Chapter 137
The Final Countdown
In books it is usually the case that all the events are perfectly timed. The Ring will be destroyed just as the desperate allies fight for their lives before the Black Gates. It makes no sense in storytelling to destroy the Ring when the army is still on the march, because then, narratively speaking, what was the whole point of that marching army in the first place?
Real life is nowhere near as neat as the stories would have you believe. Real life is quite often one hell of a mess. Especially in this case, where the war was still being fought on two fronts even as the Fellowship made its slow way to the volcano where it all began.
We were on our way to the Black Gates, having no idea how things stood. I already suspected that we were not going to get there before the Ring was destroyed, but I was one of the few who was in the know. Most of the people around me thought it was deadly serious. I have nothing but admiration for them. They'd seen battle before and suffered losses beyond count at the hands of the orcs, but none of them hesitated to take up arms and do their parts when they were called upon. They mustered their courage and they marched, because it was their whole world at stake and they would not be found wanting.
It's the little people who so often make the difference. I had stopped being one of those some time ago, I think, but here I was surrounded by them, just ordinary men who quietly, without a murmur of protest, went and did their duty. They made up the army. Yes, the leaders of that army play a part, but the soldiers fight and take the losses and history so often forgets them. I'd like to think I'll no longer make such a mistake.
And some of the little people catapult themselves into greatness. Some are catapulted by others. Frodo was a fine example of being propelled towards greatness, while Thráin, although I am quite sure that it was not his intention, was more than capable of making his own mark on history without anyone's help. I shouldn't be surprised, honestly, because at this stage of the game I am quite convinced that it runs in the family…
Thoren
They held the meeting in Thoren's room. Whilst he hated to be perceived as weak – and seeing as how he could not stand on his own two feet nor sit without the aid of several pillows against his back – he hated being excluded worse, so he uttered no protest as Flói and Cathy organised the room.
At least he had been allowed out of bed for it.
'You know that Duria will throw a fit if she catches wind of this,' Cathy warned him.
'When she catches wind of this,' Flói corrected. 'Lifur can only detain her for so long.'
'We ought to have locked her in a cupboard and have done with it,' Cathy muttered. 'She is growing more tiresome by the day.'
She was at that. Thrice now she had come to see him this day alone and he had finally got her to leave him by yawning extensively and announcing that he would try to sleep for some time in order to recover his strength. For a moment he feared he'd laid it on too thick, but it had worked like a charm. Duria, all compassion and docility, said that she had actually many things to accomplish that day and that she would come and see him in the evening when he felt more up to it.
Thoren had felt a little guilty over the deceit, but not for very long.
'Is she being looked after?' he asked.
Cathy nodded. 'Narvi's keeping an eye on her. I don't think anyone's actually told him what happened… well, the last time, but he might have worked it out on his own. He does know her well. And I'll drop in on her later, keep her out of your hair so that you can actually spend some time with your elf.' She arched an eyebrow at him. 'When is the wedding?'
He rolled his eyes at her. 'Will you ever let this go?'
'Will I ever let the opportunity to say I told you so slip through my fingers?' When phrased like this, it seemed unlikely. The smile slipped from her face. 'How are you, though? Really?'
'Mending. Not well, but mending.' It was in some ways the most honest answer he could give. His body healed, slowly, but it healed. The wounds caused by Jack's death were still bleeding. Though he knew that his brother was gone, he still looked for him. It required no conscious thought on his part. Even when the folk attending the meeting walked in, he still looked for him.
And of course did not see him.
If I had not injured myself, would we have made it here fast enough? Would he still have ridden out? The thought had haunted him since the funeral and truth be told, he hadn't thought of an answer yet. It was firmly rooted in the realm of what-ifs and could-have-beens. It did him no good to wonder about it and yet he found he could not escape the thought for long.
Fortunately he had distraction near at hand. Elvaethor was wheeled into the room, looking quite pleased with this new contraption that Harry had quickly named a wheelchair. Kíli, who pushed it, looked equally pleased with himself.
Thranduil had come and so had the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. Celeborn had been wounded, but the Lady looked as untouched as she had when she first walked through the gates. Dáin limped in, leaning heavily on his son. Bard had come without his father, who was still recovering from his injuries. Solmund trailed in behind him, still uncomfortable in the presence of so many leaders.
