Sylas studied the counterfeit Ring of Power with wary curiosity. Its golden surface gleamed ominously, but he dared not touch it directly, who could say whether it held the same corruptive pull as the One Ring? Better to handle it with caution.
With Saruman stripped of both his staff and his forged Ring, he was a lion without teeth or claws. Sylas's instinct was to finish him then and there, but Gandalf, Galadriel, and Elrond hesitated.
For all his betrayal, Saruman had once been their comrade, chief of the White Council, a Maia who had chosen to come willingly to Middle-earth when the others had to be persuaded. His wisdom and deeds had shaped centuries of struggle against the Shadow. To them, judgment lay not in their hands, but in the Valar's.
Sylas let it go. "At least bind him tightly," he said. "He may look broken, but he's still dangerous."
This time none objected. Elrond drew Saruman from the river, and the three ring-bearers joined their strength. A triple lattice of power, woven from Nenya, Vilya, and Narya, solidified into an unbreakable cage of light and air. Inside it, Saruman sagged, silent and brooding, his pride in tatters.
They turned towards Isengard, intent on securing their prisoner. But then Galadriel froze, her gaze hardening eastward.
"Elbereth…" she whispered.
At once Gandalf and Elrond stiffened, their faces grim. Even Saruman stirred, lifting his head. Sylas followed their gaze, and his heart lurched.
From the east, a vast curtain of black stormclouds rolled across the sky, swallowing the sun. Beneath them flew nine monstrous shapes, great winged horrors, half-dragon and half-demon, their vast bat-like wings beating with dreadful force. Fell Beasts, bred in the pits of Mordor.
And upon each sat a rider swathed in black mail, cloaked in shadows, nine Nazgûl, the Ringwraiths.
As the Ringwraiths descended over the Entwash, Galadriel raised her hand. Pure radiance burst from her like dawn breaking, halting the tide of shadow. The Fell Beasts shrieked and wheeled back, unwilling to touch her light, circling restlessly above the river.
For a time, the world itself seemed split in two: daylight upon their bank, night upon the other.
Her voice rang out like thunder across the waters: "Nazgûl, thralls of Sauron! This land is not yours. Return to the shadows of your Wraith-world!"
The Ringwraiths quailed, but one rode forth undaunted, the Witch-king of Angmar. From beneath his dark crown came a voice like the grinding of stone, heavy with ancient curses:
"Give us the White Wizard. He is ours."
"Never!" Gandalf barked, his staff and Glamdring raised. "So long as I stand, you shall not cross this river!"
A cruel laugh echoed from the Witch-king. "Fool! You cannot bar the will of Mordor!"
"Is that so?" Elrond's eyes blazed as he lifted Vilya. The Entwash roared to life at his command, surging into a wall of floodwater that rose higher and higher, barring the Nazgûl's path.
Sylas stepped forward, wand in hand. "Expecto Patronum!"
A radiant owl burst forth, its wings of silver light spreading wide. It soared at the Ringwraiths, talons outstretched. The Nazgûl shrank back, their spectral shrieks filling the air.
But the Witch-king raised his gauntleted hand, and darkness poured from it, coalescing into a monstrous bat of shadow and malice. It struck Sylas's Patronus head-on.
Light and dark collided in the sky, owl and bat locked in furious combat.
Sylas froze in astonishment. 'Was this an imitation of his Patronus?'
Gandalf, however, was quicker to notice the truth. His sharp gaze fell on the Nazgûl and their hands. "Look at their fingers!" he thundered. "They are all wearing Rings of Power!"
At his words, everyone's eyes followed. Each of the Nine Riders bore a ring of gold set with a gem that glimmered faintly with an eerie light.
In that instant, they understood why the Ringwraiths had grown so much stronger, each of them had reclaimed a Ring of Power.
These were none other than the Nine Rings given long ago to mortal kings, forged by Celebrimbor in the ancient days under the guidance of Annatar, the fair-spoken "Lord of Gifts", who was in truth Sauron himself.
Deceived by his beauty and vast knowledge, the Elves of Eregion learned from him the art of ring-making. Under his hand, Celebrimbor crafted the Nine for Men and the Seven for the Dwarves, while forging the Three Elven Rings in secret, apart from Sauron's corruption.
But the Nine and the Seven bore Sauron's taint. Through them, Men were swiftly enslaved. The nine kings who accepted the rings were twisted into wraiths, shadows of their former selves, bound eternally to the will of the Dark Lord. In the end, Sauron gathered the Nine Rings back into his own keeping, for he no longer needed them to dominate the Nazgûl, their souls were wholly his.
