."

"I am aware," Aragorn said dryly. "I looked into it very briefly. It is... locked, shall we say, on the Ithil-stone. I look into it and see only myself."

"Ah, true that it was so," Sauron acknowledged. "And that makes sense, as I released the stone from my grasp to yours. Can you not... 'un'-lock it? It is not as though anyone else's will is currently opposing such an attempt."

"I know there is not," Aragorn acknowledged grimly, running a hand over the bag where he carried both stones. "Not any longer." He stared at the covered stones for a while before answering the question. "I believe I could, but it would be a struggle. Is it effort that is worth the while to spend right now?"

"I do not know," Sauron said.

"I will try again a little later," Aragorn said, openly tired and weary. He slumped a little where he sat.

"Do you know where the lost seeing-stones of the north are?" Glorfindel asked Sauron.

"Not remotely," Sauron said, surprised to be asked.

"You never tried to communicate with them using the Ithil-stone?"

"Of course I tried. It is all darkness. There is no indication as to whether they still exist."

"They exist," Aragorn said, rousing himself to participate in the conversation again with some effort. "It is only that there is no one to answer you if you try to communicate with them."

"You're the expert," Sauron deferred.

"You make that sound sarcastic," Éomer said, laughing a little.

"It is not sarcastic," Sauron said, mildly affronted. "I recognize the right and superior knowledge of the heir of Elendil in this matter. I did not even know the northern stones were lost until I read about it in a book in Bree."

"What book did you read in Bree?" Glorfindel asked Sauron, sounding surprised and mildly alarmed.

"A study of the schism and fall of Arnor, written around a thousand years ago, by one of the Dúnedain. No doubt a biased account, but the choices were few. Bree's offering of books was painfully small. I would love to know what happened to the rest of Arnor's libraries."

"I do remember you borrowed that book," Aragorn said. "I wondered at it greatly at the time. Do you... uh... you like books?" He seemed torn on whether to believe it.

"I love books," Sauron murmured. "It is unfortunate that only men seem to care about written works. The ageless do not see the need for it."

"The Eldar have many written works," Glorfindel objected, clearly offended.

"Of course, yes," Sauron muttered placatingly. The written works of the Eldar were flighty, in Sauron's opinion, and he much preferred to study the work of men. But he kept his mouth shut, determined to avoid a fight.

"Arnor's books were likely in Fornost, which fell to the Witch-king," Aragorn pointed out. "You might ask him where the books went."

"You are joking," Sauron replied, "but I do love books and he knows it. He might have preserved them, for me. If we were on speaking terms, I would ask him."

"Nothing had been preserved at the time he fled and we entered Fornost with Eärnur," Glorfindel said. "It was a ruined city. King Arvedui had taken with him all that was valuable, and removed it to the ice-wastes of the far north."

"Too bad," Sauron said.

"Too bad!" Aragorn echoed. "War is ever thus."

Sauron refused to respond to this provocation, and without his participation, the conversation soon fell off into sleep for the rest of the company.

On the morning of the fourth day of their ride, the beacons of Gondor were lit along the spine of the Ered Nimrais. The company halted briefly to watch the flame of Nardol spring into existence, bright and beautiful and glorious.

"Anórien is being called to the White City," Aragorn murmured. "Perhaps Gandalf reached Denethor, and the Red Arrow is being sent to Rohan even now."

"I hope so," Éomer said.

Just after noon on that same day, they left the road before it took its great turn from east to south, and urged their horses onward through the long grasses.

"Do you aim to cross the river at Cair Andros?" Glorfindel asked Aragorn as they proceeded northeast across the trackless plains.

Aragorn did not answer, but glanced at Sauron, riding to his side and a little behind.

"We may find the rangers occupying it," Sauron answered. "If so, it would save us much trouble hunting for them in Ithilien."

"As long as they do not shoot us before we can identify ourselves," Aragorn said warily. 

"Four horsemen approaching from Anórien?" Sauron asked. "I doubt it. But I suppose you never know, in times like these."

The grasses gave way to trees. The company dismounted before they approached, leading their horses on foot, and they went carefully. Still they did not see the rangers until the rangers suddenly appeared from behind the trees: great bows drawn, clad in green and brown cloaks, hooded and masked.

"State your business," one of the rangers challenged.

None of Aragorn's company had drawn their weapons; Aragorn had his palms in the air.

"I am Aragorn, Ranger of the North. These are my companions, Glorfindel of Rivendell, Éomer of Rohan, and—uh, Halbrand. We come to Lord Faramir with tidings of the war."

"I am called Mablung," the ranger replied. "Allies from the north? Such tidings are unlooked-for, and all but impossible."

"It is not impossible," Aragorn declared, standing tall and twitching his cloak back to display his no-longer-broken heirloom. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and this is the sword of Elendil. I come to Gondor's aid in its hour of need. Will you lead me to Lord Faramir?"

He was tall and stern and proud, almost fey, and amazement entered the eyes of the Ithilien rangers.

"Yes, lord," said Mablung. "It is far beyond me to deny such a request. Yet—I beg your pardon—we have no boats on this side of the river. A company passed east recently and has not yet returned."

"It is all right," Aragorn said, ordinary and kind and human again. "If Faramir is on the other side of the river, we will swim to him."

"If that is your choice, lord," said Mablung.

Éomer, however, looked on the river ahead of them with dismay. The island in the middle of the river was sharp rock; the waters of the Anduin deep and swift and strong, breaking hard against the rocks, spraying arcs of roaring foam.

"You may wait for a boat if you do not want to swim," one of the other rangers told Éomer, for his feelings about the crossing were plain on his face.

"Nay!" Éomer cried. "I will go where Aragorn leads me."

Mablung showed Aragorn the best place to cross. Meanwhile, Sauron advised Éomer in removing his boots and adjusting his burdens so that they were secure and rode high on his back.

"We will leave our horses in your care," Éomer told the other ranger. "If you can use them, make free."

"Such a gift is welcome indeed," said the ranger. "We thank Rohan heartily."

Aragorn made the crossing first. He was swept downstream instantly and swiftly, but he kept his head and gave great, strong strokes alongside the current at a slight angle, instead of fighting it. He ended up far downstream—at least half a mile—but he reached the shores of the island without issue.

Glorfindel went next, and he duplicated Aragorn's path, perhaps cutting a little more lightly and gracefully through the water.

"I deem it best if we cross together," Sauron suggested to Éomer, who still looked on the water with something like fear. Meanwhile, Sauron removed his gloves and his boots, and tied his cloak and his sword to himself more securely.

"I don't know how much help you can be," Éomer said, looking doubtfully at Sauron. "Unless you mean to turn into a great water dragon and bear me across."

Sauron was very startled; he did not know whether to laugh it off as an obvious joke, or explain that he had no idea how to turn into a water dragon, if such a thing even existed. Sauron himself could cross as a crow, but he could not - at his present strength - manage to take a larger flying form than that, and a crow could not help Éomer.

"Shapeshifting requires extensive study and a thorough knowledge of anatomy and physiology," he decided to say, taking the suggestion seriously. "A shapeshifter cannot just imagine a thing and become it. That is, not if you want a working set of lungs and limbs after shapeshifting."

Éomer gave him a wry smile. "I was joking," he assured Sauron. He made his way to the rocky shore, and jumped into the water.

Sauron wasted no time, but dove in after him.

Éomer did all right at first, but in the middle and swiftest part of the current, he lost his head and tried to cut directly against the flow of the stream. He was sucked under, and Sauron lost sight of him.

Sauron turned his strokes downstream and in a few minutes, caught up with Éomer. The man was disoriented and confused, lost in the current and heading further underwater. Sauron dove, dragging him upright, straightening him out, and pulling his head above the surface as he aligned both of them to swim with the current.

Panicking, Éomer lost his head and fought him. Fortunately for both of them, Sauron was much stronger than him. Sauron held him steady in an iron grip with one hand, and kicked and splashed with the other hand. Burdened as he was, all he could do was to swim with the current for a long time, cutting east only in marginal increments. This strategy eventually extracted them from the strongest part of the current, until they could finally make their way—slowly and tediously—to a fold of the eastern bank, where the water slowed in small eddies and allowed them to climb out of the river.

He dragged Éomer up onto the banks, where he could cough up all the water from his lungs on dry land.

Sauron put his boots back on, then stood and scouted around. They had been swept so far downstream that they were not on the island. They were on the eastern shores of Anduin, in Ithilien itself.

He returned to Éomer, who was taking stock of himself.

"I am unhurt, and I have not lost my sword or my pack," Éomer said, marveling. "But I fear I am not destined to be a great waterman."

Sauron laughed. "I do not like the water either," he admitted. "So we have that in common."

"Give me a horseback ride any day," Éomer grumbled, pouring water out of his boots and putting them back on his feet. "And now I have made a fool of myself in front of Aragorn!"

"I am sure he is not thinking anything like that," Sauron tried to reassure him.

They walked upstream for some time, perhaps a league or so, until they found the other members of their company and Mablung, all of whom were very glad to see them. Indeed, no one had any words of remonstration for Éomer; they were all delighted he had crossed safely.

"I fear I owe you my life," Éomer said to Sauron as they turned and followed Mablung up the banks of another stream flowing from the east.

"Oh my, no, not in the least," Sauron said, truly alarmed by such a concept. "I disclaim any such thing absolutely. You do not owe me anything," he said, as firmly as he could.

"Many thousands of the men of Rohan owe you their lives as well," Éomer said in a low voice. "I do not think as Aragorn fears, that it is a deception. I am glad to be walking—and swimming!—at your side."

"You should not say such things," Sauron said, feeling something stab inside his chest. Did Éomer even know who he was speaking to? "You have no idea what you're saying."

"Do not take me for a fool," Éomer said, his eyes flashing. "I saw you on the walls of Isengard, and I knew my guess was right when you spoke of Lord Celebrimbor. I know you originally caused these wars and brought great strife to my people. That does not mean it is worthless that you fight to fix things now. Our need is great at the present hour and were the decision given to me, I would not turn down help in any form."

Sauron was utterly astonished, and he did not know what to say or how to feel. He cast a sideways glance at his companion, and the pains in his chest did not ease. They grew worse.

"We have fallen behind," he said, for lack of anything else at all to say. "We should hurry to catch up with the others."

Chapter Text

The company walked upstream for another few hours before Mablung told them to halt, and wait for him. He disappeared into the woods, and was not gone long. He returned with Faramir.

Faramir was tall, with dark hair and gray eyes that were keen and stern. He was unmistakable as a man of Westernesse in bearing and manner.

"My man claims you bear the sword of Elendil," were Faramir's first words to Aragorn. "How is that possible?"

Aragorn moved his cloak to display it. "My father, and his father before him, all the way to Isildur himself, have passed down the shards of Narsil to their sons. It has been reforged anew by the elves, and I take it into battle against those who would threaten Gondor!"

Although no one could be seen, hidden amongst the trees, many voices of astonishment, and hope, broke out around them, revealing that Faramir had not come alone to greet the visitors.

Faramir looked at the sword hilt for a long time. "May I see it?" he finally asked.

Aragorn drew the sword, and laid it bare across his hands, displaying the length of the hilt and the blade. It seemed to be lit by a fire from within, a sharp glittering thing of many ages.

"It is exactly like to the murals we have," Faramir murmured. "The sword that cut the ring from Sauron's hand!"

Aragorn remained silent, and heroically resisted the urge to look at Sauron to see his expression.

"A wonder of ages past brought to life now when we need it most," Faramir continued. "We have been without any hope for many years now."

"For the younger years of my life, I was named Estel, or hope," Aragorn told him. "Will you not take counsel with me?"

"It is not within my power to recognize a claim to the throne of Gondor," Faramir said carefully. "Yet counsel—that will I gladly take with you. It is another command which I cannot gainsay that no stranger, not even one of Rohan that fights with us, shall see the path we now go with open eyes. I must blindfold you."

Aragorn consented for himself, but did not feel he could consent on behalf of any others in his company. It was a non-issue: Glorfindel and Éomer consented right away, and to Aragorn's surprise, so did Sauron.

They went uphill roughly another hour, eventually having their sight returned inside a great cave carved out of stone behind a magnificent waterfall. Faramir offered the company food and drink, and withdrew to sit with Aragorn alone, in a smaller chamber.

"I do not know what to say," Faramir said, his light eyes fixed intently on Aragorn. "My heart would be easy for the first time in many years if what you say is true. For my part, I would be overjoyed to serve a king on the restored throne. Yet I am but the younger son of the Steward of Gondor, and further, it is the Council of Gondor who shall have the final say in these matters."

"I will not make a disputed claim to be debated in great halls and distract the lords from the looming war," Aragorn declared. "I will come to Gondor, invited and welcomed as Elendil's heir, or not at all. I am not here for your support in such a thing. I am here because I think the forces you have east of the Anduin are in very grave danger, and I wish to help."

"Yes," Faramir said. "I am certain we are in danger. Minas Morgul's menace grows harder to bear with every day. But what are we to do? We must hold both Cair Andros and Osgiliath until we are forced away or slain. It is not within my authority—and it is not my inclination—to abandon my post."

"A vast host of orcs has gathered in Minas Morgul," Aragorn said. "There are few left in Mordor to spill out of the Black Gates in this direction. I judge that Cair Andros is not threatened, but it is Osgiliath where the hammer will fall. It is not prudent to attempt to keep the eastern bank in light of such numbers assembled against you."

Wonder entered Faramir's eyes. "How do you know these things? Our scouts cannot get a look into any of these places. Or if they do, they do not come back."

For answer, Aragorn swung the bag off his shoulder and placed it on the table. He opened it and showed Faramir the contents.

"Palantíri," Faramir said with a sharp intake of breath. "But how? I thought they were lost!"

"This is the stone of Orthanc," Aragorn said, gesturing at one, "and this the stone of Minas Ithil," gesturing to the other. "They were indeed lost to the men of Westernesse, but I have recovered them."

"How is that possible?" Faramir asked.

Aragorn briefly explained Saruman's double dealings, his threats against Rohan, and then his triple-treachery and subsequent defeat in battle against Sauron.

"My goodness," Faramir said. "You have been busy. So that threat is ended, and Rohan means to help us in our war?"

"Yes," Aragorn said. "If you send for them. Éomer is here to assure you as much. He is King Théoden's sister-son."

"That is up to my father," Faramir replied swiftly. "And what about the Ithil-stone, how did you come to find it? For it was taken, we thought, by the Nazgûl who entered and made that place evil."

"It was so taken," Aragorn agreed. "A friend recovered it and gave it to me."

He said nothing else. Faramir gave him a sharp glance, but did not inquire further. Instead, he looked back to the palantíri on the table with fascination and wonder.

"May I?" Faramir asked, holding out a hand to hover above one.

"If you wish," Aragorn said. "You have my leave to try. I judge that the blood of Númenor runs as true in you as it does in me. You may find the palantíri easier to use than Saruman or Sauron did!"

Faramir did not respond. He closed his eyes and placed his hand on the Orthanc-stone.

Aragorn watched him closely, but he was in no distress. As Aragorn had judged, the stone responded readily to his claim and his desire to look within it. Yet his expression was uneasy when he released the stone and looked into Aragorn's eyes.

"I did not see the things you described, armies leaving Mordor and gathering in Minas Morgul," he said, after a period of silence. "Instead, I saw you. I am utterly convinced of the truth of your claim, and my heart rejoices in your arrival and I long to serve you and see you restore Gondor to her full glory, reunited with her sister kingdom of the north."

Faramir paused, and Aragorn sensed there was a 'but' coming.

"Yet your path is shadowed. Take care, Aragorn, son of Arathorn! There is something dark at your side, a menace the palantír would not unshroud for me."

"I see," Aragorn said, doubt stabbing at him again.

"Do you?" Faramir asked.

"I do not know."

Faramir sighed. "I have given my warning. The rest is in your hands. What is it you would have the rangers of Ithilien do, lord?"

"We should ride to Osgiliath," Aragorn said.

"My brother, Boromir, commands that city," Faramir said. "He will not understand why I deserted my post."

"He will be glad of it, when the Witch-king attacks," Aragorn said mildly.

Faramir and Aragorn rejoined the rest of the men in the main hall. The rangers served a hearty dinner and wine to their guests, and Faramir took counsel with Éomer about the strength of Rohan and how quickly the muster could arrive. Then, the business of war set aside for a time, Faramir addressed Glorfindel, who he seemed to hold in awe, and Glorfindel sung them a tale of the defeat of the Witch-king in Angmar.

"Alas, that he was not finished off forever," cried Mablung after it was told.

"Such accomplishments may be beyond us," Glorfindel replied. "Yet fight and resist him we must."

"Why has the Witch-king harried the Men of the West for so long?" asked another ranger. "His doings always seem to be aimed at our downfall, with consequences for other races as but collateral damage. He seems to hate us especially."

Glorfindel was silent, and said nothing, but Sauron stirred himself. He had been drinking quite a lot of wine, Aragorn noticed. He had not removed his gloves for this meal, and had in fact not consumed anything but wine.

"He is one of you," Sauron said. His voice was distant and... sad. "He was once a great lord of Númenor. In a time of dissension and unrest concerning the ruler's behavior, he made a claim for the throne. He had the lineage to support it, if the present ruler were overthrown.

"But his attempt to wrest power from his distant cousin failed. Although he spoke fair words upon losing this contest, a great bitterness settled within him. He went to Umbar with the secret intention of raising its forces against the king, and there he opened his heart to Sauron... for the promise of dominion over Númenor.

"He has ever wanted it—the Land of the Star; and after it was destroyed, the Realms in Exile. He believes it is rightfully his, and he is only claiming what is owed him."

The table was silent, spellbound. Sauron was swirling his wine and looking in it, not meeting the eyes of anyone else.

"He had five sons and one daughter, and they in turn had many children. The precise records of his family were lost with the island. But we know that some of them went to Middle-earth with him before the Downfall, and settled here for good. He is your kin, and you are his. It is entirely possible that his blood runs in your veins."

"So he wishes to rule rather than destroy?" asked one of the rangers, when Sauron fell silent and it seemed he would not speak again.

"Not that we would ever consent to be ruled by him," Mablung added quickly.

"Well," Sauron said slowly. "Understand, he... he lost his will to Sauron long ago. He may not know what he wants anymore. But he sees now the deception, the broken promises. He understands he was never going to himself gain the scepter of Númenor by conquering it for Sauron. His wrath is... very great."

A collective shudder ran up and down the table.

"What was his name?" Faramir asked in a quiet voice.

Sauron shook his head. "I will not say it. Better that that stay lost."

After dinner, Faramir told Aragorn he would give him a decision in the morning. Beds were spread out for the visitors, and three of Aragorn's company fell asleep promptly.

Some undetermined amount of time later, Aragorn woke when someone stepped over him and moved away toward the waterfall.

Aragorn perceived in the dim light of the cave that it was Sauron. Of course he was not content to lie on a mattress and pretend to sleep all night, and he was ever a night-wanderer. Aragorn was used to it by now. He considered letting it go, but some instinct—perhaps awoken by Faramir's words after looking in the palantír—caused him to get up and follow.

Sauron was hard to see in the dark, somehow fading into the stone of the walls and floor as he walked. He glanced back to see Aragorn rising from his own bed, and placed a finger to his lips. He moved to a narrow doorway in the wall of the cave and passed through it, unseen by the guards.

Aragorn hesitated, but strapped on his sword, put on his boots, wrapped himself in his cloak, and employed his own means of stealth to follow, equally unnoticed by the guards. Sauron led them up a narrow, steep passage and stairway, then emerged out into the forest, still unnoticed by any rangers standing guard. Rather than continuing southwest—downstream, the way they'd come yesterday—he turned and picked a path up the very steep hillside to the east. Directly towards Mordor.

A hand on the hilt of Andúril, Aragorn followed.

"You should not have come," Sauron said to him in a low voice after they were well away from the secret entrance. "Two Nazgûl approach."

"Oh," Aragorn said, understanding—and relief—coming in a flood. His hand left the hilt of his sword. "You did not want to be found by them in Henneth Annûn."

"It did not seem ideal," Sauron agreed, continuing to climb on swift feet, without faltering or pausing to struggle for breath despite the steepness of the slope.

"Which Nazgûl? Why do they come find you now? You have been wandering around for... three months? Without seeing any."

"As I said at dinner, I will not name them. They do not remember their own names. You may think of these two as the Fifth and Sixth, if you like, as I do. The order in which they received their rings. The one on Weathertop was the Ninth. The Witch-king is the First, of course."

That seemed very ill to Aragorn as a way of referring to those who were once men, with hopes and dreams and families and true names of their own, and it settled poorly in his stomach.

"How do you know they are here?" Aragorn asked, his own breath coming fast and hard with the climb.

Sauron did not answer for some time. They reached the apex of the hill, after which the terrain evened out somewhat. The view behind them revealed the waterfall concealing Henneth Annûn. They could see the cliffs of the Ephel Dúath looming ahead of them. Sauron continued straight east.

"Think of it like a breeze on your face," Sauron said. It had been long enough that Aragorn had to cast back to remember the question he'd asked. "You know the direction it is coming from, and you can judge its strength based on the speed at which it passes you. It brings certain information—a cry of a bird on the wing, the taste of rain, perhaps an eddy of leaves.

"This is how the Nine—ah, now the Eight—and I feel to each other. It is not ósanwë, the interchange of thought between two open minds. It is a weakening, a crumbling of walls between master and servants who have been linked for thousands and thousands of years. It is a connection none of us can escape. It flares more strongly if we are thinking about one another.

"It does not provide information or communication so much as feelings or emotions. Rage, regret, betrayal, vengefulness—these are unchanging. I have grown used to feeling them, a wind blowing at my mind from eight separate points. I have learned to tune them out. They do not provide direction or warning or guidance for any of my choices."

Aragorn was sweating from their climb, but he now felt a deep chill pass over him. Faramir's vision in the palantír was not remotely wrong. Aragorn was indeed walking at the side of a great evil.

"I felt a change tonight," Sauron continued. "Two set out to fight me and—well, the direction and feel of the wind changed, if you accept the metaphor. That is the best I can do to explain it. I do not have any information as to why they have decided to do this now."

"And so you accept the challenge?" Aragorn asked. "You go to fight them both?"

"What else can I do?" Sauron asked. "Run from them forever?"

Aragorn once again realized how desperately sorry he felt for Sauron. He would not have traded places with him for anything, not even the fulfillment of all his innermost heart's desires.

"Do the Ringwraiths... get along with one another? Are they allies, do they desire the same things?" Aragorn asked.

"I have no idea," Sauron said. "They don't really know each other. As men, you understand, with wills of their own. I imagine uniting against a hated foe is reason enough to work together, for now."

"It does seem to be enough for many of us," Aragorn murmured quietly.

Sauron did not respond. He walked for another half an hour, until drawing up suddenly short. Sauron had known it before Aragorn, but it was not long in coming to his senses as well: terror, an evil lurking in the night, a looming sense of dread. He felt them before he saw them—the hooded figures with metal gauntlets and long swords.

Sauron and Aragorn drew their swords in unison.

"Oh, no," Sauron said to Aragorn, dismayed. "This is not your fight. You are going to get yourself killed."

"It is not my way to stand aside when my companions are fighting," he said fiercely.

Sauron gaped at him in disbelief. While he gaped, the Nazgûl drew their own swords and held them upright, in both hands. They glided towards Sauron as though pulled in by strings.

"Don't try to stab them, and don't let them stab you," Sauron gasped out, then turned and met the advance of the Nazgûl on the right with a swing of his own blade.

Aragorn had not needed Sauron to tell him that.

"Andúril!" he cried, and charged the Ringwraith on the left.

"You fool," said the Ringwraith—Aragorn wondered, despite himself, whether he was the Fifth or Sixth—and brought his heavy sword to bear down on Aragorn. "You are doomed. You and your kind shall perish from the earth!"

Aragorn dodged, and parried, and spun, and crossed blades again and again with the Ringwraith.

He tired before the Ringwraith did, who seemed to have some evil, endless source of energy. Aragorn feinted, and used the misdirection to disengage and step away from the fight, retreating behind a tree.

The Nazgûl did not follow. He was here for Sauron.

Aragorn scrabbled in the pockets of his cloak for flint, steel, and a bit of lint. He broke off a handful slender, dead branches at the base of the trunk of the nearest tree, and piled them on the dirt with some pinecones. He struck at the flint and steel until a spark was kindled on the lint, coaxing it into life until the sturdier branches burst into a more enduring flame.

Aragorn bundled it all together and stepped back into the clearing.

Sauron was faltering, on the defensive, favoring one arm in the fight and only just parrying the blows from the two Nazgûl. But as Aragorn approached with fire, the Nazgûl emitted terrible, petrifying screams of anger, and one of them threw a knife at Aragorn.

He dodged, then thrust the burning branches into the Nazgûl's face.

The Nazgûl screamed again, a greater and more terrible scream, and retreated. Sauron raised his sword and blocked the second Nazgûl from stabbing Aragorn, just in time. Aragorn threw the rest of his flaming branches at the second Nazgul's face.

Screaming and shrieking, the second Nazgûl also retreated. In the dark underneath the trees opposite the clearing, Aragorn watched as the two Nazgûl swung up on their waiting horses and galloped off to the east.

"Ah, curses," gasped Sauron. "They don't hate fire that much. They've done whatever they came to do."

"What did they come to do?"

"I wish I knew. For me—um, for us, it was a wash. Gûlnatar hurt one of them, but they hurt me, and I didn't get either of their rings."

Sauron was swaying slightly, unsteady on his feet. He stamped out the remains of the fire Aragorn had kindled, then gasped and clutched at his left arm.

"Did one of them stab you?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes," Sauron said. "I was too slow. Curse me to the void if I fight any of them again without my armor."

Aragorn eyed Sauron warily. "What does such an injury do to you?"

"I'm not... entirely sure," he admitted. "It hurts. I attempted to shapeshift but the injury persisted. It has injured me in the Unseen world more than the Seen, I deem."

"You are not going to turn into a wraith, though?"

"No."

"What should we do?" Aragorn asked. "Will athelas help? I have seen it growing all over here, in these fair lands of Ithilien."

"Worth trying," Sauron answered. "And then... find Glorfindel. Assuming he is... willing to help me."

"He will be," Aragorn said with a sigh. "You must stop measuring others according to what you would do."

"Indeed," Sauron murmured. "I would not help someone who killed me and many of my kin for thousands of years."

"I know," Aragorn said heavily. "Come. Let us return."

On their journey back, Aragorn traced and gathered leaves from the athelas plant. Sauron accepted the leaves and thanked him. He removed his gloves and his shirt, revealing a stab-wound on his upper left arm that stank of evil to Aragorn's senses. Sauron cleaned the wound with a mixture of his saliva and the athelas, then tore off a strip of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it around his arm. Aragorn helped him tie it off.

"The fire was a nice touch," Sauron said as they continued to walk. He was going more slowly than he had before. "Thank you. I was going to lose that fight."

"Against only two of them!" Aragorn said doubtfully. "What will you do against all Eight?"

"I go to war in that large shape with heavy impenetrable armor and a great mace for a reason," Sauron said, sounding aggrieved. "Although I hope even with all that, I never find myself facing all Eight at once. I would... ah... run from them, probably."

He said this last part very quickly, like it pained him to admit.

"Sometimes running is the best answer," Aragorn said cautiously. "I am not above it when the circumstances merit."

Sauron did not reply.

"You had an easier time of it with the Ninth," Aragorn observed, hating himself a little for falling into this way of referencing the Nazgûl.

"Celebrían has dwelt in Aman under the eyes of the Valar and walks in both the Seen and Unseen world. Her arrow was anathema to him. I only took advantage of the circumstance."

"They must perceive Glorfindel similarly, then."

"Yes." Sauron paused. "It did not cross my mind that he would come if I asked. I did not seek Celebrían's help either. I would have preferred her to stay far away."

"You have difficulty asking for help in general, I suppose."

"I do not ask anyone else to clean up my messes," Sauron said, and his voice was almost a snarl. He seemed to be struggling for breath, and Aragorn dropped the conversation.

Slowly, and Aragorn suspected a bit painfully, he made his way down the hill and found the secret entrance to Henneth Annûn.

"Halt!" cried a ranger, stepping out with an arrow strung on a bow and trained directly at Sauron's chest. "Strangers who dare to come to Henneth Annûn forfeit their lives."

Aragorn surged forward in alarm, holding up his hands.

It was unfortunate that they had not stopped to ask Faramir to escort them in and out. It was also unfortunate that they had been somewhat less stealthy in coming back than they had in leaving. He suspected Sauron's injury was to blame for that. It radiated evil to Aragorn's senses, and likely that had alerted these rangers as well.

Sauron clutched at his arm, and swayed a little on his feet. He said nothing.

"It will take more than a blindfold to fool a Dúnedain Ranger of the North as to where you are leading him," Aragorn said sternly. "I could trace these steps again with my eyes closed or open. We have been invited in by Faramir, and we ask you for passage inside again."

"Faramir is here," said Faramir's voice, stepping out of the passageway to look at Sauron and Aragorn. He was hard and grim. "Damrod speaks true. The penalty is death. It is by order of my father that we must eliminate any who discover the secret path."

"I've known where this place was for decades," Sauron said, a bit nastily. "Don't be absurd."

Faramir gave Sauron a low, long, searching look. He examined Sauron's arm and his hand, clutched around the makeshift bandage and displaying the missing finger. Then he turned to Aragorn and raised one eyebrow.

"I apologize," Aragorn said. "We sensed Nazgûl approaching, and left to offer them battle, far away from your fortress. We did fight them, and Halbrand is injured. It seems his attitude suffers in proportion."

"Nazgûl!" Faramir repeated in distress. "Are they following you?"

"No," Aragorn replied. "We chased them off with fire. They fled south. I acknowledge we should have told you where we were going. Nonetheless, you see you cannot invite us in a place and still hide its location from us. You must decide whether a law is always worth enforcing, no matter the circumstances."

"A soldier obeys orders," Faramir said unhappily, and drew his sword.

Aragorn tensed. Beside him, he felt rather than observed Sauron go cold and still. A deep misgiving smote him, and he feared they stood on the brink of disaster.

But Faramir bent a knee, going to the ground, and laid his sword at Aragorn's feet. "I, Faramir son of Denethor, Ruling Steward of Gondor, do swear fealty and service to Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur and of Elendil. I acknowledge and proclaim him as rightful High King of all the Dúnedain, and shall do whatever he commands, though it be at odds with other commands laid upon me."

The men gathered around them murmured and stepped back, lowering their weapons and giving Aragorn great looks of awe. Damrod also lowered his bow and loosened the arrow on the string. He looked away from Sauron and he, too, gave Aragorn a look of mingled wonder, awe, and hope.

Aragorn stooped, picked up the sword, and handed it back to Faramir as he helped Faramir to his feet. "I accept your oath, and will reward service freely given with love and honor. For tonight... I deem it best if we all go back to bed."

Aragorn proceeded down the steps and narrow passage into the tunnel. Murmurs of "The king! The king has returned!" broke out all around him. Aragorn gave them all very patient nods of acknowledgement. Faramir followed, ordering the men to go back to sleep, and then withdrawing into the back of the cavern as Aragorn headed for Glorfindel.

Glorfindel was sitting up on his mattress, giving Aragorn a wry smile. "You certainly do know how to cause trouble, King Elessar."

"It is all Halbrand's fault," Aragorn said lightly, switching into Quenya. He knew the men of Gondor spoke Sindarin, but he judged it safe to speak in the ancient, nearly lost tongue of the High Elves.

"Did I hear correctly that you went to confront Nazgûl without me?" Glorfindel asked archly. He smoothly accepted Aragorn's choice of Quenya for this conversation. "My feelings are hurt. What use do you think I am in this company!"

"I wanted to go without anyone," Sauron said wearily, also in Quenya. He was still clutching his arm and looked pale. "I did not ask Aragorn to come."

"He was injured by a Morgul blade, and believes you can help him," Aragorn explained to Glorfindel.

Glorfindel darted a very sharp look at Sauron. "You were injured by a Morgul blade?"

"Yes," Sauron said. It sounded like he was speaking from between clenched teeth.

"Fascinating," Glorfindel said, his expression unreadable. "What sort of injury?"

He patted the space beside him on the mattress, and Sauron sat down. Glorfindel undid the bandage around his arm, and examined the wound carefully.

"You know I am not a healer," Glorfindel said. "Although perhaps you are right that I have more skill than anyone else here. What have you done to treat it?"

"Athelas," Sauron answered, "and—well, with most wounds, I can just... shift my body into its previous, unwounded shape. That did not work with this one."

"You have given the Nazgûl considerable power over you," Glorfindel said gravely, examining the wound. "You poured much of yourself into them, over the years. Not, I judge, as much as you took. But enough."

"Accurate," Sauron said, his tone and affect flat and chilly.

"Do you really judge that I can heal it?" Glorfindel said, and he appeared doubtful.

"Oh, yes," Sauron said. "There is no reason your skill will not work on this body. It is not... you would use the word 'tainted,' with 'foul arts,' as some of my other shapes are."

"Very well," Glorfindel said. "I will do my best."

Aragorn fell back asleep to the sound of soft Elven chanting.

Sauron was sleeping soundly when Aragorn woke in the morning. Glorfindel was already up and breakfasting with the rangers. Aragorn rose, splashed some water on his face, and went to join them.

"The king!" one of the rangers said, with a strange light in his eye. "Is it true?"

"I am Isildur's heir," Aragorn agreed patiently. "But I come to fight as a soldier for Gondor, not claim a throne."

"Surely it is a sign that we will prevail," said Mablung.

Faramir arrived and clasped Mablung on the shoulder. "Leave Aragorn in peace to eat his breakfast," he admonished gently. The rangers, a bit flustered, all hurried to obey and turned to conversation with one another.

"How is Halbrand's wound?" Faramir asked Glorfindel.

"It is not fatal," Glorfindel said. Aragorn could not tell if he was being funny, or actually thought that was somehow helpful information about an immortal being. "We should let him rest, for now."

Faramir took a chair, and looked at Aragorn for a long time, drumming his fingers on the table. "What were Nazgûl doing here? I thought they were believed to be moving on Osgiliath?"

"We did believe that," Aragorn said. "We do not know what they were doing here. They were not accompanied by orcs. I hope we gave them something to think about before coming to us on their own again."

"Is it not a sign that we should... not desert this place to defend Osgiliath?" Faramir asked carefully.

Aragorn frowned. "That is a good question."

He turned to his breakfast, thinking hard.

"No," Aragorn said as they all finished eating, having made up his mind. "Two Nazgûl without an orc army do not change my mind. If they cross the river here, they cross the river here. They are capable of making mischief on either bank. We should leave, cross at Cair Andros ourselves, and come to Osgiliath from the western bank. If the Witch-king has not attacked yet, we will advise Lord Boromir to retreat from the eastern bank. If we come upon the middle of a battle—we will fight."

"And the third possibility—if we are too late?" Faramir asked.

"Then we retreat to Minas Tirith as best we may," Aragorn said grimly.

"Very well," Faramir said. "I will make ready to do this."

Aragorn and his companions helped the rangers pack supplies and organize what would be left in the caves. It was mid-afternoon when Sauron found them, eyes wild in a pale face. He was wearing a borrowed shirt from a ranger that fit him ill.

"It was a diversion," Sauron said in Quenya, his words coming very fast and somewhat slurred. "They came only to distract and try to injure me. They know my intentions roughly as well as I know theirs, and they have felt me softening to you. They know I seek to ally with Gondor. They have launched their attack while I lay here unconscious and injured."

"Woah," Aragorn said. "Slow down. What?"

"The Fifth and the Sixth came here just to distract me from the fact that the Witch-king emptied Minus Morgul and began to march on Osgiliath last night!" Sauron cried impatiently. "He has been on the move all day, for hours and hours. If he is not there now, he will be soon."

"And you know this because...." Aragorn prompted.

"Look in the Ithil-stone, maybe it will show you," Sauron said. "I can tell because he... the Witch-king feels warlike. He is marching. I just know."

Aragorn did look into the Ithil-stone. As usual, he lacked control over what he saw. But also as usual, it showed the forces of the Witch-king, because that was Denethor's focus. And although it was difficult to tell where they were precisely, Sauron was right: they were on the move.

"We will be too late," Aragorn surmised with a sinking heart, looking back up at his friends. "That is forty miles away from here as the crow flies, and if Morgul has many hours of marching on us, we have no hope."

Glorfindel and Sauron looked back at him grimly; Éomer raised an eyebrow.

"I do not understand what you're saying," Éomer said politely.

"I apologize," Aragorn told Éomer in the common tongue. "Bear with us a moment longer."

Aragorn addressed Sauron in Quenya again. "You can fly there and bear a message and warn them that they must retreat from the eastern bank."

Sauron looked even more upset. "I am not suited to be a messenger in this instance. If Boromir has orders from Denethor to hold the eastern bank, there is nothing I can say to convince him otherwise. That is—I assume you do not wish for me to use deception to make it happen."

"You assume correctly," Aragorn said. "Thank you."

"And it would still take me two or three hours to fly there! Probably too late even so."

"What about your flying beasts? They are swifter than a crow, are they not?"

"Considerably! They are probably twice as fast. However, they live in the northern mountains of Mordor, hundreds of miles from here. It is possible some are out hunting, but the chance of them coming in time remains unlikely."

"You should at least try," Aragorn said. "What is the harm in trying?"

"Yes, all right," Sauron conceded. He turned abruptly to stride to the front of the cave, ducked into a small doorway, and mounted the winding stair. After many, many stairs, they emerged into daylight, standing on top of a rocky outcrop far above the pool below.

Sauron threw his head back and gave a piercing whistle.

"How close do they have to be to hear that?" Aragorn said, doubting his suggestion after all.

"Ah, they will all hear it," Sauron answered. "There is some sorcery in it. But it does not mean they can come any faster for having heard it."

"How long should we wait?"

Sauron scanned the empty skies. "Half an hour? East Osgiliath is doomed if we leave on foot now, or in half an hour."

Aragorn wrung his hands. "I should have moved more quickly! I have wasted so much time."

"None of this is your fault," Sauron said bitterly. "I... I believe I provoked them. They might have stayed indecisive longer had I not befriended you."

"Befriended!" Aragorn said, a bitter smile on his lips despite his efforts to keep a straight face. "I would not go that far."

"No," Sauron said, looking away from Aragorn into the distance. "Of course not."

Aragorn got the distinct impression he had hurt Sauron's feelings. He did not have the chance to say anything else on the topic, though; Sauron kept speaking.

"I wonder if I should leave you," Sauron mused. "Go back to Mordor as you suggested earlier. Fight my battles and let you fight yours."

"What do you consider to be your battle to fight?"

"I have no idea," Sauron said frankly. "Solving the problem of the Nine—Eight—however I can. Perhaps I should make another ring."