Dwalin and Fíli were among the last to enter. Fíli walked with more ease now, Thoren observed. He did not need to place as much weight on the stick as he had done before. It did not seem to cause him as much pain either.
We need all who can stand to be able to fight.
Tauriel slipped into the room just behind them and took her place beside Thoren. She made no fuss about it. It was the place he had offered and that she had accepted. Cathy had jested about a wedding, but he knew he ought to do something about it. When the war was done, perhaps, and the grief for Jack not quite so heavy.
The healers – Thora chief among them – had made it clear to him that he could attend this meeting so long as he did not actively involve himself in the planning. He wasn't to do anything more taxing than breathing and listening. As Nori said when he heard it: 'You've been relieved of your command until you can stand on your own two feet again, my lad.' Then he vanished before Thoren could remind him that Elvaethor couldn't do that either and yet he commanded armies.
'Their generals are dead,' Kíli said, appearing very pleased with himself. 'Or, well, deader than they already were.'
'None now remain in this world.' Galadriel had not spoken before, but now she did. 'The two you slew were the last of their kind.'
Silence fell.
But only for a moment. 'All due respect, my lady, but how can you know?' Dwalin asked. 'And how can we be sure?'
'They had rings of power,' Galadriel replied. If she thought him rude, as Thranduil clearly did, then she showed no signs of it. 'They were bound to them, and bound to Sauron's sorcery. I could feel them leave this world.' Being so familiar with magic perhaps gave her an advantage that others lacked. 'How this came to pass, I dare not say.'
The how did not matter. All that truly mattered was that they were gone. They could no longer stand in Thráin's way. The road was clear. We have achieved all that we must. True, they ought to get rid of the orcs still before the gates and that was a matter of some concern, but not necessary to win the war.
Thráin will achieve victory in our name.
He rested easier for that.
'The orcs are without their generals, but not without leaders,' Thranduil remarked, never one to let anyone bask in the feeling of a job well done. 'They will organise themselves. When they are attacked, they will stand as one.'
Elvaethor nodded. 'So they will,' he agreed. 'So perhaps it will be for the best that they will not know that they are attacked by Free Folk. Let them think that their own have turned on them. That does not stretch belief so very far.'
'They will not fall for it again,' Bard said. 'Orcs are not great in wisdom, but neither are they fools. If we repeat what we did before, they shall know that we are behind it. Surely no orc can be so foolish as to not see through it?'
No, orcs were not fools, but they could be misled. 'I do not propose that we repeat the exact action that we performed before.' Elvaethor had a devious look about him that was entirely undwarvish. And yet, Thoren thought, this was what they needed. None of them were conventionally dwarvish in the first place. 'Yet it is also my belief that their fight created a few new grudges that many an orc would be pleased to settle at their earliest convenience. I recall that when I walked through their camp to free my brother there was fighting then too. None induced them to turn on their own. They did so of their own volition. The Nazgûl never eradicated the practice despite the fear and obedience they induced whenever they drew near. If they could not, then the leaders the orcs have now will not be capable either. This is their way.'
'We only need to… encourage them to do so more often,' Tauriel understood. 'They shall not fail to disappoint us. And when they are so weakened, they will be easier pickings than they are now.'
Thoren did not underestimate the risk. Even a weakened orc army was a threat. Their strength was in the numbers the Free Folk Alliance no longer had. Everything they would attempt was a risk.
And so more of our people die.
Yet they had no choice and they all knew that. Their food stores were running low. The traitors had seen to that. As much as a victory as the triumph over the wraiths had been, the war was not yet at an end. Who truly knew how much longer Thráin needed to do what he must? We are on our own until then.
Elvaethor had ideas aplenty and Thoren listened attentively to all of them. He wasn't a fool about this; he'd come prepared. One by one folk allowed themselves to be won over by notions of sneaking out and starting fires or slitting a throat before disappearing back into the dark. Risky manoeuvres, all of them, but doable. It was understood, though not said, that Elvaethor would have gone himself in a heartbeat if he had the command over his legs.
The meeting concluded not much later, for which he was grateful. Much as he didn't like to admit it, he was tired. The healers kept telling him that this was not unusual. He'd lost a lot of blood, they reminded him at least five times a day, and had sustained numerous injuries besides, all of which he felt quite keenly. His leg was the worst of it, after his throat. Most healers were confident that it would heal, but they also warned him that he might have a limp for the rest of his life. It was too early to be certain, they said.
