The Ring's voice trickled out in a trembling murmur, attempting to sound convincing despite her sorrowful, vengeful turmoil. "Hail, Isildur of Gondor," she began. Isildur's eyes opened wide, and he searched for the source of the voice. "Slayer of the Dark Lord, Freer of the World." The Ring stretched, trickling into her human form. But as she grew she realized she would be much too big for him; she sank into a smaller form, condensing even herself as a Ring. As she shrank, she adapted to what would be most attractive to Isildur—slimmer than what Sauron would want, more warrior than Sauron's perspective of perfection. Her hair shortened and grew brown, her skin lightened just a tad, and her clothes became the graceful, blue dress of a queen. But her eyes and circlets did not change; they never would. She knelt before Isildur, taking his hand. She bowed, letting one of her hands flow out behind her. She pressed her lips to his knuckles. "Hail my rescuer, one who has brought me from the hand of Sauron."

Isildur sat flabbergasted. This beautiful woman had grown from the Ring, and seemed to worship him. Her kiss felt like fire, sparking tingles in his fingers. She bowed low, then stared up at him with wide, beautiful eyes. They were golden with writing etched into them; Elvish, the Elvish language of Mordor.

"I am yours," she whispered reverently. With persuasive power, she reached into his mind and felt around for what he wanted: prestige. Power. The very epitome of Sauron as a man—this worked to her advantage. She stroked the side of his cheek with her thumb, cupped the back of his head and ran her fingers through his hair. "I am your Precious, Isildur of Gondor. I will bring you great power and wealth, peace in all of Middle Earth, for I am great . . . and under your command."

Lord Elrond of Rivendell approached behind them. The Ring hissed to herself; she could designate who saw her as a woman and when—thankfully enough—but she still needed to hide. She crumpled back into a Ring, slipped into Isildur's grasp. He opened his mouth to call her back to life, but Elrond knelt down before him and stared at the Ring.

"It is the weapon of the Dark Lord," Elrond murmured gravely. "He lives in this Ring; we must destroy it. Come, Isildur." He extended a hand to the prince, but Isildur ignored him. They couldn't destroy the Ring. He wanted to know what that enchanting woman meant about power and wealth and peace. She could help him; Elrond obviously didn't know what asset he was giving up.

Elrond noted the argument in Isildur's eyes. "Isildur," he said sternly. The warrior's gaze turned up to him, and he stood slowly. Elrond stared down at the Ring.

"It has already begun to take you. Anything with such darkness embedded and melted inside cannot be trusted." The elf led him along the battlefield, but Isildur still hesitated in every step he took. He studied the Ring and the writing along the sides; it was so pristine and beautiful, helpful besides.

He attempted to convince Elrond on the way. He protested that it promised to help, but Elrond adamantly stood his ground. He continued up the mountain, even as Isildur vowed he would use the Ring only for good.

Elrond ushered him quickly to the end of a platform overlooking the roaring fires of Mount Doom. The Ring trembled; her day could not come, not yet. She'd survived Sauron's demise—she could get farther. She had to restore her master, find power and prestige as he had whispered to her while he stirred her life with his finger.

Isildur walked very hesitantly to the edge. Power. Peace. Prestige. Riches. The Ring whispered these words, desperate to live. She couldn't sound overly commanding, not yet. He stood to throw her in, but did not raise his hand.

"Isildur!" Elrond shouted.

The Ring numbed Isildur's ears. He stood with her flat in his palm, and she slowly melted over the sides of his hand into her human form. She cupped his jaw with her hands—they were calloused warrior's hands now, but softer than his were. He faltered to her touch; she smiled, then stared behind her shoulder into the lava. She gasped (a little dramatically for her taste) and embraced Isildur frantically. His heart thudded fast against her ear. Excellent: he feared losing her already—he would not be hard to harness for good.

"I beg of you, great master," she whispered fearfully although her every movement disgusted her, "let me live!" She turned her gaze to him and opened her eyes wide. He could not move, completely entranced. "I promise to serve you. I may have been dark once, but your power has overwhelmed me." He's a dimwitted mortal if he's taking this ridiculous nonsense. "Please, let me be yours." She leaned her face forward hesitantly, but she had to sell it.