"That is not funny," Aragorn said sharply.

Sauron was silent.

"No," he said at length. "It isn't."

"What would it profit you to go to Mordor at this juncture?" Glorfindel asked. "To send five thousand orcs against forty?"

"I will if I must," Sauron said. "I nurture some hope that the forty thousand will not find it easy to stand against me. They are not Saruman's uruk-hai, bred specifically to resist me, but rather have been serving me all their life."

They stood silent for a few minutes. A disturbance on the stairwell alerted Aragorn, and he turned to find Faramir appearing from within the shadows.

Faramir was looking very ill at ease.

"An oath sworn under a grave misapprehension is not, I judge, an oath that merits keeping," Faramir said to Aragorn in the common tongue, sounding stricken. "Are you working with the Enemy?"

Aragorn stood very still. He looked at Faramir; Faramir looked back at him.

"You judged correctly that my men do not, but I know enough Quenya to have followed almost all of your conversation," Faramir added in a low voice.

"Sauron destroyed the One Ring," Aragorn said, abruptly making the decision to trust Faramir, switching to the common tongue as well. "He unmade it and gave up its powers of controlling and enslaving the wills of others. In doing so, he lost control of the Nine, and has asked to work with Gondor to defeat them. The Nine want Gondor, but they also wish to revenge themselves on Sauron for his deception and their millennia of slavery. For now, our purposes are the same."

Faramir's eyes were very wide.

"And you... believe that? On his word alone?" Faramir asked, his breath coming fast and shallow. He seemed unable to bring himself to look at Sauron.

"The Wise have assured me that the One Ring is indeed gone," Aragorn said. "As for his motivations in allying with me... I have come to believe them, yes."

"But he is the most infamous deceiver to have walked the earth," Faramir whispered.

"Yes," Aragorn said.

"I understand my vision in the palantír now," Faramir continued. "I did not misapprehend anything."

"You did not."

"Do you... trust him?"

Aragorn hesitated. He was torn. But he could not say yes. "No."

"Then why are you standing here with him!" Faramir cried, looking deeply wounded.

Aragorn considered the question. "I pity him," he said.

Faramir cast a look of utter disbelief at Aragorn. "You are showing him the secrets of the Men of the West and following his advice in matters of war because you feel sorry for him."

Aragorn could not answer that.

Faramir rounded on Sauron suddenly. "Will you stand there and say nothing!"

Sauron's eyes were shadowed. "What do you want me to say?"

"Why should we believe anything from you?"

"I have nothing to say in my defense," he said quietly. "It has been a very long time since I have done anything right. I cannot tell if I am doing right now."

"Oh, are we having this debate again," Éomer said, raising his voice slightly.

Sauron passed a hand across his eyes, and laughed a little. "Always," he said.

"I cannot tell you whether he is lying or not," Éomer said to Faramir. "I can only tell you what I saw. For many years, I have watched as King Théoden has sat in darkness, madness slowly descending on him, while Saruman bespelled him and encroached on us in ways both large and small. Saruman's lies were aimed at turning the king against his most loyal servants, especially his son and myself. Meanwhile, Saruman gathered ten thousand spears to march against us."

Éomer drew a deep breath. "Gandalf freed King Théoden from Saruman's spell, and we marched on Isengard. When we arrived, I saw the ruin of all Saruman's works in Isengard. I saw thousands of slain orcs, both his and those that fought against him. I saw a shape of fire and shadow cast Saruman to his death.

"And I saw Sauron, present in his armor seated upon a great flying beast on the battlefield. He had defeated Saruman at nearly no cost to Rohan. Then I saw him withdraw, along with all his orcs, leaving the field and the tower to us.

"If this was all part of a greater deception, I am wrong and I shall pay dearly for it, I suppose. But I am not wrong about what happened in Isengard."

Faramir listened to this story quietly and intently, his head tilted slightly. He, in his turn, drew a deep breath when Éomer had finished. Then he turned to Aragorn, desperation in his eyes.

"Tell me—swear to me on the Ring of Barahir—that you mean well by Gondor and are not deceiving us in the name of the Enemy. And I will bow to your judgment."

Aragorn glanced down at the ring on his finger; he had not thought about Arwen's words until now. Not that it was surprising, but she had been right! The heirloom inspired immense respect among the Men of the West, perhaps even more so than the sword of Elendil.

"I swear to you, on the Ring of Barahir, that I love and desire only to serve Gondor and the Men of the West. If by my life or death I can protect her, I will."

"Very well," Faramir said slowly, although there was still something unhappy in his eyes. "I accept your oath. What do we do now?"

"Look!" Glorfindel said, pointing to the sky in the south. "While you were arguing and doubting one another, an answer has been approaching."

"Oh," said Sauron, feelingly. "Oh. Glorfindel! That is the mount the Witch-king stole. She heard my call and left him for me!"

Sauron was fiercely, deeply glad; he stood up straighter and his eyes were alight. It was a very human passion and joy, and Aragorn was not unmoved by it.

The little gathering at the top of the Henneth Annûn stood and watched the approach of the flying beast. The speck in the sky grew larger and larger as she approached, until Aragorn began to doubt whether she could land on the rocky outcrop on which they were standing.

She managed it, somehow, her claws scrabbling for balance and wrapping herself around the sharp pinnacles of rock. She stretched her fearsome head towards them, alarming everyone except Sauron, whose face she licked with a huge tongue like an oversized dog.

Sauron laughed, wiped his face off with his sleeve, and then took her head in his hands and kissed the beast between her eyes. "You are the very best creature on this earth," he crooned to her in the Black Speech. "You are perfect and beautiful and loyal beyond my deserving. Forget that nasty Witch-king, we are together now and shall not be parted again."

"Must you speak in that tongue?" Faramir asked.

Sauron rubbed his hand along the beast's head affectionately, without looking at Faramir. "It is the language she understands," he said softly, switching back to the common tongue.

"Delightful," Faramir said, without a trace of delight.

"Do we ride to Osgiliath or not?" Sauron demanded.

"We ride," Aragorn said. "How many can she bear?"

"Well, there is technically room for all of us, and she is strong enough," Sauron said. "But it is not very secure to perch below her neck and above her long wings with nothing to grip. I suppose if you all hold on to one another...."

As he spoke, Sauron was untangling and removing what looked like the remains of a sort of huge bridle that had been partially destroyed and was hanging limply around the beast's neck.

"I leave it to you to decide whether to accompany us," Aragorn addressed Faramir. "If you do not fly with us, please let me know if you will bring your men to west Osgiliath as quickly as they can travel."

Faramir shook his head. "You are my king and I have determined to trust your judgment. I will fly with you and convince Boromir to retreat. I will relay the orders to my men to go to Osgiliath. I don't suppose we can expect them there any quicker than two, maybe three days."

Faramir descended down the staircase, along with Aragorn and Éomer.

Aragorn sought out Damrod and handed him the bag with the palantíri. "Bring these safely to Minas Tirith," Aragorn instructed. "At any cost, even the desertion of your post or cowardice in the face of an enemy advance. They must not fall into the Witch-king's hands again!"

"It shall be done, my lord—I mean, my king. I will not fail you."

Éomer, meanwhile, grabbed the company's other bags for travel. The three returned to the top of the waterfall. Sauron helped Éomer secure the bags and then jumped onto the beast's neck. He settled there, then leaned down and held out a hand in an offer to help the next person up.

Everyone hesitated save Éomer, who took the hand and stepped swiftly up the side of the beast and settled behind Sauron. He then helped the other three climb up in turn.

There was indeed nothing to hold and no purchase for one's feet, when sitting on the long narrow back above the wide wings composed of a thin membrane. They clung to each other and a desperate hope that the flight would be smooth.

"Let's go, Lashak," Sauron murmured to the beast softly in the Black Speech. "South, fast and steady as you can."

The take-off was unfortunately not very steady, and everyone risked tumbling off, but they held on tight, and persevered. Lashak climbed to a great height in no time and leveled off to fly almost precisely due south. Aragorn had not previously appreciated the true measure of the speed of these beasts in the air; granted, he had only seen one flying away from Isengard very briefly. They flew much faster than a crow, perhaps even as fast as a falcon.

The view was breathtaking, better than any Aragorn had ever seen from a mountaintop. They soared higher than the peaks of the Ered Nimrais, and everything beneath them was unimaginably small. Aragorn traced the silver of the great river working its way through forests, widening and stretching far away in front of them to the ocean. Aragorn could see the sweep of the valley between Minas Morgul and Minas Tirith, the two towers that used to represent the best strength of the race of men, straddling Osgiliath in the center. He appreciated as never before how together they commanded the valley, facing each other and set against the side of their respective mountains.

And he saw the march of the orcs. This far overhead, they were but ants. It was a very, very long line of black things crawling on the road between Osgiliath and Minas Morgul.

Aragorn twisted around to look behind him. "How many do you count?" Aragorn shouted to Glorfindel over the noise of the wind.

"They march ten abreast and the line stretches for more than a league of the road. There are more than forty thousand, but less than fifty. Let's call it forty-five. The first of them are roughly half an hour from the walls of Osgiliath."

"How many Nazgûl?"

"I see four," Glorfindel answered.

"There are seven around here," Sauron corrected from his perch at the front of the beast. "The two we fought last night are riding south through Ithilien. I do not know whether they are headed to Osgiliath or Minas Morgul."

"And where is the third one that I do not see?" Glorfindel shouted up at him.

Sauron pointed to Minas Morgul.

"One stays behind to protect the tower, and does not march?" Aragorn guessed. "And what about the eighth and final Nazgûl, does he not gather here?"

"Yes, there is one missing," said Sauron. "It's very hard to tell where he is when I am surrounded by the others. All I know is I do not feel him here."

There was a black, thick cloud between the sun and the march of the orcs, and Lashak eventually came to fly within it. It was wet and dark, and they were momentarily blinded to all else. Lashak dove sharply, swiftly emerging from the fog and landing in a small clearing in the forest about a mile from Osgiliath.

"I won't risk arrows from the city by landing any closer," Sauron said. "We can go on foot from here."

They dismounted and shouldered their packs.

"Fly back to Mordor," Sauron instructed Lashak in the Black Speech. "And do not listen to the Witch-king again! The Nazgûl are the enemy!"

Lashak nuzzled her nose against Sauron's arm, then launched herself back into the air, heading northeast.

They ran. They made it to the outskirts of the ruined city before the march of the orcs. As they approached, Faramir gave a series of whistles and shouted in Sindarin: "A ranger approaches!"

This proved to be sufficient to gain them safe passage into the city. The men of Gondor manning the city were dressed very differently from the rangers: in silver, shining armor with gleaming helmets, sweeping black cloaks, great shields, and tall spears.

"Lord Faramir," one of them greeted him. "We did not look for your coming. What goes amiss?"

"Forty-five thousand orcs descend on this place as we speak," Faramir said. "Where is my brother?"

"Forty-five thousand!" gasped the guard, his jaw going slack.

"Where is Boromir!"

"Faramir!" cried a new voice. He greatly resembled Faramir, but for their garb—same eyes, same hair, same proud sternness in his eye. "What happened? Where is your company?"

"Boromir," Faramir said, and the brothers clasped arms in greeting. "We have no time. Forty-five thousand orcs have emptied from Minas Morgul, and the vanguard is minutes away. You see already the evil cloud the sorcerer king has drawn over the sun to conceal their march. We must abandon the eastern bank and destroy the bridge."

Boromir listened to all of this with careful attention. When Faramir finished, he did not question him, but turned and called out to another guard.

"Aramid," he shouted. "Aramid!"

"Lord Boromir?" said the other guard, hurrying over to them.

"Has the latest scouting party returned?"

"No, lord, and they are well overdue. We have started to worry."

Boromir turned back to Faramir, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "You are sure of this?"

"I flew here—no doubt some of your men observed a great beast landing a little ways away—and saw them with my own eyes. Yes."

Boromir looked at Faramir for another long second or two, then nodded. He turned and started roaring orders for the men to gather everything they could and cross the bridge to the western banks, without a second to lose.

Aragorn and his company leapt in to help. The men of Gondor quickly organized a chain of men to carry boxes of supplies—food, additional weapons, clothing, armor, medicine—and empty the posts they had established on the eastern bank.

"Destroy the bridge," Boromir ordered a company of twenty of so men he seemed to have handpicked for the task. They handed their shields and spears off to the men emptying the eastern bank, and took up great hammers that must have weighed fifty pounds each.

They were the last ones over. As the forces of Gondor retreated across the bridge to the west, the men with hammers began destroying the stone that secured the bridge to the wall on the eastern bank. They were methodical, and precise. They rotated men every ten minutes, and knew how not to risk their own footing. Once the stone was crumbled, they retreated to the first great support set in the bed of the river, and knocked down the stone east of it.

No one said anything as Sauron took his turn at the stone, moving as swiftly and surely as any of the men of Gondor.

Aragorn wondered if he enjoyed destroying what Gondor had built, or if he just really liked swinging around a great heavy hammer. Or... was Aragorn being cynical, and Sauron was simply lending his superior physical strength to the task of being helpful?

When the crew had completed their task, they were on the western bank and the bridge had crumbled away into the river, leaving only two sets of great stone posts as abandoned isles in the rushing water.

They finished the retreat without a second to spare. As the men lined up to take positions in the shelter of the ruined buildings on the western bank, a scout positioned on top of a nearby tower shouted that orcs were spilling into the eastern half of the city.

"Keep watch on them," Boromir ordered his men. "Save your arrows. If there really are forty-five thousand, we have none to spare."

"Do you have extra armor for us?" Faramir asked. "If there is to be a pitched battle, it would be helpful."

"Sadly for us, and luckily for you, we have many sets of empty armor," Boromir said. "We are far fewer than used to be stationed here."

He led them to a crumbling building serving as an armory. Aragorn's company could take their pick, and everyone found armor that fit reasonably well. Faramir and Glorfindel had their own bows and quivers, while everyone else in Aragorn's company accepted a loan from Boromir's supplies.

"Well then," Boromir said after they had been outfitted, surveying the company with his arms crossed over his chest. "I think you all have some explaining to do."

Chapter Text

Faramir remained calm and collected in the face of his brother's questioning. Sauron had to admire his poise.

Faramir introduced everyone—Aragorn and Halbrand, Glorfindel of Rivendell, Éomer of Rohan—and explained that Aragorn had arrived to Henneth Annûn with tidings of war. They had stolen a flying beast from the Witch-king and come to warn Osgiliath of the immediate danger from the east.

"The Rangers of Ithilien come in two days, perhaps three, along the western shore," Faramir finished. "We left Cair Andros but sparsely manned."

"Well," Boromir said doubtfully. "It seems you have saved the lives of the entire garrison of the eastern bank—of which, you note, I was one. But this is very hard. The Lord and Steward issued highly specific orders."

"Yes," Faramir said. "I have disobeyed them."

Boromir looked aggrieved. "That is not at all like you," he said, his voice unsteady.

Faramir closed his eyes and was silent for a few moments. He appeared pained.

Then he opened his eyes, stood tall, and declared in a very different voice, proud and glad and righteous: "This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, descended in direct lineage, father to father, from Isildur Elendil’s son himself. He wears the Ring of Barahir and wields Elendil's sword reforged, and carried with him two of our lost palantíri, the source of his tidings of the war. I have sworn him my allegiance. It is to him that I answer now."

Boromir stared at Aragorn. "The Sword-that-was-Broken," he said, seizing on that, of all this information, as the most important. "Truly?"

Aragorn drew his accused sword, and showed Boromir the hated blade, and Boromir looked upon it in childish awe.

Sauron smothered a yawn with his hand. Annoyed, he realized he had left his pair of traveling gloves in Henneth Annûn, and he was displaying his missing finger to everyone while they spoke of that dratted sword.

Glorfindel shot Sauron a sharp look of reproof. Perhaps he had been too ostentatious about his dislike for the sword... but none of the men in the room had noticed. They were still fixated on the sword itself.

"This is indeed come in the hour of our greatest need," Boromir said. "If the hand that wields it has inherited not an heirloom only, but the sinews of the Kings of Men."

"I will put it to the test at your side against Gondor's foes," Aragorn declared.

"There can only be one voice of command issuing orders during a battle," Boromir said, doubt remaining in his voice and his face.

"That command is yours," Aragorn said without the slightest hesitation. "Shall we draw swords together, Boromir, son of Denethor?"

"Yes," Boromir said, wonder replacing doubt in his eyes. "I never thought to see this day in my life. I will draw swords with you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

"One last thing," Faramir said. His eyes had turned and were fixed on Sauron. "Tell him, or I will."

Sauron looked at Aragorn.

Aragorn hesitated, then nodded.

"I am the one you call Sauron," Sauron said to Boromir. "But I am on your side."

Boromir was stunned. He took a half-step back, then shook himself a little.

"What?" Boromir gathered himself enough to say.

"I destroyed the One Ring and in so doing, lost control of the Nazgûl. They hate me very much. We have a shared enemy, and I wish to fight them together."

Boromir simply stared.

"But if you wish it, I will leave the city and join neither side in this battle," Sauron added.

"Ah, I—I have no idea what to say. This is a lot to process." Boromir cast a desperate glance at Aragorn.

"I trust him to at least fight this battle with us," Aragorn said, looking and sounding exhausted by the topic.

"All right, then," Boromir said. He sounded a little dubious, but he nodded. He could not seem to look Sauron in the eye. "The more help, the better... I suppose."

This tedious posturing concluded, the company proceeded back to the bank of the river to keep watch on the other side. Orcs had poured into the city, countless masses of them, and had found their occupation of it much easier than anticipated. They did not need to dig in, fortify anything, or wait for great numbers to overwhelm the defenders. They simply marched in and filled it.

The Nazgûl lingered outside the city, behind their troops. Sauron did not know if they waited because they did not have the courage to confront him and were upset by his sudden travel here, or as part of some greater plan.

There was no chance the Witch-king was not enraged and furious at the loss of his steed. But it probably was not enough to overthrow all his previous plans for taking Gondor.

"There is something very evil over there," one of the nearby men said.

"I feel it too," said Boromir.

"Ringwraiths," Faramir murmured in a low voice that nonetheless carried far. A shudder passed through everyone who heard.

The orcs bustled around the eastern shore, their purposes mysterious. The men of Gondor crouched behind their shelters of crumbling wall and watched and waited. The day expired, and torches lit up the eastern banks. The men of Gondor did not light any; they slept in cold short shifts.

Sauron did not bother to pretend to sleep. Glorfindel was not inclined to sleep either, and he stood watchful and ready at Sauron's side.

"What is the plan, exactly?" Glorfindel asked Sauron when the others had gone to lay down to snatch a few hours of sleep. Glorfindel chose to speak in a dialect of Quenya, Vanyarin, that was spoken only in Aman. It would be nearly impossible for a scholar of written Noldorin Quenya—such as the Dúnedain—to follow this conversation. Probably.

"What do I think their plan is, or what do I think our plan should be?" Sauron asked, using the same dialect.

"Either. Both. What do you anticipate happening?"

"They must be preparing to attack this bank and cross the river," Sauron reasoned out loud. "Preparing siege weapons to use over the distance, perhaps. Catapults. Boats? I'm not sure. Do you suppose they could have been carrying any great equipment from the tower?"

He lapsed into Sindarin for many of these words. The Vanyar did not have a vocabulary of war, as far as Sauron was aware.

"Very possible," Glorfindel answered. "The ranks of marching orcs cleverly hid the details, but there were certain disturbances in the flow of their movements. This could explain it."

"They will use fear," Sauron said with complete certainty. "The Nazgûl will come in a sudden sweep and hope to cripple the hearts of the defenders."

"If they can cross the water."

"They will find a way to cross."

"We will make it difficult for them."

"As long as we are able."

Glorfindel paused, then asked delicately: "How would you take this city?"

"If I were in command of forty-five thousand orcs and four Nazgûl?"

"Yes."

Sauron thought about it. "Taking the eastern bank swiftly with overwhelming numbers is the obvious first move. Surprising the defenders and slaughtering them before they could retreat and destroy the bridge would have been preferable, the losses of orcs not even noticeable."

"Yes."

"Assuming the men did manage to retreat and destroy the bridge, I build siege weapons and boats here. Much easier than moving them down the mountain. Wood is close at hand. Hopefully in secret so that allies from Rohan and an entire muster of Gondor is not yet called up."

"But Denethor sees all your plans," Glorfindel objected.

"Denethor sees what I show him," Sauron said dismissively. "Perhaps I show him hopeless numbers marching on his people... and the slaughter of his sons, a foolish weakness to have out in the field... at just the right time to make him falter in the strength of his command, too much in despair to call for help."

"Isildur's heir would be a problem in that respect. He would rally Gondor with ease."

"Isildur's heir would be a problem," Sauron agreed. "But I did not know he existed until he decided to show me the shards of Narsil in Bree."

"Yes, I heard about that," Glorfindel said with a little smile. "Aragorn told me he did not know what madness possessed him to do that. He thought you would probably kill him on the spot."

"I do not know what madness possessed him to do it either," Sauron agreed. "Though I did not want to murder him, only for him to leave me alone. Anyway, had I been preparing to attack Osgiliath, I would not have been in Bree, and I would not know of his existence. My plans could not account for him."

"Right, so... you cross the river without warning, using your surprise boats?"

"Yes, taking the west bank and moving to lay siege to the tower in quick succession." Sauron stopped, then reconsidered. "No. I would not lay siege to Minas Tirith with forty-five thousand orcs. They would stay and occupy Osgiliath."

"How many would you need for a seige?"

"Let's see," Sauron said thoughtfully. "I would coordinate everything to happen at once. I would not have destroyed Saruman if Gondor was my priority, so he moves with his uruk-hai to take Rohan, and then arrives to Minas Tirith from the north. The Corsairs of Umbar similarly prevent Dol Amroth and the southern fiefs from coming to Minas Tirith's aid, and then they sail up Anduin. The Haradrim and the Easterlings arrive and converge on North and South Ithilien. I should have a hundred thousand, or more, to take the tower."

"Even a hundred thousand would find it difficult to take those smooth, unconquerable walls," Glorfindel objected.

Sauron's mouth twitched in a smile, despite himself. "Yes. You must take the tower down from the inside."

"Who is it you have within the walls in this scenario?" Glorfindel cried. "You can crush Denethor's spirit, but you cannot make him your servant!"

"Not like that," Sauron corrected. "You would...."

He glanced around at all the men of Gondor around them, quietly waiting to be attacked by orcs that vastly outnumbered them.

"You would keep these bodies, and return their severed heads to their families using catapults," he said in a low voice. "Along with great missiles of fire. The Nazgûl on wings chase the defenders from their positions on the walls. By the time you break down the Gate, there is no one left with the courage to resist your sweep up the streets of the white tower."

Glorfindel was silent, and he was looking away; the expression on his face could not be seen.

"I am sorry I asked," he said finally, in a low voice. He sounded stricken.

Sauron did not reply. Glorfindel ought to have known what he was in for by asking.

"No!" Glorfindel cried suddenly, turning to face Sauron. His eyes were on fire, fierce with the light of his travels and burdens. "I take it back. That was not fair. I thank you for your candor. What has stopped you from doing all of this once you reestablished yourself in Mordor over the past several decades?"

"I was gathering strength for the sole purpose of looking for the ring," Sauron said with a shrug. "If someone else found it and brought it to Gondor to wield against me, I was going to be ready. But I did not actively desire any continental-scale battles while it was lost."

"And what are the chances the Witch-king is going to do something along the lines of this plan?"

"I don't know," Sauron said. "I don't know what kind of man he is in the absence of my control."

"Could he call on the Haradrim and the Easterlings?"

"Certainly, if he pretends to be my emissary. But it would be a risk. They would never answer to him if they learned of our schism. They are cultists, who worshiped Morgoth and now Sauron."

"It is something we will want to keep an eye on," Glorfindel mused. "And the Corsairs of Umbar, the Black Númenóreans! They are like to come of their own accord, if they hear of this strife."

"True," Sauron acknowledged. The Corsairs and other historical enemies of Gondor were beyond his power to stop. He could have made them fight Gondor, and happily; he could not make them have peace with Gondor. And he did not quite view them as his responsibility. He was not the one who had convinced them to hate the Men of the West.

"And so. What is your plan if you are... defending the city, rather than marching on it?"

"I will fight the Nazgûl if they come," Sauron said simply. "Someone else must come up with a plan beyond that."

"You will fight all four Nazgûl together?" Glorfindel asked. "How is your arm?"

"It still pains me," Sauron admitted in a low voice. "And yes, all four together if I must."

"I will fight them with you," Glorfindel said. He was not looking at Sauron anymore; his attention was all on the eastern bank. Yet Sauron felt the power of his emotions, which he was not troubling to conceal. He remained slightly shaken by Sauron's vision of how he would have taken down Gondor. But here, tonight, he looked forward to fighting Ringwraiths at his side.

"Manwë guide your hand," Sauron murmured softly.

Glorfindel appeared extremely gratified by this benediction. He clasped Sauron on the shoulder. "And Aulë yours."

That drew a reluctant smile.

Day dawned without an attack. The dark cloud remained in place to cover the sun, conjured and held by the Witch-king's sorcery.

But the light of day was enough to reveal that Sauron's guesses had been correct: the orcs had assembled catapults during the night, and carried smooth, round stones down from Minas Morgul. They were drawn up outside of the range of the archers standing on the western bank.

Boromir and Aragorn and his companions woke and joined Sauron and Glorfindel where they stood at the choicest of posts: behind a thick, solid wall that was the least likely to crumble, on a platform slightly raised for a view of the entire eastern bank and some of the western.

It was not clear what the orcs had been waiting for, but eventually they began operation. Heavy stones were hurtled towards the defenders, speeding the demise of the crumbling fortifications and sending men scattering in unorganized flight.

Still Boromir did not order his archers to loose their arrows. Faramir walked up and down the ranks of men taking cover throughout the city, talking to them and lifting their spirits but reminding them of the orders to hold. The city endured the siege of rocks, which seemed to be primarily focused on the western bank's courtyard just in front of the ruined bridge, leveling out a greater space in which to assemble an army of invaders.

"They will try to cross at the pillars of the bridge that still stand," Sauron observed to Glorfindel, this time in the common tongue for the benefit of the rest of the company.

"Yes," Glorfindel agreed. "But how? Surely they will not swim? We would simply slaughter them as they come, as long as we have arrows and spears or even rocks to throw."

"They will probably not swim," Sauron agreed.

"Can orcs swim?" asked Éomer.

"If they have learned to, just as a man does," Sauron answered.

"Have these orcs learned?"

"I do not know. There are not exactly a lot of rivers in Mordor for them to practice in."

"It is challenging to swim the river here," Boromir said. "I could do it, even while wearing armor. But I do not think many could."

"Ruling that out," Glorfindel said with a touch of impatience, "what is the alternative?"

"If we left these shores, they would probably string up ropes and ferry across," Sauron said. "Difficult to do that under fire or with defenders to cut down all your ropes. Oh, and the Witch-king doesn't have a means of flight anymore. Ha! That complicates things for him."

"Oh, now I understand Faramir's story—you stole the Nazgûl's beast and flew here on it," Boromir said, giving himself another little shake. "Wow. This is weird."

"I know," Aragorn said fervently. "Trust me, I know."

Sauron stayed silent.

"I don't pretend to myself that defeat or retreat is not inevitable," Boromir continued slowly, thinking out loud. "But we have a superior position entrenched on this bank, and if we can use that to inflict damage on them and weaken them before they come to Minas Tirith... I am reluctant to order a full-scale retreat just yet."

No one answered him at first. Finally Glorfindel asked Sauron: "What do you think?"

"If you retreat now, you will make this water crossing easy for them. I think... I think Boromir is right, and it is worth it to stay and make it costly."

"It may prove to be costly for us as well," Faramir said grimly, startling Sauron; he had not seen the man return from walking around the city. He was looking at Sauron with open distrust. "Those of us who have mortal lives to lose."

"Retreat then," Sauron said coolly. "I care not. I will fight Nazgûl with or without you."

"We stand," Boromir said, raising his voice slightly. "And we make them pay."

The city endured the stone missiles off and on all day. Sauron watched them idly, feeling annoyed at the delay. When the sun began sinking in the sky, there came a temporary ceasefire—the sun dipped below the dark cloud overhead on its journey to the horizon, and the Witch-king did not try to extend the cloud so far. The orcs ceased operation of the catapults and took cover, out of the sun's slanting rays.

The defenders used the brief period of respite to affix some metal stakes in the stone courtyard where the bridge used to stand. Sauron jumped at the chance to help in this work, hammering the stakes into the stone and working out some of his tension and frustration and uncertainty. The idea was to mount an array of spikes facing the ruins of the bridge, bristling needles of the city that would make an enemy think twice about rushing into this particular area.

They had completed roughly two-thirds of the task when the sun sank behind the horizon, a great cry arose from the eastern bank, and Glorfindel shouted down from the platform to start preparing for enemy arrows.

Shield bearers stepped up and everyone in the courtyard crouched behind them just in time. They retreated past their own spikes under the hail of arrows until they reached the cover of the ruined buildings.

"Whatever they're doing, they're doing it now," Glorfindel called down. Sauron jumped up to the platform to look, while Boromir issued orders to be passed up and down the lines to string bows and prepare to attack.

The orcs were unveiling very, very long planks of wood, obviously hewn from the greatest of the pine trees in the valleys of Ithilien. They had to be over a hundred feet long. The orcs were slowly rolling them along the ground using rounded stone cylinders, and now began pushing the planks off into space over the banks of the rushing river—towards the eastern-most bridge post that was still standing in the Anduin.

Night fell in earnest, bringing with it darkness; both sides lit torches. Boromir sounded the signal for attack. Everywhere along the western bank, men bent their arrows onto the preparations happening on the eastern bank. Many orcs fell, but many more returned fire, and the battle commenced.

Glorfindel was by far the most accurate archer among the defenders; he squinted and aimed and each time seemed to find a pivotal orc in the maneuvering of the wooden planks. The rest of Aragorn's company drew arrows and shot by his side, but were rather less effective, and for his part, Sauron deemed the expenditure of arrows not worth it yet.

The plank was stretched for roughly half of its length into the river, and had not yet reached the stone post. A great pile of heavy orcs piled on top of the eastern end of the plank to counterbalance the weight of the end reaching out of the river. Slowly, the orcs continued to roll the plank over the round stones until it was guided easily and cleanly to rest on the bridge post.

Orcs poured down the plank, shields raised against the defenders, and came to stand on the remains of the bridge post. Another line of orcs rushed out carrying with them two more planks, and laid them down on either side of the first plank.

They had the beginnings of a bridge.

"Ah, I see," Boromir said. "They just have to do the same for the space between the other set of posts, and again to the western bank."

Boromir departed to give instructions to the men crouching along the western bank, and Faramir went with him. A company of Gondor's archers had started a great fire behind one of the ruined buildings, and they now dipped their arrows in pitch and the fire, then directed them to the orcs gathering on the bridge post and the wooden planks.

Some orcs fell, but the fire did not catch; the orcs scooped buckets of water from the river over the flaming arrows as soon as they landed. The orcs hauled across another long plank and began pushing it off the first bridge post as far as it would go. Without stone rollers, they could not make it quite as far: the plank did not stretch all the way to the next post when it became over-balanced and started drooping towards the river.

They simply let the end of it drop into the Anduin. It was not, however, swept away: the orcs had it attached firmly to something, and they slowly started to walk out on it anyway. With their weight, the end of the plank settled into the riverbed, and ceased to move with the current. The orcs behind them passed along another great plank, which they used to bridge the gap between the end of the long plank sunk into the river and the next bridge post just in front of them.

It was not to be supposed that the defenders made this easy: every other arrow felled an orc, and harassed them in their task, and it required a great many of the orcs to devote themselves to the business of raising shields against the western bank. Yet for every orc that fell, another was in its place in a moment.

"Can you not do something?" Éomer asked Sauron, while sighting down an arrow at the opposite bank. His archery skills seemed roughly as good as any of the men of Gondor. "Rain fire on them, or strike them with lightening, or raise the level of the river, or cause a great storm to sweep them away?"

"Ah... no," Sauron said. "A sorcerer who devoted himself to the study of such things for an age might be able to do all that. I have... well... occupied myself with other uses for sorcery, shall we say."

"Like what?"

"Altering the substances of the earth to fashion great works, controlling or subverting the wills of others, shapeshifting, breeding magical creatures, necromancy and other arts of the Unseen world, deception and concealment, do you really not know all this?" Sauron rattled off, while continuing to give most of his attention to the orcs crossing the river. He had decided using arrows was worth it now, and wanted to make each one count, choosing orcs who were out on the river and had strayed away from the shield bearers.

"One never knows which stories are true and which are legends," Éomer said, very politely in response to Sauron's slightly ruffled manner. "The men of Dunland said you misdirected arrows in midair during the battle of Isengard, and put out great fires that were swallowing orcs whole!"

"Oh... slight exaggeration, but not totally without foundation," he agreed, his irritation disarmed by Éomer's tone. "I am skilled at protecting my immediate physical space. I could bend arrows away from us where we stand, but I will not waste my efforts when the stone ramparts do the trick just as well. And I am rather good at manipulating fire, but I do not shoot fireballs from my hands, if that's what you're imagining."

He took a break between stringing arrows and gestured at Gûlnatar, on his hip. "Something like this is my specialty. This sword was made to fight Nazgûl, the Witch-king in particular. It draws its powers from the strength of the land that fought the Witch-king, a little of my own sorcery, and it is also a fine, perfectly crafted sword."

He turned back to his bow and notched another arrow. "I can summon wind and storm, but it is the kind of storm and shadow that gives heart to orcs and puts fear into men. As for raising the river to sweep them away, water is particularly outside my sphere of influence. Honestly... Gandalf would be a more useful wizard to have at your side in this battle," Sauron admitted. "The only thing I can do in this context that he can't—or maybe wouldn't—is use their rings to finish the Nazgûl off for good."

Éomer silently absorbed all this as he continued directing his arrows to the other bank as swiftly as he could.

"What would they do if you stood up and yelled at them that you are Sauron and you command them?"

Sauron snorted in laughter. "While I'm wearing this shape, and standing with the men of Gondor? Shoot me full of arrows."

The orcs had straightened out their planks in between the far bridge post and the near bridge post, using ropes to haul up the one that had sunk into the river. They had sorted everything out so that three wide planks were likewise bridging this gap.

Boromir's men started to gather in the courtyard behind the western end of the old bridge, where the orcs needed to get the final plank set. They set up their shield wall and stood firm upon the moorings of the old bridge, determined that the orcs would set a plank there only when all the men had fallen.

Moving as one unit, the orcs all suddenly extinguished their torches.

"The Nazgûl are on the move," Sauron warned, raising his voice to shout at Aragorn, who was still firing arrows at the orcs on the other side of the platform. "All four approach. Wait! There are five of them now."

The Sixth had finally arrived from Henneth Annûn. He was not, however, accompanied by the Fifth. Perhaps the Fifth had slunk off to hide somewhere after his injury from Gûlnatar. Sauron massaged his arm around his own injury. It did not make him feel faint with pain as it had before Glorfindel chanted over it. Yet it still ached, a dull low ache that he could ignore if he was distracted enough by other things, but became sharp when he thought about it.

Aragorn lowered his bow, and jumped down to the stones below. He made his way to the men in the little courtyard at the bridge, and found Boromir. They took some sort of counsel together.

"They won't stand," Sauron said out loud, a little gloomily, watching the men gathered in formation below. "They will all flee from the Ringwraiths."

"There is a lot of water in between us and them still," Éomer said, a little more hopefully.

"Are these the wraiths that don't fear water?" Glorfindel asked.

"The Witch-king and two of these Nazgûl have no more fear of water than I do," Sauron confirmed. "We also have two here who do dislike it. But it is unlikely it will prevent any of them from crossing the makeshift bridge."

The orcs on the bridge post and the men in the courtyard continued to exchange arrows. It was not long before a visible chill passed over the men; a few of them gave audible screams.

And then he emerged into the light of the defenders' torches: the Witch-king himself was on the wooden planks, striding down the middle of them, flanked by orcs and four Nazgûl gliding in his wake.

The men in the courtyard drooped, and their rain of arrows faltered, but they did not flee.

Sauron and Glorfindel moved as one, each nocking an arrow to a bow and firing on the Witch-king.

The Witch-king looked up to where they were perched. Almost contemptuously, he moved his sword and sliced the arrows out of the sky before they reached him, while staring the whole time at them, and not the arrows.

As though on cue, each of the other Nazgûl threw back their hoods and screamed their wrath and defiance and hate at the defenders.

As Sauron had predicted, every one of the men in the courtyard turned and fled.

The orcs maneuvered a plank out over the river. Well past the point where it should have become unbalanced and fallen, still it hovered in the air. It kept creeping forward, and—Sauron suspected with a little bit of help from the Witch-king—fell solidly into place. The final gap between the post in the water and the western bank had been bridged.

The Witch-king gestured with a gauntleted hand. The spikes that had been installed in the courtyard to hinder an advance seemed to wilt. They softened, and fell limply to the ground.

"Does he have stronger powers of sorcery than you?" Éomer asked Sauron incredulously. Éomer had not budged or shown the slightest sign of fear at the approach of the Nazgûl, which Sauron took a moment to admire.

"Not stronger," Sauron said with a shrug. "But different."

"Did you not teach him everything he knows?"

"Mmm. Yes, but also no, because his ring was forged in Eregion by the extraordinarily talented smiths that worked with me," Sauron said. "They made it more powerful than anything I would have done working on my own."

Orcs were spilling across the bridge, hindered only slightly by a few enemy arrows. The Nazgûl and the orcs set foot on the western bank, crowding into the little courtyard.

Glorfindel loosed another arrow, and the Witch-king was forced to duck behind an orc-shield to evade it. It was not very dignified, but there did not seem to be any defenders around to appreciate the moment.

The Witch-king straightened back up, and fixed his eyes on the platform where Sauron and Glorfindel were crouched behind the wall.

"This land is mine," the Witch-king said, his eyes glowing with menace and his voice echoing powerfully off the stone. "I will take back what is my own, and you will fall, and you will suffer under my lash for eternity."

There was no other sound, no other movement. It seemed everyone was holding their breath, and giving him this stage to pontificate on. Sauron notched another arrow—the last one in his quiver—and drew the string, but did not fire.

"I will chain you for thrice four thousand years," the Witch-king chanted. "You will crawl naked in the dirt and grovel to me and I will make you eat worms and you will like it," he ended fiercely.

He was not talking to the men of Gondor. He was talking to Sauron.

"Charming," Sauron said dryly into the silence that fell after the Witch-king's speech. He loosed his arrow.

A great many things happened at once.

Glorfindel dropped his bow, drew his sword and a small knife, and jumped to the ground. He raced into the courtyard, screaming an invocation to Tulkas.