Would that he believed that.
All departed, save for Tauriel, who sat beside him in silence. It was not uncomfortable. They'd had little time to themselves. Tauriel was needed in the war. He misliked letting her go there without him at her back to keep her safe, but his body wouldn't permit it now. The healing was going too slow for his tastes.
He must have said something of the kind, because she responded: 'You are hurt. There are none who hold that against you.'
No, he held it against himself. 'I wonder if I had been less injured…' He halted. He hadn't said it out loud before. Come to think of it, there were quite a number of things he had neglected to mention. Until now he had been content to leave it at that, but he shouldn't keep this from Tauriel. If there was anyone who deserved to know his heart and mind, it was she.
'You could not have prevented his death.' She understood where he had been going with it and so she was quick to cut him off.
Except she was not in possession of all the facts.
'But perhaps I could have saved him the need to ride out.'
'I… I do not understand.' No, she wouldn't. 'We rode as fast as we could. The orcs discovered what we had done shortly after we departed their encampment. They were quick to follow after us. And you, Thoren, you were unwell.' Her hand drifted towards his throat. 'You could not have prevented this. They hurt you too badly.'
'I hurt myself.'
The words dropped into a well of silence. Tauriel was not often lost for words, but now he had silenced her at last. She looked at him, eyes wide, mouth open in something akin to horror.
'But why?' she asked at last.
'I was taught never to let an orc take me alive.' Even after everything and his very lucky escape, he stood by that. They had left him relatively whole because the wraiths believed that he was more use to them alive than dead. Even so, they had not been kind. Thoren remembered little of it; the blood loss had ensured that he was not often conscious, but there were flashes of recall, in dreams and on the edge of waking. 'I saw no opportunity to escape. An orc had a knife against my throat. All I needed to do was to throw myself forward.'
And he had. With limited success, because here he still was.
The silence lasted long again this time.
'You would have…?'
'Yes.' There was no gentle way to say it. 'I did not know that you would come. I did not think it was possible.' Either way, even if he had taken a rescue party into account, the chances of them making it into the heart of the Enemy's encampment and successfully freeing him from captivity were too small to consider viable. He believed himself to be on his own.
With good reason.
Silence again. Then at last. 'I am glad that you failed.'
Knowing what he knew now, 'So am I.' He reached out for her hand. This he could do with relatively little effort and almost no pain. He'd be on his feet again, but for now this would have to suffice. 'I had no wish to depart this life, but it seemed the best option at the time.'
'To avoid the pain?'
'To avoid being used against my own.' The wraith had tried and thank Mahal that his friends and allies had known not to play along. That was by no means guaranteed. For a dwarf it went against the grain to abandon their own and yet he had ordered them to. 'This war is bigger than you and I, much though I hate it.'
'I understand.' Though he could tell she did not like it. 'I think that it must be over soon,' she continued. 'Your brother must be so near his goal now. It is nearly two months since he was in Lothlórien.'
Thoren had made the calculation himself. 'We do not know how many obstacles he has encountered on the way.' He prayed they were few, but he had seen how hard Sauron had acted against the Free Folk Alliance and doubted it. He personally estimated another month. The supplies could perhaps last that long, but it was better not to chance it.
They sat in silence for a while.
Thoren realised he had been remiss. 'I asked you a question not long ago,' he said. 'You accepted, as memory serves.'
'I did,' Tauriel agreed. 'No power in the world can compel me to renege on that promise.'
It gladdened his heart to hear it. 'Then we me,' he said. 'When the war is over and Thráin is home, wed me.' By then surely he'd be back on his feet. He'd be stronger then and far more use to her and his people both. He would not be wed when he was an invalid. Of this he was very sure.
'Yes,' said Tauriel. She had not smiled much either, but now a gentle smile tugged at her lips. 'Yes, I think I should like that very much.'
No doubt the healers would have taken him to task if they knew that he devoted some of his meagre strength to kissing his future wife.
It was therefore best he did not tell them.
Thráin
They were at the foot of Mount Doom. The march had been hard on them all, but here at last they stood: weary, filthy and exhausted. Gimli had a complexion more common on corpses than on the living, Sam could barely stand and Legolas too did not look as collected and in charge as he usually did.
Yet the worst of all was Frodo, whose eyes saw things his companions could not. He'd gone very quiet, but they all saw.
