Dear Diary,
I knew Gil-galad's lieutenants were going to be troublesome. I knew it! One of them approached Isildur and informed him that "it" needed to be destroyed. I take great offense to being referred to in such a manner. I am not an "it!" Stupid elf, show some respect.
I bet he wouldn't call Narya an "it." How would he like it if I called him an "it?" I bet he wouldn't like it at all…
Anyway, this elf came and told Isildur that they needed to destroy "it." Isildur grabbed me and held me to his breast. It was cute, in a clingy, human kind of way. I was sure that they wouldn't be able to convince him to do away with me.
Imagine my horror, then, when one of the lieutenants coerced my prince from his tent and led him towards my master's domain.
Damn that Narya, he'd told the elves everything!
I clung about Isildur's neck, burrowed against his chest and made myself into as much dead weight as I could. Master had always been rather amused by this trick of mine; he never struggled to carry me, no matter what I did. The same cannot be said of humans. Isildur staggered after the lieutenant, even as I murmured and urged him not to do this, that he'd regret it.
We entered the heart of Master's home, the room where I had last seen my brothers. The heat of the place was stifling. A sheen of moisture shone on the brow of the elf. Sweat beaded and rolled down my prince's face. I was sure that any minute now the three of us would simply melt into puddles on the floor. I'd forgotten how hot it was here. Still, I needed to keep my wits about me; I needed to continue communing with Isildur. His pace slowed. He was hesitating.
The elf tried to spur him on and then my prince halted entirely. He looked at me, stroked me for a moment, and then smiled. In that moment I knew that I was safe. Even as the lieutenant hollered for him to keep going, Isildur turned to leave, claiming that I was not be destroyed, that I would serve him and his sons. I would become an heirloom to the royal line of Elendil.
I wish there was a way to permanently capture the look on that elf's face at this proclamation. I was almost worried that he would try to wrest me from Isildur and cast me down into that stifling heat himself. He didn't. He just shouted and tried to call Isildur back.
Foolish elf. Give up while you can.
A/N: Water was attempting to work on a script when she realized that she had failed to post this chapter. She seems to do that a lot with this fic. She blames exams and essays and the like. Also her script. And life in general. And the meat surplus from which she is currently suffering. For the record, "meat surplus" is not something that Water ever thought anyone could suffer from.
As a note to all you people questioning how the One Ring is managing this feat of keeping a diary, Water would like to point out that you are reading a fanfiction based off of a fantasy story whose plot consists of elves, dwarves, walking trees and a cross-continental walk to throw a magical, malevolent inanimate object into a volcano. And you're questioning how the most magical artifact on the continent keeps a diary? She says that if it makes you feel better, you can think of it as a dramatic internal monologue that is always prefaced by "Dear Diary," a mental journal, if you will.
She's going to leave you nice people alone now and get back to work on stuff. Or go to sleep. Either is possible. Actually, she claims that it is possible to do both, but sleepwalking is a difficult endeavor to plan ahead of time.