The Witch-king dodged Sauron's arrow, but slipped, and faltered slightly off-balance.

Aragorn leaped out of the shadows into the courtyard with a great cry of "Elendil!" and began hewing orcs with his sword.

Sauron cursed to himself, dropped his own bow, and jumped down after Glorfindel.

And somewhere behind them, a great echoing sound rang out through the western bank, hearty and wholesome and cheery—the horn of Boromir. The men of Gondor gave a great collective shout, and rallied their spirits. They drew their swords and rushed the courtyard, pressing the orcs back towards the riverbank.

"Do you remember me, foul carrion of Angmar?" Glorfindel screamed as he swung his sword at the Witch-king.

The Witch-king certainly did remember Glorfindel. Already off-balance, he took a step back and tripped. Awkward and ungainly, he twisted and fell to the ground.

Sauron was half a step behind Glorfindel. He swung his own sword, intending to bring it down hard on the Witch-king, but his blow was parried.

Sauron drew back, corrected his balance, and swung at the figure that had stepped in between him and the Witch-king: it was the Second Nazgûl, the Black Easterling of Rhûn.

"You lied to us," the Second said, his expression more sad than angry. He hovered in between Sauron and the Witch-king, his sword raised to block Sauron's blows, but not moving to attack.

"It is my specialty," Sauron retorted, and drove his sword directly at the Second's chest.

The Second parried the blow. Sauron swung again and again, and was blocked each time.

"You took and you took and you took and made us love you for it. Are you even sorry?" the Second asked unhappily, as he blocked the parries.

"I am deeply sorry," Sauron said, and he was not lying now. He twisted sideways, evading a blow and darting inside the Second's defenses. He swung his sword in an arc, slicing through the Second's torso and down his leg. Then he spun again, quickly out of reach before the Second could retaliate.

The Second screamed, a terrible wounded cry of betrayal and agony and pain.

"Back," someone panted in Sauron's ear. "Pull back!"

It was Glorfindel, tugging on Sauron's arm. Sauron became aware that the courtyard was all orcs; the Third and the Fourth Nazgûl had advanced on the men of Gondor, causing them to retreat. Sauron and Glorfindel were left fighting in the middle of orcs all on their own. Aragorn, Éomer, and Boromir could be seen fighting together at the edge of the courtyard, but they were hard pressed and on the defensive.

Sauron let Glorfindel pull him out of the fray, dodging and blocking orc blows, then ducked into the shelter of a building looking onto the courtyard.

"I got him," Glorfindel said, panting for breath. "I sliced up his sleeve and got his flesh too. If flesh is the right word for it." Presumably he meant the Witch-king. "I lost my knife for my pains, unfortunately."

"I injured one as well," Sauron said. "But it is all of little use if they retain possession of their rings. Where is Narsil when you need to cut off a finger!"

"I don't think we can fight five of them on our own," Glorfindel observed, ignoring Sauron's quip.

"According to your song in Henneth Annûn, the Witch-king fled from the mere sight of you at the Battle of Fornost. Was that a boastful exaggeration?"

"His army was eradicated and he stood alone. He did flee at the sight of me. Here he has four other wraiths, and a vast orc army."

"All right," Sauron said, accepting it. "It does fit within a certain brand of cowardice."

Glorfindel tilted his head and regarded Sauron curiously. "You were not exaggerating. They do not like you."

"No," Sauron said. "Does anyone?"

"I couldn't say," Glorfindel said. "Did you really make them crawl in the dirt and eat worms?"

"Of course not," Sauron said with a touch of scorn. "They were first among my servants, revered and most powerful, held in awe and treated with great deference."

"Do you think they could chain you?" Glorfindel asked, his eyes a little wide.

"I am not sure. As you noted, I have given them some power over me," Sauron admitted. "I don't plan on getting cocky about it," he added in a low voice.

Then the doorway was darkened by orcs, and there was no further time for speech.

What proceeded was a general rout of men from the riverbank to the western edges of the city. The defenders made the orcs pay for every step, but the men fled from the Nazgûl unless a particularly strong-willed captain, like Aragorn, was standing at their side. Sauron and Glorfindel worked together to harry the Nazgûl when they got too confident and strayed from their fellows, but they did not again manage to injure one.

The men halted at the outskirts of the city with a doomed sense that they could retreat no further, without risk of being cut down as they fled through the open countryside. They were disorganized and afraid, when Boromir blew the horn again to rally them. He managed to draw the men together in orderly lines and stand fast, offering battle rather than risking exposure by running out into the empty plains between them and the Rammas Echor.

But at that moment, an answering call came from the forests just north of them: the Rangers of Ithilien had arrived!

When the men spilled out of the city under the protection of the newly arrived Rangers, the orc captains did not entirely understand, and so at first they pursued the men into the plains. Every one of them was instantly slain by the arrows of the Rangers, who were taking cover among the trees.

By common but unvoiced agreement, Sauron and Glorfindel had not stepped out of the shelter of the city. They lingered to distract the Nazgûl, to prevent them from instilling fear and disorder in the retreat of the men. Sauron found himself crossing blades with the Second again, and he was reluctant to tear himself away as he sensed his opponent faltering. Right behind Sauron, Glorfindel had established himself on top of a small round tower. Glorfindel was miraculously still in possession of his bow and some arrows, and he was harrying the Witch-king if he dared to try to move from his own perch in one of the taller and more precarious towers. The Witch-king could not be slain by Glorfindel's arrows, but he certainly did not like them.

The masses of orcs had been rushing past Sauron and Glorfindel without seeing them. At this point, however, the Witch-king was realizing he needed to order the orcs to stay within the city walls to avoid being slaughtered by the Rangers. At the Witch-king's signal, the orcs ceased to run, and they turned their attention to the two remaining threats inside the city.

"Glorfindel!" Sauron shouted, as dozens of orcs pulled back and converged around him. "We have to go!"

From atop his tower, the Witch-king cackled. "Flee!" he screamed. "Flee from me in fright, cowards and swine!"

Sauron abruptly lost his patience with the Witch-king's nonsense. He flattened himself against the wall to evade a few orc blades and did what he had not done once to another being since undoing the One Ring. He sent the Witch-king a powerful blast of his will—You are the one who is afraid of me—and felt the Witch-king tremble in response, proving the sentiment to be entirely true.

He felt it, at that moment: he was still strong enough to dominate the Witch-king's will by force. He did not need any rings. He could grab onto this connection the Witch-king was too fearful to exert himself to break; he could use the paths that millennia of servitude had carved—he could end this all right now—

A hand reached out and grabbed tightly onto Sauron's arm. Startled from the connection with the Witch-king, it broke. The moment passed. The Witch-king's will was still his own, and both of them knew it.

Sauron blinked, then looked up to see Glorfindel. Glorfindel was offering his assistance for Sauron to join him in his small perch. Sauron accepted the help, grabbing onto his arm and scrambling up beside him, crouching behind the ramparts.

It was a perch surrounded by thousands of orcs. Their allies were long gone. It was, perhaps, hard for the orcs to get at them, but it would be impossible to leave.

"Hmm," Sauron said in a neutral tone. His heart was beating very fast; an odd and unusual reaction for his body. He did not want to think about what he had been on the brink of doing to the Witch-king. "What is the plan from here?"

"Slay as many orcs as we may," Glorfindel said in a ringing voice. "I have no fear of the prospect of again treading the Halls of Mandos!"

Sauron heaved a great sigh. The Halls of Mandos were not the fate for his spirit if his body was slain, but it would be tedious and infuriating to build shape again from nothingness (although, he thought it would not take him two thousand years this time). And he did not know where he would recuperate, while also needing to hide from the Nine. The Eight.

"Empty your quiver, and let's go then," Sauron said in a resigned tone. "We'll try to cut our way to the northwest."

"You are not going to turn spirit and flee?" Glorfindel wondered aloud as he sighted an orc captain and slew him.

"And leave you here alone?"

"I voiced my support for you at the very beginning of this endeavor," Glorfindel mused, felling another orc. "Yet these are not words I ever thought to hear from you."

"You have been fighting all night beside someone you thought would desert you before the end?"

"Most certainly," Glorfindel said, and another orc fell.

Sauron settled back against the wall and crossed his arms. His own bow and arrows were long gone.

"I suppose I deserved that," he said in a low voice, feeling abjectly gloomy about it.

He watched Glorfindel empty his quiver. The elf-lord wasted no arrows; one or more orcs fell with every release of his bowstring. Yet it made no discernible dent in the crowd surrounding them.

"Let's go then," Glorfindel said lightly when he was out of arrows, unstringing his bow and slinging it across his back, then drawing his sword. With another great cry to Tulkas, he leapt from the tower on top of the heads of the nearby orcs.

Sauron followed suit, shouting his own battle cry in the Black Speech, vowing to bring doom on his enemies.

Chapter Text

Glorfindel and Sauron cut across great swaths of orcs, fighting alternately side-by-side and back-to-back. After about fifty yards of this, Glorfindel found another small tower to hide in, with a narrow doorway, where orcs could only come at them one by one. It was a bit of a break.

"He comes," Glorfindel said, panting for breath, but alight with a fierce joy. "Our heroic self-sacrifices are not in the cards, after all!"

"Who comes?" Sauron asked, slightly irritated by this phrasing. He was not performing any heroic self-sacrifices, thank you very much. Although he could not have said what else it was he was doing here.

"Mithrandir!"

"Oh, yes, joy," Sauron agreed flatly, stabbing an orc in the eye. "Just who I always wanted to be rescued by."

Glorfindel was right, and had known it before Sauron heard it: outside the city, Gandalf's voice was raised in a Sindarin chant, bringing all his power to bear against the orcs and the Nazgûl of the city. A great whiteness, like starlight, fell upon them; the orcs trembled and cried, putting their hands over their ears and falling to the ground.

"Run," Glorfindel advised, and immediately followed his own advice.

They ran, and there was no opposition. In no time at all, they sped out the city and were at Gandalf's side. Gandalf was mounted on his horse from Rohan and wielding his staff emitting the great white light. There was no time or breath for pleasantries; they did not greet one another. Gandalf wheeled around and joined them in their flight west. The rangers of Ithilien had left the tree cover and gathered with the march of the Osgiliath garrison, and they all escaped down the road unmolested. No attack came in their rearguard after Gandalf's display of power.

They ceased to run once they were outside bow-range of Osgiliath. Gandalf nudged Shadowfax through the ranks of the men of Gondor, while Sauron and Glorfindel trailed in his wake. Gandalf made his way to the front of the march, where he found Aragorn, Boromir, and Éomer.

"You're alive," Boromir said to Sauron and Glorfindel in amazement.

Éomer held out an arm to Sauron, and Sauron clasped it in a wordless greeting. Éomer's grip was warm and steady.

"Yes," Glorfindel responded simply. "How many men are left to come back to Minas Tirith?"

"Some thousand rangers and two thousand from the garrison," Boromir said. "We suffered heavy losses. But I deem the enemy suffered three times our numbers in losses."

"So you might have reduced their ranks to forty thousand," Sauron said, raising an eyebrow.

"We might have," Boromir agreed.

"We injured two of the Nazgûl as well," Glorfindel said, "which is worth more than five thousand dead orcs."

"Yes," Boromir said. "And a third was injured as we withdrew."

"Where is the Lord Faramir?" asked Glorfindel.

"It was he that injured the third Nazgûl! He crossed blades with it, who would have hindered our retreat," Boromir said, his face dark and his eyes becoming shuttered. "He was the more swift, but when he pierced his enemy, he gave a great cry, and collapsed. His blade fell to pieces before our eyes."

Sauron sighed. "Faramir should not have tried to stab the Nazgûl; it was unlikely his blade did any lasting harm to the wraith, while he paid dearly for it."

"Alas!" cried Glorfindel. "The mortal man who will take a weapon to such an enemy is brave beyond measure, but the shock of it may destroy him."

"He will not die," Aragorn said steadily. "We will bear him to the tower and he will be healed."

The company reached the Causeway Forts at the Rammas Echor. It was still held by men from Minas Tirith, who had received no tidings of the attack on Osgiliath and were surprised and fearful to see the great retreat and hear that the city had fallen to the Witch-king.

Here Aragorn halted. "Perhaps I might stay here and help man the gates against the threat of the enemy who now occupies Osgiliath."

"Nay!" Boromir turned to him. "If it please you, enter the city as my friend, my brother and comrade-in-arms. We shall take counsel with my father as to how best to fight the Witch-king, and defer the decision you do not want to face until after the war is won."

Boromir offered his arm to Aragorn. Aragorn clasped it.

"I will go with you, as brothers," he agreed. "For the Witch-king's power remains very great, and he is now on Gondor's doorstep. All our focus should be on him."

Then they passed over the deserted fields of the Pelennor and its abandoned homes and farms, before coming to the great gates of Minas Tirith. The city gates stood open for them. Sauron felt a slight chill as he passed underneath the great stone walls. There was a crowd waiting to welcome them, throwing flowers in their path and giving great cries of "Boromir! Faramir!"

But when the people saw that one of the horses was bearing Faramir nearly lifeless into the city, they wept.

The horses were carrying many wounded men from the garrison, and these were now carted up to the sixth level of the city, to the Houses of Healing.

"If you would take my counsel, I would visit that place yourself," Glorfindel said to Sauron. "For your arm still pains you, does it not?"

"I cannot ask the men of Gondor to heal me," Sauron said crossly. "Even if they knew how."

"You asked me," Glorfindel reminded him gently.

"Aragorn asked you on my behalf," Sauron corrected pedantically.

And he would not go to the Houses of Healing. He continued to follow Aragorn, whose company was given rooms in the barracks in the Citadel, at the top of the tower. Sauron was exhausted, and although the sun was now rising, he fell gladly onto a bed and passed into a very deep sleep.

He was roused when the door opened and someone entered and sat beside him on the bed. Sauron opened bleary eyes to see Éomer, bearing a bowl and a cloth.

"Glorfindel says your arm still pains you," Éomer explained. "I sought some medicines from the Houses of Healing, though they say they have no remedy against the breath of the Black Shadow."

"The Black Shadow," grumbled Sauron. "Who came up with that? What a ridiculous phrase to describe a puncture wound."

"The wise in the craft of healing here fashioned the term," said Éomer, his eyes laughing a little. "Will you let me tend you?"

"Fine," Sauron said. He sat up and took off his shirt, the shirt he had been wearing since Henneth Annûn. "But it's pointless. The men of Gondor, as they admitted to you, do not have a remedy against the power of the sorcerer king, no matter what they like to call it."

Éomer did not respond as he dipped the cloth in water, cleaned the wound—which was still red and raw and showed no signs of closing over—and then dabbed on some of the paste in the bowl.

It helped with the pain, but not, Sauron deemed, the root of the ill.

"If the Witch-king's power is tied to his ring, will your wound heal when you destroy his ring?" asked Éomer.

"You are well informed about rings of power," Sauron said wryly, without answering the question. He did not know the answer.

"I keep my mouth closed and my ears open," Éomer replied mildly. He had a clean bandage, and now he tied it carefully around the arm. "Boromir took counsel with his father as soon as we entered the tower. He did not tell us what was discussed, but he returned seeming very ill at ease. Aragorn visited the Houses of Healing with me, and stayed after I left. Glorfindel and Gandalf have been pacing the courtyard of the white tree and looking out over the great prow. They have taken counsel together for many hours. Are you hungry? It is the noon hour."

"No," Sauron answered the question without commenting on the rest of the information.

"Do you eat, actually?"

"Mmm. I can consume food when incarnate, but the relatively small amount of energy it gives me is seldom worth the effort. I eat for social reasons, I suppose. I would not take away limited supplies of food from the defenders of a tower that may be besieged soon."

"You think it likely the Witch-king will move to seize the city?" Éomer asked. He sat aside the mortar and cloth, but did not move from the bed.

"I wouldn't, in his place, with a mere forty thousand," Sauron reiterated. "But I cannot tell what he will do. He feels… irrational in his rage."

Éomer nodded. And then to Sauron's great surprise, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on Sauron's brow.

As Éomer drew back, Sauron met his eyes and suddenly understood. He knew why Éomer had followed from them Edoras and said he was glad to be at Sauron's side. Everything made a bit more sense now—he didn't suddenly see good in Sauron where there was none. He was simply one in a long line of men who had loved Sauron.

Sauron lifted a hand and took Éomer's in it. "I have always had a great love for the races of men," Sauron said with a smile. "Save for the Edain, but we do not have to talk about that."

Éomer did not pull his hand back. "That is what Glorfindel told me before I came here. That I am the least likely of us to be a target of your schemes, if you have any. Yet my people have been allies of theirs for five hundred years."

"The blink of an eye," Sauron murmured.

"And," Éomer persisted, "my mother's mother was of Dol Amroth. Through her I can—very distantly—trace my ancestry to Elros Tar-Minyatur."

"Mmm. Let's pretend you didn't tell me that," Sauron said, and leaned forward and kissed Éomer on the lips.

They did not speak again, derobing and exploring each other's bodies and sharing pleasure together in the barracks of the Citadel of the White Tower.

When they had finished, Sauron buried his face in Éomer's shoulder, and became maudlin.

"I am... so very, very lonely," he said, nearly whispering. "My closest friend is also one of my greatest enemies, and spent thousands of years refusing to talk to me. Those who were once my greatest and most loyal servants seek my suffering and death. My current allies loathe and fear and mistrust me. I have long lost the companionship of my own people."

He laughed at himself. "And the worst part is, every bit of this is self-inflicted."

Éomer ran his fingers soothingly through Sauron's hair. "Saruman was right, then? You used to be friends? He is—was—one of your own people?"

"Yes," Sauron said. "A very long time ago."

"How long?"

Sauron thought about it. He could barely say. It would have to have been before the destruction of the lamps; Sauron had not cared anything for the other Ainur after falling for Morgoth. "I don't know exactly. Twenty-two thousand of your years, perhaps more."

"I... don't know whether to take that seriously or not."

Sauron did not answer. Éomer would have to make up his own mind about that.

"Why did he call you Mairon?"

"That was my name, back then," he murmured.

"Not any longer?"

"Mmm," Sauron said. "It's complicated. That was my name when I lived with the Valar, but I left them for Morgoth, and the elves who waged war with Morgoth named me Sauron, which in their tongue meant 'the Abhorred.' It was to mock the name Mairon, which is an elven translation of the Valarin for 'the Admirable.' In the Second Age I tried to reclaim Mairon, or a version of it, but now? No. I do not shudder away from the name Sauron."

"What is your preferred name, of them all?"

"Halbrand, when I am in this body," he answered softly. "I took that name after Morgoth fell, and I thought I might turn over a new leaf. Needless to say, that did not happen. But I identify with the name still."

"Well, Halbrand," Éomer said with a smile in his voice, "shall we go find Aragorn and see what the plan is?"

"As you wish," Sauron said, sitting up, yawning and stretching, then reaching for clothes. Gondor had provided clean shirts and trousers, and it was a refreshing change.

They found Aragorn with Gandalf and Glorfindel standing on the prow just beyond the Court of the Fountain.

"You're awake," Glorfindel observed as Sauron approached.

"Yes," he agreed. "What is the plan now?"

"Denethor was not originally inclined to do so, but we have now sent word to the musters of Gondor and Rohan to come to the aid of the tower," Gandalf explained. "When they arrive, we can move on Osgiliath. But you must tell me this: What is it you wish from us?"

Gandalf drew himself up a little taller and peered on Sauron with a stern eye.

"I would attack Osgiliath together," Sauron said, patiently explaining this for what felt like the five hundredth time. "You move from the west and I will come from the east."

"And then what?" challenged Gandalf. "If the Nine are eradicated and you have your armies in Mordor and the Men of the West have theirs in Gondor?"

Sauron shook his head. He knew in his heart already what he would have to do. But he could not say it, not yet, and not here.

Gandalf stared at him, but if he was hoping to read Sauron's mind or heart, he had little chance of that.

"Manwë once pardoned even Morgoth," Glorfindel said in a soft voice.

"And that is widely held as a great mistake," Sauron retorted hotly. His chest felt very tight.

"Mercy is never a mistake," Gandalf said, in an aggravatingly self-righteous tone.

"You would say that," Sauron snarled. He could not have said why he was suddenly so angry at everyone here.

He did not need to. They were interrupted by Boromir, striding out of the tower in their direction, tall and stern with his cloak fluttering in the breeze behind him. His eyes were haunted and shuttered.

"Lord Aragorn," Boromir said. "My father wishes to take counsel with you."

"I am sorry for that," Aragorn said heavily, perhaps guessing where this was going. "I should not have entered the city."

Boromir did not contradict him.

They turned and began walking to the Citadel, but a tall figure wearing chainmail and a great cloak was striding forward to intercept them before they could arrive. He resembled his sons, but there was something fey on him.

"And so, thusly I am betrayed!" Denethor cried, spreading his arms wide and raising his voice to the sky. "Long have you planned to supplant me, Mithrandir, and I have seen it longer than you know. You would turn my own son against me and plot my doom and usurp my role as keeper of this city and turn our counsels to a hopeless war. For you have slain my second son and taken him from me forever!"

"Father," Boromir said, extending a hand towards his father. "Faramir is not dead."

"You have been deceived," Denethor said, his voice a vile hissing sound yet still ringing across the courtyard. "You have all been deceived. The Enemy walks in your counsels and whispers his poison in your ears and he has made you like it."

He was ranting primarily at Aragorn, and did not spare a glance for anyone else in the company, save for his first sentences directed to Gandalf. Denethor seemed not to know Sauron was actually standing right there.

"Thus ever is the fate of those who treat with him, to turn their own devices to his evil will and call it great profit and knowledge to themselves! Many ages it is, before they learn of the deceit and their downfall, and by then it is too late. They have given him his power and all that he desired, and they sink into nothingness or leave the planes of the Seen world, debased before his will."

"Father," Boromir tried again, but Aragorn stood silent and pale.

"You will rule the city in his name; the great, once-proud Tower of the Sun will fall under his sway, to match its twin Ithil," Denethor said to Aragorn relentlessly. "And you will never understand your peril until his victory is complete. This is the ruin, the doom that Mithrandir has brought to Gondor."

Denethor turned and hurled something into the fountain. "The wisdom of our forefathers is ash. We are a ruined, defeated people. Cast yourselves into the sea rather than suffer this fate."

Boromir physically took his father's arm and tugged on it. Denethor did not resist as Boromir pulled him back into the Citadel, but his ranting continued to be audible.

"The West has failed. It is time for all to depart who would not be slaves. It shall all go up in a great fire, and all shall be ended. Ash! Ash and smoke blown away on the wind!"

After a great many sentences like this, Denethor passed out of their sight and hearing.

The party on the courtyard lawn stood silent and still, until Aragorn turned to look at Sauron.

"All of that is a true description of your past dealings with elves and men." Aragorn's voice was steady, but he was visibly stricken to his core by Denethor's words, and had a hand on Narsil's pommel. He was on the verge of a fight.

Sauron put his empty palms in the air. He found he would rather do anything else than fight with Aragorn.

"Be free of it, then, whatever you think it is," he said. "There are no agreements, and no obligations between us."

He took a step back. No one followed him. He backed up until he was at the edge of the great prow dividing the city, then turned into a crow and swept off into the currents that would bear him east.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten his injury, and flying proved to be excruciatingly painful. But he wasn't a stranger to pain, and he endured it, attempting to glide through the air using wind to speed him on, rather than his own strength. The journey was long. He avoided passing over either Osgiliath or Minas Morgul. When he reached the spine of the Ephel Duath somewhere to the south of these landmarks, he was so weary and pained that he had to stop.

Night was falling when he shifted back—not into Halbrand, this time, but into his tall humanoid form—and whistled for a flying beast. To his delight, Lashak was still in the area, and was not long in coming. He greeted her warmly and climbed on her back, and let her guide him back to Barad-dûr.

Lashak was strong and healthy and completed the longer flight in but an hour or two. Sauron dismounted onto the top of the tower of Barad-dûr and ran a hand down Lashak's neck, thanking her for the ride, but this time he did not feel glad to be back.

He summoned Ummog, who—as predicted—was surly and displeased by his master's long absence.

"Is everyone ready to march?" Sauron asked without preamble when Ummog entered his chambers. He was getting dressed in the tunic and trousers he preferred to wear under his great armor.

"Yes, lord," Ummog said sullenly. "Everything has been ready. As you ordered. More than a month ago."

"Good," Sauron said. "Sound the signal to march immediately."

"Yes, lord," Ummog repeated. Then, dully: "Will you tell me where we go?"

"The Witch-king has taken Osgiliath, which we will take back from him. You will march the troops from here to the Tower of Cirith Ungol. I will visit it in advance and ensure the garrison is not held by the Nazgûl."

He paused, then asked: "What is the name of the commander at Cirith Ungol?"

"Shagrat."

"I will consult with Shagrat on joining the march. We will proceed to Minas Morgul, and take its garrison as well, if there are any to take. Then Osgiliath."

"Do you... do you suppose the orcs following the Witch-king's commands will obey you instead when you arrive?" Ummog asked hesitantly.

"Of course," Sauron lied smoothly.

"And... did you talk to... Gondor?" Ummog said, slowly, like the question pained him and the last word was difficult to pronounce.

"Extensively," Sauron said dryly. "We will not be coordinating anything with them. Didn't I tell you to prepare to march immediately, five minutes ago?"

"Yes, lord," Ummog said, but he was clearly offended by Sauron's snappishness. He bowed and slunk off with a dark look.

Sauron finished dressing and summoned Pagûl, reaching out by ósanwë.

"My lord?" Pagûl asked, entering the room and bowing low. He was noticeably less sullen than Ummog, which likely came from having known Sauron and his moods for ten thousand years longer.

"I am leaving only a very small force to garrison this tower," Sauron informed him. "You know what to do."

"Yes, lord," Pagûl agreed. "We will halt the construction temporarily."

A shuttered and locked-down Barad-dûr would last for a long time against an enemy, essentially as long as the defenders had food; that had been proven. Nor would Pagûl be unlocking it for Nazgûl anymore.

"I need a banner and my standard bearer," he ordered. "And... will you ask Garaba to come see me. Do not tell anyone. Make sure Ummog does not see."

Garaba was the chief of the orc healers.

"Of course," Pagûl said. Sauron could tell he wanted to ask why, but thankfully, he did not. "Will that be all?"

"Yes."

Pagûl left, and Garaba came. She stayed at the door and bowed very low. She did not seem to be able to find the power of speech. They were not familiar with each other; Sauron had never before had cause to interact with orc healers.

"Come here," he ordered, and she slowly drew close to his chair, dragging her feet and darting very quick glances up at him, afraid and on the verge of unwilling.

He pulled down his tunic a little to show her the wound on his upper arm, and she finally lifted her eyes to look. "Can you do something for the pain?" he asked.

Being given a clinical focus brought a little liveliness to her. Some color came back into her face, and she reached out and used her fingers to gently brush the skin next to the wound.

"You were stabbed?" she asked.

"Yes."

"By a... magical blade?"

"That is an imprecisely-worded question," he snapped at her. And the answer was of little use to shed light on the mystery of how and why he remained wounded.

"Yes, lord," she acknowledged, giving a frightened jump. "I will get something to numb it. Do you want the skin sown back together?"

"Is that what you would normally do?"

"For an orc...." She trailed off, and the pressure of her fingers increased as she probed the wound. "How old is the wound?"

"Three—no, four days."

"Four days! Yet it seems fresh. Yes, I would sew it. The flesh does not look like it will close otherwise."

"All right," he said. He didn't anticipate shape changes in the near future, so they might as well try it.

She departed, and returned shortly with a basket. She cleaned the wound with a cloth and water, much like Éomer had done—was that only this morning? Yes, it was. It seemed an Age ago.

"Would you like a pain reliever for the stitches?" she asked.

"What is on offer?"

She handed him a canteen. "For the insides," she clarified.

He tried it. It was very alcoholic; it tasted like pure ethanol. He sputtered and coughed, and then laughed at himself.

Garaba was startled into an open-mouthed stare for a moment, then she recovered and inclined her head. "It is strong."

"Yes," he agreed. He took another swig, more prepared this time; it still burned going down.

Garaba took a needle and some sort of thread, and gave him eight very tidy, admirably neat stitches. It certainly did hurt, to be jabbed and prodded and thread dragged through his flesh, but it was nothing compared to the original pain of being stabbed.

Garaba then spread poultice on the wound. The poultice smelled very different from that of Gondor—it was pungent and made his eyes water, rather than feeling refreshing like a sea breeze. Garaba, too, finished by tying a clean bandage around the arm.

"You should clean it and change the bandage every two or three days," she advised, gathering her supplies and backing up towards the door while still facing him. "The lord steward ordered that I was not to say anything to anyone about this. Shall I... await your further orders?"

"Yes," he said, although it likely didn't matter. As soon as he changed shape, the bandage and poultice would fall off anyway. He wondered what would happen to the stitches.

She gave him another very low bow, then fled.

Well after Garaba departed, another knock came on his doors. It was Zishi, who was carrying several different banners.

"Oh, you're alive," Sauron said to her, as though he didn't much care. But his tone was warmer than he'd intended.

"Yes, lord. I am very grateful you sent me here. The lord steward said he was pleased to have me and has kept me busy. He said you wanted a banner to go to war again, so I brought some options."

Although he had addressed her in her own dialect from Moria, she replied in the Black Speech, which she spoke much more flawlessly than before.

"You've learned the Black Speech very quickly," he replied in that tongue.

She blushed slightly. "I only had to brush up on it."

She was carrying an array of banners, and he picked the simplest one, the one dearest to him, the black banner with the red eye.

"And you and Alnaka carried my armor back here safely?"

"Yes, lord. It is cleaned and polished and ready for you when you want it."

"I want it now," he decided. "Do you wish to fly with me on our next march? I am on Lashak this time, rather than Alnaka."

"Yes, thank you!" she cried. "I would like nothing more."

She departed, and came back with two other orcs helping her carry the great plates of his armor. It required all three of them to help him put it on. Sauron coordinated one more time with Ummog, and then sought Lashak on top of the tower.

Zishi took up the banner and scrambled up behind him. He flew directly to the Tower of Cirith Ungol; it would take him under two hours and his army two and a half days.

He hadn't expected one, but there was no challenge as he drew near and guided Lashak to land on the smallest and uppermost courtyard, where there was just enough room to put down. The yard was deserted.

Sauron strode to the dome in the center of the courtyard that concealed a staircase. He wrenched open the door, and screamed down the stairwell.

"Shagrat!"

His voice reverberated through the stone of the tower. He heard a few shouts and cries far below. He waited about ten minutes, and then he saw Shagrat and a company of about ten orcs in his wake. They were racing up the stairs, clutching stitches in their sides and panting for breath.

"Lugbûrz," Shagrat gasped out. He was bloodless and trembling like a leaf. He planted himself on the ground face down, and so did the ten orcs who had been following him. "Lugbûrz himself."

Sauron had never before met the captain of this tower, and did not know who had appointed him or when. Sauron had also never set foot on this tower in Shagrat's lifetime. So it was natural that his coming should be so unexpected now. But it was slightly irritating. Where was their organization? Did no one patrol the ramparts and watch the skies?

"I am marching to war," he told Shagrat coldly in the Black Speech. If the orcs here did not speak it, Sauron in his current mood was inclined to start throwing them off the side of the tower. "Bring meat for the flying beast and you and I will take counsel inside."

Shagrat made a noise that might have been an attempt to assure Sauron that his will would be done, but just came out sounding strangled and mangled.

Sauron ignored Shagrat and stepped around the orcs cowering on the ground. Zishi furled the standard and followed him, raising her chin arrogantly as she picked her way among the other orcs. He made his way down the stairs—down and down and down—until he found the room that used to be grand hall of the captain of the guard, when men lived here.

The orcs had trashed it, of course. Unless Sauron—or a delegate—paid close attention to them, orcs trashed everything that was once made by men.

Zishi sprang forward and cleared off the chair at the end of the room, and dragged it so that it commanded the room. Then she withdrew, to stand to the right of the chair.

Sauron settled down into the chair, laid his mace across his lap, and stared as Shagrat and the stubby-legged orcs entered the room, having had to race to keep up with him.

Shagrat barked orders at one of them, who turned and fled.

Shagrat approached Sauron's chair. His tremors become stronger as he approached. He fell to the ground again and pressed his forehead to the floor.

Sauron made the orc kneel at least five minutes.

"Get up," he finally said.

Shagrat stood on shaky legs.

"The Witch-king is a traitor," Sauron said without preamble. "He has turned on me. He has taken Osgiliath for himself and refuses to yield to me."

Shagrat looked like he was going to be sick.

"How many orcs do you have in this tower?"

"A c-couple hundred," Shagrat managed to gasp out.

Sauron stared at Shagrat, a bit taken aback. This was an enormous fortress. Had the Witch-king stolen orcs from this place, too, or was it always this sparsely manned?

"Very well," Sauron said eventually. "My army will be through here in two days. Make ready provision and rest for them."

"Yes, your highness," Shagrat gasped again.

Sauron found this title extremely amusing. He had never asked any orcs to call him that. He had titled himself 'lord of the earth' for purposes of dealing with them, and 'lord' was thus perfectly acceptable. He had no idea where 'highness' had come from.

"In the meantime," Sauron said haughtily, "you and I will be inspecting this garrison from top to bottom."

"I am at your service," Shagrat said, but he grew even paler, if that were possible.

At least his command of the Black Speech was adequate.

During the time it took his troops to arrive, Sauron worked off his frustration and anger and pain by acting the petty lord of a petty kingdom. He took pleasure in terrorizing the orcs, although he did nothing worse to them than have them clean up the tower and their own weapons and gear, and present the results for his randomly chosen inspections.

He did not sleep, and as a result, few others in the tower got any sleep. After about thirty hours on her feet, Zishi—who had been acting as his lieutenant before the other orcs—swayed and passed out. Not a word of complaint had she uttered before this.

It finally evoked Sauron's pity, and he permitted everyone in the tower to sleep while he mounted the stairs to the top courtyard.

He took his helmet off and sat at Lashak's side, looking over Mordor.

He sighed.

Denethor's madness, of course, was yet another ill Sauron had inflicted on himself of the kind he had bemoaned to Éomer. Had Sauron not been deliberately poisoning the man's mind for decades, Denethor likely would have been able to bear Aragorn's coming rationally: agreeing to work together for the duration of the war, then calmly rallying the Council of Gondor to reject his claim just as it had Arvedui's. Instead, Denethor had lost his mind, and in so doing, sown distrust and discord and alienation.

And now Sauron was here, bullying orcs and feeling sorry for himself.

After a few hours, the sky grew pale at the far eastern end of the land, beyond the length of Orodruin's shadow of ash, and slowly bathed the world in the gray of pre-dawn.

He loved this land with a deep, genuine, and abiding love. He had chosen it as his when fleeing the wrath of the Valar after the Siege of Utumno, and stayed here during the three ages of the Chaining of Melkor. During this time, the land had been green, fertile and lush, prosperous and easily settled. He had ordered things exactly as he liked. Sauron had not, of course, dwelt unceasingly in Mordor since then, but he had ever loved it. Whether tree or ash, it was his home.

He could not imagine leaving it for good.

Yet he would have to.

The first rays of the sun showed above the horizon, slanting onto his lands and illuminating Orodruin in a different kind of fire. Sauron could see the line of orcs marching this way. They were almost here, but for now, they settled down to rest and hide from the sun until its rays would again be hidden by the cloud of volcanic ash overhead.

As he sat there in silent thought, he felt Galadriel seeking him out. He opened his mind without seeking to change the surroundings.

"Are you well?" she asked when she materialized, looking at him with a touch of concern.

"I'm fine," he said shortly. He hadn't realized he looked that ill.

Galadriel stood above him and looked at the sunrise. Her eyes lingered on the orc camp on the road up to the pass. Then she looked back at Sauron.

"You seem lonely, and lost," she said softly.

"I know what I'm doing," he insisted.

She reached out and rested two fingers under his chin. He looked steadily back at her. He had not shifted away from the form he knew she found unattractive; he did not quite have the energy for it, even in thought. Even so, she leaned down and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. His eyes fell shut.

It was very difficult to swallow down the emotion that rose in his throat and behind his eyes.

"Perhaps we will see each other in person soon," she said, and withdrew.

He blinked, and opened his eyes. The taste of her lingered on his lips. He did not know whether she came to comfort him or gather intelligence on him, but it did not matter.

Very little mattered now.

The army from Barad-dûr arrived mid-morning. Sauron met with Ummog, who had nothing eventful from the journey to report. Sauron permitted the orcs a short rest and reprieve after the strenuous climb from the plain of Gorgoroth, and then forced them to march. He emptied the tower of Cirith Ungol. He did not have an interest in keeping the pass secure behind him.

Sauron and Zishi flew a little ahead of the army to Minas Morgul, set in its vale at the base of the Morgul Pass.

The air in the vale felt heavy and oppressive.

Sauron detected only two Nazgûl in residence, and no orcs at all. The Second and the Fifth. They were hiding from him, reeking of desperation for him to pass and leave them alone. They had been wounded by Gûlnatar, and were finding it harder than anticipated to recover, even with their rings.

He perched Lashak on top of the bridge spanning the Morgulduin, stared at the tower, and debated.

On the one hand, they were weak and vulnerable right now. He had the chance to finish off two Nazgûl for good.

On the other hand, Sauron was marching to make war on (he assumed) five other Nazgûl, including the Witch-king, who were holding the city of Osgiliath with forty thousand orcs. Sauron could not arrive there tired and any more injured than he already was; he needed to save all his strength. And even he would find it hard to take Minas Morgul from those who had long twisted it to their own purposes.

Reluctantly, he decided to leave these two alone.

They felt his decision as soon as he made it, and the heavy atmosphere in the valley seemed to lift; the air settled a little more peacefully.

Well, his troops would like that.

By the time they marched into the Morgul vale, the orcs were weary, and the sun was low in the sky and peeking through the clouds. Sauron permitted them to camp and rest until it was dark. He remained mounted on Lashak right in front of the outer gates of Minas Morgul, ensuring through his watchfulness that the two Nazgûl inside would not try anything while his troops were here.

He roused them again to march after dark fell. Osgiliath was about six or seven hours down the road, and he wanted to arrive long before the dawn.

Chapter Text

The company that had been gathered in the Court of the Fountain fell silent after Sauron's departure.

Aragorn still seemed shaken and withdrawn. He traced the path of the crow through the skies long after Glorfindel was sure it could no longer be seen by his eyes.

"Manwë may have pardoned Morgoth, but he also chained him," Aragorn said, seemingly to himself.

Glorfindel and Gandalf exchanged a look, but Glorfindel was not sure what Gandalf was thinking; he did not open his mind.

Éomer stepped to the edge of the prow, stooped, and picked up Gûlnatar. He handled it a little gingerly as he returned to stand with the others.