'I cannot,' he said when Legolas put him down so that they could all have a drink of water before they began the ascent. He pushed the lembas Sam held before him away.
'Cannot, Mr Frodo?' Sam asked, alarmed.
'I have no taste for food.'
None of them had, truth be told. Thráin had taken one bite. He'd forced himself to swallow it down, but it was an effort. He hadn't bothered with the rest. And in the past hours the Ring had begun whispering again. He knew this and so found it not too hard to resist at first. Then the whispering became louder. It was still whispers only, but they were the kind of whispers that demanded one's entire attention. In his mind he likened them to the whispers of his childhood, mainly Thoren demanding in the loudest possible whisper whether he was asleep yet or not, thus ensuring that there was no way he'd sleep for a while.
There was no ignoring it. He knew how to resist and resist it he did, but it never went away.
'We are nearly there,' Thráin said. 'Drink something at least, Frodo. The food can wait until we are done.'
Frodo inclined his head in gratitude. 'But I cannot go on. It is too heavy.'
He suspected as much. He also suspected that the whisperings were too much to bear; Frodo always heard them better than any of the others.
Though not for much longer.
He cast his eyes on the slopes of Mount Doom. There was no path here anymore and the climb was a steep one, made even harder by the rocks on the way. He estimated a climb of three to four hours, but one look at his battered companions made him despair of them ever reaching their destination. So close and yet so far. They were so nearly there, but the journey had at times seemed easier when they had more miles yet to go. Here, almost at the end, the last obstacles seemed insurmountable.
'Then we must pass it over.' He took care to keep his tone of voice brisk and to the point.
Sam sent him a pained look. 'I don't think I can do it, Mr Thráin.'
Maker be good. He couldn't fault Sam, because the hobbit had stubbornly walked since they had made the decision to venture forth and make it to the end without further rests. Yet now he was barely able to stand, never mind carry the Ring.
So he turned to Legolas. 'Can you…?' he began.
That was as far as he was allowed to get, because Legolas held up a hand to silence him, shaking his head all the while. 'No. I dare not.'
This Thráin did not understand. 'Dare not?'
'It is too near my thoughts,' the elf clarified.
He didn't say that he well recalled what had happened the last time it had come so near his thoughts, but there was no need. Thráin recalled well enough without the reminder. The images flashed quickly before his mind's eye: the unfocused gaze, the serene tone, 'I know what I must do' and then, when thwarted, the insults and abuse. It was the Ring who had spoken that day, not Legolas. It was plain that he feared a repetition of that day.
He inclined his head in understanding. 'Then I shall not ask it of you.' You know he's too easily ensnared by it, a voice whispered in his head. The Ring's, no doubt, but that did not mean it was wrong. You can resist it better. You are stronger than he is.
These were dangerous paths to tread, so he ignored the Ring as best he could.
'Take it,' Frodo said. Some weeks ago Thráin had feared that Frodo would have trouble letting go of the Ring. That was no longer a problem. These days he handed it over without hesitation, with perhaps a little too much haste even.
Not for much longer.
Thráin covered his neck as best he could and then accepted the burden. The Ring was heavy. He felt it even before he hung it around his neck, where it immediately tripled its weight. He stumbled under the pressure.
Legolas extended an arm before he could fall. 'I do not trust myself to carry it,' he said. 'Yet I think that I have enough strength left to lend you to make it to the end.'
He'd better, because Thráin had severely underestimated this. The Ring had grown stronger of late, but not like this. Now it mustered all the powers that remained to it in order to save itself. The whispering rose to a crescendo, one thought after the next. He barely saw the road ahead of him and breathing became that much harder. He'd need the help.
A fiery eye obscured his vision. He blinked it away to notice that Gimli stood next to him as well, holding out his good arm. 'Lean on me.' It was not an offer, it was an order.
Thráin outranked him, so he ignored him. 'Let off.'
Sam took his place and offered his shoulder for leaning on instead. This he did accept. He'd rather not ask it of Sam either, but at least he was not in danger of dying. He was no longer so sure about Gimli.
The sooner this is done, the better.
The Ring, of course, offered its own advice on the matter. Put me on, it whispered seductively. You can end it all. You can end his suffering. You can go home to save your people. This could all be over.
