West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive

 

 

Flame
The Ring's point of view at the time of destruction.
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG
Category: Canon-General

 

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.

 

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