To I.H.N., thank you for your review, you inspired me to write again.She is really very strong, but probably not more so than Isildur himself, but he was from another time and place, and his values and hers are very different. Frodo had great resilence (sp) to the ring, but was it really just hobbit-iness that gave him that, or was it his values? He wasn't a warrior or a king, he just wanted to be able to go home. Whereas Isildur and Boromir were conditioned to value power very highly, even if they began only wanting it for protection, Frodo and Bilbo didn't really value power at all. Home, good food, songs, friends. Those are the things that gave them true power, enough to resist the ring as long as they did.

STILL IN THE NEAT OFFICE

Okay, now I'm sobbing on my office floor and guess what? I don't care. Earlier I was fine, even when I was crazy, I was still in control. I was trying to decide to destroy that… that... that thing… that hideous thing, but once I decided what to do I was almost okay. I was still going nuts, but you know what? I was okay because I was taking action. When I was little I would see a building in my head, and I would want to make it real, and it was painful because I didn't know how. Then I went to the library and taught myself to read plans, I paid attention in math and learned how to understand the plans, and then I started making my own plans and created the beautiful buildings I saw in my head. That made the pain stop, and the same thing happened today. The ring caused me pain, I figured it out in my mind how to destroy the ring, and craziness, desperation, sickness, all those things set in, but the soul-crushing pain disappeared. Now I'm helpless against the thing and it hurts so bad I just don't care. I have this sick desire to put on the ring, and that just makes the pain worse. Now my entire self is bent around giving into the nasty little thing, except this one proud little part, the part that rode my bike to the library to read plans when I had barely learned to read at all, and that little part is what's causing the pain. If I would just give up, I could put on the ring and never feel this way again, but I can't because of that nasty little voice and if I could reach inside myself I would rip it out and… Do you hear this? I've never in my entire life been violent or destructive, I'm a builder, I hate to see buildings torn down even when I know my own will take their place. Here I am, wanting to destroy a part of myself?

Slowly, I drag myself to my feet, where did I leave off with the poetry? "Visited the townlands, and learned the minds of many distant men?" I don't think that's right… but just reciting the verse gives me some of the peace I used to feel when I went jogging. Not a lot of peace, but enough to calm down. I close my eyes, and can almost see the horizon from my favorite part of the route I used to job. I would crest a hill and see almost all of Seattle and the Sound laid out before me. If I timed it just right the sun would be rising or setting and the world would be red. I let out a jagged breath and turn my attention to the ring. It's glowing… I can tell that it is still hot. But the band isn't perfect anymore, there are cracks. I look closer and am surprised by what looks like writing.

"It is the language of Mordor." The voice is masculine and it is behind me, I jump and let out a startled yelp, and feeling goofy punch the stranger in the shoulder. Not roughly, but as I might've punched my best friend for telling a stupid joke in a bar. His face had been solemn, but my action surprises both of us, and he quirkes an eyebrow at me and rubs his arm. I'm on an emotional roller coaster and catch myself about to go into some panicked sobbing laughter, but stop myself and giggle maniacally instead. It only lasts a second. I must have left the door unlocked in my mentally unstable state. This guy could be any axe murderer and I'm giggling with him... But no, he's the guy who helped me on the corner with the guy who attacked me.

"Language of what?"

"It is the language of Mordor, a dark land, I shall not speak it here, but the band says: "One ring to rule them all, and in the darkness bind them."

"Huh." I start giggling again. I mean, come on, isn't that a little dramatic? It takes me a second to regain control, and I ask, more to sound not insane than because I really care: "Who wrote it?"

"It is part of a poem:

'Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,

Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,

Nine for the Mortal Men doomed to die,

One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne.

In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie.

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,

One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them

In the Land of Mordor, where the Shadows lie.'

That is the poem of which I speak."

His solemn look is back, and his language has become very formal. His very presence is making some of my insanity slip away, but he seems to be someone to whom a great burden has been laid, and the terrible, mischievous part of me can't help but take over: "It rhymes."

He looks at me a little startled, "Beg your pardon?"

"Well, if it's in the language of Mordor, why does it rhyme in English? That's pretty darn convenient. Is it an exact translation, or did you dress it up." The man looks at me, and I swear his ears are pointy. I'm really going crazy. A horrific thought occurs to me: "Are you real?"

Now he looks startled as well as offended, and he repeats: "Beg your pardon?"

"Well, sir, this day hasn't been chock full of sanity for me, and imagining pointy-eared guys appearing in my office doesn't sound that far out of the realm of possibility. Are you real?"

He stares at me, and then reaches out and pinches my arm. Hard. "Ow."

"Does that settle that? Or do you need more proof that I'm real? We need to discuss how we are going to rid ourselves of that accursed thing."

I have a sudden, blinding burst of hope at that statement. He apparently knows it needs to be destroyed, he is apparently real (my arm hurts), and he's apparently going to help me. The insanity is building again, but his presence is doing what the poetry did earlier, it's distracting me enough that I'm able to grasp the one corner of my mind that is analytical and hang on like I would to the edge of a cliff. I suddenly see Mount Rainier as I would if I was looking at it on a clear cool spring day back home. I imagine what it would be like to be clinging off a crag, about to fall. I wonder if this man is strong enough that he could catch me. I shove the thought aside: you either climb the mountain or you don't. You either trust the people you climb with, or you fall.

Despite the unnerving vision of dangling from Rainier's volcano-carved side, strangely the thought bolsters me. In my head I can trace the peaks of Mount Rainier against the sky. There are three, or so it always appeared to me. They were created when the mountain exploded sometime in the ancient past. I can also see the glaciers, glowing in the sunlight like stars that made their home on earth. This vision further grounds my mind, and I realize that whenever I concentrate on my home I'm closer to sane. Knowing this, I do what any Seattle-ite would.

"You're right, we need to discuss this. There's a Starbucks up the block." The guys eyebrow quirks again, but I don't leave him time to argue. The ring appears cool, so I use the tongs to pick it up and drop it in my pocket. Thinking straight for a second I also snatch up my keys, and as I follow pointy-ear guy out of the office, I actually remember to lock the door.