And so it will be, Thráin thought. Just a few more hours and then it would, indeed, all be over. Idly he reflected that it might even be less than the two days he had promised Frodo some time ago. The trouble was, he was no longer entirely certain how long ago that conversation had been. His memory let him down. Once he reached for the past, all he found were the Ring and the Fiery Eye, staring into his soul, whilst he stared into nothingness. He couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate.
He tried it regardless, because some matters were far too important to forget. Even if I forget all else, I know this: the Ring must be destroyed and I am among friends.
It turned out that it was hard enough remembering just those two simple things. He did as much walking as his friends did dragging. His feet were not under his command, but he knew that he should keep moving. Destroy the Ring. Destroy the Ring. Destroy the Ring. He made it a mantra, chanting it over and over and over. The Ring whispered, but he heard the chanting over it, so that was good.
'Drink, Thráin,' someone told him when they stopped. He had to blink the fiery eye away again until another face appeared before him. He blinked again. Friend, his brain supplied. I am among friends.
Would that he remembered their names. He knew he should. Something told him they'd been with him a while. Else why would he call them friends in the first place?
'Drink, Thráin.' Ah yes, that was his name. He recalled that now, although he wondered for how long the Ring would allow him to do so.
Destroy the Ring. These are friends.
So he accepted the water. He barely felt it; his mouth remained dry.
On they went. He tried to keep his vision on what was happening around him, although it was hard to do so. There were the two friends who walked beside him. They practically carried him between them, because his feet did not work. The Ring kept trying to bring him down. If not for the friends, it would doubtlessly have succeeded in doing so.
They are not important, the Ring insisted. They are too weak. Don't resist me. I shall bring you glory beyond imagining.
Destroy the Ring. Destroy the Ring. Destroy the Ring.
'We are almost there, Mr Thráin,' one of the curly-haired friends said. 'Don't give up now.'
He would have nodded, but that would take strength away from walking, so he didn't. One foot before the other, then again. And again. And again. Time had no meaning. There was only him, the pain, the Ring and the fiery Eye. Try though he might, he could not seem to get rid of it anymore. No amount of blinking or focusing dispelled the image before his eyes. He tried shaking his head as an alternative, but that was no good either.
Truth be told, he did feel fear and despair now. The Eye itself was flame, but the pupil was a window into the void, where nothing lived and breathed, where there was not even death, but only non-existence. It seemed to draw him in as the Eye before him grew ever larger. Although he could feel the sweat running down his face and back in little rivers, he only felt the cold.
'He's shivering.'
'I know.'
'Should we…?'
'It's not far now.'
He heard the voices of his friends – I am among friends – although he did no longer recognise them. Besides, he only heard flashes of their conversation. All the rest was lost, swallowed up by the nothingness of the Eye.
He did notice it when they stopped and gentle hands touched his face. 'Thráin, breathe,' the owner of the hands reminded him. 'Please, breathe. We are here. We have arrived.'
It must be so, because the Ring almost vibrated with anger on its chain. Was it only anger? Could it be fear as well? Did it know that its end was imminent?
'Take it,' he bit out. He could bear it no longer.
No one argued, so they must be true friends indeed. The Ring was taken from him. For a moment he felt the loss so deeply that he reached out to stop them and then, thank Mahal, sense returned to him. He could breathe and so he did, drawing in mouthfuls of air. It still tasted like ash and fire, even more so here than it had at the foot of Mount Doom, but he relished the feeling of breathing.
The cold left him the moment the Ring was taken away from him. Heat took its place. It was unbearably hot. The air was so hot that it simmered. No living creature was made to endure this and yet they must.
He looked around the circle of his friends and named them as soon as he clapped eyes on them. His forgetfulness had been the Ring's doing. He knew them. Frodo, Sam, Gimli, Legolas. They had been the Fellowship since the shores of the Anduin and here they were, so close. None of them had been lost on his watch.
We made it.
Frodo's gasp drew his attention. He had the Ring now.
'Breathe,' he reminded the hobbit who had been so kind to do the same for him. 'Frodo, look at me. Can you see me?' His body was slow in obeying his commands, but it still functioned. He crawled to Frodo's side – when had he fallen? When had Frodo fallen to his knees? – and wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him.
'Barely.' There was naked panic on Frodo's face. 'It is so strong. I can see Him!'
He had feared as much. 'Can you feel my hand?' he asked. 'And hear my voice?'
The hesitation lasted for far too long, but Frodo nodded. 'Yes.'
