The sky was black, thick clouds hanging heavily over a rocky plain almost as dark. Smog and fumes filled the air, and the ground was littered with huge, jagged boulders and hissing fumaroles, obscuring the view to the horizons, but they were just visible. To the south, the plain stretched as far as the eye could see. To the west, a flat plateau, and beyond it sharp crags. To the north, more mountains, even closer. Atop the nearest, a sharp pinnacle could be seen - a black pillar of rock and metal so tall its summit was lost in the clouds. At its base, the bloody lights of a great fortress shone in the half-light.
To the east, the volcano filled the sky.
Almost perfectly cone-shaped, it rose to pierce the clouds, and the clouds spiraled down to meet its livid glow. Fire and air wrestled for dominance in an endless struggle. At first glance, it was clear that nothing could survive in this hellish place.
At second glance, it became apparent that this was not quite true.
Among the tumbled boulders and twists of lava, looking for all the world like they had been vomited from the mountain's throat, a regular line could be seen snaking up the volcano's flank - a path, well maintained. About halfway up, many hundreds of feet above the plain, the track ended before a pair of dark doors, crowned by a jagged archway, with spikes hanging down like fangs.
A lone figure could be seen approaching this gateway to hell. He, for it was male, walked with long strides, heavy and purposeful, clearly in a hurry. He wore a long robe of black, low-necked, exquisitely cut, its swirling fiery patterns at the same time matching and contrasting with his surroundings. He was very tall, and leanly muscular beneath his clothing. Behind him billowed a dark cloak, its jagged edges flapping in the hot breeze like bats' wings. His hair, too, streamed out behind him, long and auburn, delicately braided down the back and before his long, pointed ears. Atop his head sat a dark iron circlet, elegant spikes curving back from it, taller at the front than the sides, with a strange gem set in the centre - orange, with a dark line down the centre, almost like an eye.
His own eyes were stern, but of a similar amber hue, set under heavy, dark eyebrows in direct contrast to his hair. His face, though impassive, was exquisite - smooth skin, sharp cheekbones and jawline, perfectly even features, full red lips. He crested the rise before the dreadful doors, and paused for a second. His composure broke and a smile escaped his lips. Suddenly his face was no longer beautiful but mocking and cruel. Then the moment was gone and he showed calm composure again, but the emotion was still there, simmering beneath the surface.
Far to the west, over mountains, rivers, plains, and forests, another man approached another pair of doors. These were of white wood, exquisitely carved with trees and stars, flanked by sculpted holly trees, and the building they led into was similarly exquisite - marble and gold, with soaring vaulted architecture and many stained-glass windows. In its centre was a high, golden dome, with swirling runes around its base. It was situated among a small settlement of other, similar buildings, surrounded by a plain of long grass, interspersed with more holly trees. A range of mountains, white with snow and cloud, stretched from north to south on its eastern flank.
The man approached the doors and they opened soundlessly before him. He stepped into an echoing hall with a floor of gold, marble and lapis tiles. In height and build he was similar to the other, but his robes were silver-blue and white, more refined than the others, and he wore no cloak. His circlet was a simple band of silver, cunningly wrought, set with many small gems of blue and white. His face was stern and proud, broader than the other man's, and handsome rather than beautiful. His hair was straight and dark, his eyes deep blue. Before him he carried a box of silver wood, richly carved and inscribed with many runes. He carried it reverentially, like a mother holding her child for the first time.
The man approached the dark doors, and at once two cowering figures scurried from alcoves to stand at attention. "Welcome, Lord," the Orcs growled, their twisted green faces twisted further with fear and awe in equal measures.
"Forgive us master; we had no word of your coming," the larger whined fearfully. "We might've made your welcome warmer, otherwise. We were led to believe you were in Eregion."
"Well, now I am here," the man spoke, his words enunciated clearly, his voice rich and deep, "and I wish to enter."