"I'm not turning into a wraith, am I?" Aragorn asked Gandalf and Glorfindel.

"Definitely not," Glorfindel said, while Gandalf replied: "Certainly not."

"We have no more information and no cause to think differently than we did before listening to Denethor," Glorfindel said, as kindly as he could. "He is not in his right mind."

"He has been using a palantír much longer than I," Aragorn said.

He stepped over to the fountain and fished out what was indeed one of Númenor's Seeing Stones.

"All it served was to put him under Sauron's power," Gandalf said sternly. "And you now know that Sauron no longer has one, unless you somehow think he found one of the lost stones of the north."

"I know," Aragorn said with a sigh. He wrapped the palantír in his cloak.

Shoulders stooping, Boromir chose that moment to come back out of the Citadel alone and approach the gathering. He looked a decade older as he raised his head to survey the reduced state of their company.

"Your nine-fingered friend has gone, I see," Boromir said in a low voice.

Aragorn looked as though he could not bring himself to speak.

"He has," Glorfindel said on his behalf.

"Did he leave of his own accord, or did you send him away?"

"The former."

Restlessly, Boromir tapped his fingers along his sword hilt. "I suppose everything he does is of his own accord."

No one would argue with that.

"Your father is not entirely wrong," Aragorn finally said. He, too, looked aged and worn. It appeared that every word cost him. "Sauron did offer... I don't know what to call it. Not a truce, or even a ceasefire, much less a respite for the Men of the West from his ancient enmity. But he offered his help and advice, and he is infamous for using such things to ensnare his enemies."

"Yes, I understand the difficulty," Boromir said. "But my father is wrong." He stood up a little straighter and threw his shoulders back. "The Witch-king occupies our city, poised to move on our tower, and our fight is with him regardless of who else is also at odds with him! We will not abandon our lands and flee into the sea, as my father desires. If we have the help of Mordor, so much the better! If we do not, we will fight just the same, and never lay down our arms until the uttermost end."

"I take courage from your words, Boromir," Aragorn said. "We will indeed not lay down our arms and cast ourselves into the sea."

"Look!" said Glorfindel, pointing to the road to the south, although he did not think the men could see it yet. "The Captains of the Outlands arrive! Their muster, and their wisdom, will be most welcome in the city at this time."

The captains brought with them many thousands of men-at-arms, and bringing up the rear, most welcome of all by those in the tower, Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth with his company of knights. The lords and captains made their way to the top of the city to the Citadel, and Aragorn and his company went inside to greet them. Denethor was nowhere to be seen, but Boromir arrived to welcome them to the city, dressed in a fine cloak and bearing the white rod with a golden knob.

He apologized to the captains on his father's behalf—"He is ill," Boromir explained diplomatically—and met with them for a long time concerning their strength and the state of the lands they had left.

"We have heard from scouts that Rohan may arrive tomorrow," Boromir said, when the men had grown weary and needed their beds. "After a rest, we will all assemble and march on Osgiliath. I counsel that a specific battle-plan be deferred until we take stock of our full strength together."

To this plan there was general assent.

Rohan did not arrive on the morrow; they were yet one more day up the road. But there was a company arriving, and it was just as promising and hopeful—perhaps better, for Glorfindel personally.

A motley assortment of allies, the like of which had not been seen for an Age. From Lórien Galadriel herself marched at the head of a company of elves, with her daughter and their lieutenant Haldir. With Galadriel also came a company of dwarves out of the north mountains, led by Gimli son of Glóin. From Taur-nu-Fuin came many of the gray elves, led by their prince Legolas Greenleaf. And from Glorfindel's own home Imladris came a company led by Elrohir and Elladan. They traveled with Aragorn's beloved horse, Roheryn, and a war-banner that Arwen had fashioned.

Glorfindel was so delighted to reunite with so many unlooked-for allies and friends that he was quite swept away by their arrival. He forgot all about Sauron, the madness of Denethor, and even the fact that no one had fashioned a plan to retake Osgiliath. He entered the city with the company and sang and feasted with them until the others, tired from their march, retired to the beds the men in the city had hastily prepared for them.

Galadriel and her family stayed and gathered in the small room Glorfindel was occupying in the sixth level.

"Well, tell us everything," Galadriel said to Glorfindel. Elrohir had secured ale from who knew where, and was now pouring everyone a hearty measure.

Glorfindel understood exactly what she was asking.

"He has been... valiant," Glorfindel said, and savored the affronted look on Elladan and Elrohir's faces as he said this. "He fought off wargs with us in the Misty Mountains, delivered the Ithil-stone to Aragorn as promised, took down the traitor Saruman's ten thousand Uruk-hai and wildmen, fought off Nazgûl in Ithilien, and battled all night by my side in our doomed attempt to keep the west bank of Osgiliath."

"That is, quite literally, unbelievable," Elrohir said. Celebrían shushed him.

"Nay, Celebrían," Glorfindel said. "I would have found it so, too, four months ago. Listen! The two of us spent the night of the battle for the west bank attempting to keep the Nazgûl occupied and away from the men who shrink and run from their presence. We stayed in the city for this purpose while the men retreated, and for our pains, found ourselves alone in a tower surrounded by thousands of orcs in every direction. For my part, I do not fear a return to the Halls of Mandos, and resolved to take as many of them with me as I could."

"You seem to have made it out all right," Elladan observed wryly.

"He stayed with me," Glorfindel said, ignoring this interruption. "He probably had five different options for fleeing and leaving me alone, and yet he did not. We fought our way together towards the edge of the city, and were eventually rescued by Gandalf."

The others absorbed this silently.

"I have a hard time believing that as well," Galadriel finally admitted. "And—if he has been at your side—why is he back in Mordor now?"

Glorfindel did not bother asking how she knew that. "He had accompanied us to this tower to prepare a counter-assault on Osgiliath. He wished to attack from the east while Gondor attacked from the west. Denethor is, unfortunately, not rational. He saw in the palantír some vision alerting him to the fact that we have been working with the Enemy. Aragorn was pierced by doubt after Denethor's prediction of doom from this cooperation, and Sauron perceived this doubt swiftly. He departed, and what he means to do now, none can tell."

"This morning, at sunrise, he was in the Tower of Cirith Ungol, watching an army of about five thousand orcs march up the road towards the tower from the Plain of Gorgoroth," Galadriel revealed.

"Oh," Glorfindel said, feeling oddly touched by this proof of Sauron's good will. "He is moving on Osgiliath, then. He told us—and Aragorn confirmed through the palantír—that he only has five thousand orcs left in Mordor. So he is emptying it, and marching on the Witch-king."

"We must meet him there," Celebrían said steadily.

"Yes," Glorfindel said. "I think that is still the plan. After Rohan arrives."

"He will arrive at Osgiliath before us, in that case," Galadriel pointed out.

"So much the better!" Elladan cried. "Let him spend his forces, and then we will come and clean up."

"Just like at Isengard," Glorfindel said with a small frown. "For my part, I am inclined to think all his actions since this summer to have been in good faith. And," he added with a significant look at Galadriel, "he has caused many of us to... like him."

Galadriel gave him a small smile.

"We will soon see," she said. "When we take Osgiliath and find out what he does afterwards."

Rohan arrived the next morning, and most of the host camped outside the walls. Glorfindel watched them arrive from the top level of the city, and estimated that they were about eight thousand strong. Éomer went to greet them, and returned to the Citadel accompanied by King Théoden and other lords of the Rohirrim. Théodred, Théoden's son, had stayed to guard the people of Rohan in case there were lingering threats the Men of the West had not foreseen.

What followed was a great gathering of a host of lords and captains: men from the far-flung valleys of Gondor and Rohan; together with elves and dwarves from the north. All told, they had twenty-five thousand troops ready to march on Osgiliath. It was only half the forces of the orcs, but (absent factors like sorcery and Nazgûl) men, elves, and dwarves were better fighters than orcs—especially when horsed—and the lords were confident of their ability to retake the city.

Boromir, acting in the place of his father the Lord and Steward of Gondor, led the meeting and formation of a battle-plan. He did not introduce controversy by describing Aragorn as the Heir of Elendil, although rumors had been spreading like wildfire in the city that the king had come, and had healed the sick—including Faramir. If Faramir was healed, Glorfindel was not aware of it; he was not at this counsel.

Boromir did briefly discuss the intelligence that Sauron was at odds with the Witch-king and also marching on Osgiliath, but the collective wisdom of the lords was to plan as if they would not get help from any quarter there—and in fact, might find opposition instead.

The meeting broke up at noon with a battle plan. Every lord gathered his forces, and as a great host they marched to the Causeway Forts. There they suffered no challenge; Gondor still held the wall. The forces that had taken Osgiliath had, so far, remained in Osgiliath.

The host camped just inside the Rammas Echor. The sun was low in the sky, and night was not the time to attack the forces of darkness. They would wake early the next morning and time their attack on Osgiliath for the sunrise.

Chapter Text

These days, the Witch-king was driven primarily by hate: for the ring on his finger, and for the figure on a flying beast currently approaching Osgiliath from the east.

If he once had other emotions and desires and ambitions, he'd forgotten them, lost to the sands of time along with his humanity.

Hatred roiled in his undead stomach, and it hurt him physically. He felt sick as he watched the shadow of the flying beast approach.

"There march five thousand orcs with him," Gothmog, the lieutenant of Minas Morgul, reported to the Witch-king. "What are your orders?"

For a long time after this question was asked, the Witch-king stood silent at the edge of the city. The orcs in the city greatly outnumbered the five thousand currently approaching. They were deeply frightened of the Witch-king and had always obeyed him with alacrity, like their lives depended on it.

But it was not at all certain that the orcs would attack Sauron if the Witch-king commanded it. Perhaps Gothmog, and any cohorts wearing Minas Morgul livery that Gothmog had personally trained—but that was only a small fraction of the orcs inside this city.

He simply did not know what the orcs would do when faced with a choice between obeying the Lord of Barad-dûr or the Lord of Minas Morgul.

"Stand by," the Witch-king said eventually, reluctantly. "I will challenge him to combat."

He did not need to say that the orcs were to obey the victor. It was painfully obvious that they would do so regardless.

As the Witch-king and Gothmog watched, the five thousand Mordor orcs continued to march down the road without hesitation. It was sometime after midnight, and the dawn was many hours away. The Witch-king could perceive each individual as clearly as an elf could see during the day.

The marching orcs halted just outside the ruined city, even though no one inside the city issued a challenge. Their commander landed his vicious flying beast on the road in between their ranks and the city. He had traded that weak, human flesh for his oversized, supernatural shape bearing his great plates of armor, his staff, and his mace. His banner with the eye insignia fluttered out behind him, and the Witch-king could feel the orcs in the city melt and droop in fear and submission at his arrival.

"I am the lord of the earth!" Sauron screamed, in that pretentious language he'd invented that no one would speak if he hadn't terrorized all his servants into doing so. "All who stand against me shall fall. Doom on those who would try!"

Such dramatics. The Witch-king was heartily sick of them from this accursed, maggot-ridden brute.

The Witch-king drew his sword, and stepped forward. Behind him, the four other Nazgûl (he hated that they had no other name than the one Sauron had forced on them) followed suit.

"You have come here to fight me," the Witch-king said. He made his voice echo loudly just like Sauron's. "Fight me, then! Unless you are too cowardly to try."

Sauron took up his staff and his mace, and leapt off the beast. He strode down the road towards the Witch-king. He radiated power and strength and fury. If he was afraid, the Witch-king could not feel it anywhere in him.

"You are right," Sauron said, his voice no longer echoing through the city with sorcery. His words were for the Nazgûl alone. "I have come here to fight you. You stole my rings, my servants, and my mount; you keep Minas Morgul and this city from me; and you would turn the orcs here against me if you could."

"You stole my very self," the Witch-king snarled in response.

"You gave it to me," Sauron replied, his tone going light and careless, and then he was within striking distance. His great mace flew through the air. The Witch-king had to dodge.

Infuriated, the Witch-king hefted his sword and attacked. The four other Nazgûl surrounded Sauron in a circle, and pressed him from all sides.

It was a rather hopeless fight from anyone's perspective. It was not like fighting Sauron in his human body without armor; everyone knew the Sixth had injured him in north Ithilien and he remained injured despite his considerable sorcery. But on the other hand, Sauron also did not appear to be wielding the blade that had been so harmful to the Second and the Fifth.

The Nazgûl clanged their swords uselessly against his great armor, which they could not pierce. They could only dent it and bruise him, and hopefully wear him down. And Sauron, seemingly tirelessly, raised his mace against the Nazgûl, again and again and again, sometimes catching against a sword, sometimes sweeping an opponent into the walls behind them, sometimes smashing gauntlets or boots, sometimes striking one across the shoulders with his staff—but all injuries their own power could heal easily enough.

For his part, the Witch-king had to favor his right hand, thanks to the injury to his left from that terrible elf who was dauntless and terrifying. He had not been able to fully heal the hurt, but nor was it as devastating as the injuries to the Second and Fifth.

No one was winning this fight, and no one was losing, and they all knew it.

The Witch-king counted five full hours that they circled one another, uselessly and futilely beating against one another in shared rage and loathing and hate. Eventually, the Witch-king was forced to step away from Sauron and lean on his sword to take a break. He needed to regather his wits and his strength.

The other four Nazgûl, who had not been bearing the full brunt of Sauron's wrath like the Witch-king, drew their circle more tightly and kept harrying Sauron.

The Witch-king took stock of the situation around them.

A few of the orcs on the southern city of the side had started fighting each other—of course they had, the useless, undisciplined scum—although so far it seemed confined to a few cohorts who had already disliked each other prior to the present conflict between the Nazgûl and Sauron.

Most of the army from Mordor, and most of the orcs in Osgiliath, were waiting and watching. The Witch-king heard a few of them placing bets on the outcome.

He ignored them all. In this moment the Witch-king saw an opportunity. He was standing east of Sauron on the road. He left Sauron and the four other Nazgûl, and slunk east down the darkened road. He approached the flying beast with the standard-bearer sitting on top of it.

Sauron cared for these things, the Witch-king knew. He had felt it growing in Sauron this year. He did not himself quite understand the concept of caring for anything or anyone, but he knew how to use it against others. He approached the flying beast, speaking to it softly in the Black Speech, and it snorted at him and danced around but did not flee.

He raised his sword high over his head, and with one great stoke, cleaved its head from its body.

The beast collapsed onto its side, the standard-bearer falling with it and tangling herself in the banner.

The Witch-king advanced on the small orc, radiating menace and death.

The small orc did not cower or flee. She got to her feet, bared her teeth like an animal, and jumped on top of him—an action he was supremely unprepared for. She was holding two small knives and managed to stab him five or six times before the blades dissolved in her hands. He wrestled her off of his person and thrust his sword forward, running her through the chest.

Before she expired, she threw another knife at his torso. It landed, and it hurt, and he staggered, but it too was a mundane sort of injury that his ring would soon mend.

The Witch-king was not sure if there was another in Sauron's forces here who was important to him. He didn't think there was. He turned and stumbled back west.

Sauron screamed, a great terrible scream that racked the Witch-king to his core. He could feel pain and fury radiating from Sauron, and almost stumbled under the weight of it. Sauron broke out of the circle of Nazgûl and launched himself at the Witch-king, not bothering to swing his mace, instead colliding into him on the road. The Witch-king weighed nothing compared to the Dark Lord in his great armor, and fell to the ground and was trampled by his great boots and pummeled by the great fists. He screamed in his turn; although none of it was a permanent injury, it was humiliating and painful.

Sauron smashed his metal gauntlet against the Witch-king's wrist, and reached for his ring, and the Witch-king had had enough. He wrenched his arm out of Sauron's grasp, wriggled away from him, and staying low to the ground, he turned and fled.

He ran headlong, heedless of the orcs throwing themselves out of his way, until he was over the makeshift bridge and running down the road in the western part of the city. There, he finally slowed and chanced a glance behind him: the other Nazgûl had followed, while Sauron had not.

He stopped running, but he screamed at the sky and he cursed long and loud. He did not know what to do. If five Nazgûl, working together with no armies favoring either side, could not defeat Sauron, there was not much hope for them going forward.

He finished shrieking his temper and mounted the stairs into an old tower, with the other Nazgûl trailing him. From there, he watched as Sauron threw a temper tantrum of his own: he was raging at his army, the lines of orcs from Mordor, for failing to stop the Witch-king from slaughtering his beast and his standard-bearer.

After prolonged ranting, Sauron abandoned them without doing anything to punish them—he had finally realized there was fighting going on at the south edge of the city.

"Cease this instantly," Sauron screamed at the warring orcs, charging into the middle of the clashing lines and laying into both sides with his mace. "Drop your weapons and get on your knees, now!"

Somehow, Sauron's power and menace permeated even the battle-lust madness of the feuding orcs. They instantly obeyed him, dropping their blades and pressing themselves to the ground before him in one swift, coordinated movement.

Sauron ignored the orcs who had marched with him from Mordor, and started haranguing the orcs that had been fighting wearing Morgul livery. He made the usual threats: he would put them to torment in his dungeons, slaughter their families, bathe his lands in their blood, blah blah blah. The Witch-king did not understand how these pathetic threats moved anyone.

One of the orcs closest to Sauron's feet lifted his head and said something. Unlike with Sauron's rants, the Witch-king had to extend his listening by sorcery in order to hear the orc's words.

"...for us to question," the orc was saying sullenly. At least he had the wits to use the Black Speech to address Sauron. "It isn't fair to punish us for not knowing the Witch-king was a traitor!"

"What is your name?" Sauron asked, then without waiting for a verbal answer: "Gorbag, you flea-ridden swine, when I start punishing, you will know it."

Sauron picked up the orc by the back of his chainmail, and hung him up by his shirt onto a stone post about twelve feet off the ground.

The orc whimpered and wriggled in midair and sniffled. "Mercy, lord," he begged. "Have mercy on all of us."

Sauron raised his voice again so that it could be heard throughout the city. "Enough of this! Every orc captain on this bank will meet me in the courtyard in five minutes."

Sauron turned and stormed back to the central courtyard in the eastern half of the city. Orcs fled the streets at his approach. Sauron seated himself on a flight of steps, laid his mace across his lap, and stared down the east-west road, over the makeshift bridge, and directly at the tower where the Witch-king was standing.

He did not say anything else. He did not have to. Sauron controlled the east bank of the city, and they both knew it.

I hate you, the Witch-king thought at him as fiercely as he could.

Sauron did not retaliate with a blast of his will again. The Witch-king could not understand why; it was a powerful and fearsome weapon of his. All the Witch-king received from Sauron in return was a steady determination to do what he thought needed to be done. Whatever that was.

The Witch-king turned wearily to conference with the other Nazgûl. Far in the east, the sky was growing light, and before he could say anything to the others, the cry of a horn sounded to the west.

It was a familiar sound to the Witch-king. The horn of Boromir. Gondor had arrived to retake their city.

It was not good timing, as the Witch-king had just lost half his forces and half the city. The heavy equipment he had brought was also on the eastern bank. But he lacked any other choice. He descended from the tower to order the orcs to form lines, fortify the buildings, ready their arrows, and prepare for battle. He also sacrificed much of his strength and power to gather a cloud to block the sun, so far away and so low on the horizon. But his orcs could not fight in the sun's rays.

Unfortunately, even under the shadow, his enemies were far stronger than they had been when he routed them from the city. They had elves, those horrible evil figures of death, with a longer bow range than orcs. Their unerring accuracy picked off orcs through windows, over ramparts, and behind crumbling walls. They provided cover for a line of men in gleaming helmets and armor marching on the city with tall, strong shields; orc arrows were almost totally ineffective against them. The line of men reached the city with few losses, and switched out their shields for spears. The elves swarmed in after them on the north side of the city, a line of dwarves with axes swarmed the south side, and behind all of them came a host of men riding horses swiftly along the plain.

The Witch-king and the Nazgûl spread throughout the city. The Eighth planted himself at the makeshift bridge to stop any orcs who thought it might be a clever move to retreat to the eastern bank and gather under Sauron's banner. The Third turned to the north, the Fourth turned to the south, and the Witch-king and the Sixth stalked down the center to rally the orcs against the men on horses galloping into the city roads and mowing down orcs with every step.

The Witch-king feared that his forces, halved as they were, were outnumbered. Men continued to pour over the plains into the city, and the horses pressed the orcs hard, and he would have considered ordering a retreat had that not been the equivalent of handing himself and all his troops to Sauron on a silver platter. Instead, he ordered devices of fire to be kindled, he roared his menace at the invaders, he used all his sorcery to strike fear in their hearts... and yet they kept coming.

Sounding another loud horn, the vanguard of the men unfurled a banner displaying the White Tree and the Seven Stars, with a high crown atop the insignia, flaming and glinting in the rising sun. The Witch-king knew it intimately for the banner of the King of the Realms in Exile, even if his ghostly eyes did not perceive all these details. He hated it and felt sick at the sight. He stumbled away from it; a dark despair and a menace fell upon him; and in the press of battle he was torn from the side of the Sixth.

He resorted to drawing his own sword and striking down the men as they came, fighting at the side of the line of orcs in the central road of the city. Eventually, he became aware of shouts of "Théoden King! Théoden King!" from the horse riders, and his attention was drawn to the line of horse-lords barreling into the city that prompted these shouts.

It was the horse king of Rohan, sure enough, but by his side was someone the Witch-king suddenly realized was a perfect target of his malice—both vulnerable and valuable.

It was a very young human that Sauron had also decided to care about. He was a much better target than the shining elves advancing on the north side of the city, who were with a host of their kin and the terrible menace of the wizard—all of whom were a bright white to the Witch-king's undead eyes. The Witch-king was well aware that Sauron's beloved she-elves were there, but the Witch-king would only have dared attack them if they were separated and alone, and he had his Nazgûl flanking him. None of which was the case right now.

The human was much weaker.

The Witch-king drew back to let the horse king and his riders barrel their way down the road into the middle of the city with little resistance. He directed the orcs to converge on the horse king while he took up a tiny cross-bow and launched a poisoned dart at the young man's horse.

The darts were of his own invention and making and therefore in short supply. Had he any hope of winning this battle, he would have tried to use them on the Steward's son (as he had the other one!) or the Heir of Isildur. But the Witch-king did not currently know where these legendary figures were, and he had locked onto this prey. He only wanted to make Sauron hurt.

The man's horse screamed and fell, and the fast gallop of the other horse lords carried them past their fallen comrade. Nonetheless thoroughly undaunted, the young man leapt to his feet at once and started crossing blades with nearby orcs.

The Witch-king surged forward. He brought his sword pommel down hard on the young man's helmet. The man fell under the blow and went to the ground, dazed but not dead. The Witch-king kicked the man's sword out of his hand.

"You are precious to him, and long will you suffer for it," the Witch-king gloated. "I will take you beyond darkness and torment you for many years before your death."

More of the young man's fellow soldiers were making their way down the road into the city. Most of them blanched at the sight of the Witch-king, and drew back to take another direction.

Yet there was one unhorsed soldier who gave a cry and came to stand over the young man's body, sword and shield raised high.

"Begone!" the soldier said. "Go back to the darkness!"

The Witch-king hefted his sword, bringing it against the soldier's sword and wrenching it out of the soldier's hand with his far superior strength. It went flying and clattered to the ground far out of reach.

"You fool," the Witch-king hissed. "Do not come between the Nazgûl and his prey. Or you will become an object of my torment along with him!"

"Do what you will, but I will do anything I can to hinder you," the soldier said. The Witch-king brought his sword down again. It was blocked by the shield just in time, but the soldier fell to his knees from the force of the blow, and the bones in his arm shattered. His helmet, which had been crooked, fell away and clattered to the ground.

"No living man may hinder me!" the Witch-king screamed, and raised his sword again.

On his knees, the soldier raised his shield in a final defiance. He tossed his helmet-less head, and bright hair of gold fell about his shoulders.

"But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter and Éomer's sister."

The Witch-king hesitated. Doubt entered him as he looked on this soldier—this woman!—who would not flee before his menace.

As he looked, she cast about and her hand fell on the handle of her brother's sword. Dropping her shield, she held the sword before her. She directed it upward as she stood in one swift movement, and drove the sword between the Witch-king's crown and mantle, piercing him from his face through the back of his head.

In his last moments, the Witch-king recognized the blade for Sauron's handcraft. He did not understand how it had happened, but it was his final undoing: Gûlnatar, wielded by a female hand.

He faded, his garments falling shapeless to the ground, and he passed as a shriek on the wind.

Chapter Text

The Witch-king's dying echoes reverberated through the city. Everyone locked in combat paused for one moment, as his menace seemed to oppress them before falling away. The cloud in the sky vanished with him, and sunlight shone upon the city.

The remaining Nazgûl gave a great collective shriek and fled. Glorfindel raced up the steps of a nearby building, swapping sword for bow. He found and notched an arrow, and tried to trace their flight over the makeshift bridge. He swiftly sighted, aimed, and found the one in the rear. The arrow was true; the Nazgûl stumbled and screamed, but rose to his feet again quickly. The arrow dissolved away from his flesh, and he continued to run.

They were very hard to injure.

But the delay caused by his arrow had enabled the supernatural figure, in his great armor and sweeping horns, to reach the bridge and meet the Nazgûl with his mace. The first three Nazgûl scattered to the side and successfully fled out of his reach. But now Sauron brought his mace down, smashing the slowest Nazgûl into the nearest wall.

Glorfindel sighted and let loose another arrow, which soared true and long to the other bank and sunk into the Nazgûl where he lay. Sauron raised his mace again, and brought it down on the gauntleted hand of the Nazgûl. The Nazgûl screamed. Sauron stooped, and—Glorfindel assumed, he could not quite make out the details—divested the Nazgûl of his ring, placing it on his own finger.

In another moment, this Nazgûl, too, blew away and left his garments empty and lifeless.

"Three down," Glorfindel murmured to himself.

He watched as the surviving Nazgûl leapt onto their horses, which had been lingering outside the city to the east. The assembled orcs dove out of their way without making the slightest move to stop them. The Nazgûl thundered up the road and were soon lost to Glorfindel's sight in the curves of the land.

Meanwhile, the press of men, elves, and dwarves continued on the western bank. The orcs lost their nerve at the death of the Witch-king and the flight of the other Nazgûl, and they started fleeing in droves.

Glorfindel watched as Sauron directed orc archers to the riverbank to cover the bridge to protect the retreat. But only a few orcs could flee across the bridge at a time, and soon their desperation grew enough to shed their chainmail, throw themselves in the river, and attempt to swim across. Éomer's question was answered: most of the orcs could swim. Their form was not graceful, but it was enough to keep themselves from drowning. They were swept downstream, but kept their heads above the water. Their comrades on the eastern bank started throwing ropes into the water for them to cling to and complete the crossing.

Glorfindel discovered, for the first time in his long and embattled life, that he did not have the heart to empty his quiver into the backs of the fleeing orcs. He shouldered his bow, and picked his way over to where Éomer and Éowyn lay. He first collected and pocketed the Witch-king's ring, still present on a finger of his empty gauntlet, then picked up Gûlnatar and strapped it to his own back.

Both humans were alive—Éomer conscious and weeping over his sister's inert body—and he left them to the care of other humans, who were starting to swarm around them. Glorfindel joined the ranks of the elves entering the city and sweeping clean the western bank at Gandalf's side.

When all the orcs were dead or had fled the western bank, the defenders left well enough alone. They did not pursue the orcs over the makeshift bridge, but put up a strong patrol in the courtyard on the western end of it.

With the city safe and the enemies routed, there was ample cause for celebration. Boromir caused to be mounted on a tower the banner of the Kings, and blew his horn again, and everyone gathered into the courtyard and raised their fists into the air and cheered.

Boromir turned to Aragorn.

"Aragorn Elessar! My lord—my king," Boromir said, going to one knee and laying his sword at Aragorn's feet. He took up Aragorn's hand and kissed the Ring of Barahir. "You have raised the banner of the Kings and displayed the tokens of Elendil’s House, and by the authority I wield on behalf of my father, Lord and Steward of Gondor, I recognize them. I will follow you into any battle and serve you for the rest of my life."

Shouts of "The King! The King has returned!" filled the courtyard. The men all went to one knee, while the elves and the dwarves—Glorfindel among them—bowed their heads respectfully.

"I will reward service and fealty with love and honor," Aragorn declared, drawing the sword of Elendil and brandishing it into the sky. "May Gondor prosper and endure forever, and may all her enemies fall!"

The men cheered and echoed his words and laughed and threw into the air whatever was at hand—handkerchiefs, cloaks, caps, gloves—anything that was even moderately tossable.

"Long live the king! Long live the king!"

During the celebrations, the men maintained the presence of mind to station a line of archers to watch and guard the eastern bank, but it was a needless precaution. Sauron was busy gathering his orcs away from the river and collecting stragglers downstream. He paid no attention whatsoever to the western bank, an almost contemptuous disregard. The men did not provoke hostilities by actually firing anything.

For a few hours, the host of the West collected themselves after battle, treating minor injuries and collecting the more grievously wounded to cart back to the tower. They gathered the bodies of the dead, laying out their own in respectful state and piling the orcs up for burning.

Eventually, Aragorn managed to gather the lords and captains of the West to him for a war council, and discuss what was to be done next.

"The orcs on the eastern bank are hiding from the day inside the old ruined buildings," Prince Imrahil reported. "Their commander appears to be walking the streets restlessly, occasionally screaming and snarling at the orcs in a language the scouts do not understand."

"Have you tried to reach out to him?" Aragorn asked Galadriel.

"Yes," she said. "His mood is most foul, and he snarled at me too. I am not sure of the reason for this black mood. But he conveyed that he and his orcs will leave this city at nightfall. He also said he would wait for me alone at Minas Morgul, if I wished. There the remaining Nazgûl have gathered."

"That is his way of asking for help, I suppose," Aragorn said.

"How many Nazgûl remain?" Imrahil asked.

"Six, but we believe one is far away," Glorfindel answered. "So there will be five cowering in Minas Morgul. Two of them are permanently injured, I believe."

"Where will Sauron take all the orcs to?" wondered Boromir.

"Back into Mordor," Galadriel said softly.

"So he leaves Osgiliath to us," Boromir surmised.

"Yes," Aragorn said. "Just as with Isengard."

Gandalf and Glorfindel looked at each other.

Mentally, they debated the merits and drawbacks of Sauron's request to find him at Minas Morgul. Both Glorfindel and Gandalf would, of course, go to fight Nazgûl anywhere at any time. Their task it was to rid Middle-earth of this menace, among other things. But there was a hesitation: marching up there seemingly in response to Sauron's bidding.

On balance, however, Glorfindel agreed with Aragorn that the 'bidding' was just Sauron's high-handed (and emotionally insecure) way of asking for help without having to actually ask for it. Glorfindel also disliked the idea of leaving Sauron to purge Morgul of five Nazgûl on his own. He had enjoyed fighting Nazgûl with Sauron and looking forward to finishing them off together.

"We will meet Sauron at Morgul and finish off the Nazgûl," Gandalf said out loud after they had finished silently conferring. "Men are unsuited to this task. They must stay here and cleanse the city. I deem myself, Glorfindel, and Galadriel the best candidates to go to Morgul. The dwarves shall take their hammers and come a day after us, if they are willing, that they may reduce the city to rubble after its evil masters are banished."

There was a lot of talk and objection to this plan. Mostly, the objection was because each lord wanted a part in taking down the Nazgûl. Eventually, Aragorn declared that he, Imrahil, Gandalf, Elladan, Elrohir, and Galadriel would go. Boromir was needed to oversee the cleanup of Osgiliath and coordinate messages to and from Gondor. The word of Aragorn, his mettle proven in battle twice over, was already law to his men, and their protests ceased.

Éomer, however, found it hard to bear. "My sister," he cried. "She lies dying from the menace of the Nazgûl. You cannot deny me my revenge!"

Glorfindel was not even convinced that Éomer should be up and about; his helmet bore an alarming dent, evidence that he had suffered a grievous blow, and there was a fey mood about him.

Aragorn sent Théoden a meaningful look.

"Rohan will defer to King Elessar's judgment in this matter," Théoden said to Éomer. Théoden had fought fiercely during the battle, but now seemed old and stooped. "And I need you by my side, sister-son."

Éomer was not so fey or angry that this failed to move him, or that he was inclined to disobey his king. He bowed his head, and said no more.

Thus the matter seemed settled. However, given her small secretive smile, Glorfindel strongly suspected they would find Celebrían at Minas Morgul as well, regardless of what Aragorn had to say on the topic.

"We will not march at night," Gandalf said, for the day was growing old. "We will leave in the morning, and arrive at noon—their least favorite time of day."

The host of the West slept soundly in the reconquered city. The orcs left the eastern part of the city overnight, as Galadriel had said they would. The next morning, Aragorn's chosen company traveled swiftly and lightly up the road to the Morgul Vale. They were unencumbered by heavy supplies or the coordination needs of many troops, and they arrived in that dreadful place with an hour to spare before noon.

Standing on the bridge over the Morgulduin—no orcs in sight—staring up at the tower, alone, was the great figure in his horned armor.

He did not stir or turn to look at the company as they arrived. He did not speak. Taking their cue from him, everyone lined up and looked at the tower silently.

"How many are in there?" Glorfindel finally broke the silence.

"Five," Sauron said. "Two of them are injured."

Just as Glorfindel had thought. "Where is your army?"

"Camped up in the pass to Mordor for the daylight hours. They have been directed to go to Barad-dûr."

"What is the plan for taking Minas Morgul?"

Glorfindel had directed this question to everyone standing there, not just Sauron, but no one answered him.

After a prolonged silence, Glorfindel sighed. "Here," he said, and shrugged Gûlnatar off his shoulder. "And here." He dug the Witch-king's ring out his pocket, and offered both to Sauron.

Sauron finally turned to look at him. Yellow eyes, like a cat's, looked out at Glorfindel from underneath his horned helmet. They were many, many degrees less friendly than Halbrand's eyes. Glorfindel did not shiver under that gaze, but it may have been a close call. He would never say either way.

"Thank you," Sauron said. He took the ring, and slid it onto his finger, nesting it above the ring he had taken from the Nazgûl in the city. His eyes lost focus, drifting away, and he seemed to slump forward. He took a few sharp breaths, fighting for each one, and labored long in thought far away.

No one moved as Sauron battled for dominance of the ring with the remnants of the spirit of the Witch-king. At length, it became clear that Sauron won; his eyes cleared and he drew a deeper, more peaceful breath.

"He is gone," Sauron said softly.

Glorfindel, for reasons he could not name, was moved to take off his helmet and bow his head. The rest of the company—and Sauron too!—followed suit, and they collectively held a moment of silence for the once-great lord of men.

After a minute, Sauron gave himself a little shake, then turned to Glorfindel. Glorfindel looked into the face under the helmet for the first time, and found it evil: dreadful, pale, otherworldly, and deathly.

Little wonder that Sauron took the form of Halbrand in his dealings with elves and men.

Sauron reached out and took Gûlnatar from Glorfindel's hand. Gûlnatar was a sort of amusingly oversized knife in the hands of this body. Sauron did not seem to find it remotely funny, however, and handled it tenderly. He hung it at his side with care.

"Thank you for your help with the Sixth, on the bridge," Sauron said to Glorfindel. His front teeth were actually fangs in this body. He was like a caricature of Morgoth. It was absurd. "And who defeated the Witch-king?"

Glorfindel exchanged another look with Gandalf. They silently agreed to say nothing about Éomer.

Glorfindel answered truthfully enough: "Éowyn, the king of Rohan's sister-daughter. No, we do not know why she rode to war with that host."

"Oh," Sauron said. "You know, that does seem the kind of thing she would do." Then he laughed, a grim, fell laughter that would have stabbed through the heart of lesser men or elves. "Not by the hand of man shall he fall! How clever."

Glorfindel found it neither funny nor clever, but a tragic deed with a high cost, higher than it would have been for Glorfindel or Sauron to deal with the Witch-king. He was liking Sauron in this mood and this shape less with every second. He kept silent. He shifted uneasily on his feet, and happened to make eye contact with Galadriel. She gave him a small smile that said she not only knew his thoughts, but read his feelings perfectly.

Glorfindel suddenly understood a lot of things about Sauron and Galadriel that had previously mystified him. They really did both hate and love each other, and had for many ages.

"Can we just get this over with?" Elrohir grumbled. "I do not wish to stay in this place one minute longer than necessary."

Sauron glanced at Elrohir with a light contempt. "I don't hear you coming up with a plan to take the fortress," he said.

"Stop, for pity's sake," Galadriel said, her voice ringing out. "We will not stand here and behave like children. Sauron, you have a plan. You simply believe we will not follow your lead and so you hesitate to say things that will be rejected. I will venture to speak on behalf of everyone here in this matter. We will follow your lead. Tell us what to do."

Sauron said nothing for a few moments, but when no one voiced any objections, he cleared his throat.

"Four will take point on the walls of the fortress. You must stay at these posts and stop any fleeing Nazgûl."

He pointed to Celebrían. "You will climb the towering cliffs east of the fortress and in addition to guarding that direction, be my eyes and ears outside the fortress and the communication between the groups without and within. I will go mad if I have eight more voices in my head in addition to the Nazgûl, so you need to be the only one out here to seek me out in thought."

He pointed to Elladan: "You will stand before the front gates to the north"—to Imrahil: "You will stand on the west wall"—and to Elrohir: "You will stand on the south wall."

And to all four of them: "Understand that if you fail and they get past you, our labors here will be in vain; they can scatter far and wide and find allies and we may find ourselves spending centuries hunting them."

None of them argued with him. They gave him four identical, grim nods.

"I will break down the gates and the front doors and enter the fortress first. Gandalf, Aragorn, Glorfindel, and Galadriel will follow me. You will likely be able to sense their location when we enter, but I will point you at your targets. I will seek the Fourth. Aragorn and Galadriel, I will send you after the ones who are already injured—Galadriel, you will seek the Second and Aragorn the Fifth. Gandalf, you will go after the Third. Glorfindel, the Eighth. I deem each of you capable of holding your own against any one of them. Do not prove me wrong."

He had a bit of a badgering, condescending, lecturing manner about him. Glorfindel wondered if this was how it felt to be one of his orcs.

"They are alone in this tower, but of course are capable of putting up a fearsome fight on their own. You really, really do not want to let them stab you. The objective is to sever or otherwise take their rings from their fingers, or wear them out and call me to finish them off. None of you are capable of doing anything else to injure them. Oh—I suppose Gandalf might be, I don't know about that. Do whatever you want, Gandalf."

Gandalf's face betrayed no expression at this directive.

Sauron plowed on. "Any of you may reach out to me in thought in an emergency, but please try to refrain otherwise. If you face a choice between helping one of your companions or taking down a Nazgûl, I would prefer—at least when it comes to myself—that you take the Nazgûl. Are there any questions?"

