A/N:  Quotes followed by an asterisk * are taken from various and sundry parts of The Lord of the Rings.

Gandalf

He rode away from Hobbiton as fast as the horse could go, dread of what he might find in Buckland and beyond driving him. "Nazgul!" Gandalf the Grey spat out the word. "Where are you? I have not seen you, but others have. What havoc have you been wreaking in this peaceful land?"

Gandalf rode on. All his choices seemed folly now. If he had told Frodo to leave right away, this may not have happened. If he had not gone to confer with Saruman he would not have been taken captive; he would not have been late, and this may not have happened. If. At times "if" is a terrible word.

"Fool!" he chided himself, then began to more calmly gather his thoughts. "Yet, there really was no knowing that the Nine already were abroad nor that Saruman . . ." He shivered at the memories of his "visit" with the head of the White Council. "Where are they?" he said aloud as thoughts of riders in black pursuing Frodo and Sam filled his head.

Buckland was in a bad state. The Nazgul had been there, had been seen by some of the hobbits and had ransacked Crickhollow. Gandalf tracked them as best he could. At Bree he heard news that worried him as well as news that gladdened him. First he learned there were four hobbits from the Shire, not two, that spent the night at the Prancing Pony. Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took were for some unknown reason traveling with Sam and Frodo. This Gandalf found worrisome. The news that all the Shire-folk had gone with Strider lifted his spirits higher than they had been in a long while.

Gandalf slept well that night. In the morning he left the inn, riding like the wind for Weather Top; there to find at last the Riders whom he sought.

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Gimli

Gimli’s lips were set in a thin line as he trudged along in his heavy dwarf-boots. "Balin, where are you?" his thoughts asked. "I’ve not seen you, nor even a trace of you and our folk who came with you to reclaim Khazad-dum."

He walked close to the Wizard as the path was narrow at this point. So close was he, that he could feel the movements of Gandalf’s limbs beneath his flowing robes. It was just as well that he did so, for Gimli might easily have strayed off the path. He could not keep his eyes on that dusty walk-way at his feet; he hungrily sought out every glimpse of Moria the light of Gandalf’s staff afforded. What he saw was grand. What he saw had obviously been glorious. But what he saw had also been long abandoned. No lights were seen, no hammer falls heard, no deep singing from Dwarves doing the work they loved. The mighty realm of the Dwarrowdelf pressed in on Gimli’s heart with its silence.

They walked on. No one said a word to Gimli about the absence of the kinsfolk he had expected to find. Sam commented on the vastness of the place but when he called the Dwarrowdelf "darksome holes" Gimli’s heart broke while his pride stirred deep within him. He sang for them a song recounting the glory that had been the realm of Durin’s folk. When his song finished the Dwarf once more wrapped himself in his thoughts. "Balin, where are you? Did evil befall you while on your way? Truly it seems that you never arrived here at all." Gimli sighed and shook his head. Gradually the Fellowship fell into slumber.

The light of morning came through the openings high in the walls. Sadness still clouded Gimli’s heart as he admitted that he too would welcome the sight of the Great Gates and the Mirrormere in the Dimrill Dale. "I have looked on Moria, and it is very great, but it has become dark and dreadful; and we have found no sign of my kindred. I doubt now that Balin ever came here.* " Though his speech was gruff, none who listened missed the disappointment and sorrow behind the dwarf’s words.

The Fellowship walked on. They found the room. They found the tomb. The inscription was read. Gimli knew now the whereabouts of his cousin, Balin.

*************************

Aragorn

"Gandalf." Aragorn sighed as he thought about his dear friend and mentor. "You have left us. We can see and hear you no longer. Would I feel the loss of any other amongst us so deeply?" He sighed once more.

The Anduin carried the remaining members of the Fellowship along upon its eager current. Most of the time they needed the paddles for steering only. The shore slipped by. Lorien had long since vanished into memory behind them as Aragorn found himself missing Gandalf more with each mile closer they drew to the realm of Gondor.

