To Rivendell


Ranko wondered what was wrong with the King of the Rohirrim as they
left. Gandalf had seemingly not expected the cold reception he was met
with. She had thought that he was fairly well respected, based on the
hobbit's attitude towards him, but the Rohirrim had brushed aside his
claims of danger in Isengard. She had considered putting in her comments
but in spite of having been, to all appearances, a prisoner of Saruman,
she had never seen him nor seen or known of any evil that he might have
done other than imprisoning Gandalf. Besides, she was more familiar than
she liked with racial prejudice and the way its intensity grew or
diminished in opposition to a people's happiness. Their dark looks and
mutterings gave her sufficient reason to assume that they were in no
mood to listen to an elf about matters they would not hear from a
respected man.

When Gandalf was told to take a horse and be gone, she bridled with
anger on his behalf and was delighted when he took the best horse they
had. Shadowfax, Gandalf called him, King of the Mearas, and the great
steed lived up to his name when Gandalf gave him his head, and though it
had taken Gandalf two days to catch and tame him, he seemed like to make
up the time lost. Ranko gloried in the speed as they raced across the
plains. She had learned to ride in the past so as to fit in, though her
weight had ever made it a challenge, but this stallion put her in mind
of the fabled chariot of fire. An older memory trickled to the surface
from the buried depths of her mind and she found a better analogy.
Riding on Shadowfax, clinging to the hem of Gandalf's pocket as the wind
whipped about them, was akin to riding on the tops of Japan's swift
trains, as he had done more than once in his days with his father.

They crossed the Snowbourn at a wide ford, clattering and splashing
across the stony expanse, and passed like a wind into the deepening
night. As they raced across the fields where Shadowfax was foaled,
moving at what would elsewhere be a reckless speed, but which was safe
enough here where Shadowfax knew every stone and hollow, Gandalf spoke
softly of the history of the land they passed, and the land they
approached.

He told her much of the Golden Wood and its Lord and Lady, Celeborn and
Galadriel, where its borders lay, and of the lands that lay about it. He
did not mention Dol Goldur, not wishing to draw the attention of its
master to his flight, but he spoke of Moria and the nameless evil that
the dwarves had awakened in the mountain that had driven the two
peoples, elves and dwarves, apart. He told her also of Rivendell, and so
she learned that here half-elf was no insult, and that Elrond Half-Elven
was considered one of the greatest of lore-masters and ruled a great
household, and many elves dwelt with him and gave him honor and respect.
She was tempted to go there, to see the hobbits again and watch the
planning, for he told her just enough for her to guess that he had taken
Frodo and perhaps some of the others there before leaving to seek
counsel from Saruman.

It was clear to her that her first impressions had been greatly
mistaken, and that an elf, or sprite, as she would think herself to be
if seen unawares, given her past experience, though it seemed they had
no such creatures here, would be more welcome at Rivendell, where all
were welcome and many races dwelt together, than at Lothlorien, where
the elves had closed their borders and seldom ventured beyond them, or
allowed others to venture in.

Two things held her back from this more promising course; the Ring, and
Gandalf himself. Not that he counseled her against it, for it was his
preference that she should journey to Rivendell with him, though whether
for her sake, or for the satisfaction of his own curiousity, or as a
second voice to give evidence of the betrayal of Saruman, she was
unsure. No, it was Gandalf himself that gave her pause, the fact that in
her moment of weakness he had become her new Master. 

He bore the Ring, though he did not know it, and she did not like the
thought of remaining in proximity to the lure that would be drawing the
agents of the Enemy of which he had spoken back in Frodo's comfortable
home in the Shire. More than that though, was the danger for her if he
realized her connection to the Ring, an event that would be made
considerably more likely by her proximity to it, especially if that
proximity caused her to attempt to use it or the well of power within
it.

Even if the Ring did not exist, however, she preferred to be without a
master, and if she had a master, the best time to leave was before her
master gave her any commands, or after he told her to do as she wished.
If ever Gandalf had cause to order her to stay behind while he took the
Ring somewhere, or to follow him to the land of the Enemy to seek
destruction, or any other course she could not reasonably follow, her
ability to move would be stolen. The magical connection upon which she
so relied, given her by Distanfae, that linked the reflexes of her past
life in such a way as to allow them to move her normally, was dependent,
she had learned, upon her obedience to the orders of her Master.
Certainly, she could disobey with relative impunity, or ignore her
Master as she chose, there being little anyone could do to harm her, but
the loss of that connection was then unavoidable.

