The Lord of the Rings

OR

The One Ring of Power and

Baggins of Bag End

Sauron had the revelation from deep within to encase his soul in something more ambitious than himself; he could feel his strain to conquer fading away. He had to reignite that passion for the world, his desire to destroy the elves and take the vast lands of Middle Earth for his own. But he also needed the races of the world to fight amongst one another, weaken themselves from the inside.

As he pondered his troubles for hours on end, his orcs sacrificed themselves to a failing war. He cared not for their loss save when he received defeat from their foolishness and weakness, directionless when the leaders and masses were killed. He thought about his finger and studied it as he pondered; he imagined a magnificent, golden ring around it . . . sleek and shimmering, like nothing he'd ever seen before.

Rings. Simple, powerful, compellingly beautiful, mesmerizing. A perfect weapon.

He commanded three to be forged for the elves, seven for the dwarves, and nine for men. In time, he created and monitored the rings' power: thirst for strength and dominance crept into every one of the ringbearers, but the men were sucked into their greed easily. So easily, in fact, that Sauron felt perhaps they wanted power in the same way he did.

Before he enticed them into his servitude, however, he had one thing left to finish.

The Dark Lord poured over his forge, bringing into the fires of Mount Doom only the purest, finest gold. As he worked he stroked the molten metal with his armored finger and murmured a chilling chant. Pieces of his soul trickled into the liquid, tarnishing it with a white-red glow. Once he finished with the soul transfer, he collapsed—weakened—to the ground. The volcano rumbled around him, not caring about his condition. It took eight hours for Sauron to regain consciousness, and longer than that to truly recover from the distribution of his very substance to some other being.

And a being it would be. For not only would this Ring, this One Ring out of twenty rings of Power, carry Sauron's soul: it would exist and act for itself, as an elf or a man, only infinitely more powerful, infinitely more persuasive . . .

Infinitely more beautiful.

The chants to give life to the Ring, or at least the ability for it to transform from Ring to woman and back, were more difficult for Sauron to pronounce. They were far older than most creatures currently to walk the earth, but Sauron knew the language acceptably well. He tied a hundred spells to the metal as it simmered away. Only a fraction of the molten pool of gold would be used to make his Ring, but he cast magic over all of it. He whispered to it, made it his own, told it what they would do together: they would conquer the world. They would know power no one ever dreamed of.

Her day dawned over all the world but Mordor. Mount Doom anticipated the day, spewing endless clouds of ash and smoke to block the barest hints of light from the sky. The orcs did not know, but nature did, as did Sauron. The gold bubbled with anxiety as Sauron reverently clipped a pair of metal tongs around a small scoop. He reached into the molten gold with it, coming back up with the liquid that would make his Ring. He turned and tipped it into the Ring's mold, fitted to his finger. To a man the Ring's mold looked enormous, but to Sauron it seemed small and precious, nothing but perfect.

The gold sizzled and hissed as it settled, still bubbling until it looked semi-solid. Sauron carefully lifted the mold with his huge, armored fingers and laid it in a basin of water. The Ring hissed louder, spewing boiling drops of water to evaporate on the air as the metal molecules calmed, solidifying it into a single, solid piece.

Sauron waited for the Ring to harden fully, then pulled off his armored glove. He reached inside the water with pale, strong fingers and slipped his Ring into his grasp. The Ring stared back at him, suddenly materialized. The new range of senses overwhelmed it, and it hadn't even become human yet. Sauron gently laid it on the nearest smooth surface—a stone anvil, set on the rocks a meter or so below him.

Some minutes passed as the Ring took in its world. It perused the heat of fire, the stifling stench of smoke, the cruel rock of the mountain, the raw pain of emotions under pressure of her hatred and greed, the overwhelming vastness of knowledge she gained from knowing everything Sauron knew. Then her golden shell cracked on one side and straightened out into a flat line. The gold appeared suddenly stretchy, filmy. It strained and spread across the anvil, almost molten, multiplying and flowing into the graceful shape of a beautiful woman draped over the stone. The gold stiffened there, then gained color and life. The Ring staggered for her first breath, and her fingers tightened into clenched fists. A dress of harsh black materialized with her flesh, and black armor adorned her ribcage and shoulders. She wore a tight band of gold around her neck as well as one on each wrist and ankle. She had bronze skin and raven hair, perfectly suited to what Sauron wanted. Her sharp eyebrows accented closed eyes, with the lids over them painted gold. She reached out blindly with slender fingers. Black fingernails sprouted like claws from her hands, searching for her lord Sauron.

Sauron obliged, slipping his fingers into her velvet grip. As he eased her up and off the anvil, her hold tightened until his hand turned slightly red from the pressure. Beautiful and dangerous, and exactly his own size. She stood perfectly level with him.

"Tomorrow, my Precious Ring," Sauron murmured, "we conquer Middle Earth."

She bowed her head. "Indeed, my lord. Do not fail us." When her eyes rose again, Sauron sucked in a breath: her irises were bright gold, and in them shone the dark language of Mordor, etched in blinding white. Her low, soft voice pierced the air and echoed around the cavern of Mount Doom.

"I will rule them all. I will find them. I will bring them all, and in the darkness bind them." She bowed to him fully, then reached up and kissed his hand. Her searing touch sent tingles of lightning and flame through Sauron's whole form. The Dark Lord and his Ring were tied permanently now; nothing could divide them. They were one soul.

But despite her beauty and strength, despite the tight bond between them, Sauron did not love her. They treated each other as though he did.