There were none. Imrahil, Elrohir, and Celebrían melted away to climb the walls and the cliffs on the perimeter. They were in place within a quarter of an hour, after which time Sauron strode up the road, then turned up the path that led to the front gates. Sauron hefted his mace at the gates and swung once—twice—three times, and they crumbled beneath the blow. Five of them stepped carefully forward, leaving Elladan at his northern post.

It was another long, winding path from the outer walls to the entrance of the tower itself. The very dirt on the road and the stones of the tower ahead seemed to menace them. Glorfindel felt it as a heavy weight on his spirit. Only Sauron seemed unflagging as they drew up to the front door. It was but one blow from his mace to destroy this entrance.

They followed Sauron into an echoing antechamber, whose walls seemed to glow with an eerie, evil green light. Glorfindel shivered when passing beneath the doorway into this cursed tower.

Sauron walked down the hall silently. The hall opened up into a larger chamber, an enormous space with a grand staircase at the end. Sauron mounted this staircase, then another, then another. No rooms held even a scrap of furniture or any other item. Still silent, he pointed Aragorn and Galadriel down a passageway to their right. Gandalf and Glorfindel followed Sauron as he turned left and mounted another, smaller, spiraling staircase.

Glorfindel could sense they were nearing Nazgûl; the evil radiating in the air was growing heavier. Sauron pushed open a door at the top of the staircase, and stepped through it into a long corridor. It was a bridge, linking two tall spires, and although it had walls of windows on each side, the glass had been tainted and the light filtering in was an eerie green. Sauron proceeded across the bridge, with Gandalf and Glorfindel following him.

The Nazgûl were somewhere ahead of them, their presence permeating the air and coating the inside of Glorfindel's throat. Sauron strode ahead without fear, and Glorfindel tried to take heart from his courage. He tightened his grip on his sword hilt.

Sauron was two-thirds of the way across the bridge when a Nazgûl screamed a challenge in the Black Speech, and the bottom of the bridge crumbled and fell out from under them.

Glorfindel leapt to the side and balanced precariously on the edge of the remaining sliver of floor. He reached out and caught Gandalf before he fell, but there was no hope at all of helping Sauron in his heavy armor. Glorfindel hauled Gandalf to safety and watched, heart in his throat, as Sauron hurtled towards the ground at least a hundred feet below—but then Sauron transformed into a crow, flying away from the pull of the heavy armor and landing safely beside it when it crashed to the ground.

Glorfindel reminded himself that Sauron had said he did not want help. He tiptoed down the edge of the bridge, Gandalf somehow balancing behind him, and they reached the tower on the other side.

Three Nazgûl appeared to their eyes out of the gloom. Glorfindel drew his sword, and Gandalf brandished his staff. His power emitted from it, bathing the tower in starlight and seeming to overpower the evil green light.

The Nazgûl screeched, drew their swords, and advanced. They cleanly separated Glorfindel and Gandalf. Two of them turned on Gandalf and one turned to Glorfindel. At this point, Glorfindel had no earthly clue whether he was battling the Eighth or some other Nazgûl. It did not seem to matter. He raised his sword and met blow for blow.

The Nazgûl pressed him, and he backed up. He reached the wall, the Nazgûl dealt a heavy blow against his sword, and he felt the wall crumble away behind him.

Glorfindel lost his balance and fell, but grabbed the lip of the floor with one hand, keeping grasp of his sword with the other, and swung himself back inside the tower, through the window one floor below. Like the floor above it, it had no glass or bars across it, but was an empty gaping maw.

He was in a dusty, disused-looking chamber, the floor lined with animal waste and the corners with cobwebs. He strode to the door and wrenched it open, and went through a hall and tried another door, and after a few more doors he found himself completely lost in a maze of stale, dank rooms and passageways.

After wasting at least another quarter of an hour wandering completely lost, he found another room with a window and climbed outside. He sheathed his sword, clung to the cracks between the stones, and climbed to the window one floor up.

He entered the tower into another empty room. He drew his sword, and tried to make his way towards the evil he felt emanating from the Nazgûl, but in here it seemed to come from all directions. He nonetheless tried more hallways and doors, and finally found a staircase.

Running up the staircase was Sauron, in his large humanoid shape again—but with no armor, and clad hastily in black trousers and a ragged tunic that looked like it was on backwards and missing both sleeves. He was carrying Gûlnatar without a sheath or belt, and nothing else. The wound on his left arm was raw and red, and looked like it was bleeding again. His feet were bare.

"You are lost, aren't you," Sauron said to Glorfindel flatly, with no inflection to make it a question. "I fear the others are as well. The Nazgûl seem to be everywhere in here and are harder to track than I anticipated. Nothing to be done about that now. Come!"

Sauron climbed another flight, then unerringly made his way through two more doors and found Gandalf battling three Nazgûl. They had traveled up a floor since he last saw them.

Gandalf's face was creased in concentration, Glamdring in one hand and staff in the other. Glorfindel judged that he was holding his own, if barely. Sauron stabbed one Nazgûl from behind with Gûlnatar, and Glorfindel smashed the flat of his sword across the back of another.

The Nazgûl screamed. This disturbed a swarm of bats from the rafters of the room, who flew down and started clawing at everyone's faces. Glorfindel batted them away, getting scratched and bitten a dozen times for his troubles, until Sauron roared something in the Black Speech and the bats grew confused and swarmed around the room without purpose.

Glorfindel could see the rest of the room again. The Nazgûl pierced by Gûlnatar was on the floor, writhing in pain.

Gandalf was still battling the two others. Glorfindel drew a long knife, and threw it into the back of one of the Nazgûl. He judged that his blows, even if not permanently injuring them, were at least painful and costly to repair, and he had a few knives to spare. The Nazgûl shrieked again as the blade of the knife dissolved and the handle clattered to the floor.

Meanwhile, Sauron smashed the gauntlet of the Nazgûl on the floor with the handle of his sword, and the Nazgûl shrieks grew louder. Sauron crouched down and worked the ring off of a finger of the gauntlet, but while he was distracted with this task, the Nazgûl pulled out a knife. Glorfindel yelled out a warning and leapt forward, but not quickly enough—the Nazgûl stabbed Sauron in the foot.

Sauron let out a stream of harsh-sounding words in a language Glorfindel did not speak, but nonetheless was unmistakable for its long, discordant syllables: Valarin.

While dancing around and cursing, Sauron slid the ring on his finger, and the Nazgûl on the floor screamed and faded away.

The two remaining Nazgûl turned to run.

Gandalf raised a hand, and the door slammed shut. The Nazgûl whirled around again, their backs to the door, and screamed their defiance and their hate.

They raised their hands and a black light shone from them, twisting and stretching out like a living thing to swallow all life in its path.

Glorfindel was never quite sure where the impulse or direction came from. Without speaking a word, Glorfindel, Sauron, and Gandalf closed ranks and drew together, standing shoulder-to-shoulder. They chanted in unison, an ancient chant in Quenya for the preservation and protection from ill. Their voices rose, weaving into one sound and overcoming the darkness of the Nazgûl. Glorfindel felt detached from his body, his spirit leaving the floor, as though he had become the chant.

Then the room went silent. Glorfindel's spirit was pulled back into his body. He was looking out of his own eyes at the two Nazgûl slumped against the door, their energy spent. The bats had all fled cowering back into the upper rafters.

Sauron crossed the room, limping slightly, and pulled their rings off without resistance. He placed them on his finger, and bid the wraiths begone.

When he stood again, he seemed diminished. His cheeks looked hollow and he was paler than he had been before.

"If I have a permanent limp, I will lose my mind and cast my own accursed self into the void."

Glorfindel coughed, and made like he was wiping sweat off of his upper lip, but really he was hiding a smile he could not quite smother. Morgoth's limp had been epic. Although Glorfindel no longer wished the same fate on Morgoth's ancient servant, the irony could not be beat.

"Let's find the others," Sauron said, his voice thin and colorless. "Celebrían reports that they are gathering at the front gates."

Sauron led them down the many, many flights of stairs, until they exited a side door to find themselves on a path winding around the tower down to the gates. Sunshine spilled on them, warming and cheering Glorfindel despite the evil stink of the tower.

At the front gates stood Elladan, Imrahil, Aragorn, and Galadriel. Arriving very quickly after Sauron's group came Celebrían and Elrohir. On the ground were two inert piles of Nazgûl cloaks, boots, gloves, and swords.

"They made a run for it," Elladan reported. "Aragorn and Galadriel were on their heels. I called for help and Celebrían directed Imrahil to join me. Together, the four of us cornered and overpowered them."

"He was stabbed by one of their blades," Aragorn said of Elladan. "They thought to dispose of him and get away quickly. I have taken a look at the wound and he will be all right if he seeks healing right away."

Celebrían instantly went to her son's side to examine his injury and see what could be done. He bore with her fussing very patiently.

Glorfindel examined the metal gauntlets on the ground. They did not have rings on them.

Galadriel coolly displayed her left hand. Adorning it were two fine silver rings—Nazgûl rings.

"I took care of them," she announced. "Their spirits are gone."

"That is the sexiest thing I have ever heard in my entire life," Sauron said, casting her a look of deep admiration.

"Where on earth is your armor? Were you fighting them without it?" she asked him. "Are you hurt?"

Sauron gestured back to the tower. "It's somewhere in there, with the mace and the staff. I don't care about it. The dwarves can destroy it when they come destroy the rest of this place."

He did not answer her other questions.

Galadriel tugged the two rings off her finger and offered them to Sauron. He held out a hand, and she dropped them into his palm.

"You're going to go destroy them now, right?" she asked.

There was a slight pause during which no one spoke.

"Right?" she prodded.

"Right, of course," he said with a little start, suddenly sounding exhausted and overwhelmed. "Yes. I'll drop them in Orodruin. I don't feel up to conjuring a fire sufficiently powerful."

"Why don't you sit down and let me look at your foot," she said, and took him by the hand and pulled him a little away from the group. He sat, and she knelt beside him.

Glorfindel was feeling exhausted and slightly overwhelmed himself. He knew he had learnt some sorcery over the ages and had returned from Aman more powerful than the average Elda by Manwë's grace, but he had not known he was capable of joining forces with two Maiar and chanting evil into powerlessness.

It had taken a lot out of him, at any rate. And the scratches and bites from the bats were starting to sting and becoming painful. He felt steeped in the malice of the green light, as though he would not be free of the evil permeating everything in this vale until he once again walked the shores of Aman.

He settled gingerly down on the ground, where Elrohir joined him. Glorfindel slumped sideways, put his head on Elrohir's shoulder, and passed out.

Chapter Text

Galadriel was a better healer than Sauron had known. She examined his left arm and told him there was a piece of the Morgul blade still inside it, which no one else had found because the nature of such shards was to bury themselves deep, especially when they were being actively sought. She took up a small penknife, spoke a blessing over it, and ruthlessly reopened his wound.

He had to put a finger in his mouth and bite down on it very hard to keep from screaming as she dug around in the painful, inflamed flesh.

She extracted a small splinter of metal, and with a shudder, held it up to the light and banished it in Varda's name, pronouncing the name in her mind only rather than with words, as though she feared Sauron might disappear along with the shard of metal if she spoke the name aloud. He refrained from a bitter comment on that choice; she was helping him, after all.

"I'm afraid we have nothing here for pain relief," she said out loud. "But I can clean and bandage it again."

"Fine," he agreed.

She examined his foot next, and decided that in her opinion there were no metal shards inside it. She chanted over it for a time, then cleaned and bandaged it as well.

"Stay off of it for at least a week, and seek further care if it does not feel better by then," she advised. "Do you not have shoes?"

"I had those metal boots, which I left somewhere on the ground in the tower."

"However did you lose your armor?"

"I had to shapeshift, and it fell off. It is not something I am capable of putting back on myself very easily."

"You should not walk on the foot regardless. But you ought to find some protection for it."

"I suppose you will laugh at me if I have a limp from this."

"I will not laugh," she said softly, looking up at him with endless pools of blue in her eyes. "Are you still in a foul mood?"

"I am not in a foul mood," he contradicted swiftly. "I am just—"

His throat closed up, and he stopped speaking.

She continued to look up at him very softly. She had not moved her hands away from her tender hold of his foot.

"The Witch-king killed Lashak and Zishi," he blurted out, and found himself angrily dashing tears away from his eyes with a hand. "Laugh if you like, that I am so upset about an animal and an orc."

"I am not laughing," she said. "My dear, I am not laughing over any of this. It is perfectly understandable to grieve over lost friends. I am so sorry to hear of it."

He did not reply. He felt like to say anything more would be to hurl himself over a precipice from which there was no coming back.

"Have you never lost anyone you love before?" she prodded gently.

"Of course I have," he said scornfully. He lost her for five thousand years, after all. "I am long used to loving mortal men who die. And—other beings. But you wouldn't have caught me crying over Morgoth."

She smiled, a little sweet and a little sad. "Perhaps thousands of years is too long to bottle it up."

"I am not bottling anything up," he said crossly.

"Of course," she said with a subtle smile. "Where will you go from here? Do you want a horse?"

"No, I will summon one of my flying beasts," he said. "I need to go to Mount Doom. I have six rings to destroy—oh, and three others which should probably go too."

"Three...? Oh, the remaining of the Seven?"

"Yes, they've merely been gathering dust. The Nazgûl didn't take them when they retrieved their own rings. But best to destroy them anyway, I think. I personally confirmed the destruction in dragon fire of the other four."

"I agree you should destroy them," she said. "Would you like company?"

"No," he said, with a humorless laugh. "No, I do not think you should accompany me to Barad-dûr."

He did not want to imagine the sort of mutiny he would face if he took one of the Calaquendi to that tower as anything other than a prisoner.

"And after you have destroyed them? What will you do then?"

"There is one Nazgûl left," Sauron said. He closed his eyes and let his focus drift towards the presence on the edge of his consciousness. The remaining Nazgûl was being very quiet, very circumspect, and was very far away. He did not feel remotely warlike. "He is somewhere east."

"I wish you would not go to find him alone," she said.

"I will go with him," a new voice declared.

Galadriel and Sauron looked up to see Celebrían standing behind Galadriel's shoulder.

"Come to Minas Tirith when you are done disposing of the rings," Celebrían said to Sauron. "Aragorn said he has a request for you, and hopes you will at least hear him out. And I think you may have other unfinished business there as well. After Aragorn's coronation and wedding, we will set out east together."

Sauron gave a little helpless smile in the face of this flood of orders. "You've very bossy," he observed. "I wonder where you could have got that from."

"Yes," she said wryly. "Certainly not a trait either of my parents ever displayed."

Galadriel laughed.

"I will do as you wish," Sauron said. "Do ask Aragorn to ensure the Minas Tirith guards do not try to shoot my mount out of the air when I come."

"I will tell him," Celebrían agreed.

"And when you clear out this tower, if you find the Nazgûl's horses—"

"I know," she said gently. "They are just horses. We will treat them kindly, as elves do all horses."

She leaned down and kissed his brow.

Sauron whistled for a flying beast, and sat a while in grief that it would not be Lashak who answered. Aragorn and Imrahil departed the vale to return to their city, and Elladan went with them to seek treatment for his wound. Celebrían, Elrohir, Gandalf, Galadriel, and Glorfindel were to stay in the vale and camp there until the arrival of the dwarves and their hammers.

Alnaka it was who winged his way into the sky, and Galadriel helped him climb aboard with minimal stress on his foot.

"Namárië," she said softly. "When you and Celebrían return from your errand…."

"We will meet you in Rivendell," he suggested. "Or… the Havens."

Galadriel squeezed her eyes shut.

"Oh," she said. "You will actually do it. You will sail west."

He didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded.

"I will go with you," she said, so quietly he almost could not hear.

"That is up to you," he said stiffly, like he didn't care.

Then he could not stand it anymore. He looked away from her and bid Alnaka be off.

They flew swiftly to Barad-dûr. When Alnaka landed on the tower, the stairwell leading down was shut and barred. The lands surrounding the tower were empty; Sauron had returned before his host.

He waited, and eventually the thick metal door was lifted away, and Pagûl emerged.

"Forgive me, lord," Pagûl panted. "I did not see your coming in the skies."

"It is well that you keep the tower secure," Sauron said mildly.

He dismounted, and followed Pagûl down to the tower, forcing himself to hide the limp by dint of sheer will. At least sheer will was something he still had plenty of.

He bathed, returned to his chambers and sprawled in an oversized, comfortable chair. He ordered wine, and when Pagûl arrived with it, Sauron took a deep breath and looked at Pagûl.

Pagûl was pouring the wine from a decanter into a goblet. He looked up in the middle of the task, distracted by the intense stare being leveled at him.

"Lord?" he asked uncertainly.

"I am going west," Sauron blurted out.

Pagûl froze in midair. The flow of wine stopped. He stared at Sauron like he'd never seen him before.

"I will take you with me, if you'd like," Sauron offered. "But, ah, I cannot say what would await you there."

Pagûl slowly set down the decanter and the goblet, then collapsed into the nearest chair. He was still staring at Sauron in baffled incomprehension.

"What do you think awaits you there?" he finally asked. His breathing was coming very shallowly.

"I don't know," Sauron said simply. "But it's—I've quite made up my mind. I am going."

"I don't want to go west," Pagûl said, bewildered. "I've never wanted to go west. Why would you—"

He cut himself off, and shook his head.

"I must," Sauron said wearily. "I have little choice at this point. I cannot... I am sorry for what I've done to this Middle-earth, and I do not want to keep inflicting myself on it. I cannot do better here. I must leave, and repent of my wrongdoings and accept my fate."

There was a long silence.

"Wow," Pagûl said.

"Stay here if you wish," Sauron said. "I will leave you in charge of everything I've built, if you want it."

"Whatever are you going to tell the orcs about your departure?"

"Oh, I'll come up with something," he said. "Not the truth, certainly. You and the other Eldar are the only ones who need the truth."

Pagûl put his head in his hands. "This is much worse than when you disappeared for a thousand years after losing the ring," he moaned.

"I know," he agreed. "You have some time to think about it before the army returns. In the meantime, will you please find me another healer?"

"Yes, lord," Pagûl agreed, taking his head out of his hands and switching instantly back into steward mode. He stood, and finished pouring the wine. "Would you like to see Garaba again?"

"She is still here?" Sauron said in surprise.

"Yes, as chieftain of the healers, she is primarily an educator and does not march to war to accompany an army."

"Then yes, send for her."

Pagûl bowed and departed.

While he was left alone in his chambers, Sauron considered the matter at length and then shifted into his Halbrand shape. He thought he could plan to keep it for the foreseeable future.

Garaba arrived, however, and was exceedingly confused by this.

"I... pardon me, but I was looking for..." she said, hesitating and shifting on her feet in the doorway.

"I am a shapeshifter," he said impatiently. "Nonetheless, in any shape my arm is injured. And it hurts. Come in!"

She approached, bearing a basket of her supplies, and eyed him warily. "A shapeshifter! I thought those were tales for children."

"Soon they will be," he said with a sigh. "But I need your help again."

He displayed his arm, and also showed her his foot.

She let out an audible groan.

"It is much worse than it was before!" she lamented.

"Someone performed surgery on it," he said mildly. "And the stitches did not persist through shapeshifting. But I am done shapeshifting for a little while, I deem. Will you sew it up again?"

"I should not dare ask," she said. "But who can injure you?"

"The Nazgûl."

"Oh." She looked at him with doubt in her eyes. "We do not know anything about healing injuries from them."

"No one seems to," he agreed.

She cleaned his arm, put in more stitches, spread on the numbing poultice, and did the same for his foot. The pain passed away, and he relaxed for the first time in many days.

"If they do not come out in another shapeshifting, you should have the stitches removed in about a week," she advised. "In the meantime, please keep the foot elevated and do not walk on it."

"All right," he acknowledged. "Thank you."

She bowed, and left, and the thought crossed his mind that he would not see her again.

It should not have meant anything to him, and yet it did.

He spent the days until his army arrived trying to stay off his foot and yet keep himself distracted. Terrorizing the small remaining garrison at the tower had absolutely no appeal; he left them alone. He slept a little, tired from the battles he'd fought recently. He tried to read, but there were few books here that could still hold his attention. He stared out the window, already missing this land even though he was right here. He drank a lot of wine. He tried not to think about the future.

Pagûl knocked on the door on the morning of the third day, his face a little paler than usual and his expression troubled.

"Come in," Sauron said impatiently while Pagûl hovered at the door. That behavior was not like Pagûl.

"May we… it is all five of us," Pagûl said hesitantly.

"Yes, of course."

Sauron was sprawled in a chair with his foot elevated on a table. Four of the Avari filed into the room after Pagûl. He waved at them to sit wherever they could find chairs.

This was all that was left of a group that was once fifty strong, in the glory days after Melkor was unchained and they waged war in Beleriand with little impediment. These five were the only remaining survivors of the group who had been rescued by Sauron when Angband was destroyed, along with a smattering of orcs and a dragon or two. They had all known and served Sauron for a very, very long time.

Sauron had not always treated them kindly. But they had always come back to him no matter what happened. He had a little bit of a lump in his throat thinking about their loyalty over the ages, which he had scarcely merited.

Pagûl cleared his throat.

"We don't follow you for lack of other options or for what we think you can do for us," he said, as though reading Sauron's mind. He was fiddling with the ring he still wore, one of the rings that Sauron had fashioned for all of his Avari when they had come into unexpected riches of mithril. Those rings had been a genuine gift—with no strings attached—and contained his affection and protection and nothing sinister.

Those had been good days. They had been swiftly followed by very bad ones, with war and loss and terror.

"We follow you because we love you," Pagûl continued. "We would not willingly be left behind when you depart these shores."

Sauron felt a little stunned. He wasn't sure what to say.

"I have seldom merited such from you," he finally admitted.

"That is not what love is about," Pagûl said simply.

"Well, I…" Sauron sighed. "I don't know what to tell you. I am probably getting tossed into the void like Melkor."

The Avari looked at one another uncomfortably.

"There's no way they will do that to you," he said, trying to be comforting. He suspected he wasn't very good at it. "Worst case scenario is probably the Halls of Mandos until you repent of having served me."

"The living can be sent to the Halls of Mandos?" said one of them, Makewë, eyes very wide.

"The Valar can do whatever they want," Sauron said grumpily. "They make and change and carve out exceptions to their rules whenever they feel like it, it's impossible to keep up with and completely arbitrary."

A complex array of emotions passed over Makewë's face as Sauron said this, and he opened his mouth and then shut it again without saying anything.

"Yes," Sauron said heavily. "I know. You are all thoroughly accustomed to serving an arbitrary master."

The Avari all studiously avoided looking at him or each other as he said this.

"Well," Sauron continued, after nothing was said into the silence. "If you're sure. I will ask about passage on a ship."

"If you're going, we're going," Pagûl said firmly.

"Fine," Sauron said. "Give me a minute."

He relaxed, and leaned his head back, and sought Galadriel in thought. She took a while to respond, and was unwilling to show him her surroundings; he was equally unwilling to show her the interior of Barad-dûr. He cast them both back in memories of the daffodil fields instead.

It was a good choice; she appeared and looked around with a soft smile.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I have a small problem," he said, and sat down in the field of imaginary flowers. He drew his knees up to his chest and circled an arm around them. Galadriel remained standing a little away from him. "There are five Avari who have followed me for, oh, ten thousand years, give or take a couple thousand. They were not happy I proposed to leave them to go west, and they wish to go with me."

"Oh," Galadriel said, her eyes widening. "Oh. Did they... serve Morgoth, too?"

"For a little while."

Her eyes widened further. "Oh. Oh, dear. Are we discussing the elves who awoke in Cuiviénen and were sundered from the kin, kidnapped and tortured by Morgoth in very beginning of our days?"

Sauron made a face. "Morgoth did not torture the elves who followed him willingly from the beginning. I mean, he wasn't exactly nice to them—" He made himself stop that train of thought. "It was complicated. But yes. Mínwiel and Rúmmë, two of the five Avari still with me, awoke at Cuiviénen."

Galadriel shuddered. "I did not realize elves of any kind sided with Morgoth of free will."

"Yes, I've heard your people's lies on that score," Sauron said, bitter about it still.

"Right," Galadriel said, a little uncertainly. "Right. So two lost elves from Cuiviénen, and what about the others?"

"Lanawen and Makewë are not among the first to awaken, but they are Avari who wandered south in the early days and found me in Mordor, not that we called it that back then. The fifth, Pagûl, was born to one of the original elves to serve Morgoth, who is no longer living."

"I don't know what to say," she said, wrinkling her brow. "Servants of the enemy for ten thousand years? How many of my kin have they killed?"

"Would you like me to ask each of them for an individual reckoning?" Sauron asked dryly.

"No," Galadriel said, her eyes fluttering briefly shut. "Such deeds are not mine to judge."

"Nor mine," he agreed.

"I have never heard of one of the Avari asking for passage on a ship, though," Galadriel said. "They refused the call. Is it still open?"

"I have no idea. But they are not among those forbidden to set foot on Aman."

"I know," Galadriel agreed, but then she started chewing on her lip.

Sauron sighed, and then he said words he never thought he would willingly say. "Ask Gandalf."

"Oh, yes," she said, brightening slightly. "Yes. Excellent idea. I will ask Glorfindel as well. Give me a moment."

Galadriel flickered away, out of the constructed image of daffodils. Sauron despised the idea of appealing to Gandalf to grant passage to the Avari on the ships, but... he sighed again. It was the sort of thing he was going to have to get used to, if he was really going west and submitting himself to the judgment of the Valar.

Galadriel did not take long. She appeared looking more serene, and nodded at Sauron. "Gandalf says if their intentions are peaceful, and they intend to obey the laws of the Valar, then there is no problem. Glorfindel concurred with him."

"Thank you," Sauron said softly. "If they are not... um... sent to the Halls of Mandos, or punished in some other way, will you look out for them?"

"What?" Galadriel asked, startled and affronted. "Me?"

"They go west out of loyalty and love for me," he said. "Please. It would be cruel to leave them with no friends and no idea where to go. I mean, this is assuming that I cannot help them, which is almost certain."

Galadriel rubbed her hand over her face and thought about it for a while. "Fine," she said eventually. "There must be other Avari who answered the summons of Mandos and have been re-embodied. I do not promise to keep your horrible dark elves in Tirion, but I will help them find their kin."

Sauron bowed his head in acquiescence. He did not actually think Galadriel would find these elves to be horrible if she gave them half a chance, but he had never gotten anywhere by arguing with her.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Always, ah, assuming I myself am at liberty to help," she added delicately. "I will have Celebrían step in if I cannot."

"Your unavailability seems wildly unlikely," Sauron said.

She looked at him steadily, but said nothing more. After another moment, she dissolved away from his thoughts.

Sauron opened his eyes back in the room in Barad-dûr. The five elves were sitting quietly, waiting on him with an infinite patience.

"Yes," he said. "You may have passage on one of the Sindarin ships that leave from the Havens, as long as your intentions are peaceful and you intend to obey the laws of the Valar. I am not sure who all we will be traveling with, but one of them will be the Lady Galadriel, who has agreed to find you a place to live in Aman if you would like her help."

The elves exchanged another glance at this. Makewë cleared his throat. "Galadriel of the Noldor, granddaughter of Finwë, Lady of Lothlórien?"

"How many elves named Galadriel do you know?" Sauron asked, but with no heat. Their skepticism was not at all strange.

No one responded.

"I suppose it is only fair for you to know this," Sauron continued reluctantly. "About five thousand years ago, I... had an affair with her. Her daughter Celebrían is actually mine."

The elves all collectively froze. They seemed torn between disbelief and horror, and they were possibly a little fearful as well. The Noldor had been their arch-enemies for a very long time, and they and the Avari had done awful things to each other.

"You can still change your minds about staying here," Sauron reminded them.

"If you are going, we are going," Pagûl repeated, but his voice wavered a little.

"You ought to pack and leave now, then," Sauron said. "I have one more Nazgûl to take care of along the way. You should head to the Havens and wait for me, maybe somewhere around the Tower Hills or the Ered Luin."

"Yes, lord," Pagûl said, standing up.

The five elves bowed to Sauron and left quietly.

The orc armies arrived that evening. His parting from them would have to be very different in style.

He emptied the secret cabinet and transferred all the rings to his pocket. He dressed for travel, easing his injured foot into a boot with much pain and cursing. He wore light leather armor underneath his cloak and strapped Gûlnatar on his back. He took up a sturdy, thoroughly nonmagical wooden staff, more to help him walk than as a weapon. He packed up his mithril crown carefully, his heart in his throat at the idea of never being able to wear it again, and stowed it in a bag.

He gingerly mounted all the stairs (why had he built so many stairs?) to the top of the tower, whistled for a flying beast, and then sent a summons to Ummog and a few of his lieutenants.

They were very slow in coming. Alkana arrived before them. He stroked her head, trying to soothe his nerves.

Finally the orcs arrived, huffing and puffing and looking confused about the summons of their lord in the midst of making arrangements for tens of thousands of orcs returning from battle.

"I am leaving these lands for good," he told them abruptly as they bowed. They straightened up with looks of naked astonishment on their faces. "This tower, and the land, is yours to do with as you will. You have great foes beside you; Gondor is again very strong. But I deem you can learn to be good neighbors if you do not overstep the boundaries of this land or poke them too hard out of spite. You shall have to take up trade with the southern lands rather than attempt to continue to collect tribute. Orodruin will gradually cease to erupt without my hand on it, and you will lose the shadow of ash. But I have given you enormous advantages of wealth and strongholds here. I believe you will be fine."

They stared, and stayed silent.

"Good luck," he said, and turned to climb on Alnaka. His foot twinged painfully, and he had to hide his wince.

"Lord!" cried one of the orcs.

"You are not serious," Ummog said.

"I am as serious as I've ever been about anything in all my days," he said, looking down on them very seriously.

"But where are you going?" Ummog said, his face scrunched up even worse than usual.

"I am a god," he said with an assumption of great arrogance he did not truly feel, "and I am ascending to a higher plane of existence."

In all likelihood, he was probably headed for a lower plane of existence. But that was none of their business.

In any event, his words worked. The orcs' looks of astonishment became mingled with awe. Sauron clucked at Alnaka, and she took off into the air, and he left Barad-dûr for the last time.

He flew to Orodruin, and landed on the road outside the entrance to the Samamth Nair. He limped his way down the rock to the fires inside the volcano. He dug the rings out of his pocket, and cast them into the fire. He felt nothing at all as he did this. He was completely numb.

He limped back to Alnaka, and bid her fly to Minas Tirith.

The area atop the great prow was clear for his landing, and fortunately, no arrows came his way as he guided Alnaka's descent. As he arrived, a single figure came out of the Citadel and approached.

It was Glorfindel, and he held out an arm to greet Sauron as he gingerly dismounted.

"How are you?" Glorfindel asked, as Sauron clasped his arm in greeting.

"I've been better," he said unenthusiastically. "I'm here because Celebrían said that Aragorn had something to ask of me, and I have information for him anyway."

"I'll let him know you're in the city. What do you want us to do with Alnaka?"

"Oh, she's fine on her own," Sauron said. He clucked at the beast, and bid her fly into the mountains and find game and wait for his call.

Glorfindel watched her go, his eyes a little wary.

"She won't hurt anyone," Sauron said.

"Oh, I know," Glorfindel said quickly. "They're just so...."

"They're beautiful and perfect," Sauron said crossly before Glorfindel could finish this thought.

"How fare your arm and foot?" Glorfindel asked, changing the subject.

"Mending, although still painful."

"Will you please allow me to accompany you to the Houses of Healing?" Glorfindel said, his tone almost pleading. "They have had found success in battling the Black Shadow here."

Sauron grumbled something half-hearted.

"Éomer can usually be found there, visiting his sister," Glorfindel added.

"Oh, all right then," Sauron said with a sigh.

He leaned on his staff as they walked. It was too much energy to pretend to be well in front of Glorfindel, who tended to see such things anyway.

"Minas Morgul has been razed to the ground," Glorfindel reported as they walked. "We did find the Nazgûl horses, and have brought them back to the tower here. They get along nicely with other horses."

"Have they crowned Aragorn yet?"

"Not yet. It will happen soon. Denethor is dead."

"Oh really?"

"Apparently, he continued to believe his son was dying—and Faramir had been growing worse, before Aragorn returned—and when he heard the news that Boromir had recognized Aragorn's claim to the throne in front of Gondor's entire army, Denethor became inconsolable. He threw himself onto a funeral pyre."

"Oh," Sauron said. "That's, ah... I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"A little bit. Sort of? Yes, I think so." He did not feel any of the usual panic in admitting it.

"The depth of your remorse is overwhelming," Glorfindel said dryly. "Anyway, there isn't a soul who opposes Aragorn left in the city. He healed Faramir as soon as we returned from battle. As king, he has great healing powers over the spirit and flesh of his people. He found that the end of a poisoned dart had lodged itself in Faramir, and was indeed slowly killing him. He pulled both Faramir and Éowyn back from the brink of death."

"Éowyn!? Why was she on the brink of death?"

"She slayed the Witch-king," Glorfindel reminded him. "It nearly killed her. I am surprised it did not. So was she, actually."

"Oh, dear," Sauron said. "Éomer must be upset."

"He was, yes. I hope you do not mind deferring your business with Aragorn until after the coronation? He asked me to beg your pardon but his manner of entering the city is his priority right now."

"As he wishes," Sauron said mildly. He was not particularly itching to be off in pursuit of the remaining Nazgûl, who did not feel like an immediate threat to anybody. If someone wanted to hand him an excuse to defer it—and what would come after it—that suited him just fine. "Is Galadriel here? Or Celebrían?"

"They are not. They and the twins departed for Rivendell. They will return with Arwen."

"Ah," Sauron said. "Of course. For a wedding?"

"Of course."

Sauron felt a black mood at the thought, but he tried to shake it off. They arrived at the Houses of Healing, and Glorfindel departed on other business. The beds were full and Sauron again felt doubt that he should have come. But a healer bustled his direction right away, and before he knew it she'd sat him on a bench in a hallway, relieved him of his boots, his armor, and his shirt, and was undoing his bandages.

"Phagh!" she said, wrinkling her nose at the smell. "What did you put on this wound?"

"I have no idea," he said honestly. It did not smell that terrible to him; although strong, he thought it mostly smelled of antiseptic, which was a desirable thing.

The healer cleaned his arm, spread something on the wound that numbed the skin, and removed the stitches. "We have ointment of athelas, here, ever since the king returned and said it was the remedy for the Black Shadow. And he was right!"

"He already treated this with athelas," Sauron said, feeling a little grumpy about it.

"Did he? Hmm. Well, there is no harm in trying again."

While she was looking at his foot, a lady clad in white entered the hall. She moved slowly, and her arm was in a sling, but she did not look like she was dying.

"So it is true," Éowyn said, coming to stand in front of him and marvel. "You have returned. The elf-lord said you would, but I did not believe it."

"How do you do?" he asked politely.

She did not answer, but looked on him gravely. "You lied to me," she said.

"I am well known for it," he acknowledged, "but I cannot recall that I did to you."

"You said you were from the north. And a man."

"Oh. Well. I had come from the north most recently, when I said so. And I was seeking other men from the north—at least one such man."

"So this is what they mean when they say you do not lie, but are full of deception nonetheless," said a new voice. A man with ruddy cheeks and golden hair, wearing fine garments and carrying no weapons, rounded the corner, and in his voice was laughter.

"Éomer!" Sauron said. "I am happy to see you looking so well."

"What are you two plotting?" Éomer asked. "Éowyn is still under orders to be resting."

"I am tired of resting," the lady said to her brother. "Faramir is up and walking, and therefore so am I."

"Will you tell me the story of your defeat of the Witch-king?" Sauron asked after the healer finished bandaging his foot, repeated the advice to stay off of it, and left them some privacy.

"I do not wish to speak of it," Éowyn said, her face pale and her eyes haunted.

"I will tell it," Éomer said. He took a seat next to Sauron, drawing one leg up on the bench and facing him. He rested an arm on his knee and used the other to illustrate his story wildly in the air. "The Witch-king took down my horse, and the rest of my company passed me in their charge. Unknown to me, Éowyn saw this, and lost her own horse in turning around to battle her way to where I fell.

"The Witch-king hit me on the head, and I fell, and lost my sword. I was disoriented and my vision was hazy, but I remember his words perfectly. He said, 'you are precious to him,' and promised I would suffer his torment for a long time before he killed me."

"The Witch-king sought you specifically the minute you entered the city," Sauron surmised with a heavy heart. "He wished to make me suffer more than he wished to win that battle."

It had been hell, sitting motionless and useless in the east side of the city while his friends and allies—those he loved among them—had battled the Witch-king and his troops. But it had been part of the price Sauron had paid for being, well, Sauron.

"I believe so. But it was his downfall. Éowyn came between us. He broke her arm holding a shield, but she took up my sword—your sword, I mean; I had picked it up when you dropped it at the Court of the Fountain—and drove it right into his face. Or where his face would be if he had one, I suppose."

"He had one, but it was invisible to your eyes."

"Yes, all right. Well, that's the story. Your blade undid whatever spells were keeping him alive, and he perished, and here we are."

Éomer's expression was cheerful; he did not seem upset about any of this.

Éowyn was far more gloomy. "Is it true then? My brother was singled out for attack because you are fond of him?"

"It seems true enough," Sauron said. He slouched down a little, slumping against the wall. "At this battle the Witch-king did kill two others I was fond of, for no other reason than that I was fond of them."

"This is extremely ill advised," Éowyn said, now speaking to her brother. "You ought to have nothing further to do with him."

"Go away and flirt with your Steward's son," Éomer said, but good-naturedly.

Éowyn's eyes flashed and she drew herself up tall. She stalked off down the hall, radiating offense with every step.

"I thought she was in love with Aragorn," Sauron objected as she left.

"It was a desire to be great and do high things," Éomer said. "She did not know him and was not really in love with him. I should not have teased her about Faramir, but they do seem to have become rather close while in the Houses of Healing. I think he fell in love with her from the first time he set eyes on her."

"Oh," Sauron said. "Well, good for them, if so."

"I was very cross with you, and the whole situation, when I thought she was dying," Éomer informed him.

"I am sorry," Sauron said again.

"Do not be. Now that it is all passed, I feel rather honored and touched that I became a target due to your fondness for me."

"Look," Sauron began.

"You do not need to say it," Éomer said swiftly. "You are not staying, and I shall not see you again. Nonetheless, I am grateful to have known you."

"Ah," Sauron said. "I see I am anticipated in all that I do. Yes, I am leaving. Leaving Middle-earth for good."

"Like the elves?"

"It may be. It remains to be seen if my fate is like theirs."

"What do you mean?"

Éomer was so young, and so earnest, and very sincere in this question. Sauron did not have the heart to tell him half-truths or bluster his way around this conversation.