She had accepted that consequence in escaping from a Master who sought
to put her to evil use, but it had never been pleasant, and in fact it
had been pretty much the only situation that ever caused her to actively
seek out a new Master. Being limited to the slow and mentally intensive
form changing for even the simplest of movements; the constant
frustration of trying to move or act on instinct, only to realize once
more that all her physical skills and abilities were out of her reach;
these things haunted her, but none so much so as the simple inability to
speak. She did not know what aspect of Distanfae's spell it was that
allowed her speech, even with a metal throat, to sound alive, but
without that spell, she could not speak at all, except mentally, to her
master, and even then, only while in physical contact with him.

If she left Gandalf now, before he had given her any explicit orders,
she would not need to fear that loss of control, as long as she did not
let down her guard around any other strong-willed individuals. Leaving
the Ring with him was actually a risk as well, since it was her, insofar
as the magic was concerned, but he had seemed adamant in his
unwillingness to take it or wield it when the topic had come up with
Frodo, so she had little fear for that consequence, and hopefully the
Ring's flight and return would be sufficient to curb any plans they
might have for destroying the golden thing. She thought that she had
made it sufficiently clear that the Ring would not countenance such an
undertaking.

As well, there was the consideration that she would have to seek out and
consume items of magic, and she would prefer she not be thereby reducing
the effectiveness of Gandalf's resistance against the Enemy, and the
resistance of those who sided with him. Elves were known, in her mind,
for keeping history and knowledge of the past long beyond the memory of
most other races, so hopefully in Lothlorien she would be able to learn
where she might seek for unused or unusable magic, without having to
worry about Gandalf's curiousity about her leaving to obtain it, nor the
possibility of his ordering her not to attempt it.

Finally the time of choice, of parting came, after they had passed under
the eaves of a great, watchful, silent forest and come out again and
crossed yet more grassland. Gandalf reined in Shadowfax and looked with
a solemn eye at the lady climbing from his pocket to rest upon his
upheld hand. "If you still desire, Lady Ranko, to see the Golden Wood,
it lies upon our left, for we have just crossed the course of Nimrodel,
whose waters I must trace now to the west, to the Dimrill Stair. But
you, to reach the hall of Celeborn and Galadriel, must enter the Golden
Wood, and travel east and a little south. Will you part from me here, or
will you not come with me to Rivendell? My companions would be most
pleased to welcome you, I am sure. Your welcome in the Golden Wood is
less certain, though none need fear evil there beyond the evil that they
bring with them."

Ranko shivered at his words, though she knew that he was without
knowledge of the evil she carried with her, and indeed, the Ring itself
was remaining with him and not traveling with her. Still, her mind had
long since been made up, and his offer did not greatly move her, for it
but stirred her fears, and she had never been one willingly controlled
by fear. Or so at least she told herself, willfully ignoring her fearful
avoidance of the Ring and the Enemy. After all, it was not the
consequences to herself she feared from these things, but the effects on
the world and people about her.

Standing on his palm, steadying herself against his thumb, she gazed
across the western land, then turned and bowed low to Gandalf. "I will
part with you here, but perhaps we shall meet again," she offered.

Nodding, Gandalf dismounted, careful not to dislodge his passenger, then
kneeled, lowering his hand so that she could step off of it onto the
ground. Ranko looked around and groaned unhappily at the grass all about
her, standing high over her head, like an endless field of corn. Turning
back, she watched Gandalf remount, and Shadowfax carefully step away
before beginning to trot and then gallop, swiftly vanishing into the
distance.

Looking around, Ranko grimaced. She could see nothing through the tall
wide blades of green but blue sky overhead. Where was the forest from
here? 

She sat down with a huff, staring at her legs. They looked as long to
her as they ever had, for she kept her proportions as her size changed,
but she knew them to be so short as to make walking a pointless gesture.
She needed to gain her size back, as much to be able to move at a
reasonable pace as to be worthy of respect.

Very lightly she tried to increase her size. The pain was immediate, if
not as great as her first injudicious attempt at growing had been. That
course was obviously blocked. How else then, could she increase her
size? Consume something, her thoughts whispered, and she suddenly fell
forward, punching herself in the head at her own stupidity.

