Isildur looked warily and curiously down at the strange, round device in his hands, watching the small black blades moving around its flat white surface, pointing to the symbols written around the edge of the surface. With each small motion there came a soft ticking noise from inside of the device. What was this contraption, and what was it for?

He turned the thing over in his hands, seeing something written on the backside. This is a magical clock; it will allow you to turn back Time to a date of your choosing for a span of eight minutes. Use your time well. Below the writing was what looked to be a key.

Isildur turned the "clock" over again, watching its blades move, thinking silently. If he could turn back time, what might he do? Eight minutes did not seem long at all. What could he change in that time?

He moved one hand up to clutch the Ring that hung around his neck on a silver chain. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the voice of the Ring, whispering to him in the foul speech of the Black Land. It had been nearly two years since Sauron's defeat on the slopes of Mount Doom, and Isildur had kept the ring with him throughout that time despite the warnings of Elrond and Cirdan. They had both wanted him—urged him—to throw the Ring into the heart of the Mountain of Fire, saying it was too deadly a thing to be allowed to resist.

And perhaps they were right, Isildur thought. Though Sauron had fallen, his evil still marred the earth; orcs, goblins and wargs roamed rampant, killing and destroying all in their paths. As long as the Ring existed, it would continue to be so, said the elves. If Isildur destroyed the Ring, destroyed Sauron forever, his father and brother's deaths could finally be avenged, and perhaps all who had died would not have died in vain.

He forced himself to let go of the Ring, opening his eyes again and lowering his hand to hold the key on the back of the clock. He thought long and hard about the moment he wanted to return to, knowing he would not have much time to accomplish what he meant. Taking a deep breath and holding it, he turned the key slowly leftward.

The air blurred around him, and he felt as though he had been lifted off of his feet by some great wind. He could see nothing but grey air, and hear nothing but roaring wind for the span of many heartbeats. He quickly shut his eyes, frightened of what he had done. Had he been fooled by some trickery of Morgoth? Was he dying, or being drawn into the Void itself?

The violent wind in his ears died away, replaced by the hissing of a gentler breeze. He opened his eyes and looked around him, seeing the too-familiar plains of Gorgoroth around him, littered with the bodies of elves, men and orcs alike. The air had a reek of ash and blood. The clock was still in his hand, and the other clutched something much smaller. The Ring.

"Isildur!"

The voice made Isildur start, and he closed his hands around the clock and the Ring, looking up at the elf who stood above him—Elrond of Rivendell, he remembered well. Elrond's face was grimy from the battle, and his eyes were fell. He took a step back, holding out a hand to him.

"Hurry!" the elf commanded sharply. "Follow me!"

Isildur nodded, walking quickly after Elrond. The slopes of Mount Doom were before them, and the ash was thick upon the ground; many times Isildur lost his footing. And the Ring whispered to him still, the foul words somehow beguiling and musical. But he bent his will against it, knowing what he had come to do and resolving not to turn from that path. He knew not how much time he had. How long was eight minutes?

He quickened his pace and drew abreast of Elrond, anxious to do what he had set out to do. A hot wind rushed down at them and disturbed the ash and dust at their feet, throwing it up into their eyes. But at last they reached a doorway hewn into the mountainside, shaped like a great fanged mouth. Orange light came from within, and clouds of white smoke. The very air was hazy with heat.

Clutching the Ring more tightly, Isildur walked onto a narrow ledge of stone deep in the mountain. He looked down into the abyss and held his hand out over the fire as Elrond called out impatiently behind him.

"Cast it into the fire! Destroy it!"

The Ring's song became louder in his head, but Isildur pushed the sound away, replacing it with memories of his father and brother, whose bodies still lay upon the fields below. He could see their faces clearly, and hoped that they had found peace after death. For them he had come to this moment again; for them he would do what he should have done before.

He slowly opened his hand, though it felt as though his very bones were conspiring against him, and saw a brief flash of gold as the Ring fell. The song became a high, keening scream like a dying beast, which faded quickly into silence. Isildur turned his gaze down to the seething liquid below, but he could no longer see the Ring; it must have sunk into the fire. He had his vengeance, and Sauron was vanquished forever.

Isildur turned back to face Elrond, flushed with his victory, and felt the stone ledge shudder under his feet. Elrond reached out and gripped his arm, and the two of them ran back the way they had come, out of the door and down the ashy slopes, while behind them the mountain began to vomit liquid fire and belch black smoke and ash. They slid and scrambled on the ash, reaching an outcrop of stone and climbing up onto it, out of the path of the fire.

The air began to blur around Isildur again, and he knew that his time must be spent. He sighed and closed his eyes again, confident in the hope that the future he was returning to would be a better one.