The ring was beautiful. It was compelling to look at; far beyond the appearance
of the gleaming gold band, with its gem skillfully set. The Lord of the Gifts
indeed! And as the ring shone in my eyes, so did he shine before me. Not
as the elven lords I had seen, but greater and more brilliant. Yet his radiance
was different, more complex, not as pure.
There was never a question of refusing his gift. Nor of refusing the power that came with that gift, raising me to be great among men, even above other kings. Nine rings he said had been crafted for the men of Middle-earth, and to me he gave the greatest, and I preened myself on his approval.
I could not then see beyond preserving and extending my kingdom.
Whatever sorcery and craft I had found for myself, it was a pittance. My own power was as a simple wandering stream that bears away leaves and thin branches, compared to the mighty Rauros falls of the ring; a cataract of power that swept away anything in its path unless it were anchored in the very bones of the land.
When I beheld the glitter on my finger, and felt the strength flow through me to dazzle those about me, I knew myself fortunate to become so mighty among men. I chanced now and again to consider how I came to be chosen for this gift. Was it my valor, my wisdom, or my noble Numenorean origin that made me worthy?
Now I know I was worthy because I was weak, young, and easily deceived. My unwillingness to accept less than I had promised myself was my greatest recommendation to the lord of the hidden darkness. So I chose, and was chosen, and have become great among those who walk into the shadow. King of wraiths, I command among the servants of Sauron; and great kingdoms have I won and lost under his tutelage. Dominion has been given to me, if not as I desired when he first beckoned. But it matters not what that foolish young man thought then.
From the moment I beheld the ring in his hand, there was no escape.
Now, I cannot imagine that I ever considered escape. Yet I know there were times I both loved and cursed the source of my power; the ring, and the dark lord revealed at last as the giver. And at that I was fortunate, for I became powerful and feared by others. I could have had the fate of Celebrimbor; tormented, shamed, killed. He lived to see his lifework in service of his bitterest enemy, his craft the cause of the downfall of his land and kin. Weakling smith, lover of dwarves!
Yet Celebrimbor was allowed to pass to Mandos' halls, and I, even after centuries of service, was held to Arda and the will of another whether I wished to live or die. Ironic, is it not? Here am I a man, who survived long ages despite being born mortal; only to envy a dead elf. How different would my fate be had I accepted the Gift of Iluvatar, rather than the Gift of Annatar?
In the early days we had common purpose, and his will lay lightly over mine. It is long since his hand has become heavy, and his care for me less, my purpose a tiny shadow hidden within his looming darkness. Perhaps I could have loved, married, sired children. There would have been a line of kings from my loins! But Sauron is a jealous master. All strength, ambition, love and lust is his; harvested from his servants, we who sold ourselves for long life and power. Power! Now I have not the power to do aught but his bidding.
Sometimes, though rarely, I think of peace and rest, and know I shall not have it while Sauron's spirit inhabits Arda.
Will I ever suffer the Gift of Iluvatar? One of the wretched elves has foretold that I will. I do not know if I fear it, or desire it. But if I were to pass to the halls of Mandos, what welcome would there be for such as I? All who I knew, family, friends, and subjects, feared my very name by the end.
Perhaps I should fear it myself, were I sane as I once defined it. I am not, I will never be. And I shall wear the blood of my enemies proudly to the end of my days.
It is too late to do anything else.
A/N I welcome any review, comment, nitpick, suggestion for development, etc.
There was never a question of refusing his gift. Nor of refusing the power that came with that gift, raising me to be great among men, even above other kings. Nine rings he said had been crafted for the men of Middle-earth, and to me he gave the greatest, and I preened myself on his approval.
I could not then see beyond preserving and extending my kingdom.
Whatever sorcery and craft I had found for myself, it was a pittance. My own power was as a simple wandering stream that bears away leaves and thin branches, compared to the mighty Rauros falls of the ring; a cataract of power that swept away anything in its path unless it were anchored in the very bones of the land.
When I beheld the glitter on my finger, and felt the strength flow through me to dazzle those about me, I knew myself fortunate to become so mighty among men. I chanced now and again to consider how I came to be chosen for this gift. Was it my valor, my wisdom, or my noble Numenorean origin that made me worthy?
Now I know I was worthy because I was weak, young, and easily deceived. My unwillingness to accept less than I had promised myself was my greatest recommendation to the lord of the hidden darkness. So I chose, and was chosen, and have become great among those who walk into the shadow. King of wraiths, I command among the servants of Sauron; and great kingdoms have I won and lost under his tutelage. Dominion has been given to me, if not as I desired when he first beckoned. But it matters not what that foolish young man thought then.
From the moment I beheld the ring in his hand, there was no escape.
Now, I cannot imagine that I ever considered escape. Yet I know there were times I both loved and cursed the source of my power; the ring, and the dark lord revealed at last as the giver. And at that I was fortunate, for I became powerful and feared by others. I could have had the fate of Celebrimbor; tormented, shamed, killed. He lived to see his lifework in service of his bitterest enemy, his craft the cause of the downfall of his land and kin. Weakling smith, lover of dwarves!
Yet Celebrimbor was allowed to pass to Mandos' halls, and I, even after centuries of service, was held to Arda and the will of another whether I wished to live or die. Ironic, is it not? Here am I a man, who survived long ages despite being born mortal; only to envy a dead elf. How different would my fate be had I accepted the Gift of Iluvatar, rather than the Gift of Annatar?
In the early days we had common purpose, and his will lay lightly over mine. It is long since his hand has become heavy, and his care for me less, my purpose a tiny shadow hidden within his looming darkness. Perhaps I could have loved, married, sired children. There would have been a line of kings from my loins! But Sauron is a jealous master. All strength, ambition, love and lust is his; harvested from his servants, we who sold ourselves for long life and power. Power! Now I have not the power to do aught but his bidding.
Sometimes, though rarely, I think of peace and rest, and know I shall not have it while Sauron's spirit inhabits Arda.
Will I ever suffer the Gift of Iluvatar? One of the wretched elves has foretold that I will. I do not know if I fear it, or desire it. But if I were to pass to the halls of Mandos, what welcome would there be for such as I? All who I knew, family, friends, and subjects, feared my very name by the end.
Perhaps I should fear it myself, were I sane as I once defined it. I am not, I will never be. And I shall wear the blood of my enemies proudly to the end of my days.
It is too late to do anything else.
A/N I welcome any review, comment, nitpick, suggestion for development, etc.