With barely a thought she reached out across the shadows to Orthanc and
began drawing substance from here and there within the great spires,
creating small holes, large in overall number, but small in total mass.
Through the shadows she pulled the stolen mass into herself, steadily
gaining stature.

She was back to nearly half her normal height when she suddenly felt a
presence watching her. There was a familiarity to it and she went rigid
with fear. How could she have been so foolish? Drawing substance from
Orthanc was as good as begging the Cat to notice her. She felt the
sensation of fur brushing lightly against her leg, and trembled in
terror. She tried to summon her ki, to shield her soul as she had done
before, but her fear had her nearly hyperventilating, and her ki
remained stubbornly beyond her grasp.

The sense of presence faded without any further action, and she slumped,
disbelieving, to the ground. Her fear had not been that soul-consuming
terror that usually preceded her flight into darkness, but neither had
it been mere fright. It had been long years since she had last faced
anything that made her fear that she would fail in her second life's
goal, but the prospect of trying to defend herself against the very
manifestation of her greatest fears in a place where failure would be
eternal left her shaking. Forcing herself back to her feet, she grimly
reached out again, drawing more of Orthanc into herself. For whatever
reason, the Cat had not attacked her. She had screwed up by attracting
his attention, but he had not attacked, and there was no way she would
allow her fear to leave her crippled like this.

Still, she drew much more slowly, hoping to avoid getting the Cat's
attention a second time, flinching at every sound she heard, and hours
passed as she very gradually increased in size. She was not quite
finished when she once again froze, a feeling of presence again
surrounding her. This was no cat, however. "Damn," she whispered. "He
found it already!"

She turned to look to the northwest where Gandalf was even now fingering
a golden ring he had found in his robes. She could feel his mind, his
emotions through it, through the direct contact between her surface and
his skin. The sky between the peaks was black with clouds and a darkness
lay below it, a curtain that could not be pierced by sight. Through
Gandalf she realized that it was snowing, as should not be, a great
storm in a time when the pass should be open. Caradhras, she heard in
her mind the name of the mountain, and she felt Gandalf's fear for
Shadowfax. They were together, she saw, backed under a slim overhang for
what little protection it offered. Gandalf had been searching for
something to start a fire, something he could burn for long enough to
last out the height of the storm, then turn back and take the long road
around.

Ranko shook her head. It had been her fault that he had chosen this
course, though he had certainly never mentioned anything about
bad-tempered mountains when he listed his options. Regardless, she could
not allow him to have to retrace his path because of her. Tentatively
she reached out to the pool of magic within her. A trembling shook her
limbs as she drew upon it, wondering if the Cat would come to protect
its lifeblood, if he would attack her for taking it. No sense of
presence came, and Ranko breathed a sigh of relief as she fed the
gathered energy into her wand of air.

The energy was released from the wand but through the Ring, dispersing
the storm and guaranteeing the resulting good weather would last long
enough for Gandalf to get down off the mountain, and she turned her
attention away with a sigh of relief, as that extension of her being was
returned to a safe pocket, out of contact with the wizard once more.

Returning her attention to Orthanc, she finally completed her return to
her normal height. Focusing inward again, she reshaped her body, moving
all of the Orthanc-stone inward, restoring her outward silver on black
appearance.

---

Gandalf stirred then blinked as he heard a glad cry in a youthful voice.
"Gandalf, you're awake!"

Though he was still weak from lack of food, his weariness had passed. He
opened his eyes, which fell first upon Elrond, standing and looking down
on him with a face that held both joy and a guarded curiousity. The
cause of each was clear to Gandalf's keen perception. Elrond took joy in
his recovery, but how could he help but wonder what had befallen Gandalf
for him to return so late, and in such a state, and to have received no
word from him for such a time.

A movement to his right caught his eye and he turned to see Frodo, eyes
shining with happiness, though there was a haunted look in them that
spoke of fear, a startling sight to see in the halfling's eyes. They had
been lucky, Gandalf now realized, to have set out when they did, as a
result of the Ring's disappearance, and in so doing, made their way to
Rivendell a good ten days before the Black Riders crossed Anduin the
Great and began their own search for the Ring. Their journey had been
light-hearted in spite of the danger they were all in, and only now, in
seeing his old friend laid low, and in fearing for his survival, had the
shadow fallen upon Frodo.

