Title: Twist of Fate
By: Maranwe
Summary: What really happened in Mt. Doom between Isildur and Elrond?
Disclaimer: Mine? How could I possibly be lucky enough for them to be mine? They're someone else's, the one who holds all the titles and such and which I don't fully comprehend since I've never looked into rights or copyrights, so oh well.
Spoilers: Possibly for the movies or the books, but I doubt it, and if you're reading these stories, you likely don't care about spoilers.
Rating: PG-13, worst possible case. So, to be on the safe side, that's what it is.
Have fun.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Fierce winds whipped past the two figures who had just entered one of the cracks that sporadically decorated the sides of Orodruin, Mount Doom, to release the pressure constantly building up inside the volcano. The air was hot, heated by the lava that flowed by not far beneath their position, and tugged at their clothing, pulling, twisting, as if it desired to knock the occupants over into the inferno they dared tread so near. Elrond Peredhil would not have been surprised to discover it did.
The elf walked, slightly crouched, far out on the ledge upon which he stood, followed by another. He reached the edge and looked down, bright, intense eyes taking in the bubbling mass that churned slowly, majestically almost, below him, too close for comfort.
He turned back. "Isildur! Cast it into the fire!" he yelled, the roar of the wind nearly stealing the words. He was not sure the man heard.
Isildur stood, several feet away, seemingly unconcerned with the volcano they stood inside, the lava flowing by beneath him, or the winds that threatened to push him over the side with a wrong step. He was playing with the ring he had taken from Sauron's hand, turning it over and over in his grasp, the flash of gold visible with every flip of the small object. It absorbed his attention.
Softly, almost too softly for Elrond to make out, words carried to elven ears. "So small, so much power. I could hold the fate of Middle-earth in the palm of my hand, crush it or let it go. . . ."
"Isildur!" he called again, taking a step back. "We must hurry! This war is not over yet."
Grey eyes looked up and met his own, something finally having reached the man, king with the loss of his father. There was something different in those eyes, something dangerous, that Elrond could not quite place that unnerved him more than he wished to admit, even to himself. "No, but it could be." The ring was clutched tightly in his fist. "I could end it all, and make men all powerful."
"You must destroy it, Isildur!" he persisted. "Cast it into the fire!"
Anger lit in the other's dark eyes, trasforming them into something the elf no longer recognized. "Who are you to command me hither or thither?" he demanded, speaking loudly for the first time. Such was his sudden fury that, Elrond was tempted to take a step back and forcefully quelled the urge. "Sauron slayed my father. He took from me what he had no right, and now I could take from him."
"Take it from him permanently," the elf told him. "Destroy it so he can never reclaim it."
The man's eyes traveled back to the hand which clasped the golden object, desire lighting in his eyes. Then hard orbs looked back up at him, eyes that held little of the young man he had known as to be unrecognizable. "The Dark Lord is gone. Never will he reclaim it; never again on this earth."
Elrond shook his head, frustrated. "Sauron's power is linked to One Ring! So long as it survives, he survives."
"You want my precious for your own," Isildur hissed, that same look in his eyes, a look that whispered somehow of doom.
"No, Isildur. I want you to cast it away, keep it from evil hands!"
For a moment, Elrond was tempted to believe he had gotten through to the man, believed he saw the other's eyes clear and the young one he knew look at him with determination to do what the Alliance of Men and Elves had set out to do: destroy Sauron and his One Ring of Power. Then it was gone, and the first hints of despair started coiling in his stomach, formed from the dread that evil would not be destroyed this day and hope would be lost.
"Please . . ." he started to say, stopping as completely alien eyes turned to look at him from a face he was knew and could call friend, gaze calculating in his dirt streaked face. Without thinking, the elf lord took a step back. A collection of rocks scittered over the side, disturbed from their resting place to fall into the chasm below. He ared not look away from that gaze, unsure what would happen if he did.
Slowly, Isildur began to pace forward, that intensely odd look still shining in his eyes. "Elves have long been held superior to Men," he said, his steps slow, bring him inexorably closer to him target. "You were first, wise, fair, the favorites of the Valar. Perfect. . . ." he hissed. "I am Man, below you, less important, less powerful, less wise. I am less! You cannot understand."
"Isilddur, think. Destroy the Ring, it is corrupting your mind. Come back from the shadows! Reclaim yourself!" Elrond tried, braving a step forward despite everything that shouted inside him to get away. "You are stronger than this, King of Men, cast off this dark veil that shades your sight and corrupts your desires!"
"No, you cannot understand. But with this," the ring flashed as it was once again flipped in Isildur's grasp, "Men could be stronger, take what rightfully belongs to us. Then we would surpass you. We will surpass you."
"Stop this madness!" Elrond cried. He was afraid he was about to lose Isildur, and with him the heir to the throne of Gondor, breaking the line of kings, the line his own brother had started. It hurt terribly to watch his own kin behave in such a fashion, the man he had come to care for unrecognizable in his lust for power. "Isildur!"
The other stopped before him, the same height, but heavier, built more solidly than the light elven frame. Thier eyes met, carely a foot away, and Elrond searched desperately for the man he knew, for signs that the sun Elendil had raised yet resided in those dark grey eyes. He could find no sign of such a presence.
"With Sauron gone, we can claim what he could not, dominion over Middle-earth! I will rule. This Ring belongs to me for what he has taken from me." Fire burned in his eyes. "With this, I will teach you what it is to desire something." His hand firmly grasped the elf's arms just above his elbows, squeezing tightly, his grip like a steel clamp. "You will desire Power."
"Take your hands off me!" Elrond demanded, more worried than he had ever thought to be because of his own kin and frustrated by Isildur's refusal to rid Middle-earth of the menace that is the One Ring of Power, forge by malice and cruelty and hate. It was evil and had taken control of Isildur.
"What are you, but an Elf?" Isidlur demanded. "I am a Man; I could own you, break you!" Dangerous, eager light flared through the man's eyes, making them seem to glow.
Without stopping to think, Elrond serged forward, bracing his feet and pushing forward. Isildur stumbled backwards, almost losing his balance as the force of the push forced him to release his grasp on the elf or fall into the lava below. He ended up a dozen steps from Elrond and stood, his gaze falling back to the ring, testing in his hand, assuring himself it was yet there, that he had no lost it. His hungry eyes drank in its pressence, it's beauty. "My precious. . . ." he hissed.
Elrond watched him, desperation beginning to tinge his intense gaze, the soot on his face heightening the gleam of his eyes as the lava's glow reflected in their depths. "Isildur!" he yelled, resolved to make one last attempt. The man had to see reason! "Cast It into the fire! Destory It! Isildur!"
The other looked up at him, that crazy look gone from his expression, but no more recognizable as the man he knew for that fact. He was changed, changed by the ring. Quiet, but firm, Isildur spoke. "No." Then he turned and walked away.
"Isildur!" he cried, hoping to turn the other back, hoping to reach him, hoping that darkness had not truly claimed the King of Men and that it was all just a dream from which he would wake to discover that the ring had truly been destroyed. But as the strong form of Isildur, king of men, son of Elendil, passed out of his sight as the man left the ledge upon which they had stood, Elrond knew the truth: it was not a dream, and Middle-earth had just been condemned to suffer the evil of Sauron yet again.
As that realization resolved in his mind, a part of Elrond Peredhil died: the part that respected the strength of men.