"I have a little time still before I depart," Sauron said. "Shall we retire to your chambers and dine together?"

"Nothing would please me more," Éomer said.

Sauron limped his way there; luckily, it was not far. Éomer found them food from the mess hall, enough to share, and Sauron ate willingly.

"I'm... well, I have done wrong," Sauron told Éomer. "You know this, but you have no idea of the full extent of it. I have done twenty-two thousand years of wrong, and have had many opportunities to repent before the Valar, and have passed up all of them."

"Why do you repent now?"

"I am spent," he said bitterly. "I have looked at my feet on the path to the void, and found the darkness ahead all-consuming. I have destroyed myself and cut myself into pieces. I have slaughtered and devastated the people and lands I have always loved."

"That is a lot of wrong," Éomer had to acknowledge. He did not seem daunted, though, and kept eating steadily.

"I do not want to be destroyed," Sauron admitted. "But I have no other choice left to me. I cannot stay here, on my downward spiral into wreck and ruin. If the Valar send me to the void, so be it. At least I will know I tried to pull back; I did not hurl myself into it through my own folly."

"Glorfindel and Gandalf seem to think you deserve to be pardoned," Éomer pointed out.

"They are fools," Sauron said, with the same swift, vehement anger that stabbed him during the conversation at the Court of the Fountain.

"Why are you angrier about the possibility of being pardoned than the void?"

Sauron looked at his food for a long time. His ears were ringing and he felt faint. He drew a few shaky breaths, then tried to answer the question.

"I don't deserve it. I would not pardon me. There is no good in me."

"Ah," Éomer said. "Perhaps that is just another thing you have been wrong about for twenty-two thousand years."

Sauron looked up again. Éomer was not teasing, nor was there any pity in his eyes. He was looking at Sauron with a fond softness, and it felt nice.

Sauron tried to smile, although it was more of a grimace. "Perhaps. Perhaps that is all there is to it."

This felt like a lie, though.

"Will you stay the night?" Éomer asked.

"Yes," Sauron agreed. "If you are amenable. It would be nice to not be alone."

Chapter Text

Éomer departed early the next morning for whatever business it was that still kept Rohan in Minas Tirith. Sauron again faced the prospect of boredom, but this time there was a solution on hand, and it was something he'd craved for years.

He sought out Glorfindel in thought. He was now well enough acquainted with the elf to try it even at a distance, even if he'd not walked in the elf's thoughts before. He had not previously wanted to try ósanwë with Glorfindel, for fear the elf would be offended at the attempt. But he could not be tramping all over the city looking for him right now.

Glorfindel's mind was immediately open to him, which was a surprise.

Rather than forming an image and coalescing in shape in Glorfindel's thoughts, Sauron sent only a question.

Are you with Aragorn right now?

I am, came the answer, sounding amused. Why do you ask?

Will you ask him if I may visit the Steward's collection of books and scrolls?

There was a pause, then Glorfindel sent: He wants to know if you returned the book you borrowed from Barliman.

The word 'Barliman' was rendered slightly strange in thought, as though Glorfindel were doubtful this was really a person's name.

Sauron laughed. I did return it before leaving town.

He says you may visit the collection.

Thank you.

Sauron cut off the communication, took up his cloak, and limped his way to the Citadel. The passage to the Steward's halls was barred by a guard, who had no rejoinder to Sauron's announcement that he was there with the permission of the king.

The Steward's library was a vast and glorious collection of books, more books, shelves and shelves of books; unorganized hoards of scrolls; loose parchment and papers scattered on every surface. Sauron spent a few moments simply drinking in the sight. He would have given all the other fingers on his hand to access this place when he had first taken shape again after being robbed of the ring, when he was trying to get his bearings in a changed Age and sought, above all else, knowledge of Isildur.

He did not particularly seek that anymore, but he still found Isildur interesting, and he was ever hungry for history and knowledge.

Reading allowed him to more or less stay off of his foot, and he lost himself in the books. He did start with histories of Isildur, which were fascinating, and brought him to Isildur's personal notes. He enjoyed reading the passages about Isildur's fondness for the One Ring; it made Sauron feel as though Isildur were fond of him. And in truth, Isildur had indeed been fond of Sauron for a time, though he did not know it.

Sauron found many other treasures in this collection: renowned treatises on language he'd never seen a copy of before; studies of the lost crafts of Númenor; histories of men across Middle-earth and from the east and the south; letters of famous historical figures; seemingly endless studies of technology and sorcery and immortality and lore.

Buried under piles of abandoned and disfavored books in a dark corner, he discovered possibly the most entertaining work yet: a lexicon and analysis of the Black Speech, by Thorongil. The prologue was an essay defending the project through possible military applications including espionage. It was cleverly done, the corpus reconstructed entirely from overhearing orc speech that mingled the common tongue and the Black Speech, and from having interrogated captured orc captains who Sauron had forced to learn the Black Speech from scratch. The orthography was not correct—the author's orc sources never having learned to spell. The author was also apparently aware of the inscription on the One Ring, though only orally and not the characters in Tengwar. It was incomplete and many of the assumptions were wrong, but it was a surpassingly clever feat. It moved Sauron to take up pen and paper and write out corrections for a second edition.

He remained immersed without a break until the door opened.

He looked up from his work on a dictionary to see Éomer standing in the doorway. He was very finely dressed, with a swirling cape and a fancy brooch pinned to it.

"There you are," said Éomer. "Do you have any idea how long you've been up here? Did you plan on skipping Aragorn's coronation?"

Sauron groaned. He slipped a bookmark between the pages and closed the lexicon. He would much rather stay here than limp down to see the new High King of all the Dúnedain crowned, but he supposed he did not want to offend Aragorn.

"I suppose it is happening now," Sauron said reluctantly.

"Yes, and I'm sure he'd be pleased if you were there."

He stood up and stretched. He had not done that in a while, and he felt cramped and achy. To his surprise, his foot was better. Much better. It twinged in a dull sort of way, but did not scream at him when he put weight on it. His arm was feeling better as well.

"How long have I been up here?"

"Well, I don't know, but I last saw you on January 28, and it is March first today."

March first. The anniversary of his decision to take a different path.

"Oh," Sauron said. "I lost track of time."

"I see that. Well, come now if you don't wish to miss it."

Sauron slipped the lexicon and his emendments in his bag. He rose, and left the Citadel with Éomer. An attendant handed him a beautiful, luxurious cloak of satin, in silver and black. He grumbled to himself a little, but he put it on. Éomer swept them down all the streets of the city, which were all empty. They spiraled and spiraled, down and down, until they reached the front gates of the city. There was gathered a great crowd. Éomer pushed his way to the front of it, past a host of many elves and dwarves and men, until he found his sister, standing alongside Boromir and Faramir. Faramir and Éowyn were both looking very well.

None of them had any attention to spare for Sauron. They were focused entirely on the procession approaching.

What followed was a tedious sort of ceremony that Sauron tried his best not to yawn through. Aragorn approached his city, accompanied by Théoden, Imrahil, and Gandalf. Boromir and Faramir stepped forward. Boromir knelt to Aragorn and surrendered his staff of office that he had so recently inherited from Denethor. Aragorn gave it back to him in appointment of Steward, and then Boromir crowned him King Elessar. The crowd cheered.

Aragorn looked every inch like the Númenórean kings of old, those first men who still lived the long lives that were their part-elven heritage and were strong and fair and happy. Aragorn faced his city, as the crowds cheered louder and louder, and came to Sauron's side. Aragorn's eyes fell on him, and Aragorn offered him a deep nod of acknowledgement.

Sauron felt a little ill as he fumbled in his bag and withdrew his mithril crown with the sweeping horns.

It was highly recognizable, and iconic. The crowd had stopped cheering. Everyone, even if they had never seen it in person for themselves, knew it for the crown of the Dark Lord of Mordor.

Sauron pressed it into Aragorn's hands, and gave Aragorn a deep bow of his head, his shoulders hunched forward uncomfortably.

"Long live the king," Sauron said softly.

Aragorn accepted the crown, and handed it to Faramir without a word. Faramir nodded at Sauron, and then Boromir caused the trumpets to sound, and the crowd all collected themselves and started cheering again.

Thus it was that Aragorn entered the city to the glad sound of trumpets and victory, and passed up streets strewn with flowers until he reached the Citadel.

Sauron would have gone back to the library at this point, but Éomer and Glorfindel—who had mysteriously appeared at his side—insisted on him attending a feast.

At the feast, Sauron observed that Éomer had been correct about his sister and Faramir. They sat together, deep in conversation. Glorfindel stayed at Sauron's side, but the other elves were keeping to themselves on one side of the hall.

"You truly disappeared for over a month to read books?" Glorfindel said with a laugh at Sauron, when he heard this story from Éomer.

"I have desired to look at this collection for a long time," he said honestly. "The best-preserved knowledge of the Men of the West! It is a treasure."

He took the lexicon out of his bag and showed it to Glorfindel. "Have you heard of this author?"

Glorfindel looked at the title of the book, and only just stopped himself from grimacing and recoiling.

"Oh," he said. "Who would put together such a thing?"

Then Glorfindel examined the author's name, and his grimace swiftly dissolved into laughter. "Well, that is delightful! This is an old alias of Aragorn's."

Sauron blinked. "Aragorn knows the Black Speech? He has known it this whole time?"

"I suppose so," Glorfindel said. "He is a very intelligent and accomplished scholar, even if most of his life has been devoted to war."

This was quite shocking. Sauron tried to remember if he had said anything particularly damming in the Black Speech in front of Aragorn on their travels. As he had not, in fact, been deceiving Aragorn or planning to double-cross him, it was unlikely. But it was unsettling to think Aragorn had known it this whole time!

It was another week before King Elessar found the time to speak to Sauron. They met in a small room in the Citadel, and Aragorn served him drinks from a very fine batch of ale.

"I apologize sincerely that this has taken so long," Aragorn said. "You are very patient."

"I can be," Sauron agreed. "Congratulations on your throne."

"Thank you. I regret how Denethor passed, but I will admit it is a relief I did not have to fight that battle."

To this Sauron said nothing. It felt like the debate they had about Rohan, Isengard, and the Balrog all over again.

Perhaps feeling the same way, Aragorn changed the subject. "Why did you give me your crown? I have no idea what to do with such a thing."

"It is not inherently evil," Sauron objected. "There is no sorcery in it. It's pure mithril, and a great deal of it. Melt it down and make something nice."

"That does not answer my question," Aragorn pressed.

"It was... I mean, it was a surrender. I thought that was obvious. Your people can now be very clear there will never be another war with Sauron. Do you suppose I would willingly part with such a precious object if I didn't mean it completely?"

"I see," Aragorn said. "That's, hmm, thoughtful of you."

Sauron shrugged.

"Well, there has been much news from all quarters," Aragorn continued. "I don't know how much you have heard. Celeborn crossed the river and destroyed Dol Guldur. He reported it was empty."

"It was empty," Sauron agreed.

"Celeborn has declared the southern part of that forest to be his realm."

"Good for him," Sauron said, as neutrally as possible. "There are probably some Avari living there who don't like the Sindar very much. But they'll work it out."

"The dwarves of Erebor are considering another assault on Moria in light of what seems to be general agreement that the shadow of darkness has left Middle-earth. They wish to know if I would like to help them in exchange for riches from that place."

"That seems dangerous and inadvisable," Sauron said.

"Do you suppose the Balrog will ever leave?"

"I do not know." Sauron sat silent for a few moments, thinking about it. "I will return there and talk with him before I depart."

"Are you returning to Mordor?"

"Me? Oh, no."

"What is to be done with that land, then?"

"Well, I am not going to slaughter the orcs who live there," Sauron said. "They are sentient, occasionally intelligent creatures who do not deserve genocide for being disliked by men and elves."

Aragorn looked startled. "I don't think anyone expected you to do that."

"I left Mordor in the charge of my old military commander. I gave him advice to keep to the established borders of the land and to avoid provoking their neighbors, that is, you. I advised him they will need to convert existing networks of tribute into routes of equal trade. Mount Doom will go dormant after I leave and the orcs may need to take to the hills and caves. I do not know if he will, or can, follow this advice or how things will fare in the future. It is... faintly possible that you will all work out a way to coexist."

"Oh," Aragorn said, taken aback. "I see. Who is this commander?"

Sauron gave him a brief description of the personalities and backgrounds of Ummog and his lieutenants.

"You know orcs do not work with each other well," he concluded. "But they do not have anywhere else to go. I think they will stay in Mordor and do all right."

"I see. So. Unfortunately, it seems that we ought to do something to fortify Morgul Vale again."

"Yes, that might be prudent."

"Do you have any intelligence on the Haradrim, the Easterlings, or Umbar?"

"No, I do not. I sent a man to Umbar last spring because I did not want him hanging around Barad-dûr any longer. But he had no intelligence on my doings or your doings to bring with him. I expect they will be quiet now that it appears Gondor is strong again."

"The Mouth of Sauron?" Aragorn guessed.

"Yes, him," Sauron said. "I grew tired of how clearly he coveted the ring for himself. He was not helping my attempts to avoid wielding it."

"I see. Any other news?"

"I will go find the one remaining Nazgûl, who is somewhere far east, as I'm sure Celebrían informed you. I do not expect to return to Gondor after that. I plan on making for the Grey Havens."

"It is true then? You're leaving Middle-earth?"

"Yes."

Unlike Éomer, Aragorn did not ask why. Instead, a determined look settled on his face.

"I have a favor to ask of you before you depart, if you will hear me out."

Aragorn and Sauron flew together on Alkana for five hours across the Ered Nimrais to Dunharrow. They landed on the small piece of land carved into the cliff, at the top of a long line of stairs leading to the valley below.

They dismounted together. They carried no supplies; they did not expect a long journey. Aragorn was grim and silent. Sauron's foot still twinged every now and then, but he was not limping.

Thank Eru.

They passed the large carved stones and through the eaves of the Dimholt forest. At the Gate of the Dead, Aragorn paused only to light a torch, then passed under the threshold.

Sauron was familiar with this place. The caves had been dwelling places, once upon a long time ago in terms of the lifespans of mortal men. There was one long, winding passage into a central area that had once been akin to a city. The entire place was haunted by spirits that were held here against their will, and could not depart to share in the fate of other men.

Aragorn did not seem to be affected by them as he walked. His pace was steady and his head held high.

They passed down the narrow tunnel and entered the larger space. It was empty and still. Aragorn's torch light prevented Sauron's eyes from adjusting to the darkness and looking beyond it. Still, he knew well enough what his eyes would find if they could see: a great palace carved into stone walls; streets and buildings; many places of dwelling in this once-great, cavernous hall.

Away to the left something glittered in the torch light, and Aragorn drew closer to it.

It was not a spirit, but the bones of a man who had long departed the earth. Not one of the original inhabitants of this city. It was rather an old mighty warrior of Rohan.

"He was moved to seek the temple," Sauron marveled. "I wonder why."

"Temple?" Aragorn asked sharply.

"Yes," Sauron said. "Beyond this door which he could not get through."

"A temple to what?"

Sauron stepped forward, around the bones of the old warrior, and placed his hand on the door. He spoke to it in a language that had been forgotten on Middle-earth for thousands of years.

It opened for him with a creak. He stepped through, and then came to a halt, feeling a once-familiar awe that he had not felt in a very long time.

Aragorn stepped through behind him, and held his torch aloft.

The floor, roof, and walls were sheer obsidian, glinting black in the light. There was a single altar in the center of the room, also made from obsidian. There was nothing more to the temple.

"To Melkor," Sauron said, answering the earlier question. His voice, although he spoke very low, echoed off the walls. "He trod these paths with his own feet, seven thousand years ago. These people worshiped him as a god."

Sauron's own feet brought him to the altar, and he knelt before it.

"Melkor," he said again, shutting his eyes and bowing his head. "You were so bright and beautiful. You were everything that was perfect. Alas for your fall!"

He wept.

Eventually, he remembered that Aragorn stood behind him. He rose, wiped his eyes, and turned back to his companion, who was standing very white-faced at the doorway.

"Did you... love him?" Aragorn asked, startled and bewildered.

"Oh, yes," Sauron said. "Things did not go so well between us by the end. Our parting was bitter indeed. But I joined him out of love, yes."

"Do you... do you think it's true that he will come again in the final days?"

"Such things are not known to me!" Then Sauron laughed, sounding slightly unhinged even to his own ears. "If he does, he will ask me what I've done since he fell, and I will tell him, and he will strike me down, and that will be the final end of me."

Eyes wide, Aragorn backed out of the room. He seemed to have absolutely nothing to say to this. Sauron followed him.

"Should we seal the temple door again?" Aragorn asked uncertainly.

"No," Sauron said. "There is nothing inherently evil in it."

"Very well. Let us do what we came here to do."

Aragorn cleared his throat. He raised his head, and addressed the center of the great, empty hall.

"I am the heir of Isildur!" he told the spirits of the dead. "I stand here with the Dark Lord Sauron. You broke oaths to him and to Gondor. But Sauron and Gondor are not at war, and will never be at war again. We release you from your oaths. Go now, and die in peace!"

"Go in peace," Sauron murmured to them in their own, long-dead language.

And with a great collective sigh, the dead melted away in the darkness, their spirits released from Isildur's curse, to go wherever it was that men went when they died.

Aragorn turned to go back to Dunharrow.

"Thank you," he murmured to Sauron. "They did not deserve to linger here forever."

"They would eventually have faded," Sauron said. "Isildur's hold was long, but it was not forever."

"Nonetheless, they have peace now. And in time, men may find they dare to tread these paths again. What a thing it would be to have a passage from Dunharrow to the Morthond vale!"

"It was once a very great space, and may be so again," Sauron agreed diplomatically.

He had only come because he wanted to visit Melkor's temple.

They returned to Gondor. Sauron occupied himself finishing the appendix to Aragorn's lexicon, which he accomplished just in time for the wedding.

Arwen arrived in Gondor, escorted by Galadriel, Elrond, Celeborn, Elrohir, and Elladan. Sauron felt faintly amused at the party who had ridden all the way to Rivendell just to ride back.

Sauron attended the wedding, although he was uncomfortable and not pleased about it. It involved a lot of ceremony and was in fact rather tedious.

Elrond brought with him the ancient scepter of Annúminas, which he presented to Aragorn with much ceremony. Aragorn feasted with his new family for a long time in the great halls of the Citadel of Minas Tirith. Sauron stayed at the edge of the room, watching everything with hooded eyes. He realized he felt lonely, and greatly desired a friend by his side, but—even if he could call anyone a friend now—they were all thoroughly distracted by the wedding celebration. Glorfindel was drinking and singing with the twins and Gandalf; Éomer was laughing at the side of his sister and Faramir; Galadriel and Celebrían and Arwen were in each other's arms and weeping about something. They all looked blissfully happy.

Suddenly, Sauron could not bear to stay.

He departed, and went outside. The spring air was still cold, and it was refreshing. He walked down the great prow to the end of the city, where he looked out at the mountains of Mordor.

He still loved them.

After a time, he was aware he had company.

"You do not look well," said the wedding groom behind him.

Sauron turned to face Aragorn. "I am happy for you," he said. "I wish you great joy."

"What is wrong? Do you still hate the Edain and the Eldar as much as ever?"

"It is not that!" Sauron said. "It is only that...."

He looked around, but they were indeed very alone.

"Galadriel did not fall pregnant with my knowledge or consent," he confessed. "I would not have you share this with your wife—or the children you will have together. But it is hard to think I am leaving behind descendants to sit on the throne of Gondor for all the ages of men. It is not something I chose for myself."

"I see," Aragorn said. "I am sorry for your pain."

"I will forgive her for it, I know," Sauron said. "She has suffered much greater injury that she forgives me for. And I... I love Celebrían. But tonight... it is hard."

"It is extremely unsettling to think you will be the great-grandfather of my children," Aragorn agreed ruefully.

"The line of Melian is in them, too," Sauron said. "They will be very great."

"They will."

Sauron sighed. "I am sorry to share this with you on this, the happiest of your days."

"It is not any less the happiest day for the sharing," Aragorn said. "I hope it eased your burden to speak of it."

"Yes," Sauron mused. "I think it did."

Sauron pulled something out of his pocket.

"This was not meant to be a wedding present," he clarified. "But I wanted you to have it, and now seems like a fair enough time for it."

Sauron presented to Aragorn his appendix to the Black Speech lexicon. "I know it will not last long as a spoken language in Middle-earth in this pure form," Sauron said with a sheepish smile, "but I thought you might be interested in my thoughts."

"Upon my word!" Aragorn opened it with astonishment. "When I wrote this, I never could have imagined the creator of the language would one day comment on it."

"Perhaps it will help you establish trade lines with the Mordor orcs."

"Thank you," Aragorn said seriously, and Sauron knew it was about more than simply the lexicon.

"Hmm," Sauron said. "This time I suppose I will accept your thanks. Good luck, King Elessar."

They shook hands for the last time.

Sauron and Celebrían took their leave of everyone else the next morning. Sauron said farewell to Éomer, embracing him and wishing him great deeds and long life. Éomer kissed him, and said farewell.

"I will not say farewell," Glorfindel told Sauron, as they clasped each other's arm. "For I believe we will meet again in Aman."

"Optimism springs eternal," Sauron quipped, for lack of another response. "If we do not—it was my pleasure to fight by your side."

"It was my pleasure as well," Glorfindel agreed solemnly.

Arwen, the new Queen of Gondor, was present. Somewhat shyly, she offered Sauron a kiss on the cheek.

"I suppose this is both hello and farewell," she said. "Grandfather. I ought to have said hello to you in Rivendell, but I was not ready."

Sauron was very startled by the kiss, and he might have blushed. "You are beautiful and kind," he said. "Like your mother. I wish you every happiness, and I think you shall have it."

And then he withdrew a little as Celebrían said farewell to Arwen for the final time.

No one wept at any of these partings.

"You do not find it hard?" Sauron asked Celebrían as they flew away on Alnaka, heading east. "Your daughter's choice?"

"No," she said, her voice strong and clear. "I am glad for her. It is clear to me that this path was right for her."

"Your husband takes it harder, I think," Sauron ventured.

"Yes," she said, and fell silent, and they did not speak of Arwen again.

They flew east for a long time. Alnaka and Celebrían both needed to stop, to rest and hunt for food and water occasionally, but their journey was accomplished at a steady pace. They passed over the deserted lands of the Rhovanion and the empty roads leading to Rhûn. They passed over the great settlements surrounding the Sea of Rhûn, populated by the men called Easterlings by those in Middle-earth. They avoided heavily settled areas as much as possible, sticking to the wilds. As they flew east, this became more difficult to manage; the lands between the Sea of Rhûn and the Sea of Helcar had been home to men for millennia, and it showed.

Eventually, the pull of the Nazgûl brought them across the Orocarni. Celebrían gazed on the fertile valley gleaming with roads and cities in every direction in amazement.

"This is Hildórien?" she breathed.

"The cradle of the civilization of men," Sauron said. "Yes." The pull of the Nazgûl was now a little to the north, and he flew very high to avoid detection. "They are very insular," he observed as he guided Alnaka to the foothills of the Orocarni to the north. "They do not believe anything past the Sea of Rhûn exists, much less west of that."

"Fascinating," she said, staring at it. "How is it that you have a Ringwraith from these people?"

"His family was from this area, but he lived and ruled in Rhûn," Sauron said. "I do not know why he has come back here."

In the end, they landed Alnaka in the mountains well outside of civilization. They went on foot and approached a small, modest homestead falling into disrepair. It was deserted, except for the Seventh Nazgûl. He was standing outside, with no garments or anything to indicate his presence to men—save that he was holding a shovel.

"Sauron," the wraith said. His face was very ancient and very sad. "I had hoped you would not come for me."

Sauron hesitated on the edge of the garden. He did not draw Gûlnatar from its sheath.

"Please," the wraith said, dropping the shovel and falling to his knees. "Please do not hurt me. I did not stay to defy you with the others. I have never gone against you in anything. I only want to live in peace. Please spare me!"

Sauron did not move.

"You have no choice," Celebrían said to him. "You cannot leave any of them in Arda."

Sauron looked at the wraith, who looked back at him with despair.

"I can't do it," Sauron said. "I can't move against someone surrendering to me on his knees. Not now, not like this."

"A strange time for you to be moved to pity," Celebrían said. She strode forward and seized the wraith's hand. He yelped, and shied from her touch. She held him firmly and slid the ring off of his finger. She pocketed it and walked back to Sauron.

The wraith hung his head and sobbed, great tearless heaves of his chest.

"I am sorry," Sauron said to the wraith. "May you find peace."

"Let's go," Celebrían said. She headed into the hills without a glance back.

It was a few more minutes before Sauron tore himself away and followed her.

"What does pity mean to you?" he asked her as they climbed to find Alnaka.

"It is one cause to exercise grace," she said. "But sometimes you can feel pity and yet not find the requested grace appropriate."

"Yes," he said, his throat thick. "I suppose you can."

Sauron was miserable on the journey back. He slumped on Alnaka and brooded. He was imagining other lives, other choices, other journeys. He did not know who he was anymore. He and Celebrían did not speak except to discuss logistics and directions.

"I have one more errand in Middle-earth," Sauron finally stirred himself to inform Celebrían as they passed back over Rhovanion. The Misty Mountains could be seen on the horizon. "I must say farewell to the Balrog. Shall we meet in Rivendell?"

"If you wish," she said. "May I take Alnaka? I have no desire to cross the passes of the Misty Mountains alone on foot."

"Of course, darling," he said. He paused, and then ventured: "I am so sorry about the orcs."

"They were not your orcs," she said lightly.

He did not contradict her, although he disagreed. It was true enough that he had been disembodied when Celebrían was attacked and hadn't directly had anything to do with it. And yet. Sauron bore nearly as much responsibility as Morgoth, for creating and nurturing the races of orcs on Middle-earth.

When he said nothing else, Celebrían kissed him on the brow before climbing up onto Alnaka. Sauron instructed the beast to take Celebrían safely to Imladris, and then they leapt into the air and were gone.

Chapter Text

Galadriel left Gondor with Elrond and his household, and they rode alongside Aragorn and many of his companions who were accompanying King Théoden back to his realm.

Rohan was sound when they arrived; it had not suffered any attacks after Saruman's defeat. Théodred was overjoyed to see his king and his cousins return safely. The tale of Éowyn's defeat of the Witch-king had preceded them, and Théodred would not rest until it was told in full.

Éomer suffered much teasing for being 'precious' to the dreaded Dark-Lord-turned-Ally, and after much ale, he fumblingly broached the subject with Galadriel.

"Do not," she said, amused at this very young man. "Do not suppose you have done anything wrong. Love, kindness, tenderness, these are not wrong. Live well, find a companion of your own race, and prosper, my dear Lord of the Mark."

She had gotten over being jealous of Sauron's lovers among mortal men a very, very long time ago. They did not last; she did.

Her last conversation with Celeborn, before he departed to Lórien and she to Rivendell, was more painful.

"I release you," Celeborn said. "I know it is not within my power to do it, but I do it all the same. Go into the west. Follow your heart. For my part, I shall not depart these shores as long as any of the Eldalië linger."

"But some will never depart," she said, alarmed. "You will fade, and your spirit will linger, and you will pass into nothingness when the age of elves has ended."

"In time," he agreed. "But I have never left Middle-earth, and I do not feel the call to do so. I would not have left with you at this time even if we were still what we once were to each other."

"I still love you," she said, although she knew he did not want to hear it. "Do you not believe we can love more than one other person?"

"I have no quarrel with your love for anyone or anything," he said. "Yet it is hard when you promised to be faithful to me, and were not so."

"Yes," she said, her eyes downcast. "I have done you wrong in this respect."

"I would only have gone to Aman for your sake. I shall not, now. I will stay in the forests with my people until the ending of days."

Galadriel took his hand, and kissed it. "I release you as well, Celeborn of Doriath. If you find another in Middle-earth, I wish you every happiness."

"Do not think of me and be sad. I love this land and its forests and its people. Farewell, Galadriel of the golden hair."

On the eve of the planned journeys north and south, Éowyn and Faramir announced they were to be wed. It was on this cheerful note that everyone else departed Edoras: Aragorn and Arwen to return to Gondor; Celeborn to Lórien in the east; and Galadriel, Gandalf, and Elrond to Rivendell, west of the Misty Mountains. Faramir and Imrahil elected to remain at Edoras for a time.

Before departing, Galadriel kissed Arwen and wished her well.

"I wish you well, too, Grandmother," Arwen said. "You were right about Sauron, I suppose. He did repent and wish to do better. I am not so bitter now!"

"I have often been very wrong and quite right about him," Galadriel said ruefully. "It is not your concern any longer, my heart. You will make a magnificent queen of Gondor, and mayhap you will find your cousin Lúthien where you go."

Glorfindel, Elrohir, and Elladan were returning to Gondor to help Aragorn order the far-flung parts of his new kingdom. Thus it was that Elrond parted from all his children, but for two of them, he dared to hope that the parting was not forever.

Galadriel did not ask Elrond to account for his parting from Arwen, and he did not speak of it of his own accord.

"Well, what do you think of it all?" Elrond asked her as they rode north. "Who shall come west with us on our ship?"

"He will come," Galadriel said with certainty. "What awaits him there, I cannot tell."

"And what will you do there?"

"I will see my parents again," she said. "And my brothers, and all my cousins."

And she dwelled on this for a long time, determined to find a reason to look forward to the journey she had put off on many different occasions, for many thousands of years.

They were in Rivendell for many months before there was any sign of Celebrían. She came flying back one evening atop one of those horrible fell beasts. Galadriel suspected her daughter was now as fond of them as Sauron, as she watched Celebrían bid it fly free and prosper in the wild mountains.

"Sauron has made a detour through Moria," Celebrían explained. "To say farewell to the Balrog."

"He would," Galadriel said with a sigh. She linked elbows with her daughter. "Do you sail west with us, Celebrían?"

"Yes," Celebrían said. "My second journey to Middle-earth was a passing thing, long enough for one deed only. I long to return to the peace and beauty of Valinor. There my heart lies forever!"

Galadriel remembered it being rather boring, in truth, at least until Morgoth was unchained and started causing trouble. But this opinion she kept to herself.

Celebrían had come bearing the last of the Nine rings, which Elrond destroyed with all the powers of their combined sorcery in a furnace in the heart of Rivendell.

Sauron came to Rivendell on foot, arriving on the 129th birthday of Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo's friends were having a small party for him, and Galadriel and Celebrían were the only ones to leave it briefly to greet Sauron at the borders of the land.

He was not, however, alone.

"What have you done?" Galadriel asked sharply, staring at the black shape in Sauron's arms. He was cradling something roughly the size of a cat, but not the shape or a cat or indeed any animal that walked Arda. It was a void, a great black evil, a shadow of darkness and terror.

"Arillon is coming with us," Sauron said. He was holding the shadow very tenderly. "He knows he shall not have another passage on any ship, and it would be hard for him to cross the ocean otherwise. He does not want to stay in Middle-earth until he fades into nothingness after the departure of the elves and the ascendancy of men."

"You cannot take a Balrog of Morgoth on one of our ships," Galadriel said, appalled.

"You cannot deny passage west to any of the Ainur," he replied just as sharply.

They stared each other down for a few moments.

"We would only be condemning them to a vastly more difficult journey for little reason," Celebrían said to Galadriel eventually. "If... Arillon"—she said the name delicately, with careful skepticism—"wants to go west and ask for pardon from the Valar, it is not given to us to deny him."

"I doubt he'll be asking for pardon," Sauron said dryly. "He is childlike. His moral reasoning is not this advanced. If the Valar destroy him, so be it."

"Well," Celebrían said. "Come inside. Will he stay in this little cat-form?"

"He will stay in the little cat-form," Sauron agreed. "The decision, and leaving the depths of the mountains, was hard on him. He now sleeps nearly all of the time."

"We're celebrating a birthday," Galadriel said lightly, with a little mischief in her tone. "Leave, er, Arillon in your room and join us."

She phrased it as an order rather than a request, although she had no intention of fighting with him if he refused. But he did not refuse; he followed Celebrían to a guest room, left Arillon curled on the bed there, and came to the hall where Bilbo's birthday was being celebrated.

"Happy birthday," Sauron said to Bilbo, betraying no particular emotion when confronted with the sight of the ancient hobbit. "I'm afraid I didn't get you a gift."

Galadriel giggled at that. The Lord of the Gifts came without gifts!

"It's all right," Bilbo said, waving his hand vaguely through the air. "You know, hobbits give rather than receive gifts on their birthdays."

"I did not know that. What is your gift to me, then?"

"I wish you well in the west," Bilbo said, very seriously and very sincerely. "And I think I will compose a poem about you."

"Ah," Sauron said. "That's generous of you. Will it be a nice poem?"

"That remains to be seen," Bilbo advised.

Sauron dropped the conversation there. He left Bilbo and went to drink in a corner. Galadriel followed him.

"The mark of the ring is not so strong upon him as it was on Gollum," Sauron observed when she came to sit by him. "But it is much stronger than it was on his young cousin. I don't suppose hobbits usually live to a hundred and twenty-nine?"

"Not usually," she agreed. "Though it is not unknown."

He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him, and sipped at the wine. "Does he know the ring was unmade?"

"He does. But he is old, and forgetful. He will ask about it every now and then just the same."

"Surely you will not leave him here alone when the elves depart Rivendell."

"No," she agreed. "He will go to the Grey Havens, and dwell with Círdan, and pass peacefully away sooner or later."

She settled back against the wall next to him.

"How are your wounds?"

"Not so painful anymore. A twinge every now and then, just to remind me of my follies."

"Do you want to get out of here?" Galadriel asked suddenly, the memory of being young and fearless stealing into her suddenly, as she remembered nights of sneaking around after dark in Eregion just like this one.

Sauron turned and gave her a lopsided smile that animated his face.

"Oh, definitely," he said with a grin.

For appearances' sake, although it was hardly necessary, she exited by one door while he waited a few minutes and exited by another. Galadriel wandered the gardens of Imladris, her heart full of music and song, and found him on a bridge over a waterfall.

"You will miss it," Sauron said. He meant Imladris, she knew, but his focus was all on her.

"It will be worth it," Galadriel replied. She took a step, and then another. He was in her reach, but she did not yet reach for him.

"You don't know that," Sauron said, that same stubborn contrariness flaring in him again.

"I know that we have avoided a worse fate," she said quietly, and now she reached for his hand, and placed it on her cheek. His hand was warm, calloused, and so familiarly him that she wanted to weep.

"Perhaps," Sauron said. He reached up with his other hand, and brushed a thumb over her lips. "If, however, this is to be our last sanctuary, the last place we may do as we like—should we make it count?"

Galadriel tilted her head and leaned into his embrace. Their lips met, and it was like they had never been apart.

No one else in Rivendell saw them again that night.

Elrond and his household departed Rivendell for the last time in early October. Sauron rode the Nazgûl horse, who had thrived and been well cared for in Rivendell. He carried Arillon tucked away in a bag at his side, to avoid terrorizing any they might pass, and the Balrog did indeed sleep the entire journey.

The elves who departed Middle-earth habitually avoided passing through settlements, but they encountered a Ranger of the Dúnedain anyway. The Rangers did not miss much that was happening in their lands.

"Halbarad," Gandalf greeted him with warmth.

Sauron chuckled. "Halbarad! I remember you. I am Halbrand."

Sauron held out a hand, and the Ranger gave him a smile and shook the hand. "Yes," Halbarad agreed. "I remember. You killed that werewolf."

"Not killed. Separated its spirit from that body," Sauron corrected. "It should have known better than to tangle with a necromancer."

"That explains it!" Halbarad said with a laugh that sounded slightly nervous. He eyed the company Sauron was keeping, clearly judging that nothing too evil could be afoot. "You are no ordinary man at all. I did wonder at you handling it so effectively."

"Did you ever track it down?"

"No, it eluded me, and I'm sure has found another body by now. But everything will be different soon," Halbarad said with great satisfaction.

"You have heard from Aragorn, then?" Gandalf guessed.

"Oh, yes, we certainly have," said the Ranger eagerly. "We had messages from him many months ago. He will come north, and reestablish Annúminas as the capital city in the north, and we will finally chase away all the evil things and the brigands, and have peace."

"I hope you have not had too much trouble with brigands lately," Gandalf said.

"We had a great deal of it at the beginning of the year," Halbarad said, a bit grimly. "A lot of trouble we had with men fleeing from the south! Some weren't looking for peace, but looking to cause more trouble. There were a few fights in Bree, and the hobbits of the Shire even formed a company of archers to protect their borders. They'll be all right with elves crossing their land, of course."

"Hmm," Gandalf said.

"We handled it," Halbarad said. "The Rangers kept their diligent watch, as Aragorn instructed us to. The brigands had a big boss called Sharkey, but news came up in January that the big boss was dead, and that took the wind out of their sails."

Gandalf and Sauron looked at each other. "Saruman," Gandalf said darkly, and Sauron nodded.

"All will be healed with the coming of the king," Halbarad said, and on that cheerful note, they parted.

The company in fact did not have trouble passing into the Shire, although they did avoid roads as far as they could help it; they crossed the Brandywine bridge completely unnoticed by the hobbits. They turned south, into comparatively wild country, and made for the Woody End where they would turn west again.

At the edge of the Woody End they found four hobbits on ponies, apparently waiting for them.

"Frodo Baggins!" cried Gandalf, with surprise and warmth.

"Hullo Gandalf," said that hobbit cheerfully. "I heard from a little bird that you'd be passing this way. This is Sam, Samwise Gamgee. He has always wanted to see the elves. And these are my dear friends Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, or Merry and Pippin, who were not invited but showed up anyway!"

The company of elves dismounted from their horses and set up a picnic with the hobbits on the edge of the Woody End. Sam was in awe, his eyes shining with delight when a few of the elves joined him and spoke with him. Merry and Pippin were quiet for only a few moments, and then began chattering loudly and excitedly with the elves in their vicinity.

Frodo reunited tearfully with Bilbo and wished to spend all his time with him. Bilbo was so old and weary, however, that he nodded off during the conversation, peacefully falling asleep in the autumn sunlight. Frodo then spoke with Gandalf for a while. Frodo discussed the troubles that led to a company of hobbit archers—formed under the advice and tutelage of one of the Rangers, funded mostly by Frodo's gold, and captained by Merry and Pippin. They discussed the news of the return of the king, although Frodo did not quite see how a king of men would affect the doings of hobbits.

But all the while Frodo kept darting sharp looks at Sauron, and finally he turned and said: "But you're the one who came to Bag End and took the ring! I'm sure of it, even if you don't look like a hobbit anymore."

"Hello again, Frodo," Sauron said with a nod. "I am glad to see you well."

"I am not well," he said sharply. "Where is my ring?"

"But Frodo," Bilbo protested, waking up for this talk. "Do you tell me now that you lost my ring?"