"At once, Lord." The Orcs turned and heaved against the great iron doors, and they opened with a grating of metal on stone. Ahead stretched a long stone corridor, with firelight at the end. The man walked down it into a room that overlooked a lake of molten rock. The air throbbed with heat and the noise of the churning lava far below. The room was fitted as a forge, with an anvil, workbench, numerous exquisite tools and cabinets of rare minerals, and in its centre was a hexagonal plinth, with a pattern of channels etched into it - a casting basin.
From a side room, another man emerged. he was human, and shorter than the first, though still taller than most men. His face was pale and sweaty, raked with many regular scars, his hair short and black, and he wore a dark, practical blacksmith's uniform, but the ring upon his left forefinger belied his rank - this was a man in high favour of the Lord who stood before him.
"The metal is ready, Master," he explained, "alloyed and tempered as you requested. It is ready for consecration."
"You have done well, my servant," the Lord complemented with an emotionless voice. He walked through into the room. To his left, a trough of molten, golden metal shone with a fiery glow. Before him, chained to the wall, were three prisoners, naked, painfully thin. and cruelly gagged and bound - a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf. He walked over to them and sneered. "So pitiful," he hissed, drawing his sharp nails across their chests, lifting their slumped heads in turn. "It is a favour I perform for you, allowing you to take part in this glorious work."
One by one, he unchained them and held them over the smoking vat of metal. One by one, he cut their throats with a long knife, so that their blood poured down and mingled with the fiery liquid. He chanted words in a harsh tongue as they died. Their bodies were tossed in a corner and he strode back into the main chamber.
He reached up to pull a chain hanging from the ceiling, and the molten metal began to pour down a channel into the centre of the mould. It pooled in the centre and was channeled off by runnels to pour into a trough at the pedestal's base and from there, down into the lava. The flow ceased, and the excess metal flowed away, leaving only a glowing ring of it in the centre of the mould. The Lord scrutinised it, steam rising into his eyes. "It is well."
The Elf approached another set of doors, flanked by two guards wielding pikes and leaf-shaped shields, emblazoned with the emblem of a sun rising, or setting, over the sea, above a smith's hammer. They opened the doors smartly and he stepped through into a long, high-vaulted room, filled with the coloured light from the stained-glass windows. He swallowed nervously. At the head of the room, sitting in three high-backed thrones, were three regal figures.
The Elf on the left was thin of face and body, with silver hair, and although his face was flawless, his deep grey eyes belied his great age - this was a man who had seen ages pass. He was dressed in robes of blue and green.
On the right sat a woman dressed in a gown of white and gold. Her face was radiant - slanted hazel eyes and pink, sculpted lips framed by tresses of silver-gold. She smiled at the newcomer, and the sunlight seemed to strengthen.
The man in the centre eclipsed even her radiance. His throne was taller, and his voluminous silver and blue robes were embroidered with sapphires and diamonds. Upon his raven hair sat a high, winged crown. Without trying, he exuded a commanding presence that drew the eye - the presence of a king - and his face was fiercely noble.
"Approach, Celebrimbor," he ordered, and the newcomer stepped forwards to kneel before him. "I thank you for your hospitality, old friend," the king continued, "but now I really must insist - you have brought us, the three greatest of our people, to this place, and I wish to know why."
"As do we all," agreed the Elf on the left. The woman on the right simply smiled, as if she and Celebrimbor shared some amusing secret.
"My apologies, King Gil-Galad, but my work has until now been of the utmost secrecy. When you see what I have accomplished, you will understand why."
"What new works have you wrought, Celebrimbor?" asked the woman. "Never before have you been so secretive. What is different about this?"
"My Lady Galadriel," Celebrimbor bowed. "Fortune has smiled upon me, and it took the form of a man. Annatar, he named himself, and I took him at first for one of our own, although now I am certain he is not of this Middle Earth. He came to us many years ago, bearing gifts, and tidings of new and wondrous skills that he could teach us. He spoke truly, for from him I and my people have learnt many things secret and wonderful.
