Rising Star, Falling Darkness: Part IX
by Camilla Sandman
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Heat.

Heat had taken hold of his body as they struggled upwards. It clung to his skin and made each intake of breath painful. It burned in his throat and lungs, like liquid fire.

Up, up and up they climbed, the dark clouds of smoke enclosing them. Somewhere, high above, their destination awaited. The fires of Mount Doom.

Far off sounded the cry of an eagle. The eagles had flown away from Mordor, trying to lure the Nazgûl along. But in the darkness, anything could hide. Even Sauron himself.

Mount Doom flickered, shooting out another large veil of smoke. The fume was piercing, and no attempts to keep it away were successful. Cloth covering mouth and nose had done no good.

Behind him, Gimli was grumbling in Dwarfish. It was comforting to hear in an odd way.

Frodo and Sam were trotting slowly just ahead of him, following Galadriel. The two halflings looked so tired and bleak it pained Legolas. Frodo looked old – as if age had touched him and added to his burden.

But the halflings were alive. And that, in itself, might be some frail flicker of hope. Neither Sam nor Frodo had spoken much, and the Elf perceived they were filled with shame. They, the brave halflings who alone had walked into Mordor felt shame, when he had failed to protect Aragorn. They should have no shame; the shame was his.

Upwards they stumbled on, Galadriel leading the way. In the dark smoke of Mount Doom she seemed pale and more than once she seemed to almost stop dead in her tracks. What inner fight she was in the midst of, Legolas could only imagine.

He almost wished he could give her strength somehow. She seemed so small against the might of Mount Doom. The halflings too…

Frodo stumbled, and Legolas was by his side in a heartbeat. The halfling looked pained, his eyes not quite focused.

“Frodo?” Legolas whispered, bending down.

“Master Frodo?” Sam echoed, concern replacing fatigue on his face.

“I'm… I'm fine,” Frodo muttered, but even as he said it, he fell against Legolas. The Elf caught him gently, lifting him up.

Leaning against Legolas's shoulder, Frodo closed his eyes. He felt so tired, and a part of him just wished for darkness. Darkness and sleep.

The other part could not stop thinking of the Ring. Longing for it in an unexplainable way, as if it was as vital to him as oxygen. Could he be without it? Would he want to try?

For a brief moment, when Lady Galadriel had come, he had felt something other than the need for the Ring. He had felt – light, light in his dark soul. But now smoke and foul smells surrounded him, and he could feel nothing.

Legolas moved carefully and gracefully, carrying Frodo like he was made of glass and could break. His rhythmic breathing was strangely calming for the hobbit, luring him into a semi-sleep.

The heat seemed to be everywhere, surrounding him like a blanket. It was hard to think. He was floating, floating…

The mountain was getting steeper, and treacherously slippery stones seemed to litter their path. Sam fell a few times, but always got up before anyone could offer to help. He refused to stray from Legolas's side, so he would stay near Frodo.

Gimli trailed behind, still muttering every now and then. His face was closed, guarded, but his eyes spoke of fear. But he still plunged on, never hesitating, not even for a moment.

And in front walked Galadriel, pale and tight-lipped.

Up, up and up. How long they climbed was hard to say, it could have been a mere hour, or days. It could not be measured in time, for there were no stars and no sun to guide the measurement. There was only smoke, black and foul as Mordor.

And suddenly they were there, where the Ring had been forged so long ago. A cave, seemingly like all other caves. The heat was like a wall when they entered, and Galadriel nearly fell as it smashed into her. Flames were licking up, bathing all the surroundings in its red light.

The fumes were still harsh, but something else had come into the air. A smell of cruelty, of evil. There was no other way to describe it.

Frodo opened his eyes as the Elf gently helped him down to the ground. The ground felt like fire to his feet and he nearly yelped in pain.

Galadriel stood by the flames, erect and strangely silent. She seemed to clutch something in her hand so hard her knuckles whitened.

“Lady Galadriel?” Gimli asked, his voice betraying none of the fatigue he surely felt.

It was time.

“Celeborn, beloved, now it ends. May I see you again soon,” she whispered, and with a swift move she put her ring on.

At once, the Eye was there, in her mind, pushing against the fragile barriers she had erected there. The barriers would not hold long, but it would have to be long enough. It would have to be.

At last, Elf.

She shuddered at the voice, so near and filled with malice. It was almost as if it was *there* and not just in her head.

And she turned, slowly. Something was there, entering the cave. A dark shape, looming. It seemed to attract the darkness instead of hiding in it.

“Nazgûl,” Legolas whispered, reaching for his knives.

“That is no Nazgûl,” she replied, voice trembling. “That is Sauron.”

| Part X |
| Index |