By dawn the next morning, the Ring awakened him with a hiss in his ear. She ordered him to get moving—her every command stung like a whip, but drove him like a mountain of tantalizing treasure. Her eyes were sleek and beautiful, but hideous with cruel, calculating rage. Her voice was soft, but burned the air like a simmering flame. He found she controlled him with the slightest movement of her fingertips when in human form. She never appeared as a woman to another; he wore her as a Ring when he went into battle, and she became his Precious when they returned to the shadow.

The Ring knew what love meant. Sauron had loved once, before he became the Dark Lord, but he no longer believed in it. She refused to admit to herself that love had felt rather pleasant. It betrayed her, and she had no one to love or care for. She never wanted to either, save for in that little piece of her that had come from Sauron once being able to feel more than anguish and hatred. She convinced them both that Sauron was the closest she could come to love, although it resembled a fiery pact of conquering strength.

Now, though, Sauron also felt controlled. He couldn't resist her commands; the curve of her Ring form and the shine of her eyes captivated him, and she accused him of being a coward if he did not fulfill his ambitions. He obeyed her with as little meekness as he could manage, although he never dared argue or fight. He had, he recalled, given her persuasive power. It would work on any, hundreds of times more potently than it had on Sauron.

She controlled his armies. Not only did she grant him the strength and will to govern all of Middle Earth, but she burned the hearts of the orcs hard and black. Although they did not know she existed save in the form of a Ring, she drove their very hatred. She had enough of her own to give to the forces of her lands, and more as they came.

She commanded the final battle, gathered close to the slopes of Mount Doom. There were more orcs than ever before, and only scraps of men and elves were allied against the forces of Mordor. Sauron stood, overlooking his armies with his Precious standing beside him.

"Go down to them," she purred in his ear. Sauron shuddered; the command in her voice frightened him. She slipped her fingers over his arm and tugged slightly, startling him. Her simple movement had the impact of an iron fist. "Go." Her tone grew dark and almost threatening. He nodded hastily, donning his armor. He grabbed his helmet, but before he could put it on she traced her finger along his forehead. "I shall come with you, love." She kissed his cheek sweetly and coldly. He shivered as she crunched down around his armored finger as a Ring, condensing from a woman into liquid into a band of gold. Her words shimmered along her curve, reminding him what she'd told him and everything they stood for together.

Sauron slipped his helmet over his head, determined not to let her down. He grabbed his sword and stepped down from the mountain, towards the armies. They clashed violently, and arrows flew over the mountains. He marched easily through his puny orcs to the even tinier men . . . and everything stilled when the front lines of Mordor's enemy laid eyes on the Dark Lord.

The Ring burned into their hearts with a chilling fear. No one could move as Sauron wrapped his metal fingers around his weapon and swung it into the men. A shout arose when dozens fell in one swoop, and Sauron swung again. The battle started up once more as orcs amassed around their Dark Lord to defend him, but he needed them not. The Ring drove him through the helpless, tragically brave men, right to the King of Gondor.

She squeezed her lord's finger mercilessly, driving him to get it over with. Sauron wanted to savor the moment, but she refused: they had to eliminate the enemy quickly. He swung hard, smashing the King's sword. The King fell back with a strangled cry and slammed against a cliff of stone some yards behind him.

Isildur, his son, watched helplessly as his father's eyelids slipped shut for the final time. He knelt down by his father's side, but it was indeed too late. The Ring recognized a new leader, and she squeezed Sauron harder.

Crush him! Break him!

Sauron at last found the strength to at least bend her command, savor his victory. He stretched out his fingers, staring down at the powerless Isildur writhing on the ground. Isildur eyed the Ring fleetingly, then searched for a weapon. The Ring screeched at Sauron, demanding that he hurry. Sauron winced at the strain against his ears, and he snapped back at her in his mind—he could taste victory, so she need not rush him.

Do it now! Do it now; he is armed!

Sauron swung down suddenly, but he saw no weapon, and so dramatized his movement. Satisfaction and sweet triumph flowed through him. Isildur raised the hilt and connected shard of sword; the Ring cried out again, afraid for her life. She strained on Sauron's finger, and he released his weapon with that hand in sudden pain. Isildur reached up, unable to do anything but swipe blindly. The blade hissed through Sauron's fingers, severing the Ring from his grasp. He roared in pain at the sudden snap between him and his life-force. The Ring cried out, agonized, as she and Sauron's fingers tumbled through the air, dropping suddenly to the ground.

The armies of Mordor, suddenly free of their malice and strength and lost without their leader, retreated. Men and elves exploded into cheers, grabbing each other and congratulating their fellow warriors: Middle Earth was finally free. The Dark Lord Sauron had fallen.

The Ring clenched close to Sauron's finger; it began to crumble and blow away in the wind. She should have felt sorrow, assuming she actually cared about him. Nothing entered her mind save bitter mourning. She felt so weak now, and she knew she was ended. She would be taken to the Fires of Doom and melted away, never to know the strength and power Sauron promised her. The cursed Dark Lord didn't have the capacity to understand the danger in Isildur—she angrily asserted to herself that she should have driven him harder.

Even as she sat in her state of despair, Isildur lay stunned. He might have celebrated with his people, but somehow he couldn't move. The golden circlet enchanted him in a dangerous sort of way. He scooped up the finger bearing the Ring in his hand and allowed it to crumble away while he studied the metal.

The Ring settled mournfully until Isildur's fingers flickered reverently about her. She paused, staring up at the prince. He looked ragged, tired, covered in dirt and blood. A plan of revenge built in her mind, a way to achieve power; she could see clearly, perhaps through thousands of years, a road of patience by which she could reunite with Sauron. She could feel him still out there: her existence preserved him, and she could allow energy and soul to trickle back to him in pieces.

Patience made the journey, but she had to start as soon as possible.