"Speak plainer, Celebrimbor," Gil-Galad ordered, although it was clear he wished to hear more of the tale. "What did he gift you with?"
"Rings, my king," Celebrimbor's eyes gleamed. "Rings of beauty, rings of worth, rings of power, and through him, we learnt the wonders of his craft. Through him, we made more rings, and I speak truly when I say no craft of mine has ever been made that matches that which I have wrought under the tutelage of the Lord of Gifts. I have given some as gifts myself, to strengthen our friendships with the other peoples we share this land with. Seven to the Dwarf-lords, and Nine to kings of men."
"Surely these were mighty gifts, and not to be given lightly!" cried the Elf on the left. "What, must we be left empty handed, while other races reap the fruits of your labours?"
"Peace, Círdan, Celebrimbor has not yet finished," Gil-Galad admonished, "although he is right," he added, turning back, "that these gifts should not have been given lightly, and without my counsel."
"And for that I humbly apologise," Celebrimbor bowed," and yet I say that I had the blessing of Annatar in this deed, whom I deem to be one of the Maia, or greater, come to walk among us as of old."
"You speak highly of this Annatar," Galadriel commented. "May we not meet with him ourselves? If what you say is true, we may benefit much from his teaching."
"Yes, where is Annatar, who has blessed us so, as you say?" Gil-Galad agreed. "Until we may know if he be Maia or Elf, it is for me to decide whom you provide with gifts of fealty and friendship, for the good of our people."
"Annatar left us not three days hence," Celebrimbor explained. "He told us he had unfinished business to attend to, but that he would return as soon as he might. I am afraid I know not whither he has gone."
The smoke still rose from the ring, but it had now cooled enough to form a solid, golden band. It was smooth, with no device or pattern upon it. With trembling fingers that belied his anticipation, the one known as Annatar lifted it free from its cradle, ignoring the blistering heat it exuded. He held it high and inspected it from every angle, then took it to the anvil and hammered out its imperfections - few - before cooling it in a trough of water and sending up hissing plumes of steam. The servant looked on in awe. "You have done it, my Lord," he whispered, reverentially."
"Not yet," Annatar smiled grimly, "but almost. Only one thing remains."
"I am sorry, Celebrimbor, but with this stranger gone I have no reason to trust your word. These rings are powerful, you say? Why then were they not given to us, as your friends and the rulers of our people?" Gil-Galad was becoming angry.
"Because I was not yet finished, my king!" Celebrimbor protested. "I did not wish to give you, great rulers as you are, works in which I was aided and tutored by another. I learnt from Annatar's craft, and then in secret I wrought three new rings. I swear, no hand but mine has touched them, no eyes but mine have seen them. These I give, the finest of my works, and truly I say the finest works since Fëanor's silmarils to grace this Middle Earth. I present to you, my Lord, my Lady, and my King, Nenya, Narya and Vilya."
He opened the box. A hush fell. For a full minute, there was absolute silence.
The three rings nestled in silk, two silver and one gold. They shone with an inner brilliance that seemed to eclipse that of the sun, shining in through the coloured windows, and even that of Galadriel herself. A ruby, an adamant and a sapphire they bore, set cunningly in their faces. Indeed the craftsmanship was unparalleled by any they had seen before, even by Galadriel, who alone of those present had seen the works of the Noldor in Tirion across the Sundering Sea. A tear rolled down her cheek. Círdan was stunned, his jaw clenched. Gil-Galad leaned forward for a closer look. Tenderly, he lifted the central ring, Vilya, of gold and sapphire, from the silk. The other two took theirs - Nenya, the ring of mithril and adamant, for Galadriel, and Narya, the ring of silver and ruby, for Círdan. They inspected them minutely, and as one, placed them on their fingers.
"Truly," Gil-Galad whispered finally, "these are the mightiest gifts there ever were. You are blessed, Celebrimbor, and I thank and praise you, and the Lord of Gifts."