"It is alright, Frodo. I will be well enough, when I have eaten."

"Wonderful! Shall I fetch you something?" 

"Yes, yes, if you please, my dear Frodo. Go and fetch me a light
breakfast. It would not do to eat too heartily after so long a fast."

Elrond stepped forward as Frodo nodded and darted out of the room.
Drawing a chair by the bedside, Elrond sat and looked long into
Gandalf's face, before he finally spoke. He shook his head slowly, for
once seeming to show his age, though he tried to appear hopeful. "The
Nine have been seen. They learned of the halflings, it seemed, and of
their journey. They sought to force their way into Rivendell, the full
Nine together. I suppose they knew we had strength enough to defy lesser
numbers. They and their steeds fell to the floodwaters on the
twenty-third of last month, and it may be some time before they can
again come against us. A perfect opportunity to move, it would seem, for
my spies have scoured the countryside, and the Nine are not abroad. They
have fled for the time back to their Master. But," and here he sighed,
his shoulders sinking as under a heavy burden, and Gandalf perceived
that he parted with his next words only with a great reluctance and a
sadness that, while not yet despairing, was without much hope, "we have
had no word nor sign of the Ring. We know only that the Enemy has it
not."

"Be cheered then, old friend. I have..." At that moment Frodo returned,
knocking the door aside as he entered with a tray, his face once more
bright with happiness, no sign of the shadow remaining to darken his
features. Gandalf glanced at Elrond and made a sign for silence. No more
would be said in front of the light-hearted halfling. Not yet.

It was clear that Elrond was greatly surprised at Gandalf's reaction and
strongly desired to hear what news he had, but he conceded the need to
wait. If indeed Gandalf had news of the Ring that might allow them to
obtain it, then they were in a far better position than he had thought.
They might even manage to take advantage of the window of opportunity
afforded them by the ringwraiths' ill-fated attempt to gain entry into
Rivendell.

Gandalf turned his thoughts back to that strange hour high upon the
Redhorn Gate beneath the glowering mass of Caradhras when, searching his
person for aught with which he might be able to kindle a fire on that
height and thus safeguard the life of the horse that had become his
friend, Shadowfax the Great, he had come upon the Ring in a pocket of
his robe. He considered this as he ate, while Frodo chattered on about
the things he had seen and done in Elrond's house while Gandalf had been
away, his great relief at seeing Gandalf again quite apparent.

How had the Ring come to him? He knew well that he had searched every
pocket he had during the first hours of his imprisonment on the
windswept height of Orthanc and he had not had it then, else he might
have believed that it had left Frodo and come to him that day so long
ago when it had vanished from the young hobbit's chain.

But clearly, he had not had it then. He shook himself lightly, realizing
that Frodo was waiting for him to respond to a question about Bilbo.
Besides, he had puzzled over this mystery ever since he had chanced upon
the Ring, wondering both at its appearance, and at whether or not it was
possible for him to have accidentally used it to disperse Caradhras'
building wrath, or if not, what agency had, for the sudden shift in his
fortunes had seemed nothing less than miraculous. Perhaps he would find
answers once he had a chance to explore the events and their
ramifications with Elrond.

"Bilbo?" Gandalf harrumphed softly. "Of course I knew Bilbo would be
here, and you would have too, if you had listened to him. 'One last
adventure' he said. How long do you imagine that would have taken? His
first adventure certainly did not take long, though granted it took long
enough for Shirefolk to decide he was quite dead and try to sell off all
his things."

The two friends shared a quiet laugh at the memory, though for Frodo it
was not a genuine memory; he had not been there. He had certainly heard
the story often enough, and quite vividly told, from his uncle Bilbo.

Gandalf noticed but paid little attention when Elrond excused himself
and left the room. Instead, he allowed the cheerful prattle of the
irrepressible halfling to fill his ears while his mind wandered one last
time over territory covered again and again over the last several days.