Faster and faster the Great River ran in an ever narrowing channel. Cliffs rose ever higher, turning the sky to a mere sliver of hazy blue. What at first appeared to be two massive outcroppings of stone on either side of the swiftly flowing river were gradually revealed as colossal figures of men. They were helmed, crowned and robed, while a grave nobility graced their features; each held his left arm extended the unarmed hands of which were opened as a warning to all who approached.

Noble was Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elendil and Isildur’s heir as the Fellowship drew near to the graven images of his forefathers. The majesty of them flowed into him until he felt the power and responsibility of his lineage more strongly than ever before in his long life. The Elven boats swept past the images of the kings of old. The moment passed, the fire within Aragorn diminished. Isildur. The thought of him whose heir he was bore down on Aragorn. Isildur’s bane was in his boat, hung upon a chain resting against a small hobbit’s chest. Isildur’s choices had been poor ones. "Would that Gandalf were here!* " he said aloud to himself. "How my heart yearns for Minas Anor and the walls of my own city! But whither now shall I go?* "

*************************

Boromir

The grassy expanse of Parth Galen lay behind him, the slope of Amon Hen rose before him. Boromir had watched intently as Frodo left the Fellowship behind in order to have some quiet moments to himself in which to decide his next move. Boromir sat still awhile, but when the others were distracted he silently rose, passing through the spot in the undergrowth where Frodo had vanished from his sight. His eyes roved back and forth over the woods, he knew the hobbit would not be easy to track. Boromir’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere.

"Faramir, my brother. Where are you at this moment? If I sat in the Seat of Seeing here on the Hill of the Eye of the Men of Numenor, could I see you?" Boromir’s gaze continued to search the hill, his feet continued their climb. Where had Frodo gone? His thoughts strayed again to another. Where was his own dearest friend? Where in the realm of Gondor was his brother Faramir? "I chased your dream dear brother. More yours than mine as I had it but once while it came to you many times. Well I remember your disappointment when our Father gave me the journey to find the answer to the rhyme. Now, all balances upon a knife’s edge. The prize our Father craves may not come to him at all, and I will have failed him. The folly of those the halfling Frodo deems wise overcomes his thinking. He will take the Ring into the darkness and all will be lost forever more."

A small glade opened in the midst of the woods and in it, seated upon a low flat stone, Boromir spied the Ring Bearer. He was faced away from the approaching Man of Gondor.

"Would that you were here, Faramir," Boromir thought as he stealthily covered the last bit of Amon Hen that lay between him and Frodo. "You reason better than I. I’m sure were you to speak to him, Frodo would see the folly in their plans to destroy the Ring and would see the wisdom in proceeding on to Minas Tirith. Alas, I alone am here to plead our case. I will do the best I can." Boromir softly tread the last few steps to the Ring Bearer.

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Legolas

Legolas pulled another arrow from the body of a dead Orc, checked its point then wearily tossed it aside. His quiver was only half full and he really could not be spared from the battle much longer. Foraging for arrows still fit for use allowed him a few precious moments to think. "Where have you gone, Gimli? Did Aragorn see correctly that you fought with those he hopes made their way to the caverns that lie in these mountains?"

The Elven prince had gleaned little comfort from the fortress of Helm’s Deep, yet he had found comfort in the presence of Gimli son of Gloin. He smiled to himself as he pulled and checked another arrow, this one found its way into his quiver. When had the change occurred? When had the Dwarf changed from what Legolas had perceived as an annoying hindrance to a friend? And had Gimli changed or had he?

Legolas rejoined the fighting, making sure of keeping his count of dispatched Orcs. Gimli would expect an accurate report when they met again. If they met again. His heart tightened a bit within his chest. Best to think of other things he decided. Perhaps, a small part of his mind wondered, it had started in Moria.

