Gone.
Cut from my very figure. My precious. The wisps of my shadowy form trailed behind me as I paced through the barren, empty landscape of Mordor. The corpses of my orcs and my enemies carpeted the ground before me. Results of the battle that had taken my precious. Forever gone.
None.
The last drops of saltwater emptied into my dry mouth. I lapped at the precious amount of liquid to try to bring out some flavour to ripen my mood in this dark land. None came. I couldn't remember any taste now I thought about it. They had evaporated long ago.
Fault.
Mount doom exploded, the hope Frodo and Sam had survived flittered away from me. The burning red river ran down the blackened slopes like their own life blood seeping out, draining them of all that they were. Frodo and Sam... I led them to their death. The fault is mine.