Her lips had almost touched his, but Elrond snapped at Isildur again. For once she was glad that elves existed, but only for a fleeting moment.

"Throw it in the fire, Isildur! Do not let it tempt you!"

Isildur's eyes flickered open and closed, overpowered by this new phenomenon, this fiery beauty before him that promised him power and wanted him. He'd never felt so valued before, not by anything so amazing. And she could help.

It made no sense to throw her in the lava. And she had pleaded so helplessly, so delicately.

He turned to Elrond, and she relaxed. At least, she partially relaxed: Isildur's arm wrapped solidly around her waist, and she rolled her eyes just a little. She couldn't wait to get rid of this King of Gondor already, and she would make his death a sudden betrayal. She began plotting it in her mind, beginning to stretch her thoughts out to the orcs of Mordor. Leastwise the ones that could still hear her.

Where were those cursed men, those Nazgul? She couldn't hear them, and no doubt they wouldn't hear her either.

Isildur narrowed his eyes at the elf. He felt a little distrustful of Elrond now. "No. I can use it for good, Elrond. The Ring is now mine." He peered at her eyes longingly, and she forced a sweet smile back. When he turned his gaze from her again, however, she glared at him hard.

If only I could make your death slow and agonizing. It's a shame I have to kill you quickly.

The only thing keeping her from strangling him right then was how he'd kept her alive . . . but that meant he was greedily blind enough not to intrigue her.

But perhaps she would have more fun killing him if she built up his trust and agony beforehand.

He brought the Ring back to his palace in Gondor, proudly bearing her on his horse. She told him, simply so she could avoid his obviously growing affection, that she had to become a Ring periodically. Isildur never wanted to lose her (and she grudgingly gushed the same to him), and so slipped her around a chain on his neck whenever she got sick of him. If she ever became a woman on the chain, shackles formed on her wrist and neck bands, leaving her in the hands of Isildur. She avoided that greatly.

She tortured him to the best of her ability. She strung him along, made him believe he was a great king with all power that she "loved"; she asserted to call him "love" like she had Sauron, but never betrayed her master. Isildur was not bad as kings go, but she couldn't abide him.

The Ring spent years with him. She tucked herself back into a Ring less and less often, came to twirling her fingers through his hair and tantalizing him with visions of how she would reward him with flattering words and perhaps even a kiss when he came home from conquering Middle Earth. He would stare off into the distance, and his greed grew even as he watched the world outside . . . particularly the parts of that world he did not have.

One day he noticed a change in her. She'd been away from Sauron for so long, the etched words in her eyes and on the curve of her Ring form began to fade: he once dropped her Ring form into the fireplace by mistake and learned that the heat restored the writing for a short time. Her eyes settled into a deep gold, no longer glowing but very solid and stark. Her soul hardened, finally stone in hatred for all of Gondor, all of Minas Tirith, but mostly all of Isildur.

Finally she had amassed enough strength to summon a squadron of orcs from Mordor. She also finally convinced Isildur to ride out and conquer the neighboring kingdom of Rohan. His servants fought him from the sidelines, however subtly they could until he became abrasive about conquering Middle Earth. The Ring ensured he listened to no one but her.

"My Precious," he said—lovestruck, but he thought he truly loved her—"tonight we conquer Rohan. You will love me all the more." He slipped her onto his lap; she sat on the very edge of his knees, although he tried to pull her close. She angled herself away, but finally gave in and allowed her shoulder to touch his own.

The Ring sneered deep inside herself. He repeated what she said; he obviously believed and doted upon her every word. She externally stroked his cheek and leaned down close. Her voice came out a taunting, demanding whisper, but it tasted sweet to him—initially. Some bitterness warned him away, but he could no longer sense it.

"Every man you conquer brings me closer to your heart," she said softly. "Make me proud, Lord Isildur." Her voice lowered, cutting his ear. A chorus of whispers, power of the Dark Lord, joined her. "Keep me safe."