No Elf had seen the vastness or complexities of the realm the Dwarves had delved for their kingdom within the Misty Mountains for many long ages. Legolas was amazed at the beauty still to be seen in the great halls long ago abandoned to Orcs and Goblins, he had sensed Gimli’s sadness over what had once been the vast realm of his kindred. Legolas’ distrust of the Dwarf returned when the Fellowship had entered Lorien and Gimli again spoke out against the Elves. A smile found its way to Legolas’ lips even as he continued in the battle. It had been the Lady Galadriel, he decided, who had truly wrought the change in both the Dwarf and in himself. By the time the Fellowship left the Golden Wood, he could not find in his heart a dearer friend then Gimli son of Gloin.

The dawn came, the Rohirrim rode forth against their befuddled enemies. With a glad cry those who had found refuge in the Glittering Caves came striding down the Dike. "Forty-two, Master Legolas!* " cried out Gimli. "How is it with you?* "

***********************

Sam

"Gollum? Where are you? I can’t see you!" Stinker was gone again and Sam was weary of hollering after him. "Wish I could say ‘Stay gone and good riddance to you!’ but I’d rather have you where watchful eyes can be seeing you."

Sam looked around at the cliffs and jagged rocks that comprised the vista from where he, Frodo and Gollum had taken a brief halt in their climb to the pass into Mordor. He could still see no sign of their guide. He looked down at Mr. Frodo as he lay sleeping. "He’s looking right peaceful for a change, and deep asleep as well. "Tisn’t fair and ‘tisn’t right that he has to be burdened with this evil thing. Like the hero in the old stories he is, struggling along in this awful place."

The gloom of Mordor shrouded them. Sam looked up. The tower he and his master had spied earlier was close, looming over them, the red light in its summit glaring like an evil eye. Surely, despite Gollum’s weak assurances, there were Orcs in that tower. Or Goblins. Or Trolls. Or . . . something worse.

"Like the heros in the grand stories," Sam said aloud to himself. "Havin’ to do what we have to do however we can, and nothing else for it. Well, Samwise the Stouthearted will see it through. They will have a right good laugh and the merriness will drive the evil of this gloom away. And Mr. Frodo will laugh. He will laugh and the mighty rocks will bend to hear him, all because his Sam can make him laugh. He wouldn’t get far without his Sam."

Sam shook his head. He was feeling a bit full of cobwebs. His master not getting far without him . . . now there was a joke and no mistaking it. Mr. Frodo was the hero. Brave and true and honest and not one to go back on what he’d sworn he’d do. Mr. Frodo is the hero and . . .

. . . heros often fail.

The gloom deepened, the winds howled, the eye of red light in the tower shown brighter, searching for them amid the sharp, cruel rocks. Sam looked about for his master but Frodo was nowhere to be found. Sam felt himself sinking to the ground in despair. Through his hazy mind he thought he heard Mr. Frodo cry out while at the same time something stirred against Sam’s leg.

Sam’s eyes flew open. He had fallen asleep and now Gollum was there, touching Frodo’s leg.

"Hey you! What are you up to?* "

"Nothing, nothing. Nice Master!* "

"I daresay. But where have you been to – sneaking off and sneaking back, you old villain?* "

". . . Sneaking!"

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Pippin

He stood by the door in the gloom, barely visible in his sable uniform. He stood there because it was his assigned task. Because it was his duty. He heard knocks upon the door, but it was not his place to bid anyone to enter. The knocks would be repeated. Sometimes the person left, other times Men he recognized as his lord’s advisors would stick their heads in, look about the room, then quietly shut the door. They did not speak to the small guard. As far as he could tell, they did not even notice he was there.

Pippin fidgeted as he stood at what had been shown to him as "at rest". "My Lord, Denethor, where have you gone?" thought Gondor’s smallest Guard of the Tower. "Your advisors are looking for you but I can’t tell them where you are, as I don’t know where you went." Pippin stretched his shoulders. They ached from the still unaccustomed weight of his mail.

A short way across the room, barely discernable in the dim lighting, Faramir lay senseless upon a bed, a high fever stealing his strength and possibly his life. Pippin felt empty and cold. He had been there when Denethor told Faramir he wished he were dead and Boromir were alive. Pippin had stood at his place, behind and to the left of the Lord Steward, at the council where Denethor ordered his remaining son to go on what all present knew to be a hopeless mission. The young hobbit did not understand; that is not the way a father should treat his son.