Yet now, against all expectation, the rings had been returned.
Though the Nine for Men were never as mighty as the Three for the Elves, they were still potent beyond measure. With those cursed bands upon their fingers once more, the Nazgûl's strength had doubled, their malice multiplied.
Suddenly, a pulse of foul will flared from Elrond's satchel. His face blanched under the invisible blow. With swift instinct, he cast the pouch away.
The bag was one Sylas had once given him for convenience.
The next moment, the satchel tore itself apart from within, its seams unraveling as if ripped by unseen claws. Its contents spilled out across the ground, among them, Saruman's palantír.
The seeing-stone rolled, coming to rest before them. Within its dark glass burned a great red eye, vertical and lidless, radiating a power of terror and corruption.
Sauron.
All grew tense, each stepping back with wary caution.
"We meet again, Elves and Wizards," hissed the voice of the Dark Lord. His gaze swept across them all before lingering on Sylas with unnerving intensity. His tone was both seductive and perilous, far deadlier than Saruman's honeyed lies.
"What good is there in making yourselves my foes? The time of the Elves wanes. The Golden Wood of Lothlórien will wither, Rivendell will fade, and your people will pass into memory, leaving no trace. Is this the end you would choose?
I ask nothing more than your silence. Stand aside, and your age will endure. The Elves may yet live in peace, their glory rekindled. Would you not prefer that, rather than extinction?"
The temptation was plain, his words aimed like daggers at Galadriel and Elrond.
But their minds were steadfast, their wills hardened by ages of trial.
Galadriel stepped forward, her gaze fierce and luminous as starlight. Her voice rang out, clear and unwavering: "Sauron, servant of Morgoth, you clothe your venom in honeyed words, but it remains poison. You will not ensnare us with your lies."
As she advanced, the light about her grew, flowing from her like a tide. Her silver-golden hair shimmered with the radiance of the Two Trees long lost, and her eyes burned like the ancient stars.
Sauron's Eye flared in fury, but the holy radiance spilling from Galadriel seared against it like fire upon shadow. With a reluctant shudder, the Eye dissolved back into the depths of the palantír, vanishing at last.
The Lady of Lórien's light dimmed, her shoulders softening as she swayed with fatigue. That brief clash of wills across the void had drained her more than she wished to show.
"My lady!" Elrond stepped swiftly to her side, his voice tinged with concern.
Galadriel steadied herself, offering him a serene smile and a shake of her head. "I am well," she said, though her pale face betrayed the strain.
Resolute once more, she stooped and lifted the palantír. Her hands glowed with silver-white power as she sealed the dark stone, binding it so that Sauron could not force his gaze upon them again.
But before they could draw breath, the ground beneath them quaked violently.
The earth split with a roar, and an immense maw studded with jagged teeth erupted from below, snapping at them with terrifying speed.
"A were-worm!" Gandalf cried, eyes wide.
Sylas reacted at once. His wand flashed, and with a series of rapid Apparitions he whisked Galadriel and Elrond to safety. Gandalf shot skyward on his broom, narrowly avoiding the monster's lunge.
Smaug thundered aloft in a surge of wings and flame, while Thorondor, the great eagle, clawed at the air to lift free of the collapsing earth.
Only Saruman remained. Bound within the magic cage, he had no chance to flee. The worm's jaws closed around him, swallowing him whole in a single gulp before burrowing back into the depths. The ground sealed behind it, leaving a yawning chasm as the only trace.
They stared at the dark pit in silence, their hearts sinking.
It had been a feint, brilliant and cruel. The Nine had clouded the skies to seize their attention, while Sauron himself appeared in the palantír to ensnare their focus. All the while, the were-worm tunneled unseen beneath their feet.
And now Saruman was gone.
None of them believed for a moment that he was dead. Sauron had not sent Nazgûl and beast merely to slay him.
Pursuit would be folly. Beneath the earth, the worm reigned supreme, and the tunnels it had carved would already be collapsing in its wake.
Helpless, they could only watch as Saruman was carried away into darkness.
Above, the Nazgûl wheeled their fell-beasts in tight arcs. Their task completed, they turned as one and swept eastward, vanishing into the mists that lay toward Mordor.
No pursuit was given. Even if slain, the Ringwraiths could not truly die while their master endured, and to chase them would have been nothing but a waste of strength.
As the Riders vanished, the black wall of cloud withdrew with them. Sunlight spilled once more across the land, driving away the shadows and leaving behind only silence, uneasy and grim.