Rising Star, Falling Darkness: Part VIII
by Camilla Sandman
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Songs.

Songs in his mind. He became aware of her voice slowly – it seemed to ease into his dream, altering it from a nightmare of pain to a soft feeling of… Love? The notion puzzled his mind, for he had a distinct feeling he was not supposed to feel love again.

He could feel his body now. It hurt, but no longer overwhelmingly. It was a dull pain; it felt almost like a relief from the pain he remembered.

Memories… To his surprise, he could easily reach for them now. They were all there, memories of Her, of light and sun and snow-peaked mountains. Memories of fighting and blood and pain.

He lingered on the memories of the pain for a while, feeling his body twitch. He remembered screams so inhuman he could not believe they had been his. He remembered trying to cling onto memories of happiness amidst it all, like a drowning man clinging to a tree-branch.

He remembered the Eye, terrible beyond comprehension, filling his mind with madness and despair. He remembered everything, his life, his friends, his pain – his love.

The voice still sung in his head, drawing him away from the pain. It promised him that the pain was only a memory, and that he need not stay in pain forever.

Come back to me…

He blinked, as his eyes opened on their own and he looked into her face. She was smiling – a smile so filled with sadness that it pained him. Her hand was gripped in his, warm against his cold hand.

“Arwen,” he whispered, lifting her hand to his lips. His lips felt dry, and he tasted dry blood on them. For a brief moment he feared she was an illusion, then he looked into her eyes. The bright light there was no illusion, it could not be.

“Aragorn!” called a tired voice in astonishment. It was Gandalf, entering the room. The wizard looked older than Aragorn could ever recall seeing him. Old and bent, like a tree having weathered a storm.

*The* storm, he corrected himself, the storm of Sauron. Waves of orcs, clouds of darkness, rain of blood. It had come, bringing endless pain.

But beyond the pain was still honour and spirit and courage and Aragorn rose from the bed.

******

The Ring glimmered on his finger, fiery letters almost joyfully shining red. They were complete at last again, the Ring and its Master. Complete, invincible, victorious. Middle-earth was his now, as it should have been long ago. His to shape, his to rule. *His*.

He watched the orcs storm down on some humans through the Palantír with the same interest as a human squatting a fly. They were nothing. They meant nothing. He delighted in the terror on the human faces, but he did not feel as much delight as he wanted.

The Three had not surrendered to him yet. He could feel their minds, and yet they resisted him. Why did they still resist?

In the ancient spirit of Sauron, there was no longer anything that reminded him of hope or spirit. He had known it once, but it was so long ago not even the memory of the memories lingered.

He ruled by fear, and so love was foreign to him. His will was set on domination, not understanding.

And so, in the darkness of his tower, he set his mind on the Three again. He wanted to see them kneel before him, acknowledge his power, bend to his will. He was the Dark Lord, master of the One and they would bow before him or perish.

One of the Three was near. A strange emotion beset him and it took him a while to realise it was surprise. It was unexpected. He had perceived the Three would flee from him and be forced to kneel, but not that one would wander into Mordor.

His old mind lingered on the bearer. It was the she-elf, the one who had nearly given in to him. He could touch her mind, but it was strangely bright.

Where are you going, Elf?

And to his astonishment and outrage, she laughed and her mind did not darken.

Where I please, she replied. If you want to claim me, you must come to me.

Anger like he had not felt since he had been robbed of his One swept through him, and he rose from his dark throne. The Ring gleamed in reply to his anger, the fiery letters glowing stronger than ever.

He would break her. He would have her kneel to him, broken in pain and her mind as dark as his wraiths's. She would be his, weak and tormented and under his command. She would kill her brethren by his word, but he would leave a part of her to remember who she had been. To remember and feel pain.

Where there was light, there would be darkness. Where there was freedom, there would be domination. He feared no one – because his mind did not understand hope and spirit. If it had, perhaps Isildur would never have dealt Sauron the heavy blow that had cost the Dark Lord his Ring so long ago. In his arrogance, he had assumed the human would not make one last, desperate attempt.

If Sauron's mind had understood and remembered hope, spirit and courage, Galadriel's vision would have failed and Middle-earth would have been lost.

But the Dark Lord did not remember, nor understood, and he set out from his safe tower of Barad-dûr to seek out and capture the morning star.

And the vision could still come to pass.

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