The door opened. A bent, robed figure moved slowly into the room, leaving Pippin to close the door. Denethor eased himself into the chair beside Faramir’s bed. He sat in silence, head bowed in grief. In his mind Pippin heard Gandalf’s voice speaking to Faramir after the council.

"Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness. You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end.* "

***********************

Merry

Merry was weary, wearier than ever he had been in his life. Dying; most certainly they were all dying, or like the King and the Lady they were already dead. The sounds that came to his ears were muffled, the world around him was hazy and grey. It seemed to him that he was still walking, though even of that he felt unsure. The torch lights faded into shadow. He thought it odd that he was walking to his tomb. Don’t the dead usually get carried?

Someone in the mists called his name and he looked up to see Pippin before him. Of course it couldn’t be Pippin, he was dead like they all were, but the thing that looked like his dear cousin was all he could see.

"Where is the king?" Merry said. "And Eowyn?* " He felt lost and confused. They should have been right there, he had been following their bodies and the Men with the torches. "Where are they?" he muttered. "Why can’t I see them?" Merry lost his balance and sat down hard on a step. The Pippin thing sat down beside him, putting its hand on his shoulder. It was a solid touch. Merry looked at the anxious face, into the worry-filled green eyes and he saw his cousin there. It was Pippin. This truly was Pippin. He answered Pippin’s questions as well he could but suddenly the darkness draped itself over Merry. "Help me, Pippin! It’s all going dark again, and my arm is so cold.* "

"Lean on me, Merry lad! Come now! Foot by foot. It’s not far.* "

"Are you going to bury me?* "

"No indeed! No, we are going to the Houses of Healing."

But the darkness grew and Merry knew there was no healing, there was no stopping the darkness. No stopping death. He knew he would soon see King Theoden and the Lady Eowyn.

**************************

Frodo

Frodo looked at Sam as if at one now far away. "Yes, I must go on," he said. "Farewell, Sam! This is the end at last. On Mount Doom doom shall fall. Farewell!" He turned and went on, walking slowly but erect, up the climbing path. *

And now there was nothing but the path, the door, the tunnel . . . the edge.

Frodo saw none of it, his vision held but one thing: the Wheel of Fire, the Ring of Power. The Ring itself stopped the hobbit at the edge of the chasm. He stared unblinking at the white hot liquid churning below him. He did not move.

"Is there anyone left?" A small, insignificant, hollow voice in his head spoke to him. "Were there ever any others?" Something struggled inside him but there were no faces in his mind. "Was there ever any place else?" Nowhere. No sense of place. He floated in a blinding white void. "I see nothing, only the Wheel of Fire."

"There are two," a silky smooth voice comforted Frodo. "There is Us."

"Yes."

"There will only be others if We want there to be others. They will exist to serve Us. That is why you see and know no others."

Something seemed wrong with this. Again something struggled to break free within Frodo. It came near to the surface. Servants. Servant. Master. He had been called that before. He would be called that again.

"Yes," Frodo murmured, " We are Master."

"There are no places, for We have not yet made them. We have not yet shaped a world to our purposes. We will create the world."

"Yes."

"Master!" cried a voice out of the endless white hot void.

Yes, we are Master. Frodo spoke the words he was given. "I have come," They said. "But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!* "

The Ring shone upon Their hand that They held high. They were Master now. They felt Sauron’s fear and it brought Them great delight. They would feast on His fear. They would savor His ending in agony and despair. They had but to turn their thoughts upon Him and he would shrivel to dust before Them. They turned and began to walk out of Sammath Naur to look down upon Their realm, to turn to dust the Tower of Barad-dur, to create Their world. A blow knocked Them to the floor. They were not yet skilled in the use of Their power. They wrestled with the worm that dared to assail Them.

Frodo screamed in agony. The world, as he had known it, survived.