'Remember that this is the Ring's doing.' None of this was real. Only it was, but it was only real while they had the Ring. That should suffice. 'Remember, Frodo, that you are with friends. And the Ring must be destroyed. Nothing matters more than that.'
This wasn't anything like the book. There was no Gollum and there were decidedly more people here than the text had ever foretold. The Ring worked in different ways here. None of that mattered anything as far as Thráin was concerned. They were so near now.
Sam pulled himself together and marched up to Frodo with a determined expression on his face. 'Lean on us, Mr Frodo,' he said. This too was not a kind offer.
'Let us go,' Gimli said. 'The sooner we're done here, the better.'
Thráin spared a fleeting thought for the eagles. Legolas had not mentioned them for some time. He didn't ask. This was not the time to wait and he didn't need to hear any information that could weaken his resolve to go and do as he must.
An entrance had been made into the mountainside, elaborately carved with elvish symbols, twisted and mangled into Black Speech. It was the first time he had ever seen the language in writing. Reading the text was too much effort anyway, so he ignored the words in favour of all but lifting Frodo on their way to their destination.
They passed below the arch and were greeted with a fresh wave of heat. Frodo's breathing was already laboured and this didn't do him any good. His eyes were unfocused, but no one suggested taking the Ring from him. This was, ultimately, Frodo's task and he would see it completed. Let it be his name that is writ large across history. Thráin had no need for fame, although he suspected it would find him anyway.
The road went on for a little bit farther before it ended without warning, leaving the Fellowship standing on a ledge overlooking the fires below. Was it any wonder that even solid rock melted in this cursed heat? He saw it far below, molten and flowing in rivers of fire. If anything could melt the Ring down, then it was this.
'We are here.'
Frodo looked up and blinked. Thráin, who by now knew only too well what it was that his friend saw, gently squeezed his hand to pull him back to reality. It worked; after a moment Frodo's eyes cleared and he inclined his head to Thráin in thanks.
'It is so heavy,' he whispered. 'And he is always before my eyes.'
'We are here, Frodo,' Thráin replied. 'It is time for you to destroy it.'
Frodo looked at him and then, after a moment that seemed to last forever, shook his head. 'No.'
In the time between one heartbeat and the next the world stopped. After all the precautions he had taken, after all that effort and all that pain and here they still were, with Frodo refusing to do what must be done and no Gollum to set everything right.
I have failed.
No, not failed, he realised when Frodo spoke again. He had only misinterpreted.
'We have all come here,' Frodo said. 'The effort was made by all of us. We should do this as we have done everything else. Together.'
Maker preserve him. 'Let's destroy it and have done with it. The task was appointed to you, Frodo. We were there to ensure that you could do so. So do what must be done and end it all.' And this time Sauron would be gone for good. It seemed foolish to delay when elsewhere folk were suffering under his Shadow.
Frodo stood his ground. 'We have borne this burden in equal measure for many weeks,' he insisted. 'So we must do this in the same manner. It is only right.'
It was only a waste of time, but so was any further arguing, so he nodded. The others gathered round, faces solemn. It was hard to see any expression on their faces at all, dusty and sweaty as they were. Even Legolas had not escaped it at the last. Frodo held out his hand with the Ring in it. He'd removed the chain from around his neck, so now there was nothing to hold the Ring back should it decide to depart. It didn't, possibly because there was nowhere for it to go.
They all reached out and folded their hands over Frodo's. Nobody spoke. The moment had too much weight for that. The Ring quivered with malice, but when he looked around the faces of his companions and friends, his brothers in arms, he saw only a steely resolve.
'Right,' said Gimli. 'Shall I count down? And then we drop it?'
He was rewarded with terse nods from the other four. By unspoken agreement they shuffled a few inches closer to the edge and extended their hands over it. The heat was unbearable, but it was unbearable anyway. The Ring lessened in weight, quite possibly because falling was now the very last thing it wanted.
'Three.'
Put me on! All your dreams will come true! Khazad-dûm will be yours!
'Two.'
Everything you have ever wanted. Your kith and kin alive and well.
'One.'
Your heart's desires will be met. PUT. ME. ON!
'Now!'
The compulsion of the last words still rang in his mind, but Thráin batted it away like he would a fly. He opened his hand when the others did and toppled the Ring without further ado into the fire. He saw a brief glint of light on gold and then it disappeared from sight.
Forever.
Next time: Ring destruction in 3… 2… 1…
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