Annatar stood above the precipice, lava churning far below him. He lifted the ring aloft, and slipped it onto the index finger of his right hand. It shrank, cutting deeply into his skin. He held his palm out before him, and his composure finally broke. He bared his teeth in a terrible grin.
Suddenly, Galadriel shuddered and gasped. The others turned to see her faint, her eyes rolled back into her head. They stood and crowded round her. "What devilry is this?" Gil-Galad hissed, turning accusingly to Celebrimbor.
"This was not my doing, I swear!" the craftsman cried in panic.
Suddenly, Galadriel's back arched. She sat up rigid, and she spoke in a voice that was not her own.
Annatar spoke, and his voice was wild and terrible and insane with lust. The chamber shook, and lava churned around him. The servant screamed and was consumed. At his words, runes were etched onto the ring in fire, and his face blurred and stretched towards it. A fiery wave spread from the ring up his arm and across his body, and in its wake, it replaced smooth skin and silken robes with hot, black metal. He spoke these words, and they are etched on the consciousness of all who know them for evermore.
"Ash Nazg durbatulûk,
Ash Nazg gimbatul,
Ash Nazg thrakatulûk
Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!"
'One Ring to rule them all,
One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all
And in the darkness bind them!'
The Elves stood dumbfounded, unable, for a moment, to comprehend what they had just heard. Then, their minds cleared. "Take them off!" Celebrimbor cried. "By all the Maia and the Valar and Eru himself take them off!" The two men obeyed in a frenzy of terror, and Celebrimbor wrenched Nenya from Galadriel's finger and flung it across the room. He dashed the other rings from their owners' hands and the three span in the middle of the floor with a ringing note.
Celebrimbor wept, only now fully able to comprehend the folly of his own actions. Greed had blinded him, as it had his father Curufin and his grandfather, the mighty, accursed Fëanor. "We are betrayed. I have doomed us all."
The forge was gone. In its place was a mere spit of stone, hanging over the settling pit of lava. Molten rock ran down the walls where it had been flung. The body of the servant was nowhere to be found. The doors had been blown open, the twitching limbs of the Orc guards protruding from mounds of rapidly cooling lava.
The lake churned. From it rose a figure, dark and terrible. Black, horribly spiked armour encased it. No trace remained of the beautiful, treacherous being it had once been.
It turned, and its face was a nightmare vision - the helmet opened like a mouth and within it, flames were sucked endlessly into a void blacker than the blackest night - a terrible, all-seeing eye. The figure climbed up from the lava and strode to the doors. It looked out at the desolate wasteland before it, covered in fresh lava flows and clouds of falling ash. Lightning flashed in the sky, and it raised its hand. The electricity sprang to the ring and sparked in a nimbus around its fist as it withdrew it.
And Sauron, enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, and Dark Lord of Mordor, looked at this thing he had created, this small, precious thing that would come to cause so much pain, and hatred, and death...
And he laughed.
Hi all! So I wanted to try something a little bit different, and I went for this. Hopefully you liked it, and it wasn't too immediately obvious what was going on. It's been nice for me, to write something that isn't going to be long and drawn out and won't put pressure on me to finish it. I'm still working on RotH though - don't worry.
This is such an iconic turning point in the history of the LotR mythos that I wanted to put my own spin on it. I was inspired by a piece of fanart I found on the internet (here is the link: art/The-Great-Ring-375319355) and the recent Shadow of Mordor game, but the details of the storyline and appearances of the characters (particularly Sauron. I'm quite chuffed with my Sauron. ;) ) are my own invention. Of course, all characters (apart from the Black Numenorean cultist and the Orc guards) and place names are copyright to Tolkien Enterprises.
Oh, and I realise the Elves should be speaking Sindarin, probably even Quenya, but let's just use our imagination for that. After all, most people aren't perfect Elvish linguists; I know I certainly am not!
Seeya!
Simon