West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
The Ring's point of view at the time of destruction.
He had poured all his malice into his craft, and there I came to be, round and golden, gleaming in a mockery of precious flawlessness. For I knew that I was not golden but black and rotten, much like the heart of the ancient willow in the Old Forest in which the foolish halflings had become ensnared for a time.
The malignant haze that poisoned my every thought twisted me against the stars and the moon, the sun. Especially after a minuscule flicker of hopeful recognition of what it had once been to be free, crushed unmercifully by black haze, my hatred raged against their merry laughter and walking songs. I took great pleasure then in burning him until he cried out and clutched me with a pleading, shaking hand, so soft and soothing - but not for long. I imagined all the small ones bound and tormented, the soft hand bent and clawing for mercy that would never come, while I slid, moist and eager, back onto his finger.
Yet, through it all, I could never fully quell this small flicker of my being, a tiny flame that had never joined the maelstrom of fire. That tiny flame remembered that long, long ago, when the stars were not so dim, I had not hated such things as a blade of grass, a singing robin, and a gurgling brook. I had known what it was to walk free on the earth.
When the towers and dark Citadels tumbled into yawning crevices, blood was spilled, and shrieks of agony filled the air, liquid fire consumed me, and I felt myself falling apart, ebbing, disintegrating.
The tiny flame, mostly neglected but closely guarded through the ages, caught fire and spouted toward the stars like a geyser.
Back to Gen Story Listing