"The ring was mine," Sauron snapped, his dark eyes flashing malice.

Frodo shrank away. Gandalf put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Sauron took a few deep breaths and visibly calmed himself.

"Ah, I apologize. The scars are still deep, are they not? For all of us. I was the ring's maker, and I have unmade it. Though," Sauron added with a swift glance at Galadriel, "I did not manage it alone."

She reached out and took his hand, and squeezed it.

"You made it!" cried Frodo. "How extraordinary. What is it, then, and what did Gollum have to do with it?"

"It was the One Ring," Sauron said slowly. "One Ring to rule all others. Forged in the fires of Mount Doom in the heart of Mordor, to enslave the free peoples of Middle-earth. Gollum, and Bilbo, came to it quite by accident."

Frodo paled and stared at Sauron. "But then you must be...."

"Indeed!" Sauron said. "You are speaking to the Dark Lord of Mordor, the ancient enemy of men and elves. Do not look so frightened! I have quite abandoned my attempts to enslave anyone, and I am leaving Middle-earth along with the elves you see here. I cannot erase all the scars from my works—but the One Ring no longer exists. I hope you can be free of it one day."

"But—" said Frodo, his voice wavering.

"It should never have been made in the first place. I am sorry it came to trouble you."

"Well," said Frodo doubtfully, "I have quite missed the thing, and longed to have it back. Now it appears I ought not miss it at all. I suppose that's all right then. Is it all right, Gandalf?"

"It is, Frodo," Gandalf said. "Everything is quite all right."

They said farewell to the Hobbits in the evening and continued their journey across the Shire. After leaving the Shire, amid the Tower Hills, Sauron departed on his own for a day and came back accompanied by five Avarin elves.

Sauron introduced them to everyone. The Avari were very quiet, and seemed fearful of the rest of the company. After observing them for a few minutes, Galadriel determined that they thought of Pagûl as first among them, although she also thought she remembered from Sauron's story that he was the youngest of them.

They did not have horses. Rúmmë rode with Sauron, and Galadriel offered a spot on her horse to Pagûl. The other three joined elves of Elrond's household, all six of whom looked less than pleased by this arrangement.

"You needn't look so scared," Galadriel told Pagûl in a light voice. "We do not bite!"

Pagûl, to his credit, laughed at that. "It is not just you," he said, in a more sober tone. "This is a strange, heady thing we do."

"Aman is beautiful," Galadriel told him firmly, and passed the rest of the journey telling him about it.

Círdan was the sort of elf who had seen so much that nothing took him by surprise anymore.

"Yes, of course the ship can take Sauron and the Balrog and the Avari west," Círdan said placidly, in response to the inquiry from Elrond. "Perhaps I will see you all there someday."

"Perhaps," Elrond agreed. Yet Galadriel wondered when or if Círdan would ever leave Middle-earth. He had never shown the slightest inclination for it in all the years she'd known him.

The ship was loaded, and they were ready. Galadriel had one last moment of hesitation—of longing—her lands—her lands—that vision the One Ring had given her while she stood at the Cracks of Doom in Orodruin—she was abandoning all possibility of it happening—giving up everything she had fought for since the first kinslaying—could she really leave that behind forever and ever?

Sauron slipped a hand into hers. He was very pale, and his hand was trembling.

She clung to him, and they watched Middle-earth become smaller and smaller, and then slip away.

She let out a shaky breath, and then turned and looked west.

Her daughter, perhaps sensing this mood, bustled around and made herself busy.

"Who is on board who knows how to sail, exactly?" Celebrían asked, a hand on her hip, surveying the party: Gandalf; Galadriel and Sauron; Elrond and a few dozen assorted retainers from his household; the Avari; the Balrog who was still sleeping inside the bag.

Two of Elrond's household indicated they knew how to sail. Galadriel shook her own head.

"And you, Father?" Celebrían asked, as he had not answered one way or the other.

"It seems you are perfectly capable of taking us home on your own," Sauron said calmly. He still held Galadriel's hand. "Why do you ask?"

"I should like to know who I can rely on if we encounter a storm," Celebrían said haughtily.

"You have two sorcerers aboard. I think we can handle a storm," Sauron said dryly.

Galadriel suspected the answer was that he had no real idea how to sail a ship.

"And what if we encountered sea monsters?" Celebrían asked, but now Galadriel thought she was simply arguing for the sake of arguing; distracting them all from thoughts of what lay ahead.

"Mmm," Sauron said, looking at the water askance. The day was fair and the waters were calm and the breeze was coming from the east; they could not have asked for better conditions. "You do have two Umaiar aboard," he acknowledged.

"We will not be attacked by any of Ossë's creatures," Gandalf said, with serenity. "I am sure you are capable of managing this journey, Celebrían."

Celebrían gave a little sniff, and devoted herself to doing something mysterious with ropes. Sauron sighed.

"I observed that Círdan does not have one of the Three," he observed idly into the silence that fell.

Galadriel dropped his hand and laughed. No one was laughing with her, but she could not stop laughing.

Sauron frowned at her.

"Oh, but you had it all figured out," she said, gasping for breath. "It was so obvious who had the Three, and we were the fools for thinking their locations safe from you!"

"Well, you and Elrond do have two of them," he said frostily.

Galadriel sobered, and wiped her eyes, and felt that she had been needlessly cruel. "We do," she agreed. She did not ask how he was so certain of that. "And Círdan had a ring for a long time. But he passed it to Gandalf, when Gandalf arrived in Middle-earth."

"Oh," Sauron said, blinking at Gandalf a bit owlishly. Then he scowled. "How nice for you all that you get to keep yours."

"Well," she said tartly, "perhaps if you too had used yours for gardening, and growing things and creating beauty."

"Perhaps," he said, and his eyes were sad. She took pity on him, and stepped towards him again, hand raised, but he turned away.

He went to sit on the prow, his back to the rest of the ship. The Avari followed him. He removed Arillon from the bag, and cradled him in his arms, and they stayed like that for quite some time.

Galadriel left them alone.

Celebrían eventually gave up pretending to do things with the ropes. The sails were set; the wind was not changing. She sighed, and sat down on a bench. Galadriel came to sit next to her.

"Tell us about your time in Aman," Galadriel suggested, placing a hand on her daughter's back. "And the full story of how you returned to Middle-earth."

"Oh, I suppose the time is apt for this story," Celebrían agreed. "Well... I did not complete the passage to Aman by boat. My spirit ended up in the Halls of Mandos, leaving my body on board the ship somewhere on the seas."

She sighed.

Elrond came, and sat at her feet, and leaned against her legs.

"I was still suffering, and my spirit was distraught when I arrived," she said, her tone becoming distant. "I crept to Mandos's throne, and his presence was the only thing I could find comfort in. I cast myself at his feet, and slept for a very long time. I was not aware of anyone else in the Halls. I was... not well.

"Eventually, he woke me, and said that my spirit was being released, that I would live, and return to Aman, body and spirit reunited. I did not welcome this. I wanted to stay with Mandos. There was an absence of feeling there, a sense that I did not have to process my ills or the revelation I received upon entering the halls."

Celebrían was silent for a time, her eyes on the western horizon.

"I did not, however, refuse to go. Mandos told me I could seek him again in Valmar, and I accepted. When I was released from the Halls, I went to Valmar directly, and I do not know how long I stayed there. Mandos and Varda allowed me into their presence, and I did not want to do anything else."

Celebrían swallowed. "Valmar is not a dwelling place for the Eldar. They finally bid Indis come and take me away, and return me to the city of my people. Indis was very kind to me, ever patient and glad to hear tidings of her progeny on Middle-earth. She took me to her son, my grandfather, Finarfin, who rules in Tirion. He, too, was very kind and patient with me. I grew better every day I was with him, and met many of my uncles and aunts and cousins and their offspring. It was a pleasant time, although I still spent most of my days sleeping and looking out at the sea.

"After a time, my grandmother Eärwen removed with me to Alqualondë. I was happier there; it was quieter, more peaceful, the routines less strict and the press of crowds not so alarming."

Celebrían gave a soft laugh. "I was coping. I was healing. And then it happened."

"What happened?" Galadriel asked, for her daughter seemed to expect the prompting.

"I had a dream. I was needed in Middle-earth. I woke, and departed Alqualondë, and sought out Varda.

"She credited the truth of my vision, and after thinking on it for a while, agreed that if I set sail east, she would send a star—"

Elrond started. He half-turned, and reached for her hand. She gripped it.

"—to light my way through the fog and dark perils of the Straight Road when departing from Aman. It would be up to me to secure a ship. But she would guide and protect my journey, and... we all agreed it was simply not necessary to mention the whole affair to Manwë," she added, looking sideways at Gandalf, eyes dancing a little.

He gave her a kind smile, his eyes crinkling in his particular manner, and did not interrupt her tale.

"Grandmother wished I would not go. She begged me to change my mind. I would not. Then she said if I sailed with the blessing of Varda, it was not given to any of the Eldar to stop me. She had already taught me to sail, and now she parted with a ship, as long as I returned it."

Celebrían squeezed Elrond's hand again. "The journey east was perilous. Yet I was not afraid. Varda sent Eärendil to light my path. And he did."

Elrond buried his head in her lap. If he was crying, no one on this ship would judge him for it.

"You were very brave and strong of heart, my love," Galadriel said eventually. "We did need you in Middle-earth."

Then she had to ask the question that had been burning in her mind since she set foot on this boat. "Ah, who in Aman did you tell about your parentage?"

"None, save Mandos and Varda," Celebrían answered. "I did not really wish to discuss it with my family."

"Ah," Galadriel said. "So it is my task to make the confession."

She did not know if this was better or worse—to have to do it herself, or to get to do it herself.

"Yes," Celebrían said. She wove her fingers through Elrond's hair. "What do you suppose they'll say?"

Galadriel thought about how many of her kin Morgoth and Sauron had slain, tortured, or maimed, and her heart quailed.

"Nothing good," she said.

"Have you forgiven him?" Celebrían asked, very quietly.

"Yes."

Celebrían raised an eyebrow. "All of it? All his long misdeeds? What do you even suppose is the worst among them, the hardest to forgive?"

"Do we really need to do this?" Galadriel asked sharply, but Elrond was already lifting his head and responding: "Númenor."

"You think so?" Celebrían asked her husband. "Worse than the rings, and Eregion?"

"Worse than the rings," Elrond said firmly.

"You can lead a horse to water," Sauron's voice came from the front of the ship. Galadriel was not surprised he had been paying attention to this whole conversation.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Elrond asked, visibly growing angry.

"I lead them to the trough, true, but I did not force Pharazôn to drink from it."

"How dare you make excuses—"

"Please stop," Celebrían said in bright voice that rang with power. "I am very sorry for introducing this topic."

Elrond's eyes were stormy. Of course he had held his brother's people to his heart, for all these ages and all those generations. For a minute, Galadriel thought he would not comply with his wife's request, but then he closed his eyes and again buried his face in her lap.

Galadriel sighed, and made her way to the front of the boat, and sat by Sauron's side.

"I am not making excuses," he said to her, in an undertone that was not meant to carry to the others on the boat. The Avari probably overheard, but he did not seem to mind them. "But no one—not me, not Pharazôn, not Manwë—had any idea that Ilúvatar's reaction would be entirely and wholly disproportionate to the offense; to slaughter the innocent remaining on the island—to destroy that land forever, its jewels and its children and its ladies proud alike."

Galadriel shivered. "I cannot bear to listen to you criticize the One," she said plaintively.

"Well, then, I shall not. But—"

"Please," she pleaded.

"Very well," he said, and fell silent. He put his shoulder around her arms. Arillon was still curled up in his lap like a cat.

"Tell me instead how you escaped its downfall, for I have always wanted to know."

"Oh." He was silent again for a little bit. "It isn't much of a story. I mean, the earth beneath the sea opened into an abyss to the west of the island, and it was clear that it was time to run."

"But where did you run to?" she asked, bewildered. "You were on an island."

"Metaphorically speaking," he clarified. "I became a crow, and flew to the waiting ships of the Faithful, which were being borne away from the island by a great wave. Once on board, I turned into a cat."

"A cat! I always imagined you escaped over the sea as a disembodied spirit."

"Such a journey would have been awfully taxing. Far better to let someone else do the work." Then he smiled, and laughed suddenly. "Isildur liked cats, did you know that?"

"No," she said. "No, I don't think that is part of the tales anyone tells about him."

"Isildur was very fond of the cat," Sauron said, sounding wistful. "He kept the cat by his side for many years, until I deemed it suspicious that the cat had lived so long. Isildur resided in Minas Ithil by that time, so it was easy enough to disappear over the border into Mordor."

Galadriel struggled to process this. "You... stayed in the shape of... Isildur's cat... for how long?"

"I don't know, fifteen, twenty years?"

"Why?"

He swallowed, and looked grim. "I was hiding."

"From Eru Ilúvatar himself? You thought the form of a cat would fool him?"

"I was afraid," he said, his voice terrible and sad. "I do not claim I was rational."

"That's quite the story," she said, marveling. "You have the most sheer nerve of anyone I have ever known."

He laughed, and held her closer to him, and she let the conversation drop.

The rest of the journey would always be a blur in Galadriel's mind. They encountered no difficulties, as Gandalf had promised. They bypassed all the fog and mists protecting Aman, with Celebrían's steady hand guiding them.

Seabirds arrived to greet them, and Gandalf held one in his hand, and whispered a message to it, and held it aloft to go west before them.

"I mustn't carry a weapon into Aman," Sauron said with a sigh, and slung Gûlnatar off his back. He offered it to Celebrían. "I don't know why I didn't leave it in Middle-earth. Will you take care of it for me?"

"You took it with you because you love the things you make," she said, with a soft smile, taking the sword from him. "I cannot fault you for that, since I am one of them. I will keep it safe for you until you can claim it again."     

He returned the smile, but his own smile was sad and heavy.

They sailed serenely past the isle of Tol Eressëa and into the Bay of Eldamar. Those aboard the ship were pressed onto the prow, hungry for their first sight of Aman.

And the white sands ahead of them held a host.

"Curse me from now into eternity," Sauron said. "Every single one of them has come for me."

He was standing behind Galadriel, and she turned and looked into his eyes.

The ship nudged itself into the sand beneath the shores, and the other elves leapt into the ocean and splashed their way to the shore and fell at the feet of the Aratar waiting for them. Galadriel processed this distantly; she had eyes only for Sauron.

He was fire; he was ice; he was ageless and impossibly old. He was agonized, and longed for peace, and rejected it at the same time. He was on the verge of fleeing yet again.

Wordlessly, she held out her hand.

He shifted Arillon into his other arm, and took her hand.

Together, they jumped from the ship, waded through the waters, and came ashore.

She was barely aware of the Avari following them.

Galadriel's heart ached with pain, and it sang at the same time.

She had never been pious in her life. She had not been pious in her childhood spent in this land; she had not been pious when she left this land against the will of the Valar; and she had not been pious when she remained in Middle-earth, refusing the call to return for millennia.

Piety stirred in her now, and it was more beautiful and less bittersweet than she could have imagined. They were all there, anticipating the arrivals: Manwë, King of Arda; Varda, Lady of the Stars, most beloved of Galadriel's own heart; Ulmo, Lord of Waters and ever-concerned for her exiled kind; Yavanna, Giver of Fruits and all that Galadriel had grown on Middle-earth; Aulë the Smith, who had shaped the lands Galadriel had dwelled in for so long; Mandos the Just, who had been so kind to her daughter; Nienna, the Lady of Mercy and Pity, who no doubt had had a hand in it; and Oromë, who like Ulmo had never forgotten or ceased to love Galadriel's people.

The silence was like a living thing. The elves who came ashore before them were in the waves of the shoreline, on their knees.

Sauron let go of her hand. He strode forward, leaving the shallow waters, and went to his knees on the beach. He pressed his face into the sand. Whatever had been animating him seemed to leave. He was utterly limp.

"I am sorry," he said.

Galadriel realized she was weeping. She did not follow him out of the waters, but fell to her own knees in the place where he had let go of her hand. She could not stop herself from looking up, and gazing on the impossible faces arrayed before her.

Manwë did not answer or look at Sauron. He turned to Elrond first.

"Welcome home, Elrond Peredhel," Manwë said. His voice was gentle, and kind, and wise. He extended a hand towards Elrond. "There is a white tower northward upon the borders of the Sundering Seas. There your mother waits for you."

Elrond, too, was crying. He took Manwë's hand, and let himself be pulled to his feet. Moving as one in a dream, he passed upon the shoes and turned his face north, and Galadriel did not see him again for a long time.

"Celebrían, my daughter," Manwë said next. "Do not think your leaving was either unknown or unpleasant to me. You have done well."

He pulled Celebrían to her feet, and embraced her.

"Your grandmother and grandfather are waiting for you, in Tirion. I am sure they are watching us even now."

Celebrían, too, turned her back on those on the sea and set her feet west on the path to the great elven city.

"Olórin," Manwë said, pulling Gandalf to his feet next. He and Gandalf looked into each other's eyes for a long time, and what passed between them was unknown to the rest of the party. Gandalf had shed his Istar guise, and he was a being of pure white—even his clothing had become white. He radiated serenity and power. Eventually, he rose and followed in the footsteps of Celebrían. Yet Galadriel suspected his destination was Valmar, rather than Tirion.

Manwë bid the rest of Elrond's household depart, and find their kin in the elven cities of Aman. Finally, he turned to the Avari, who were kneeling with their heads bowed.

"Be assured it is not usual, and it is not because of you, that I come myself to welcome arrivals to Aman. Olórin spoke truly, that you may dwell here if you intentions are peaceful, and you intend to obey the laws of the Valar. I am pleased when any of our children come. You may accompany Galadriel where she goes."

Then he turned to Galadriel.

"I am sorry," she gasped, suddenly undone by the force of his direct gaze.

"You have not forfeited our love or our grace," Manwë said. "Long have you dwelled far from our presence, yet all is mended now that you are here."

His awe-inspiring, lordly face cracked into a wry smile. "Perhaps it is true that you have not obeyed all our laws."

She swallowed a hard lump in her throat. Tears were still streaming down her cheeks.

"Be easy, my daughter," Manwë said. "Your love was not, and is not, wrong. Go! Your family awaits in the city. None, or nearly none, linger in the Halls of Mandos; all are eager to see you. Go!"

Stars in her eyes and her mind, Galadriel obeyed the compulsion. She stood, and waded through the softly lapping ocean waves, and passed through the gathering of the Aratar, and set her feet on the path west to Tirion. She did not once look back. She did not think she could have even if she wanted to.

Before the walls of Tirion, there was no large party waiting to greet Galadriel; no chorus of trumpets or flowers thrown over the walls. There was only one solidarity elf, short of stature and fair of hair, eyes glowing and skirts blowing in the breeze.

"Mother," Galadriel breathed, and then she crumpled and fell into Eärwen's arms. Eärwen stroked Galadriel's hair as she sobbed, and when Galadriel finally lifted her head to look at her mother, she found her entirely dry-eyed.

"I am sorry," Galadriel gasped. "I cannot possibly justify staying away from you for so long."

"It does not need justification," Eärwen said calmly. "You have been fiercely independent from the day you were born, and I have ever loved you for it."

"Where is my father? And my brothers?" Galadriel asked, slightly bemused that they had not come to greet her.

"Your father is High King of the Noldor," Eärwen said with a slight smile. "He could not leave his duties for you. You will have to go to him. As for your brothers—it is a long story."

"Oh," Galadriel said. "Celebrían told me he was High King—I'd forgotten. How peculiar."

"He has been High King for seven thousand years," Eärwen said, vaguely reprovingly. "Let us not keep him waiting."

Galadriel sighed. She followed her mother into Tirion and up the streets of the white city, estimating at a glance that it had barely changed in seven thousand years. As they walked, Galadriel introduced the Avari to her mother while carefully omitting mention of Sauron. Eärwen did not seem to find them peculiar, and pledged to help make them feel welcome in the city.

Her heart was in her throat and her nerves were on fire by the time they reached the House of Finwë. She felt like a child, returning to be scolded by her father, and she did not care for the feeling. She had been so important on Middle-earth!

But she needn't have worried. Finarfin was in the courtyard, rushing forward to greet her, and he was crying as his wife had not. He embraced Galadriel, and clung to her, and wept without shame.

Something that had been a tight knot in her chest for a very long time was working its way loose. She buried her face in her father's shoulder and allowed herself to think of it as coming home.

There were a lot more reunions waiting for her; some awkward, some less so. The fate of her brothers and many cousins and their children was a long story, most of which she learned over the course of many long years. Aegnor apparently had refused reembodiment, while Finrod and Angrod were both reembodied and happily united with their wives. Galadriel dwelt alone, without either her spouse or her love, and tried not to be bitter about it. She settled in with her father in the House of Finwë and approached life day-by-day. She had no agenda; nothing to accomplish; nothing to strive for or look forward to. In theory, there was nothing to discomfit her.

She tried to tell herself it was worth it. She was reunited with her favorite brother and such lost, treasured friends and family as Gil-galad and Celebrimbor.

Of her cousins the sons of Fëanor she saw only Maedhros.

"Don't worry," Maedhros said to Finarfin and Finrod, with whom Galadriel was dining in the king's hall when Maedhros arrived. "I will not stay long. I only heard that Galadriel and Celebrían were here, and wished to say hello."

"Hello, cousin," Galadriel said courteously. Maedhros bent down and kissed her swiftly on the cheek.

"I was not worried," Finarfin said serenely. "Well met, son of my brother."

"Well met, High King," Maedhros said, wielding the title like a knife. He pulled out a chair—with his left hand, his right was still missing even after reembodiment, Galadriel observed, feeling mortified to have noticed—and sat down next to her. "To be honest, it is Celebrían I came to see. Elrond is full of stories about her, and I judged it high time I met her."

Galadriel and Finrod's eyes met, and then turned towards their father as one. Finarfin was circling the rim of his goblet with a thumb, one of his few nervous habits.

Galadriel had honestly not given any thought to how Elrond would react, if any of the sons of Fëanor were reembodied. She had been so selfishly absorbed in her own concerns.

"How was your reunion with Elrond?" she ventured to ask Maedhros.

"Charming," Maedhros said, and his tone was bitter and sarcastic. Then he softened a little. "No, I don't mean that. It was very good to see him again. He has grown strong and wise and mighty, and I love him."

Galadriel sat silent. She did not ask about Maedhros's brothers. No information was volunteered.

"I will return to Elwing soon enough, and then remove my presence from everywhere it is not wanted. But first, may I see Celebrían? I bring a message from Elrond."

Finarfin summoned Celebrían, who arrived and was everything that was sweet and charming to Maedhros. She had a gift for dancing around difficult subjects and making people like her; and Maedhros liked her very much indeed.

"Did you come to Tirion without telling me?" came a new voice in the hall. It was Fingon, and he looked appalled and cross, but he dropped the façade in the next second and embraced Maedhros and kissed him.

"For once, he did not come here for you, nephew," Finarfin said dryly. "He came to see Elrond's wife. And, I suspect, fetch her back to him, since Elrond himself will not ask her to leave her family for his sake."

"Ah, of course," Fingon said lightly, and dropped into another chair, and they all had a pleasant enough evening over wine and song.

"Your daughter reminds me of Lúthien," her brother Finrod said to Galadriel, when they took their leave of everyone in the hall and walked out on the balcony in the moonlight. "Charming everyone, seeming to always know what to say, her songs containing a particular strain of power. It was her peculiar brand of sorcery, I always thought."

"Hmm," Galadriel said. She had not expected to be confronted with these comparisons in the city of the Noldor, for Lúthien had not been a Noldo. Outside of her father's kin—Galadriel and Finrod—she had had little to do with the Noldor. Unless they were trying to kill her or marry her by force, of course. "Celebrían does not quite have Lúthien's physical beauty, though as her mother I should not say it."

"It is not that," Finrod said, looking carefully at Galadriel. "She has an enchantment to her that I only ever felt in Lúthien—at least outside the Ainur themselves."

"Ah," Galadriel said. "Yes, she does. You have heard how she came back to Middle-earth and ended a war."

Finrod laughed, as Galadriel had meant him to. "Did she sing Sauron into submission as Lúthien did?"

That was hitting a little too close to the mark, and Galadriel said good-night and excused herself, and for a while she avoided her own brother, beloved of her heart.

When Maedhros headed back north to Elwing's tower, Celebrían and Fingon went with him. Celebrían returned to Tirion before Fingon did; and Galadriel did not see Maedhros again for a long time.

Galadriel and Celebrían stayed in Tirion for an extended period of time. Finarfin reigned as High King of the Noldor, and lived in his father's home at the feet of the Mindon Eldaliéva. He was as kind and gentle-hearted as she remembered. He was not perturbed by the presence of the Avari, and found housing and occupation for them at once. Galadriel promised to work on finding their kin, but they did not need her day-to-day supervision, and she mostly left them be.

Yet eventually, worries and fears would intrude. Galadriel supposed she had been in Tirion for years—decades—enjoying her time with her family and looking not to the future, when she woke one morning and stared out her window at the gray skies and suddenly knew.

She simply could not stand another minute of this.

"I dwelt for centuries with Melian in Doriath, in Beleriand," she explained to her father over breakfast. "We became very close. It is unpardonable that I have waited this long to seek her out."

Explaining herself to a king was not in her nature anymore, but her father was understanding, compassionate, and easygoing. He had no inclination to argue with her, but provided her with everything she would need for the journey and wished her well.

Her feet took her through Calacirya and down to the city of Valmar. She did not linger there; she did not believe she had business with anyone in this city. She continued west, to the gardens of Lórien, where she would have been content to stay for a while. But there a gentle Estë informed her she was on the wrong track.

"Melian fashioned her own gardens, upon Thingol's reembodiment," Estë informed her. "Just north of here. They are not hard to find! Trust to the paths."

Galadriel journeyed north. After a time, she felt the subtle yet extremely recognizable sign that she was entering the domain of Melian. She began crying again as the beautiful Maia—still wearing the same, long-familiar shape of one of the Elda—appeared out of trees and enveloped Galadriel in a full embrace.

"I missed you," Galadriel cried.

"And I you," Melian said, her voice ever as beautiful and musical as Galadriel remembered it.

They cried over each other for a while, and then Melian led her into the heart of the gardens. It was like Doriath, but not quite—the tree homes, the caves, the beauty and art and strength—yet of a more ethereal, ephemeral quality.

And there too was—

"Thingol!" Galadriel exclaimed, rushing forward to embrace the elven king who was sitting in the center of the garden. No one in Tirion had been able to tell her—or understood why she cared—whether Thingol had been reembodied.

"You never met my grandson, I believe," Thingol added after they finished greeting each other. He waved his hand at an elf couple who had just appeared to their sight. "Dior, and his wife Nimloth."

"Dior?" Galadriel cried. "I cannot believe my eyes! But I had no idea you were in Aman."

"I will take the liberty of embracing you like a cousin, though we are not such close cousins as all that," Dior said, and suited word to action. "I feel like I have known you well all my days, even if we have never met."

Galadriel also embraced Nimloth, who was kin to Celeborn, and they settled down to rest, eat, and drink in Melian's gardens. Galadriel found herself liking Dior and Nimloth just as much as she liked Melian and Thingol.

Galadriel found their new domain in Aman was just familiar enough to be perfect balm for her spirit. There lived Melian and Thingol, Dior and Nimloth, and a host of other Sindarin elves who had either sailed from Middle-earth after their lord left, or those who were slain in the war and had been reembodied, and had no desire to dwell in previously established cities of Aman.

Galadriel, Melian, and Thingol had much to catch up on.

"But tell me about this grandson of yours," Galadriel protested, when it was just the three of them in the gardens. "Does he not have mortal blood, for being born of a mortal father? How is that his spirit was called to these shores after his death?"

"Yes, he has mortal blood," Melian agreed. "Dior was slain before Manwë decreed that all those of mortal blood would be mortal, and before he gave the choice of kindreds to Dior's daughter. When he was slain, I held his spirit fast in Mandos and interceded with Manwë. After they had dealt with Elwing and Eärendil, the Valar agreed Dior could make his own choice of kindreds, for the sake of his mother, and for the strength of my blood in him. My grandson was born to an elf, lived as an elf, wed an elf, and ruled an elven kingdom. He chose to dwell in the Halls of Mandos until the time of his reembodiment as one of the Eldar, and be reunited with his wife and grandparents—if not his parents."

And Galadriel marveled at the power of one of the Maiar, to intercede so far on behalf of a grandchild. But of course, Melian was of much greater power in Aman than Sauron, whose fate remained unknown to Galadriel, and Arwen was not likely to change her mind and wish for a different choice after the passing of Aragorn. Nor had Sauron shown any signs of affection for his grandchildren like Melian. Galadriel put it from her mind.

"What about... Dior's sons?" Galadriel asked tentatively. "What was their fate?"

"The same," Melian said. "I guided their spirits to Mandos only a few days after their father's. They were so young. He chose their fate on their behalf."

Melian's eyes were filling with tears, and Galadriel understood the story of the twins abandoned to die in a forest was still difficult for her.

Thingol cleared his throat. "They are doing fine," he said in a strong voice. "They are visiting their sister presently, but you will meet them soon." And then he changed the subject to asking for news of Middle-earth—the outcome of all the war, and the fate of the survivors who remained on Middle-earth

After Galadriel was finished covering nearly everything—glossing over her role in destroying the One Ring and the Enemy's strange change of heart (as she had every time in telling this tale to her family here)—Thingol then brought up the subject she would have preferred to put off forever.

"Celeborn has remained behind?" he asked.

Of course he would inquire about Celeborn, his own Sindarin kin whom she had first met in Doriath! Melian and Thingol had seen Galadriel and Celeborn wed in the halls of Menegroth, and promise to be true to each other until the ending of days.

Galadriel cast herself at Melian's feet, and started crying again. She was doing a lot of that in Aman.

"I was unfaithful to him," she wept. "He has elected to stay in Middle-earth forever, until his spirit fades into nothingness. He said he did not feel the call of the west, and would only ever have come for me. But instead, he released me, and bid me be happy here without him."

Melian and Thingol were predictably, and utterly, bewildered by this. Their marriage was not perfectly harmonious at all times, and they had clashed and disagreed, sometimes with the most bitter of consequences. But it was they who had stood entranced by one another for centuries when they first locked eyes, and they had never lost that sense of connection, not even unto Thingol's death.

"Who, then, do you love instead? Or perhaps—in addition?" Melian finally asked, in all gentleness, trying for compassion and understanding.

And Galadriel confessed it, for the first time since entering Aman. "Mairon," she said, with a huff of almost-laughter. "One better known as Sauron for all his misdeeds. He is the father of my daughter."

She sat limply at Melian's feet, and did not watch what were surely expressions of astonishment, and possibly disgust, passing from husband to wife over her head.

"Oh, daughter of my heart," Melian said eventually. "You must tell us everything."

And she did tell them everything, beginning with that dratted raft in the Sundering Seas and ending with him expressing repentance before the Aratar.

"I do not know his fate," Galadriel said, feeling exhausted. "And it has been tormenting me."

"Well," Melian said. "You must go to Manwë and ask."

It was sensible advice, but Galadriel could not bring herself to do it. Manwë was gracious and had said words of comfort to her, but the idea of facing him again—and asking about Sauron!—seemed more than Galadriel's spirit could bear. He was so great and terrible, and she was so frail and disobedient.

Melian laughed at her; her feelings must have been written plainly on her face. "Very well, then. We will go together."

Galadriel still did not want to go, but Melian bundled her up in a cloak—"The mountain winds can be strong," she advised—and packed provisions and handed her back her walking stick.

"Why are you doing this for me?" Galadriel asked, as they passed through Valmar and set their feet on the steep paths up the slopes of Taniquetil. "You cannot be fond of Sauron."

"I am not remotely fond of Sauron," Melian said merrily, clearly amused by the question. "We were not close before his fall; our pursuits and interests were very different. And the less said of those whom I love that have suffered at his hands, the better. But you are as dear to me as my own daughter, and I perceive that he means much to you."

"He does," Galadriel agreed, "though I cannot explain it."

She thought about it while they climbed. How strongly she felt a kinship, a connection with him when they first met and she did not know who he truly was. How absurdly handsome his fair form was, how it set her heart pounding. How it seemed he often did mean well, and teetered on the verge of doing good, only to veer off at the last second. How fascinating and brilliant and creative and charming he could be. How highly he valued those select few he had decided to value and his resulting intense loyalty. How very close she always had been to being counted among them, even while being a very great enemy. How strongly he esteemed and desired her, though usually not strongly enough to pull him back from the abyss of his terrible choices. How very flattering even that much was, coming from such a one, and how susceptible she always had been to that pull, the feeling of being singled out for special treatment by a being of great power and might who cared for so very few.

She could not form the words to say any of this. She feared it did not reflect well on her.

"It was Beren, ultimately, who took my daughter from me, not Sauron," Melian said gently at her side. "And I do not begrudge Beren this."

"I do not begrudge Aragorn the loss of Arwen either," Galadriel said. "Who are we to judge their decisions?"

Galadriel took Melian's hand in hers, and they climbed the rest of the mountain hand-in-hand.

When they reached Ilmarin, the great marble dwelling hall of Manwë and Varda, Galadriel quailed again, and would have not entered. Melian released her hand and took her elbow, gently but firmly, and guided her within.

The antechamber was small and cozy and warmly lit; it was not frightening. To Galadriel's very great surprise, her grandmother Indis was there, apparently waiting for her.

"We saw you coming," Indis said cheerfully. "Varda wishes to speak with you. Will you go to her?"

"Of course," Galadriel said, astonished and not at all inclined to disobey such a directive. She was far gladder to treat with Varda than Manwë. She left Indis and Melian behind, and entered a small chamber. Varda rose as Galadriel entered, and clasped her hand warmly.

"My child," Varda said, in a manner that was kindly but still rather terrible and great. "What do you seek?"

"Please, Lady of the Stars, please tell me what happened to Sauron—Mairon—whatever you wish us to call him now."

Varda smiled. "What you wish to call him is your affair, beloved daughter. The one the elves call Sauron did obeisance to Manwë, and abjured his evil deeds. He did not plead his case or ask for mercy or beg for any particular fate. It is well known what he has done, good and bad. He laid himself bare unto the judgment of the Valar. Manwë offered him a sentence of servitude, in proof of his good faith, and he accepted."

Galadriel let out the breath she had been holding. So the worst had not come to pass; he had not been cast into the void.

"Is he—is he in the Halls of Mandos, then?" Galadriel ventured to ask, for that had been his master's fate once upon a time.

"He is not, but I will not tell you where he is. I do not advise you to seek him. Let him serve his sentence, and be joyful among your own people, and you will be reunited with him in time."

Galadriel said nothing else. She bowed very low, and took her leave, and sought Indis and Melian. She told them what she had learned.

"Granddaughter!" Indis said, stern and surprised. "What concern is it of yours, the fate of the Enemy's servant?"

"Oh," Galadriel said, feeling small and low. She had forgotten she still had to make this confession to—oh, countless of her kin! "I have been in love with him for almost five thousand years. He is the father of my daughter."

"He is what?" Indis said, losing all her grace and poise. She was utterly, and terribly, astonished and affronted.

"I know, Grandmother," Galadriel said heavily. "Believe me, I know."

Chapter Text

In the years 100-200 of the Fourth Age

When it had been a hundred years from the date Galadriel departed Middle-earth, she left Tirion.

Her kin had not been very understanding about Sauron, not that she had expected them to. Celebrían had prevented anyone from saying anything unforgivable, for they all loved and esteemed her very much, but they were not content with Galadriel's choices. There was a distance between them that had not been there before.

Alone, Galadriel wandered up and down the continent, speaking to the birds and the beasts and looking everywhere for news of Sauron. She encountered Oromë in the forests of the far south, and he took pity on her. He would not tell her exactly where to go, but he advised that she was looking in the wrong direction; it was northward she should seek.

She endured many long decades of weary travels searching in the plains and mountains of the north. None of the Ainur or elves dwelt so far north; the Pelóri were forbidding and impassable, and it was the work of many years to explore all their clefts and hidden valleys and secret ways.

She eventually found herself searching in a more arid region, where the winds swept fiercely down from the mountains, and the only water to be found for hundreds of miles was locked in the towering peaks of ice overhead. She was very cold, and so parched, and running out of food, and about to turn back when she stood on one more peak and called out a whistle to try to find one more bird to speak to.

It was not a bird who answered. Out of the shadows of the upper mountains, a small figure descended. He recognized her when they were still far away, and his pace quickened. She scrambled off the small peak and ran down through a valley and back up the mountainside and threw herself into his arms.

"You are shaking like a leaf," were his first words to her. "You should not have come."

He was wearing his human shape, same as when he entered Aman. He was dressed in the same rough travel clothing that was stained and filthy. His hands were coarse and his hair and beard were wild. In that moment, she loved him more than ever.

"I am warm now that I have found you."

He snorted at her attempt to be poetic. "Come with me," he said, and they walked uphill to the steep, narrow valley he had descended from. The climb through the valley was steep and treacherous, until it opened up in a round, green vale of surpassing beauty. A half-formed temple of white stone set in the middle of the vale. The wind did not touch this sheltered place, and the sun shone upon it, and it was lovely.

"Please tell me there is water up here," Galadriel said, for now that she had seen him and felt him and determined that he was more or less whole, she could not think about anything except her thirst.

"You came here without water?" he asked, his tone judgmental. But he led her to the eastern edge of the vale, where there was a beautiful little mountain stream falling over the rocks and pooling in clear ponds before slowing and braiding its way through the grasses to the southwest. Galadriel knelt, and drank very deeply, and when she straightened she felt better.

"I set off with plenty of water," she explained. "But I left Tirion a hundred years ago. Do you have any idea how vast Aman is?"

"You have been looking for me for a hundred years?" he asked, astonished.

"Yes," Galadriel said. "I learned you were not in the Halls of Mandos, but they would not say anything else. Eventually Oromë said you were north. But I would never have found this hidden valley had you not heard my whistle."

"You would not have," he agreed. "That is sort of the point. You ought to leave."

"Leave!" she exclaimed. "When I only just arrived? Do you not want me here?"

He hesitated.

Her heart sank.

"I am delighted to see you," he said at last. "But I am supposed to be serving penance, and it sounds like Manwë did not want you to come."

"I don't care what Manwë wants," Galadriel said frostily.

This drew a wry smile out of him.

"Well, I don't!" Galadriel said, lifting her chin. "I didn't care when I left Aman for the first time, and I didn't care when Eönwë bid us all return at the end of the First Age, and I really didn't care when I was unfaithful to my husband with you."

"I know," he said, his eyes going soft, and he leaned into her and kissed her cheek. "You shall have to care somewhat more now that you have returned to Aman, though."

She sighed. "I will not stay here long. But I will depart now only if you tell me this is your own wish."