Isildur had intended to wait until the next morning to leave, but he was anxious enough—on account of his desire for the Ring and intuitive fear of the Dark Lord's greatest servant—to grab her and run out the door just then. When they approached his horse, he kissed her cheek long and deep. She trembled, angry and disgusted, but did her best not to make it obvious. She calmed herself, remembering this was the day Isildur would fall to her hands, the day she could destroy him for everything he'd done to her. Her fist clenched at her side . . . and her other hand rose, cupping and stroking his cheek tenderly. He smiled, uncertainty trying to creep in at her sudden excitement, and held out his chain. The Ring gripped it; ecstasy, the realization that she would never have to see his cursed face again, shivered through her arms and spine, then through her curve of metal as she collapsed into a Ring once more.

She drove him mercilessly. He leaped onto his horse; the beast grew agitated at her presence, and she forced it along, whispering threats.

You'll be stuck by an orc's arrow, you dirty creature, she sneered. But your master will receive eight times the betrayal you will. Perhaps that comforts both you and I.

She turned her channel of thought to Isildur. He shivered, then set his expression in stone. Conquer the men, love, she purred casually. Make me proud, make me want you. Go—ride faster. Fight for me. She tugged on his heart. She did not find it difficult to pull; she knew what he felt when she did. He felt like something honestly fingered the muscle at his core, dragging down on his center. He sat up higher, and his pulse thudded. He trusted his armor and his Precious to protect him from whatever pulls he felt, unable to trace them back to her. He gestured his men forward through the dark, cloudy evening.

They rode all night through the forest. The Ring beckoned the orcs, all the while coaxing Isildur into a numb conviction. His eyes glazed over, focusing on nothing but her chilling, soothing voice. Her presence itched like sandpaper and caressed like tender fingers, confusing him, lulling him into a false sense of affection.

Then, an hour or two after dawn, the Ring snapped down hard on his neck. Orcs sprang from the shadows, beckoned by her call. Arrows quickly sprang into view, causing many of the men and horses to collapse. Shouts and clangs of armor as well as weapons filled the air. Isildur's horse shrieked frantically, but was cut off when the Ring sharply commanded an orc to kill it. Isildur leaped from the horse and snapped the Ring from its chain in a fright. He slipped her over his finger; she abruptly turned him invisible.

"Come, Precious, lead me to Rohan," he hissed desperately, dodging the chaos. His men fell to the ground behind him, but he did not mind at all: he but had to save his Ring, his love.

He leaped into the river to swim away. The Ring began to cackle, and her laughter swelled, filling his mind. He clamped his hands over his ears, then stared down at her. She grew into a woman in the water, now demonically perfect as she had once been. He did not recognize her at first, not until he saw her solid, golden eyes. She held his hand in a vice grip and twisted back on it. He saw no love now, only horrifying hatred.

"Precious . . ." he managed. His eyes widened.

"Goodbye, love," the Ring sneered. She balled a fist, and satisfaction swelled like water behind a dam in her arm before she hit him square in the mouth. He fell backwards, but she still had a grip on his hand. She laughed again, the terrifying, chilling tones echoing through the water. She kissed his hand mockingly, then his cheek. He squirmed away from her before she could do more; her betrayal grew all too obvious. He tried to beg her to explain, but could not breathe. "Thank you for keeping me alive, twit." She bowed, releasing him, and he grew visible to all once more. "King of Gondor . . . conqueror of Rohan." But she could not stay human without a master, and she sank as a Ring.

She'd been expecting that, and so did not feel foiled even as she collapsed in the sandy floor of the river. Archers! This way!

Isildur heard her hateful scream . . . and nothing more.

She stared at him as he floated, lifeless, on the water's surface away from her. She nestled into the sand, unable to do more. She could wait. She allowed her energy to trickle back to her master.

"Did you think I would love you?" she spat after the corpse. It would have given her more fulfilling satisfaction to say it to his face, but she wasted no time in being rid of him. "A mere man, incapable of any power? I would have more than a king, more than a doddling buffoon.

"More than a fool that believes in love."