The distances from the Redhorn Gate to where he had tamed Shadowfax and
to Rivendell were not terribly different, but the land was quite
different. The rolling grasslands of Rohan had taken less than a day to
cross, though passing through Fangorn forest had stretched the remainder
of that half of the trip to a full two days, but the crinkled hills of
the land between the Trollshaws and Dunland, on the other side of the
Redhorn Gate, were slow going and he might have turned aside and made
westward to strike the Greenway and gone thence north to Bree and east
again to Rivendell, but that he feared the Black Riders might be abroad
in the land and he now bore the Ring.

In the end, therefore, it had been a bit over five days that he had
walked Shadowfax through the rocky hills, five days without food nor
rest. No horse but Shadowfax would have endured it, and Gandalf had
considered releasing Shadowfax to make his own way had he not borne
great misgivings about his own ability to resist the lure of the Ring.
Alone and footsore, he would have been far more tempted to use it and
thus have been lost.

Yet not once in those long miles had he felt the seductive pull of the
thing. The only influence he could feel upon him was his own internal
desire to right the wrongs it had created, a desire he remembered
feeling before gaining the Ring. It made him question the lore of the
Ring, the lore that had come from Saruman, now known to be a betrayer.
For how long had Saruman's counsels been ill? It was hard to say.

Convincing Elrond of this wiser course would not be easy though, and the
mere thought of it brought grave misgivings to Gandalf's heart. Might he
not be being influenced without his awareness? Was the Ring more subtle
than any had realized?

He held up a hand to stem the flow of words from his young companion
when Elrond re-entered the room, for at that very moment the answer came
to him, the true test that would prove both to himself and to Elrond if
what he believed might be.

"I have the Ring," he stated, watching as both his friend's eyes grew
wide with shock. He noted also the fear that lurked in the gaze of
Elrond, the sudden readiness of his body to fight or flee. He reached
into his pocket and drew it forth. He would return it to Frodo; if he,
one that the Ring was designed to overmaster, could freely give it up
after holding it and handling it for five days and perhaps having borne
it for some time more, then in truth they would know that their
knowledge of it was dramatically flawed.

Elrond stiffened when Gandalf drew forth his hand, then relaxed into
readiness again. His eyes widened in disbelief when the old man reached
out both hands, grasping Frodo's in his left, turning the hobbit's palm
up, and with his right, placed in it the One Ring.

Gandalf leaned back in the bed and looked to Elrond. "Take Frodo, and
place the thing in the fire. Verify that the words appear." He sighed,
only then wondering if the lack of influence had been because this was
not the true Ring. Ah, well, they soon would know.

Elrond looked at him with a shrewd eye then turned away, placing a
slender hand on Frodo's shoulder, guiding him to the fireside. This time
it was Frodo and not Gandalf who placed the Ring in the flames and this
raised even Gandalf's eyes. Frodo had the Ring for years, he had seemed
touched by its influence even when Gandalf first knew the Ring for what
it was. He should be able to risk no hurt to the thing. Perhaps it was
his having seen the Ring pass through flames unharmed and even unheated
before that had tempered his fear.

With a long pair of silvery tongs Elrond drew the Ring out of the fire
and held it up, looking at it with eyes filled with pain and remembered
horror. Few indeed were those who would willingly pervert the beautiful
Elvish script to bear the words of the Black Speech instead of the
Sindarin or Silvan it had been crafted for, and never would he forget
the words laid upon it, though he would not speak them.

"It is the One," he said at last. He turned to Gandalf. "It has not been
long in your hands, then?" he asked, obliquely referring to the ease
with which Gandalf parted with it.

Gandalf shook his head. "Five days, while I held it and mused on it, but
I did not wear it."

"Ah, but neither has Frodo."

"Yes, but Frodo had it for years. There is more, though." Gandalf sighed
wearily, propping himself up against the pillows while Frodo looked on
in confusion.

"Saruman?" asked Elrond.

"A traitor," Gandalf spat, then, controlling his anger once more, he told
them of what had befallen him in Isengard, leaving out only the little
lady he had aided, though the realization that he had held her in one of
his pockets between the time that he knew he had it not and when he had
found the Ring on him struck him with new force.

Elrond's face darkened. "Ever treachery is our greatest enemy. Know you
how long he has been untrue?"

Gandalf shook his head. "No, though I wonder... long years ago when he
settled our fears of the One, insisting that it had long since rolled
out of Anduin into the waters of the deep, never to be seen again, was
that his true belief, or was he even then seeking it, and striving to
turn aside our eyes so that he could search in peace?"