Author's Notes: The time is about 1800 Second Age. Minastir was the King of Númenor who came to the aid of Gil-galad in the War of the Elves and Sauron. Annatar was the name Sauron used in Middle-Earth to disguise his true identity.
Disclaimer: All characters with the exception of Rhîwel belong to Tolkien; the name of one of the nine, Risgranil, is my invention, as are his history and family.
Nine for Mortal Men Doomed to Die
"…and in the darkness bind them."
The firelight flickered, now and again illuminating the pools of congealing blood - blood of his loins, blood of his youngest son, blood of his own murderous hand. Risgranil knew he should make haste while darkness yet covered the countryside, lest a servant make the grisly discovery. Yet he tarried, reveling in the guilt that stained his soul.
Untold wealth and power he had been promised, and those he had - wealth stolen from his people, power founded in terror and violence. For all that had come to him, happiness had deserted his house. With his conscience, he could not live; with him, his kin would not abide. His wife was long dead of her own hand; his daughter by the hand of the cruel man to whom he had sold her in marriage; his sons, save the youngest, taken in wars against the lord he served. Rhîwel alone had remained at his side, Rhîwel, his favorite, taciturn in his disapproval. Perhaps it was best that his youngest son would not see his final degradation, his descent into living death.
It was too late for regrets, he knew. Minastir, in the end, had spoken truly.
"I beg you, take it off, my friend, take it off and cast it to the sea. It can bring you naught but misery. You see only gold and conquest now, but in time you shall be but a thrall to the Dark Lord."
"Minastir, you have passed too much time in the company of elves and trust them overmuch. They only want to recover the rings for their own use, that Gil-galad may dominate the land and reduce men to vassals." So he had been told by Annatar, and he then believed his words.
Now he knew of his corruption - the ring he bore would make a slave of him, without even hope of freedom in death. He was now old, and felt the weariness of his age, but remained youthful in appearance - what remained of his appearance, indeed. He saw now that translucence ate at his substantiality, and more than once he had spied the subtle decay of death in his likeness.
Yes, now would he cast off this shackle, but he could not; the very thought plunged him into an agony of mind and body. His fate was sealed, he had surely sold his soul. His wealth and power untold would disappear with his material shell, for the time of reckoning was nigh, and his soul in payment must soon be delivered into the hands of his dark master.
Disclaimer: All characters with the exception of Rhîwel belong to Tolkien; the name of one of the nine, Risgranil, is my invention, as are his history and family.
"…and in the darkness bind them."
The firelight flickered, now and again illuminating the pools of congealing blood - blood of his loins, blood of his youngest son, blood of his own murderous hand. Risgranil knew he should make haste while darkness yet covered the countryside, lest a servant make the grisly discovery. Yet he tarried, reveling in the guilt that stained his soul.
Untold wealth and power he had been promised, and those he had - wealth stolen from his people, power founded in terror and violence. For all that had come to him, happiness had deserted his house. With his conscience, he could not live; with him, his kin would not abide. His wife was long dead of her own hand; his daughter by the hand of the cruel man to whom he had sold her in marriage; his sons, save the youngest, taken in wars against the lord he served. Rhîwel alone had remained at his side, Rhîwel, his favorite, taciturn in his disapproval. Perhaps it was best that his youngest son would not see his final degradation, his descent into living death.
It was too late for regrets, he knew. Minastir, in the end, had spoken truly.
"I beg you, take it off, my friend, take it off and cast it to the sea. It can bring you naught but misery. You see only gold and conquest now, but in time you shall be but a thrall to the Dark Lord."
"Minastir, you have passed too much time in the company of elves and trust them overmuch. They only want to recover the rings for their own use, that Gil-galad may dominate the land and reduce men to vassals." So he had been told by Annatar, and he then believed his words.
Now he knew of his corruption - the ring he bore would make a slave of him, without even hope of freedom in death. He was now old, and felt the weariness of his age, but remained youthful in appearance - what remained of his appearance, indeed. He saw now that translucence ate at his substantiality, and more than once he had spied the subtle decay of death in his likeness.
Yes, now would he cast off this shackle, but he could not; the very thought plunged him into an agony of mind and body. His fate was sealed, he had surely sold his soul. His wealth and power untold would disappear with his material shell, for the time of reckoning was nigh, and his soul in payment must soon be delivered into the hands of his dark master.