"Of course it is not," he said.

She took his head in her hands and kissed him for a very long time.

Eventually he withdrew. "I must get back to work," he explained reluctantly.

She followed as he made his way to the northern end of the vale, where the stone was a gleaming white, and he had the beginnings of a rock quarry.

"What is the work?" she asked, curiosity eating at her. She hoped his pride would not be offended by having to tell her.

He took up a hammer, in his hand that still had only four fingers, and a chisel in his other hand. He set the chisel against a crack in the white rock, and tapped at it a few times with the hammer, then swung at it hard and swift. The crack widened, and he took the chisel and moved it a few inches.

Then he gestured with the hand holding the hammer back to the center of the vale, where the partially-finished temple was standing. It was lovely; and clearly made of stone from this quarry—bright and shining white, with thin curving columns set apart at the bottom and sweeping towards each other at the top; a graceful design.

But really—he had been here two hundred years and he had erected a few arches?

He laughed, as though she had said these words out loud. It was a bitter, resentful, humorless laugh, from a deeply unpleasant place inside him, and she shivered to hear it.

"Yes," he said, though she had not asked a question. "I toil all day without rest to build a temple, and sleep takes me in the night whether I will it or no, and in the morning all my work is vanished, and I must start again."

He swung very hard with the hammer, and a great block of stone fell away from the rock wall and settled with a cloud of white dust. She coughed a little.

"Oh," Galadriel said. "So it is just suffering. Nothing productive." That seemed... extremely well calculated to drive this particular being mad.

"Nothing productive," he confirmed grimly, and set the chisel against another place on the rock, and swung at it again.

"For how long?" she asked tentatively.

"Three thousand years, of course," he said, bringing the hammer down very hard again.

"Of course," she said, but her heart lightened a bit at the news. That was not so terribly long. "Are you... counting?"

"No. I lost track of the days around month three, to be honest. I cannot make any marks in the grass, or dirt, or stone that last until the next morning."

"It has been almost exactly two hundred years since we set foot on Aman," she told him quietly.

"Hmph," he said, a sound she did not know how to interpret.

"Three thousand years is not so long. You were a spirit without your ring for longer than that."

"Yes," he said, fiddling with the placement of the chisel. "That was very different. I was barely conscious for at least a thousand years of that time. I was not... thinking, or learning, or existing as a... as myself. Very little... awareness. Not a fully immersed, day-to-day drudge like this."

"What is keeping you from... flying off and leaving?" she asked. For he was clearly not chained here, not like Morgoth in the Halls of Mandos.

"Nothing at all," he said, swinging very hard with the hammer. Another section of rock fell away from the wall with a loud crack. He wiped his brow with his arm, and shook his head. "That is part of the penitence, is it not? Waking up and choosing servitude every day."

"Yes, I suppose it is. What happens if you just... sit down and don't work?"

"I don't know."

She watched him work silently for some time, as he carved out and arranged the blocks of rock in neat rows. He began tapping with a smaller chisel along one of them, shaping it into a graceful line.

"What happened to Arillon?"

"Manwë accepted that he had been corrupted to a rather childlike state, and was unlikely to change. Arillon confirmed that he did not want to make any trouble; he wanted to stay small and lie in the sun all day. He promised not to make any more flames. Manwë accepted this, as long as one of the Valar would take charge of him."

He paused, and took a great breath, and what he was feeling she could not tell.

"Aulë agreed to take him."

He continued tapping at the rock to smooth out its edges, and she sat in silence and watched.

"How are the Avari?" he asked, after a lengthy silence.

"They are fine," she said. "They have taken some craft and construction work and seem to be doing well enough. My father gave them a small house in Tirion to stay in, until I can find other Avari. No one in Tirion has any idea where reembodied Úmanyar go after departing the Halls of Mandos."

"Will you... tell them of my fate?" he asked, very quietly.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, of course, if you wish me to."

He went silent, and seemed to focus all his concentration on his work.

Eventually, Galadriel spoke again, to tell him of her reunions with her family, and Melian and Thingol, and how they had all taken the news of her affair with Sauron. He listened silently, without any outward signs of interest, but she thought he was at least mildly interested, or at least liked to hear her talk.

"Celebrían is very happy," she finished, on a note she thought he would care about. "She prefers Alqualondë to Tirion, and can often be found visiting my mother Eärwen there. Her heart has taken to the sea and the swan ships, and she frequently sails down from where she dwells in the north, with Elrond and his mother Elwing."

"I am glad she is happy," he finally murmured, and Galadriel thought he meant it.

"She is the only one I told, in addition to Melian, what I was setting off to do. She did not think it was foolish of me to come looking for you."

"How is it that Finarfin is the High King of the Noldor?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. "What happened to all the rest of that line, are they not resurrected and in Tirion as well?"

"Finwë was the first High King, as he was the first of the Noldor to awake at Cuiviénen and one of the first three elves to journey to Valinor," Galadriel explained. "He was slain at Formenos during the Long Night. He—well, you know, he had this complicated thing with two wives...."

"I do know," he said, his mouth breaking its hard thinness in one very slight smile.

"He resolved to stay in the Halls of Mandos forever, and leave his two wives free to do what they will," she said with a shrug. "So, he will never be High King again. Fëanor, unsurprisingly, also remains in the Halls of Mandos. No one knows if he will be forgiven and reembodied. Maedhros is Fëanor's oldest son and renounced the kingship for Fëanor's line when he was in Beleriand. Fingolfin, Finwë's second oldest son, held the High Kingship over the Noldor in Beleriand, but Finarfin, the third son, never left the shores of Aman, and so he took up the kingship in Tirion when we all left."

"What is this fondness of elves for giving their children ridiculously similar names?" he grouched. "This is impossible to follow."

"They are beautiful names," she protested. "And these are all Sindarin names, not the names their mothers or fathers gave them. Anyway, it's not that complicated! We're talking about my grandfather, two uncles, my father, and a cousin."

"Well, continue the story, but forgive me if I don't care much about keeping all your silly family members straight."

"All is forgiven," she said easily, and pressed on with the story. "When my uncle Fingolfin was restored from the Halls of Mandos, he declared before everyone that he had no desire to usurp his brother, he was very content to serve his brother for the rest of his days, and he knelt in the square and said an oath of loyalty to his younger brother, High King Finarfin."

"How very humble of him," he said with another very slight smile.

"No one would ever mistake any of the Noldor for being humble," Galadriel said with a laugh. "But we are all tired of the fighting and kinslaying. Deferring to a younger brother was a small price to pay to have peace. Fingolfin moved to Tol Eressëa and stays out of my father's hair. Oh, and my brother's grandson Gil-Galad held the high kingship for a time in Middle-earth, but he too renounced it as soon as he was reembodied. His claim, of course, could not take precedence over his great-grandfather's, so that was not quite as big a deal as an older brother relinquishing it to the younger."

She paused, then added: "My personal theory is Fingolfin had to agree to do it before Mandos relinquished his spirit."

"Is that really how that works? Reembodiment at the whim of Mandos, wielding the possibility like a bargaining chip for peace in Aman?"

"You're so cynical," she said. "Anyone else would say that you obtain reembodiment when you're ready for peace."

He snorted. "I'm glad I'm not an elf, that's all."

"It's not so bad as all that!" she cried, but she was smiling.

"And how do you feel about living under the rule of another High King?" he asked.

"I chafe," she admitted. "But I am so glad to be reunited with my father that most of the time, I almost don't notice. He is very wise and very dear to me."

"What does he think about... us?" he asked, finally taking his eyes off his stone to look into hers. His eyes were a blueish silver today.

"Mmm," she said, unable to hold his stare. She looked down at the stone, which was starting to look like part of one of the graceful arches of the temple. "He has been unfailingly supportive of me and Celebrían in public. He does not allow anyone to remonstrate with me or riot about it. In private... he, ah, he is very disappointed in me. He hasn't had a single harsh word to say, but...."

He said nothing.

"None of them understand!" she burst out. "They understand loving more than person, but they don't understand defying the marriage laws set by the Valar."

"What does Indis say? I did hear correctly that she is among the list of your living relatives?"

"You did hear correctly. Ah, she understands defiance of the marriage laws better than anyone else, certainly. She is sad, forever heartbroken that Finwë is kept from her by them, and that she and Míriel cannot coexist with him—for they all love each other very much, even Indis and Míriel, between the two of them. But she... well... she hates you, of course. So she does not want to discuss it with me."

"Of course," he murmured, and went back to work on the stone.

"She is not the only one of my family who hates you. Your doings during the war with Morgoth live in their heads much more vividly than anything you did, or anything you repaired, during the Third Age. None of them have taken it out on Celebrían—goodness, I think they wouldn't quite dare, she really is something, shining so brightly here—but they view me very differently now."

He did not respond, devoting all his attention to his work.

"Er, I..." she started, and then did not know how to say it.

"You what?" he asked patiently, his eyes remaining on his work.

"I shall not have to choose, just as Finwë did not," she said in a low voice. "Celeborn told me, ere I departed, that he will never come to Middle-earth. He will stay with the last of the wood-elves until their spirits fade away with the final ascendancy of men."

His hands stilled, and he did not move. He did not raise his eyes. They stayed like that, a frozen, silent tableau, for what seemed like ages.

"You cannot mean to choose me," he said finally, his voice dark and terrible. He lifted his eyes, and they were stormy. "I am the worst decision you ever made. I am not remotely worthy of you."

Her breath caught in her throat. She swallowed, hard, several times. She felt the tempest of his mind like a living thing before her, wild and untamed and—dreadful.

"Go," he said, and pointed across the vale to the south. "Go! You are only making this worse for me!"

He was not screaming; in fact, he had not raised the volume of his voice at all. But it was terrible and horrible, and she was caught in its web, and she turned and fled across the vale without another word.

In the year 400 of the Fourth Age

Two hundred years later, Galadriel walked north again.

It would not take her a hundred years as she now knew where she was going. Nonetheless, it was a long journey of six hundred or more leagues, and it took her almost three months.

She retraced her steps easily, traveling the flanks of the Pelóri. She bypassed the crumbling fortress of Formenos, where she now knew she could find her cousin Maedhros if she wished to. Many, many more miles later, she found the peak she had stood on to give that last desperate whistle, and the steep, forbidding valley behind it.

She climbed. The green vale was not closed to her, and had not disappeared, as she half-feared.

She found him sculpting stone in the temple itself today, which had an entirely different design: it looked like a bird, with half-finished wings outstretched to the sky.

"It's beautiful," she said, and regretted it when she saw the look on his face. She hurriedly stooped down and kissed him to prevent him from saying anything unkind.

"Only you would walk for half a year to spend one day with someone," he said ruefully, when she had finished kissing him.

"Mairon," she said firmly, then stopped. "Ah, sorry, I have taken to referring to you by that name here. Do you mind?"

He chewed on his lip for a while. "No, I suppose not," he said. "It feels strange. But go ahead."

"Mairon, I love you, and I have not stopped. Is that not enough to walk six months to spend one day with you?"

He looked at her with very soft, helpless eyes, and he did not reply.

"Celebrían wishes me to say hello to you, and convey that she hopes you are well. As you have so astutely pointed out, she does not intend to accompany me on my journeys here—but she sincerely looks forward to seeing you in two thousand, six hundred years."

"Oh, I see," he said, putting his tools down and leaning back against the walls of his temple. He was smiling, though. He had cleaned up his appearance a bit; his hair and clothes no longer looked so wild. "You intend to come every two hundred years, like clockwork."

"Yes," she said, raising her chin slightly in defiance.

"Good," he said mildly.

She waited, but he did not apologize for his behavior last time she came here. She sighed, and sat down, and pulled out a picnic of very fine food and wine that she had preserved and carted all the way here. She prepared him a plate, and handed it to him, and he actually thanked her and started eating.

"This cannot be what Manwë had in mind for my sentence," he said, laughing a little.

"I don't care," Galadriel said simply.

"I don't know if I can afford not to care," he said with a heavy sigh. "But I shall not kick you out again."

She smiled.

"Well," he said, after a pause. "Tell me more of the elven gossip."

"I have seen Elrond," she said, although she knew very well that Elrond might be his actual least favorite elf, or perhaps second only after Lúthien, and he would not care about this news. "He stayed in his mother's tower so long, away from the rest of his family, because it is a convenient spot to visit with his father. Elrond has also been able to see and speak with his father for a time."

"How moving," he said dryly. She knew he did not mean it, but she merely found his attitude amusing.

"It was," she said with a soft smile. "Anyway, after that meeting, he found time to come see the rest of his family he'd never met—Dior and Nimloth, Elured and Elurin, Melian and Thingol, Turgon and Elenwë, Fingolfin and Anairë. He and Celebrían were staying with Melian when I left them."

"Are you trying to convince me that your notoriously warlike kin are all one big happy family now?"

"Certainly not," Galadriel said, laughing. "There is a lot of tension between—well, kinslayers and the slain—and there were so many kinslayings. And then of course, a great many Sindar have come to Aman, and they like the Noldor as little as ever, and the Teleri are stand-offish with everyone, and we all resent the Vanyar for thinking themselves first among the elven tribes.

"Oh, and—above all—everyone is very cross with me. I parted from them in Beleriand on bitter terms—they thought me a coward, fleeing the war and leaving them to fight it alone. In our first joy of reunion, it was forgotten—but now it is all being dredged up again. I suspect it is because, somehow, word got out that I have visited you. I am not sure how. Some are talking loudly about how much they would like to follow me and find you and stone you."

"I'm sure they would," Mairon murmured. He did not seem particularly upset by this. "Perhaps I should let them."

"No," she said, and threw a grape at him. He grinned, then he playfully pushed her over. They wrestled and ended up kissing a little.

"Oh, Olórin visited me," she remembered to add, when they had separated and were lying looking at the sky. "He wishes to tell you he has been able to grow pipe-weed in a little field outside Valmar, and has learned to carve pipes. He looks forward to smoking with you again. He thinks very kindly of us, and wanted me to tell you so."

Mairon pulled a face, sitting up and picking grass out of his hair. "I don't care what he thinks of me."

"Well, I do," she said quietly, giving him a long look.

He held her gaze for a while, then shrugged. "You will never turn me into an actually good person, Galadriel."

"Have I ever tried to change your nature?" she asked sharply.

He didn't answer that, and was taciturn and surly with her the rest of the visit.

In the year 600 of the Fourth Age

"There was a ship from Middle-earth," Galadriel cried with eagerness the next time she saw him. "With so much news!"

Today, the temple was blocky, with rough stone, not beautiful at all. It was looming and unpleasant. Galadriel had avoided it in her journey around the vale.

"Well, let's hear it then," Mairon said. He had not looked up at her arrival. He was carving blocks from the quarry that were enormous, fully half his height, and even knowing his supernatural physical strength, she wondered how he could possibly lift them and move them to the temple. He did not lose focus on his task as she spoke.

"Éomer married Prince Imrahil's daughter, Lothíriel," she said, electing to start with that. "They had a son, Elfwine. King Théoden passed shortly after the end of the Third Age, and his son Théodred ruled after him, but never had children. Éomer became King of Rohan after he passed. Éomer expanded Rohan north into the Vales of Anduin. He ruled for a few decades and passed away peacefully at the age of ninety-two. His great—I don't know how many it is now—grandson still rules Rohan."

"Very nice for him," Mairon said.

"His sister Éowyn married Faramir, of course, and they had—oh, some number of children, I forget. And they were given a princedom over Ithilien. Boromir's line is still serving as Stewards.

"Aragorn passed away at two hundred and ten years old, after having four children. Arwen went to Lothlórien, which—" Galadriel had practiced saying it, but it was still hard—"was empty by that point. She passed alone on the hill of Cerin Amroth."

"I'm sorry," Mairon said, though he still had not looked up from where he was attacking the rock wall with hammers.

"It is all right," Galadriel responded. She wasn't sure it was all right, but she didn't want to say anything more to Mairon on the topic. "Their son Eldarion inherited, and his son after him, who is the current ruler. He is named Menethlos. He is married to one of Éomer's descendants."

"Men and elves do like their inbreeding."

"They are not related at all," Galadriel said, laughing. "Save that I suppose both can trace their very distant ancestry to Elros. Anyway, Elrohir and Elladan and Glorfindel remain in Gondor as advisors to the king. It is Glorfindel, actually, who wrote me the letter and bid Círdan to send it on his next ship. He says Gondor made peace with the Easterlings, the Haradrim, Umbar, and the orcs of Mordor in Aragorn's lifetime. The orcs of Moria were recently chased out of those halls by combined forces of men, dwarves, and the wood-elves. They fled to Mordor, with whom Gondor—can you believe this!—has an official peace treaty. There is a long story about them working together to expel the monstrous spider that lived in Cirith Ungol."

"Very nice," Mairon said, finally looking at her, and with a real smile.

"Glorfindel very specifically asks me to give you his greetings and wishes for happiness, as he still thinks of you fondly."

"Mmm," Mairon said, his smile gone. "How optimistic of him to believe I am around to receive them."

"He was ever such," Galadriel said lightly. "Many Sindarin elves remain in Mirkwood, which is now called Eryn Lasgalen." She cleared her throat, and dared to look at Mairon carefully as she said this. "Celeborn has married Thranduil's daughter, and they have a son."

"Has he!" Mairon said, his eyebrows climbing high on his forehead. "And what did Manwë have to say about that?"

"Ah," Galadriel said. "He has not said anything. It is only, ah, the subject of much gossip as of yet."

"I'm sure," Mairon said, laughing. "That's—that's... good for Celeborn. I suppose."

"Indis has softened considerably in her willingness to speak to me," Galadriel said. "We are scheming to get this law amended and Finwë restored from the Halls of Mandos. The three of them would be delighted to live together. Celeborn's news will help, I think, as everyone will be forced to hold him entirely blameless in the matter."

"I hope you never ask me to live with Celeborn," Mairon said, sounding pained. Galadriel laughed and leaned down and kissed the top of his head, her heart light, for this was already a considerable concession.

"Listen," she said. "I saved the best for last. This part Glorfindel included as a note specifically to you."

"Oh?" he said, slightly skeptical.

"Ishnûk and Alnaka found each other in the Misty Mountains," she said with a grin. "They mated, and Aragorn and Arwen discovered their nest in the valley near where Rivendell used to be. They responded to his attempts to befriend them using the Black Speech, and, darling! So did their babies. According to Glorfindel, the babies were adorable. Tiny and clumsy, slow to open their eyes and full of affection."

Mairon was tearing up, his skepticism melted away.

"Aragorn created a home for them and bred a whole flock, but they never could be trained to respond to the Common Tongue, or anything but the Black Speech. His kingdom now has generations of winged messengers, faster than the wind or the swiftest ship, and guiding their mounts with the Black Speech. They live on!"

Mairon put his head in his hands and wept.

"Oh," he said. "Oh! My beloved, my beasts and my language. Not all my legacy is bad."

"No," she agreed, kneeling and wrapping her arms around him. "No, it is not."

In the year 1200 of the Fourth Age

On her sixth visit to Mairon, Galadriel did not go alone. She entered the vale with another at her side. His eyes danced around, taking in the sight.

"It is very beautiful," Glorfindel said. He was looking at the white temple in the center of the vale, which today looked like a flame. There was one finished centerpiece rising twelve feet tall, and some unfinished accents dotted around it that ranged from one to three feet tall.

"It is different each day, I think," Galadriel said. "I have come to think of them as a prediction of his mood. Today seems like a good day."

They made their way into the center of the vale. Mairon was not at the rock quarry, but at the temple, wielding a handful of very small chisels and an array of scattered blocks of different sizes around him.

"Glorfindel," Mairon said, rising to his feet and discarding his tools. He gave Glorfindel a very courteous nod.

"Mairon!" Glorfindel said. He returned the nod, then stepped forward and offered his arm. Mairon clasped his forearm. Neither of them smiled, but Galadriel thought they seemed glad to see each other again.

"I trust you wouldn't lead anyone here who actually wished to stone me," Mairon said with a small smile to Galadriel.

"I would not," she agreed.

Mairon leaned down, picked his tools back up, and applied himself to work on one of the small flames on the outer edge of the temple again.

"Did you just return from Middle-earth?" Mairon asked Glorfindel.

"A dozen or so years ago, yes," Glorfindel said. "I finally resolved to leave the business of men to men. Aman is much changed from when I left. It is so crowded!"

"That's what you get when you summon thousands of years of generations of elves from Middle-earth and reembody all their dead spirits," Mairon muttered.

"I suppose it is," Glorfindel said. "Many complicated family relationships! I am rather lucky I only have my parents to think of."

"No siblings? And no spouse or children for you?" Mairon asked, sounding surprised.

"Ah, no," Glorfindel said, smiling merrily. "I have never had an interest in such things. And my relationship with my parents is rather distant. I was happiest to see Turgon and Aredhel again. Although I confess it is all a bit much. My old home on Tol Eressëa is much too crowded. Melian had the right idea, I think."

"Melian? Galadriel has mentioned her, but not this part. What right idea?"

"She established gardens of her own, north of Lórien, as in Doriath of Beleriand. They are very beautiful, and infinitely more peaceful than the cities of the Noldor."

"You Noldor are not capable of keeping something peaceful once you decide it is yours," Mairon retorted.

Glorfindel laughed. "We are making a good effort at attempting it in Aman! Everyone—more or less—is in agreement that Finarfin should rule, and most even like him."

"How dull," Mairon said, but he was smiling again. "Well, how fares Middle-earth?"

Glorfindel chatted easily about the Reunited Kingdom, still ruled by one of Aragorn's descendants, and the civil wars and different factions that vied for power. The kingdom had a brief war with Rhûn, but it had been settled with a peace treaty and a marriage and a stronger trade agreement. Elrohir and Elladan were still in Middle-earth, still advisors to the kings, but most other elves had withdrawn into the depths of their forest homes and did not emerge. Círdan was still in the Havens, sending ships to Aman every now and then.

"How are your arm and foot?" Glorfindel wanted to know, after these stories were done.

Mairon massaged his left arm where the Nazgûl blade had pierced him. "As healed as they will ever be, I think. They do not hurt, exactly, just... sometimes twinge and remind me."

Glorfindel was staring at his right hand, which still had a finger missing. Mairon followed his gaze, and laughed. "That will never be healed," he said. "I sacrificed too much of me, of my power, and will never get it back."

"A rather small price to pay to come out on the other side of the tunnel," Glorfindel said lightly, and Mairon did not disagree.

They passed the time in harmony and friendship, and it did not seem like it had been a thousand years since they had last seen each other. When Glorfindel and Galadriel finally prepared to depart before the sun went down, Glorfindel could not resist a last cheeky parting.

"I told you we would see each other again," Glorfindel said to Mairon with a smirk.

Mairon actually smiled back. "You were right," he said. "Perhaps... perhaps we will even see each other when my three thousand years are up."

It was the first time Galadriel had heard him speak about it.

"I should hope so," Glorfindel said. "In the meantime, I think I will look for a peaceful garden."

In the year 2200 of the Fourth Age

"Maedhros bid me say hello to you from him," Galadriel said. Today the temple was a very large, gleaming white stone floor—and nothing else. Mairon was thoroughly occupied fitting together stone slabs just so, like a great interlocking puzzle. It was a neat piece of work, but pointless.

Well. She supposed that was the point.

"Interesting," Mairon said in a very neutral tone. "The sons of Fëanor were reembodied?"

"Yes," Galadriel said with a shrug. "They stick to Formenos. Maedhros is the only one I've seen and even so, he keeps himself apart. Occasionally he visits Fingon—and Elrond. He sometimes lives in the old fortress and sometimes patrols the shores outside the Pelóri restlessly. He says he is waiting for his brother Maglor, who never came to the Halls of Mandos."

"Very tragic and sorrowful," Mairon said with a slight laugh.

"Don't make fun," she admonished. "It is tragic."

"Mmm hmm. Well, I suppose you can tell him I said hello in return."

"Do you two know each other?" Galadriel asked curiously. She had not wanted to ask Maedhros for details when he made the request.

"Yes. He spent some time at Angband, remember?"

"I thought he was chained by a hand to a precipice, and was not actually in the fortress."

"He didn't spend thirty years hanging from a wall. None of your race, even in your early days, could survive such an ordeal. He was up there... maybe... four or five years in total, with breaks here and there."

"Did he spend the rest of the time being tortured inside Angband itself?"

"He was not tortured," Mairon said, his tone still very neutral. "I mean, the rock-hanging is certainly torture, but he was not tortured prior to that. Is that the story he told?"

"Oh, I don't recall exactly," Galadriel said cautiously. "He came back full of details about how Angband worked—and about you, who we had all never heard of before—but he did not describe his own treatment... not that I remember. We had to learn the rock-hanging story from Fingon."

"The truth is we spent the time together very pleasantly. He taught me Tengwar, and told me all the tales of Aman that I had missed while hiding in Middle-earth, and we composed songs about the Silmarils."

Galadriel blinked. She was not sure what to make of this story. "You what?"

"When the moon first rose, Maedhros was so moved by its beauty that he sang to it from inside the fortress, and called Morgoth's temper upon him. He chained him to the precipice, and... you know the rest of the story."

"Really? Morgoth hauled my cousin into Angband in his faithlessness, after slaughtering all his men, and you and Maedhros just... befriended each other?"

"Befriending is a bit of an exaggeration, but... after a while, yes. He was desperate for someone to talk to, and I was not unkind to him." Mairon finally took his eyes off his work and looked at her. "I find it concerning that you do not believe I would rather learn from someone than hurt them, all else being equal."

She softened. "I do believe you," she said. "But you are rather infamous for torturing elves when they do not do what you want."

He sighed, and looked back down at his work. He was shaving the edge of one smooth rock piece, sliver by sliver. "All else being equal," he repeated carefully.

"Celebrimbor says if you apologize, he will forgive you," Galadriel ventured, since they were on this topic.

This caused Mairon to look up sharply. "What?"

"Yes, and he will drink ale with you and pretend you never tormented him and put arrows in him like a pincushion."

Mairon was bewildered. The stone shavings lay forgotten. "That is much to forget."

"And he says his heart has always nurtured a secret wish to forge with you again," she finished.

"Oh," Mairon said. He was pensive, and Galadriel thought he was moved. "Tell him that... I do apologize. And I will do so in person as soon as I am able. And, I would be honored to forge with him."

"He..." Galadriel gave a heavy sigh. "He was injured most, not because of the physical hurts, but because of heartbreak. He had a deep and abiding regard for you, and believed it to be mutual, and... I think... still holds out hope that not all of it was feigned."

Mairon scratched his hair uncomfortably and stared at the ground. He took a while to say anything.

"It was not feigned," he said finally.

"Good," Galadriel said, relief flooding through her. "I suspected as much, or I would not have conveyed his message, and I would have told him not to hope. You... you made so many love you, Mairon. There had to be some truth to it."

"I don't know," he said simply. "I don't know. But I would be... glad, I think, to see Celebrimbor again and apologize."

"Unfortunately, Gil-galad was there for this conversation," Galadriel continued uncomfortably, "and he bid me make clear, if I convey Celebrimbor's message, that Gil-galad does not forgive you or want an apology. Ah, and... this is awkward... Finrod bid me say the same. He's very—mmm. He adores Celebrían unreservedly but hasn't been able to look me in the face since learning the truth about her parentage. And... oh, dear Valar, I can't remember the rest of the long line of people who wanted me to say the same thing... more or less that they bid you cast yourself into the void."

But Mairon only laughed. "I never asked or expected a single person to forgive me."

"Yes," she said. "If you never ask or expect anything of people, they can never disappoint you."

"Don't be—don't be like that," he said, his eyes almost pleading. "It's not misanthropy. It's—I can't ask for forgiveness because I'm not—I don't really change. Everything I did—I did. Do you understand?"

"I understand your point," she said, looking at him carefully. "But it's not entirely true. You make mistakes, and you try to fix them, and you learn things along the way. Have you learned nothing here in this vale?"

He thought about it. "Patience—which I have never truly known; only manufactured. The ability to fail, day after day after day, and not burn it all down. To curse the yoke of fate and yet accept it. Yes, I am better at all these things every century."

"You're not sorry for your nature," she said softly. "For seeking order and righteous dominion and staying true to a path that others curse you for, or for your loyalty to anyone in the face of their many wrongdoings. But you are a little sorry for what it leads to, sometimes. Aren't you?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am extremely sorry for tormenting and murdering Celebrimbor. I was sorry for it even at the time. As for your brother...."

He hesitated. "I will not inflict my apologies where they are not wanted. I will leave your brother alone unless he wants to speak to me. And I will not—I am not sorry for serving Morgoth."

Galadriel sighed, and reached out. He dropped his tools and she entwined their fingers together.

"I do not ask it of you."

"But... I... would you like to hear if I am sorry for what I did to Finrod?"

"Yes," she said simply.

"I am sorry that I was needlessly cruel, that I delighted in destruction on another's behalf, and that I inflicted profitless suffering on your brother and his companions. I am so sorry, Galadriel."

She leaned forward, and buried her head in his chest. "I accept your apology," she said, her voice muffled and her eyes tearing up.

In the year 2800 of the Fourth Age

The temple was glorious today; a little structure that fit only one person, but was achingly beautiful, and mostly finished. Mairon was carving designs into it.

"Do you hate it?" Galadriel asked him quietly as she stood there looking at it. "Or do you love what you build every day?"

"I go back and forth," he said, just as quietly. "I try not to think about it, most of the time. Tell me the news?" Mairon asked, brushing away dust from a little curl of a flower petal in the stone.

"Círdan has left the Havens," Galadriel said. "He arrived a few decades ago with Elladan and Elrohir. They were accompanied by Maglor, whom Elladan and Elrohir went on some mysterious journey to find. They are all being very close mouthed about the details.

"They came with the remaining few of the elven shipwrights. There are now no ships on Middle-earth that can come here."

"I see," Mairon said. "So it is finished. The elves have withdrawn into their trees, or departed forever."

"It is finished."

"And how fares the Reunited Kingdom?"

Mairon had stopped pretending to have no interest in his descendants on the throne.

"It is a republic now," Galadriel said, laughing a little. "The men—and women!—of the various states come together and choose a representative, and these representatives go to the capital and elect their leader. Aragorn's descendants are still royalty, but in name only—they do not rule unless they are elected in this process. They are, of course, greatly revered by the people still."

"Fascinating," Mairon said. "They got that model from the east, I assume."

"How did you know?" Galadriel exclaimed.

"The east has been a confederation of republics for a long time," he said with a shrug. "It seems a more stable model of government. Kings are a bit of a chancy thing. Unless you can find an immortal to rule you, of course."

"Of course," Galadriel said with a faint smile. "Aren't we lucky."

Mairon snorted, but said nothing.

"After the last ship arrived," she continued, "Mandos released Finwë's spirit from his halls. The first thing Finwë did was renounce any claim to the high kingship in favor of his son. The second thing he did was build a house outside Tirion at the feet of Taniquetil, where he lives with Míriel and Indis."

"Ah," Mairon said. "Míriel and Indis both?"

"Míriel and Indis both."

"Was there a decree allowing this, or did he just... do it?"

Galadriel smiled. "We don't know. He hasn't explained himself. I rather like it, though, don't you?"

Mairon shrugged, a bit testily. "I never believed the day would come when I had to care about the laws and customs of the Eldar. I am still heavily resistant to the concept of caring. But, go ahead. Tell me whether you are the only one who approves of it."

"We tease them," Galadriel said, "but no. None of my people think it is wrong. And… the third thing Finwë did was to tell Maedhros and Fingon that if they did not stop being such idiots and get married soon, he would never speak to them again."

"What?" Mairon asked, laughing a little. "Have I missed something? Are they not first cousins?"

"Half cousins," Galadriel corrected. "They are both Finwë's grandsons, but from the different wives. And no one dares to say anything about it if Finwë does not."

"How funny," Mairon said. "So everyone gets a happy ending in spite of any marriage laws."

"Yes," she said, as warmly as she could. "Yes, I do believe so."

Mairon turned and looked at her. "I have been counting your visits, if not the years in between them," he said, his voice very steady. "This is fourteenth one."

"Yes," she said, tilting her head a little to the side. "Twenty-eight hundred years."

He dropped his tools, and settled down on the ground, and when she sat next to him, he took her hand in his.

"Tell me, then," he said, very seriously. "What do you plan for the future?"

"I do not live in Tirion anymore—have not for quite some time. I found a gorgeous little valley in the western slopes of the Pelóri, just east of Melian's garden. Glorfindel stays there when he is not constantly on his feet on some other restless errand.

"Some of the Sindar who lived with me in Lothlórien are there. I have a couple of my relatives. My niece Finduilas, who was reembodied only reluctantly, and wants to be left alone by the rest of her family and to mourn her mortal love, I suppose forever. And my cousin's son, Maeglin, who gave Gondolin to Morgoth and... feels unwelcome in Tirion. Although I know my father did nothing to make him feel so."

Galadriel paused.

"Maeglin and Glorfindel are living there together?" Mairon asked, in mild surprise.

"Yes. Glorfindel has been very gentle with him. You should understand his ways by now. And also, the Valar reembodied Maeglin; Glorfindel does not view that as a decision for him to question. Turgon and Aredhel feel... somewhat differently. I am sure that is why Maeglin had no wish to remain in Tirion."

"How very complicated," he murmured.

"Your five Avari are there too—along with some of the others who died serving you or Morgoth and have repented and been reembodied. I am quite the collector of former servants of the Enemy."

This drew a wry smile out of him. "They are getting along with Maeglin?"

Galadriel shrugged. "They bear each other no active violent intent, at least."

Marion frowned, and crossed his arms over his chest. "It sounds like a mess."

"No, it is very nice there!" she assured him. "I did not try to imitate my domain in Middle-earth—there are no tree houses!—but it is rather beautiful. Glorfindel and Olórin helped me construct it."

"Did you use—do you still have Nenya?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. She pulled the ring off her finger and dropped it into his palm, which was more or less the only way to show it to someone, as it was always invisible when she held it.

He flinched as the ring touched his skin, but then calmed. The contact had not hurt him.

"Its powers have not diminished?"

"No. It is as it was before the forging of the One. Even now."

"It's even more beautiful than I imagined," he said, his voice wistful, and she remembered abruptly that he'd never actually seen any of the Three.

"Elrond still has Vilya. Mithrandir returned Narya to Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor tried to give it to Gil-galad and then Círdan, but both refused it."

Mairon ran his thumb over the ring several times, took a deep breath, and handed it back to her. She accepted it and slid it back on her finger.

"Its powers are, as you have said, devoted to growing and preserving things. My home is mostly gardens as of now, with a few wooden structures. It has no very great stone or metal work, I'm afraid. I shall need an accomplished builder to make it truly impressive."

Mairon said nothing. His eyes searched hers. She did not know what he was looking for.

"I hope you will come live with me there," she spelled out.

"Do your people who live there know you want to bring me there?"

"Of course," she said. "Elrond, Celebrimbor, and I worked together on an enchantment to cover the valley. No one may enter who holds violence in their heart."

He just continued to stare at her, with no understanding.

"No one who wants to stone you may enter," she clarified gently.

"How did you get Elrond and Celebrimbor to help you with this?" he asked, baffled.

"Oh, well." She gave him a rueful smile. "It's about you as well as for you. They will know, completely and without a doubt, that if you are able to enter the valley, it is without violent intentions."

"Oh," he said. He thought about it for a second, and then smiled. "Well done. It's very clever of you. But such an enchantment must require great power to maintain."

"Yes," she agreed. "The rings continue to be useful and powerful. Some of, ah, some of the Valar checked our work, and complimented it."

He shook his head. "I do not hate Varda. You can say her name before me."

Galadriel let out the breath she'd been holding, and smiled.

"Maeglin truly doesn’t mind living in your valley with me?" he pressed.

"He... I got the impression he thinks well of you," Galadriel said with a shrug. "I haven't asked for details."

Mairon continued to frown. "I can't pretend to be enthusiastic about the idea of trading one cage for another."

Galadriel shrugged. "I have not heard that you would be confined to my domain, once you serve your time here. Except that—my father says you are not to enter Tirion, and my mother says the same about Alqualondë, and Uncle Fingolfin says not Tol Eressëa, and Melian says—"

"I get it," he interrupted, although he looked less grumpy and more amused.

"But Aman is much more than these Elven domains," she finished gently. "If you want to travel the wilds, I will be at your side."

He sighed.

"These aren't the details I care about right now anyway." She took a deep breath. "Will you? Will you come live with me? And will you marry me?"

"And did you—do you have Manwë's permission to ask me a thing like that?"

"You heard what Manwë said to me on the shore," she reminded him. "I have not spoken to him since." Then she tossed her hair over her shoulder and her voice grew fiercer. "I do not care what he says. I do not need anyone's permission to bind myself to you, save yours. Do not suppose I asked my father's permission either!"

He closed his eyes, and leaned forward and kissed her. The kiss was hard and desperate.

"Oh, and I promise we will not have any more children," she said, when they broke apart and he opened his eyes again.

"Good!" he said. "One was certainly enough for me."

She squeezed his hands a little more tightly.

He still looked pained.

"What is wrong?" she asked gently.

"I... you need to know that—" he broke off, breathing hard. "You are not the only one who comes to this union having broken a promise to another."

She held to his hands, and did not quail.

"I—you know I served Melkor, but it was more than that. I promised—I swore to do so forever. For the Ainur, forever means forever." He squeezed his eyes shut.

He took a few more deep breaths, and struggled through the rest of his words. "If he comes back, he will destroy me for breaking that promise."

"I am not afraid," Galadriel said, as strongly as she could. "Have you broken it? Your faith in him?"

He made a strangled sound. "Yes. Obviously. I have chosen you."

"Then I see no issue."

"Some part of me will always miss him," he whispered, agonized.

"I will always love Celeborn in some measure," she said steadily. "He was very good to me, and we shared and built much together, and he is wise and strong and beautiful. I will not be horrified if you feel the same way about Morgoth, or how Morgoth once appeared to you."

"Yes," he agreed, but his voice was still unsteady. "You do understand."

"Then we are agreed. I will come back here in two hundred years. And we will go home together."

"Yes," he said, swallowing hard, and leaning forward until their foreheads met. "I will go home with you, and marry you."

In the year 3000 of the Fourth Age

For the second time in all her visits, Galadriel did not come to the vale alone.

There was no temple today. Mairon stood alone in the center of the vale, looking skyward. He stirred when she and her companion appeared over the edge of the valley.

With Eönwë beside her, his expression lordly but compassionate, Galadriel held out her hand to Mairon.

"Are you ready to depart?"

He was tired, with the burden of many ages on him. There had been a certain peace in the penance of this vale, she knew. It had been for his sake, and the sake of the elves, as much as it had been a penalty. Now it was finally time to face the rest of Aman. But in this, he would not be alone.

"Yes," he said, and took her hand. "I am ready."